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Question: What is Saltram's living situation?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "He is a guest in the home of the Mulvilles." ]	22,692	narrativeqa	en	null	341d214a2c377691bf20e5a30b8f7979696bd19141ad9c9f	Transcribed from the 1915 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org [Picture: Book cover] THE COXON FUND BY HENRY JAMES [Picture: Decorative graphic] * * * * * LONDON: MARTIN SECKER NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI * * * * * This edition first published 1915 The text follows that of the Definitive Edition * * * * * I “THEY’VE got him for life!” I said to myself that evening on my way back to the station; but later on, alone in the compartment (from Wimbledon to Waterloo, before the glory of the District Railway) I amended this declaration in the light of the sense that my friends would probably after all not enjoy a monopoly of Mr. Saltram. I won’t pretend to have taken his vast measure on that first occasion, but I think I had achieved a glimpse of what the privilege of his acquaintance might mean for many persons in the way of charges accepted. He had been a great experience, and it was this perhaps that had put me into the frame of foreseeing how we should all, sooner or later, have the honour of dealing with him as a whole. Whatever impression I then received of the amount of this total, I had a full enough vision of the patience of the Mulvilles. He was to stay all the winter: Adelaide dropped it in a tone that drew the sting from the inevitable emphasis. These excellent people might indeed have been content to give the circle of hospitality a diameter of six months; but if they didn’t say he was to stay all summer as well it was only because this was more than they ventured to hope. I remember that at dinner that evening he wore slippers, new and predominantly purple, of some queer carpet-stuff; but the Mulvilles were still in the stage of supposing that he might be snatched from them by higher bidders. At a later time they grew, poor dears, to fear no snatching; but theirs was a fidelity which needed no help from competition to make them proud. Wonderful indeed as, when all was said, you inevitably pronounced Frank Saltram, it was not to be overlooked that the Kent Mulvilles were in their way still more extraordinary: as striking an instance as could easily be encountered of the familiar truth that remarkable men find remarkable conveniences. They had sent for me from Wimbledon to come out and dine, and there had been an implication in Adelaide’s note—judged by her notes alone she might have been thought silly—that it was a case in which something momentous was to be determined or done. I had never known them not be in a “state” about somebody, and I dare say I tried to be droll on this point in accepting their invitation. On finding myself in the presence of their latest discovery I had not at first felt irreverence droop—and, thank heaven, I have never been absolutely deprived of that alternative in Mr. Saltram’s company. I saw, however—I hasten to declare it—that compared to this specimen their other phoenixes had been birds of inconsiderable feather, and I afterwards took credit to myself for not having even in primal bewilderments made a mistake about the essence of the man. He had an incomparable gift; I never was blind to it—it dazzles me still. It dazzles me perhaps even more in remembrance than in fact, for I’m not unaware that for so rare a subject the imagination goes to some expense, inserting a jewel here and there or giving a twist to a plume. How the art of portraiture would rejoice in this figure if the art of portraiture had only the canvas! Nature, in truth, had largely rounded it, and if memory, hovering about it, sometimes holds her breath, this is because the voice that comes back was really golden. Though the great man was an inmate and didn’t dress, he kept dinner on this occasion waiting, and the first words he uttered on coming into the room were an elated announcement to Mulville that he had found out something. Not catching the allusion and gaping doubtless a little at his face, I privately asked Adelaide what he had found out. I shall never forget the look she gave me as she replied: “Everything!” She really believed it. At that moment, at any rate, he had found out that the mercy of the Mulvilles was infinite. He had previously of course discovered, as I had myself for that matter, that their dinners were soignés. Let me not indeed, in saying this, neglect to declare that I shall falsify my counterfeit if I seem to hint that there was in his nature any ounce of calculation. He took whatever came, but he never plotted for it, and no man who was so much of an absorbent can ever have been so little of a parasite. He had a system of the universe, but he had no system of sponging—that was quite hand-to-mouth. He had fine gross easy senses, but it was not his good-natured appetite that wrought confusion. If he had loved us for our dinners we could have paid with our dinners, and it would have been a great economy of finer matter. I make free in these connexions with the plural possessive because if I was never able to do what the Mulvilles did, and people with still bigger houses and simpler charities, I met, first and last, every demand of reflexion, of emotion—particularly perhaps those of gratitude and of resentment. No one, I think, paid the tribute of giving him up so often, and if it’s rendering honour to borrow wisdom I’ve a right to talk of my sacrifices. He yielded lessons as the sea yields fish—I lived for a while on this diet. Sometimes it almost appeared to me that his massive monstrous failure—if failure after all it was—had been designed for my private recreation. He fairly pampered my curiosity; but the history of that experience would take me too far. This is not the large canvas I just now spoke of, and I wouldn’t have approached him with my present hand had it been a question of all the features. Frank Saltram’s features, for artistic purposes, are verily the anecdotes that are to be gathered. Their name is legion, and this is only one, of which the interest is that it concerns even more closely several other persons. Such episodes, as one looks back, are the little dramas that made up the innumerable facets of the big drama—which is yet to be reported. II IT is furthermore remarkable that though the two stories are distinct—my own, as it were, and this other—they equally began, in a manner, the first night of my acquaintance with Frank Saltram, the night I came back from Wimbledon so agitated with a new sense of life that, in London, for the very thrill of it, I could only walk home. Walking and swinging my stick, I overtook, at Buckingham Gate, George Gravener, and George Gravener’s story may be said to have begun with my making him, as our paths lay together, come home with me for a talk. I duly remember, let me parenthesise, that it was still more that of another person, and also that several years were to elapse before it was to extend to a second chapter. I had much to say to him, none the less, about my visit to the Mulvilles, whom he more indifferently knew, and I was at any rate so amusing that for long afterwards he never encountered me without asking for news of the old man of the sea. I hadn’t said Mr. Saltram was old, and it was to be seen that he was of an age to outweather George Gravener. I had at that time a lodging in Ebury Street, and Gravener was staying at his brother’s empty house in Eaton Square. At Cambridge, five years before, even in our devastating set, his intellectual power had seemed to me almost awful. Some one had once asked me privately, with blanched cheeks, what it was then that after all such a mind as that left standing. “It leaves itself!” I could recollect devoutly replying. I could smile at present for this remembrance, since before we got to Ebury Street I was struck with the fact that, save in the sense of being well set up on his legs, George Gravener had actually ceased to tower. The universe he laid low had somehow bloomed again—the usual eminences were visible. I wondered whether he had lost his humour, or only, dreadful thought, had never had any—not even when I had fancied him most Aristophanesque. What was the need of appealing to laughter, however, I could enviously enquire, where you might appeal so confidently to measurement? Mr. Saltram’s queer figure, his thick nose and hanging lip, were fresh to me: in the light of my old friend’s fine cold symmetry they presented mere success in amusing as the refuge of conscious ugliness. Already, at hungry twenty-six, Gravener looked as blank and parliamentary as if he were fifty and popular. In my scrap of a residence—he had a worldling’s eye for its futile conveniences, but never a comrade’s joke—I sounded Frank Saltram in his ears; a circumstance I mention in order to note that even then I was surprised at his impatience of my enlivenment. As he had never before heard of the personage it took indeed the form of impatience of the preposterous Mulvilles, his relation to whom, like mine, had had its origin in an early, a childish intimacy with the young Adelaide, the fruit of multiplied ties in the previous generation. When she married Kent Mulville, who was older than Gravener and I and much more amiable, I gained a friend, but Gravener practically lost one. We reacted in different ways from the form taken by what he called their deplorable social action—the form (the term was also his) of nasty second-rate gush. I may have held in my ‘for intérieur’ that the good people at Wimbledon were beautiful fools, but when he sniffed at them I couldn’t help taking the opposite line, for I already felt that even should we happen to agree it would always be for reasons that differed. It came home to me that he was admirably British as, without so much as a sociable sneer at my bookbinder, he turned away from the serried rows of my little French library. “Of course I’ve never seen the fellow, but it’s clear enough he’s a humbug.” “Clear ‘enough’ is just what it isn’t,” I replied; “if it only were!” That ejaculation on my part must have been the beginning of what was to be later a long ache for final frivolous rest. Gravener was profound enough to remark after a moment that in the first place he couldn’t be anything but a Dissenter, and when I answered that the very note of his fascination was his extraordinary speculative breadth my friend retorted that there was no cad like your cultivated cad, and that I might depend upon discovering—since I had had the levity not already to have enquired—that my shining light proceeded, a generation back, from a Methodist cheesemonger. I confess I was struck with his insistence, and I said, after reflexion: “It may be—I admit it may be; but why on earth are you so sure?”—asking the question mainly to lay him the trap of saying that it was because the poor man didn’t dress for dinner. He took an instant to circumvent my trap and come blandly out the other side. “Because the Kent Mulvilles have invented him. They’ve an infallible hand for frauds. All their geese are swans. They were born to be duped, they like it, they cry for it, they don’t know anything from anything, and they disgust one—luckily perhaps!—with Christian charity.” His vehemence was doubtless an accident, but it might have been a strange foreknowledge. I forget what protest I dropped; it was at any rate something that led him to go on after a moment: “I only ask one thing—it’s perfectly simple. Is a man, in a given case, a real gentleman?” “A real gentleman, my dear fellow—that’s so soon said!” “Not so soon when he isn’t! If they’ve got hold of one this time he must be a great rascal!” “I might feel injured,” I answered, “if I didn’t reflect that they don’t rave about me.” “Don’t be too sure! I’ll grant that he’s a gentleman,” Gravener presently added, “if you’ll admit that he’s a scamp.” “I don’t know which to admire most, your logic or your benevolence.” My friend coloured at this, but he didn’t change the subject. “Where did they pick him up?” “I think they were struck with something he had published.” “I can fancy the dreary thing!” “I believe they found out he had all sorts of worries and difficulties.” “That of course wasn’t to be endured, so they jumped at the privilege of paying his debts!” I professed that I knew nothing about his debts, and I reminded my visitor that though the dear Mulvilles were angels they were neither idiots nor millionaires. What they mainly aimed at was reuniting Mr. Saltram to his wife. “I was expecting to hear he has basely abandoned her,” Gravener went on, at this, “and I’m too glad you don’t disappoint me.” I tried to recall exactly what Mrs. Mulville had told me. “He didn’t leave her—no. It’s she who has left him.” “Left him to us?” Gravener asked. “The monster—many thanks! I decline to take him.” “You’ll hear more about him in spite of yourself. I can’t, no, I really can’t resist the impression that he’s a big man.” I was already mastering—to my shame perhaps be it said—just the tone my old friend least liked. “It’s doubtless only a trifle,” he returned, “but you haven’t happened to mention what his reputation’s to rest on.” “Why on what I began by boring you with—his extraordinary mind.” “As exhibited in his writings?” “Possibly in his writings, but certainly in his talk, which is far and away the richest I ever listened to.” “And what’s it all about?” “My dear fellow, don’t ask me! About everything!” I pursued, reminding myself of poor Adelaide. “About his ideas of things,” I then more charitably added. “You must have heard him to know what I mean—it’s unlike anything that ever was heard.” I coloured, I admit, I overcharged a little, for such a picture was an anticipation of Saltram’s later development and still more of my fuller acquaintance with him. However, I really expressed, a little lyrically perhaps, my actual imagination of him when I proceeded to declare that, in a cloud of tradition, of legend, he might very well go down to posterity as the greatest of all great talkers. Before we parted George Gravener had wondered why such a row should be made about a chatterbox the more and why he should be pampered and pensioned. The greater the wind-bag the greater the calamity. Out of proportion to everything else on earth had come to be this wagging of the tongue. We were drenched with talk—our wretched age was dying of it. I differed from him here sincerely, only going so far as to concede, and gladly, that we were drenched with sound. It was not however the mere speakers who were killing us—it was the mere stammerers. Fine talk was as rare as it was refreshing—the gift of the gods themselves, the one starry spangle on the ragged cloak of humanity. How many men were there who rose to this privilege, of how many masters of conversation could he boast the acquaintance? Dying of talk?—why we were dying of the lack of it! Bad writing wasn’t talk, as many people seemed to think, and even good wasn’t always to be compared to it. From the best talk indeed the best writing had something to learn. I fancifully added that we too should peradventure be gilded by the legend, should be pointed at for having listened, for having actually heard. Gravener, who had glanced at his watch and discovered it was midnight, found to all this a retort beautifully characteristic of him. “There’s one little fact to be borne in mind in the presence equally of the best talk and of the worst.” He looked, in saying this, as if he meant great things, and I was sure he could only mean once more that neither of them mattered if a man wasn’t a real gentleman. Perhaps it was what he did mean; he deprived me however of the exultation of being right by putting the truth in a slightly different way. “The only thing that really counts for one’s estimate of a person is his conduct.” He had his watch still in his palm, and I reproached him with unfair play in having ascertained beforehand that it was now the hour at which I always gave in. My pleasantry so far failed to mollify him that he promptly added that to the rule he had just enunciated there was absolutely no exception. “None whatever?” “None whatever.” “Trust me then to try to be good at any price!” I laughed as I went with him to the door. “I declare I will be, if I have to be horrible!” III IF that first night was one of the liveliest, or at any rate was the freshest, of my exaltations, there was another, four years later, that was one of my great discomposures. Repetition, I well knew by this time, was the secret of Saltram’s power to alienate, and of course one would never have seen him at his finest if one hadn’t seen him in his remorses. They set in mainly at this season and were magnificent, elemental, orchestral. I was quite aware that one of these atmospheric disturbances was now due; but none the less, in our arduous attempt to set him on his feet as a lecturer, it was impossible not to feel that two failures were a large order, as we said, for a short course of five. This was the second time, and it was past nine o’clock; the audience, a muster unprecedented and really encouraging, had fortunately the attitude of blandness that might have been looked for in persons whom the promise of (if I’m not mistaken) An Analysis of Primary Ideas had drawn to the neighbourhood of Upper Baker Street. There was in those days in that region a petty lecture-hall to be secured on terms as moderate as the funds left at our disposal by the irrepressible question of the maintenance of five small Saltrams—I include the mother—and one large one. By the time the Saltrams, of different sizes, were all maintained we had pretty well poured out the oil that might have lubricated the machinery for enabling the most original of men to appear to maintain them. It was I, the other time, who had been forced into the breach, standing up there for an odious lamplit moment to explain to half a dozen thin benches, where earnest brows were virtuously void of anything so cynical as a suspicion, that we couldn’t so much as put a finger on Mr. Saltram. There was nothing to plead but that our scouts had been out from the early hours and that we were afraid that on one of his walks abroad—he took one, for meditation, whenever he was to address such a company—some accident had disabled or delayed him. The meditative walks were a fiction, for he never, that any one could discover, prepared anything but a magnificent prospectus; hence his circulars and programmes, of which I possess an almost complete collection, are the solemn ghosts of generations never born. I put the case, as it seemed to me, at the best; but I admit I had been angry, and Kent Mulville was shocked at my want of public optimism. This time therefore I left the excuses to his more practised patience, only relieving myself in response to a direct appeal from a young lady next whom, in the hall, I found myself sitting. My position was an accident, but if it had been calculated the reason would scarce have eluded an observer of the fact that no one else in the room had an approach to an appearance. Our philosopher’s “tail” was deplorably limp. This visitor was the only person who looked at her ease, who had come a little in the spirit of adventure. She seemed to carry amusement in her handsome young head, and her presence spoke, a little mystifyingly, of a sudden extension of Saltram’s sphere of influence. He was doing better than we hoped, and he had chosen such an occasion, of all occasions, to succumb to heaven knew which of his fond infirmities. The young lady produced an impression of auburn hair and black velvet, and had on her other hand a companion of obscurer type, presumably a waiting-maid. She herself might perhaps have been a foreign countess, and before she addressed me I had beguiled our sorry interval by finding in her a vague recall of the opening of some novel of Madame Sand. It didn’t make her more fathomable to pass in a few minutes from this to the certitude that she was American; it simply engendered depressing reflexions as to the possible check to contributions from Boston. She asked me if, as a person apparently more initiated, I would recommend further waiting, and I answered that if she considered I was on my honour I would privately deprecate it. Perhaps she didn’t; at any rate our talk took a turn that prolonged it till she became aware we were left almost alone. I presently ascertained she knew Mrs. Saltram, and this explained in a manner the miracle. The brotherhood of the friends of the husband was as nothing to the brotherhood, or perhaps I should say the sisterhood, of the friends of the wife. Like the Kent Mulvilles I belonged to both fraternities, and even better than they I think I had sounded the abyss of Mrs. Saltram’s wrongs. She bored me to extinction, and I knew but too well how she had bored her husband; but there were those who stood by her, the most efficient of whom were indeed the handful of poor Saltram’s backers. They did her liberal justice, whereas her mere patrons and partisans had nothing but hatred for our philosopher. I’m bound to say it was we, however—we of both camps, as it were—who had always done most for her. I thought my young lady looked rich—I scarcely knew why; and I hoped she had put her hand in her pocket. I soon made her out, however, not at all a fine fanatic—she was but a generous, irresponsible enquirer. She had come to England to see her aunt, and it was at her aunt’s she had met the dreary lady we had all so much on our mind. I saw she’d help to pass the time when she observed that it was a pity this lady wasn’t intrinsically more interesting. That was refreshing, for it was an article of faith in Mrs. Saltram’s circle—at least among those who scorned to know her horrid husband—that she was attractive on her merits. She was in truth a most ordinary person, as Saltram himself would have been if he hadn’t been a prodigy. The question of vulgarity had no application to him, but it was a measure his wife kept challenging you to apply. I hasten to add that the consequences of your doing so were no sufficient reason for his having left her to starve. “He doesn’t seem to have much force of character,” said my young lady; at which I laughed out so loud that my departing friends looked back at me over their shoulders as if I were making a joke of their discomfiture. My joke probably cost Saltram a subscription or two, but it helped me on with my interlocutress. “She says he drinks like a fish,” she sociably continued, “and yet she allows that his mind’s wonderfully clear.” It was amusing to converse with a pretty girl who could talk of the clearness of Saltram’s mind. I expected next to hear she had been assured he was awfully clever. I tried to tell her—I had it almost on my conscience—what was the proper way to regard him; an effort attended perhaps more than ever on this occasion with the usual effect of my feeling that I wasn’t after all very sure of it. She had come to-night out of high curiosity—she had wanted to learn this proper way for herself. She had read some of his papers and hadn’t understood them; but it was at home, at her aunt’s, that her curiosity had been kindled—kindled mainly by his wife’s remarkable stories of his want of virtue. “I suppose they ought to have kept me away,” my companion dropped, “and I suppose they’d have done so if I hadn’t somehow got an idea that he’s fascinating. In fact Mrs. Saltram herself says he is.” “So you came to see where the fascination resides? Well, you’ve seen!” My young lady raised fine eyebrows. “Do you mean in his bad faith?” “In the extraordinary effects of it; his possession, that is, of some quality or other that condemns us in advance to forgive him the humiliation, as I may call it, to which he has subjected us.” “The humiliation?” “Why mine, for instance, as one of his guarantors, before you as the purchaser of a ticket.” She let her charming gay eyes rest on me. “You don’t look humiliated a bit, and if you did I should let you off, disappointed as I am; for the mysterious quality you speak of is just the quality I came to see.” “Oh, you can’t ‘see’ it!” I cried. “How then do you get at it?” “You don’t! You mustn’t suppose he’s good-looking,” I added. “Why his wife says he’s lovely!” My hilarity may have struck her as excessive, but I confess it broke out afresh. Had she acted only in obedience to this singular plea, so characteristic, on Mrs. Saltram’s part, of what was irritating in the narrowness of that lady’s point of view? “Mrs. Saltram,” I explained, “undervalues him where he’s strongest, so that, to make up for it perhaps, she overpraises him where he’s weak. He’s not, assuredly, superficially attractive; he’s middle-aged, fat, featureless save for his great eyes.” “Yes, his great eyes,” said my young lady attentively. She had evidently heard all about his great eyes—the beaux yeux for which alone we had really done it all. “They’re tragic and splendid—lights on a dangerous coast. But he moves badly and dresses worse, and altogether he’s anything but smart.” My companion, who appeared to reflect on this, after a moment appealed. “Do you call him a real gentleman?” I started slightly at the question, for I had a sense of recognising it: George Gravener, years before, that first flushed night, had put me face to face with it. It had embarrassed me then, but it didn’t embarrass me now, for I had lived with it and overcome it and disposed of it. “A real gentleman? Emphatically not!” My promptitude surprised her a little, but I quickly felt how little it was to Gravener I was now talking. “Do you say that because he’s—what do you call it in England?—of humble extraction?” “Not a bit. His father was a country school-master and his mother the widow of a sexton, but that has nothing to do with it. I say it simply because I know him well.” “But isn’t it an awful drawback?” “Awful—quite awful.” “I mean isn’t it positively fatal?” “Fatal to what? Not to his magnificent vitality.” Again she had a meditative moment. “And is his magnificent vitality the cause of his vices?” “Your questions are formidable, but I’m glad you put them. I was thinking of his noble intellect. His vices, as you say, have been much exaggerated: they consist mainly after all in one comprehensive defect.” “A want of will?” “A want of dignity.” “He doesn’t recognise his obligations?” “On the contrary, he recognises them with effusion, especially in public: he smiles and bows and beckons across the street to them. But when they pass over he turns away, and he speedily loses them in the crowd. The recognition’s purely spiritual—it isn’t in the least social. So he leaves all his belongings to other people to take care of. He accepts favours, loans, sacrifices—all with nothing more deterrent than an agony of shame. Fortunately we’re a little faithful band, and we do what we can.” I held my tongue about the natural children, engendered, to the number of three, in the wantonness of his youth. I only remarked that he did make efforts—often tremendous ones. “But the efforts,” I said, “never come to much: the only things that come to much are the abandonments, the surrenders.” “And how much do they come to?” “You’re right to put it as if we had a big bill to pay, but, as I’ve told you before, your questions are rather terrible. They come, these mere exercises of genius, to a great sum total of poetry, of philosophy, a mighty mass of speculation, notation, quotation. The genius is there, you see, to meet the surrender; but there’s no genius to support the defence.” “But what is there, after all, at his age, to show?” “In the way of achievement recognised and reputation established?” I asked. “To ‘show’ if you will, there isn’t much, since his writing, mostly, isn’t as fine, isn’t certainly as showy, as his talk. Moreover two-thirds of his work are merely colossal projects and announcements. ‘Showing’ Frank Saltram is often a poor business,” I went on: “we endeavoured, you’ll have observed, to show him to-night! However, if he had lectured he’d have lectured divinely. It would just have been his talk.” “And what would his talk just have been?” I was conscious of some ineffectiveness, as well perhaps as of a little impatience, as I replied: “The exhibition of a splendid intellect.” My young lady looked not quite satisfied at this, but as I wasn’t prepared for another question I hastily pursued: “The sight of a great suspended swinging crystal—huge lucid lustrous, a block of light—flashing back every impression of life and every possibility of thought!” This gave her something to turn over till we had passed out to the dusky porch of the hall, in front of which the lamps of a quiet brougham were almost the only thing Saltram’s treachery hadn’t extinguished. I went with her to the door of her carriage, out of which she leaned a moment after she had thanked me and taken her seat. Her smile even in the darkness was pretty. “I do want to see that crystal!” “You’ve only to come to the next lecture.” “I go abroad in a day or two with my aunt.” “Wait over till next week,” I suggested. “It’s quite worth it.” She became grave. “Not unless he really comes!” At which the brougham started off, carrying her away too fast, fortunately for my manners, to allow me to exclaim “Ingratitude!” IV MRS. SALTRAM made a great affair of her right to be informed where her husband had been the second evening he failed to meet his audience. She came to me to ascertain, but I couldn’t satisfy her, for in spite of my ingenuity I remained in ignorance. It wasn’t till much later that I found this had not been the case with Kent Mulville, whose hope for the best never twirled the thumbs of him more placidly than when he happened to know the worst. He had known it on the occasion I speak of—that is immediately after. He was impenetrable then, but ultimately confessed. What he confessed was more than I shall now venture to make public. It was of course familiar to me that Saltram was incapable of keeping the engagements which, after their separation, he had entered into with regard to his wife, a deeply wronged, justly resentful, quite irreproachable and insufferable person. She often appeared at my chambers to talk over his lapses; for if, as she declared, she had washed her hands of him, she had carefully preserved the water of this ablution, which she handed about for analysis. She had arts of her own of exciting one’s impatience, the most infallible of which was perhaps her assumption that we were kind to her because we liked her. In reality her personal fall had been a sort of social rise—since I had seen the moment when, in our little conscientious circle, her desolation almost made her the fashion. Her voice was grating and her children ugly; moreover she hated the good Mulvilles, whom I more and more loved. They were the people who by doing most for her husband had in the long run done most for herself; and the warm confidence with which he had laid his length upon them was a pressure gentle compared with her stiffer persuadability. I’m bound to say he didn’t criticise his benefactors, though practically he got tired of them; she, however, had the highest standards about eleemosynary forms. She offered the odd spectacle of a spirit puffed up by dependence, and indeed it had introduced her to some excellent society. She pitied me for not knowing certain people who aided her and whom she doubtless patronised in turn for their luck in not knowing me. I dare say I should have got on with her better if she had had a ray of imagination—if it had occasionally seemed to occur to her to regard Saltram’s expressions of his nature in any other manner than as separate subjects of woe. They were all flowers of his character, pearls strung on an endless thread; but she had a stubborn little way of challenging them one after the other, as if she never suspected that he had a character, such as it was, or that deficiencies might be organic; the irritating effect of a mind incapable of a generalisation. One might doubtless have overdone the idea that there was a general licence for such a man; but if this had happened it would have been through one’s feeling that there could be none for such a woman. I recognised her superiority when I asked her about the aunt of the disappointed young lady: it sounded like a sentence from an English-French or other phrase-book. She triumphed in what she told me and she may have triumphed still more in what she withheld. My friend of the other evening, Miss Anvoy, had but lately come to England; Lady Coxon, the aunt, had been established here for years in consequence of her marriage with the late Sir Gregory of that name. She had a house in the Regent’s Park, a Bath-chair and a fernery; and above all she had sympathy. Mrs. Saltram had made her acquaintance through mutual friends. This vagueness caused me to feel how much I was out of it and how large an independent circle Mrs. Saltram had at her command. I should have been glad to know more about the disappointed young lady, but I felt I should know most by not depriving her of her advantage, as she might have mysterious means of depriving me of my knowledge. For the present, moreover, this experience was stayed, Lady Coxon having in fact gone abroad accompanied by her niece. The niece, besides being immensely clever, was an heiress, Mrs. Saltram said; the only daughter and the light of the eyes of some great American merchant, a man, over there, of endless indulgences and dollars. She had pretty clothes and pretty manners, and she had, what was prettier still, the great thing of all. The great thing of all for Mrs. Saltram was always sympathy, and she spoke as if during the absence of these ladies she mightn’t know where to turn for it. A few months later indeed, when they had come back, her tone perceptibly changed: she alluded to them, on my leading her up to it, rather as to persons in her debt for favours received. What had happened I didn’t know, but I saw it would take only a little more or a little less to make her speak of them as thankless subjects of social countenance—people for whom she had vainly tried to do something. I confess I saw how it wouldn’t be in a mere week or two that I should rid myself of the image of Ruth Anvoy, in whose very name, when I learnt it, I found something secretly to like. I should probably neither see her nor hear of her again: the knight’s widow (he had been mayor of Clockborough) would pass away and the heiress would return to her inheritance. I gathered with surprise that she had not communicated to his wife the story of her attempt to hear Mr..Saltram, and I founded this reticence on the easy supposition that Mrs. Saltram had fatigued by overpressure the spring of the sympathy of which she boasted. The girl at any rate would forget the small adventure, be distracted, take a husband; besides which she would lack occasion to repeat her experiment. We clung to the idea of the brilliant course, delivered without an accident, that, as a lecturer, would still make the paying public aware of our great man, but the fact remained that in the case of an inspiration so unequal there was treachery, there was fallacy at least, in the very conception of a series. In our scrutiny of ways and means we were inevitably subject to the old convention of the synopsis, the syllabus, partly of course not to lose the advantage of his grand free hand in drawing up such things; but for myself I laughed at our playbills even while I stickled for them. It was indeed amusing work to be scrupulous for Frank Saltram, who also at moments laughed about it, so far as the comfort of a sigh so unstudied as to be cheerful might pass for such a sound. He admitted with a candour all his own that he was in truth only to be depended on in the Mulvilles’ drawing-room. “Yes,” he suggestively allowed, “it’s there, I think, that I’m at my best; quite late, when it gets toward eleven—and if I’ve not been too much worried.” We all knew what too much worry meant; it meant too enslaved for the hour to the superstition of sobriety. On the Saturdays I used to bring my portmanteau, so as not to have to think of eleven o’clock trains. I had a bold theory that as regards this temple of talk and its altars of cushioned chintz, its pictures and its flowers, its large fireside and clear lamplight, we might really arrive at something if the Mulvilles would but charge for admission. Here it was, however, that they shamelessly broke down; as there’s a flaw in every perfection this was the inexpugnable refuge of their egotism. They declined to make their saloon a market, so that Saltram’s golden words continued the sole coin that rang there. It can have happened to no man, however, to be paid a greater price than such an enchanted hush as surrounded him on his greatest nights. The most profane, on these occasions, felt a presence; all minor eloquence grew dumb. Adelaide Mulville, for the pride of her hospitality, anxiously watched the door or stealthily poked the fire. I used to call it the music-room, for we had anticipated Bayreuth. The very gates of the kingdom of light seemed to open and the horizon of thought to flash with the beauty of a sunrise at sea. In the consideration of ways and means, the sittings of our little board, we were always conscious of the creak of Mrs. Saltram’s shoes. She hovered, she interrupted, she almost presided, the state of affairs being mostly such as to supply her with every incentive for enquiring what was to be done next. It was the pressing pursuit of this knowledge that, in concatenations of omnibuses and usually in very wet weather, led her so often to my door. She thought us spiritless creatures with editors and publishers; but she carried matters to no great effect when she personally pushed into back-shops. She wanted all moneys to be paid to herself: they were otherwise liable to such strange adventures. They trickled away into the desert—they were mainly at best, alas, a slender stream. The editors and the publishers were the last people to take this remarkable thinker at the valuation that has now pretty well come to be established. The former were half-distraught between the desire to “cut” him and the difficulty of finding a crevice for their shears; and when a volume on this or that portentous subject was proposed to the latter they suggested alternative titles which, as reported to our friend, brought into his face the noble blank melancholy that sometimes made it handsome. The title of an unwritten book didn’t after all much matter, but some masterpiece of Saltram’s may have died in his bosom of the shudder with which it was then convulsed. The ideal solution, failing the fee at Kent Mulville’s door, would have been some system of subscription to projected treatises with their non-appearance provided for—provided for, I mean, by the indulgence of subscribers. The author’s real misfortune was that subscribers were so wretchedly literal. When they tastelessly enquired why publication hadn’t ensued I was tempted to ask who in the world had ever been so published. Nature herself had brought him out in voluminous form, and the money was simply a deposit on borrowing the work. V I WAS doubtless often a nuisance to my friends in those years; but there were sacrifices I declined to make, and I never passed the hat to George Gravener. I never forgot our little discussion in Ebury Street, and I think it stuck in my throat to have to treat him to the avowal I had found so easy to Mss Anvoy. It had cost me nothing to confide to this charming girl, but it would have cost me much to confide to the friend of my youth, that the character of the “real gentleman” wasn’t an attribute of the man I took such pains for. Was this because I had already generalised to the point of perceiving that women are really the unfastidious sex? I knew at any rate that Gravener, already quite in view but still hungry and frugal, had naturally enough more ambition than charity. He had sharp aims for stray sovereigns, being in view most from the tall steeple of Clockborough. His immediate ambition was to occupy à lui seul the field of vision of that smokily-seeing city, and all his movements and postures were calculated for the favouring angle. The movement of the hand as to the pocket had thus to alternate gracefully with the posture of the hand on the heart. He talked to Clockborough in short only less beguilingly than Frank Saltram talked to his electors; with the difference to our credit, however, that we had already voted and that our candidate had no antagonist but himself. He had more than once been at Wimbledon—it was Mrs. Mulville’s work not mine—and by the time the claret was served had seen the god descend. He took more pains to swing his censer than I had expected, but on our way back to town he forestalled any little triumph I might have been so artless as to express by the observation that such a man was—a hundred times!—a man to use and never a man to be used by. I remember that this neat remark humiliated me almost as much as if virtually, in the fever of broken slumbers, I hadn’t often made it myself. The difference was that on Gravener’s part a force attached to it that could never attach to it on mine. He was able to use people—he had the machinery; and the irony of Saltram’s being made showy at Clockborough came out to me when he said, as if he had no memory of our original talk and the idea were quite fresh to him: “I hate his type, you know, but I’ll be hanged if I don’t put some of those things in. I can find a place for them: we might even find a place for the fellow himself.” I myself should have had some fear—not, I need scarcely say, for the “things” themselves, but for some other things very near them; in fine for the rest of my eloquence. Later on I could see that the oracle of Wimbledon was not in this case so appropriate as he would have been had the polities of the gods only coincided more exactly with those of the party. There was a distinct moment when, without saying anything more definite to me, Gravener entertained the idea of annexing Mr. Saltram. Such a project was delusive, for the discovery of analogies between his body of doctrine and that pressed from headquarters upon Clockborough—the bottling, in a word, of the air of those lungs for convenient public uncorking in corn-exchanges—was an experiment for which no one had the leisure. The only thing would have been to carry him massively about, paid, caged, clipped; to turn him on for a particular occasion in a particular channel. Frank Saltram’s channel, however, was essentially not calculable, and there was no knowing what disastrous floods might have ensued. For what there would have been to do The Empire, the great newspaper, was there to look to; but it was no new misfortune that there were delicate situations in which The Empire broke down. In fine there was an instinctive apprehension that a clever young journalist commissioned to report on Mr. Saltram might never come back from the errand. No one knew better than George Gravener that that was a time when prompt returns counted double. If he therefore found our friend an exasperating waste of orthodoxy it was because of his being, as he said, poor Gravener, up in the clouds, not because he was down in the dust. The man would have been, just as he was, a real enough gentleman if he could have helped to put in a real gentleman. Gravener’s great objection to the actual member was that he was not one. Lady Coxon had a fine old house, a house with “grounds,” at Clockborough, which she had let; but after she returned from abroad I learned from Mrs. Saltram that the lease had fallen in and that she had gone down to resume possession. I could see the faded red livery, the big square shoulders, the high-walled garden of this decent abode. As the rumble of dissolution grew louder the suitor would have pressed his suit, and I found myself hoping the politics of the late Mayor’s widow wouldn’t be such as to admonish her to ask him to dinner; perhaps indeed I went so far as to pray, they would naturally form a bar to any contact. I tried to focus the many-buttoned page, in the daily airing, as he perhaps even pushed the Bath-chair over somebody’s toes. I was destined to hear, none the less, through Mrs. Saltram—who, I afterwards learned, was in correspondence with Lady Coxon’s housekeeper—that Gravener was known to have spoken of the habitation I had in my eye as the pleasantest thing at Clockborough. On his part, I was sure, this was the voice not of envy but of experience. The vivid scene was now peopled, and I could see him in the old-time garden with Miss Anvoy, who would be certain, and very justly, to think him good-looking. It would be too much to describe myself as troubled by this play of surmise; but I occur to remember the relief, singular enough, of feeling it suddenly brushed away by an annoyance really much greater; an annoyance the result of its happening to come over me about that time with a rush that I was simply ashamed of Frank Saltram. There were limits after all, and my mark at last had been reached. I had had my disgusts, if I may allow myself to-day such an expression; but this was a supreme revolt. Certain things cleared up in my mind, certain values stood out. It was all very well to have an unfortunate temperament; there was nothing so unfortunate as to have, for practical purposes, nothing else. I avoided George Gravener at this moment and reflected that at such a time I should do so most effectually by leaving England. I wanted to forget Frank Saltram—that was all. I didn’t want to do anything in the world to him but that. Indignation had withered on the stalk, and I felt that one could pity him as much as one ought only by never thinking of him again. It wasn’t for anything he had done to me; it was for what he had done to the Mulvilles. Adelaide cried about it for a week, and her husband, profiting by the example so signally given him of the fatal effect of a want of character, left the letter, the drop too much, unanswered. The letter, an incredible one, addressed by Saltram to Wimbledon during a stay with the Pudneys at Ramsgate, was the central feature of the incident, which, however, had many features, each more painful than whichever other we compared it with. The Pudneys had behaved shockingly, but that was no excuse. Base ingratitude, gross indecency—one had one’s choice only of such formulas as that the more they fitted the less they gave one rest. These are dead aches now, and I am under no obligation, thank heaven, to be definite about the business. There are things which if I had had to tell them—well, would have stopped me off here altogether. I went abroad for the general election, and if I don’t know how much, on the Continent, I forgot, I at least know how much I missed, him. At a distance, in a foreign land, ignoring, abjuring, unlearning him, I discovered what he had done for me. I owed him, oh unmistakeably, certain noble conceptions; I had lighted my little taper at his smoky lamp, and lo it continued to twinkle. But the light it gave me just showed me how much more I wanted. I was pursued of course by letters from Mrs. Saltram which I didn’t scruple not to read, though quite aware her embarrassments couldn’t but be now of the gravest. I sacrificed to propriety by simply putting them away, and this is how, one day as my absence drew to an end, my eye, while I rummaged in my desk for another paper, was caught by a name on a leaf that had detached itself from the packet. The allusion was to Miss Anvoy, who, it appeared, was engaged to be married to Mr. George Gravener; and the news was two months old. A direct question of Mrs. Saltram’s had thus remained unanswered—she had enquired of me in a postscript what sort of man this aspirant to such a hand might be. The great other fact about him just then was that he had been triumphantly returned for Clockborough in the interest of the party that had swept the country—so that I might easily have referred Mrs. Saltram to the journals of the day. Yet when I at last wrote her that I was coming home and would discharge my accumulated burden by seeing her, I but remarked in regard to her question that she must really put it to Miss Anvoy. VI I HAD almost avoided the general election, but some of its consequences, on my return, had smartly to be faced. The season, in London, began to breathe again and to flap its folded wings. Confidence, under the new Ministry, was understood to be reviving, and one of the symptoms, in a social body, was a recovery of appetite. People once more fed together, and it happened that, one Saturday night, at somebody’s house, I fed with George Gravener. When the ladies left the room I moved up to where he sat and begged to congratulate him. “On my election?” he asked after a moment; so that I could feign, jocosely, not to have heard of that triumph and to be alluding to the rumour of a victory still more personal. I dare say I coloured however, for his political success had momentarily passed out of my mind. What was present to it was that he was to marry that beautiful girl; and yet his question made me conscious of some discomposure—I hadn’t intended to put this before everything. He himself indeed ought gracefully to have done so, and I remember thinking the whole man was in this assumption that in expressing my sense of what he had won I had fixed my thoughts on his “seat.” We straightened the matter out, and he was so much lighter in hand than I had lately seen him that his spirits might well have been fed from a twofold source. He was so good as to say that he hoped I should soon make the acquaintance of Miss Anvoy, who, with her aunt, was presently coming up to town. Lady Coxon, in the country, had been seriously unwell, and this had delayed their arrival. I told him I had heard the marriage would be a splendid one; on which, brightened and humanised by his luck, he laughed and said “Do you mean for her?” When I had again explained what I meant he went on: “Oh she’s an American, but you’d scarcely know it; unless, perhaps,” he added, “by her being used to more money than most girls in England, even the daughters of rich men. That wouldn’t in the least do for a fellow like me, you know, if it wasn’t for the great liberality of her father. He really has been most kind, and everything’s quite satisfactory.” He added that his eldest brother had taken a tremendous fancy to her and that during a recent visit at Coldfield she had nearly won over Lady Maddock. I gathered from something he dropped later on that the free-handed gentleman beyond the seas had not made a settlement, but had given a handsome present and was apparently to be looked to, across the water, for other favours. People are simplified alike by great contentments and great yearnings, and, whether or no it was Gravener’s directness that begot my own, I seem to recall that in some turn taken by our talk he almost imposed it on me as an act of decorum to ask if Miss Anvoy had also by chance expectations from her aunt. My enquiry drew out that Lady Coxon, who was the oddest of women, would have in any contingency to act under her late husband’s will, which was odder still, saddling her with a mass of queer obligations complicated with queer loopholes. There were several dreary people, Coxon cousins, old maids, to whom she would have more or less to minister. Gravener laughed, without saying no, when I suggested that the young lady might come in through a loophole; then suddenly, as if he suspected my turning a lantern on him, he declared quite dryly: “That’s all rot—one’s moved by other springs!” A fortnight later, at Lady Coxon’s own house, I understood well enough the springs one was moved by. Gravener had spoken of me there as an old friend, and I received a gracious invitation to dine. The Knight’s widow was again indisposed—she had succumbed at the eleventh hour; so that I found Miss Anvoy bravely playing hostess without even Gravener’s help, since, to make matters worse, he had just sent up word that the House, the insatiable House, with which he supposed he had contracted for easier terms, positively declined to release him. I was struck with the courage, the grace and gaiety of the young lady left thus to handle the fauna and flora of the Regent’s Park. I did what I could to help her to classify them, after I had recovered from the confusion of seeing her slightly disconcerted at perceiving in the guest introduced by her intended the gentleman with whom she had had that talk about Frank Saltram. I had at this moment my first glimpse of the fact that she was a person who could carry a responsibility; but I leave the reader to judge of my sense of the aggravation, for either of us, of such a burden, when I heard the servant announce Mrs. Saltram. From what immediately passed between the two ladies I gathered that the latter had been sent for post-haste to fill the gap created by the absence of the mistress of the house. “Good!” I remember crying, “she’ll be put by me;” and my apprehension was promptly justified. Mrs. Saltram taken in to dinner, and taken in as a consequence of an appeal to her amiability, was Mrs. Saltram with a vengeance. I asked myself what Miss Anvoy meant by doing such things, but the only answer I arrived at was that Gravener was verily fortunate. She hadn’t happened to tell him of her visit to Upper Baker Street, but she’d certainly tell him to-morrow; not indeed that this would make him like any better her having had the innocence to invite such a person as Mrs. Saltram on such an occasion. It could only strike me that I had never seen a young woman put such ignorance into her cleverness, such freedom into her modesty; this, I think, was when, after dinner, she said to me frankly, with almost jubilant mirth: “Oh you don’t admire Mrs. Saltram?” Why should I? This was truly a young person without guile. I had briefly to consider before I could reply that my objection to the lady named was the objection often uttered about people met at the social board—I knew all her stories. Then as Miss Anvoy remained momentarily vague I added: “Those about her husband.” “Oh yes, but there are some new ones.” “None for me. Ah novelty would be pleasant!” “Doesn’t it appear that of late he has been particularly horrid?” “His fluctuations don’t matter”, I returned, “for at night all cats are grey. You saw the shade of this one the night we waited for him together. What will you have? He has no dignity.” Miss Anvoy, who had been introducing with her American distinctness, looked encouragingly round at some of the combinations she had risked. “It’s too bad I can’t see him.” “You mean Gravener won’t let you?” “I haven’t asked him. He lets me do everything.” “But you know he knows him and wonders what some of us see in him.” “We haven’t happened to talk of him,” the girl said. “Get him to take you some day out to see the Mulvilles.” “I thought Mr. Saltram had thrown the Mulvilles over.” “Utterly. But that won’t prevent his being planted there again, to bloom like a rose, within a month or two.” Miss Anvoy thought a moment. Then, “I should like to see them,” she said with her fostering smile. “They’re tremendously worth it. You mustn’t miss them.” “I’ll make George take me,” she went on as Mrs. Saltram came up to interrupt us. She sniffed at this unfortunate as kindly as she had smiled at me and, addressing the question to her, continued: “But the chance of a lecture—one of the wonderful lectures? Isn’t there another course announced?” “Another? There are about thirty!” I exclaimed, turning away and feeling Mrs. Saltram’s little eyes in my back. A few days after this I heard that Gravener’s marriage was near at hand—was settled for Whitsuntide; but as no invitation had reached me I had my doubts, and there presently came to me in fact the report of a postponement. Something was the matter; what was the matter was supposed to be that Lady Coxon was now critically ill. I had called on her after my dinner in the Regent’s Park, but I had neither seen her nor seen Miss Anvoy. I forget to-day the exact order in which, at this period, sundry incidents occurred and the particular stage at which it suddenly struck me, making me catch my breath a little, that the progression, the acceleration, was for all the world that of fine drama. This was probably rather late in the day, and the exact order doesn’t signify. What had already occurred was some accident determining a more patient wait. George Gravener, whom I met again, in fact told me as much, but without signs of perturbation. Lady Coxon had to be constantly attended to, and there were other good reasons as well. Lady Coxon had to be so constantly attended to that on the occasion of a second attempt in the Regent’s Park I equally failed to obtain a sight of her niece. I judged it discreet in all the conditions not to make a third; but this didn’t matter, for it was through Adelaide Mulville that the side-wind of the comedy, though I was at first unwitting, began to reach me. I went to Wimbledon at times because Saltram was there, and I went at others because he wasn’t. The Pudneys, who had taken him to Birmingham, had already got rid of him, and we had a horrible consciousness of his wandering roofless, in dishonour, about the smoky Midlands, almost as the injured Lear wandered on the storm-lashed heath. His room, upstairs, had been lately done up (I could hear the crackle of the new chintz) and the difference only made his smirches and bruises, his splendid tainted genius, the more tragic. If he wasn’t barefoot in the mire he was sure to be unconventionally shod. These were the things Adelaide and I, who were old enough friends to stare at each other in silence, talked about when we didn’t speak. When we spoke it was only about the brilliant girl George Gravener was to marry and whom he had brought out the other Sunday. I could see that this presentation had been happy, for Mrs. Mulville commemorated it after her sole fashion of showing confidence in a new relation. “She likes me—she likes me”: her native humility exulted in that measure of success. We all knew for ourselves how she liked those who liked her, and as regards Ruth Anvoy she was more easily won over than Lady Maddock. VII ONE of the consequences, for the Mulvilles, of the sacrifices they made for Frank Saltram was that they had to give up their carriage. Adelaide drove gently into London in a one-horse greenish thing, an early Victorian landau, hired, near at hand, imaginatively, from a broken-down jobmaster whose wife was in consumption—a vehicle that made people turn round all the more when her pensioner sat beside her in a soft white hat and a shawl, one of the dear woman’s own. This was his position and I dare say his costume when on an afternoon in July she went to return Miss Anvoy’s visit. The wheel of fate had now revolved, and amid silences deep and exhaustive, compunctions and condonations alike unutterable, Saltram was reinstated. Was it in pride or in penance that Mrs. Mulville had begun immediately to drive him about? If he was ashamed of his ingratitude she might have been ashamed of her forgiveness; but she was incorrigibly capable of liking him to be conspicuous in the landau while she was in shops or with her acquaintance. However, if he was in the pillory for twenty minutes in the Regent’s Park—I mean at Lady Coxon’s door while his companion paid her call—it wasn’t to the further humiliation of any one concerned that she presently came out for him in person, not even to show either of them what a fool she was that she drew him in to be introduced to the bright young American. Her account of the introduction I had in its order, but before that, very late in the season, under Gravener’s auspices, I met Miss Anvoy at tea at the House of Commons. The member for Clockborough had gathered a group of pretty ladies, and the Mulvilles were not of the party. On the great terrace, as I strolled off with her a little, the guest of honour immediately exclaimed to me: “I’ve seen him, you know—I’ve seen him!” She told me about Saltram’s call. “And how did you find him?” “Oh so strange!” “You didn’t like him?” “I can’t tell till I see him again.” “You want to do that?” She had a pause. “Immensely.” We went no further; I fancied she had become aware Gravener was looking at us. She turned back toward the knot of the others, and I said: “Dislike him as much as you will—I see you’re bitten.” “Bitten?” I thought she coloured a little. “Oh it doesn’t matter!” I laughed; “one doesn’t die of it.” “I hope I shan’t die of anything before I’ve seen more of Mrs. Mulville.” I rejoiced with her over plain Adelaide, whom she pronounced the loveliest woman she had met in England; but before we separated I remarked to her that it was an act of mere humanity to warn her that if she should see more of Frank Saltram—which would be likely to follow on any increase of acquaintance with Mrs. Mulville—she might find herself flattening her nose against the clear hard pane of an eternal question—that of the relative, that of the opposed, importances of virtue and brains. She replied that this was surely a subject on which one took everything for granted; whereupon I admitted that I had perhaps expressed myself ill. What I referred to was what I had referred to the night we met in Upper Baker Street—the relative importance (relative to virtue) of other gifts. She asked me if I called virtue a gift—a thing handed to us in a parcel on our first birthday; and I declared that this very enquiry proved to me the problem had already caught her by the skirt. She would have help however, the same help I myself had once had, in resisting its tendency to make one cross. “What help do you mean?” “That of the member for Clockborough.” She stared, smiled, then returned: “Why my idea has been to help him!” She had helped him—I had his own word for it that at Clockborough her bedevilment of the voters had really put him in. She would do so doubtless again and again, though I heard the very next month that this fine faculty had undergone a temporary eclipse. News of the catastrophe first came to me from Mrs. Saltram, and it was afterwards confirmed at Wimbledon: poor Miss Anvoy was in trouble—great disasters in America had suddenly summoned her home. Her father, in New York, had suffered reverses, lost so much money that it was really vexatious as showing how much he had had. It was Adelaide who told me she had gone off alone at less than a week’s notice. “Alone? Gravener has permitted that?” “What will you have? The House of Commons!” I’m afraid I cursed the House of Commons: I was so much interested. Of course he’d follow her as soon as he was free to make her his wife; only she mightn’t now be able to bring him anything like the marriage-portion of which he had begun by having the virtual promise. Mrs. Mulville let me know what was already said: she was charming, this American girl, but really these American fathers—! What was a man to do? Mr. Saltram, according to Mrs. Mulville, was of opinion that a man was never to suffer his relation to money to become a spiritual relation—he was to keep it exclusively material. “Moi pas comprendre!” I commented on this; in rejoinder to which Adelaide, with her beautiful sympathy, explained that she supposed he simply meant that the thing was to use it, don’t you know? but not to think too much about it. “To take it, but not to thank you for it?” I still more profanely enquired. For a quarter of an hour afterwards she wouldn’t look at me, but this didn’t prevent my asking her what had been the result, that afternoon—in the Regent’s Park, of her taking our friend to see Miss Anvoy. “Oh so charming!” she answered, brightening. “He said he recognised in her a nature he could absolutely trust.” “Yes, but I’m speaking of the effect on herself.” Mrs. Mulville had to remount the stream. “It was everything one could wish.” Something in her tone made me laugh. “Do you mean she gave him—a dole?” “Well, since you ask me!” “Right there on the spot?” Again poor Adelaide faltered. “It was to me of course she gave it.” I stared; somehow I couldn’t see the scene. “Do you mean a sum of money?” “It was very handsome.” Now at last she met my eyes, though I could see it was with an effort. “Thirty pounds.” “Straight out of her pocket?” “Out of the drawer of a table at which she had been writing. She just slipped the folded notes into my hand. He wasn’t looking; it was while he was going back to the carriage.” “Oh,” said Adelaide reassuringly, “I take care of it for him!” The dear practical soul thought my agitation, for I confess I was agitated, referred to the employment of the money. Her disclosure made me for a moment muse violently, and I dare say that during that moment I wondered if anything else in the world makes people so gross as unselfishness. I uttered, I suppose, some vague synthetic cry, for she went on as if she had had a glimpse of my inward amaze at such passages. “I assure you, my dear friend, he was in one of his happy hours.” But I wasn’t thinking of that. “Truly indeed these Americans!” I said. “With her father in the very act, as it were, of swindling her betrothed!” Mrs. Mulville stared. “Oh I suppose Mr. Anvoy has scarcely gone bankrupt—or whatever he has done—on purpose. Very likely they won’t be able to keep it up, but there it was, and it was a very beautiful impulse.” “You say Saltram was very fine?” “Beyond everything. He surprised even me.” “And I know what you’ve enjoyed.” After a moment I added: “Had he peradventure caught a glimpse of the money in the table-drawer?” At this my companion honestly flushed. “How can you be so cruel when you know how little he calculates?” “Forgive me, I do know it. But you tell me things that act on my nerves. I’m sure he hadn’t caught a glimpse of anything but some splendid idea.” Mrs. Mulville brightly concurred. “And perhaps even of her beautiful listening face.” “Perhaps even! And what was it all about?” “His talk? It was apropos of her engagement, which I had told him about: the idea of marriage, the philosophy, the poetry, the sublimity of it.” It was impossible wholly to restrain one’s mirth at this, and some rude ripple that I emitted again caused my companion to admonish me. “It sounds a little stale, but you know his freshness.” “Of illustration? Indeed I do!” “And how he has always been right on that great question.” “On what great question, dear lady, hasn’t he been right?” “Of what other great men can you equally say it?—and that he has never, but never, had a deflexion?” Mrs. Mulville exultantly demanded. I tried to think of some other great man, but I had to give it up. “Didn’t Miss Anvoy express her satisfaction in any less diffident way than by her charming present?” I was reduced to asking instead. “Oh yes, she overflowed to me on the steps while he was getting into the carriage.” These words somehow brushed up a picture of Saltram’s big shawled back as he hoisted himself into the green landau. “She said she wasn’t disappointed,” Adelaide pursued. I turned it over. “Did he wear his shawl?” “His shawl?” She hadn’t even noticed. “I mean yours.” “He looked very nice, and you know he’s really clean. Miss Anvoy used such a remarkable expression—she said his mind’s like a crystal!” I pricked up my ears. “A crystal?” “Suspended in the moral world—swinging and shining and flashing there. She’s monstrously clever, you know.” I thought again. “Monstrously!” VIII GEORGE GRAVENER didn’t follow her, for late in September, after the House had risen, I met him in a railway-carriage. He was coming up from Scotland and I had just quitted some relations who lived near Durham. The current of travel back to London wasn’t yet strong; at any rate on entering the compartment I found he had had it for some time to himself. We fared in company, and though he had a blue-book in his lap and the open jaws of his bag threatened me with the white teeth of confused papers, we inevitably, we even at last sociably conversed. I saw things weren’t well with him, but I asked no question till something dropped by himself made, as it had made on another occasion, an absence of curiosity invidious. He mentioned that he was worried about his good old friend Lady Coxon, who, with her niece likely to be detained some time in America, lay seriously ill at Clockborough, much on his mind and on his hands. “Ah Miss Anvoy’s in America?” “Her father has got into horrid straits—has lost no end of money.” I waited, after expressing due concern, but I eventually said: “I hope that raises no objection to your marriage.” “None whatever; moreover it’s my trade to meet objections. But it may create tiresome delays, of which there have been too many, from various causes, already. Lady Coxon got very bad, then she got much better. Then Mr. Anvoy suddenly began to totter, and now he seems quite on his back. I’m afraid he’s really in for some big reverse. Lady Coxon’s worse again, awfully upset by the news from America, and she sends me word that she _must_ have Ruth. How can I supply her with Ruth? I haven’t got Ruth myself!” “Surely you haven’t lost her?” I returned. “She’s everything to her wretched father. She writes me every post—telling me to smooth her aunt’s pillow. I’ve other things to smooth; but the old lady, save for her servants, is really alone. She won’t receive her Coxon relations—she’s angry at so much of her money going to them. Besides, she’s hopelessly mad,” said Gravener very frankly. I don’t remember whether it was this, or what it was, that made me ask if she hadn’t such an appreciation of Mrs. Saltram as might render that active person of some use. He gave me a cold glance, wanting to know what had put Mrs. Saltram into my head, and I replied that she was unfortunately never out of it. I happened to remember the wonderful accounts she had given me of the kindness Lady Coxon had shown her. Gravener declared this to be false; Lady Coxon, who didn’t care for her, hadn’t seen her three times. The only foundation for it was that Miss Anvoy, who used, poor girl, to chuck money about in a manner she must now regret, had for an hour seen in the miserable woman—you could never know what she’d see in people—an interesting pretext for the liberality with which her nature overflowed. But even Miss Anvoy was now quite tired of her. Gravener told me more about the crash in New York and the annoyance it had been to him, and we also glanced here and there in other directions; but by the time we got to Doncaster the principal thing he had let me see was that he was keeping something back. We stopped at that station, and, at the carriage-door, some one made a movement to get in. Gravener uttered a sound of impatience, and I felt sure that but for this I should have had the secret. Then the intruder, for some reason, spared us his company; we started afresh, and my hope of a disclosure returned. My companion held his tongue, however, and I pretended to go to sleep; in fact I really dozed for discouragement. When I reopened my eyes he was looking at me with an injured air. He tossed away with some vivacity the remnant of a cigarette and then said: “If you’re not too sleepy I want to put you a case.” I answered that I’d make every effort to attend, and welcomed the note of interest when he went on: “As I told you a while ago, Lady Coxon, poor dear, is demented.” His tone had much behind it—was full of promise. I asked if her ladyship’s misfortune were a trait of her malady or only of her character, and he pronounced it a product of both. The case he wanted to put to me was a matter on which it concerned him to have the impression—the judgement, he might also say—of another person. “I mean of the average intelligent man, but you see I take what I can get.” There would be the technical, the strictly legal view; then there would be the way the question would strike a man of the world. He had lighted another cigarette while he talked, and I saw he was glad to have it to handle when he brought out at last, with a laugh slightly artificial: “In fact it’s a subject on which Miss Anvoy and I are pulling different ways.” “And you want me to decide between you? I decide in advance for Miss Anvoy.” “In advance—that’s quite right. That’s how I decided when I proposed to her. But my story will interest you only so far as your mind isn’t made up.” Gravener puffed his cigarette a minute and then continued: “Are you familiar with the idea of the Endowment of Research?” “Of Research?” I was at sea a moment. “I give you Lady Coxon’s phrase. She has it on the brain.” “She wishes to endow—?” “Some earnest and ‘loyal’ seeker,” Gravener said. “It was a sketchy design of her late husband’s, and he handed it on to her; setting apart in his will a sum of money of which she was to enjoy the interest for life, but of which, should she eventually see her opportunity—the matter was left largely to her discretion—she would best honour his memory by determining the exemplary public use. This sum of money, no less than thirteen thousand pounds, was to be called The Coxon Fund; and poor Sir Gregory evidently proposed to himself that The Coxon Fund should cover his name with glory—be universally desired and admired. He left his wife a full declaration of his views, so far at least as that term may be applied to views vitiated by a vagueness really infantine. A little learning’s a dangerous thing, and a good citizen who happens to have been an ass is worse for a community than bad sewerage. He’s worst of all when he’s dead, because then he can’t be stopped. However, such as they were, the poor man’s aspirations are now in his wife’s bosom, or fermenting rather in her foolish brain: it lies with her to carry them out. But of course she must first catch her hare.” “Her earnest loyal seeker?” “The flower that blushes unseen for want of such a pecuniary independence as may aid the light that’s in it to shine upon the human race. The individual, in a word, who, having the rest of the machinery, the spiritual, the intellectual, is most hampered in his search.” “His search for what?” “For Moral Truth. That’s what Sir Gregory calls it.” I burst out laughing. “Delightful munificent Sir Gregory! It’s a charming idea.” “So Miss Anvoy thinks.” “Has she a candidate for the Fund?” “Not that I know of—and she’s perfectly reasonable about it. But Lady Coxon has put the matter before her, and we’ve naturally had a lot of talk.” “Talk that, as you’ve so interestingly intimated, has landed you in a disagreement.” “She considers there’s something in it,” Gravener said. “And you consider there’s nothing?” “It seems to me a piece of solemn twaddle—which can’t fail to be attended with consequences certainly grotesque and possibly immoral. To begin with, fancy constituting an endowment without establishing a tribunal—a bench of competent people, of judges.” “The sole tribunal is Lady Coxon?” “And any one she chooses to invite.” “But she has invited you,” I noted. “I’m not competent—I hate the thing. Besides, she hasn’t,” my friend went on. “The real history of the matter, I take it, is that the inspiration was originally Lady Coxon’s own, that she infected him with it, and that the flattering option left her is simply his tribute to her beautiful, her aboriginal enthusiasm. She came to England forty years ago, a thin transcendental Bostonian, and even her odd happy frumpy Clockborough marriage never really materialised her. She feels indeed that she has become very British—as if that, as a process, as a ‘Werden,’ as anything but an original sign of grace, were conceivable; but it’s precisely what makes her cling to the notion of the ‘Fund’—cling to it as to a link with the ideal.” “How can she cling if she’s dying?” “Do you mean how can she act in the matter?” Gravener asked. “That’s precisely the question. She can’t! As she has never yet caught her hare, never spied out her lucky impostor—how should she, with the life she has led?—her husband’s intention has come very near lapsing. His idea, to do him justice, was that it _should_ lapse if exactly the right person, the perfect mixture of genius and chill penury, should fail to turn up. Ah the poor dear woman’s very particular—she says there must be no mistake.” I found all this quite thrilling—I took it in with avidity. “And if she dies without doing anything, what becomes of the money?” I demanded. “It goes back to his family, if she hasn’t made some other disposition of it.” “She may do that then—she may divert it?” “Her hands are not tied. She has a grand discretion. The proof is that three months ago she offered to make the proceeds over to her niece.” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use?” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use—on the occasion of her prospective marriage. She was discouraged—the earnest seeker required so earnest a search. She was afraid of making a mistake; every one she could think of seemed either not earnest enough or not poor enough. On the receipt of the first bad news about Mr. Anvoy’s affairs she proposed to Ruth to make the sacrifice for her. As the situation in New York got worse she repeated her proposal.” “Which Miss Anvoy declined?” “Except as a formal trust.” “You mean except as committing herself legally to place the money?” “On the head of the deserving object, the great man frustrated,” said Gravener. “She only consents to act in the spirit of Sir Gregory’s scheme.” “And you blame her for that?” I asked with some intensity. My tone couldn’t have been harsh, but he coloured a little and there was a queer light in his eye. “My dear fellow, if I ‘blamed’ the young lady I’m engaged to I shouldn’t immediately say it even to so old a friend as you.” I saw that some deep discomfort, some restless desire to be sided with, reassuringly, approvingly mirrored, had been at the bottom of his drifting so far, and I was genuinely touched by his confidence. It was inconsistent with his habits; but being troubled about a woman was not, for him, a habit: that itself was an inconsistency. George Gravener could stand straight enough before any other combination of forces. It amused me to think that the combination he had succumbed to had an American accent, a transcendental aunt and an insolvent father; but all my old loyalty to him mustered to meet this unexpected hint that I could help him. I saw that I could from the insincere tone in which he pursued: “I’ve criticised her of course, I’ve contended with her, and it has been great fun.” Yet it clearly couldn’t have been such great fun as to make it improper for me presently to ask if Miss Anvoy had nothing at all settled on herself. To this he replied that she had only a trifle from her mother—a mere four hundred a year, which was exactly why it would be convenient to him that she shouldn’t decline, in the face of this total change in her prospects, an accession of income which would distinctly help them to marry. When I enquired if there were no other way in which so rich and so affectionate an aunt could cause the weight of her benevolence to be felt, he answered that Lady Coxon was affectionate indeed, but was scarcely to be called rich. She could let her project of the Fund lapse for her niece’s benefit, but she couldn’t do anything else. She had been accustomed to regard her as tremendously provided for, and she was up to her eyes in promises to anxious Coxons. She was a woman of an inordinate conscience, and her conscience was now a distress to her, hovering round her bed in irreconcilable forms of resentful husbands, portionless nieces and undiscoverable philosophers. We were by this time getting into the whirr of fleeting platforms, the multiplication of lights. “I think you’ll find,” I said with a laugh, “that your predicament will disappear in the very fact that the philosopher _is_ undiscoverable.” He began to gather up his papers. “Who can set a limit to the ingenuity of an extravagant woman?” “Yes, after all, who indeed?” I echoed as I recalled the extravagance commemorated in Adelaide’s anecdote of Miss Anvoy and the thirty pounds. IX THE thing I had been most sensible of in that talk with George Gravener was the way Saltram’s name kept out of it. It seemed to me at the time that we were quite pointedly silent about him; but afterwards it appeared more probable there had been on my companion’s part no conscious avoidance. Later on I was sure of this, and for the best of reasons—the simple reason of my perceiving more completely that, for evil as well as for good, he said nothing to Gravener’s imagination. That honest man didn’t fear him—he was too much disgusted with him. No more did I, doubtless, and for very much the same reason. I treated my friend’s story as an absolute confidence; but when before Christmas, by Mrs. Saltram, I was informed of Lady Coxon’s death without having had news of Miss Anvoy’s return, I found myself taking for granted we should hear no more of these nuptials, in which, as obscurely unnatural, I now saw I had never _too_ disconcertedly believed. I began to ask myself how people who suited each other so little could please each other so much. The charm was some material charm, some afffinity, exquisite doubtless, yet superficial some surrender to youth and beauty and passion, to force and grace and fortune, happy accidents and easy contacts. They might dote on each other’s persons, but how could they know each other’s souls? How could they have the same prejudices, how could they have the same horizon? Such questions, I confess, seemed quenched but not answered when, one day in February, going out to Wimbledon, I found our young lady in the house. A passion that had brought her back across the wintry ocean was as much of a passion as was needed. No impulse equally strong indeed had drawn George Gravener to America; a circumstance on which, however, I reflected only long enough to remind myself that it was none of my business. Ruth Anvoy was distinctly different, and I felt that the difference was not simply that of her marks of mourning. Mrs. Mulville told me soon enough what it was: it was the difference between a handsome girl with large expectations and a handsome girl with only four hundred a year. This explanation indeed didn’t wholly content me, not even when I learned that her mourning had a double cause—learned that poor Mr. Anvoy, giving way altogether, buried under the ruins of his fortune and leaving next to nothing, had died a few weeks before. “So she has come out to marry George Gravener?” I commented. “Wouldn’t it have been prettier of him to have saved her the trouble?” “Hasn’t the House just met?” Adelaide replied. “And for Mr. Gravener the House—!” Then she added: “I gather that her having come is exactly a sign that the marriage is a little shaky. If it were quite all right a self-respecting girl like Ruth would have waited for him over there.” I noted that they were already Ruth and Adelaide, but what I said was: “Do you mean she’ll have had to return to _make_ it so?” “No, I mean that she must have come out for some reason independent of it.” Adelaide could only surmise, however, as yet, and there was more, as we found, to be revealed. Mrs. Mulville, on hearing of her arrival, had brought the young lady out in the green landau for the Sunday. The Coxons were in possession of the house in Regent’s Park, and Miss Anvoy was in dreary lodgings. George Gravener had been with her when Adelaide called, but had assented graciously enough to the little visit at Wimbledon. The carriage, with Mr. Saltram in it but not mentioned, had been sent off on some errand from which it was to return and pick the ladies up. Gravener had left them together, and at the end of an hour, on the Saturday afternoon, the party of three had driven out to Wimbledon. This was the girl’s second glimpse of our great man, and I was interested in asking Mrs. Mulville if the impression made by the first appeared to have been confirmed. On her replying after consideration, that of course with time and opportunity it couldn’t fail to be, but that she was disappointed, I was sufficiently struck with her use of this last word to question her further. “Do you mean you’re disappointed because you judge Miss Anvoy to be?” “Yes; I hoped for a greater effect last evening. We had two or three people, but he scarcely opened his mouth.” “He’ll be all the better to-night,” I opined after a moment. Then I pursued: “What particular importance do you attach to the idea of her being impressed?” Adelaide turned her mild pale eyes on me as for rebuke of my levity. “Why the importance of her being as happy as _we_ are!” I’m afraid that at this my levity grew. “Oh that’s a happiness almost too great to wish a person!” I saw she hadn’t yet in her mind what I had in mine, and at any rate the visitor’s actual bliss was limited to a walk in the garden with Kent Mulville. Later in the afternoon I also took one, and I saw nothing of Miss Anvoy till dinner, at which we failed of the company of Saltram, who had caused it to be reported that he was indisposed and lying down. This made us, most of us—for there were other friends present—convey to each other in silence some of the unutterable things that in those years our eyes had inevitably acquired the art of expressing. If a fine little American enquirer hadn’t been there we would have expressed them otherwise, and Adelaide would have pretended not to hear. I had seen her, before the very fact, abstract herself nobly; and I knew that more than once, to keep it from the servants, managing, dissimulating cleverly, she had helped her husband to carry him bodily to his room. Just recently he had been so wise and so deep and so high that I had begun to get nervous—to wonder if by chance there were something behind it, if he were kept straight for instance by the knowledge that the hated Pudneys would have more to tell us if they chose. He was lying low, but unfortunately it was common wisdom with us in this connexion that the biggest splashes took place in the quietest pools. We should have had a merry life indeed if all the splashes had sprinkled us as refreshingly as the waters we were even then to feel about our ears. Kent Mulville had been up to his room, but had come back with a face that told as few tales as I had seen it succeed in telling on the evening I waited in the lecture-room with Miss Anvoy. I said to myself that our friend had gone out, but it was a comfort that the presence of a comparative stranger deprived us of the dreary duty of suggesting to each other, in respect of his errand, edifying possibilities in which we didn’t ourselves believe. At ten o’clock he came into the drawing-room with his waistcoat much awry but his eyes sending out great signals. It was precisely with his entrance that I ceased to be vividly conscious of him. I saw that the crystal, as I had called it, had begun to swing, and I had need of my immediate attention for Miss Anvoy. Even when I was told afterwards that he had, as we might have said to-day, broken the record, the manner in which that attention had been rewarded relieved me of a sense of loss. I had of course a perfect general consciousness that something great was going on: it was a little like having been etherised to hear Herr Joachim play. The old music was in the air; I felt the strong pulse of thought, the sink and swell, the flight, the poise, the plunge; but I knew something about one of the listeners that nobody else knew, and Saltram’s monologue could reach me only through that medium. To this hour I’m of no use when, as a witness, I’m appealed to—for they still absurdly contend about it—as to whether or no on that historic night he was drunk; and my position is slightly ridiculous, for I’ve never cared to tell them what it really was I was taken up with. What I got out of it is the only morsel of the total experience that is quite my own. The others were shared, but this is incommunicable. I feel that now, I’m bound to say, even in thus roughly evoking the occasion, and it takes something from my pride of clearness. However, I shall perhaps be as clear as is absolutely needful if I remark that our young lady was too much given up to her own intensity of observation to be sensible of mine. It was plainly not the question of her marriage that had brought her back. I greatly enjoyed this discovery and was sure that had that question alone been involved she would have stirred no step. In this case doubtless Gravener would, in spite of the House of Commons, have found means to rejoin her. It afterwards made me uncomfortable for her that, alone in the lodging Mrs. Mulville had put before me as dreary, she should have in any degree the air of waiting for her fate; so that I was presently relieved at hearing of her having gone to stay at Coldfield. If she was in England at all while the engagement stood the only proper place for her was under Lady Maddock’s wing. Now that she was unfortunate and relatively poor, perhaps her prospective sister-in-law would be wholly won over. There would be much to say, if I had space, about the way her behaviour, as I caught gleams of it, ministered to the image that had taken birth in my mind, to my private amusement, while that other night I listened to George Gravener in the railway-carriage. I watched her in the light of this queer possibility—a formidable thing certainly to meet—and I was aware that it coloured, extravagantly perhaps, my interpretation of her very looks and tones. At Wimbledon for instance it had appeared to me she was literally afraid of Saltram, in dread of a coercion that she had begun already to feel. I had come up to town with her the next day and had been convinced that, though deeply interested, she was immensely on her guard. She would show as little as possible before she should be ready to show everything. What this final exhibition might be on the part of a girl perceptibly so able to think things out I found it great sport to forecast. It would have been exciting to be approached by her, appealed to by her for advice; but I prayed to heaven I mightn’t find myself in such a predicament. If there was really a present rigour in the situation of which Gravener had sketched for me the elements, she would have to get out of her difficulty by herself. It wasn’t I who had launched her and it wasn’t I who could help her. I didn’t fail to ask myself why, since I couldn’t help her, I should think so much about her. It was in part my suspense that was responsible for this; I waited impatiently to see whether she wouldn’t have told Mrs. Mulville a portion at least of what I had learned from Gravener. But I saw Mrs. Mulville was still reduced to wonder what she had come out again for if she hadn’t come as a conciliatory bride. That she had come in some other character was the only thing that fitted all the appearances. Having for family reasons to spend some time that spring in the west of England, I was in a manner out of earshot of the great oceanic rumble—I mean of the continuous hum of Saltram’s thought—and my uneasiness tended to keep me quiet. There was something I wanted so little to have to say that my prudence surmounted my curiosity. I only wondered if Ruth Anvoy talked over the idea of The Coxon Fund with Lady Maddock, and also somewhat why I didn’t hear from Wimbledon. I had a reproachful note about something or other from Mrs. Saltram, but it contained no mention of Lady Coxon’s niece, on whom her eyes had been much less fixed since the recent untoward events. X POOR Adelaide’s silence was fully explained later—practically explained when in June, returning to London, I was honoured by this admirable woman with an early visit. As soon as she arrived I guessed everything, and as soon as she told me that darling Ruth had been in her house nearly a month I had my question ready. “What in the name of maidenly modesty is she staying in England for?” “Because she loves me so!” cried Adelaide gaily. But she hadn’t come to see me only to tell me Miss Anvoy loved her: that was quite sufficiently established, and what was much more to the point was that Mr. Gravener had now raised an objection to it. He had protested at least against her being at Wimbledon, where in the innocence of his heart he had originally brought her himself; he called on her to put an end to their engagement in the only proper, the only happy manner. “And why in the world doesn’t she do do?” I asked. Adelaide had a pause. “She says you know.” Then on my also hesitating she added: “A condition he makes.” “The Coxon Fund?” I panted. “He has mentioned to her his having told you about it.” “Ah but so little! Do you mean she has accepted the trust?” “In the most splendid spirit—as a duty about which there can be no two opinions.” To which my friend added: “Of course she’s thinking of Mr. Saltram.” I gave a quick cry at this, which, in its violence, made my visitor turn pale. “How very awful!” “Awful?” “Why, to have anything to do with such an idea one’s self.” “I’m sure _you_ needn’t!” and Mrs. Mulville tossed her head. “He isn’t good enough!” I went on; to which she opposed a sound almost as contentious as my own had been. This made me, with genuine immediate horror, exclaim: “You haven’t influenced her, I hope!” and my emphasis brought back the blood with a rush to poor Adelaide’s face. She declared while she blushed—for I had frightened her again—that she had never influenced anybody and that the girl had only seen and heard and judged for herself. _He_ had influenced her, if I would, as he did every one who had a soul: that word, as we knew, even expressed feebly the power of the things he said to haunt the mind. How could she, Adelaide, help it if Miss Anvoy’s mind was haunted? I demanded with a groan what right a pretty girl engaged to a rising M.P. had to _have_ a mind; but the only explanation my bewildered friend could give me was that she was so clever. She regarded Mr. Saltram naturally as a tremendous force for good. She was intelligent enough to understand him and generous enough to admire. “She’s many things enough, but is she, among them, rich enough?” I demanded. “Rich enough, I mean, to sacrifice such a lot of good money?” “That’s for herself to judge. Besides, it’s not her own money; she doesn’t in the least consider it so.” “And Gravener does, if not _his_ own; and that’s the whole difficulty?” “The difficulty that brought her back, yes: she had absolutely to see her poor aunt’s solicitor. It’s clear that by Lady Coxon’s will she may have the money, but it’s still clearer to her conscience that the original condition, definite, intensely implied on her uncle’s part, is attached to the use of it. She can only take one view of it. It’s for the Endowment or it’s for nothing.” “The Endowment,” I permitted myself to observe, “is a conception superficially sublime, but fundamentally ridiculous.” “Are you repeating Mr. Gravener’s words?” Adelaide asked. “Possibly, though I’ve not seen him for months. It’s simply the way it strikes me too. It’s an old wife’s tale. Gravener made some reference to the legal aspect, but such an absurdly loose arrangement has _no_ legal aspect.” “Ruth doesn’t insist on that,” said Mrs. Mulville; “and it’s, for her, exactly this technical weakness that constitutes the force of the moral obligation.” “Are you repeating _her_ words?” I enquired. I forget what else Adelaide said, but she said she was magnificent. I thought of George Gravener confronted with such magnificence as that, and I asked what could have made two such persons ever suppose they understood each other. Mrs. Mulville assured me the girl loved him as such a woman could love and that she suffered as such a woman could suffer. Nevertheless she wanted to see _me_. At this I sprang up with a groan. “Oh I’m so sorry!—when?” Small though her sense of humour, I think Adelaide laughed at my sequence. We discussed the day, the nearest it would be convenient I should come out; but before she went I asked my visitor how long she had been acquainted with these prodigies. “For several weeks, but I was pledged to secrecy.” “And that’s why you didn’t write?” “I couldn’t very well tell you she was with me without telling you that no time had even yet been fixed for her marriage. And I couldn’t very well tell you as much as that without telling you what I knew of the reason of it. It was not till a day or two ago,” Mrs. Mulville went on, “that she asked me to ask you if you wouldn’t come and see her. Then at last she spoke of your knowing about the idea of the Endowment.” I turned this over. “Why on earth does she want to see me?” “To talk with you, naturally, about Mr. Saltram.” “As a subject for the prize?” This was hugely obvious, and I presently returned: “I think I’ll sail to-morrow for Australia.” “Well then—sail!” said Mrs. Mulville, getting up. But I frivolously, continued. “On Thursday at five, we said?” The appointment was made definite and I enquired how, all this time, the unconscious candidate had carried himself. “In perfection, really, by the happiest of chances: he has positively been a dear. And then, as to what we revere him for, in the most wonderful form. His very highest—pure celestial light. You _won’t_ do him an ill turn?” Adelaide pleaded at the door. “What danger can equal for him the danger to which he’s exposed from himself?” I asked. “Look out sharp, if he has lately been too prim. He’ll presently take a day off, treat us to some exhibition that will make an Endowment a scandal.” “A scandal?” Mrs. Mulville dolorously echoed. “Is Miss Anvoy prepared for that?” My visitor, for a moment, screwed her parasol into my carpet. “He grows bigger every day.” “So do you!” I laughed as she went off. That girl at Wimbledon, on the Thursday afternoon, more than justified my apprehensions. I recognised fully now the cause of the agitation she had produced in me from the first—the faint foreknowledge that there was something very stiff I should have to do for her. I felt more than ever committed to my fate as, standing before her in the big drawing-room where they had tactfully left us to ourselves, I tried with a smile to string together the pearls of lucidity which, from her chair, she successively tossed me. Pale and bright, in her monotonous mourning, she was an image of intelligent purpose, of the passion of duty; but I asked myself whether any girl had ever had so charming an instinct as that which permitted her to laugh out, as for the joy of her difficulty, into the priggish old room. This remarkable young woman could be earnest without being solemn, and at moments when I ought doubtless to have cursed her obstinacy I found myself watching the unstudied play of her eyebrows or the recurrence of a singularly intense whiteness produced by the parting of her lips. These aberrations, I hasten to add, didn’t prevent my learning soon enough why she had wished to see me. Her reason for this was as distinct as her beauty: it was to make me explain what I had meant, on the occasion of our first meeting, by Mr. Saltram’s want of dignity. It wasn’t that she couldn’t imagine, but she desired it there from my lips. What she really desired of course was to know whether there was worse about him than what she had found out for herself. She hadn’t been a month so much in the house with him without discovering that he wasn’t a man of monumental bronze. He was like a jelly minus its mould, he had to be embanked; and that was precisely the source of her interest in him and the ground of her project. She put her project boldly before me: there it stood in its preposterous beauty. She was as willing to take the humorous view of it as I could be: the only difference was that for her the humorous view of a thing wasn’t necessarily prohibitive, wasn’t paralysing. Moreover she professed that she couldn’t discuss with me the primary question—the moral obligation: that was in her own breast. There were things she couldn’t go into—injunctions, impressions she had received. They were a part of the closest intimacy of her intercourse with her aunt, they were absolutely clear to her; and on questions of delicacy, the interpretation of a fidelity, of a promise, one had always in the last resort to make up one’s mind for one’s self. It was the idea of the application to the particular case, such a splendid one at last, that troubled her, and she admitted that it stirred very deep things. She didn’t pretend that such a responsibility was a simple matter; if it _had_ been she wouldn’t have attempted to saddle me with any portion of it. The Mulvilles were sympathy itself, but were they absolutely candid? Could they indeed be, in their position—would it even have been to be desired? Yes, she had sent for me to ask no less than that of me—whether there was anything dreadful kept back. She made no allusion whatever to George Gravener—I thought her silence the only good taste and her gaiety perhaps a part of the very anxiety of that discretion, the effect of a determination that people shouldn’t know from herself that her relations with the man she was to marry were strained. All the weight, however, that she left me to throw was a sufficient implication of the weight _he_ had thrown in vain. Oh she knew the question of character was immense, and that one couldn’t entertain any plan for making merit comfortable without running the gauntlet of that terrible procession of interrogation-points which, like a young ladies’ school out for a walk, hooked their uniform noses at the tail of governess Conduct. But were we absolutely to hold that there was never, never, never an exception, never, never, never an occasion for liberal acceptance, for clever charity, for suspended pedantry—for letting one side, in short, outbalance another? When Miss Anvoy threw off this appeal I could have embraced her for so delightfully emphasising her unlikeness to Mrs. Saltram. “Why not have the courage of one’s forgiveness,” she asked, “as well as the enthusiasm of one’s adhesion?” “Seeing how wonderfully you’ve threshed the whole thing out,” I evasively replied, “gives me an extraordinary notion of the point your enthusiasm has reached.” She considered this remark an instant with her eyes on mine, and I divined that it struck her I might possibly intend it as a reference to some personal subjection to our fat philosopher, to some aberration of sensibility, some perversion of taste. At least I couldn’t interpret otherwise the sudden flash that came into her face. Such a manifestation, as the result of any word of mine, embarrassed me; but while I was thinking how to reassure her the flush passed away in a smile of exquisite good nature. “Oh you see one forgets so wonderfully how one dislikes him!” she said; and if her tone simply extinguished his strange figure with the brush of its compassion, it also rings in my ear to-day as the purest of all our praises. But with what quick response of fine pity such a relegation of the man himself made me privately sigh “Ah poor Saltram!” She instantly, with this, took the measure of all I didn’t believe, and it enabled her to go on: “What can one do when a person has given such a lift to one’s interest in life?” “Yes, what can one do?” If I struck her as a little vague it was because I was thinking of another person. I indulged in another inarticulate murmur—“Poor George Gravener!” What had become of the lift _he_ had given that interest? Later on I made up my mind that she was sore and stricken at the appearance he presented of wanting the miserable money. This was the hidden reason of her alienation. The probable sincerity, in spite of the illiberality, of his scruples about the particular use of it under discussion didn’t efface the ugliness of his demand that they should buy a good house with it. Then, as for _his_ alienation, he didn’t, pardonably enough, grasp the lift Frank Saltram had given her interest in life. If a mere spectator could ask that last question, with what rage in his heart the man himself might! He wasn’t, like her, I was to see, too proud to show me why he was disappointed. XI I WAS unable this time to stay to dinner: such at any rate was the plea on which I took leave. I desired in truth to get away from my young lady, for that obviously helped me not to pretend to satisfy her. How _could_ I satisfy her? I asked myself—how could I tell her how much had been kept back? I didn’t even know and I certainly didn’t desire to know. My own policy had ever been to learn the least about poor Saltram’s weaknesses—not to learn the most. A great deal that I had in fact learned had been forced upon me by his wife. There was something even irritating in Miss Anvoy’s crude conscientiousness, and I wondered why, after all, she couldn’t have let him alone and been content to entrust George Gravener with the purchase of the good house. I was sure he would have driven a bargain, got something excellent and cheap. I laughed louder even than she, I temporised, I failed her; I told her I must think over her case. I professed a horror of responsibilities and twitted her with her own extravagant passion for them. It wasn’t really that I was afraid of the scandal, the moral discredit for the Fund; what troubled me most was a feeling of a different order. Of course, as the beneficiary of the Fund was to enjoy a simple life-interest, as it was hoped that new beneficiaries would arise and come up to new standards, it wouldn’t be a trifle that the first of these worthies shouldn’t have been a striking example of the domestic virtues. The Fund would start badly, as it were, and the laurel would, in some respects at least, scarcely be greener from the brows of the original wearer. That idea, however, was at that hour, as I have hinted, not the source of solicitude it ought perhaps to have been, for I felt less the irregularity of Saltram’s getting the money than that of this exalted young woman’s giving it up. I wanted her to have it for herself, and I told her so before I went away. She looked graver at this than she had looked at all, saying she hoped such a preference wouldn’t make me dishonest. It made me, to begin with, very restless—made me, instead of going straight to the station, fidget a little about that many-coloured Common which gives Wimbledon horizons. There was a worry for me to work off, or rather keep at a distance, for I declined even to admit to myself that I had, in Miss Anvoy’s phrase, been saddled with it. What could have been clearer indeed than the attitude of recognising perfectly what a world of trouble The Coxon Fund would in future save us, and of yet liking better to face a continuance of that trouble than see, and in fact contribute to, a deviation from attainable bliss in the life of two other persons in whom I was deeply interested? Suddenly, at the end of twenty minutes, there was projected across this clearness the image of a massive middle-aged man seated on a bench under a tree, with sad far-wandering eyes and plump white hands folded on the head of a stick—a stick I recognised, a stout gold-headed staff that I had given him in devoted days. I stopped short as he turned his face to me, and it happened that for some reason or other I took in as I had perhaps never done before the beauty of his rich blank gaze. It was charged with experience as the sky is charged with light, and I felt on the instant as if we had been overspanned and conjoined by the great arch of a bridge or the great dome of a temple. Doubtless I was rendered peculiarly sensitive to it by something in the way I had been giving him up and sinking him. While I met it I stood there smitten, and I felt myself responding to it with a sort of guilty grimace. This brought back his attention in a smile which expressed for me a cheerful weary patience, a bruised noble gentleness. I had told Miss Anvoy that he had no dignity, but what did he seem to me, all unbuttoned and fatigued as he waited for me to come up, if he didn’t seem unconcerned with small things, didn’t seem in short majestic? There was majesty in his mere unconsciousness of our little conferences and puzzlements over his maintenance and his reward. After I had sat by him a few minutes I passed my arm over his big soft shoulder—wherever you touched him you found equally little firmness—and said in a tone of which the suppliance fell oddly on my own ear: “Come back to town with me, old friend—come back and spend the evening.” I wanted to hold him, I wanted to keep him, and at Waterloo, an hour later, I telegraphed possessively to the Mulvilles. When he objected, as regards staying all night, that he had no things, I asked him if he hadn’t everything of mine. I had abstained from ordering dinner, and it was too late for preliminaries at a club; so we were reduced to tea and fried fish at my rooms—reduced also to the transcendent. Something had come up which made me want him to feel at peace with me—and which, precisely, was all the dear man himself wanted on any occasion. I had too often had to press upon him considerations irrelevant, but it gives me pleasure now to think that on that particular evening I didn’t even mention Mrs. Saltram and the children. Late into the night we smoked and talked; old shames and old rigours fell away from us; I only let him see that I was conscious of what I owed him. He was as mild as contrition and as copious as faith; he was never so fine as on a shy return, and even better at forgiving than at being forgiven. I dare say it was a smaller matter than that famous night at Wimbledon, the night of the problematical sobriety and of Miss Anvoy’s initiation; but I was as much in it on this occasion as I had been out of it then. At about 1.30 he was sublime. He never, in whatever situation, rose till all other risings were over, and his breakfasts, at Wimbledon, had always been the principal reason mentioned by departing cooks. The coast was therefore clear for me to receive her when, early the next morning, to my surprise, it was announced to me his wife had called. I hesitated, after she had come up, about telling her Saltram was in the house, but she herself settled the question, kept me reticent by drawing forth a sealed letter which, looking at me very hard in the eyes, she placed, with a pregnant absence of comment, in my hand. For a single moment there glimmered before me the fond hope that Mrs. Saltram had tendered me, as it were, her resignation and desired to embody the act in an unsparing form. To bring this about I would have feigned any humiliation; but after my eyes had caught the superscription I heard myself say with a flatness that betrayed a sense of something very different from relief: “Oh the Pudneys!” I knew their envelopes though they didn’t know mine. They always used the kind sold at post-offices with the stamp affixed, and as this letter hadn’t been posted they had wasted a penny on me. I had seen their horrid missives to the Mulvilles, but hadn’t been in direct correspondence with them. “They enclosed it to me, to be delivered. They doubtless explain to you that they hadn’t your address.” I turned the thing over without opening it. “Why in the world should they write to me?” “Because they’ve something to tell you. The worst,” Mrs. Saltram dryly added. It was another chapter, I felt, of the history of their lamentable quarrel with her husband, the episode in which, vindictively, disingenuously as they themselves had behaved, one had to admit that he had put himself more grossly in the wrong than at any moment of his life. He had begun by insulting the matchless Mulvilles for these more specious protectors, and then, according to his wont at the end of a few months, had dug a still deeper ditch for his aberration than the chasm left yawning behind. The chasm at Wimbledon was now blessedly closed; but the Pudneys, across their persistent gulf, kept up the nastiest fire. I never doubted they had a strong case, and I had been from the first for not defending him—reasoning that if they weren’t contradicted they’d perhaps subside. This was above all what I wanted, and I so far prevailed that I did arrest the correspondence in time to save our little circle an infliction heavier than it perhaps would have borne. I knew, that is I divined, that their allegations had gone as yet only as far as their courage, conscious as they were in their own virtue of an exposed place in which Saltram could have planted a blow. It was a question with them whether a man who had himself so much to cover up would dare his blow; so that these vessels of rancour were in a manner afraid of each other. I judged that on the day the Pudneys should cease for some reason or other to be afraid they would treat us to some revelation more disconcerting than any of its predecessors. As I held Mrs. Saltram’s letter in my hand it was distinctly communicated to me that the day had come—they had ceased to be afraid. “I don’t want to know the worst,” I presently declared. “You’ll have to open the letter. It also contains an enclosure.” I felt it—it was fat and uncanny. “Wheels within wheels!” I exclaimed. “There’s something for me too to deliver.” “So they tell me—to Miss Anvoy.” I stared; I felt a certain thrill. “Why don’t they send it to her directly?” Mrs. Saltram hung fire. “Because she’s staying with Mr. and Mrs. Mulville.” “And why should that prevent?” Again my visitor faltered, and I began to reflect on the grotesque, the unconscious perversity of her action. I was the only person save George Gravener and the Mulvilles who was aware of Sir Gregory Coxon’s and of Miss Anvoy’s strange bounty. Where could there have been a more signal illustration of the clumsiness of human affairs than her having complacently selected this moment to fly in the face of it? “There’s the chance of their seeing her letters. They know Mr. Pudney’s hand.” Still I didn’t understand; then it flashed upon me. “You mean they might intercept it? How can you imply anything so base?” I indignantly demanded. “It’s not I—it’s Mr. Pudney!” cried Mrs. Saltram with a flush. “It’s his own idea.” “Then why couldn’t he send the letter to you to be delivered?” Mrs. Saltram’s embarrassment increased; she gave me another hard look. “You must make that out for yourself.” I made it out quickly enough. “It’s a denunciation?” “A real lady doesn’t betray her husband!” this virtuous woman exclaimed. I burst out laughing, and I fear my laugh may have had an effect of impertinence. “Especially to Miss Anvoy, who’s so easily shocked? Why do such things concern _her_?” I asked, much at a loss. “Because she’s there, exposed to all his craft. Mr. and Mrs. Pudney have been watching this: they feel she may be taken in.” “Thank you for all the rest of us! What difference can it make when she has lost her power to contribute?” Again Mrs. Saltram considered; then very nobly: “There are other things in the world than money.” This hadn’t occurred to her so long as the young lady had any; but she now added, with a glance at my letter, that Mr. and Mrs. Pudney doubtless explained their motives. “It’s all in kindness,” she continued as she got up. “Kindness to Miss Anvoy? You took, on the whole, another view of kindness before her reverses.” My companion smiled with some acidity “Perhaps you’re no safer than the Mulvilles!” I didn’t want her to think that, nor that she should report to the Pudneys that they had not been happy in their agent; and I well remember that this was the moment at which I began, with considerable emotion, to promise myself to enjoin upon Miss Anvoy never to open any letter that should come to her in one of those penny envelopes. My emotion, and I fear I must add my confusion, quickly deepened; I presently should have been as glad to frighten Mrs. Saltram as to think I might by some diplomacy restore the Pudneys to a quieter vigilance. “It’s best you should take _my_ view of my safety,” I at any rate soon responded. When I saw she didn’t know what I meant by this I added: “You may turn out to have done, in bringing me this letter, a thing you’ll profoundly regret.” My tone had a significance which, I could see, did make her uneasy, and there was a moment, after I had made two or three more remarks of studiously bewildering effect, at which her eyes followed so hungrily the little flourish of the letter with which I emphasised them that I instinctively slipped Mr. Pudney’s communication into my pocket. She looked, in her embarrassed annoyance, capable of grabbing it to send it back to him. I felt, after she had gone, as if I had almost given her my word I wouldn’t deliver the enclosure. The passionate movement, at any rate, with which, in solitude, I transferred the whole thing, unopened, from my pocket to a drawer which I double-locked would have amounted, for an initiated observer, to some such pledge. XII MRS. SALTRAM left me drawing my breath more quickly and indeed almost in pain—as if I had just perilously grazed the loss of something precious. I didn’t quite know what it was—it had a shocking resemblance to my honour. The emotion was the livelier surely in that my pulses even yet vibrated to the pleasure with which, the night before, I had rallied to the rare analyst, the great intellectual adventurer and pathfinder. What had dropped from me like a cumbersome garment as Saltram appeared before me in the afternoon on the heath was the disposition to haggle over his value. Hang it, one had to choose, one had to put that value somewhere; so I would put it really high and have done with it. Mrs. Mulville drove in for him at a discreet hour—the earliest she could suppose him to have got up; and I learned that Miss Anvoy would also have come had she not been expecting a visit from Mr. Gravener. I was perfectly mindful that I was under bonds to see this young lady, and also that I had a letter to hand to her; but I took my time, I waited from day to day. I left Mrs. Saltram to deal as her apprehensions should prompt with the Pudneys. I knew at last what I meant—I had ceased to wince at my responsibility. I gave this supreme impression of Saltram time to fade if it would; but it didn’t fade, and, individually, it hasn’t faded even now. During the month that I thus invited myself to stiffen again, Adelaide Mulville, perplexed by my absence, wrote to me to ask why I _was_ so stiff. At that season of the year I was usually oftener “with” them. She also wrote that she feared a real estrangement had set in between Mr. Gravener and her sweet young friend—a state of things but half satisfactory to her so long as the advantage resulting to Mr. Saltram failed to disengage itself from the merely nebulous state. She intimated that her sweet young friend was, if anything, a trifle too reserved; she also intimated that there might now be an opening for another clever young man. There never was the slightest opening, I may here parenthesise, and of course the question can’t come up to-day. These are old frustrations now. Ruth Anvoy hasn’t married, I hear, and neither have I. During the month, toward the end, I wrote to George Gravener to ask if, on a special errand, I might come to see him, and his answer was to knock the very next day at my door. I saw he had immediately connected my enquiry with the talk we had had in the railway-carriage, and his promptitude showed that the ashes of his eagerness weren’t yet cold. I told him there was something I felt I ought in candour to let him know—I recognised the obligation his friendly confidence had laid on me. “You mean Miss Anvoy has talked to you? She has told me so herself,” he said. “It wasn’t to tell you so that I wanted to see you,” I replied; “for it seemed to me that such a communication would rest wholly with herself. If however she did speak to you of our conversation she probably told you I was discouraging.” “Discouraging?” “On the subject of a present application of The Coxon Fund.” “To the case of Mr. Saltram? My dear fellow, I don’t know what you call discouraging!” Gravener cried. “Well I thought I was, and I thought she thought I was.” “I believe she did, but such a thing’s measured by the effect. She’s not ‘discouraged,’” he said. “That’s her own affair. The reason I asked you to see me was that it appeared to me I ought to tell you frankly that—decidedly!—I can’t undertake to produce that effect. In fact I don’t want to!” “It’s very good of you, damn you!” my visitor laughed, red and really grave. Then he said: “You’d like to see that scoundrel publicly glorified—perched on the pedestal of a great complimentary pension?” I braced myself. “Taking one form of public recognition with another it seems to me on the whole I should be able to bear it. When I see the compliments that _are_ paid right and left I ask myself why this one shouldn’t take its course. This therefore is what you’re entitled to have looked to me to mention to you. I’ve some evidence that perhaps would be really dissuasive, but I propose to invite Mss Anvoy to remain in ignorance of it.” “And to invite me to do the same?” “Oh you don’t require it—you’ve evidence enough. I speak of a sealed letter that I’ve been requested to deliver to her.” “And you don’t mean to?” “There’s only one consideration that would make me,” I said. Gravener’s clear handsome eyes plunged into mine a minute, but evidently without fishing up a clue to this motive—a failure by which I was almost wounded. “What does the letter contain?” “It’s sealed, as I tell you, and I don’t know what it contains.” “Why is it sent through you?” “Rather than you?” I wondered how to put the thing. “The only explanation I can think of is that the person sending it may have imagined your relations with Miss Anvoy to be at an end—may have been told this is the case by Mrs. Saltram.” “My relations with Miss Anvoy are not at an end,” poor Gravener stammered. Again for an instant I thought. “The offer I propose to make you gives me the right to address you a question remarkably direct. Are you still engaged to Miss Anvoy?” “No, I’m not,” he slowly brought out. “But we’re perfectly good friends.” “Such good friends that you’ll again become prospective husband and wife if the obstacle in your path be removed?” “Removed?” he anxiously repeated. “If I send Miss Anvoy the letter I speak of she may give up her idea.” “Then for God’s sake send it!” “I’ll do so if you’re ready to assure me that her sacrifice would now presumably bring about your marriage.” “I’d marry her the next day!” my visitor cried. “Yes, but would she marry _you_? What I ask of you of course is nothing less than your word of honour as to your conviction of this. If you give it me,” I said, “I’ll engage to hand her the letter before night.” Gravener took up his hat; turning it mechanically round he stood looking a moment hard at its unruffled perfection. Then very angrily honestly and gallantly, “Hand it to the devil!” he broke out; with which he clapped the hat on his head and left me. “Will you read it or not?” I said to Ruth Anvoy, at Wimbledon, when I had told her the story of Mrs. Saltram’s visit. She debated for a time probably of the briefest, but long enough to make me nervous. “Have you brought it with you?” “No indeed. It’s at home, locked up.” There was another great silence, and then she said “Go back and destroy it.” I went back, but I didn’t destroy it till after Saltram’s death, when I burnt it unread. The Pudneys approached her again pressingly, but, prompt as they were, The Coxon Fund had already become an operative benefit and a general amaze: Mr. Saltram, while we gathered about, as it were, to watch the manna descend, had begun to draw the magnificent income. He drew it as he had always drawn everything, with a grand abstracted gesture. Its magnificence, alas, as all the world now knows, quite quenched him; it was the beginning of his decline. It was also naturally a new grievance for his wife, who began to believe in him as soon as he was blighted, and who at this hour accuses us of having bribed him, on the whim of a meddlesome American, to renounce his glorious office, to become, as she says, like everybody else. The very day he found himself able to publish he wholly ceased to produce. This deprived us, as may easily be imagined, of much of our occupation, and especially deprived the Mulvilles, whose want of self-support I never measured till they lost their great inmate. They’ve no one to live on now. Adelaide’s most frequent reference to their destitution is embodied in the remark that dear far-away Ruth’s intentions were doubtless good. She and Kent are even yet looking for another prop, but no one presents a true sphere of usefulness. They complain that people are self-sufficing. With Saltram the fine type of the child of adoption was scattered, the grander, the elder style. They’ve got their carriage back, but what’s an empty carriage? In short I think we were all happier as well as poorer before; even including George Gravener, who by the deaths of his brother and his nephew has lately become Lord Maddock. His wife, whose fortune clears the property, is criminally dull; he hates being in the Upper House, and hasn’t yet had high office. But what are these accidents, which I should perhaps apologise for mentioning, in the light of the great eventual boon promised the patient by the rate at which The Coxon Fund must be rolling up? Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why does Ann not return Mary's feelings of affection?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Because she is in unrequited love with someone else" ]	23,316	narrativeqa	en	null	26c6325283dece0b557e34cde9a5c57999ec5c68782e8194	E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Janet Blenkinship, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/) Transcriber's note: The author is Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-1797). MARY, A Fiction L'exercice des plus sublimes vertus éleve et nourrit le génie. ROUSSEAU. London, Printed for J. Johnson, St. Paul's Church-Yard. MDCCLXXXVIII ADVERTISEMENT. In delineating the Heroine of this Fiction, the Author attempts to develop a character different from those generally portrayed. This woman is neither a Clarissa, a Lady G----, nor a[A] Sophie.--It would be vain to mention the various modifications of these models, as it would to remark, how widely artists wander from nature, when they copy the originals of great masters. They catch the gross parts; but the subtile spirit evaporates; and not having the just ties, affectation disgusts, when grace was expected to charm. Those compositions only have power to delight, and carry us willing captives, where the soul of the author is exhibited, and animates the hidden springs. Lost in a pleasing enthusiasm, they live in the scenes they represent; and do not measure their steps in a beaten track, solicitous to gather expected flowers, and bind them in a wreath, according to the prescribed rules of art. These chosen few, wish to speak for themselves, and not to be an echo--even of the sweetest sounds--or the reflector of the most sublime beams. The[B] paradise they ramble in, must be of their own creating--or the prospect soon grows insipid, and not varied by a vivifying principle, fades and dies. In an artless tale, without episodes, the mind of a woman, who has thinking powers is displayed. The female organs have been thought too weak for this arduous employment; and experience seems to justify the assertion. Without arguing physically about _possibilities_--in a fiction, such a being may be allowed to exist; whose grandeur is derived from the operations of its own faculties, not subjugated to opinion; but drawn by the individual from the original source. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Rousseau.] [Footnote B: I here give the Reviewers an opportunity of being very witty about the Paradise of Fools, &c.] MARY CHAP. I. Mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who married Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that stamp. She carefully attended to the _shews_ of things, and her opinions, I should have said prejudices, were such as the generality approved of. She was educated with the expectation of a large fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of her attendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she never imagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions of her own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, and the years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments, without having any taste for them. When she was first introduced into the polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wished to be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in a more distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, and promised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool,) as in duty bound. While they resided in London, they lived in the usual fashionable style, and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when they wooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful country, where Nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around; for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved, and sought amusement in country sports. He hunted in the morning, and after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not enliven, it is not necessary to say which a _gourmand_ would give the preference to. Their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely more agreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor. Her voice was but the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, so relaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing. Many such noughts are there in the female world! yet she had a good opinion of her own merit,--truly, she said long prayers,--and sometimes read her Week's Preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarly called _hell_, the regions below; but whether her's was a mounting spirit, I cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet would have been proper for her, when she left her _material_ part in this world, let metaphysicians settle; I have nothing to say to her unclothed spirit. As she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her French waiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications, and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes from the glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodily dissipation, novels. I say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rational one can find no employment in polite circles. The glare of lights, the studied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at the shrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses. When she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, she tried another. The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and some other interesting tales were perused with eagerness. Nothing could be more natural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking than the views of the human heart. What delicate struggles! and uncommonly pretty turns of thought! The picture that was found on a bramble-bush, the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by the upper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait.--Fatal image!--It planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent a new kind of a knight-errant into the world. But even this was nothing to the catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornet settling on the sleeping lover's face. What a _heart-rending_ accident! She planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; but there was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered it with her tears.--Alas! Alas! If my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me credit for genius, I would go on and tell them such tales as would force the sweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautiful cheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, &c. &c. Nay, I would make it so interesting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser to settle the curls himself, and not interrupt her. She had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who shared her bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day. These she watched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmest caresses. This fondness for animals was not that kind of _attendrissement_ which makes a person take pleasure in providing for the subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded from vanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest French expressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attuned by tenderness. She was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that is, she did not make any actual _faux pas_; she feared the world, and was indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, she read all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had she thought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as she accompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them by the clear light of the moon. She wondered her husband did not stay at home. She was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze her hand, and look unutterable things? Gentle reader, I will tell thee; they neither of them felt what they could not utter. I will not pretend to say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of those feelings which are not easily analyzed. CHAP. II. In due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following year a daughter. After the mother's throes she felt very few sentiments of maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and she played with her dogs. Want of exercise prevented the least chance of her recovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on a consumption, to which her constitution tended. Her children all died in their infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of the son, as he was remarkably handsome. For years she divided her time between the sofa, and the card-table. She thought not of death, though on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her station occur to her as necessary. Her children were left in the nursery; and when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the awkward thing away. To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a house without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and she scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old house-keeper told her stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read. Her mother talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and, in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French. As she had learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in her way. Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and learned to think. She had heard of a separate state, and that angels sometimes visited this earth. She would sit in a thick wood in the park, and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them to tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweet and touching. Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was glad that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself about them. She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband was very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness, and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart through life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her own.--She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when she was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse. Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which she imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and confidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new world. Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious distress. She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concluded animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice of man; but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year after year rolled on, her mother still vegetating. A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her great attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child while she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the first began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every part of it. The impression that this accident made was indelible. As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to exert herself, her health would soon be re-established. In general he treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and visibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she could not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from the gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of it, she was pinched by hunger. She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner was she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the slave of compassion. CHAP. III. Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune; and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a distant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just at this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they took no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her natural disposition was very different. She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb; and now she had another motive to actuate her. As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend, mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their intercourse more agreeable. Young people are mostly fond of scribbling; Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend's letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes. As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits were fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain on account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter. Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these consequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, she found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the offspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran to her with delight, and not perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann's countenance, she has shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressions seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility. She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all reflection. In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and exercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her own unsettled mind. CHAP. IV. Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were, literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested, and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river. Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea. This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there. When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observe the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, she admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in existence, and darted into futurity. One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. A clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple of Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost. At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure. In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had not animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones which look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving more light to the beholders than they receive themselves. Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or comforted them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent, that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less interested observer. In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read, and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became a part of her mind. Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her Creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were mostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted to contemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think of the voice that could still the tumultuous deep. These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out those which the soil would have a tendency to nurse. Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination has strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity. Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, _conversing_ with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her own composing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end her various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth, which afterwards more fully unfolded itself. She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under the influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with redoubled force. Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her ecstacies arose from genius. She was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; and perusing the scriptures, and discussing some points of doctrine which puzzled her, she would sit up half the night, her favourite time for employing her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through a glass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectual researches, is one of the trials of a probationary state. But her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and she eagerly desired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor. The night before the important day, when she was to take on herself her baptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on her meditations, and found her not exhausted by her watching. The orient pearls were strewed around--she hailed the morn, and sung with wild delight, Glory to God on high, good will towards men. She was indeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternal preservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; and the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthly passions made it grow languid. These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the luxuriant shoots restrained by culture. The servants and the poor adored her. In order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, she practiced the most rigid oeconomy, and had such power over her appetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered them so entirely, that when her understanding or affections had an object, she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment. This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the passions. We will now enter on the more active field of life. CHAP. V. A few months after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was attacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach the school. She was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her of consequence, and did not call her _the child_. Proper masters were sent for; she was taught to dance, and an extraordinary master procured to perfect her in that most necessary of all accomplishments. A part of the estate she was to inherit had been litigated, and the heir of the person who still carried on a Chancery suit, was only two years younger than our heroine. The fathers, spite of the dispute, frequently met, and, in order to settle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle, determined to quash it by a marriage, and, by uniting the two estates, to preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their different claims. While this important matter was settling, Mary was otherwise employed. Ann's mother's resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty, made hasty strides to catch them in his clutches. Ann had not fortitude enough to brave such accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm was lodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. She denied herself every little comfort; things that would be no sacrifice when a person is well, are absolutely necessary to alleviate bodily pain, and support the animal functions. There were many elegant amusements, that she had acquired a relish for, which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; but these her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of relaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil he taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination, and that taste invigorated love. Poverty, and all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother's abode; and she, though a good sort of a woman, was not calculated to banish, by her trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was lost. This ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, a delicacy so truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold her without wishing to chase her sorrows away. She was timid and irresolute, and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to make her reflect. In every thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty, that caught her attention. And in composition, the polish of style, and harmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius, or abstracted speculations. She often wondered at the books Mary chose, who, though she had a lively imagination, would frequently study authors whose works were addressed to the understanding. This liking taught her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herself, even when under the influence of the most violent passions. Ann's misfortunes and ill health were strong ties to bind Mary to her; she wished so continually to have a home to receive her in, that it drove every other desire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tender schemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she longed most ardently to put them in practice. Fondly as she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whose decline was so imperceptible, that they were not aware of her approaching dissolution. The physician, however, observing the most alarming symptoms; her husband was apprised of her immediate danger; and then first mentioned to her his designs with respect to his daughter. She approved of them; Mary was sent for; she was not at home; she had rambled to visit Ann, and found her in an hysteric fit. The landlord of her little farm had sent his agent for the rent, which had long been due to him; and he threatened to seize the stock that still remained, and turn them out, if they did not very shortly discharge the arrears. As this man made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of the person to whom he was deputy, little was to be expected from his forbearance. All this was told to Mary--and the mother added, she had many other creditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch from them all that had been saved out of the wreck. "I could bear all," she cried; "but what will become of my children? Of this child," pointing to the fainting Ann, "whose constitution is already undermined by care and grief--where will she go?"--Mary's heart ceased to beat while she asked the question--She attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds died away. Before she had recovered herself, her father called himself to enquire for her; and desired her instantly to accompany him home. Engrossed by the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walked silently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours to live; and before she could return him any answer, informed her that they had both determined to marry her to Charles, his friend's son; he added, the ceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witness of it; for such a desire she had expressed with childish eagerness. Overwhelmed by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, with a vacant stare, fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longer a sense; they conveyed no ideas to the brain. As she drew near the house, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension of thought, a thousand darted into her mind,--her dying mother,--her friend's miserable situation,--and an extreme horror at taking--at being forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the reluctance, which arises from a prior attachment. She loved Ann better than any one in the world--to snatch her from the very jaws of destruction--she would have encountered a lion. To have this friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect to her family, would it not be superlative bliss? Full of these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they then fled at the sight of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; it feebly pressed her's. "My child," said the languid mother: the words reached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accents denoting affection; "My child, I have not always treated you with kindness--God forgive me! do you?"--Mary's tears strayed in a disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve the fluttering tenant. "I forgive you!" said she, in a tone of astonishment. The clergyman came in to read the service for the sick, and afterwards the marriage ceremony was performed. Mary stood like a statue of Despair, and pronounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and then ran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms. Her husband set off for the continent the same day, with a tutor, to finish his studies at one of the foreign universities. Ann was sent for to console her, not on account of the departure of her new relation, a boy she seldom took any notice of, but to reconcile her to her fate; besides, it was necessary she should have a female companion, and there was not any maiden aunt in the family, or cousin of the same class. CHAP. VI. Mary was allowed to pay the rent which gave her so much uneasiness, and she exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to succour the family; but the utmost she could obtain was a small sum very inadequate to the purpose, to enable the poor woman to carry into execution a little scheme of industry near the metropolis. Her intention of leaving that part of the country, had much more weight with him, than Mary's arguments, drawn from motives of philanthropy and friendship; this was a language he did not understand; expressive of occult qualities he never thought of, as they could not be seen or felt. After the departure of her mother, Ann still continued to languish, though she had a nurse who was entirely engrossed by the desire of amusing her. Had her health been re-established, the time would have passed in a tranquil, improving manner. During the year of mourning they lived in retirement; music, drawing, and reading, filled up the time; and Mary's taste and judgment were both improved by contracting a habit of observation, and permitting the simple beauties of Nature to occupy her thoughts. She had a wonderful quickness in discerning distinctions and combining ideas, that at the first glance did not appear to be similar. But these various pursuits did not banish all her cares, or carry off all her constitutional black bile. Before she enjoyed Ann's society, she imagined it would have made her completely happy: she was disappointed, and yet knew not what to complain of. As her friend could not accompany her in her walks, and wished to be alone, for a very obvious reason, she would return to her old haunts, retrace her anticipated pleasures--and wonder how they changed their colour in possession, and proved so futile. She had not yet found the companion she looked for. Ann and she were not congenial minds, nor did she contribute to her comfort in the degree she expected. She shielded her from poverty; but this was only a negative blessing; when under the pressure it was very grievous, and still more so were the apprehensions; but when exempt from them, she was not contented. Such is human nature, its laws were not to be inverted to gratify our heroine, and stop the progress of her understanding, happiness only flourished in paradise--we cannot taste and live. Another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. Ann had a hectic cough, and many unfavourable prognostics: Mary then forgot every thing but the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery would have made her happy. Her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only read books of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended in vanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what she could not prevent. As her mind expanded, her marriage appeared a dreadful misfortune; she was sometimes reminded of the heavy yoke, and bitter was the recollection! In one thing there seemed to be a sympathy between them, for she wrote formal answers to his as formal letters. An extreme dislike took root in her mind; the found of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all, listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame. She would then catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness, as if to save her from sinking into an opening grave. CHAP. VII. It was the will of Providence that Mary should experience almost every species of sorrow. Her father was thrown from his horse, when his blood was in a very inflammatory state, and the bruises were very dangerous; his recovery was not expected by the physical tribe. Terrified at seeing him so near death, and yet so ill prepared for it, his daughter sat by his bed, oppressed by the keenest anguish, which her piety increased. Her grief had nothing selfish in it; he was not a friend or protector; but he was her father, an unhappy wretch, going into eternity, depraved and thoughtless. Could a life of sensuality be a preparation for a peaceful death? Thus meditating, she passed the still midnight hour by his bedside. The nurse fell asleep, nor did a violent thunder storm interrupt her repose, though it made the night appear still more terrific to Mary. Her father's unequal breathing alarmed her, when she heard a long drawn breath, she feared it was his last, and watching for another, a dreadful peal of thunder struck her ears. Considering the separation of the soul and body, this night seemed sadly solemn, and the hours long. Death is indeed a king of terrors when he attacks the vicious man! The compassionate heart finds not any comfort; but dreads an eternal separation. No transporting greetings are anticipated, when the survivors also shall have finished their course; but all is black!--the grave may truly be said to receive the departed--this is the sting of death! Night after night Mary watched, and this excessive fatigue impaired her own health, but had a worse effect on Ann; though she constantly went to bed, she could not rest; a number of uneasy thoughts obtruded themselves; and apprehensions about Mary, whom she loved as well as her exhausted heart could love, harassed her mind. After a sleepless, feverish night she had a violent fit of coughing, and burst a blood-vessel. The physician, who was in the house, was sent for, and when he left the patient, Mary, with an authoritative voice, insisted on knowing his real opinion. Reluctantly he gave it, that her friend was in a critical state; and if she passed the approaching winter in England, he imagined she would die in the spring; a season fatal to consumptive disorders. The spring!--Her husband was then expected.--Gracious Heaven, could she bear all this. In a few days her father breathed his last. The horrid sensations his death occasioned were too poignant to be durable: and Ann's danger, and her own situation, made Mary deliberate what mode of conduct she should pursue. She feared this event might hasten the return of her husband, and prevent her putting into execution a plan she had determined on. It was to accompany Ann to a more salubrious climate. CHAP. VIII. I mentioned before, that Mary had never had any particular attachment, to give rise to the disgust that daily gained ground. Her friendship for Ann occupied her heart, and resembled a passion. She had had, indeed, several transient likings; but they did not amount to love. The society of men of genius delighted her, and improved her faculties. With beings of this class she did not often meet; it is a rare genus; her first favourites were men past the meridian of life, and of a philosophic turn. Determined on going to the South of France, or Lisbon; she wrote to the man she had promised to obey. The physicians had said change of air was necessary for her as well as her friend. She mentioned this, and added, "Her comfort, almost her existence, depended on the recovery of the invalid she wished to attend; and that should she neglect to follow the medical advice she had received, she should never forgive herself, or those who endeavoured to prevent her." Full of her design, she wrote with more than usual freedom; and this letter was like most of her others, a transcript of her heart. "This dear friend," she exclaimed, "I love for her agreeable qualities, and substantial virtues. Continual attention to her health, and the tender office of a nurse, have created an affection very like a maternal one--I am her only support, she leans on me--could I forsake the forsaken, and break the bruised reed--No--I would die first! I must--I will go." She would have added, "you would very much oblige me by consenting;" but her heart revolted--and irresolutely she wrote something about wishing him happy.--"Do I not wish all the world well?" she cried, as she subscribed her name--It was blotted, the letter sealed in a hurry, and sent out of her sight; and she began to prepare for her journey. By the return of the post she received an answer; it contained some common-place remarks on her romantic friendship, as he termed it; "But as the physicians advised change of air, he had no objection." CHAP. IX. There was nothing now to retard their journey; and Mary chose Lisbon rather than France, on account of its being further removed from the only person she wished not to see. They set off accordingly for Falmouth, in their way to that city. The journey was of use to Ann, and Mary's spirits were raised by her recovered looks--She had been in despair--now she gave way to hope, and was intoxicated with it. On ship-board Ann always remained in the cabin; the sight of the water terrified her: on the contrary, Mary, after she was gone to bed, or when she fell asleep in the day, went on deck, conversed with the sailors, and surveyed the boundless expanse before her with delight. One instant she would regard the ocean, the next the beings who braved its fury. Their insensibility and want of fear, she could not name courage; their thoughtless mirth was quite of an animal kind, and their feelings as impetuous and uncertain as the element they plowed. They had only been a week at sea when they hailed the rock of Lisbon, and the next morning anchored at the castle. After the customary visits, they were permitted to go on shore, about three miles from the city; and while one of the crew, who understood the language, went to procure them one of the ugly carriages peculiar to the country, they waited in the Irish convent, which is situated close to the Tagus. Some of the people offered to conduct them into the church, where there was a fine organ playing; Mary followed them, but Ann preferred staying with a nun she had entered into conversation with. One of the nuns, who had a sweet voice, was singing; Mary was struck with awe; her heart joined in the devotion; and tears of gratitude and tenderness flowed from her eyes. My Father, I thank thee! burst from her--words were inadequate to express her feelings. Silently, she surveyed the lofty dome; heard unaccustomed sounds; and saw faces, strange ones, that she could not yet greet with fraternal love. In an unknown land, she considered that the Being she adored inhabited eternity, was ever present in unnumbered worlds. When she had not any one she loved near her, she was particularly sensible of the presence of her Almighty Friend. The arrival of the carriage put a stop to her speculations; it was to conduct them to an hotel, fitted up for the reception of invalids. Unfortunately, before they could reach it there was a violent shower of rain; and as the wind was very high, it beat against the leather curtains, which they drew along the front of the vehicle, to shelter themselves from it; but it availed not, some of the rain forced its way, and Ann felt the effects of it, for she caught cold, spite of Mary's precautions. As is the custom, the rest of the invalids, or lodgers, sent to enquire after their health; and as soon as Ann left her chamber, in which her complaints seldom confined her the whole day, they came in person to pay their compliments. Three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; the one a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other an invalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. They entered into conversation immediately. People who meet in a strange country, and are all together in a house, soon get acquainted, without the formalities which attend visiting in separate houses, where they are surrounded by domestic friends. Ann was particularly delighted at meeting with agreeable society; a little hectic fever generally made her low-spirited in the morning, and lively in the evening, when she wished for company. Mary, who only thought of her, determined to cultivate their acquaintance, as she knew, that if her mind could be diverted, her body might gain strength. They were all musical, and proposed having little concerts. One of the gentlemen played on the violin, and the other on the german-flute. The instruments were brought in, with all the eagerness that attends putting a new scheme in execution. Mary had not said much, for she was diffident; she seldom joined in general conversations; though her quickness of penetration enabled her soon to enter into the characters of those she conversed with; and her sensibility made her desirous of pleasing every human creature. Besides, if her mind was not occupied by any particular sorrow, or study, she caught reflected pleasure, and was glad to see others happy, though their mirth did not interest her. This day she was continually thinking of Ann's recovery, and encouraging the cheerful hopes, which though they dissipated the spirits that had been condensed by melancholy, yet made her wish to be silent. The music, more than the conversation, disturbed her reflections; but not at first. The gentleman who played on the german-flute, was a handsome, well-bred, sensible man; and his observations, if not original, were pertinent. The other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and played a little Scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of the instrument, that Mary started, and looking at him with more attention than she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong lines of genius. His manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which is often found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered his opinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice. When the concert was over, they all retired to their apartments. Mary always slept with Ann, as she was subject to terrifying dreams; and frequently in the night was obliged to be supported, to avoid suffocation. They chatted about their new acquaintance in their own apartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion. CHAP. X. Every day almost they saw their new acquaintance; and civility produced intimacy. Mary sometimes left her friend with them; while she indulged herself in viewing new modes of life, and searching out the causes which produced them. She had a metaphysical turn, which inclined her to reflect on every object that passed by her; and her mind was not like a mirror, which receives every floating image, but does not retain them: she had not any prejudices, for every opinion was examined before it was adopted. The Roman Catholic ceremonies attracted her attention, and gave rise to conversations when they all met; and one of the gentlemen continually introduced deistical notions, when he ridiculed the pageantry they all were surprised at observing. Mary thought of both the subjects, the Romish tenets, and the deistical doubts; and though not a sceptic, thought it right to examine the evidence on which her faith was built. She read Butler's Analogy, and some other authors: and these researches made her a christian from conviction, and she learned charity, particularly with respect to sectaries; saw that apparently good and solid arguments might take their rise from different points of view; and she rejoiced to find that those she should not concur with had some reason on their side. CHAP. XI. When I mentioned the three ladies, I said they were fashionable women; and it was all the praise, as a faithful historian, I could bestow on them; the only thing in which they were consistent. I forgot to mention that they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. The daughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the mother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her. They were people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancient family, the title had descended to a very remote branch--a branch they took care to be intimate with; and servilely copied the Countess's airs. Their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerning propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which always hamper weak people. What will the world say? was the first thing that was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had not done before. Or what would the Countess do on such an occasion? And when this question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered without the trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads. This same Countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a most harmonic dance around her. After this account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds had received very little cultivation. They were taught French, Italian, and Spanish; English was their vulgar tongue. And what did they learn? Hamlet will tell you--words--words. But let me not forget that they squalled Italian songs in the true _gusto_. Without having any seeds sown in their understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work, they were brought out of their nursery, or the place they were secluded in, to prevent their faces being common; like blazing stars, to captivate Lords. They were pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another, occasioned the disorder which required change of air. The mother, if we except her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature; and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciously adhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, some trivial points of ceremony, as a matter of the last importance; of which she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionable world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do to the sun. It appears to me that every creature has some notion--or rather relish, of the sublime. Riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime of weak minds:--These images fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls. One afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, Ann was so ill, that Mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending the tea-table. The apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, with a look of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name was Henry, and said; "Though people of the first fashion are frequently at places of this kind, intimate with they know not who; yet I do not choose that my daughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with any one she would blush to know elsewhere. It is only on that account, for I never suffer her to be with any one but in my company," added she, sitting more erect; and a smile of self-complacency dressed her countenance. "I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune." "Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a romantic creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the large fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard the Countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much admired; but she is married." She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who picked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls. "She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed, and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise it. The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses like the sweet south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears almost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had taken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine she had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this welcome guest.--And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety, that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid. No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look, to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered the room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken words, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed, "I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, what a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they, "have you not a husband?" Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. A delicate sense of propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered reason.--Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyes followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange behaviour. CHAP. XII. The physician was sent for; his prescription afforded Ann a little temporary relief; and they again joined the circle. Unfortunately, the weather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confined them to the house. Ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when they sat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and, but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away in listless indolence. The bad weather had had as ill an effect on Henry as on Ann. He was frequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy would of itself have attracted Mary's notice, if she had not found his conversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group. When she conversed with him, all the faculties of her soul unfolded themselves; genius animated her expressive countenance and the most graceful, unaffected gestures gave energy to her discourse. They frequently discussed very important subjects, while the rest were singing or playing cards, nor were they observed for doing so, as Henry, whom they all were pleased with, in the way of gallantry shewed them all more attention than her. Besides, as there was nothing alluring in her dress or manner, they never dreamt of her being preferred to them. Henry was a man of learning; he had also studied mankind, and knew many of the intricacies of the human heart, from having felt the infirmities of his own. His taste was just, as it had a standard--Nature, which he observed with a critical eye. Mary could not help thinking that in his company her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. She increased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved. He was also a pious man; his rational religious sentiments received warmth from his sensibility; and, except on very particular occasions, kept it in proper bounds; these sentiments had likewise formed his temper; he was gentle, and easily to be intreated. The ridiculous ceremonies they were every day witness to, led them into what are termed grave subjects, and made him explain his opinions, which, at other times, he was neither ashamed of, nor unnecessarily brought forward to notice. CHAP. XIII. When the weather began to clear up, Mary sometimes rode out alone, purposely to view the ruins that still remained of the earthquake: or she would ride to the banks of the Tagus, to feast her eyes with the sight of that magnificent river. At other times she would visit the churches, as she was particularly fond of seeing historical paintings. One of these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party descanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soon adverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters in which they should wish to be drawn. Mary did not fix on one--when Henry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "I would give the world for your picture, with the expression I have seen in your face, when you have been supporting your friend." This delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her heart. She then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--for whom was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, so strongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown away--given in with an estate. As Mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her thoughts were employed about the objects around her. She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. She saw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers may fall from the lips without purifying the heart. They who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers, or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainly allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfish principles; how then can they be called good? The pattern of all goodness went about _doing_ good. Wrapped up in themselves, the nuns only thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of intrigues were carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts were fixed: Such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that were servile or laborious. In short, when they could be neither wives nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations? In these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of grief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step. The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow, the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart. She will find that those affections that have once been called forth and strengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, by disappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrode the heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for which there is no specific. The community at large Mary disliked; but pitied many of them whose private distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were the same things with her. The exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and dignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but never mean or cunning. CHAP. XIV. The Portuguese are certainly the most uncivilized nation in Europe. Dr. Johnson would have said, "They have the least mind.". And can such serve their Creator in spirit and in truth? No, the gross ritual of Romish ceremonies is all they can comprehend: they can do penance, but not conquer their revenge, or lust. Religion, or love, has never humanized their hearts; they want the vital part; the mere body worships. Taste is unknown; Gothic finery, and unnatural decorations, which they term ornaments, are conspicuous in their churches and dress. Reverence for mental excellence is only to be found in a polished nation. Could the contemplation of such a people gratify Mary's heart? No: she turned disgusted from the prospects--turned to a man of refinement. Henry had been some time ill and low-spirited; Mary would have been attentive to any one in that situation; but to him she was particularly so; she thought herself bound in gratitude, on account of his constant endeavours to amuse Ann, and prevent her dwelling on the dreary prospect before her, which sometimes she could not help anticipating with a kind of quiet despair. She found some excuse for going more frequently into the room they all met in; nay, she avowed her desire to amuse him: offered to read to him, and tried to draw him into amusing conversations; and when she was full of these little schemes, she looked at him with a degree of tenderness that she was not conscious of. This divided attention was of use to her, and prevented her continually thinking of Ann, whose fluctuating disorder often gave rise to false hopes. A trifling thing occurred now which occasioned Mary some uneasiness. Her maid, a well-looking girl, had captivated the clerk of a neighbouring compting-house. As the match was an advantageous one, Mary could not raise any objection to it, though at this juncture it was very disagreeable to her to have a stranger about her person. However, the girl consented to delay the marriage, as she had some affection for her mistress; and, besides, looked forward to Ann's death as a time of harvest. Henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gave Mary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interested about him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which the purity of her heart made her never wish to restrain. The only visible return he made was not obvious to common observers. He would sometimes fix his eyes on her, and take them off with a sigh that was coughed away; or when he was leisurely walking into the room, and did not expect to see her, he would quicken his steps, and come up to her with eagerness to ask some trivial question. In the same style, he would try to detain her when he had nothing to say--or said nothing. Ann did not take notice of either his or Mary's behaviour, nor did she suspect that he was a favourite, on any other account than his appearing neither well nor happy. She had often seen that when a person was unfortunate, Mary's pity might easily be mistaken for love, and, indeed, it was a temporary sensation of that kind. Such it was--why it was so, let others define, I cannot argue against instincts. As reason is cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this may have given rise to the assertion, "That as judgment improves, genius evaporates." CHAP. XV. One morning they set out to visit the aqueduct; though the day was very fine when they left home, a very heavy shower fell before they reached it; they lengthened their ride, the clouds dispersed, and the sun came from behind them uncommonly bright. Mary would fain have persuaded Ann not to have left the carriage; but she was in spirits, and obviated all her objections, and insisted on walking, tho' the ground was damp. But her strength was not equal to her spirits; she was soon obliged to return to the carriage so much fatigued, that she fainted, and remained insensible a long time. Henry would have supported her; but Mary would not permit him; her recollection was instantaneous, and she feared sitting on the damp ground might do him a material injury: she was on that account positive, though the company did not guess the cause of her being so. As to herself, she did not fear bodily pain; and, when her mind was agitated, she could endure the greatest fatigue without appearing sensible of it. When Ann recovered, they returned slowly home; she was carried to bed, and the next morning Mary thought she observed a visible change for the worse. The physician was sent for, who pronounced her to be in the most imminent danger. All Mary's former fears now returned like a torrent, and carried every other care away; she even added to her present anguish by upbraiding herself for her late tranquillity--it haunted her in the form of a crime. The disorder made the most rapid advances--there was no hope!--Bereft of it, Mary again was tranquil; but it was a very different kind of tranquillity. She stood to brave the approaching storm, conscious she only could be overwhelmed by it. She did not think of Henry, or if her thoughts glanced towards him, it was only to find fault with herself for suffering a thought to have strayed from Ann.--Ann!--this dear friend was soon torn from her--she died suddenly as Mary was assisting her to walk across the room.--The first string was severed from her heart--and this "slow, sudden-death" disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable to reflect, or even to feel her misery. The body was stolen out of the house the second night, and Mary refused to see her former companions. She desired her maid to conclude her marriage, and request her intended husband to inform her when the first merchantman was to leave the port, as the packet had just sailed, and she determined not to stay in that hated place any longer than was absolutely necessary. She then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid a parade of grief--her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not to admit of increase or softening. She was right; the sight of them did not affect her, or turn the stream of her sullen sorrow; the black wave rolled along in the same course, it was equal to her where she cast her eyes; all was impenetrable gloom. CHAP. XVI. Soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry, requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: she consented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. She ran eagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his countenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed hers seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unable to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death; but her conversation was incoherent. She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest. Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!" Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart." "I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store." "Impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that she was in love with misery. He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took very little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined: and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations, rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in order to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me: these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I was witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution is naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain some dominion over my passions. At least," added he, stifling a sigh, "over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection only renders the tender ones more tyrannic. "I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--the object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion has pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and pursuits.--I am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin I tell the sorrows I now confide with thee. The object I loved forfeited my esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequently delighted to form a creature that I could love, that could convey to my soul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conception of." He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a listening attitude, continued his little narrative. "I kept up an irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance and ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I hastened to comfort her--and was a comfort to her. "My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness. But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain. No: I have frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts; and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant. "I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending this winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had before visited the Continent." He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with the most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her friendship? If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the fate of a darling child, than he did in her's." Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that she in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant. Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it: accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection. Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. He had exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had succeeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself for defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt on Henry's misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fate was a balm to her sick mind. She did not reason on the subject; but she felt he was attached to her: lost in this delirium, she never asked herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to; nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thought with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an affection for her, and that person she admired--had a friendship for. He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by accident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His child, what an association of ideas! If I had had a father, such a father!--She could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves. Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul. Lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry's account of himself; till she actually thought she would tell Ann--a bitter recollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she begged forgiveness of her. By these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to bed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not refresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her waking train of thoughts. One instant she was supporting her dying mother; then Ann was breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her. The unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell the truth, she thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spirits in motion: but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell her that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could be accommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger on board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on that account--Mary did not want a companion. As she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first vessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for the lonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of the first fair wind. She had too much strength of mind to waver in her determination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old wounds, and made them bleed afresh. What was she to do? where go? Could she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her--her soul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the world by such mock heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!" There is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while, stills the tumult of passion. Mary's mind had been thrown off its poise; her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but less regular. She forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth, and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the first serious thought: when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to render life bearable she gave way to fancy--this was madness. In a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was very tempestuous--what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every other trifling--it was not the contending elements, but _herself_ she feared! CHAP. XVII. In order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she went out in a carriage. The day was fine; but all nature was to her a universal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she could not. She passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill she got out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did not avoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed glad to contend with it, or rather walk against it. Exhausted she returned to the carriage was soon at home, and in the old room. Henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before her complexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire. He was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and he owned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormant tenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by the present happiness of seeing, of hearing him. Once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, to depart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow; should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus she thought, and insensibly grew more calm. The Ladies prevailed on her to spend the evening with them; but she retired very early to rest, and sat on the side of her bed several hours, then threw herself on it, and waited for the dreaded to-morrow. CHAP. XVIII. The ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that she was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at the Custom-house. Henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary called up all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from the females her internal struggles. She durst not encounter Henry's glances when she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, she knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began to laugh she could not stop herself. Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such benignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and, the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained silent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn. Henry began. "You are going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind is not in a state to be left to its own operations--yet I cannot, dissuade you; if I attempted to do it, I should ill deserve the title I wish to merit. I only think of your happiness; could I obey the strongest impulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to England; but such a step might endanger your future peace." Mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explained her situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that he trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me to love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did she not fix on Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and if Ann had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some remote corner to have escaped from him. "I intend," said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall I hear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine," replied Mary. "I am well, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the most precarious state." She then mentioned her intention of going to Ann's relations. "I am her representative, I have duties to fulfil for her: during my voyage I have time enough for reflection; though I think I have already determined." "Be not too hasty, my child," interrupted Henry; "far be it from me to persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thy future life may probably take its colour from thy present mode of conduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the object you now shun may appear in a different light." He paused. "In advising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary." She only answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary--yet they can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite a part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form my taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies, and make me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives its stamp to the rest--because I am capable of loving one, I have that kind of charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked. Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly we may ascend." She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface them but death--No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be created afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted from my Ann--I could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--I could not bear to think that time could wear away an affection that was founded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt to persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose from certain modifications of it." "Dear enthusiastic creature," whispered Henry, "how you steal into my soul." She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me to adore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that he only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder strokes to them. I knew I am in some degree under the influence of a delusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am _of subtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of the imagination point to futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause in nature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule? have I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will they never be gratified? shall I never be happy? My feelings do not accord with the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of bliss, it will be the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great part of our happiness. "With these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? can I listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits, and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I wish to please--one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I am bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could I consider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awful day of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience does not smite me, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approve of what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I brave His presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary to conviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could the world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed against the feeling heart! "Riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me to sit down and enjoy them--I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I do, what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good, an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me for eternity--when I no longer see through a glass darkly I shall not reason about, but _feel_ in what happiness consists." Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and that these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well digested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour, and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He was startled, if not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestures were all persuasive. Some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue; it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in a cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary to reveal it? He wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; she knew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, or rest satisfied with any inferior gratification. When passion first enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after, and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out. CHAP. XIX. Two days passed away without any particular conversation; Henry, trying to be indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. The conflict was too violent for his present state of health; the spirit was willing, but the body suffered; he lost his appetite, and looked wretchedly; his spirits were calmly low--the world seemed to fade away--what was that world to him that Mary did not inhabit; she lived not for him. He was mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dear prop she had sunk into the grave of her lost--long-loved friend;--his attention snatched her from despair. Inscrutable are the ways of Heaven! The third day Mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the wind continued in the same point, they should set sail the next evening. She tried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not useless she appeared less agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyage with composure. On great occasions she was generally calm and collected, her resolution would brace her unstrung nerves; but after the victory she had no triumph; she would sink into a state of moping melancholy, and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was over. The morning of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone with Henry only a few moments, and an awkward kind of formality made them slip away without their having said much to each other. Henry was afraid to discover his passion, or give any other name to his regard but friendship; yet his anxious solicitude for her welfare was ever breaking out-while she as artlessly expressed again and again, her fears with respect to his declining health. "We shall soon meet," said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; she caught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not knowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room. When she was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The few precious moments I have thus thrown away may never return," she thought-the reflection led to misery. She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She could not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her more than can be well conceived. The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For a while the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry, though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his own. "My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this spot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah! no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement! Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?" Ann occupied her until they reached the ship. The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the last;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of parting with him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she looked round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time. She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole which was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. On this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable to close her eyes. A small taper made the darkness visible; and the third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment. "Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling winds and dashing waves;--on no human support can I rest--when not lost to hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to them. How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it over--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will only be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.--Yet surely, I am not alone!" Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them. "Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to be composed--to forget my Henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawn across in an agony. CHAP. XX. The mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her some refreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness or civility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted: peevishly she desired him not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when her heart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink. After drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into a death-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, on the contrary, she awoke languid and stupid. The wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had she struggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever, which sometimes gave her false spirits. The winds then became very tempestuous, the Great Deep was troubled, and all the passengers appalled. Mary then left her bed, and went on deck, to survey the contending elements: the scene accorded with the present state of her soul; she thought in a few hours I may go home; the prisoner may be released. The vessel rose on a wave and descended into a yawning gulph--Not slower did her mounting soul return to earth, for--Ah! her treasure and her heart was there. The squalls rattled amongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then die away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with a tremendous roar. In a little vessel in the midst of such a storm she was not dismayed; she felt herself independent. Just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help of a glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, drifted about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm. Mary's thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink of destruction. They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed the trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loud cries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and with ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launched their boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of the sea. Stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched the boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view--she ceased to breathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again. At last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and Mary caught the poor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them in thanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to still the raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour. Amongst the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when she was hauled on board: Mary undressed her, and when she had recovered, and soothed her, left her to enjoy the rest she required to recruit her strength, which fear had quite exhausted. She returned again to view the angry deep; and when she gazed on its perturbed state, she thought of the Being who rode on the wings of the wind, and stilled the noise of the sea; and the madness of the people--He only could speak peace to her troubled spirit! she grew more calm; the late transaction had gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself. One of the sailors, happening to say to another, "that he believed the world was going to be at an end;" this observation led her into a new train of thoughts: some of Handel's sublime compositions occurred to her, and she sung them to the grand accompaniment. The Lord God Omnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever!--Why then did she fear the sorrows that were passing away, when she knew that He would bind up the broken-hearted, and receive those who came out of great tribulation. She retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book that was now her only confident. It was after midnight. "At this solemn hour, the great day of judgment fills my thoughts; the day of retribution, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed; when all worldly distinctions will fade away, and be no more seen. I have not words to express the sublime images which the bare contemplation of this awful day raises in my mind. Then, indeed, the Lord Omnipotent will reign, and He will wipe the tearful eye, and support the trembling heart--yet a little while He hideth his face, and the dun shades of sorrow, and the thick clouds of folly separate us from our God; but when the glad dawn of an eternal day breaks, we shall know even as we are known. Here we walk by faith, and not by sight; and we have this alternative, either to enjoy the pleasures of life which are but for a season, or look forward to the prize of our high calling, and with fortitude, and that wisdom which is from above, endeavour to bear the warfare of life. We know that many run the race; but he that striveth obtaineth the crown of victory. Our race is an arduous one! How many are betrayed by traitors lodged in their own breasts, who wear the garb of Virtue, and are so near akin; we sigh to think they should ever lead into folly, and slide imperceptibly into vice. Surely any thing like happiness is madness! Shall probationers of an hour presume to pluck the fruit of immortality, before they have conquered death? it is guarded, when the great day, to which I allude, arrives, the way will again be opened. Ye dear delusions, gay deceits, farewel! and yet I cannot banish ye for ever; still does my panting soul push forward, and live in futurity, in the deep shades o'er which darkness hangs.--I try to pierce the gloom, and find a resting-place, where my thirst of knowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object to fix them. Every thing material must change; happiness and this fluctating principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, and happiness,--what are ye? How shall I grasp the mighty and fleeting conceptions ye create?" After writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of the Father of Spirits; and slept in peace. CHAP. XXI. Mary rose early, refreshed by the seasonable rest, and went to visit the poor woman, whom she found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard that she had lately buried her husband, a common sailor; and that her only surviving child had been washed over-board the day before. Full of her own danger, she scarcely thought of her child till that was over; and then she gave way to boisterous emotions. Mary endeavoured to calm her at first, by sympathizing with her; and she tried to point out the only solid source of comfort but in doing this she encountered many difficulties; she found her grossly ignorant, yet she did not despair: and as the poor creature could not receive comfort from the operations of her own mind, she laboured to beguile the hours, which grief made heavy, by adapting her conversation to her capacity. There are many minds that only receive impressions through the medium of the senses: to them did Mary address herself; she made her some presents, and promised to assist her when they should arrive in England. This employment roused her out of her late stupor, and again set the faculties of her soul in motion; made the understanding contend with the imagination, and the heart throbbed not so irregularly during the contention. How short-lived was the calm! when the English coast was descried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor.--She was to visit and comfort the mother of her lost friend--And where then should she take up her residence? These thoughts suspended the exertions of her understanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarming apprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude. CHAP. XXII. In England then landed the forlorn wanderer. She looked round for some few moments--her affections were not attracted to any particular part of the Island. She knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to which she was going: the mass of buildings appeared to her a huge body without an informing soul. As she passed through the streets in an hackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. She met some women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors, made her shrink into herself, and exclaim, are these my fellow creatures! Detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up the river in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she saw vulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first time such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight.--Forgetting her own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view of innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and could not bear to see her own species sink below them. In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the mother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did not resemble Ann. To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the unfortunate mother of her loss. The poor woman, oppressed by it, and her many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all her past misfortunes, and present cares. The heavy tale lasted until midnight, and the impression it made on Mary's mind was so strong, that it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things. She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging, and relieved her present necessities. A few days were spent in a kind of listless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thought of returning home. She had hitherto treated her with the greatest respect, and concealed her wonder at Mary's choosing a remote room in the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as if she intended living in it. Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probable she would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she could not have talked of her passion to any human creature. She deliberated, and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living with her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--Not live with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could not answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more? I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave. CHAP. XXIII. Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more intimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want of education. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind. One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she resided in, caught her eye. She accosted him; in a confused manner, he informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the bread he could not earn. Mary desired to be conducted to his habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tattered shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth; round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of festivity. It was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or singing indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yet she had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On the floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the broken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children, all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes, exhibited none of the charms of childhood. Some were fighting, and others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary was petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and, regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch, and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want. Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband for a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a shop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of horror and satisfaction. She visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary to her expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesome food had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw her rising as it were from the grave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of it till she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such an alarming progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but the disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; and Mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the crisis, the symptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, without regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low: she wanted a tender nurse. For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the woman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto supported her; as her finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try to earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse. Two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from Henry. He was sick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and all the people ungrateful. She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she wrote in her book another fragment: "Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude, disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel joy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly susceptible of misery? It is true, I have experienced the most rapturous emotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, which only serves to shew my present misery--yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and my brain--why dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why do thoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappear leave such deep traces? I could almost wish for the madman's happiness, and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe. "Oh! reason, thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when I most need thy assistance! Canst thou not calm this internal tumult, and drive away the death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me,--a sadness surely very nearly allied to despair. I am now the prey of apathy--I could wish for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimes illumined my path; I had a pursuit; but now _it visits not my haunts forlorn_. Too well have I loved my fellow creatures! I have been wounded by ingratitude; from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth. "When overwhelmed by sorrow, I have met unkindness; I looked for some one to have pity on me; but found none!--The healing balm of sympathy is denied; I weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my cheeks. I have not the medicine of life, the dear chimera I have so often chased, a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! dost thou ever visit thy poor Mary? Refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep, to see her struggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which corrode her small portion of comfort!" She could not write any more; she wished herself far distant from all human society; a thick gloom spread itself over her mind: but did not make her forget the very beings she wished to fly from. She sent for the poor woman she found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herself and children, and buy some furniture for a little hut, in a large garden, the master of which agreed to employ her husband, who had been bred a gardener. Mary promised to visit the family, and see their new abode when she was able to go out. CHAP. XXIV. Mary still continued weak and low, though it was spring, and all nature began to look gay; with more than usual brightness the sun shone, and a little robin which she had cherished during the winter sung one of his best songs. The family were particularly civil this fine morning, and tried to prevail on her to walk out. Any thing like kindness melted her; she consented. Softer emotions banished her melancholy, and she directed her steps to the habitation she had rendered comfortable. Emerging out of a dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when she had last walked out, snow covered the ground, and bleak winds pierced her through and through: now the hedges were green, the blossoms adorned the trees, and the birds sung. She reached the dwelling, without being much exhausted and while she rested there, observed the children sporting on the grass, with improved complexions. The mother with tears thanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. Mary's tears flowed not only from sympathy, but a complication of feelings and recollections the affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again to play, and reanimated nature. She observed the change in herself, tried to account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapsody on sensibility. "Sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul is susceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it last unmixed, we might form some conjecture of the bliss of those paradisiacal days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion of reason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction. "It is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us to relish the sublime touches of the poet, and the painter; it is this, which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed with tenderness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of a good action. The same effect we experience in the spring, when we hail the returning sun, and the consequent renovation of nature; when the flowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice of music is heard in the land. Softened by tenderness; the soul is disposed to be virtuous. Is any sensual gratification to be compared to that of feelings the eves moistened after having comforted the unfortunate? "Sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but these raptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by what strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of nature escape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections.--But it is only to be felt; it escapes discussion." She then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which was rendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian of life, of polished manners, and dazzling wit. He endeavoured to draw Mary out, and succeeded; she entered into conversation, and some of her artless flights of genius struck him with surprise; he found she had a capacious mind, and that her reason was as profound as her imagination was lively. She glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light of truth. Her expressive countenance shewed what passed in her mind, and her tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicity never threw a shade over her words or actions. Mary found him a man of learning; and the exercise of her understanding would frequently make her forget her griefs, when nothing else could, except benevolence. This man had known the mistress of the house in her youth; good nature induced him to visit her; but when he saw Mary he had another inducement. Her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivation of mind, roused his curiosity; but her dignified manners had such an effect on him, he was obliged to suppress it. He knew men, as well as books; his conversation was entertaining and improving. In Mary's company he doubted whether heaven was peopled with spirits masculine; and almost forgot that he had called the sex "the pretty play things that render life tolerable." He had been the slave of beauty, the captive of sense; love he ne'er had felt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it made the body appear lovely in his eyes. He was humane, despised meanness; but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a useful member of society. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any solid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, or rather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him to hunt down pleasure, he was discontented. Mary observed his character, and wrote down a train of reflections, which these observations led her to make; these reflections received a tinge from her mind; the present state of it, was that kind of painful quietness which arises from reason clouded by disgust; she had not yet learned to be resigned; vague hopes agitated her. "There are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as you dissipate one, another overspreads it. Of this kind are our reasonings concerning happiness; till we are obliged to cry out with the Apostle, _That it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive in what it could consist_, or how satiety could be prevented. Man seems formed for action, though the passions are seldom properly managed; they are either so languid as not to serve as a spur, or else so violent, as to overleap all bounds. "Every individual has its own peculiar trials; and anguish, in one shape or other, visits every heart. Sensibility produces flights of virtue; and not curbed by reason, is on the brink of vice talking, and even thinking of virtue. "Christianity can only afford just principles to govern the wayward feelings and impulses of the heart: every good disposition runs wild, if not transplanted into this soil; but how hard is it to keep the heart diligently, though convinced that the issues of life depend on it. "It is very difficult to discipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcile him to the weakness, the inconsistency of his understanding; and a still more laborious task for him to conquer his passions, and learn to seek content, instead of happiness. Good dispositions, and virtuous propensities, without the light of the Gospel, produce eccentric characters: comet-like, they are always in extremes; while revelation resembles the laws of attraction, and produces uniformity; but too often is the attraction feeble; and the light so obscured by passion, as to force the bewildered soul to fly into void space, and wander in confusion." CHAP. XXV. A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: the servant waited for an answer. Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry; she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his sailing in the first packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquiries were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were expressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as it stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and illness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--she read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt by--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. She wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her the next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of his letter. Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run before to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come; certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret. To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were sung; the books they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a hundred times.--Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she was trying to decypher Chinese characters. After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the street door opened. At last he came, and she who had been counting the hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped the approaching interview. With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful presentiment stilled the internal conflict. She caught his hand, and looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!" "I am very far from well; but it matters not," added he with a smile of resignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is a tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee." Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. She enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought experience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she was sure he would soon recover. She would then look in his face, to see if he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. She tried to avoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise of visiting her the next day. Her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herself to think that she feared an event she could not name. She still saw his pale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she tried to retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed. Henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fade away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck behind? These thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as if to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all was not well there. Out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrival of a letter from her husband; it came to Lisbon after her departure: Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver it himself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced a conversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution took its rise almost equally from benevolence and love. She could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: her fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informed her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master, and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to visit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground, where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the masquerades, and such burlesque amusements. These instances of folly relieved Mary, in some degree reconciled her to herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced something like a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when she reflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to the seemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination, however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, or force us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and that the most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties, refines our affections, and enables us to be useful. One reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty; her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power of comforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy. Heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of His benevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to her own inclinations? These suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion, increased her misery. One moment she was a heroine, half determined to bear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--and tenderness possessed her whole soul. Some instances of Henry's affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her. CHAP. XXVI. Henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of the following week; but still Mary kept up some little formality, a certain consciousness restrained her; and Henry did not enter on the subject which he found she wished to avoid. In the course of conversation, however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain a place in one of the public offices for Ann's brother, as the family were again in a declining way. Henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the following week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whom he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would infallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety. Mary could not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused her face; her blood eloquently spoke. She delighted to receive benefits through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them from Henry was exquisite pleasure. As the summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his fixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him. He could not think of going far off, but chose a little village on the banks of the Thames, near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his mother. They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his violin, and Mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them. She pleased his mother; she inchanted him. It was an advantage to Mary that friendship first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of humanity:--and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one sprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it. The last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black, and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness that had prevailed previous to it. The thunder roared; and the oars plying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a not unpleasing sound. Mary drew still nearer Henry; she wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him.--She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind--he felt them; threw his arm round her waist--and they enjoyed the luxury of wretchedness.--As they touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry was wet; with eager anxiety she cried, What shall I do!--this day will kill thee, and I shall not die with thee! This accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured him, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to--perhaps it was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. In vain did Mary try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! Henry every day grew worse and worse. CHAP. XXVII. Oppressed by her foreboding fears, her sore mind was hurt by new instances of ingratitude: disgusted with the family, whose misfortunes had often disturbed her repose, and lost in anticipated sorrow, she rambled she knew not where; when turning down a shady walk, she discovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. She saw Henry sitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden-gate, and she sat down by him. "I did not," said he, "expect to see thee this evening, my dearest Mary; but I was thinking of thee. Heaven has endowed thee with an uncommon portion of fortitude, to support one of the most affectionate hearts in the world. This is not a time for disguise; I know I am dear to thee--and my affection for thee is twisted with every fibre of my heart.--I loved thee ever since I have been acquainted with thine: thou art the being my fancy has delighted to form; but which I imagined existed only there! In a little while the shades of death will encompass me--ill-fated love perhaps added strength to my disease, and smoothed the rugged path. Try, my love, to fulfil thy destined course--try to add to thy other virtues patience. I could have wished, for thy sake, that we could have died together--or that I could live to shield thee from the assaults of an unfeeling world! Could I but offer thee an asylum in these arms--a faithful bosom, in which thou couldst repose all thy griefs--" He pressed her to it, and she returned the pressure--he felt her throbbing heart. A mournful silence ensued! when he resumed the conversation. "I wished to prepare thee for the blow--too surely do I feel that it will not be long delayed! The passion I have nursed is so pure, that death cannot extinguish it--or tear away the impression thy virtues have made on my soul. I would fain comfort thee--" "Talk not of comfort," interrupted Mary, "it will be in heaven with thee and Ann--while I shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!"--She grasped his hand. "There we shall meet, my love, my Mary, in our Father's--" His voice faultered; he could not finish the sentence; he was almost suffocated--they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walked slowly to the garden-gate (Mary would not go into the house); they could not say farewel when they reached it--and Mary hurried down the lane; to spare Henry the pain of witnessing her emotions. When she lost sight of the house she sat down on the ground, till it grew late, thinking of all that had passed. Full of these thoughts, she crept along, regardless of the descending rain; when lifting up her eyes to heaven, and then turning them wildly on the prospects around, without marking them; she only felt that the scene accorded with her present state of mind. It was the last glimmering of twilight, with a full moon, over which clouds continually flitted. Where am I wandering, God of Mercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what a labyrinth am I lost! What miseries have I already encountered--and what a number lie still before me. Her thoughts flew rapidly to something. I could be happy listening to him, soothing his cares.--Would he not smile upon me--call me his own Mary? I am not his--said she with fierceness--I am a wretch! and she heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were running into confusion. Wherefore am I made thus? Vain are my efforts--I cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness.--Yet I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction. She looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters.--No where could she find rest. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is not my abiding place--may I not too go home! Ah! no. Is this complying with my Henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to associate with his? Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. She felt the rain, and turned to her solitary home. Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers. Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten to draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre; the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked; her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one object. Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the Window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's scene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe, were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these arms shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world." The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy; but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated. Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the remnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to come after that? CHAP. XXVIII. Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother called on her. "My son is worse to-day," said she, "I come to request you to spend not only this day, but a week or two with me.--Why should I conceal any thing from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and, in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when I shall be childless. I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked thus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a widow--may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?" This new instance of Henry's disinterested affection, Mary felt most forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth the wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forced tears from her, by saying, "I deserve this blow; my partial fondness made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect, perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous Heaven has made my crime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss my child--my only child!" When they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; but during the short ride, the mother related several instances of Henry's goodness of heart. Mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the display of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human nature prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a more genial clime. CHAP. XXIX. She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declared he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certain he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by opiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sigh did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. She would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of hope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head where she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--she could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven be done. While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him believe he was resigned, than really to be so. She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which was to extend beyond the grave. She did so, and received comfort from it; she rose above her misery. His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyes appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for his last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent emotion. The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time only attended to Mary--Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience increased her sorrow; she whispered him, "Thy mother weeps, disregarded by thee; oh! comfort her!--My mother, thy son blesses thee.--" The oppressed parent left the room. And Mary _waited_ to see him die. She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened his eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gave a look--it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted? Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not a complete wretch! The words almost choked her. He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. At last, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up. Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die in her arms. Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its prison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last sigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, she calmly cried. The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light from an opened window discovered the pale face. She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained the body. Every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful rapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. She sat till midnight.--Then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, and desired those who watched the body to retire. She knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame the dictates of despair.--She prayed most ardently to be supported, and dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she had committed the spirit she almost adored--again--and again,--she prayed wildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--her head swum--she sunk-- CHAP. XXX. Three months after, her only friend, the mother of her lost Henry began to be alarmed, at observing her altered appearance; and made her own health a pretext for travelling. These complaints roused Mary out of her torpid state; she imagined a new duty now forced her to exert herself--a duty love made sacred!-- They went to Bath, from that to Bristol; but the latter place they quickly left; the sight of the sick that resort there, they neither of them could bear. From Bristol they flew to Southampton. The road was pleasant--yet Mary shut her eyes;--or if they were open, green fields and commons, passed in quick succession, and left no more traces behind than if they had been waves of the sea. Some time after they were settled at Southampton, they met the man who took so much notice of Mary, soon after her return to England. He renewed his acquaintance; he was really interested in her fate, as he had heard her uncommon story; besides, he knew her husband; knew him to be a good-natured, weak man. He saw him soon after his arrival in his native country, and prevented his hastening to enquire into the reasons of Mary's strange conduct. He desired him not to be too precipitate, if he ever wished to possess an invaluable treasure. He was guided by him, and allowed him to follow Mary to Southampton, and speak first to her friend. This friend determined to trust to her native strength of mind, and informed her of the circumstance; but she overrated it: Mary was not able, for a few days after the intelligence, to fix on the mode of conduct she ought now to pursue. But at last she conquered her disgust, and wrote her _husband_ an account of what had passed since she had dropped his correspondence. He came in person to answer the letter. Mary fainted when he approached her unexpectedly. Her disgust returned with additional force, in spite of previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed on to promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year, travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her. The time too quickly elapsed, and she gave him her hand--the struggle was almost more than she could endure. She tried to appear calm; time mellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husband would take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantly feel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, that the earth would open and swallow her. CHAP. XXXI. Mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; but her nerves were not to be restored to their former state. She then retired to her house in the country, established manufactories, threw the estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this way to dissipate care, and banish unavailing regret. She visited the sick, supported the old, and educated the young. These occupations engrossed her mind; but there were hours when all her former woes would return and haunt her.--Whenever she did, or said, any thing she thought Henry would have approved of--she could not avoid thinking with anguish, of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed to her heart--a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence and religion could not fill. The latter taught her to struggle for resignation; and the former rendered life supportable. Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments of solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind--She thought she was hastening to that world _where there is neither marrying_, nor giving in marriage. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Where does the witch live?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Witch of Atlas is a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. It is a narrative poem that tells the story of a witch who lives on Atlas' mountain. The poem consists of 80 stanzas, each with four lines. The witch is described as a beautiful and powerful being who has the ability to control the elements and to see into the future. She lives in a cave on the mountain, surrounded by magic and wonder. The poem describes her daily life, her interactions with other beings, and her powers and abilities. The witch is also described as being lonely and isolated, and the poem suggests that she may be searching for connection and companionship. Context Cheat Sheet: * The Witch of Atlas is a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. * The poem consists of 80 stanzas, each with four lines. * The witch lives on Atlas' mountain in a cave. * The witch is described as beautiful and powerful. * The witch has the ability to control the elements and to see into the future. * The witch lives in a world of magic and wonder. * The witch is lonely and isolated. * The witch may be searching for connection and companionship. Now, here is your question: What is the name of the mountain where the witch lives? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "The Atlas Mountains" ]	5,397	narrativeqa	en	null	5b8d6fdd30a297e508ebb484f172ca5bce8d31b340eb3506	Produced by Sue Asscher The Witch of Atlas by Percy Bysshe Shelley TO MARY (ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST). 1. How, my dear Mary,--are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, _5 May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme. 2. What hand would crush the silken-winged fly, The youngest of inconstant April's minions, _10 Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions? Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die, When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, _15 Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. 3. To thy fair feet a winged Vision came, Whose date should have been longer than a day, And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; _20 The watery bow burned in the evening flame. But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way-- And that is dead.--O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live! 4. Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years _25 Considering and retouching Peter Bell; Watering his laurels with the killing tears Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well _30 May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. 5. My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise Clothes for our grandsons--but she matches Peter, _35 Though he took nineteen years, and she three days In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays, Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress Like King Lear's 'looped and windowed raggedness.' _40 6. If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow: A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at; In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. _45 If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate Can shrive you of that sin,--if sin there be In love, when it becomes idolatry. THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 1. Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, _50 Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth All those bright natures which adorned its prime, And left us nothing to believe in, worth The pains of putting into learned rhyme, A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain _55 Within a cavern, by a secret fountain. 2. Her mother was one of the Atlantides: The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden _60 In the warm shadow of her loveliness;-- He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden The chamber of gray rock in which she lay-- She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. 3. 'Tis said, she first was changed into a vapour, _65 And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, Like splendour-winged moths about a taper, Round the red west when the sun dies in it: And then into a meteor, such as caper On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit: _70 Then, into one of those mysterious stars Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars. 4. Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden With that bright sign the billows to indent _75 The sea-deserted sand--like children chidden, At her command they ever came and went-- Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden Took shape and motion: with the living form Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm. _80 5. A lovely lady garmented in light From her own beauty--deep her eyes, as are Two openings of unfathomable night Seen through a Temple's cloven roof--her hair Dark--the dim brain whirls dizzy with delight. _85 Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar, And her low voice was heard like love, and drew All living things towards this wonder new. 6. And first the spotted cameleopard came, And then the wise and fearless elephant; _90 Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame Of his own volumes intervolved;--all gaunt And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. They drank before her at her sacred fount; And every beast of beating heart grew bold, _95 Such gentleness and power even to behold. 7. The brinded lioness led forth her young, That she might teach them how they should forego Their inborn thirst of death; the pard unstrung His sinews at her feet, and sought to know _100 With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue How he might be as gentle as the doe. The magic circle of her voice and eyes All savage natures did imparadise. 8. And old Silenus, shaking a green stick _105 Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew: And Dryope and Faunus followed quick, Teasing the God to sing them something new; _110 Till in this cave they found the lady lone, Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. 9. And universal Pan, 'tis said, was there, And though none saw him,--through the adamant Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air, _115 And through those living spirits, like a want, He passed out of his everlasting lair Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant, And felt that wondrous lady all alone,-- And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. _120 10. And every nymph of stream and spreading tree, And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks, Who drives her white waves over the green sea, And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks, And quaint Priapus with his company, _125 All came, much wondering how the enwombed rocks Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth;-- Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth. 11. The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant-- _130 Their spirits shook within them, as a flame Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt: Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name, Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt Wet clefts,--and lumps neither alive nor dead, _135 Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. 12. For she was beautiful--her beauty made The bright world dim, and everything beside Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade: No thought of living spirit could abide, _140 Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, On any object in the world so wide, On any hope within the circling skies, But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. 13. Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle _145 And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle The clouds and waves and mountains with; and she As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle In the belated moon, wound skilfully; _150 And with these threads a subtle veil she wove-- A shadow for the splendour of her love. 14. The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling Were stored with magic treasures--sounds of air, Which had the power all spirits of compelling, _155 Folded in cells of crystal silence there; Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling Will never die--yet ere we are aware, The feeling and the sound are fled and gone, And the regret they leave remains alone. _160 15. And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint, Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis, Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint With the soft burthen of intensest bliss. It was its work to bear to many a saint _165 Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is, Even Love's:--and others white, green, gray, and black, And of all shapes--and each was at her beck. 16. And odours in a kind of aviary Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, _170 Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept; As bats at the wired window of a dairy, They beat their vans; and each was an adept, When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds, _175 To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds. 17. And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep, And change eternal death into a night Of glorious dreams--or if eyes needs must weep, _180 Could make their tears all wonder and delight, She in her crystal vials did closely keep: If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said The living were not envied of the dead. 18. Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, _185 The works of some Saturnian Archimage, Which taught the expiations at whose price Men from the Gods might win that happy age Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice; And which might quench the Earth-consuming rage _190 Of gold and blood--till men should live and move Harmonious as the sacred stars above; 19. And how all things that seem untameable, Not to be checked and not to be confined, Obey the spells of Wisdom's wizard skill; _195 Time, earth, and fire--the ocean and the wind, And all their shapes--and man's imperial will; And other scrolls whose writings did unbind The inmost lore of Love--let the profane Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. _200 20. And wondrous works of substances unknown, To which the enchantment of her father's power Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, Were heaped in the recesses of her bower; Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone _205 In their own golden beams--each like a flower, Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light Under a cypress in a starless night. 21. At first she lived alone in this wild home, And her own thoughts were each a minister, _210 Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam, Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, To work whatever purposes might come Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, _215 Through all the regions which he shines upon. 22. The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks, Offered to do her bidding through the seas, Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, _220 And far beneath the matted roots of trees, And in the gnarled heart of stubborn oaks, So they might live for ever in the light Of her sweet presence--each a satellite. 23. 'This may not be,' the wizard maid replied; _225 'The fountains where the Naiades bedew Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried; The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide; The boundless ocean like a drop of dew _230 Will be consumed--the stubborn centre must Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust. 24. 'And ye with them will perish, one by one;-- If I must sigh to think that this shall be, If I must weep when the surviving Sun _235 Shall smile on your decay--oh, ask not me To love you till your little race is run; I cannot die as ye must--over me Your leaves shall glance--the streams in which ye dwell Shall be my paths henceforth, and so--farewell!'-- _240 25. She spoke and wept:--the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, And every little circlet where they fell Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres And intertangled lines of light:--a knell _245 Of sobbing voices came upon her ears From those departing Forms, o'er the serene Of the white streams and of the forest green. 26. All day the wizard lady sate aloof, Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, _250 Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; Or broidering the pictured poesy Of some high tale upon her growing woof, Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye In hues outshining heaven--and ever she _255 Added some grace to the wrought poesy. 27. While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is-- Each flame of it is as a precious stone _260 Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this Belongs to each and all who gaze upon. The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand. 28. This lady never slept, but lay in trance _265 All night within the fountain--as in sleep. Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance; Through the green splendour of the water deep She saw the constellations reel and dance Like fire-flies--and withal did ever keep _270 The tenour of her contemplations calm, With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm. 29. And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, She passed at dewfall to a space extended, _275 Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended, There yawned an inextinguishable well Of crimson fire--full even to the brim, And overflowing all the margin trim. _280 30. Within the which she lay when the fierce war Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor In many a mimic moon and bearded star O'er woods and lawns;--the serpent heard it flicker In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar-- _285 And when the windless snow descended thicker Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came Melt on the surface of the level flame. 31. She had a boat, which some say Vulcan wrought For Venus, as the chariot of her star; _290 But it was found too feeble to be fraught With all the ardours in that sphere which are, And so she sold it, and Apollo bought And gave it to this daughter: from a car Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat _295 Which ever upon mortal stream did float. 32. And others say, that, when but three hours old, The first-born Love out of his cradle lept, And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, And like a horticultural adept, _300 Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in mould, And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, And with his wings fanning it as it grew. 33. The plant grew strong and green, the snowy flower _305 Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began To turn the light and dew by inward power To its own substance; woven tracery ran Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o'er The solid rind, like a leaf's veined fan-- _310 Of which Love scooped this boat--and with soft motion Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. 34. This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit A living spirit within all its frame, Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. _315 Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit-- Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame-- Or on blind Homer's heart a winged thought,-- In joyous expectation lay the boat. _320 35. Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow Together, tempering the repugnant mass With liquid love--all things together grow Through which the harmony of love can pass; And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow-- _325 A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. 36. A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect _330 Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,-- In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, _335 Imaging forth such perfect purity. 37. From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings, Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere: _340 She led her creature to the boiling springs Where the light boat was moored, and said: 'Sit here!' And pointed to the prow, and took her seat Beside the rudder, with opposing feet. 38. And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, _345 Around their inland islets, and amid The panther-peopled forests whose shade cast Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; By many a star-surrounded pyramid _350 Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, And caverns yawning round unfathomably. 39. The silver noon into that winding dell, With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell; _355 A green and glowing light, like that which drops From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell, When Earth over her face Night's mantle wraps; Between the severed mountains lay on high, Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. _360 40. And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes; And o'er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, _365 And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had aroused from that full heart and brain. 41. And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went: _370 Now lingering on the pools, in which abode The calm and darkness of the deep content In which they paused; now o'er the shallow road Of white and dancing waters, all besprent With sand and polished pebbles:--mortal boat _375 In such a shallow rapid could not float. 42. And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver Their snow-like waters into golden air, Or under chasms unfathomable ever Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear _380 A subterranean portal for the river, It fled--the circling sunbows did upbear Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, Lighting it far upon its lampless way. 43. And when the wizard lady would ascend _385 The labyrinths of some many-winding vale, Which to the inmost mountain upward tend-- She called 'Hermaphroditus!'--and the pale And heavy hue which slumber could extend Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale _390 A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, Into the darkness of the stream did pass. 44. And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions, With stars of fire spotting the stream below; And from above into the Sun's dominions _395 Flinging a glory, like the golden glow In which Spring clothes her emerald-winged minions, All interwoven with fine feathery snow And moonlight splendour of intensest rime, With which frost paints the pines in winter time. _400 45. And then it winnowed the Elysian air Which ever hung about that lady bright, With its aethereal vans--and speeding there, Like a star up the torrent of the night, Or a swift eagle in the morning glare _405 Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight, The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings, Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs. 46. The water flashed, like sunlight by the prow Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven; _410 The still air seemed as if its waves did flow In tempest down the mountains; loosely driven The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro: Beneath, the billows having vainly striven Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel _415 The swift and steady motion of the keel. 47. Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, Or in the noon of interlunar night, The lady-witch in visions could not chain Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light _420 Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite; She to the Austral waters took her way, Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana,-- 48. Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, _425 Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake, With the Antarctic constellations paven, Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake-- There she would build herself a windless haven Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make _430 The bastions of the storm, when through the sky The spirits of the tempest thundered by: 49. A haven beneath whose translucent floor The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably, And around which the solid vapours hoar, _435 Based on the level waters, to the sky Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray, And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. _440 50. And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a wounded thing, And the incessant hail with stony clash Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash _445 Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering Fragment of inky thunder-smoke--this haven Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven,-- 51. On which that lady played her many pranks, Circling the image of a shooting star, _450 Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are, In her light boat; and many quips and cranks She played upon the water, till the car Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan, _455 To journey from the misty east began. 52. And then she called out of the hollow turrets Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion, The armies of her ministering spirits-- In mighty legions, million after million, _460 They came, each troop emblazoning its merits On meteor flags; and many a proud pavilion Of the intertexture of the atmosphere They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere. 53. They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen _465 Of woven exhalations, underlaid With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid With crimson silk--cressets from the serene Hung there, and on the water for her tread _470 A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn, Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. 54. And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, caught Upon those wandering isles of aery dew, Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, _475 She sate, and heard all that had happened new Between the earth and moon, since they had brought The last intelligence--and now she grew Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night-- And now she wept, and now she laughed outright. _480 55. These were tame pleasures; she would often climb The steepest ladder of the crudded rack Up to some beaked cape of cloud sublime, And like Arion on the dolphin's back Ride singing through the shoreless air;--oft-time _485 Following the serpent lightning's winding track, She ran upon the platforms of the wind, And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind. 56. And sometimes to those streams of upper air Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round, _490 She would ascend, and win the spirits there To let her join their chorus. Mortals found That on those days the sky was calm and fair, And mystic snatches of harmonious sound Wandered upon the earth where'er she passed, _495 And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last. 57. But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep, To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads Egypt and Aethiopia, from the steep Of utmost Axume, until he spreads, _500 Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep, His waters on the plain: and crested heads Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, And many a vapour-belted pyramid. 58. By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes, _505 Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors, Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes, Or charioteering ghastly alligators, Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes Of those huge forms--within the brazen doors _510 Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast, Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast. 59. And where within the surface of the river The shadows of the massy temples lie, And never are erased--but tremble ever _515 Like things which every cloud can doom to die, Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever The works of man pierced that serenest sky With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her delight To wander in the shadow of the night. _520 60. With motion like the spirit of that wind Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet Passed through the peopled haunts of humankind. Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet, Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined _525 With many a dark and subterranean street Under the Nile, through chambers high and deep She passed, observing mortals in their sleep. 61. A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. _530 Here lay two sister twins in infancy; There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep; Within, two lovers linked innocently In their loose locks which over both did creep Like ivy from one stem;--and there lay calm _535 Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm. 62. But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, Not to be mirrored in a holy song-- Distortions foul of supernatural awe, And pale imaginings of visioned wrong; _540 And all the code of Custom's lawless law Written upon the brows of old and young: 'This,' said the wizard maiden, 'is the strife Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life.' 63. And little did the sight disturb her soul.-- _545 We, the weak mariners of that wide lake Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, Our course unpiloted and starless make O'er its wild surface to an unknown goal:-- But she in the calm depths her way could take, _550 Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. 64. And she saw princes couched under the glow Of sunlike gems; and round each temple-court In dormitories ranged, row after row, _555 She saw the priests asleep--all of one sort-- For all were educated to be so.-- The peasants in their huts, and in the port The sailors she saw cradled on the waves, And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. _560 65. And all the forms in which those spirits lay Were to her sight like the diaphanous Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us Only their scorn of all concealment: they _565 Move in the light of their own beauty thus. But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, And little thought a Witch was looking on them. 66. She, all those human figures breathing there, Beheld as living spirits--to her eyes _570 The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And often through a rude and worn disguise She saw the inner form most bright and fair-- And then she had a charm of strange device, Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone, _575 Could make that spirit mingle with her own. 67. Alas! Aurora, what wouldst thou have given For such a charm when Tithon became gray? Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina _580 Had half (oh! why not all?) the debt forgiven Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay, To any witch who would have taught you it? The Heliad doth not know its value yet. 68. 'Tis said in after times her spirit free _585 Knew what love was, and felt itself alone-- But holy Dian could not chaster be Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, Than now this lady--like a sexless bee Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none, _590 Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen. 69. To those she saw most beautiful, she gave Strange panacea in a crystal bowl:-- They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave, _595 And lived thenceforward as if some control, Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul, Was as a green and overarching bower Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. _600 70. For on the night when they were buried, she Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook The light out of the funeral lamps, to be A mimic day within that deathy nook; And she unwound the woven imagery _605 Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, And threw it with contempt into a ditch. 71. And there the body lay, age after age. Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying, _610 Like one asleep in a green hermitage, With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing, And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind _615 And fleeting generations of mankind. 72. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain Of those who were less beautiful, and make All harsh and crooked purposes more vain Than in the desert is the serpent's wake _620 Which the sand covers--all his evil gain The miser in such dreams would rise and shake Into a beggar's lap;--the lying scribe Would his own lies betray without a bribe. 73. The priests would write an explanation full, _625 Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, How the God Apis really was a bull, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The same against the temple doors, and pull The old cant down; they licensed all to speak _630 Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese. 74. The king would dress an ape up in his crown And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat, And on the right hand of the sunlike throne _635 Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat The chatterings of the monkey.--Every one Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet Of their great Emperor, when the morning came, And kissed--alas, how many kiss the same! _640 75. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Walked out of quarters in somnambulism; Round the red anvils you might see them stand Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm, Beating their swords to ploughshares;--in a band _645 The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis, To the annoyance of king Amasis. 76. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, _650 Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done _655 Only in fancy--till the tenth moon shone; 77. And then the Witch would let them take no ill: Of many thousand schemes which lovers find, The Witch found one,--and so they took their fill Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. _660 Friends who, by practice of some envious skill, Were torn apart--a wide wound, mind from mind!-- She did unite again with visions clear Of deep affection and of truth sincere. 80. These were the pranks she played among the cities _665 Of mortal men, and what she did to Sprites And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties To do her will, and show their subtle sleights, I will declare another time; for it is A tale more fit for the weird winter nights _670 Than for these garish summer days, when we Scarcely believe much more than we can see. End of Project Gutenberg's The Witch of Atlas, by Percy Bysshe Shelley Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What was the purpose of Crito's visit?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Go ahead and memorize the context. Here is the context: The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "To smuggle Socrates out of prison and into a life of exile." ]	6,592	narrativeqa	en	null	68fc4dee839213b5259d41718909195c2f5274665bc18036	This etext was prepared by Sue Asscher <asschers@aia.net.au> CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? To this Crito is unable or unwilling to reply. Socrates proceeds:--Suppose the Laws of Athens to come and remonstrate with him: they will ask 'Why does he seek to overturn them?' and if he replies, 'they have injured him,' will not the Laws answer, 'Yes, but was that the agreement? Has he any objection to make to them which would justify him in overturning them? Was he not brought into the world and educated by their help, and are they not his parents? He might have left Athens and gone where he pleased, but he has lived there for seventy years more constantly than any other citizen.' Thus he has clearly shown that he acknowledged the agreement, which he cannot now break without dishonour to himself and danger to his friends. Even in the course of the trial he might have proposed exile as the penalty, but then he declared that he preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his footsteps? In any well-ordered state the Laws will consider him as an enemy. Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he may be welcomed at first, and the unseemly narrative of his escape will be regarded by the inhabitants as an amusing tale. But if he offends them he will have to learn another sort of lesson. Will he continue to give lectures in virtue? That would hardly be decent. And how will his children be the gainers if he takes them into Thessaly, and deprives them of Athenian citizenship? Or if he leaves them behind, does he expect that they will be better taken care of by his friends because he is in Thessaly? Will not true friends care for them equally whether he is alive or dead? Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life and children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks agreements, and returns evil for evil, they will be angry with him while he lives; and their brethren the Laws of the world below will receive him as an enemy. Such is the mystic voice which is always murmuring in his ears. That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made against him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated in later ages. The crimes of Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides, who had been his pupils, were still recent in the memory of the now restored democracy. The fact that he had been neutral in the death-struggle of Athens was not likely to conciliate popular good-will. Plato, writing probably in the next generation, undertakes the defence of his friend and master in this particular, not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and the world at large. Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of Crito and the proposal of escape is uncertain: Plato could easily have invented far more than that (Phaedr.); and in the selection of Crito, the aged friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to Socrates, we seem to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether any one who has been subjected by the laws of his country to an unjust judgment is right in attempting to escape, is a thesis about which casuists might disagree. Shelley (Prose Works) is of opinion that Socrates 'did well to die,' but not for the 'sophistical' reasons which Plato has put into his mouth. And there would be no difficulty in arguing that Socrates should have lived and preferred to a glorious death the good which he might still be able to perform. 'A rhetorician would have had much to say upon that point.' It may be observed however that Plato never intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only to exhibit the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil in order to avoid the greatest, and to show his master maintaining in death the opinions which he had professed in his life. Not 'the world,' but the 'one wise man,' is still the paradox of Socrates in his last hours. He must be guided by reason, although her conclusions may be fatal to him. The remarkable sentiment that the wicked can do neither good nor evil is true, if taken in the sense, which he means, of moral evil; in his own words, 'they cannot make a man wise or foolish.' This little dialogue is a perfect piece of dialectic, in which granting the 'common principle,' there is no escaping from the conclusion. It is anticipated at the beginning by the dream of Socrates and the parody of Homer. The personification of the Laws, and of their brethren the Laws in the world below, is one of the noblest and boldest figures of speech which occur in Plato. CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Crito. SCENE: The Prison of Socrates. SOCRATES: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early. CRITO: Yes, certainly. SOCRATES: What is the exact time? CRITO: The dawn is breaking. SOCRATES: I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in. CRITO: He knows me because I often come, Socrates; moreover. I have done him a kindness. SOCRATES: And are you only just arrived? CRITO: No, I came some time ago. SOCRATES: Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me? CRITO: I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest as you are--indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity. SOCRATES: Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at the approach of death. CRITO: And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from repining. SOCRATES: That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour. CRITO: I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me. SOCRATES: What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die? CRITO: No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life. SOCRATES: Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a delay of a day. CRITO: Why do you think so? SOCRATES: I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship? CRITO: Yes; that is what the authorities say. SOCRATES: But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep. CRITO: And what was the nature of the vision? SOCRATES: There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates, 'The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go.' (Homer, Il.) CRITO: What a singular dream, Socrates! SOCRATES: There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think. CRITO: Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this--that I should be thought to value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused. SOCRATES: But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many? Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these things truly as they occurred. CRITO: But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their good opinion. SOCRATES: I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil; for then they would also be able to do the greatest good-- and what a fine thing this would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance. CRITO: Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only one. CRITO: Fear not--there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great cost; and as for the informers they are far from being exorbitant in their demands--a little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service, and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do not say, as you did in the court (compare Apol.), that you will have a difficulty in knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies, who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier, which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently; and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors (compare Apol.). What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your old argument about the opinions of men?--we were saying that some of them are to be regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of talking--mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help, Crito:--whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded. Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow--at least, there is no human probability of this, and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was right in maintaining this? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: The good are to be regarded, and not the bad? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are evil? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, or of one man only--his physician or trainer, whoever he may be? CRITO: Of one man only. SOCRATES: And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only, and not of the many? CRITO: Clearly so. SOCRATES: And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put together? CRITO: True. SOCRATES: And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil? CRITO: Certainly he will. SOCRATES: And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the disobedient person? CRITO: Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil. SOCRATES: Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;--there is such a principle? CRITO: Certainly there is, Socrates. SOCRATES: Take a parallel instance:--if, acting under the advice of those who have no understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is--the body? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed, which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle, whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: More honourable than the body? CRITO: Far more. SOCRATES: Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable.--'Well,' some one will say, 'but the many can kill us.' CRITO: Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer. SOCRATES: And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another proposition--that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued? CRITO: Yes, that also remains unshaken. SOCRATES: And a good life is equivalent to a just and honorable one--that holds also? CRITO: Yes, it does. SOCRATES: From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of educating one's children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death--and with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation. CRITO: I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed? SOCRATES: Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can, and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment. And now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me. CRITO: I will. SOCRATES: Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonorable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then we must do no wrong? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure no one at all? (E.g. compare Rep.) CRITO: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Again, Crito, may we do evil? CRITO: Surely not, Socrates. SOCRATES: And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many--is that just or not? CRITO: Not just. SOCRATES: For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him? CRITO: Very true. SOCRATES: Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step. CRITO: You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind. SOCRATES: Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a question:--Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the right? CRITO: He ought to do what he thinks right. SOCRATES: But if this is true, what is the application? In leaving the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just--what do you say? CRITO: I cannot tell, Socrates, for I do not know. SOCRATES: Then consider the matter in this way:--Imagine that I am about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the government come and interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you about? are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us--the laws, and the whole state, as far as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?' What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply, 'Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' Suppose I say that? CRITO: Very good, Socrates. SOCRATES: 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would answer; 'or were you to abide by the sentence of the state?' And if I were to express my astonishment at their words, the law would probably add: 'Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes--you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,--What complaint have you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us who after birth regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to train you in music and gymnastic?' Right, I should reply. 'Well then, since you were brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands?--you would not say this? And because we think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return, and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the laws speak truly, or do they not? CRITO: I think that they do. SOCRATES: Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city, may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we maintain, thrice wrong: first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;--that is what we offer, and he does neither. 'These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above all other men have acknowledged the agreement. 'There is clear proof,' they will say, 'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be supposed to love (compare Phaedr.). For you never went out of the city either to see the games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our state; we were your especial favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you; and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But you pretended that you preferred death to exile (compare Apol.), and that you were not unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true or not?' How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent? CRITO: We cannot help it, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then will they not say: 'You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt, the blind, the maimed, were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city. 'For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself, if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away from well-governed states to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will live, but how?--as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?--eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner. And where will be your fine sentiments about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to live for the sake of your children--you want to bring them up and educate them--will you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them; for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for anything, they will--to be sure they will. 'Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito.' This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say. CRITO: I have nothing to say, Socrates. SOCRATES: Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he leads. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why didn't Baron Henry just kill Otto instead of cutting his hand off?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The story is about a young boy named Otto who lives in a castle with his father, Baron Conrad. The Baron is a robber baron who terrorizes the people in the valley below. Otto's mother dies after giving birth to him, and he is left in the care of the monks at the White Cross on the Hill, where he grows up learning about the world and its ways. When Otto is twelve years old, his father comes to take him away from the monastery and bring him back to the castle. Otto is shocked by the harsh realities of life outside the monastery and struggles to adjust to his new surroundings. He soon discovers that his father is a cruel and ruthless man who has killed many people, including a man named Baron Frederick. Otto is heartbroken and feels that he has been brought back to the castle for no good reason. He longs to return to the peaceful life of the monastery and escape the violence and cruelty of the world outside. As Otto navigates his new life in the castle, he must confront the harsh realities of his father's actions and the consequences of his own desires. The story is a coming-of-age tale that explores the complexities of growing up and the difficult choices that one must make in life. Question: What is the name of the castle where Otto lives with his father? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Otto was so young." ]	27,745	narrativeqa	en	null	36232c9c63d19d282643657b3da5b688cb14e3b44009c494	Produced by Angus Christian OTTO OF THE SILVER HAND By Howard Pyle CONTENTS I. The Dragon's House, II. How the Baron Went Forth to Shear, III. How the Baron Came Home Shorn, IV. The White Cross on the Hill, V. How Otto Dwelt at St. Michaelsburg, VI. How Otto Lived in the Dragon's House, VII. The Red Cock Crows on Drachenhausen, VIII. In the House of the Dragon Scorner, IX. How One-eyed Hans Came to Trutz-Drachen, X. How Hans Brought Terror to the Kitchen, XI. How Otto was Saved, XII. A Ride for Life, XIII. How Baron Conrad Held the Bridge, XIV. How Otto Saw the Great Emperor, FOREWORD. Between the far away past history of the world, and that which lies near to us; in the time when the wisdom of the ancient times was dead and had passed away, and our own days of light had not yet come, there lay a great black gulf in human history, a gulf of ignorance, of superstition, of cruelty, and of wickedness. That time we call the dark or middle ages. Few records remain to us of that dreadful period in our world's history, and we only know of it through broken and disjointed fragments that have been handed down to us through the generations. Yet, though the world's life then was so wicked and black, there yet remained a few good men and women here and there (mostly in peaceful and quiet monasteries, far from the thunder and the glare of the worlds bloody battle), who knew the right and the truth and lived according to what they knew; who preserved and tenderly cared for the truths that the dear Christ taught, and lived and died for in Palestine so long ago. This tale that I am about to tell is of a little boy who lived and suffered in those dark middle ages; of how he saw both the good and the bad of men, and of how, by gentleness and love and not by strife and hatred, he came at last to stand above other men and to be looked up to by all. And should you follow the story to the end, I hope you may find it a pleasure, as I have done, to ramble through those dark ancient castles, to lie with little Otto and Brother John in the high belfry-tower, or to sit with them in the peaceful quiet of the sunny old monastery garden, for, of all the story, I love best those early peaceful years that little Otto spent in the dear old White Cross on the Hill. Poor little Otto's life was a stony and a thorny pathway, and it is well for all of us nowadays that we walk it in fancy and not in truth. I. The Dragon's House. Up from the gray rocks, rising sheer and bold and bare, stood the walls and towers of Castle Drachenhausen. A great gate-way, with a heavy iron-pointed portcullis hanging suspended in the dim arch above, yawned blackly upon the bascule or falling drawbridge that spanned a chasm between the blank stone walls and the roadway that winding down the steep rocky slope to the little valley just beneath. There in the lap of the hills around stood the wretched straw-thatched huts of the peasants belonging to the castle--miserable serfs who, half timid, half fierce, tilled their poor patches of ground, wrenching from the hard soil barely enough to keep body and soul together. Among those vile hovels played the little children like foxes about their dens, their wild, fierce eyes peering out from under a mat of tangled yellow hair. Beyond these squalid huts lay the rushing, foaming river, spanned by a high, rude, stone bridge where the road from the castle crossed it, and beyond the river stretched the great, black forest, within whose gloomy depths the savage wild beasts made their lair, and where in winter time the howling wolves coursed their flying prey across the moonlit snow and under the net-work of the black shadows from the naked boughs above. The watchman in the cold, windy bartizan or watch-tower that clung to the gray walls above the castle gateway, looked from his narrow window, where the wind piped and hummed, across the tree-tops that rolled in endless billows of green, over hill and over valley to the blue and distant slope of the Keiserberg, where, on the mountain side, glimmered far away the walls of Castle Trutz-Drachen. Within the massive stone walls through which the gaping gateway led, three great cheerless brick buildings, so forbidding that even the yellow sunlight could not light them into brightness, looked down, with row upon row of windows, upon three sides of the bleak, stone courtyard. Back of and above them clustered a jumble of other buildings, tower and turret, one high-peaked roof overtopping another. The great house in the centre was the Baron's Hall, the part to the left was called the Roderhausen; between the two stood a huge square pile, rising dizzily up into the clear air high above the rest--the great Melchior Tower. At the top clustered a jumble of buildings hanging high aloft in the windy space a crooked wooden belfry, a tall, narrow watch-tower, and a rude wooden house that clung partly to the roof of the great tower and partly to the walls. From the chimney of this crazy hut a thin thread of smoke would now and then rise into the air, for there were folk living far up in that empty, airy desert, and oftentimes wild, uncouth little children were seen playing on the edge of the dizzy height, or sitting with their bare legs hanging down over the sheer depths, as they gazed below at what was going on in the court-yard. There they sat, just as little children in the town might sit upon their father's door-step; and as the sparrows might fly around the feet of the little town children, so the circling flocks of rooks and daws flew around the feet of these air-born creatures. It was Schwartz Carl and his wife and little ones who lived far up there in the Melchior Tower, for it overlooked the top of the hill behind the castle and so down into the valley upon the further side. There, day after day, Schwartz Carl kept watch upon the gray road that ran like a ribbon through the valley, from the rich town of Gruenstaldt to the rich town of Staffenburgen, where passed merchant caravans from the one to the other--for the lord of Drachenhausen was a robber baron. Dong! Dong! The great alarm bell would suddenly ring out from the belfry high up upon the Melchior Tower. Dong! Dong! Till the rooks and daws whirled clamoring and screaming. Dong! Dong! Till the fierce wolf-hounds in the rocky kennels behind the castle stables howled dismally in answer. Dong! Dong!--Dong! Dong! Then would follow a great noise and uproar and hurry in the castle court-yard below; men shouting and calling to one another, the ringing of armor, and the clatter of horses' hoofs upon the hard stone. With the creaking and groaning of the windlass the iron-pointed portcullis would be slowly raised, and with a clank and rattle and clash of iron chains the drawbridge would fall crashing. Then over it would thunder horse and man, clattering away down the winding, stony pathway, until the great forest would swallow them, and they would be gone. Then for a while peace would fall upon the castle courtyard, the cock would crow, the cook would scold a lazy maid, and Gretchen, leaning out of a window, would sing a snatch of a song, just as though it were a peaceful farm-house, instead of a den of robbers. Maybe it would be evening before the men would return once more. Perhaps one would have a bloody cloth bound about his head, perhaps one would carry his arm in a sling; perhaps one--maybe more than one--would be left behind, never to return again, and soon forgotten by all excepting some poor woman who would weep silently in the loneliness of her daily work. Nearly always the adventurers would bring back with them pack-horses laden with bales of goods. Sometimes, besides these, they would return with a poor soul, his hands tied behind his back and his feet beneath the horse's body, his fur cloak and his flat cap wofully awry. A while he would disappear in some gloomy cell of the dungeon-keep, until an envoy would come from the town with a fat purse, when his ransom would be paid, the dungeon would disgorge him, and he would be allowed to go upon his way again. One man always rode beside Baron Conrad in his expeditions and adventures a short, deep-chested, broad-shouldered man, with sinewy arms so long that when he stood his hands hung nearly to his knees. His coarse, close-clipped hair came so low upon his brow that only a strip of forehead showed between it and his bushy, black eyebrows. One eye was blind; the other twinkled and gleamed like a spark under the penthouse of his brows. Many folk said that the one-eyed Hans had drunk beer with the Hill-man, who had given him the strength of ten, for he could bend an iron spit like a hazel twig, and could lift a barrel of wine from the floor to his head as easily as though it were a basket of eggs. As for the one-eyed Hans he never said that he had not drunk beer with the Hill-man, for he liked the credit that such reports gave him with the other folk. And so, like a half savage mastiff, faithful to death to his master, but to him alone, he went his sullen way and lived his sullen life within the castle walls, half respected, half feared by the other inmates, for it was dangerous trifling with the one-eyed Hans. II. How the Baron went Forth to Shear. Baron Conrad and Baroness Matilda sat together at their morning meal below their raised seats stretched the long, heavy wooden table, loaded with coarse food--black bread, boiled cabbage, bacon, eggs, a great chine from a wild boar, sausages, such as we eat nowadays, and flagons and jars of beer and wine, Along the board sat ranged in the order of the household the followers and retainers. Four or five slatternly women and girls served the others as they fed noisily at the table, moving here and there behind the men with wooden or pewter dishes of food, now and then laughing at the jests that passed or joining in the talk. A huge fire blazed and crackled and roared in the great open fireplace, before which were stretched two fierce, shaggy, wolfish-looking hounds. Outside, the rain beat upon the roof or ran trickling from the eaves, and every now and then a chill draught of wind would breathe through the open windows of the great black dining-hall and set the fire roaring. Along the dull-gray wall of stone hung pieces of armor, and swords and lances, and great branching antlers of the stag. Overhead arched the rude, heavy, oaken beams, blackened with age and smoke, and underfoot was a chill pavement of stone. Upon Baron Conrad's shoulder leaned the pale, slender, yellow-haired Baroness, the only one in all the world with whom the fierce lord of Drachenhausen softened to gentleness, the only one upon whom his savage brows looked kindly, and to whom his harsh voice softened with love. The Baroness was talking to her husband in a low voice, as he looked down into her pale face, with its gentle blue eyes. "And wilt thou not, then," said she, "do that one thing for me?" "Nay," he growled, in his deep voice, "I cannot promise thee never more to attack the towns-people in the valley over yonder. How else could I live an' I did not take from the fat town hogs to fill our own larder?" "Nay," said the Baroness, "thou couldst live as some others do, for all do not rob the burgher folk as thou dost. Alas! mishap will come upon thee some day, and if thou shouldst be slain, what then would come of me?" "Prut," said the Baron, "thy foolish fears" But he laid his rough, hairy hand softly upon the Baroness' head and stroked her yellow hair. "For my sake, Conrad," whispered the Baroness. A pause followed. The Baron sat looking thoughtfully down into the Baroness' face. A moment more, and he might have promised what she besought; a moment more, and he might have been saved all the bitter trouble that was to follow. But it was not to be. Suddenly a harsh sound broke the quietness of all into a confusion of noises. Dong! Dong!--it was the great alarm-bell from Melchior's Tower. The Baron started at the sound. He sat for a moment or two with his hand clinched upon the arm of his seat as though about to rise, then he sunk back into his chair again. All the others had risen tumultuously from the table, and now stood looking at him, awaiting his orders. "For my sake, Conrad," said the Baroness again. Dong! Dong! rang the alarm-bell. The Baron sat with his eyes bent upon the floor, scowling blackly. The Baroness took his hand in both of hers. "For my sake," she pleaded, and the tears filled her blue eyes as she looked up at him, "do not go this time." From the courtyard without came the sound of horses' hoofs clashing against the stone pavement, and those in the hall stood watching and wondering at this strange delay of the Lord Baron. Just then the door opened and one came pushing past the rest; it was the one-eyed Hans. He came straight to where the Baron sat, and, leaning over, whispered something into his master's ear. "For my sake," implored the Baroness again; but the scale was turned. The Baron pushed back his chair heavily and rose to his feet. "Forward!" he roared, in a voice of thunder, and a great shout went up in answer as he strode clanking down the hall and out of the open door. The Baroness covered her face with her hands and wept. "Never mind, little bird," said old Ursela, the nurse, soothingly; "he will come back to thee again as he has come back to thee before." But the poor young Baroness continued weeping with her face buried in her hands, because he had not done that thing she had asked. A white young face framed in yellow hair looked out into the courtyard from a window above; but if Baron Conrad of Drachenhausen saw it from beneath the bars of his shining helmet, he made no sign. "Forward," he cried again. Down thundered the drawbridge, and away they rode with clashing hoofs and ringing armor through the gray shroud of drilling rain. The day had passed and the evening had come, and the Baroness and her women sat beside a roaring fire. All were chattering and talking and laughing but two--the fair young Baroness and old Ursela; the one sat listening, listening, listening, the other sat with her chin resting in the palm of her hand, silently watching her young mistress. The night was falling gray and chill, when suddenly the clear notes of a bugle rang from without the castle walls. The young Baroness started, and the rosy light flashed up into her pale cheeks. "Yes, good," said old Ursela; "the red fox has come back to his den again, and I warrant he brings a fat town goose in his mouth; now we'll have fine clothes to wear, and thou another gold chain to hang about thy pretty neck." The young Baroness laughed merrily at the old woman's speech. "This time," said she, "I will choose a string of pearls like that one my aunt used to wear, and which I had about my neck when Conrad first saw me." Minute after minute passed; the Baroness sat nervously playing with a bracelet of golden beads about her wrist. "How long he stays," said she. "Yes," said Ursela; "but it is not cousin wish that holds him by the coat." As she spoke, a door banged in the passageway without, and the ring of iron footsteps sounded upon the stone floor. Clank! Clank! Clank! The Baroness rose to her feet, her face all alight. The door opened; then the flush of joy faded away and the face grew white, white, white. One hand clutched the back of the bench whereon she had been sitting, the other hand pressed tightly against her side. It was Hans the one-eyed who stood in the doorway, and black trouble sat on his brow; all were looking at him waiting. "Conrad," whispered the Baroness, at last. "Where is Conrad? Where is your master?" and even her lips were white as she spoke. The one-eyed Hans said nothing. Just then came the noise of men s voices in the corridor and the shuffle and scuffle of feet carrying a heavy load. Nearer and nearer they came, and one-eyed Hans stood aside. Six men came struggling through the doorway, carrying a litter, and on the litter lay the great Baron Conrad. The flaming torch thrust into the iron bracket against the wall flashed up with the draught of air from the open door, and the light fell upon the white face and the closed eyes, and showed upon his body armor a great red stain that was not the stain of rust. Suddenly Ursela cried out in a sharp, shrill voice, "Catch her, she falls!" It was the Baroness. Then the old crone turned fiercely upon the one-eyed Hans. "Thou fool!" she cried, "why didst thou bring him here? Thou hast killed thy lady!" "I did not know," said the one-eyed Hans, stupidly. III. How the Baron came Home Shorn. But Baron Conrad was not dead. For days he lay upon his hard bed, now muttering incoherent words beneath his red beard, now raving fiercely with the fever of his wound. But one day he woke again to the things about him. He turned his head first to the one side and then to the other; there sat Schwartz Carl and the one-eyed Hans. Two or three other retainers stood by a great window that looked out into the courtyard beneath, jesting and laughing together in low tones, and one lay upon the heavy oaken bench that stood along by the wall snoring in his sleep. "Where is your lady?" said the Baron, presently; "and why is she not with me at this time?" The man that lay upon the bench started up at the sound of his voice, and those at the window came hurrying to his bedside. But Schwartz Carl and the one-eyed Hans looked at one another, and neither of them spoke. The Baron saw the look and in it read a certain meaning that brought him to his elbow, though only to sink back upon his pillow again with a groan. "Why do you not answer me?" said he at last, in a hollow voice; then to the one-eyed Hans, "Hast no tongue, fool, that thou standest gaping there like a fish? Answer me, where is thy mistress?" "I--I do not know," stammered poor Hans. For a while the Baron lay silently looking from one face to the other, then he spoke again. "How long have I been lying here?" said he. "A sennight, my lord," said Master Rudolph, the steward, who had come into the room and who now stood among the others at the bedside. "A sennight," repeated the Baron, in a low voice, and then to Master Rudolph, "And has the Baroness been often beside me in that time?" Master Rudolph hesitated. "Answer me," said the Baron, harshly. "Not--not often," said Master Rudolph, hesitatingly. The Baron lay silent for a long time. At last he passed his hands over his face and held them there for a minute, then of a sudden, before anyone knew what he was about to do, he rose upon his elbow and then sat upright upon the bed. The green wound broke out afresh and a dark red spot grew and spread upon the linen wrappings; his face was drawn and haggard with the pain of his moving, and his eyes wild and bloodshot. Great drops of sweat gathered and stood upon his forehead as he sat there swaying slightly from side to side. "My shoes," said he, hoarsely. Master Rudolph stepped forward. "But, my Lord Baron," he began and then stopped short, for the Baron shot him such a look that his tongue stood still in his head. Hans saw that look out of his one eye. Down he dropped upon his knees and, fumbling under the bed, brought forth a pair of soft leathern shoes, which he slipped upon the Baron's feet and then laced the thongs above the instep. "Your shoulder," said the Baron. He rose slowly to his feet, gripping Hans in the stress of his agony until the fellow winced again. For a moment he stood as though gathering strength, then doggedly started forth upon that quest which he had set upon himself. At the door he stopped for a moment as though overcome by his weakness, and there Master Nicholas, his cousin, met him; for the steward had sent one of the retainers to tell the old man what the Baron was about to do. "Thou must go back again, Conrad," said Master Nicholas; "thou art not fit to be abroad." The Baron answered him never a word, but he glared at him from out of his bloodshot eyes and ground his teeth together. Then he started forth again upon his way. Down the long hall he went, slowly and laboriously, the others following silently behind him, then up the steep winding stairs, step by step, now and then stopping to lean against the wall. So he reached a long and gloomy passageway lit only by the light of a little window at the further end. He stopped at the door of one of the rooms that opened into this passage-way, stood for a moment, then he pushed it open. No one was within but old Ursela, who sat crooning over a fire with a bundle upon her knees. She did not see the Baron or know that he was there. "Where is your lady?" said he, in a hollow voice. Then the old nurse looked up with a start. "Jesu bless us," cried she, and crossed herself. "Where is your lady?" said the Baron again, in the same hoarse voice; and then, not waiting for an answer, "Is she dead?" The old woman looked at him for a minute blinking her watery eyes, and then suddenly broke into a shrill, long-drawn wail. The Baron needed to hear no more. As though in answer to the old woman's cry, a thin piping complaint came from the bundle in her lap. At the sound the red blood flashed up into the Baron's face. "What is that you have there?" said he, pointing to the bundle upon the old woman's knees. She drew back the coverings and there lay a poor, weak, little baby, that once again raised its faint reedy pipe. "It is your son," said Ursela, "that the dear Baroness left behind her when the holy angels took her to Paradise. She blessed him and called him Otto before she left us." IV. The White Cross on the Hill. Here the glassy waters of the River Rhine, holding upon its bosom a mimic picture of the blue sky and white clouds floating above, runs smoothly around a jutting point of land, St. Michaelsburg, rising from the reedy banks of the stream, sweeps up with a smooth swell until it cuts sharp and clear against the sky. Stubby vineyards covered its earthy breast, and field and garden and orchard crowned its brow, where lay the Monastery of St. Michaelsburg--"The White Cross on the Hill." There within the white walls, where the warm yellow sunlight slept, all was peaceful quietness, broken only now and then by the crowing of the cock or the clamorous cackle of a hen, the lowing of kine or the bleating of goats, a solitary voice in prayer, the faint accord of distant singing, or the resonant toll of the monastery bell from the high-peaked belfry that overlooked the hill and valley and the smooth, far-winding stream. No other sounds broke the stillness, for in this peaceful haven was never heard the clash of armor, the ring of iron-shod hoofs, or the hoarse call to arms. All men were not wicked and cruel and fierce in that dark, far-away age; all were not robbers and terror-spreading tyrants, even in that time when men's hands were against their neighbors, and war and rapine dwelt in place of peace and justice. Abbot Otto, of St. Michaelsburg, was a gentle, patient, pale-faced old man; his white hands were soft and smooth, and no one would have thought that they could have known the harsh touch of sword-hilt and lance. And yet, in the days of the Emperor Frederick--the grandson of the great Red-beard--no one stood higher in the prowess of arms than he. But all at once--for why, no man could tell--a change came over him, and in the flower of his youth and fame and growing power he gave up everything in life and entered the quiet sanctuary of that white monastery on the hill-side, so far away from the tumult and the conflict of the world in which he had lived. Some said that it was because the lady he had loved had loved his brother, and that when they were married Otto of Wolbergen had left the church with a broken heart. But such stories are old songs that have been sung before. Clatter! clatter! Jingle! jingle! It was a full-armed knight that came riding up the steep hill road that wound from left to right and right to left amid the vineyards on the slopes of St. Michaelsburg. Polished helm and corselet blazed in the noon sunlight, for no knight in those days dared to ride the roads except in full armor. In front of him the solitary knight carried a bundle wrapped in the folds of his coarse gray cloak. It was a sorely sick man that rode up the heights of St. Michaelsburg. His head hung upon his breast through the faintness of weariness and pain; for it was the Baron Conrad. He had left his bed of sickness that morning, had saddled his horse in the gray dawn with his own hands, and had ridden away into the misty twilight of the forest without the knowledge of anyone excepting the porter, who, winking and blinking in the bewilderment of his broken slumber, had opened the gates to the sick man, hardly knowing what he was doing, until he beheld his master far away, clattering down the steep bridle-path. Eight leagues had he ridden that day with neither a stop nor a stay; but now at last the end of his journey had come, and he drew rein under the shade of the great wooden gateway of St. Michaelsburg. He reached up to the knotted rope and gave it a pull, and from within sounded the answering ring of the porter's bell. By and by a little wicket opened in the great wooden portals, and the gentle, wrinkled face of old Brother Benedict, the porter, peeped out at the strange iron-clad visitor and the great black war-horse, streaked and wet with the sweat of the journey, flecked and dappled with flakes of foam. A few words passed between them, and then the little window was closed again; and within, the shuffling pat of the sandalled feet sounded fainter and fainter, as Brother Benedict bore the message from Baron Conrad to Abbot Otto, and the mail-clad figure was left alone, sitting there as silent as a statue. By and by the footsteps sounded again; there came a noise of clattering chains and the rattle of the key in the lock, and the rasping of the bolts dragged back. Then the gate swung slowly open, and Baron Conrad rode into the shelter of the White Cross, and as the hoofs of his war-horse clashed upon the stones of the courtyard within, the wooden gate swung slowly to behind him. Abbot Otto stood by the table when Baron Conrad entered the high-vaulted room from the farther end. The light from the oriel window behind the old man shed broken rays of light upon him, and seemed to frame his thin gray hairs with a golden glory. His white, delicate hand rested upon the table beside him, and upon some sheets of parchment covered with rows of ancient Greek writing which he had been engaged in deciphering. Clank! clank! clank! Baron Conrad strode across the stone floor, and then stopped short in front of the good old man. "What dost thou seek here, my son?" said the Abbot. "I seek sanctuary for my son and thy brother's grandson," said the Baron Conrad, and he flung back the folds of his cloak and showed the face of the sleeping babe. For a while the Abbot said nothing, but stood gazing dreamily at the baby. After a while he looked up. "And the child's mother," said he--"what hath she to say at this?" "She hath naught to say," said Baron Conrad, hoarsely, and then stopped short in his speech. "She is dead," said he, at last, in a husky voice, "and is with God's angels in paradise." The Abbot looked intently in the Baron's face. "So!" said he, under his breath, and then for the first time noticed how white and drawn was the Baron's face. "Art sick thyself?" he asked. "Ay," said the Baron, "I have come from death's door. But that is no matter. Wilt thou take this little babe into sanctuary? My house is a vile, rough place, and not fit for such as he, and his mother with the blessed saints in heaven." And once more Conrad of Drachenhausen's face began twitching with the pain of his thoughts. "Yes," said the old man, gently, "he shall live here," and he stretched out his hands and took the babe. "Would," said he, "that all the little children in these dark times might be thus brought to the house of God, and there learn mercy and peace, instead of rapine and war." For a while he stood looking down in silence at the baby in his arms, but with his mind far away upon other things. At last he roused himself with a start. "And thou," said he to the Baron Conrad--"hath not thy heart been chastened and softened by this? Surely thou wilt not go back to thy old life of rapine and extortion?" "Nay," said Baron Conrad, gruffly, "I will rob the city swine no longer, for that was the last thing that my dear one asked of me." The old Abbot's face lit up with a smile. "I am right glad that thy heart was softened, and that thou art willing at last to cease from war and violence." "Nay," cried the Baron, roughly, "I said nothing of ceasing from war. By heaven, no! I will have revenge!" And he clashed his iron foot upon the floor and clinched his fists and ground his teeth together. "Listen," said he, "and I will tell thee how my troubles happened. A fortnight ago I rode out upon an expedition against a caravan of fat burghers in the valley of Gruenhoffen. They outnumbered us many to one, but city swine such as they are not of the stuff to stand against our kind for a long time. Nevertheless, while the men-at-arms who guarded the caravan were staying us with pike and cross-bow from behind a tree which they had felled in front of a high bridge the others had driven the pack-horses off, so that by the time we had forced the bridge they were a league or more away. We pushed after them as hard as we were able, but when we came up with them we found that they had been joined by Baron Frederick of Trutz-Drachen, to whom for three years and more the burghers of Gruenstadt have been paying a tribute for his protection against others. Then again they made a stand, and this time the Baron Frederick himself was with them. But though the dogs fought well, we were forcing them back, and might have got the better of them, had not my horse stumbled upon a sloping stone, and so fell and rolled over upon me. While I lay there with my horse upon me, Baron Frederick ran me down with his lance, and gave me that foul wound that came so near to slaying me--and did slay my dear wife. Nevertheless, my men were able to bring me out from that press and away, and we had bitten the Trutz-Drachen dogs so deep that they were too sore to follow us, and so let us go our way in peace. But when those fools of mine brought me to my castle they bore me lying upon a litter to my wife's chamber. There she beheld me, and, thinking me dead, swooned a death-swoon, so that she only lived long enough to bless her new-born babe and name it Otto, for you, her father's brother. But, by heavens! I will have revenge, root and branch, upon that vile tribe, the Roderburgs of Trutz-Drachen. Their great-grandsire built that castle in scorn of Baron Casper in the old days; their grandsire slew my father's grandsire; Baron Nicholas slew two of our kindred; and now this Baron Frederick gives me that foul wound and kills my dear wife through my body." Here the Baron stopped short; then of a sudden, shaking his fist above his head, he cried out in his hoarse voice: "I swear by all the saints in heaven, either the red cock shall crow over the roof of Trutz-Drachen or else it shall crow over my house! The black dog shall sit on Baron Frederick's shoulders or else he shall sit on mine!" Again he stopped, and fixing his blazing eyes upon the old man, "Hearest thou that, priest?" said he, and broke into a great boisterous laugh. Abbot Otto sighed heavily, but he tried no further to persuade the other into different thoughts. "Thou art wounded," said he, at last, in a gentle voice; "at least stay here with us until thou art healed." "Nay," said the Baron, roughly, "I will tarry no longer than to hear thee promise to care for my child." "I promise," said the Abbot; "but lay aside thy armor, and rest." "Nay," said the Baron, "I go back again to-day." At this the Abbot cried out in amazement: "Sure thou, wounded man, would not take that long journey without a due stay for resting! Think! Night will be upon thee before thou canst reach home again, and the forests are beset with wolves." The Baron laughed. "Those are not the wolves I fear," said he. "Urge me no further, I must return to-night; yet if thou hast a mind to do me a kindness thou canst give me some food to eat and a flask of your golden Michaelsburg; beyond these, I ask no further favor of any man, be he priest or layman." "What comfort I can give thee thou shalt have," said the Abbot, in his patient voice, and so left the room to give the needful orders, bearing the babe with him. V. How Otto Dwelt at St. Michaelsburg. So the poor, little, motherless waif lived among the old monks at the White Cross on the hill, thriving and growing apace until he had reached eleven or twelve years of age; a slender, fair-haired little fellow, with a strange, quiet serious manner. "Poor little child!" Old Brother Benedict would sometimes say to the others, "poor little child! The troubles in which he was born must have broken his wits like a glass cup. What think ye he said to me to-day? 'Dear Brother Benedict,' said he, 'dost thou shave the hair off of the top of thy head so that the dear God may see thy thoughts the better?' Think of that now!" and the good old man shook with silent laughter. When such talk came to the good Father Abbot's ears, he smiled quietly to himself. "It may be," said he, "that the wisdom of little children flies higher than our heavy wits can follow." At least Otto was not slow with his studies, and Brother Emmanuel, who taught him his lessons, said more than once that, if his wits were cracked in other ways, they were sound enough in Latin. Otto, in a quaint, simple way which belonged to him, was gentle and obedient to all. But there was one among the Brethren of St. Michaelsburg whom he loved far above all the rest--Brother John, a poor half-witted fellow, of some twenty-five or thirty years of age. When a very little child, he had fallen from his nurse's arms and hurt his head, and as he grew up into boyhood, and showed that his wits had been addled by his fall, his family knew not what else to do with him, and so sent him off to the Monastery of St. Michaelsburg, where he lived his simple, witless life upon a sort of sufferance, as though he were a tame, harmless animal. While Otto was still a little baby, he had been given into Brother John's care. Thereafter, and until Otto had grown old enough to care for himself, poor Brother John never left his little charge, night or day. Oftentimes the good Father Abbot, coming into the garden, where he loved to walk alone in his meditations, would find the poor, simple Brother sitting under the shade of the pear-tree, close to the bee-hives, rocking the little baby in his arms, singing strange, crazy songs to it, and gazing far away into the blue, empty sky with his curious, pale eyes. Although, as Otto grew up into boyhood, his lessons and his tasks separated him from Brother John, the bond between them seemed to grow stronger rather than weaker. During the hours that Otto had for his own they were scarcely ever apart. Down in the vineyard, where the monks were gathering the grapes for the vintage, in the garden, or in the fields, the two were always seen together, either wandering hand in hand, or seated in some shady nook or corner. But most of all they loved to lie up in the airy wooden belfry; the great gaping bell hanging darkly above them, the mouldering cross-beams glimmering far up under the dim shadows of the roof, where dwelt a great brown owl that, unfrightened at their familiar presence, stared down at them with his round, solemn eyes. Below them stretched the white walls of the garden, beyond them the vineyard, and beyond that again the far shining river, that seemed to Otto's mind to lead into wonder-land. There the two would lie upon the belfry floor by the hour, talking together of the strangest things. "I saw the dear Angel Gabriel again yester morn," said Brother John. "So!" says Otto, seriously; "and where was that?" "It was out in the garden, in the old apple-tree," said Brother John. "I was walking there, and my wits were running around in the grass like a mouse. What heard I but a wonderful sound of singing, and it was like the hum of a great bee, only sweeter than honey. So I looked up into the tree, and there I saw two sparks. I thought at first that they were two stars that had fallen out of heaven; but what think you they were, little child?" "I do not know," said Otto, breathlessly. "They were angel's eyes," said Brother John; and he smiled in the strangest way, as he gazed up into the blue sky. "So I looked at the two sparks and felt happy, as one does in spring time when the cold weather is gone, and the warm sun shines, and the cuckoo sings again. Then, by-and-by, I saw the face to which the eyes belonged. First, it shone white and thin like the moon in the daylight; but it grew brighter and brighter, until it hurt one's eyes to look at it, as though it had been the blessed sun itself. Angel Gabriel's hand was as white as silver, and in it he held a green bough with blossoms, like those that grow on the thorn bush. As for his robe, it was all of one piece, and finer than the Father Abbot's linen, and shone beside like the sunlight on pure snow. So I knew from all these things that it was the blessed Angel Gabriel." "What do they say about this tree, Brother John?" said he to me. "They say it is dying, my Lord Angel," said I, "and that the gardener will bring a sharp axe and cut it down." "'And what dost thou say about it, Brother John?' said he." "'I also say yes, and that it is dying,' said I." "At that he smiled until his face shone so bright that I had to shut my eyes." "'Now I begin to believe, Brother John, that thou art as foolish as men say,' said he. 'Look, till I show thee.' And thereat I opened mine eyes again." "Then Angel Gabriel touched the dead branches with the flowery twig that he held in his hand, and there was the dead wood all covered with green leaves, and fair blossoms and beautiful apples as yellow as gold. Each smelling more sweetly than a garden of flowers, and better to the taste than white bread and honey. "'They are souls of the apples,' said the good Angel,' and they can never wither and die.' "'Then I'll tell the gardener that he shall not cut the tree down,' said I." "'No, no,' said the dear Gabriel, 'that will never do, for if the tree is not cut down here on the earth, it can never be planted in paradise.'" Here Brother John stopped short in his story, and began singing one of his crazy songs, as he gazed with his pale eyes far away into nothing at all. "But tell me, Brother John," said little Otto, in a hushed voice, "what else did the good Angel say to thee?" Brother John stopped short in his song and began looking from right to left, and up and down, as though to gather his wits. "So!" said he, "there was something else that he told me. Tschk! If I could but think now. Yes, good! This is it--'Nothing that has lived,' said he, 'shall ever die, and nothing that has died shall ever live.'" Otto drew a deep breath. "I would that I might see the beautiful Angel Gabriel sometime," said he; but Brother John was singing again and did not seem to hear what he said. Next to Brother John, the nearest one to the little child was the good Abbot Otto, for though he had never seen wonderful things with the eyes of his soul, such as Brother John's had beheld, and so could not tell of them, he was yet able to give little Otto another pleasure that no one else could give. He was a great lover of books, the old Abbot, and had under lock and key wonderful and beautiful volumes, bound in hog-skin and metal, and with covers inlaid with carved ivory, or studded with precious stones. But within these covers, beautiful as they were, lay the real wonder of the books, like the soul in the body; for there, beside the black letters and initials, gay with red and blue and gold, were beautiful pictures painted upon the creamy parchment. Saints and Angels, the Blessed Virgin with the golden oriole about her head, good St. Joseph, the three Kings; the simple Shepherds kneeling in the fields, while Angels with glories about their brow called to the poor Peasants from the blue sky above. But, most beautiful of all was the picture of the Christ Child lying in the manger, with the mild-eyed Kine gazing at him. Sometimes the old Abbot would unlock the iron-bound chest where these treasures lay hidden, and carefully and lovingly brushing the few grains of dust from them, would lay them upon the table beside the oriel window in front of his little namesake, allowing the little boy freedom to turn the leaves as he chose. Always it was one picture that little Otto sought; the Christ Child in the manger, with the Virgin, St. Joseph, the Shepherds, and the Kine. And as he would hang breathlessly gazing and gazing upon it, the old Abbot would sit watching him with a faint, half-sad smile flickering around his thin lips and his pale, narrow face. It was a pleasant, peaceful life, but by-and-by the end came. Otto was now nearly twelve years old. One bright, clear day, near the hour of noon, little Otto heard the porter's bell sounding below in the court-yard--dong! dong! Brother Emmanuel had been appointed as the boy's instructor, and just then Otto was conning his lessons in the good monk's cell. Nevertheless, at the sound of the bell he pricked up his ears and listened, for a visitor was a strange matter in that out-of-the-way place, and he wondered who it could be. So, while his wits wandered his lessons lagged. "Postera Phoeba lustrabat lampade terras," continued Brother Emmanuel, inexorably running his horny finger-nail beneath the line, "humentemque Aurora polo dimoverat umbram--" the lesson dragged along. Just then a sandaled footstep sounded without, in the stone corridor, and a light tap fell upon Brother Emmanuel's door. It was Brother Ignatius, and the Abbot wished little Otto to come to the refectory. As they crossed the court-yard Otto stared to see a group of mail-clad men-at-arms, some sitting upon their horses, some standing by the saddle-bow. "Yonder is the young baron," he heard one of them say in a gruff voice, and thereupon all turned and stared at him. A stranger was in the refectory, standing beside the good old Abbot, while food and wine were being brought and set upon the table for his refreshment; a great, tall, broad-shouldered man, beside whom the Abbot looked thinner and slighter than ever. The stranger was clad all in polished and gleaming armor, of plate and chain, over which was drawn a loose robe of gray woollen stuff, reaching to the knees and bound about the waist by a broad leathern sword-belt. Upon his arm he carried a great helmet which he had just removed from his head. His face was weather-beaten and rugged, and on lip and chin was a wiry, bristling beard; once red, now frosted with white. Brother Ignatius had bidden Otto to enter, and had then closed the door behind him; and now, as the lad walked slowly up the long room, he gazed with round, wondering blue eyes at the stranger. "Dost know who I am, Otto? said the mail-clad knight, in a deep, growling voice. "Methinks you are my father, sir," said Otto. "Aye, thou art right," said Baron Conrad, "and I am glad to see that these milk-churning monks have not allowed thee to forget me, and who thou art thyself." "An' it please you," said Otto, "no one churneth milk here but Brother Fritz; we be makers of wine and not makers of butter, at St. Michaelsburg." Baron Conrad broke into a great, loud laugh, but Abbot Otto's sad and thoughtful face lit up with no shadow of an answering smile. "Conrad," said he, turning to the other, "again let me urge thee; do not take the child hence, his life can never be your life, for he is not fitted for it. I had thought," said he, after a moment's pause, "I had thought that thou hadst meant to consecrate him--this motherless one--to the care of the Universal Mother Church." "So!" said the Baron, "thou hadst thought that, hadst thou? Thou hadst thought that I had intended to deliver over this boy, the last of the Vuelphs, to the arms of the Church? What then was to become of our name and the glory of our race if it was to end with him in a monastery? No, Drachenhausen is the home of the Vuelphs, and there the last of the race shall live as his sires have lived before him, holding to his rights by the power and the might of his right hand." The Abbot turned and looked at the boy, who was gaping in simple wide-eyed wonderment from one to the other as they spoke. "And dost thou think, Conrad," said the old man, in his gentle, patient voice, "that that poor child can maintain his rights by the strength of his right hand?" The Baron's look followed the Abbot's, and he said nothing. In the few seconds of silence that followed, little Otto, in his simple mind, was wondering what all this talk portended. Why had his father come hither to St. Michaelsburg, lighting up the dim silence of the monastery with the flash and ring of his polished armor? Why had he talked about churning butter but now, when all the world knew that the monks of St. Michaelsburg made wine. It was Baron Conrad's deep voice that broke the little pause of silence. "If you have made a milkmaid of the boy," he burst out at last, "I thank the dear heaven that there is yet time to undo your work and to make a man of him." The Abbot sighed. "The child is yours, Conrad," said he, "the will of the blessed saints be done. Mayhap if he goes to dwell at Drachenhausen he may make you the better instead of you making him the worse." Then light came to the darkness of little Otto's wonderment; he saw what all this talk meant and why his father had come hither. He was to leave the happy, sunny silence of the dear White Cross, and to go out into that great world that he had so often looked down upon from the high windy belfry on the steep hillside. VI. How Otto Lived in the Dragon's House. The gates of the Monastery stood wide open, the world lay beyond, and all was ready for departure. Baron Conrad and his men-at-arms sat foot in stirrup, the milk-white horse that had been brought for Otto stood waiting for him beside his father's great charger. "Farewell, Otto," said the good old Abbot, as he stooped and kissed the boy's cheek. "Farewell," answered Otto, in his simple, quiet way, and it brought a pang to the old man's heart that the child should seem to grieve so little at the leave-taking. "Farewell, Otto," said the brethren that stood about, "farewell, farewell." Then poor brother John came forward and took the boy's hand, and looked up into his face as he sat upon his horse. "We will meet again," said he, with his strange, vacant smile, "but maybe it will be in Paradise, and there perhaps they will let us lie in the father's belfry, and look down upon the angels in the court-yard below." "Aye," answered Otto, with an answering smile. "Forward," cried the Baron, in a deep voice, and with a clash of hoofs and jingle of armor they were gone, and the great wooden gates were shut to behind them. Down the steep winding pathway they rode, and out into the great wide world beyond, upon which Otto and brother John had gazed so often from the wooden belfry of the White Cross on the hill. "Hast been taught to ride a horse by the priests up yonder on Michaelsburg?" asked the Baron, when they had reached the level road. "Nay," said Otto; "we had no horse to ride, but only to bring in the harvest or the grapes from the further vineyards to the vintage." "Prut," said the Baron, "methought the abbot would have had enough of the blood of old days in his veins to have taught thee what is fitting for a knight to know; art not afeared?" "Nay," said Otto, with a smile, "I am not afeared." "There at least thou showest thyself a Vuelph," said the grim Baron. But perhaps Otto's thought of fear and Baron Conrad's thought of fear were two very different matters. The afternoon had passed by the time they had reached the end of their journey. Up the steep, stony path they rode to the drawbridge and the great gaping gateway of Drachenhausen, where wall and tower and battlement looked darker and more forbidding than ever in the gray twilight of the coming night. Little Otto looked up with great, wondering, awe-struck eyes at this grim new home of his. The next moment they clattered over the drawbridge that spanned the narrow black gulph between the roadway and the wall, and the next were past the echoing arch of the great gateway and in the gray gloaming of the paved court-yard within. Otto looked around upon the many faces gathered there to catch the first sight of the little baron; hard, rugged faces, seamed and weather-beaten; very different from those of the gentle brethren among whom he had lived, and it seemed strange to him that there was none there whom he should know. As he climbed the steep, stony steps to the door of the Baron's house, old Ursela came running down to meet him. She flung her withered arms around him and hugged him close to her. "My little child," she cried, and then fell to sobbing as though her heart would break. "Here is someone knoweth me," thought the little boy. His new home was all very strange and wonderful to Otto; the armors, the trophies, the flags, the long galleries with their ranges of rooms, the great hall below with its vaulted roof and its great fireplace of grotesquely carved stone, and all the strange people with their lives and thoughts so different from what he had been used to know. And it was a wonderful thing to explore all the strange places in the dark old castle; places where it seemed to Otto no one could have ever been before. Once he wandered down a long, dark passageway below the hall, pushed open a narrow, iron-bound oaken door, and found himself all at once in a strange new land; the gray light, coming in through a range of tall, narrow windows, fell upon a row of silent, motionless figures carven in stone, knights and ladies in strange armor and dress; each lying upon his or her stony couch with clasped hands, and gazing with fixed, motionless, stony eyeballs up into the gloomy, vaulted arch above them. There lay, in a cold, silent row, all of the Vuelphs who had died since the ancient castle had been built. It was the chapel into which Otto had made his way, now long since fallen out of use excepting as a burial place of the race. At another time he clambered up into the loft under the high peaked roof, where lay numberless forgotten things covered with the dim dust of years. There a flock of pigeons had made their roost, and flapped noisily out into the sunlight when he pushed open the door from below. Here he hunted among the mouldering things of the past until, oh, joy of joys! in an ancient oaken chest he found a great lot of worm-eaten books, that had belonged to some old chaplain of the castle in days gone by. They were not precious and beautiful volumes, such as the Father Abbot had showed him, but all the same they had their quaint painted pictures of the blessed saints and angels. Again, at another time, going into the court-yard, Otto had found the door of Melchior's tower standing invitingly open, for old Hilda, Schwartz Carl's wife, had come down below upon some business or other. Then upon the shaky wooden steps Otto ran without waiting for a second thought, for he had often gazed at those curious buildings hanging so far up in the air, and had wondered what they were like. Round and round and up and up Otto climbed, until his head spun. At last he reached a landing-stage, and gazing over the edge and down, beheld the stone pavement far, far below, lit by a faint glimmer of light that entered through the arched doorway. Otto clutched tight hold of the wooden rail, he had no thought that he had climbed so far. Upon the other side of the landing was a window that pierced the thick stone walls of the tower; out of the window he looked, and then drew suddenly back again with a gasp, for it was through the outer wall he peered, and down, down below in the dizzy depths he saw the hard gray rocks, where the black swine, looking no larger than ants in the distance, fed upon the refuse thrown out over the walls of the castle. There lay the moving tree-tops like a billowy green sea, and the coarse thatched roofs of the peasant cottages, round which crawled the little children like tiny human specks. Then Otto turned and crept down the stairs, frightened at the height to which he had climbed. At the doorway he met Mother Hilda. "Bless us," she cried, starting back and crossing herself, and then, seeing who it was, ducked him a courtesy with as pleasant a smile as her forbidding face, with its little deep-set eyes, was able to put upon itself. Old Ursela seemed nearer to the boy than anyone else about the castle, excepting it was his father, and it was a newfound delight to Otto to sit beside her and listen to her quaint stories, so different from the monkish tales that he had heard and read at the monastery. But one day it was a tale of a different sort that she told him, and one that opened his eyes to what he had never dreamed of before. The mellow sunlight fell through the window upon old Ursela, as she sat in the warmth with her distaff in her hands while Otto lay close to her feet upon a bear skin, silently thinking over the strange story of a brave knight and a fiery dragon that she had just told him. Suddenly Ursela broke the silence. "Little one," said she, "thou art wondrously like thy own dear mother; didst ever hear how she died?" "Nay," said Otto, "but tell me, Ursela, how it was." "Tis strange," said the old woman, "that no one should have told thee in all this time." And then, in her own fashion she related to him the story of how his father had set forth upon that expedition in spite of all that Otto's mother had said, beseeching him to abide at home; how he had been foully wounded, and how the poor lady had died from her fright and grief. Otto listened with eyes that grew wider and wider, though not all with wonder; he no longer lay upon the bear skin, but sat up with his hands clasped. For a moment or two after the old woman had ended her story, he sat staring silently at her. Then he cried out, in a sharp voice, "And is this truth that you tell me, Ursela? and did my father seek to rob the towns people of their goods?" Old Ursela laughed. "Aye," said she, "that he did and many times. Ah! me, those day's are all gone now." And she fetched a deep sigh. "Then we lived in plenty and had both silks and linens and velvets besides in the store closets and were able to buy good wines and live in plenty upon the best. Now we dress in frieze and live upon what we can get and sometimes that is little enough, with nothing better than sour beer to drink. But there is one comfort in it all, and that is that our good Baron paid back the score he owed the Trutz-Drachen people not only for that, but for all that they had done from the very first." Thereupon she went on to tell Otto how Baron Conrad had fulfilled the pledge of revenge that he had made Abbot Otto, how he had watched day after day until one time he had caught the Trutz-Drachen folk, with Baron Frederick at their head, in a narrow defile back of the Kaiserburg; of the fierce fight that was there fought; of how the Roderburgs at last fled, leaving Baron Frederick behind them wounded; of how he had kneeled before the Baron Conrad, asking for mercy, and of how Baron Conrad had answered, "Aye, thou shalt have such mercy as thou deservest," and had therewith raised his great two-handed sword and laid his kneeling enemy dead at one blow. Poor little Otto had never dreamed that such cruelty and wickedness could be. He listened to the old woman's story with gaping horror, and when the last came and she told him, with a smack of her lips, how his father had killed his enemy with his own hand, he gave a gasping cry and sprang to his feet. Just then the door at the other end of the chamber was noisily opened, and Baron Conrad himself strode into the room. Otto turned his head, and seeing who it was, gave another cry, loud and quavering, and ran to his father and caught him by the hand. "Oh, father!" he cried, "oh, father! Is it true that thou hast killed a man with thy own hand?" "Aye," said the Baron, grimly, "it is true enough, and I think me I have killed many more than one. But what of that, Otto? Thou must get out of those foolish notions that the old monks have taught thee. Here in the world it is different from what it is at St. Michaelsburg; here a man must either slay or be slain." But poor little Otto, with his face hidden in his father's robe, cried as though his heart would break. "Oh, father!" he said, again and again, "it cannot be--it cannot be that thou who art so kind to me should have killed a man with thine own hands." Then: "I wish that I were back in the monastery again; I am afraid out here in the great wide world; perhaps somebody may kill me, for I am only a weak little boy and could not save my own life if they chose to take it from me." Baron Conrad looked down upon Otto all this while, drawing his bushy eyebrows together. Once he reached out his hand as though to stroke the boy's hair, but drew it back again. Turning angrily upon the old woman, "Ursela," said he, "thou must tell the child no more such stories as these; he knowest not at all of such things as yet. Keep thy tongue busy with the old woman's tales that he loves to hear thee tell, and leave it with me to teach him what becometh a true knight and a Vuelph." That night the father and son sat together beside the roaring fire in the great ball. "Tell me, Otto," said the Baron, "dost thou hate me for having done what Ursela told thee today that I did?" Otto looked for a while into his father's face. "I know not," said he at last, in his quaint, quiet voice, "but methinks that I do not hate thee for it." The Baron drew his bushy brows together until his eyes twinkled out of the depths beneath them, then of a sudden he broke into a great loud laugh, smiting his horny palm with a smack upon his thigh. VII. The Red Cock Crows on Drachenhausen. There was a new emperor in Germany who had come from a far away Swiss castle; Count Rudolph of Hapsburg, a good, honest man with a good, honest, homely face, but bringing with him a stern sense of justice and of right, and a determination to put down the lawlessness of the savage German barons among whom he had come as Emperor. One day two strangers came galloping up the winding path to the gates of the Dragon's house. A horn sounded thin and clear, a parley was held across the chasm in the road between the two strangers and the porter who appeared at the little wicket. Then a messenger was sent running to the Baron, who presently came striding across the open court-yard to the gateway to parley with the strangers. The two bore with them a folded parchment with a great red seal hanging from it like a clot of blood; it was a message from the Emperor demanding that the Baron should come to the Imperial Court to answer certain charges that had been brought against him, and to give his bond to maintain the peace of the empire. One by one those barons who had been carrying on their private wars, or had been despoiling the burgher folk in their traffic from town to town, and against whom complaint had been lodged, were summoned to the Imperial Court, where they were compelled to promise peace and to swear allegiance to the new order of things. All those who came willingly were allowed to return home again after giving security for maintaining the peace; all those who came not willingly were either brought in chains or rooted out of their strongholds with fire and sword, and their roofs burned over their heads. Now it was Baron Conrad's turn to be summoned to the Imperial Court, for complaint had been lodged against him by his old enemy of Trutz-Drachen--Baron Henry--the nephew of the old Baron Frederick who had been slain while kneeling in the dust of the road back of the Kaiserburg. No one at Drachenhausen could read but Master Rudolph, the steward, who was sand blind, and little Otto. So the boy read the summons to his father, while the grim Baron sat silent with his chin resting upon his clenched fist and his eyebrows drawn together into a thoughtful frown as he gazed into the pale face of his son, who sat by the rude oaken table with the great parchment spread out before him. Should he answer the summons, or scorn it as he would have done under the old emperors? Baron Conrad knew not which to do; pride said one thing and policy another. The Emperor was a man with an iron hand, and Baron Conrad knew what had happened to those who had refused to obey the imperial commands. So at last he decided that he would go to the court, taking with him a suitable escort to support his dignity. It was with nearly a hundred armed men clattering behind him that Baron Conrad rode away to court to answer the imperial summons. The castle was stripped of its fighting men, and only eight remained behind to guard the great stone fortress and the little simple-witted boy. It was a sad mistake. Three days had passed since the Baron had left the castle, and now the third night had come. The moon was hanging midway in the sky, white and full, for it was barely past midnight. The high precipitous banks of the rocky road threw a dense black shadow into the gully below, and in that crooked inky line that scarred the white face of the moonlit rocks a band of some thirty men were creeping slowly and stealthily nearer and nearer to Castle Drachenhausen. At the head of them was a tall, slender knight clad in light chain armor, his head covered only by a steel cap or bascinet. Along the shadow they crept, with only now and then a faint clink or jingle of armor to break the stillness, for most of those who followed the armed knight were clad in leathern jerkins; only one or two wearing even so much as a steel breast-plate by way of armor. So at last they reached the chasm that yawned beneath the roadway, and there they stopped, for they had reached the spot toward which they had been journeying. It was Baron Henry of Trutz-Drachen who had thus come in the silence of the night time to the Dragon's house, and his visit boded no good to those within. The Baron and two or three of his men talked together in low tones, now and then looking up at the sheer wall that towered above them. "Yonder is the place, Lord Baron," said one of those who stood with him. "I have scanned every foot of the wall at night for a week past. An we get not in by that way, we get not in at all. A keen eye, a true aim, and a bold man are all that we need, and the business is done." Here again all looked upward at the gray wall above them, rising up in the silent night air. High aloft hung the wooden bartizan or watch-tower, clinging to the face of the outer wall and looming black against the pale sky above. Three great beams pierced the wall, and upon them the wooden tower rested. The middle beam jutted out beyond the rest to the distance of five or six feet, and the end of it was carved into the rude semblance of a dragon's head. "So, good," said the Baron at last; "then let us see if thy plan holds, and if Hans Schmidt's aim is true enough to earn the three marks that I have promised him. Where is the bag?" One of those who stood near handed the Baron a leathern pouch, the Baron opened it and drew out a ball of fine thread, another of twine, a coil of stout rope, and a great bundle that looked, until it was unrolled, like a coarse fish-net. It was a rope ladder. While these were being made ready, Hans Schmidt, a thick-set, low-browed, broad-shouldered archer, strung his stout bow, and carefully choosing three arrows from those in his quiver, he stuck them point downward in the earth. Unwinding the ball of thread, he laid it loosely in large loops upon the ground so that it might run easily without hitching, then he tied the end of the thread tightly around one of his arrows. He fitted the arrow to the bow and drew the feather to his ear. Twang! rang the bowstring, and the feathered messenger flew whistling upon its errand to the watch-tower. The very first shaft did the work. "Good," said Hans Schmidt, the archer, in his heavy voice, "the three marks are mine, Lord Baron." The arrow had fallen over and across the jutting beam between the carved dragon's head and the bartizan, carrying with it the thread, which now hung from above, glimmering white in the moonlight like a cobweb. The rest was an easy task enough. First the twine was drawn up to and over the beam by the thread, then the rope was drawn up by the twine, and last of all the rope ladder by the rope. There it hung like a thin, slender black line against the silent gray walls. "And now," said the Baron, "who will go first and win fifty marks for his own, and climb the rope ladder to the tower yonder?" Those around hesitated. "Is there none brave enough to venture?" said the Baron, after a pause of silence. A stout, young fellow, of about eighteen years of age, stepped forward and flung his flat leathern cap upon the ground. "I will go, my Lord Baron," said he. "Good," said the Baron, "the fifty marks are thine. And now listen, if thou findest no one in the watch-tower, whistle thus; if the watchman be at his post, see that thou makest all safe before thou givest the signal. When all is ready the others will follow thee. And now go and good luck go with thee." The young fellow spat upon his hands and, seizing the ropes, began slowly and carefully to mount the flimsy, shaking ladder. Those below held it as tight as they were able, but nevertheless he swung backward and forward and round and round as he climbed steadily upward. Once he stopped upon the way, and those below saw him clutch the ladder close to him as though dizzied by the height and the motion but he soon began again, up, up, up like some great black spider. Presently he came out from the black shadow below and into the white moonlight, and then his shadow followed him step by step up the gray wall upon his way. At last he reached the jutting beam, and there again he stopped for a moment clutching tightly to it. The next he was upon the beam, dragging himself toward the window of the bartizan just above. Slowly raising himself upon his narrow foothold he peeped cautiously within. Those watching him from be low saw him slip his hand softly to his side, and then place something between his teeth. It was his dagger. Reaching up, he clutched the window sill above him and, with a silent spring, seated himself upon it. The next moment he disappeared within. A few seconds of silence followed, then of sudden a sharp gurgling cry broke the stillness. There was another pause of silence, then a faint shrill whistle sounded from above. "Who will go next?" said the Baron. It was Hans Schmidt who stepped forward. Another followed the arch up the ladder, and another, and another. Last of all went the Baron Henry himself, and nothing was left but the rope ladder hanging from above, and swaying back and forth in the wind. That night Schwartz Carl had been bousing it over a pot of yellow wine in the pantry with his old crony, Master Rudolph, the steward; and the two, chatting and gossiping together, had passed the time away until long after the rest of the castle had been wrapped in sleep. Then, perhaps a little unsteady upon his feet, Schwartz Carl betook himself homeward to the Melchior tower. He stood for a while in the shadow of the doorway, gazing up into the pale sky above him at the great, bright, round moon, that hung like a bubble above the sharp peaks of the roofs standing black as ink against the sky. But all of a sudden he started up from the post against which he had been leaning, and with head bent to one side, stood listening breathlessly, for he too had heard that smothered cry from the watch-tower. So he stood intently, motionlessly, listening, listening; but all was silent except for the monotonous dripping of water in one of the nooks of the court-yard, and the distant murmur of the river borne upon the breath of the night air. "Mayhap I was mistaken," muttered Schwartz Carl to himself. But the next moment the silence was broken again by a faint, shrill whistle; what did it mean? Back of the heavy oaken door of the tower was Schwartz Carl's cross-bow, the portable windlass with which the bowstring was drawn back, and a pouch of bolts. Schwartz Carl reached back into the darkness, fumbling in the gloom until his fingers met the weapon. Setting his foot in the iron stirrup at the end of the stock, he wound the stout bow-string into the notch of the trigger, and carefully fitted the heavy, murderous-looking bolt into the groove. Minute after minute passed, and Schwartz Carl, holding his arbelast in his hand, stood silently waiting and watching in the sharp-cut, black shadow of the doorway, motionless as a stone statue. Minute after minute passed. Suddenly there was a movement in the shadow of the arch of the great gateway across the court-yard, and the next moment a leathern-clad figure crept noiselessly out upon the moonlit pavement, and stood there listening, his head bent to one side. Schwartz Carl knew very well that it was no one belonging to the castle, and, from the nature of his action, that he was upon no good errand. He did not stop to challenge the suspicious stranger. The taking of another's life was thought too small a matter for much thought or care in those days. Schwartz Carl would have shot a man for a much smaller reason than the suspicious actions of this fellow. The leather-clad figure stood a fine target in the moonlight for a cross-bow bolt. Schwartz Carl slowly raised the weapon to his shoulder and took a long and steady aim. Just then the stranger put his fingers to his lips and gave a low, shrill whistle. It was the last whistle that he was to give upon this earth. There was a sharp, jarring twang of the bow-string, the hiss of the flying bolt, and the dull thud as it struck its mark. The man gave a shrill, quavering cry, and went staggering back, and then fell all of a heap against the wall behind him. As though in answer to the cry, half a dozen men rushed tumultuously out from the shadow of the gateway whence the stranger had just come, and then stood in the court-yard, looking uncertainly this way and that, not knowing from what quarter the stroke had come that had laid their comrade low. But Schwartz Carl did not give them time to discover that; there was no chance to string his cumbersome weapon again; down he flung it upon the ground. "To arms!" he roared in a voice of thunder, and then clapped to the door of Melchior's tower and shot the great iron bolts with a clang and rattle. The next instant the Trutz-Drachen men were thundering at the door, but Schwartz Carl was already far up the winding steps. But now the others came pouring out from the gateway. "To the house," roared Baron Henry. Then suddenly a clashing, clanging uproar crashed out upon the night. Dong! Dong! It was the great alarm bell from Melchior's tower--Schwartz Carl was at his post. Little Baron Otto lay sleeping upon the great rough bed in his room, dreaming of the White Cross on the hill and of brother John. By and by he heard the convent bell ringing, and knew that there must be visitors at the gate, for loud voices sounded through his dream. Presently he knew that he was coming awake, but though the sunny monastery garden grew dimmer and dimmer to his sleeping sight, the clanging of the bell and the sound of shouts grew louder and louder. Then he opened his eyes. Flaming red lights from torches, carried hither and thither by people in the court-yard outside, flashed and ran along the wall of his room. Hoarse shouts and cries filled the air, and suddenly the shrill, piercing shriek of a woman rang from wall to wall; and through the noises the great bell from far above upon Melchior's tower clashed and clanged its harsh, resonant alarm. Otto sprang from his bed and looked out of the window and down upon the court-yard below. "Dear God! what dreadful thing hath happened?" he cried and clasped his hands together. A cloud of smoke was pouring out from the windows of the building across the court-yard, whence a dull ruddy glow flashed and flickered. Strange men were running here and there with flaming torches, and the now continuous shrieking of women pierced the air. Just beneath the window lay the figure of a man half naked and face downward upon the stones. Then suddenly Otto cried out in fear and horror, for, as he looked with dazed and bewildered eyes down into the lurid court-yard beneath, a savage man, in a shining breast-plate and steel cap, came dragging the dark, silent figure of a woman across the stones; but whether she was dead or in a swoon, Otto could not tell. And every moment the pulsing of that dull red glare from the windows of the building across the court-yard shone more brightly, and the glare from other flaming buildings, which Otto could not see from his window, turned the black, starry night into a lurid day. Just then the door of the room was burst open, and in rushed poor old Ursela, crazy with her terror. She flung herself down upon the floor and caught Otto around the knees. "Save me!" she cried, "save me!" as though the poor, pale child could be of any help to her at such a time. In the passageway without shone the light of torches, and the sound of loud footsteps came nearer and nearer. And still through all the din sounded continually the clash and clang and clamor of the great alarm bell. The red light flashed into the room, and in the doorway stood a tall, thin figure clad from head to foot in glittering chain armor. From behind this fierce knight, with his dark, narrow, cruel face, its deep-set eyes glistening in the light of the torches, crowded six or eight savage, low-browed, brutal men, who stared into the room and at the white-faced boy as he stood by the window with the old woman clinging to his knees and praying to him for help. "We have cracked the nut and here is the kernel," said one of them who stood behind the rest, and thereupon a roar of brutal laughter went up. But the cruel face of the armed knight never relaxed into a smile; he strode into the room and laid his iron hand heavily upon the boy's shoulder. "Art thou the young Baron Otto?" said he, in a harsh voice. "Aye," said the lad; "but do not kill me." The knight did not answer him. "Fetch the cord hither," said he, "and drag the old witch away." It took two of them to loosen poor old Ursela's crazy clutch from about her young master. Then amid roars of laughter they dragged her away, screaming and scratching and striking with her fists. They drew back Otto's arms behind his back and wrapped them round and round with a bowstring. Then they pushed and hustled and thrust him forth from the room and along the passageway, now bright with the flames that roared and crackled without. Down the steep stairway they drove him, where thrice he stumbled and fell amid roars of laughter. At last they were out into the open air of the court-yard. Here was a terrible sight, but Otto saw nothing of it; his blue eyes were gazing far away, and his lips moved softly with the prayer that the good monks of St. Michaelsburg had taught him, for he thought that they meant to slay him. All around the court-yard the flames roared and snapped and crackled. Four or five figures lay scattered here and there, silent in all the glare and uproar. The heat was so intense that they were soon forced back into the shelter of the great gateway, where the women captives, under the guard of three or four of the Trutz-Drachen men, were crowded together in dumb, bewildered terror. Only one man was to be seen among the captives, poor, old, half blind Master Rudolph, the steward, who crouched tremblingly among the women. They had set the blaze to Melchior's tower, and now, below, it was a seething furnace. Above, the smoke rolled in black clouds from the windows, but still the alarm bell sounded through all the blaze and smoke. Higher and higher the flames rose; a trickle of fire ran along the frame buildings hanging aloft in the air. A clear flame burst out at the peak of the roof, but still the bell rang forth its clamorous clangor. Presently those who watched below saw the cluster of buildings bend and sink and sway; there was a crash and roar, a cloud of sparks flew up as though to the very heavens themselves, and the bell of Melchior's tower was stilled forever. A great shout arose from the watching, upturned faces. "Forward!" cried Baron Henry, and out from the gateway they swept and across the drawbridge, leaving Drachenhausen behind them a flaming furnace blazing against the gray of the early dawning. VIII. In the House of the Dragon Scorner. Tall, narrow, gloomy room; no furniture but a rude bench a bare stone floor, cold stone walls and a gloomy ceiling of arched stone over head; a long, narrow slit of a window high above in the wall, through the iron bars of which Otto could see a small patch of blue sky and now and then a darting swallow, for an instant seen, the next instant gone. Such was the little baron's prison in Trutz-Drachen. Fastened to a bolt and hanging against the walls, hung a pair of heavy chains with gaping fetters at the ends. They were thick with rust, and the red stain of the rust streaked the wall below where they hung like a smear of blood. Little Otto shuddered as he looked at them; can those be meant for me, he thought. Nothing was to be seen but that one patch of blue sky far up in the wall. No sound from without was to be heard in that gloomy cell of stone, for the window pierced the outer wall, and the earth and its noises lay far below. Suddenly a door crashed without, and the footsteps of men were heard coming along the corridor. They stopped in front of Otto's cell; he heard the jingle of keys, and then a loud rattle of one thrust into the lock of the heavy oaken door. The rusty bolt was shot back with a screech, the door opened, and there stood Baron Henry, no longer in his armor, but clad in a long black robe that reached nearly to his feet, a broad leather belt was girdled about his waist, and from it dangled a short, heavy hunting sword. Another man was with the Baron, a heavy-faced fellow clad in a leathern jerkin over which was drawn a short coat of linked mail. The two stood for a moment looking into the room, and Otto, his pale face glimmering in the gloom, sat upon the edge of the heavy wooden bench or bed, looking back at them out of his great blue eyes. Then the two entered and closed the door behind them. "Dost thou know why thou art here?" said the Baron, in his deep, harsh voice. "Nay," said Otto, "I know not." "So?" said the Baron. "Then I will tell thee. Three years ago the good Baron Frederick, my uncle, kneeled in the dust and besought mercy at thy father's hands; the mercy he received was the coward blow that slew him. Thou knowest the story?" "Aye," said Otto, tremblingly, "I know it." "Then dost thou not know why I am here?" said the Baron. "Nay, dear Lord Baron, I know not," said poor little Otto, and began to weep. The Baron stood for a moment or two looking gloomily upon him, as the little boy sat there with the tears running down his white face. "I will tell thee," said he, at last; "I swore an oath that the red cock should crow on Drachenhausen, and I have given it to the dames. I swore an oath that no Vuelph that ever left my hands should be able to strike such a blow as thy father gave to Baron Frederick, and now I will fulfil that too. Catch the boy, Casper, and hold him." As the man in the mail shirt stepped toward little Otto, the boy leaped up from where he sat and caught the Baron about the knees. "Oh! dear Lord Baron," he cried, "do not harm me; I am only a little child, I have never done harm to thee; do not harm me." "Take him away," said the Baron, harshly. The fellow stooped, and loosening Otto's hold, in spite of his struggles and cries, carried him to the bench, against which he held him, whilst the Baron stood above him. Baron Henry and the other came forth from the cell, carefully closing the wooden door behind them. At the end of the corridor the Baron turned, "Let the leech be sent to the boy," said he. And then he turned and walked away. Otto lay upon the hard couch in his cell, covered with a shaggy bear skin. His face was paler and thinner than ever, and dark rings encircled his blue eyes. He was looking toward the door, for there was a noise of someone fumbling with the lock without. Since that dreadful day when Baron Henry had come to his cell, only two souls had visited Otto. One was the fellow who had come with the Baron that time; his name, Otto found, was Casper. He brought the boy his rude meals of bread and meat and water. The other visitor was the leech or doctor, a thin, weasand little man, with a kindly, wrinkled face and a gossiping tongue, who, besides binding wounds, bleeding, and leeching, and administering his simple remedies to those who were taken sick in the castle, acted as the Baron's barber. The Baron had left the key in the lock of the door, so that these two might enter when they chose, but Otto knew that it was neither the one nor the other whom he now heard at the door, working uncertainly with the key, striving to turn it in the rusty, cumbersome lock. At last the bolts grated back, there was a pause, and then the door opened a little way, and Otto thought that he could see someone peeping in from without. By and by the door opened further, there was another pause, and then a slender, elfish-looking little girl, with straight black hair and shining black eyes, crept noiselessly into the room. She stood close by the door with her finger in her mouth, staring at the boy where he lay upon his couch, and Otto upon his part lay, full of wonder, gazing back upon the little elfin creature. She, seeing that he made no sign or motion, stepped a little nearer, and then, after a moment's pause, a little nearer still, until, at last, she stood within a few feet of where he lay. "Art thou the Baron Otto?" said she. "Yes," answered Otto. "Prut!" said she, "and is that so! Why, I thought that thou wert a great tall fellow at least, and here thou art a little boy no older than Carl Max, the gooseherd." Then, after a little pause--"My name is Pauline, and my father is the Baron. I heard him tell my mother all about thee, and so I wanted to come here and see thee myself: Art thou sick?" "Yes," said Otto, "I am sick." "And did my father hurt thee?" "Aye," said Otto, and his eyes filled with tears, until one sparkling drop trickled slowly down his white face. Little Pauline stood looking seriously at him for a while. "I am sorry for thee, Otto," said she, at last. And then, at her childish pity, he began crying in earnest. This was only the first visit of many from the little maid, for after that she often came to Otto's prison, who began to look for her coming from day to day as the one bright spot in the darkness and the gloom. Sitting upon the edge of his bed and gazing into his face with wide open eyes, she would listen to him by the hour, as he told her of his life in that far away monastery home; of poor, simple brother John's wonderful visions, of the good Abbot's books with their beautiful pictures, and of all the monkish tales and stories of knights and dragons and heroes and emperors of ancient Rome, which brother Emmanuel had taught him to read in the crabbed monkish Latin in which they were written. One day the little maid sat for a long while silent after he had ended speaking. At last she drew a deep breath. "And are all these things that thou tellest me about the priests in their castle really true?" said she. "Yes," said Otto, "all are true." "And do they never go out to fight other priests?" "No," said Otto, "they know nothing of fighting." "So!" said she. And then fell silent in the thought of the wonder of it all, and that there should be men in the world that knew nothing of violence and bloodshed; for in all the eight years of her life she had scarcely been outside of the walls of Castle Trutz-Drachen. At another time it was of Otto's mother that they were speaking. "And didst thou never see her, Otto?" said the little girl. "Aye," said Otto, "I see her sometimes in my dreams, and her face always shines so bright that I know she is an angel; for brother John has often seen the dear angels, and he tells me that their faces always shine in that way. I saw her the night thy father hurt me so, for I could not sleep and my head felt as though it would break asunder. Then she came and leaned over me and kissed my forehead, and after that I fell asleep." "But where did she come from, Otto?" said the little girl. "From paradise, I think," said Otto, with that patient seriousness that he had caught from the monks, and that sat so quaintly upon him. "So!" said little Pauline; and then, after a pause, "That is why thy mother kissed thee when thy head ached--because she is an angel. When I was sick my mother bade Gretchen carry me to a far part of the house, because I cried and so troubled her. Did thy mother ever strike thee, Otto?" "Nay," said Otto. "Mine hath often struck me," said Pauline. One day little Pauline came bustling into Otto's cell, her head full of the news which she carried. "My father says that thy father is out in the woods somewhere yonder, back of the castle, for Fritz, the swineherd, told my father that last night he had seen a fire in the woods, and that he had crept up to it without anyone knowing. There he had seen the Baron Conrad and six of his men, and that they were eating one of the swine that they had killed and roasted. Maybe," said she, seating herself upon the edge of Otto's couch; "maybe my father will kill thy father, and they will bring him here and let him lie upon a black bed with bright candles burning around him, as they did my uncle Frederick when he was killed." "God forbid!" said Otto, and then lay for a while with his hands clasped. "Dost thou love me, Pauline?" said he, after a while. "Yes," said Pauline, "for thou art a good child, though my father says that thy wits are cracked." "Mayhap they are," said Otto, simply, "for I have often been told so before. But thou wouldst not see me die, Pauline; wouldst thou?" "Nay," said Pauline, "I would not see thee die, for then thou couldst tell me no more stories; for they told me that uncle Frederick could not speak because he was dead." "Then listen, Pauline," said Otto; "if I go not away from here I shall surely die. Every day I grow more sick and the leech cannot cure me." Here he broke down and, turning his face upon the couch, began crying, while little Pauline sat looking seriously at him. "Why dost thou cry, Otto?" said she, after a while. "Because," said he, "I am so sick, and I want my father to come and take me away from here." "But why dost thou want to go away?" said Pauline. "If thy father takes thee away, thou canst not tell me any more stories." "Yes, I can," said Otto, "for when I grow to be a man I will come again and marry thee, and when thou art my wife I can tell thee all the stories that I know. Dear Pauline, canst thou not tell my father where I am, that he may come here and take me away before I die?" "Mayhap I could do so," said Pauline, after a little while, "for sometimes I go with Casper Max to see his mother, who nursed me when I was a baby. She is the wife of Fritz, the swineherd, and she will make him tell thy father; for she will do whatever I ask of her, and Fritz will do whatever she bids him do." "And for my sake, wilt thou tell him, Pauline?" said Otto. "But see, Otto," said the little girl, "if I tell him, wilt thou promise to come indeed and marry me when thou art grown a man?" "Yes," said Otto, very seriously, "I will promise." "Then I will tell thy father where thou art," said she. "But thou wilt do it without the Baron Henry knowing, wilt thou not, Pauline?" "Yes," said she, "for if my father and my mother knew that I did such a thing, they would strike me, mayhap send me to my bed alone in the dark." IX. How One-eyed Hans came to Trutz-Drachen. Fritz, the swineherd, sat eating his late supper of porridge out of a great, coarse, wooden bowl; wife Katherine sat at the other end of the table, and the half-naked little children played upon the earthen floor. A shaggy dog lay curled up in front of the fire, and a grunting pig scratched against a leg of the rude table close beside where the woman sat. "Yes, yes," said Katherine, speaking of the matter of which they had already been talking. "It is all very true that the Drachenhausens are a bad lot, and I for one am of no mind to say no to that; all the same it is a sad thing that a simple-witted little child like the young Baron should be so treated as the boy has been; and now that our Lord Baron has served him so that he, at least, will never be able to do us 'harm, I for one say that he should not be left there to die alone in that black cell." Fritz, the swineherd, gave a grunt at this without raising his eyes from the bowl. "Yes, good," said Katherine, "I know what thou meanest, Fritz, and that it is none of my business to be thrusting my finger into the Baron's dish. But to hear the way that dear little child spoke when she was here this morn--it would have moved a heart of stone to hear her tell of all his pretty talk. Thou wilt try to let the red-beard know that that poor boy, his son, is sick to death in the black cell; wilt thou not, Fritz?" The swineherd dropped his wooden spoon into the bowl with a clatter. "Potstausand!" he cried; "art thou gone out of thy head to let thy wits run upon such things as this of which thou talkest to me? If it should come to our Lord Baron's ears he would cut the tongue from out thy head and my head from off my shoulders for it. Dost thou think I am going to meddle in such a matter as this? Listen! these proud Baron folk, with their masterful ways, drive our sort hither and thither; they beat us, they drive us, they kill us as they choose. Our lives are not as much to them as one of my black swine. Why should I trouble my head if they choose to lop and trim one another? The fewer there are of them the better for us, say I. We poor folk have a hard enough life of it without thrusting our heads into the noose to help them out of their troubles. What thinkest thou would happen to us if Baron Henry should hear of our betraying his affairs to the Red-beard?" "Nay," said Katherine, "thou hast naught to do in the matter but to tell the Red-beard in what part of the castle the little Baron lies." "And what good would that do?" said Fritz, the swineherd. "I know not," said Katherine, "but I have promised the little one that thou wouldst find the Baron Conrad and tell him that much." "Thou hast promised a mare's egg," said her husband, angrily. "How shall I find the Baron Conrad to bear a message to him, when our Baron has been looking for him in vain for two days past?" "Thou has found him once and thou mayst find him again," said Katherine, "for it is not likely that he will keep far away from here whilst his boy is in such sore need of help." "I will have nothing to do with it!" said Fritz, and he got up from the wooden block whereon he was sitting and stumped out of the house. But, then, Katherine had heard him talk in that way before, and knew, in spite of his saying "no," that, sooner or later, he would do as she wished. Two days later a very stout little one-eyed man, clad in a leathern jerkin and wearing a round leathern cap upon his head, came toiling up the path to the postern door of Trutz-Drachen, his back bowed under the burthen of a great peddler's pack. It was our old friend the one-eyed Hans, though even his brother would hardly have known him in his present guise, for, besides having turned peddler, he had grown of a sudden surprisingly fat. Rap-tap-tap! He knocked at the door with a knotted end of the crooked thorned staff upon which he leaned. He waited for a while and then knocked again--rap-tap-tap! Presently, with a click, a little square wicket that pierced the door was opened, and a woman's face peered out through the iron bars. The one-eyed Hans whipped off his leathern cap. "Good day, pretty one," said he, "and hast thou any need of glass beads, ribbons, combs, or trinkets? Here I am come all the way from Gruenstadt, with a pack full of such gay things as thou never laid eyes on before. Here be rings and bracelets and necklaces that might be of pure silver and set with diamonds and rubies, for anything that thy dear one could tell if he saw thee decked in them. And all are so cheap that thou hast only to say, 'I want them,' and they are thine." The frightened face at the window looked from right to left and from left to right. "Hush," said the girl, and laid her finger upon her lips. "There! thou hadst best get away from here, poor soul, as fast as thy legs can carry thee, for if the Lord Baron should find thee here talking secretly at the postern door, he would loose the wolf-hounds upon thee." "Prut," said one-eyed Hans, with a grin, "the Baron is too big a fly to see such a little gnat as I; but wolf-hounds or no wolf-hounds, I can never go hence without showing thee the pretty things that I have brought from the town, even though my stay be at the danger of my own hide." He flung the pack from off his shoulders as he spoke and fell to unstrapping it, while the round face of the lass (her eyes big with curiosity) peered down at him through the grated iron bars. Hans held up a necklace of blue and white beads that glistened like jewels in the sun, and from them hung a gorgeous filigree cross. "Didst thou ever see a sweeter thing than this?" said he; "and look, here is a comb that even the silversmith would swear was pure silver all the way through." Then, in a soft, wheedling voice, "Canst thou not let me in, my little bird? Sure there are other lasses besides thyself who would like to trade with a poor peddler who has travelled all the way from Gruenstadt just to please the pretty ones of Trutz-Drachen." "Nay," said the lass, in a frightened voice, "I cannot let thee in; I know not what the Baron would do to me, even now, if he knew that I was here talking to a stranger at the postern;" and she made as if she would clap to the little window in his face; but the one-eyed Hans thrust his staff betwixt the bars and so kept the shutter open. "Nay, nay," said he, eagerly, "do not go away from me too soon. Look, dear one; seest thou this necklace?" "Aye," said she, looking hungrily at it. "Then listen; if thou wilt but let me into the castle, so that I may strike a trade, I will give it to thee for thine own without thy paying a barley corn for it." The girl looked and hesitated, and then looked again; the temptation was too great. There was a noise of softly drawn bolts and bars, the door was hesitatingly opened a little way, and, in a twinkling, the one-eyed Hans had slipped inside the castle, pack and all. "The necklace," said the girl, in a frightened whisper. Hans thrust it into her hand. "It's thine," said he, "and now wilt thou not help me to a trade?" "I will tell my sister that thou art here," said she, and away she ran from the little stone hallway, carefully bolting and locking the further door behind her. The door that the girl had locked was the only one that connected the postern hail with the castle. The one-eyed Hans stood looking after her. "Thou fool!" he muttered to himself, "to lock the door behind thee. What shall I do next, I should like to know? Here am I just as badly off as I was when I stood outside the walls. Thou hussy! If thou hadst but let me into the castle for only two little minutes, I would have found somewhere to have hidden myself while thy back was turned. But what shall I do now?" He rested his pack upon the floor and stood looking about him. Built in the stone wall opposite to him, was a high, narrow fireplace without carving of any sort. As Hans' one eye wandered around the bare stone space, his glance fell at last upon it, and there it rested. For a while he stood looking intently at it, presently he began rubbing his hand over his bristling chin in a thoughtful, meditative manner. Finally he drew a deep breath, and giving himself a shake as though to arouse himself from his thoughts, and after listening a moment or two to make sure that no one was nigh, he walked softly to the fireplace, and stooping, peered up the chimney. Above him yawned a black cavernous depth, inky with the soot of years. Hans straightened himself, and tilting his leathern cap to one side, began scratching his bullet-head; at last he drew a long breath. "Yes, good," he muttered to himself; "he who jumps into the river must e'en swim the best he can. It is a vile, dirty place to thrust one's self; but I am in for it now, and must make the best of a lame horse." He settled the cap more firmly upon his head, spat upon his hands, and once more stooping in the fireplace, gave a leap, and up the chimney he went with a rattle of loose mortar and a black trickle of soot. By and by footsteps sounded outside the door. There was a pause; a hurried whispering of women's voices; the twitter of a nervous laugh, and then the door was pushed softly opens and the girl to whom the one-eyed Hans had given the necklace of blue and white beads with the filigree cross hanging from it, peeped uncertainly into the room. Behind her broad, heavy face were three others, equally homely and stolid; for a while all four stood there, looking blankly into the room and around it. Nothing was there but the peddler's knapsack lying in the middle of the floor-the man was gone. The light of expectancy slowly faded Out of the girl's face, and in its place succeeded first bewilderment and then dull alarm. "But, dear heaven," she said, "where then has the peddler man gone?" A moment or two of silence followed her speech. "Perhaps," said one of the others, in a voice hushed with awe, "perhaps it was the evil one himself to whom thou didst open the door." Again there was a hushed and breathless pause; it was the lass who had let Hans in at the postern, who next spoke. "Yes," said she, in a voice trembling with fright at what she had done, "yes, it must have been the evil one, for now I remember he had but one eye." The four girls crossed themselves, and their eyes grew big and round with the fright. Suddenly a shower of mortar came rattling down the chimney. "Ach!" cried the four, as with one voice. Bang! the door was clapped to and away they scurried like a flock of frightened rabbits. When Jacob, the watchman, came that way an hour later, upon his evening round of the castle, he found a peddler's knapsack lying in the middle of the floor. He turned it over with his pike-staff and saw that it was full of beads and trinkets and ribbons. "How came this here?" said he. And then, without waiting for the answer which he did not expect, he flung it over his shoulder and marched away with it. X. How Hans Brought Terror to the Kitchen. Hans found himself in a pretty pickle in the chimney, for the soot got into his one eye and set it to watering, and into his nose and set him to sneezing, and into his mouth and his ears and his hair. But still he struggled on, up and up; "for every chimney has a top," said Hans to himself "and I am sure to climb out somewhere or other." Suddenly he came to a place where another chimney joined the one he was climbing, and here he stopped to consider the matter at his leisure. "See now," he muttered, "if I still go upward I may come out at the top of some tall chimney-stack with no way of getting down outside. Now, below here there must be a fire-place somewhere, for a chimney does not start from nothing at all; yes, good! we will go down a while and see what we make of that." It was a crooked, zigzag road that he had to travel, and rough and hard into the bargain. His one eye tingled and smarted, and his knees and elbows were rubbed to the quick; nevertheless One-eyed Hans had been in worse trouble than this in his life. Down he went and down he went, further than he had climbed upward before. "Sure, I must be near some place or other," he thought. As though in instant answer to his thoughts, he heard the sudden sound of a voice so close beneath him that he stopped short in his downward climbing and stood as still as a mouse, with his heart in his mouth. A few inches more and he would have been discovered;--what would have happened then would have been no hard matter to foretell. Hans braced his back against one side of the chimney, his feet against the other and then, leaning forward, looked down between his knees. The gray light of the coming evening glimmered in a wide stone fireplace just below him. Within the fireplace two people were moving about upon the broad hearth, a great, fat woman and a shock-headed boy. The woman held a spit with two newly trussed fowls upon it, so that One-eyed Hans knew that she must be the cook. "Thou ugly toad," said the woman to the boy, "did I not bid thee make a fire an hour ago? and now, here there is not so much as a spark to roast the fowls withall, and they to be basted for the lord Baron's supper. Where hast thou been for all this time?" "No matter," said the boy, sullenly, as he laid the fagots ready for the lighting; "no matter, I was not running after Long Jacob, the bowman, to try to catch him for a sweetheart, as thou hast been doing." The reply was instant and ready. The cook raised her hand; "smack!" she struck and a roar from the scullion followed. "Yes, good," thought Hans, as he looked down upon them; "I am glad that the boy's ear was not on my head." "Now give me no more of thy talk," said the woman, "but do the work that thou hast been bidden." Then--"How came all this black soot here, I should like to know?" "How should I know?" snuffled the scullion, "mayhap thou wouldst blame that on me also?" "That is my doing," whispered Hans to himself; "but if they light the fire, what then becomes of me?" "See now," said the cook; "I go to make the cakes ready; if I come back and find that thou hast not built the fire, I will warm thy other ear for thee." "So," thought Hans; "then will be my time to come down the chimney, for there will be but one of them." The next moment he heard the door close and knew that the cook had gone to make the cakes ready as she said. And as he looked down he saw that the boy was bending over the bundle of fagots, blowing the spark that he had brought in upon the punk into a flame. The dry fagots began to crackle and blaze. "Now is my time," said Hans to himself. Bracing his elbows against each side of the chimney, he straightened his legs so that he might fall clear His motions loosened little shower of soot that fell rattling upon the fagots that were now beginning to blaze brightly, whereupon the boy raised his face and looked up. Hans loosened his hold upon the chimney; crash! he fell, lighting upon his feet in the midst of the burning fagots. The scullion boy tumbled backward upon the floor, where he lay upon the broad of his back with a face as white as dough and eyes and mouth agape, staring speechlessly at the frightful inky-black figure standing in the midst of the flames and smoke. Then his scattered wits came back to him. "It is the evil one," he roared. And thereupon, turning upon his side, he half rolled, half scrambled to the door. Then out he leaped and, banging it to behind him, flew down the passageway, yelling with fright and never daring once to look behind him. All the time One-eyed Hans was brushing away the sparks that clung to his clothes. He was as black as ink from head to foot with the soot from the chimney. "So far all is good," he muttered to himself, "but if I go wandering about in my sooty shoes I will leave black tracks to follow me, so there is nothing to do but e'en to go barefoot." He stooped and drawing the pointed soft leather shoes from his feet, he threw them upon the now blazing fagots, where they writhed and twisted and wrinkled, and at last burst into a flame. Meanwhile Hans lost no time; he must find a hiding-place, and quickly, if he would yet hope to escape. A great bread trough stood in the corner of the kitchen--a hopper-shaped chest with a flat lid. It was the best hiding place that the room afforded. Without further thought Hans ran to it, snatching up from the table as he passed a loaf of black bread and a bottle half full of stale wine, for he had had nothing to eat since that morning. Into the great bread trough he climbed, and drawing the lid down upon him, curled himself up as snugly as a mouse in its nest. For a while the kitchen lay in silence, but at last the sound of voices was heard at the door, whispering together in low tones. Suddenly the door was flung open and a tall, lean, lantern-jawed fellow, clad in rough frieze, strode into the room and stood there glaring with half frightened boldness around about him; three or four women and the trembling scullion crowded together in a frightened group behind him. The man was Long Jacob, the bowman; but, after all, his boldness was all wasted, for not a thread or a hair was to be seen, but only the crackling fire throwing its cheerful ruddy glow upon the wall of the room, now rapidly darkening in the falling gray of the twilight without. The fat cook's fright began rapidly to turn into anger. "Thou imp," she cried, "it is one of thy tricks," and she made a dive for the scullion, who ducked around the skirts of one of the other women and so escaped for the time; but Long Jacob wrinkled up his nose and sniffed. "Nay," said he, "me thinks that there lieth some truth in the tale that the boy hath told, for here is a vile smell of burned horn that the black one bath left behind him." It was the smell from the soft leather shoes that Hans had burned. The silence of night had fallen over the Castle of Trutz-Drachen; not a sound was heard but the squeaking of mice scurring behind the wainscoting, the dull dripping of moisture from the eaves, or the sighing of the night wind around the gables and through the naked windows of the castle. The lid of the great dough trough was softly raised, and a face, black with soot, peeped cautiously out from under it. Then little by little arose a figure as black as the face; and One-eyed Hans stepped out upon the floor, stretching and rubbing himself. "Methinks I must have slept," he muttered. "Hui, I am as stiff as a new leather doublet, and now, what next is to become of me? I hope my luck may yet stick to me, in spite of this foul black soot!" Along the middle of the front of the great hall of the castle, ran a long stone gallery, opening at one end upon the court-yard by a high flight of stone steps. A man-at-arms in breast-plate and steel cap, and bearing a long pike, paced up and down the length of this gallery, now and then stopping, leaning over the edge, and gazing up into the starry sky above; then, with a long drawn yawn, lazily turning back to the monotonous watch again. A dark figure crept out from an arched doorway at the lower part of the long straight building, and some little distance below the end gallery, but the sentry saw nothing of it, for his back was turned. As silently and as stealthily as a cat the figure crawled along by the dark shadowy wall, now and then stopping, and then again creeping slowly forward toward the gallery where the man-at-arms moved monotonously up and down. It was One-eyed Hans in his bare feet. Inch by inch, foot by foot--the black figure crawled along in the angle of the wall; inch by inch and foot by foot, but ever nearer and nearer to the long straight row of stone steps that led to the covered gallery. At last it crouched at the lowest step of the flight. Just then the sentinel upon watch came to the very end of the gallery and stood there leaning upon his spear. Had he looked down below he could not have failed to have seen One-eyed Hans lying there motionlessly; but he was gazing far away over the steep black roofs beyond, and never saw the unsuspected presence. Minute after minute passed, and the one stood there looking out into the night and the other lay crouching by the wall; then with a weary sigh the sentry turned and began slowly pacing back again toward the farther end of the gallery. Instantly the motionless figure below arose and glided noiselessly and swiftly up the flight of steps. Two rude stone pillars flanked either side of the end of the gallery. Like a shadow the black figure slipped behind one of these, flattening itself up against the wall, where it stood straight and motionless as the shadows around it. Down the long gallery came the watchman, his sword clinking loudly in the silence as he walked, tramp, tramp, tramp! clink, clank, jingle. Within three feet of the motionless figure behind the pillar he turned, and began retracing his monotonous steps. Instantly the other left the shadow of the post and crept rapidly and stealthily after him. One step, two steps the sentinel took; for a moment the black figure behind him seemed to crouch and draw together, then like a flash it leaped forward upon its victim. A shadowy cloth fell upon the man's face, and in an instant he was flung back and down with a muffled crash upon the stones. Then followed a fierce and silent struggle in the darkness, but strong and sturdy as the man was, he was no match for the almost superhuman strength of One-eyed Hans. The cloth which he had flung over his head was tied tightly and securely. Then the man was forced upon his face and, in spite of his fierce struggles, his arms were bound around and around with strong fine cord; next his feet were bound in the same way, and the task was done. Then Hans stood upon his feet, and wiped the sweat from his swarthy forehead. "Listen, brother," he whispered, and as he spoke he stooped and pressed something cold and hard against the neck of the other. "Dost thou know the feel of this? It is a broad dagger, and if thou dost contrive to loose that gag from thy mouth and makest any outcry, it shall be sheathed in thy weasand." So saying, he thrust the knife back again into its sheath, then stooping and picking up the other, he flung him across his shoulder like a sack, and running down the steps as lightly as though his load was nothing at all, he carried his burden to the arched doorway whence he had come a little while before. There, having first stripped his prisoner of all his weapons, Hans sat the man up in the angle of the wall. "So, brother;" said he, "now we can talk with more ease than we could up yonder. I will tell thee frankly why I am here; it is to find where the young Baron Otto of Drachenhausen is kept. If thou canst tell me, well and good; if not, I must e'en cut thy weasand and find me one who knoweth more. Now, canst thou tell me what I would learn, brother?" The other nodded dimly in the darkness. "That is good," said Hans, "then I will loose thy gag until thou hast told me; only bear in mind what I said concerning my dagger." Thereupon, he unbound his prisoner, and the fellow slowly rose to his feet. He shook himself and looked all about him in a heavy, bewildered fashion, as though he had just awakened from a dream. His right hand slid furtively down to his side, but the dagger-sheath was empty. "Come, brother!" said Hans, impatiently, "time is passing, and once lost can never be found again. Show me the way to the young Baron Otto or--." And he whetted the shining blade of his dagger on his horny palm. The fellow needed no further bidding; turning, he led the way, and together they were swallowed up in the yawning shadows, and again the hush of night-time lay upon the Castle of Trutz-Drachen. XI. How Otto was Saved. Little Otto was lying upon the hard couch in his cell, tossing in restless and feverish sleep; suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon him and a voice whispered in his ear, "Baron, Baron Otto, waken, rouse yourself; I am come to help you. I am One-eyed Hans." Otto was awake in an instant and raised himself upon his elbow in the darkness. "One-eyed Hans," he breathed, "One-eyed Hans; who is One-eyed Hans?" "True," said the other, "thou dost not know me. I am thy father's trusted servant, and am the only one excepting his own blood and kin who has clung to him in this hour of trouble. Yes, all are gone but me alone, and so I have come to help thee away from this vile place." "Oh, dear, good Hans! if only thou canst!" cried Otto; "if only thou canst take me away from this wicked place. Alas, dear Hans! I am weary and sick to death." And poor little Otto began to weep silently in the darkness. "Aye, aye," said Hans, gruffly, "it is no place for a little child to be. Canst thou climb, my little master? canst thou climb a knotted rope?" "Nay," said Otto, "I can never climb again! See, Hans;" and he flung back the covers from off him. "I cannot see," said Hans, "it is too dark." "Then feel, dear Hans," said Otto. Hans bent over the poor little white figure glimmering palely in the darkness. Suddenly he drew back with a snarl like an angry wolf. "Oh! the black, bloody wretches!" he cried, hoarsely; "and have they done that to thee, a little child?" "Yes," said Otto, "the Baron Henry did it." And then again he began to cry. "There, there," said Hans, roughly, "weep no more. Thou shalt get away from here even if thou canst not climb; I myself will help thee. Thy father is already waiting below the window here, and thou shalt soon be with him. There, there, cry no more." While he was speaking Hans had stripped off his peddler's leathern jacket, and there, around his body, was wrapped coil after coil of stout hempen rope tied in knots at short distances. He began unwinding the rope, and when he had done he was as thin as ever he had been before. Next he drew from the pouch that hung at his side a ball of fine cord and a leaden weight pierced by a hole, both of which he had brought with him for the use to which he now put them. He tied the lead to the end of the cord, then whirling the weight above his head, he flung it up toward the window high above. Twice the piece of lead fell back again into the room; the third time it flew out between the iron bars carrying the cord with it. Hans held the ball in his hand and paid out the string as the weight carried it downward toward the ground beneath. Suddenly the cord stopped running. Hans jerked it and shook it, but it moved no farther. "Pray heaven, little child," said he, "that it hath reached the ground, for if it hath not we are certainly lost." "I do pray," said Otto, and he bowed his head. Then, as though in answer to his prayer, there came a twitch upon the cord. "See," said Hans, "they have heard thee up above in heaven; it was thy father who did that." Quickly and deftly he tied the cord to the end of the knotted rope; then he gave an answering jerk upon the string. The next moment the rope was drawn up to the window and down the outside by those below. Otto lay watching the rope as it crawled up to the window and out into the night like a great snake, while One-eyed Hans held the other end lest it should be drawn too far. At last it stopped. "Good," muttered Hans, as though to himself. "The rope is long enough." He waited for a few minutes and then, drawing upon the rope and finding that it was held from below, he spat upon his hands and began slowly climbing up to the window above. Winding his arm around the iron bars of the grating that guarded it, he thrust his hand into the pouch that hung by his side, and drawing forth a file, fell to work cutting through all that now lay between Otto and liberty. It was slow, slow work, and it seemed to Otto as though Hans would never finish his task, as lying upon his hard couch he watched that figure, black against the sky, bending over its work. Now and then the file screeched against the hard iron, and then Hans would cease for a moment, but only to begin again as industriously as ever. Three or four times he tried the effects of his work, but still the iron held. At last he set his shoulder against it, and as Otto looked he saw the iron bend. Suddenly there was a sharp crack, and a piece of the grating went flying out into the night. Hans tied the rope securely about the stump of the stout iron bar that yet remained, and then slid down again into the room below. "My little lord," said he, "dost thou think that if I carry thee, thou wilt be able and strong enough to cling to my neck?" "Aye," said Otto, "methinks I will be able to do that." "Then come," said Hans. He stooped as he spoke, and gently lifting Otto from his rude and rugged bed he drew his broad leathern belt around them both, buckling it firmly and securely. "It does not hurt thee?" said he. "Not much," whispered Otto faintly. Then Hans spat upon his hands, and began slowly climbing the rope. They reached the edge of the window and there they rested for a moment, and Otto renewed his hold around the neck of the faithful Hans. "And now art thou ready?" said Hans "Aye," said Otto. "Then courage," said Hans, and he turned and swung his leg over the abyss below. The next moment they were hanging in mid-air. Otto looked down and gave a gasp. "The mother of heaven bless us," he whispered, and then closed his eyes, faint and dizzy at the sight of that sheer depth beneath. Hans said nothing, but shutting his teeth and wrapping his legs around the rope, he began slowly descending, hand under hand. Down, down, down he went, until to Otto, with his eyes shut and his head leaning upon Hans' shoulder, it seemed as though it could never end. Down, down, down. Suddenly he felt Hans draw a deep breath; there was a slight jar, and Otto opened his eyes; Hans was standing upon the ground. A figure wrapped in a dark cloak arose from the shadow of the wall, and took Otto in its arms. It was Baron Conrad. "My son--my little child!" he cried, in a choked, trembling voice, and that was all. And Otto pressed his cheek against his father's and began crying. Suddenly the Baron gave a sharp, fierce cry. "Dear Heaven!" he cried; "what have they done to thee?" But poor little Otto could not answer. "Oh!" gasped the Baron, in a strangled voice, "my little child! my little child!" And therewith he broke down, and his whole body shook with fierce, dry sobs; for men in those days did not seek to hide their grief as they do now, but were fierce and strong in the expression of that as of all else. "Never mind, dear father," whispered Otto; "it did not hurt me so very much," and he pressed his lips against his father's cheek. Little Otto had but one hand. XII. A Ride For Life. But not yet was Otto safe, and all danger past and gone by. Suddenly, as they stood there, the harsh clangor of a bell broke the silence of the starry night above their heads, and as they raised their faces and looked up, they saw lights flashing from window to window. Presently came the sound of a hoarse voice shouting something that, from the distance, they could not understand. One-eyed Hans smote his hand upon his thigh. Look said he, "here is what comes of having a soft heart in one's bosom. I overcame and bound a watchman up yonder, and forced him to tell me where our young Baron lay. It was on my mind to run my knife into him after he had told me every thing, but then, bethinking how the young Baron hated the thought of bloodshed, I said to myself, 'No, Hans, I will spare the villain's life.' See now what comes of being merciful; here, by hook or by crook, the fellow has loosed himself from his bonds, and brings the whole castle about our ears like a nest of wasps." "We must fly," said the Baron; "for nothing else in the world is left me, now that all have deserted me in this black time of trouble, excepting these six faithful ones." His voice was bitter, bitter, as he spoke; then stooping, he raised Otto in his arms, and bearing him gently, began rapidly descending the rocky slope to the level road that ran along the edge of the hill beneath. Close behind him followed the rest; Hans still grimed with soot and in his bare feet. A little distance from the road and under the shade of the forest trees, seven horses stood waiting. The Baron mounted upon his great black charger, seating little Otto upon the saddle in front of him. "Forward!" he cried, and away they clattered and out upon the road. Then--"To St. Michaelsburg," said Baron Conrad, in his deep voice, and the horses' heads were turned to the westward, and away they galloped through the black shadows of the forest, leaving Trutz-Drachen behind them. But still the sound of the alarm bell rang through the beating of the horses' hoofs, and as Hans looked over his shoulder, he saw the light of torches flashing hither and thither along the outer walls in front of the great barbican. In Castle Trutz-Drachen all was confusion and uproar: flashing torches lit up the dull gray walls; horses neighed and stamped, and men shouted and called to one another in the bustle of making ready. Presently Baron Henry came striding along the corridor clad in light armor, which he had hastily donned when roused from his sleep by the news that his prisoner had escaped. Below in the courtyard his horse was standing, and without waiting for assistance, he swung himself into the saddle. Then away they all rode and down the steep path, armor ringing, swords clanking, and iron-shod hoofs striking sparks of fire from the hard stones. At their head rode Baron Henry; his triangular shield hung over his shoulder, and in his hand he bore a long, heavy, steel-pointed lance with a pennant flickering darkly from the end. At the high-road at the base of the slope they paused, for they were at a loss to know which direction the fugitives had taken; a half a score of the retainers leaped from their horses, and began hurrying about hither and thither, and up and down, like hounds searching for the lost scent, and all the time Baron Henry sat still as a rock in the midst of the confusion. Suddenly a shout was raised from the forest just beyond the road; they had come upon the place where the horses had been tied. It was an easy matter to trace the way that Baron Conrad and his followers had taken thence back to the high-road, but there again they were at a loss. The road ran straight as an arrow eastward and westward--had the fugitives taken their way to the east or to the west? Baron Henry called his head-man, Nicholas Stein, to him, and the two spoke together for a while in an undertone. At last the Baron's lieutenant reined his horse back, and choosing first one and then another, divided the company into two parties. The baron placed himself at the head of one band and Nicholas Stein at the head of the other. "Forward!" he cried, and away clattered the two companies of horsemen in opposite directions. It was toward the westward that Baron Henry of Trutz-Drachen rode at the head of his men. The early springtide sun shot its rays of misty, yellow light across the rolling tops of the forest trees where the little birds were singing in the glory of the May morning. But Baron Henry and his followers thought nothing of the beauty of the peaceful day, and heard nothing of the multitudinous sound of the singing birds as, with a confused sound of galloping hoofs, they swept along the highway, leaving behind them a slow-curling, low-trailing cloud of dust. As the sun rose more full and warm, the misty wreaths began to dissolve, until at last they parted and rolled asunder like a white curtain and there, before the pursuing horsemen, lay the crest of the mountain toward which they were riding, and up which the road wound steeply. "Yonder they are," cried a sudden voice behind Baron Henry of Trutz-Drachen, and at the cry all looked upward. Far away upon the mountain-side curled a cloud of dust, from the midst of which came the star-like flash of burnished armor gleaming in the sun. Baron Henry said never a word, but his lips curled in a grim smile. And as the mist wreaths parted One-eyed Hans looked behind and down into the leafy valley beneath. "Yonder they come," said he. "They have followed sharply to gain so much upon us, even though our horses are wearied with all the travelling we have done hither and yon these five days past. How far is it, Lord Baron, from here to Michaelsburg?" "About ten leagues," said the Baron, in a gloomy voice. Hans puckered his mouth as though to whistle, but the Baron saw nothing of it, for he was gazing straight before him with a set and stony face. Those who followed him looked at one another, and the same thought was in the mind of each--how long would it be before those who pursued would close the distance between them? When that happened it meant death to one and all. They reached the crest of the hill, and down they dashed upon the other side; for there the road was smooth and level as it sloped away into the valley, but it was in dead silence that they rode. Now and then those who followed the Baron looked back over their shoulders. They had gained a mile upon their pursuers when the helmeted heads rose above the crest of the mountain, but what was the gain of a mile with a smooth road between them, and fresh horses to weary ones? On they rode and on they rode. The sun rose higher and higher, and hotter and hotter. There was no time to rest and water their panting horses. Only once, when they crossed a shallow stretch of water, the poor animals bent their heads and caught a few gulps from the cool stream, and the One-eyed Hans washed a part of the soot from his hands and face. On and on they rode; never once did the Baron Conrad move his head or alter that steadfast look as, gazing straight before him, he rode steadily forward along the endless stretch of road, with poor little Otto's yellow head and white face resting against his steel-clad shoulder--and St. Michaelsburg still eight leagues away. A little rise of ground lay before them, and as they climbed it, all, excepting the baron, turned their heads as with one accord and looked behind them. Then more than one heart failed, for through the leaves of the trees below, they caught the glint of armor of those who followed--not more than a mile away. The next moment they swept over the crest, and there, below them, lay the broad shining river, and nearer a tributary stream spanned by a rude, narrow, three-arched, stone bridge where the road crossed the deep, slow-moving water. Down the slope plodded the weary horses, and so to the bridge-head. "Halt," cried the baron suddenly, and drew rein. The others stood bewildered. What did he mean to do? He turned to Hans and his blue eyes shone like steel. "Hans," said he, in his deep voice, "thou hast served me long and truly; wilt thou for this one last time do my bidding?" "Aye," said Hans, briefly. "Swear it," said the Baron. "I swear it," said Hans, and he drew the sign of the cross upon his heart. "That is good," said the Baron, grimly. "Then take thou this child, and with the others ride with all the speed that thou canst to St. Michaelsburg. Give the child into the charge of the Abbot Otto. Tell him how that I have sworn fealty to the Emperor, and what I have gained thereby--my castle burnt, my people slain, and this poor, simple child, my only son, mutilated by my enemy. "And thou, my Lord Baron?" said Hans. "I will stay here," said the Baron, quietly, "and keep back those who follow as long as God will give me grace so to do." A murmur of remonstrance rose among the faithful few who were with him, two of whom were near of kin. But Conrad of Drachenhausen turned fiercely upon them. "How now," said he, "have I fallen so low in my troubles that even ye dare to raise your voices against me? By the good Heaven, I will begin my work here by slaying the first man who dares to raise word against my bidding." Then he turned from them. "Here, Hans," said he, "take the boy; and remember, knave, what thou hast sworn." He pressed Otto close to his breast in one last embrace. "My little child," he murmured, "try not to hate thy father when thou thinkest of him hereafter, even though he be hard and bloody as thou knowest." But with his suffering and weakness, little Otto knew nothing of what was passing; it was only as in a faint flickering dream that he lived in what was done around him. "Farewell, Otto," said the Baron, but Otto's lips only moved faintly in answer. His father kissed him upon either cheek. "Come, Hans," said he, hastily, "take him hence;" and he loosed Otto's arms from about his neck. Hans took Otto upon the saddle in front of him. "Oh! my dear Lord Baron," said he, and then stopped with a gulp, and turned his grotesquely twitching face aside. "Go," said the Baron, harshly, "there is no time to lose in woman's tears." "Farewell, Conrad! farewell, Conrad!" said his two kinsmen, and coming forward they kissed him upon the cheek then they turned and rode away after Hans, and Baron Conrad was left alone to face his mortal foe. XIII. How Baron Conrad Held the Bridge. As the last of his followers swept around the curving road and was lost to sight, Baron Conrad gave himself a shake, as though to drive away the thoughts that lay upon him. Then he rode slowly forward to the middle of the bridge, where he wheeled his horse so as to face his coming enemies. He lowered the vizor of his helmet and bolted it to its place, and then saw that sword and dagger were loose in the scabbard and easy to draw when the need for drawing should arise. Down the steep path from the hill above swept the pursuing horsemen. Down the steep path to the bridge-head and there drew rein; for in the middle of the narrow way sat the motionless, steel-clad figure upon the great war-horse, with wide, red, panting nostrils, and body streaked with sweat and flecked with patches of foam. One side of the roadway of the bridge was guarded by a low stone wall; the other side was naked and open and bare to the deep, slow-moving water beneath. It was a dangerous place to attack a desperate man clad in armor of proof. "Forward!" cried Baron Henry, but not a soul stirred in answer, and still the iron-clad figure sat motionless and erect upon the panting horse. "How," cried the Baron Henry, "are ye afraid of one man? Then follow me!" and he spurred forward to the bridge-head. But still no one moved in answer, and the Lord of Trutz-Drachen reined back his horse again. He wheeled his horse and glared round upon the stolid faces of his followers, until his eyes seemed fairly to blaze with passion beneath the bars of his vizor. Baron Conrad gave a roar of laughter. "How now," he cried; "are ye all afraid of one man? Is there none among ye that dares come forward and meet me? I know thee, Baron Henry thou art not afraid to cut off the hand of a little child. Hast thou not now the courage to face the father?" Baron Henry gnashed his teeth with rage as he glared around upon the faces of his men-at-arms. Suddenly his eye lit upon one of them. "Ha! Carl Spigler," he cried, "thou hast thy cross-bow with thee;--shoot me down yonder dog! Nay," he said, "thou canst do him no harm under his armor; shoot the horse upon which he sits." Baron Conrad heard the speech. "Oh! thou coward villain!" he cried, "stay; do not shoot the good horse. I will dismount and fight ye upon foot." Thereupon, armed as he was, he leaped clashing from his horse and turning the animal's head, gave it a slap upon the flank. The good horse first trotted and then walked to the further end of the bridge, where it stopped and began cropping at the grass that grew beside the road. "Now then!" cried Baron Henry, fiercely, "now then, ye cannot fear him, villains! Down with him! forward!" Slowly the troopers spurred their horses forward upon the bridge and toward that one figure that, grasping tightly the great two-handed sword, stood there alone guarding the passage. Then Baron Conrad whirled the great blade above his head, until it caught the sunlight and flashed again. He did not wait for the attack, but when the first of the advancing horsemen had come within a few feet of him, he leaped with a shout upon them. The fellow thrust at him with his lance, and the Baron went staggering a few feet back, but instantly he recovered himself and again leaped forward. The great sword flashed in the air, whistling; it fell, and the nearest man dropped his lance, clattering, and with a loud, inarticulate cry, grasped the mane of his horse with both hands. Again the blade whistled in the air, and this time it was stained with red. Again it fell, and with another shrill cry the man toppled headlong beneath the horse's feet. The next instant they were upon him, each striving to strike at the one figure, to ride him down, or to thrust him down with their lances. There was no room now to swing the long blade, but holding the hilt in both hands, Baron Conrad thrust with it as though it were a lance, stabbing at horse or man, it mattered not. Crowded upon the narrow roadway of the bridge, those who attacked had not only to guard themselves against the dreadful strokes of that terrible sword, but to keep their wounded horses (rearing and mad with fright) from toppling bodily over with them into the water beneath. Presently the cry was raised, "Back! back!" And those nearest the Baron began reining in their horses. "Forward!" roared Baron Henry, from the midst of the crowd; but in spite of his command, and even the blows that he gave, those behind were borne back by those in front, struggling and shouting, and the bridge was cleared again excepting for three figures that lay motionless upon the roadway, and that one who, with the brightness of his armor dimmed and stained, leaned panting against the wall of the bridge. The Baron Henry raged like a madman. Gnashing his teeth together, he rode back a little way; then turning and couching his lance, he suddenly clapped spurs to his horse, and the next instant came thundering down upon his solitary enemy. Baron Conrad whirled his sword in the air, as he saw the other coming like a thunderbolt upon him; he leaped aside, and the lance passed close to him. As it passed he struck, and the iron point flew from the shaft of the spear at the blow, and fell clattering upon the stone roadway of the bridge. Baron Henry drew in his horse until it rested upon its haunches, then slowly reined it backward down the bridge, still facing his foe, and still holding the wooden stump of the lance in his hand. At the bridge-head he flung it from him. "Another lance!" he cried, hoarsely. One was silently reached to him and he took it, his hand trembling with rage. Again he rode to a little distance and wheeled his horse; then, driving his steel spurs into its quivering side, he came again thundering down upon the other. Once more the terrible sword whirled in the air and fell, but this time the lance was snatched to one side and the blow fell harmlessly. The next instant, and with a twitch of the bridle-rein, the horse struck full and fair against the man. Conrad of Drachenhausen was whirled backward and downward, and the cruel iron hoofs crashed over his prostrate body, as horse and man passed with a rush beyond him and to the bridge-head beyond. A shout went up from those who stood watching. The next moment the prostrate figure rose and staggered blindly to the side of the bridge, and stood leaning against the stone wall. At the further end of the bridge Baron Henry had wheeled his horse. Once again he couched lance, and again he drove down upon his bruised and wounded enemy. This time the lance struck full and fair, and those who watched saw the steel point pierce the iron breast-plate and then snap short, leaving the barbed point within the wound. Baron Conrad sunk to his knees and the Roderburg, looming upon his horse above him, unsheathed his sword to finish the work he had begun. Then those who stood looking on saw a wondrous thing happen: the wounded man rose suddenly to his feet, and before his enemy could strike he leaped, with a great and bitter cry of agony and despair, upon him as he sat in the saddle above. Henry of Trutz-Drachen grasped at his horse's mane, but the attack was so fierce, so sudden, and so unexpected that before he could save himself he was dragged to one side and fell crashing in his armor upon the stone roadway of the bridge. "The dragon! the dragon!" roared Baron Conrad, in a voice of thunder, and with the energy of despair he dragged his prostrate foe toward the open side of the bridge. "Forward!" cried the chief of the Trutz-Drachen men, and down they rode upon the struggling knights to the rescue of their master in this new danger. But they were too late. There was a pause at the edge of the bridge, for Baron Henry had gained his feet and, stunned and bewildered as he was by the suddenness of his fall, he was now struggling fiercely, desperately. For a moment they stood swaying backward and forward, clasped in one another's arms, the blood from the wounded man's breast staining the armor of both. The moment passed and then, with a shower of stones and mortar from beneath their iron-shod heels, they toppled and fell; there was a thunderous splash in the water below, and as the men-at-arms came hurrying up and peered with awe-struck faces over the parapet of the bridge, they saw the whirling eddies sweep down with the current of the stream, a few bubbles rise to the surface of the water, and then--nothing; for the smooth river flowed onward as silently as ever. Presently a loud voice burst through the awed hush that followed. It came from William of Roderburg, Baron Henry's kinsman. "Forward!" he cried. A murmur of voices from the others was all the answer that he received. "Forward!" cried the young man again, "the boy and those with him are not so far away but that we might yet catch up with them." Then one of the men spoke up in answer--a man with a seamed, weather-beaten face and crisp grizzled hair. "Nay," said he, "our Lord Baron is gone, and this is no quarrel of ours; here be four of us that are wounded and three I misdoubt that are dead; why should we follow further only to suffer more blows for no gain?" A growl of assent rose from those that stood around, and William of Roderburg saw that nothing more was to be done by the Trutz-Dragons that day. XIV. How Otto Saw the Great Emperor. Through weakness and sickness and faintness, Otto had lain in a half swoon through all that long journey under the hot May sun. It was as in a dreadful nightmare that he had heard on and on and on that monotonous throbbing of galloping hoofs upon the ground; had felt that last kiss that his father had given him upon his cheek. Then the onward ride again, until all faded away into a dull mist and he knew no more. When next he woke it was with the pungent smell of burned vinegar in his nostrils and with the feeling of a cool napkin bathing his brow. He opened his eyes and then closed them again, thinking he must have been in a dream, for he lay in his old room at the peaceful monastery of the White Cross on the hill; the good Father Abbot sat near by, gazing upon his face with the old absent student look, Brother John sat in the deep window seat also gazing at him, and Brother Theodore, the leech of the monastery, sat beside him bathing his head. Beside these old familiar faces were the faces of those who had been with him in that long flight; the One-eyed Hans, old Master Nicholas his kinsman, and the others. So he closed his eyes, thinking that maybe it was all a dream. But the sharp throbbing of the poor stump at his wrist soon taught him that he was still awake. "Am I then really home in St. Michaelsburg again?" he murmured, without unclosing his eyes. Brother Theodore began snuffling through his nose; there was a pause. "Yes," said the old Abbot at last, and his gentle voice trembled as he spoke; "yes, my dear little child, thou art back again in thine own home; thou hast not been long out in the great world, but truly thou hast had a sharp and bitter trial of it." "But they will not take me away again, will they?" said Otto quickly, unclosing his blue eyes. "Nay," said the Abbot, gently; "not until thou art healed in body and art ready and willing to go." Three months and more had passed, and Otto was well again; and now, escorted by One-eyed Hans and those faithful few who had clung to the Baron Conrad through his last few bitter days, he was riding into the quaint old town of Nurnburg; for the Emperor Rudolph was there at that time, waiting for King Ottocar of Bohemia to come thither and answer the imperial summons before the Council, and Otto was travelling to the court. As they rode in through the gates of the town, Otto looked up at the high-peaked houses with their overhanging gables, the like of which he had never seen before, and he stared with his round blue eyes at seeing them so crowded together along the length of the street. But most of all he wondered at the number of people that passed hither and thither, jostling each other in their hurry, and at the tradesmen's booths opening upon the street with the wonderful wares hanging within; armor at the smiths, glittering ornaments at the goldsmiths, and rich fabrics of silks and satins at the mercers. He had never seen anything so rich and grand in all of his life, for little Otto had never been in a town before. "Oh! look," he cried, "at that wonderful lady; see, holy father! sure the Emperor's wife can be no finer than that lady." The Abbot smiled. "Nay, Otto," said he, "that is but a burgher's wife or daughter; the ladies at the Emperor's court are far grander than such as she." "So!" said Otto, and then fell silent with wonder. And now, at last the great moment had come when little Otto with his own eyes was to behold the mighty Emperor who ruled over all the powerful kingdoms of Germany and Austria, and Italy and Bohemia, and other kingdoms and principalities and states. His heart beat so that he could hardly speak as, for a moment, the good Abbot who held him by the hand stopped outside of the arrased doorway to whisper some last instructions into his ear. Then they entered the apartment. It was a long, stone-paved room. The floor was covered with rich rugs and the walls were hung with woven tapestry wherein were depicted knights and ladies in leafy gardens and kings and warriors at battle. A long row of high glazed windows extended along the length of the apartment, flooding it with the mellow light of the autumn day. At the further end of the room, far away, and standing by a great carved chimney place wherein smouldered the remains of a fire, stood a group of nobles in gorgeous dress of velvet and silks, and with glittering golden chains hung about their necks. One figure stood alone in front of the great yawning fireplace. His hands were clasped behind him, and his look bent thoughtfully upon the floor. He was dressed only in a simple gray robe without ornament or adornment, a plain leathern belt girded his waist, and from it hung a sword with a bone hilt encased in a brown leathern scabbard. A noble stag-hound lay close behind him, curled up upon the floor, basking in the grateful warmth of the fire. As the Father Abbot and Otto drew near he raised his head and looked at them. It was a plain, homely face that Otto saw, with a wrinkled forehead and a long mouth drawn down at the corners. It was the face of a good, honest burgher burdened with the cares of a prosperous trade. "Who can he be," thought Otto, "and why does the poor man stand there among all the great nobles?" But the Abbot walked straight up to him and kneeled upon the floor, and little Otto, full of wonder, did the same. It was the great Emperor Rudolph. "Who have we here," said the Emperor, and he bent his brow upon the Abbot and the boy. "Sire," said Abbot Otto, "we have humbly besought you by petition, in the name of your late vassal, Baron Conrad of Vuelph of Drachenhausen, for justice to this his son, the Baron Otto, whom, sire, as you may see, hath been cruelly mutilated at the hands of Baron Henry of Roderburg of Trutz-Drachen. He hath moreover been despoiled of his lands, his castle burnt, and his household made prisoner." The Emperor frowned until the shaggy eyebrows nearly hid the keen gray twinkle of the eyes beneath. "Yes," said he, "I do remember me of that petition, and have given it consideration both in private and in council." He turned to the group of listening nobles. "Look," said he, "at this little child marred by the inhumanity and the cruelty of those robber villains. By heavens! I will put down their lawless rapine, if I have to give every castle from the north to the south to the flames and to the sword." Then turning to Otto again, "Poor little child," said he, "thy wrongs shall be righted, and so far as they are able, those cruel Roderburgs shall pay thee penny for penny, and grain for grain, for what thou hast lost; and until such indemnity hath been paid the family of the man who wrought this deed shall be held as surety." Little Otto looked up in the kind, rugged face above him. "Nay, Lord Emperor," said he, in his quaint, quiet way, "there are but two in the family--the mother and the daughter--and I have promised to marry the little girl when she and I are old enough; so, if you please, I would not have harm happen to her." The Emperor continued to look down at the kneeling boy, and at last he gave a short, dry laugh. "So be it," said he, "thy plan is not without its wisdom. Mayhap it is all for the best that the affair should be ended thus peacefully. The estates of the Roderburgs shall be held in trust for thee until thou art come of age; otherwise it shall be as thou hast proposed, the little maiden shall be taken into ward under our own care. And as to thee--art thou willing that I should take thee under my own charge in the room of thy father, who is dead?" "Aye," said Otto, simply, "I am willing, for it seems to me that thou art a good man." The nobles who stood near smiled at the boy's speech. As for the Emperor, he laughed outright. "I give thee thanks, my Lord Baron," said he; "there is no one in all my court who has paid me greater courtesy than that." So comes the end of our tale. But perhaps you may like to know what happened afterward, for no one cares to leave the thread of a story without tying a knot in it. Eight years had passed, and Otto grew up to manhood in the Emperor's court, and was with him through war and peace. But he himself never drew sword or struck a blow, for the right hand that hung at his side was of pure silver, and the hard, cold fingers never closed. Folks called him "Otto of the Silver Hand," but perhaps there was another reason than that for the name that had been given him, for the pure, simple wisdom that the old monks of the White Cross on the hill had taught him, clung to him through all the honors that the Emperor bestowed upon his favorite, and as he grew older his words were listened to and weighed by those who were high in Council, and even by the Emperor himself. And now for the end of all. One day Otto stood uncertainly at the doorway of a room in the imperial castle, hesitating before he entered; and yet there was nothing so very dreadful within, only one poor girl whose heart fluttered more than his. Poor little Pauline, whom he had not seen since that last day in the black cell at Trutz-Drachen. At last he pushed aside the hangings and entered the room. She was sitting upon a rude bench beside the window, looking at him out of her great, dark eyes. He stopped short and stood for a moment confused and silent; for he had no thought in his mind but of the little girl whom he had last seen, and for a moment he stood confused before the fair maiden with her great, beautiful dark eyes. She on her part beheld a tall, slender youth with curling, golden hair, one hand white and delicate, the other of pure and shining silver. He came to her and took her hand and set it to his lips, and all that she could do was to gaze with her great, dark eyes upon the hero of whom she had heard so many talk; the favorite of the Emperor; the wise young Otto of the Silver Hand. Afterword The ruins of Drachenhausen were rebuilt, for the walls were as sound as ever, though empty and gaping to the sky; but it was no longer the den of a robber baron for beneath the scutcheon over the great gate was carved a new motto of the Vuelphs; a motto which the Emperor Rudolph himself had given: "Manus argentea quam manus ferrea melior est." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Otto of the Silver Hand, by Howard Pyle Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How long had Mortimer Trefinnis' sister been dead when the doctor examined the body?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Six hours." ]	10,020	narrativeqa	en	null	0bf1995158cbf08134d5dc15475c27f38b3ab5441c422419	Produced by David Brannan. HTML version by Al Haines. The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early spring of that year we found ourselves together in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish peninsula. It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim humour of my patient. From the windows of our little whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end. With a northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection. Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale from the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out from that evil place. On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with an occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he spent much of his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and he had, I remember, conceived the idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived from the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of books upon philology and was settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a problem at our very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more mysterious than any of those which had driven us from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were violently interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of a series of events which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain some recollection of what was called at the time "The Cornish Horror," though a most imperfect account of the matter reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details of this inconceivable affair to the public. I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and as such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a considerable fund of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman's scanty resources by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to such an arrangement, though he had little in common with his lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression of actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our short visit we found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs. These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion upon the moors. "Mr. Holmes," said the vicar in an agitated voice, "the most extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night. It is the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a special Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all England you are the one man we need." I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained than the clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of his dark eyes showed that they shared a common emotion. "Shall I speak or you?" he asked of the vicar. "Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it may be, and the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps you had better do the speaking," said Holmes. I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise which Holmes's simple deduction had brought to their faces. "Perhaps I had best say a few words first," said the vicar, "and then you can judge if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis, or whether we should not hasten at once to the scene of this mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here spent last evening in the company of his two brothers, Owen and George, and of his sister Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is near the old stone cross upon the moor. He left them shortly after ten o'clock, playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent health and spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he walked in that direction before breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who explained that he had just been sent for on a most urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally went with him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his sister were seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards still spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their sockets. The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses stricken clean out of them. All three of them, the dead woman and the two demented men, retained upon their faces an expression of the utmost horror--a convulsion of terror which was dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of the presence of anyone in the house, except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that she had slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen or disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of what the horror can be which has frightened a woman to death and two strong men out of their senses. There is the situation, Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can help us to clear it up you will have done a great work." I had hoped that in some way I could coax my companion back into the quiet which had been the object of our journey; but one glance at his intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was now the expectation. He sat for some little time in silence, absorbed in the strange drama which had broken in upon our peace. "I will look into this matter," he said at last. "On the face of it, it would appear to be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you been there yourself, Mr. Roundhay?" "No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the account to the vicarage, and I at once hurried over with him to consult you." "How far is it to the house where this singular tragedy occurred?" "About a mile inland." "Then we shall walk over together. But before we start I must ask you a few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis." The other had been silent all this time, but I had observed that his more controlled excitement was even greater than the obtrusive emotion of the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his anxious gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands clasped convulsively together. His pale lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful experience which had befallen his family, and his dark eyes seemed to reflect something of the horror of the scene. "Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes," said he eagerly. "It is a bad thing to speak of, but I will answer you the truth." "Tell me about last night." "Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has said, and my elder brother George proposed a game of whist afterwards. We sat down about nine o'clock. It was a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I left them all round the table, as merry as could be." "Who let you out?" "Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I shut the hall door behind me. The window of the room in which they sat was closed, but the blind was not drawn down. There was no change in door or window this morning, or any reason to think that any stranger had been to the house. Yet there they sat, driven clean mad with terror, and Brenda lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over the arm of the chair. I'll never get the sight of that room out of my mind so long as I live." "The facts, as you state them, are certainly most remarkable," said Holmes. "I take it that you have no theory yourself which can in any way account for them?" "It's devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!" cried Mortimer Tregennis. "It is not of this world. Something has come into that room which has dashed the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance could do that?" "I fear," said Holmes, "that if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr. Tregennis, I take it you were divided in some way from your family, since they lived together and you had rooms apart?" "That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past and done with. We were a family of tin-miners at Redruth, but we sold our venture to a company, and so retired with enough to keep us. I won't deny that there was some feeling about the division of the money and it stood between us for a time, but it was all forgiven and forgotten, and we were the best of friends together." "Looking back at the evening which you spent together, does anything stand out in your memory as throwing any possible light upon the tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can help me." "There is nothing at all, sir." "Your people were in their usual spirits?" "Never better." "Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any apprehension of coming danger?" "Nothing of the kind." "You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?" Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a moment. "There is one thing occurs to me," said he at last. "As we sat at the table my back was to the window, and my brother George, he being my partner at cards, was facing it. I saw him once look hard over my shoulder, so I turned round and looked also. The blind was up and the window shut, but I could just make out the bushes on the lawn, and it seemed to me for a moment that I saw something moving among them. I couldn't even say if it was man or animal, but I just thought there was something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told me that he had the same feeling. That is all that I can say." "Did you not investigate?" "No; the matter passed as unimportant." "You left them, then, without any premonition of evil?" "None at all." "I am not clear how you came to hear the news so early this morning." "I am an early riser and generally take a walk before breakfast. This morning I had hardly started when the doctor in his carriage overtook me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy down with an urgent message. I sprang in beside him and we drove on. When we got there we looked into that dreadful room. The candles and the fire must have burned out hours before, and they had been sitting there in the dark until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been dead at least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She just lay across the arm of the chair with that look on her face. George and Owen were singing snatches of songs and gibbering like two great apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I couldn't stand it, and the doctor was as white as a sheet. Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of faint, and we nearly had him on our hands as well." "Remarkable--most remarkable!" said Holmes, rising and taking his hat. "I think, perhaps, we had better go down to Tredannick Wartha without further delay. I confess that I have seldom known a case which at first sight presented a more singular problem." Our proceedings of that first morning did little to advance the investigation. It was marked, however, at the outset by an incident which left the most sinister impression upon my mind. The approach to the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a narrow, winding, country lane. While we made our way along it we heard the rattle of a carriage coming towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it drove by us I caught a glimpse through the closed window of a horribly contorted, grinning face glaring out at us. Those staring eyes and gnashing teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision. "My brothers!" cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. "They are taking them to Helston." We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon its way. Then we turned our steps towards this ill-omened house in which they had met their strange fate. It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa than a cottage, with a considerable garden which was already, in that Cornish air, well filled with spring flowers. Towards this garden the window of the sitting-room fronted, and from it, according to Mortimer Tregennis, must have come that thing of evil which had by sheer horror in a single instant blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly and thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the path before we entered the porch. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over the watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged both our feet and the garden path. Inside the house we were met by the elderly Cornish housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl, looked after the wants of the family. She readily answered all Holmes's questions. She had heard nothing in the night. Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and she had never known them more cheerful and prosperous. She had fainted with horror upon entering the room in the morning and seeing that dreadful company round the table. She had, when she recovered, thrown open the window to let the morning air in, and had run down to the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for the doctor. The lady was on her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It took four strong men to get the brothers into the asylum carriage. She would not herself stay in the house another day and was starting that very afternoon to rejoin her family at St. Ives. We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had been a very beautiful girl, though now verging upon middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there still lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had been her last human emotion. From her bedroom we descended to the sitting-room, where this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table were the four guttered and burned-out candles, with the cards scattered over its surface. The chairs had been moved back against the walls, but all else was as it had been the night before. Holmes paced with light, swift steps about the room; he sat in the various chairs, drawing them up and reconstructing their positions. He tested how much of the garden was visible; he examined the floor, the ceiling, and the fireplace; but never once did I see that sudden brightening of his eyes and tightening of his lips which would have told me that he saw some gleam of light in this utter darkness. "Why a fire?" he asked once. "Had they always a fire in this small room on a spring evening?" Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp. For that reason, after his arrival, the fire was lit. "What are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. "I think, Watson, that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have so often and so justly condemned," said he. "With your permission, gentlemen, we will now return to our cottage, for I am not aware that any new factor is likely to come to our notice here. I will turn the facts over in my mind, Mr. Tregennis, and should anything occur to me I will certainly communicate with you and the vicar. In the meantime I wish you both good-morning." It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that Holmes broke his complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his armchair, his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down, his forehead contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he laid down his pipe and sprang to his feet. "It won't do, Watson!" said he with a laugh. "Let us walk along the cliffs together and search for flint arrows. We are more likely to find them than clues to this problem. To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson--all else will come. "Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson," he continued as we skirted the cliffs together. "Let us get a firm grip of the very little which we DO know, so that when fresh facts arise we may be ready to fit them into their places. I take it, in the first place, that neither of us is prepared to admit diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out of our minds. Very good. There remain three persons who have been grievously stricken by some conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm ground. Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left the room. That is a very important point. The presumption is that it was within a few minutes afterwards. The cards still lay upon the table. It was already past their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not changed their position or pushed back their chairs. I repeat, then, that the occurrence was immediately after his departure, and not later than eleven o'clock last night. "Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the movements of Mortimer Tregennis after he left the room. In this there is no difficulty, and they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my methods as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot than might otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path took it admirably. Last night was also wet, you will remember, and it was not difficult--having obtained a sample print--to pick out his track among others and to follow his movements. He appears to have walked away swiftly in the direction of the vicarage. "If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and yet some outside person affected the card-players, how can we reconstruct that person, and how was such an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs. Porter may be eliminated. She is evidently harmless. Is there any evidence that someone crept up to the garden window and in some manner produced so terrific an effect that he drove those who saw it out of their senses? The only suggestion in this direction comes from Mortimer Tregennis himself, who says that his brother spoke about some movement in the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the night was rainy, cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm these people would be compelled to place his very face against the glass before he could be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border outside this window, but no indication of a footmark. It is difficult to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so terrible an impression upon the company, nor have we found any possible motive for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You perceive our difficulties, Watson?" "They are only too clear," I answered with conviction. "And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that they are not insurmountable," said Holmes. "I fancy that among your extensive archives, Watson, you may find some which were nearly as obscure. Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until more accurate data are available, and devote the rest of our morning to the pursuit of neolithic man." I may have commented upon my friend's power of mental detachment, but never have I wondered at it more than upon that spring morning in Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed upon celts, arrowheads, and shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery were waiting for his solution. It was not until we had returned in the afternoon to our cottage that we found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our minds back to the matter in hand. Neither of us needed to be told who that visitor was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the beard--golden at the fringes and white near the lips, save for the nicotine stain from his perpetual cigar--all these were as well known in London as in Africa, and could only be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr. Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer. We had heard of his presence in the district and had once or twice caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths. He made no advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamed of doing so to him, as it was well known that it was his love of seclusion which caused him to spend the greater part of the intervals between his journeys in a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he lived an absolutely lonely life, attending to his own simple wants and paying little apparent heed to the affairs of his neighbours. It was a surprise to me, therefore, to hear him asking Holmes in an eager voice whether he had made any advance in his reconstruction of this mysterious episode. "The county police are utterly at fault," said he, "but perhaps your wider experience has suggested some conceivable explanation. My only claim to being taken into your confidence is that during my many residences here I have come to know this family of Tregennis very well--indeed, upon my Cornish mother's side I could call them cousins--and their strange fate has naturally been a great shock to me. I may tell you that I had got as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, but the news reached me this morning, and I came straight back again to help in the inquiry." Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Did you lose your boat through it?" "I will take the next." "Dear me! that is friendship indeed." "I tell you they were relatives." "Quite so--cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboard the ship?" "Some of it, but the main part at the hotel." "I see. But surely this event could not have found its way into the Plymouth morning papers." "No, sir; I had a telegram." "Might I ask from whom?" A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer. "You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes." "It is my business." With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure. "I have no objection to telling you," he said. "It was Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me." "Thank you," said Holmes. "I may say in answer to your original question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject of this case, but that I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It would be premature to say more." "Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?" "No, I can hardly answer that." "Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." The famous doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable ill-humour, and within five minutes Holmes had followed him. I saw him no more until the evening, when he returned with a slow step and haggard face which assured me that he had made no great progress with his investigation. He glanced at a telegram which awaited him and threw it into the grate. "From the Plymouth hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name of it from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale's account was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last night there, and that he has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on to Africa, while he returned to be present at this investigation. What do you make of that, Watson?" "He is deeply interested." "Deeply interested--yes. There is a thread here which we had not yet grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson, for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand. When it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us." Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened up an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my window in the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking up, saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at our door, and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our garden path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet him. Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but at last in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him. "We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-ridden!" he cried. "Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his hands!" He danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it were not for his ashy face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his terrible news. "Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the same symptoms as the rest of his family." Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant. "Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?" "Yes, I can." "Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are entirely at your disposal. Hurry--hurry, before things get disarranged." The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor or the police, so that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me describe exactly the scene as we saw it upon that misty March morning. It has left an impression which can never be effaced from my mind. The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness. The servant who had first entered had thrown up the window, or it would have been even more intolerable. This might partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning back in his chair, his thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead, and his lean dark face turned towards the window and twisted into the same distortion of terror which had marked the features of his dead sister. His limbs were convulsed and his fingers contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm of fear. He was fully clothed, though there were signs that his dressing had been done in a hurry. We had already learned that his bed had been slept in, and that the tragic end had come to him in the early morning. One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes's phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the moment that he entered the fatal apartment. In an instant he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast around and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give him some fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with loud ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry. The lamp, which was an ordinary standard, he examined with minute care, making certain measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized with his lens the talc shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped off some ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of them into an envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally, just as the doctor and the official police put in an appearance, he beckoned to the vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn. "I am glad to say that my investigation has not been entirely barren," he remarked. "I cannot remain to discuss the matter with the police, but I should be exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you would give the inspector my compliments and direct his attention to the bedroom window and to the sitting-room lamp. Each is suggestive, and together they are almost conclusive. If the police would desire further information I shall be happy to see any of them at the cottage. And now, Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better employed elsewhere." It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an amateur, or that they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of investigation; but it is certain that we heard nothing from them for the next two days. During this time Holmes spent some of his time smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in country walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours without remark as to where he had been. One experiment served to show me the line of his investigation. He had bought a lamp which was the duplicate of the one which had burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy. This he filled with the same oil as that used at the vicarage, and he carefully timed the period which it would take to be exhausted. Another experiment which he made was of a more unpleasant nature, and one which I am not likely ever to forget. "You will remember, Watson," he remarked one afternoon, "that there is a single common point of resemblance in the varying reports which have reached us. This concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the room in each case upon those who had first entered it. You will recollect that Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the episode of his last visit to his brother's house, remarked that the doctor on entering the room fell into a chair? You had forgotten? Well I can answer for it that it was so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted upon entering the room and had afterwards opened the window. In the second case--that of Mortimer Tregennis himself--you cannot have forgotten the horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived, though the servant had thrown open the window. That servant, I found upon inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You will admit, Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In each case there is evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there is combustion going on in the room--in the one case a fire, in the other a lamp. The fire was needed, but the lamp was lit--as a comparison of the oil consumed will show--long after it was broad daylight. Why? Surely because there is some connection between three things--the burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness or death of those unfortunate people. That is clear, is it not?" "It would appear so." "At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis. We will suppose, then, that something was burned in each case which produced an atmosphere causing strange toxic effects. Very good. In the first instance--that of the Tregennis family--this substance was placed in the fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally carry fumes to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect the effects of the poison to be less than in the second case, where there was less escape for the vapour. The result seems to indicate that it was so, since in the first case only the woman, who had presumably the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others exhibiting that temporary or permanent lunacy which is evidently the first effect of the drug. In the second case the result was complete. The facts, therefore, seem to bear out the theory of a poison which worked by combustion. "With this train of reasoning in my head I naturally looked about in Mortimer Tregennis's room to find some remains of this substance. The obvious place to look was the talc shelf or smoke-guard of the lamp. There, sure enough, I perceived a number of flaky ashes, and round the edges a fringe of brownish powder, which had not yet been consumed. Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in an envelope." "Why half, Holmes?" "It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the official police force. I leave them all the evidence which I found. The poison still remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it. Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought I knew my Watson. This chair I will place opposite yours, so that we may be the same distance from the poison and face to face. The door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position to watch the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our powder--or what remains of it--from the envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp. So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await developments." They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my chair before I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very first whiff of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes, and my mind told me that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon my appalled senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold, whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing horror took possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my eyes were protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my tongue like leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that something must surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself. At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror--the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in. Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension at each other to mark the last traces of that terrific experience which we had undergone. "Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry." "You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you." He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude to those about him. "It would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson," said he. "A candid observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined that the effect could be so sudden and so severe." He dashed into the cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held at full arm's length, he threw it among a bank of brambles. "We must give the room a little time to clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?" "None whatever." "But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come into the arbour here and let us discuss it together. That villainous stuff seems still to linger round my throat. I think we must admit that all the evidence points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been the criminal in the first tragedy, though he was the victim in the second one. We must remember, in the first place, that there is some story of a family quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that quarrel may have been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot tell. When I think of Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the small shrewd, beady eyes behind the spectacles, he is not a man whom I should judge to be of a particularly forgiving disposition. Well, in the next place, you will remember that this idea of someone moving in the garden, which took our attention for a moment from the real cause of the tragedy, emanated from him. He had a motive in misleading us. Finally, if he did not throw the substance into the fire at the moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The affair happened immediately after his departure. Had anyone else come in, the family would certainly have risen from the table. Besides, in peaceful Cornwall, visitors did not arrive after ten o'clock at night. We may take it, then, that all the evidence points to Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit." "Then his own death was suicide!" "Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not impossible supposition. The man who had the guilt upon his soul of having brought such a fate upon his own family might well be driven by remorse to inflict it upon himself. There are, however, some cogent reasons against it. Fortunately, there is one man in England who knows all about it, and I have made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts this afternoon from his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his time. Perhaps you would kindly step this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducing a chemical experiment indoors which has left our little room hardly fit for the reception of so distinguished a visitor." I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now the majestic figure of the great African explorer appeared upon the path. He turned in some surprise towards the rustic arbour in which we sat. "You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about an hour ago, and I have come, though I really do not know why I should obey your summons." "Perhaps we can clear the point up before we separate," said Holmes. "Meanwhile, I am much obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence. You will excuse this informal reception in the open air, but my friend Watson and I have nearly furnished an additional chapter to what the papers call the Cornish Horror, and we prefer a clear atmosphere for the present. Perhaps, since the matters which we have to discuss will affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it is as well that we should talk where there can be no eavesdropping." The explorer took his cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at my companion. "I am at a loss to know, sir," he said, "what you can have to speak about which affects me personally in a very intimate fashion." "The killing of Mortimer Tregennis," said Holmes. For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale's fierce face turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate veins started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward with clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and with a violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps, more suggestive of danger than his hot-headed outburst. "I have lived so long among savages and beyond the law," said he, "that I have got into the way of being a law to myself. You would do well, Mr. Holmes, not to forget it, for I have no desire to do you an injury." "Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale. Surely the clearest proof of it is that, knowing what I know, I have sent for you and not for the police." Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the first time in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance of power in Holmes's manner which could not be withstood. Our visitor stammered for a moment, his great hands opening and shutting in his agitation. "What do you mean?" he asked at last. "If this is bluff upon your part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a bad man for your experiment. Let us have no more beating about the bush. What DO you mean?" "I will tell you," said Holmes, "and the reason why I tell you is that I hope frankness may beget frankness. What my next step may be will depend entirely upon the nature of your own defence." "My defence?" "Yes, sir." "My defence against what?" "Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis." Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Upon my word, you are getting on," said he. "Do all your successes depend upon this prodigious power of bluff?" "The bluff," said Holmes sternly, "is upon your side, Dr. Leon Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a proof I will tell you some of the facts upon which my conclusions are based. Of your return from Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go on to Africa, I will say nothing save that it first informed me that you were one of the factors which had to be taken into account in reconstructing this drama--" "I came back--" "I have heard your reasons and regard them as unconvincing and inadequate. We will pass that. You came down here to ask me whom I suspected. I refused to answer you. You then went to the vicarage, waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your cottage." "How do you know that?" "I followed you." "I saw no one." "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. You spent a restless night at your cottage, and you formed certain plans, which in the early morning you proceeded to put into execution. Leaving your door just as day was breaking, you filled your pocket with some reddish gravel that was lying heaped beside your gate." Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes in amazement. "You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from the vicarage. You were wearing, I may remark, the same pair of ribbed tennis shoes which are at the present moment upon your feet. At the vicarage you passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming out under the window of the lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight, but the household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the gravel from your pocket, and you threw it up at the window above you." Sterndale sprang to his feet. "I believe that you are the devil himself!" he cried. Holmes smiled at the compliment. "It took two, or possibly three, handfuls before the lodger came to the window. You beckoned him to come down. He dressed hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room. You entered by the window. There was an interview--a short one--during which you walked up and down the room. Then you passed out and closed the window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a cigar and watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of Tregennis, you withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do you justify such conduct, and what were the motives for your actions? If you prevaricate or trifle with me, I give you my assurance that the matter will pass out of my hands forever." Our visitor's face had turned ashen gray as he listened to the words of his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with his face sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it on the rustic table before us. "That is why I have done it," said he. It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful woman. Holmes stooped over it. "Brenda Tregennis," said he. "Yes, Brenda Tregennis," repeated our visitor. "For years I have loved her. For years she has loved me. There is the secret of that Cornish seclusion which people have marvelled at. It has brought me close to the one thing on earth that was dear to me. I could not marry her, for I have a wife who has left me for years and yet whom, by the deplorable laws of England, I could not divorce. For years Brenda waited. For years I waited. And this is what we have waited for." A terrible sob shook his great frame, and he clutched his throat under his brindled beard. Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke on: "The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He would tell you that she was an angel upon earth. That was why he telegraphed to me and I returned. What was my baggage or Africa to me when I learned that such a fate had come upon my darling? There you have the missing clue to my action, Mr. Holmes." "Proceed," said my friend. Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet and laid it upon the table. On the outside was written "Radix pedis diaboli" with a red poison label beneath it. He pushed it towards me. "I understand that you are a doctor, sir. Have you ever heard of this preparation?" "Devil's-foot root! No, I have never heard of it." "It is no reflection upon your professional knowledge," said he, "for I believe that, save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is no other specimen in Europe. It has not yet found its way either into the pharmacopoeia or into the literature of toxicology. The root is shaped like a foot, half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful name given by a botanical missionary. It is used as an ordeal poison by the medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa and is kept as a secret among them. This particular specimen I obtained under very extraordinary circumstances in the Ubangi country." He opened the paper as he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like powder. "Well, sir?" asked Holmes sternly. "I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually occurred, for you already know so much that it is clearly to my interest that you should know all. I have already explained the relationship in which I stood to the Tregennis family. For the sake of the sister I was friendly with the brothers. There was a family quarrel about money which estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to be made up, and I afterwards met him as I did the others. He was a sly, subtle, scheming man, and several things arose which gave me a suspicion of him, but I had no cause for any positive quarrel. "One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage and I showed him some of my African curiosities. Among other things I exhibited this powder, and I told him of its strange properties, how it stimulates those brain centres which control the emotion of fear, and how either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy native who is subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him also how powerless European science would be to detect it. How he took it I cannot say, for I never left the room, but there is no doubt that it was then, while I was opening cabinets and stooping to boxes, that he managed to abstract some of the devil's-foot root. I well remember how he plied me with questions as to the amount and the time that was needed for its effect, but I little dreamed that he could have a personal reason for asking. "I thought no more of the matter until the vicar's telegram reached me at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I would be at sea before the news could reach me, and that I should be lost for years in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I could not listen to the details without feeling assured that my poison had been used. I came round to see you on the chance that some other explanation had suggested itself to you. But there could be none. I was convinced that Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer; that for the sake of money, and with the idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his family were all insane he would be the sole guardian of their joint property, he had used the devil's-foot powder upon them, driven two of them out of their senses, and killed his sister Brenda, the one human being whom I have ever loved or who has ever loved me. There was his crime; what was to be his punishment? "Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I knew that the facts were true, but could I help to make a jury of countrymen believe so fantastic a story? I might or I might not. But I could not afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I have said to you once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside the law, and that I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it was even now. I determined that the fate which he had given to others should be shared by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon him with my own hand. In all England there can be no man who sets less value upon his own life than I do at the present moment. "Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. I did, as you say, after a restless night, set off early from my cottage. I foresaw the difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some gravel from the pile which you have mentioned, and I used it to throw up to his window. He came down and admitted me through the window of the sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair, paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder above it, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my heart was flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent darling had not felt before him. There is my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would have done as much yourself. At any rate, I am in your hands. You can take what steps you like. As I have already said, there is no man living who can fear death less than I do." Holmes sat for some little time in silence. "What were your plans?" he asked at last. "I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My work there is but half finished." "Go and do the other half," said Holmes. "I, at least, am not prepared to prevent you." Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and walked from the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his pouch. "Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcome change," said he. "I think you must agree, Watson, that it is not a case in which we are called upon to interfere. Our investigation has been independent, and our action shall be so also. You would not denounce the man?" "Certainly not," I answered. "I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not offend your intelligence by explaining what is obvious. The gravel upon the window-sill was, of course, the starting-point of my research. It was unlike anything in the vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr. Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp shining in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield were successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and go back with a clear conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots which are surely to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic speech." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Adventure of the Devil's Foot, by Arthur Conan Doyle Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: With whom does the entertainers' manager have an affair?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The Seventh Seal <b> </b> The KNIGHT, Antonius Block, lies prostrate on some spruce branches spread over the fine sand. His eyes are wide-open and bloodshot from lack of sleep. Nearby his squire JONS is snoring loudly. He has fallen asleep where he collapsed, at the edge of the forest among the wind-gnarled fir trees. His open mouth gapes towards the dawn, and unearthly sounds come from his throat. The KNIGHT has risen and waded into the shallow water, where he rinses his sunburned face and blistered lips. JONS rolls over to face the forest and the darkness. He moans in his sleep and vigorously scratches the stubbled hair on his head. A scar stretches diagonally across his scalp, as white as lightning against the grime. The KNIGHT returns to the beach and falls on his knees. With his eyes closed and brow furrowed, he says his morning prayers. His hands are clenched together and his lips form the words silently. His face is sad and bitter. He opens his eyes and stares directly into the morning sun which wallows up from the misty sea like some bloated, dying fish. The sky is gray and immobile, a dome of lead. A cloud hangs mute and dark over the western horizon. High up, barely visible, a seagull floats on motionless wings. Its cry is weird and restless. The KNIGHT'S large gray horse lifts its head and whinnies. Antonius Block turns around. Behind him stands a man in black. His face is very pale and he keeps his hands hidden in the wide folds of his cloak. <b> KNIGHT </b> Who are you? <b> DEATH </b> I am Death. <b> KNIGHT </b> Have you come for me? <b> DEATH </b> I have been walking by your side for a long time. <b> KNIGHT </b> That I know. <b> DEATH </b> Are you prepared? <b> KNIGHT </b> My body is frightened, but I am not. <b> DEATH </b> Well Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Lisa, the blacksmith's wife." ]	18,054	narrativeqa	en	null	9fbcbb5460066a68460ba92626c25371e0a1ff65b3bd5e84	The Seventh Seal <b> </b>The night had brought little relief from the heat, and at dawn a hot gust of wind blows across the colorless sea. The KNIGHT, Antonius Block, lies prostrate on some spruce branches spread over the fine sand. His eyes are wide-open and bloodshot from lack of sleep. Nearby his squire JONS is snoring loudly. He has fallen asleep where he collapsed, at the edge of the forest among the wind-gnarled fir trees. His open mouth gapes towards the dawn, and unearthly sounds come from his throat. At the sudden gust of wind, the horses stir, stretching their parched muzzles towards the sea. They are as thin and worn as their masters. The KNIGHT has risen and waded into the shallow water, where he rinses his sunburned face and blistered lips. JONS rolls over to face the forest and the darkness. He moans in his sleep and vigorously scratches the stubbled hair on his head. A scar stretches diagonally across his scalp, as white as lightning against the grime. The KNIGHT returns to the beach and falls on his knees. With his eyes closed and brow furrowed, he says his morning prayers. His hands are clenched together and his lips form the words silently. His face is sad and bitter. He opens his eyes and stares directly into the morning sun which wallows up from the misty sea like some bloated, dying fish. The sky is gray and immobile, a dome of lead. A cloud hangs mute and dark over the western horizon. High up, barely visible, a seagull floats on motionless wings. Its cry is weird and restless. The KNIGHT'S large gray horse lifts its head and whinnies. Antonius Block turns around. Behind him stands a man in black. His face is very pale and he keeps his hands hidden in the wide folds of his cloak. <b> KNIGHT </b> Who are you? <b> DEATH </b> I am Death. <b> KNIGHT </b> Have you come for me? <b> DEATH </b> I have been walking by your side for a long time. <b> KNIGHT </b> That I know. <b> DEATH </b> Are you prepared? <b> KNIGHT </b> My body is frightened, but I am not. <b> DEATH </b> Well, there is no shame in that. The KNIGHT has risen to his feet. He shivers. DEATH opens his cloak to place it around the KNIGHT'S shoulders. <b> KNIGHT </b> Wait a moment. <b> DEATH </b> That's what they all say. I grant no reprieves. <b> KNIGHT </b> You play chess, don't you? A gleam of interest kindles in DEATH'S eyes. <b> DEATH </b> How did you know that? <b> KNIGHT </b> I have seen it in paintings and heard it sung in ballads. <b> DEATH </b> Yes, in fact I'm quite a good chess player. <b> KNIGHT </b> But you can't be better than I am. The KNIGHT rummages in the big black bag which he keeps beside him and takes out a small chessboard. He places it carefully on the ground and begins setting up the pieces. <b> DEATH </b> Why do you want to play chess with me? <b> KNIGHT </b> I have my reasons. <b> DEATH </b> That is your privilege. <b> KNIGHT </b> The condition is that I may live as long as I hold out against you. If I win, you will release me. Is it agreed? The KNIGHT holds out his two fists to DEATH, who smiles at him suddenly. DEATH points to one of the KNIGHT'S hands; it contains a black pawn. <b> KNIGHT </b> You drew black! <b> DEATH </b> Very appropriate. Don't you think so? The KNIGHT and DEATH bend over the chessboard. After a moment of hesitation, Antonius Block opens with his king's pawn. DEATH moves, also using his king's pawn. <b> </b> The morning breeze has died down. The restless movement of the sea has ceased, the water is silent. The sun rises from the haze and its glow whitens. The sea gull floats under the dark cloud, frozen in space. The day is already scorchingly hot. The squire JONS is awakened by a kick in the rear. Opening his eyes, he grunts like a pig and yawns broadly. He scrambles to his feet, saddles his horse and picks up the heavy pack. The KNIGHT slowly rides away from the sea, into the forest near the beach and up towards the road. He pretends not to hear the morning prayers of his squire. JONS soon overtakes him. <b> JONS </b> (sings) Between a strumpet's legs to lie Is the life for which I sigh. He stops and looks at his master, but the KNIGHT hasn't heard JON'S song, or he pretends that he hasn't. To give further vent to his irritation, JONS sings even louder. <b> JONS </b> (sings) Up above is God Almighty So very far away, But your brother the Devil You will meet on every level. JONS finally gets the KNIGHT'S attention. He stops singing. The KNIGHT, his horse, JONS'S own horse and JONS himself know all the songs by heart. The long, dusty journey from the Holy Land hasn't made them any cleaner. They ride across a mossy heath which stretches towards the horizon. Beyond it, the sea lies shimmering in the white glitter of the sun. <b> JONS </b> In Frjestad everyone was talking about evil omens and other horrible things. Two horses had eaten each other in the night, and, in the churchyard, graves had been opened and the remains of corpses scattered all over the place. Yesterday afternoon there were as many as four suns in the heavens. <b> </b>The KNIGHT doesn't answer. Close by, a scrawny dog is whining, crawling towards its master, who is sleeping in a sitting position in the blazing hot sun. A black cloud of flies clusters around his head and shoulders. The miserable-looking dog whines incessantly as it lies flat on its stomach, wagging its tail. JONS dismounts and approaches the sleeping man. JONS addresses him politely. When he doesn't receive an answer, he walks up to the man in order to shake him awake. He bends over the sleeping man's shoulder, but quickly pulls back his hand. The man falls backward on the heath, his face turned towards JONS. It is a corpse, staring at JONS with empty eye sockets and white teeth. JONS remounts and overtakes his master. He takes a drink from his waterskin and hands the bag to the knight. <b> KNIGHT </b> Well, did he show you the way? <b> JONS </b> Not exactly. <b> KNIGHT </b> What did he say? <b> JONS </b> Nothing. <b> KNIGHT </b> Was he a mute? <b> JONS </b> No, sir, I wouldn't say that. As a matter of fact, he was quite eloquent. <b> KNIGHT </b> Oh? <b> JONS </b> He was eloquent, all right. The trouble is that what he had to say was most depressing. (sings) One moment you're bright and lively, The next you're crawling with worms. Fate is a terrible villain And you, my friend, its poor victim. <b> KNIGHT </b> Must you sing? <b> JONS </b> No. The KNIGHT hands his squire a piece of bread, which keeps him quiet for a while. The sun burns down on them cruelly, and beads of perspiration trickle down their faces. There is a cloud of dust around the horses' hooves. They ride past an inlet and along verdant groves. In the shade of some large trees stands a bulging wagon covered with a mottled canvas. A horse whinnies nearby and is answered by the KNIGHT'S horse. The two travelers do not stop to rest under the shade of the trees but continue riding until they disappear at the bend of the road. <b> </b> In his sleep, JOF the juggler hears the neighing of his horse and the answer from a distance. He tries to go on sleeping, but it is stifling inside the wagon. The rays of the sun filtering through the canvas cast streaks of light across the face of JOF'S wife, MIA, and their one-year-old son, MIKAEL, who are sleeping deeply and peacefully. Near them, JONAS SKAT, an older man, snores loudly. JOF crawls out of the wagon. There is still a spot of shade under the big trees. He takes a drink of water, gargles, stretches and talks to his scrawny old horse. <b> JOF </b> Good morning. Have you had breakfast? I can't eat grass, worse luck. Can't you teach me how? We're a little hard up. People aren't very interested in juggling in this part of the country. He has picked up the juggling balls and slowly begins to toss them. Then he stands on his head and cackles like a hen. Suddenly he stops and sits down with a look of utter astonishment on his face. The wind causes the trees to sway slightly. The leaves stir and there is a soft murmur. The flowers and the grass bend gracefully, and somewhere a bird raises its voice in a long warble. JOF'S face breaks into a smile and his eyes fill with tears. With a dazed expression he sits flat on his behind while the grass rustles softly, and bees and butterflies hum around his head. The unseen bird continues to sing. Suddenly the breeze stops blowing, the bird stops singing, JOF'S smile fades, the flowers and grass wilt in the heat. The old horse is still walking around grazing and swishing its tail to ward off the flies. JOF comes to life. He rushes into the wagon and shakes MIA awake. <b> JOF </b> Mia, wake up. Wake up! Mia, I've just seen something. I've got to tell you about it! <b> MIA </b> (sits up, terrified) What is it? What's happened? <b> JOF </b> Listen, I've had a vision. No, it wasn't a vision. It was real, absolutely real. <b> MIA </b> Oh, so you've had a vision again! MIA's voice is filled with gentle irony. JOF shakes his head and grabs her by the shoulders. <b> JOF </b> But I did see her! <b> MIA </b> Whom did you see? <b> JOF </b> The Virgin Mary. MIA can't help being impressed by her husband's fervor. She lowers her voice. <b> MIA </b> Did you really see her? <b> JOF </b> She was so close to me that I could have touched her. She had a golden crown on her head and wore a blue gown with flowers of gold. She was barefoot and had small brown hands with which she was holding the Child and teaching Him to walk. And then she saw me watching her and she smiled at me. My eyes filled with tears and when I wiped them away, she had disappeared. And everything became so still in the sky and on the earth. Can you understand ... <b> MIA </b> What an imagination you have. <b> JOF </b> You don't believe me! But it was real, I tell you, not the kind of reality you see every day, but a different kind. <b> MIA </b> Perhaps it was the kind of reality you told us about when you saw the Devil painting our wagon wheels red, using his tail as a brush. <b> JOF </b> (embarrassed) Why must you keep bringing that up? <b> MIA </b> And then you discovered that you had red paint under your nails. <b> JOF </b> Well, perhaps that time I made it up. (eagerly) I did it just so that you would believe in my other visions. The real ones. The ones that I didn't make up. <b> MIA </b> (severely) You have to keep your visions under control. Otherwise people will think that you're a half-wit, which you're not. At least not yet -- as far as I know. But, come to think of it, I'm not so sure about that. <b> JOF </b> (angry) I didn't ask to have visions. I can't help it if voices speak to me, if the Holy Virgin appears before me and angels and devils like my company. <b> SKAT </b> (sits up) Haven't I told you once and for all that I need my morning's sleep! I have asked you politely, pleaded with you, but nothing works. So now I'm telling you to shut up! His eyes are popping with rage. He turns over and continues snoring where he left off. MIA and JOF decide that it would be wisest to leave the wagon. They sit down on a crate. MIA has MIKAEL on her knees. He is naked and squirms vigorously. JOF sits close to his wife. Slumped over, he still looks dazed and astonished. A dry, hot wind blows from the sea. <b> MIA </b> If we would only get some rain. Everything is burned to cinders. We won't have anything to eat this winter. <b> JOF </b> (yawning) We'll get by. He says this smilingly, with a casual air. He stretches and laughs contentedly. <b> MIA </b> I want Mikael to have a better life than ours. <b> JOF </b> Mikael will grow up to be a great acrobat -- or a juggler who can do the one impossible trick. <b> MIA </b> What's that? <b> JOF </b> To make one of the balls stand absolutely still in the air. <b> MIA </b> But that's impossible. <b> JOF </b> Impossible for us -- but not for him. <b> MIA </b> You're dreaming again. She yawns. The sun, has made her a bit drowsy and she lies down on the grass. JOF does likewise and puts one arm around his wife's shoulders. <b> JOF </b> I've composed a song. I made it up during the night when I couldn't sleep. Do you want to hear it? <b> MIA </b> Sing it. I'm very curious. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> I have to sit up first. He sits with his legs crossed, makes a dramatic gesture with his arms and sings in a loud voice. <b> JOF </b> (sings) On a lily branch a dove is perched Against the summer sky, She sings a wondrous song of Christ And there's great joy on high. He interrupts his singing in order to be complimented by his wife. <b> JOF </b> Mia! Are you asleep? <b> MIA </b> It's a lovely song. <b> JOF </b> I haven't finished yet. <b> </b><b> MIA </b> I heard it, but I think I'll sleep a little longer. You can sing the rest to me afterwards. <b> JOF </b> All you do is sleep. JOF is a bit offended and glances over at his son, MIKAEL, but he is also sleeping soundly in the high grass. JONAS SKAT comes out from the wagon. He yawns; he is very tired and in a bad humor. In his hands he holds a crudely made death mask. <b> SKAT </b> Is this supposed to be a mask for an actor? If the priests didn't pay us so well, I'd say no thank you. <b> JOF </b> Are you going to play Death? <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> Just think, scaring decent folk out of their wits with this kind of nonsense. <b> JOF </b> When are we supposed to do this play? <b> SKAT </b> At the saints' feast in Elsinore. We're going to perform right on the church steps, believe it or not. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Wouldn't it be better to play something bawdy? People like it better, and, besides, it's more fun. <b> SKAT </b> Idiot. There's a rumor going around that there's a terrible pestilence in the land, and now the priests are prophesying sudden death and all sorts of spiritual agonies. MIA is awake now and lies contentedly on her back, sucking on a blade of grass and looking smilingly at her husband. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> And what part am I to play? <b> SKAT </b> You're such a damn fool, so you're going to be the Soul of Man. <b> JOF </b> That's a bad part, of course. <b> SKAT </b> Who makes the decisions around here? Who is the director of this company anyhow? SKAT, grinning, holds the mask in front of his face and recites dramatically. <b> SKAT </b> Bear this in mind, you fool. Your life hangs by a thread. Your time is short. (in his usual voice) Are the women going to like me in this getup? Will I make a hit? No! I feel as if I were dead already. He stumbles into the wagon muttering furiously. JOF sits, leaning forward. MIA lies beside him on the grass. <b> MIA </b> Jof! <b> </b><b> JOF </b> What is it? <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Sit still. Don't move. <b> JOF </b> What do you mean? <b> MIA </b> Don't say anything. <b> JOF </b> I'm as silent as a grave. <b> MIA </b> Shh! I love you. <b> </b> Waves of heat envelop the gray stone church in a strange white mist. The KNIGHT dismounts and enters. After tying up the horses, JONS slowly follows him in. When he comes onto the church porch he stops in surprise. To the right of the entrance there is a large fresco on the wall, not quite finished. Perched on a crude scaffolding is a PAINTER wearing a red cap and paint-stained clothes. He has one brush in his mouth, while with another in his hand he outlines a small, terrified human face amidst a sea of other faces. <b> JONS </b> What is this supposed to represent? <b> PAINTER </b> The Dance of Death. <b> JONS </b> And that one is Death? <b> </b><b> PAINTER </b> Yes, he dances off with all of them. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Why do you paint such nonsense? <b> PAINTER </b> I thought it would serve to remind people that they must die. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Well, it's not going to make them feel any happier. <b> PAINTER </b> Why should one always make people happy? It might not be a bad idea to scare them a little once in a while. <b> JONS </b> Then they'll close their eyes and refuse to look at your painting. <b> </b><b> PAINTER </b> Oh, they'll look. A skull is almost more interesting than a naked woman. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> If you do scare them ... <b> PAINTER </b> They'll think. <b> JONS </b> And if they think ... <b> </b><b> PAINTER </b> They'll become still more scared. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> And then they'll run right into the arms of the priests. <b> PAINTER </b> That's not my business. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> You're only painting your Dance of Death. <b> PAINTER </b> I'm only painting things as they are. Everyone else can do as he likes. <b> JONS </b> Just think how some people will curse you. <b> PAINTER </b> Maybe. But then I'll paint something amusing for them to look at. I have to make a living -- at least until the plague takes me. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> The plague. That sounds horrible. <b> PAINTER </b> You should see the boils on a diseased man's throat. You should see how his body shrivels up so that his legs look like knotted strings -- like the man I've painted over there. The PAINTER points with his brush. JONS sees a small human form writhing in the grass, its eyes turned upwards in a frenzied look of horror and pain. <b> JONS </b> That looks terrible. <b> PAINTER </b> It certainly does. He tries to rip out the boil, he bites his hands, tears his veins open with his fingernails and his screams can be heard everywhere. Does that scare you? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Scare? Me? You don't know me. What are the horrors you've painted over there? <b> PAINTER </b> The remarkable thing is that the poor creatures think the pestilence is the Lord's punishment. Mobs of people who call themselves Slaves of Sin are swarming over the country, flagellating themselves and others, all for the glory of God. <b> JONS </b> Do they really whip themselves? <b> PAINTER </b> Yes, it's a terrible sight. I crawl into a ditch and hide when they pass by. <b> JONS </b> Do you have any brandy? I've been drinking water all day and it's made me as thirsty as a camel in the desert. <b> PAINTER </b> I think I frightened you after all. JONS sits down with the PAINTER, who produces a jug of brandy. The KNIGHT is kneeling before a small altar. It is dark and quiet around him. The air is cool and musty. Pictures of saints look down on him with stony eyes. Christ's face is turned upwards, His mouth open as if in a cry of anguish. On the ceiling beam there is a representation of a hideous devil spying on a miserable human being. The KNIGHT hears a sound from the confession booth and approaches it. The face of DEATH appears behind the grille for an instant, but the KNIGHT doesn't see him. <b> KNIGHT </b> I want to talk to you as openly as I can, but my heart is empty. DEATH doesn't answer. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> The emptiness is a mirror turned towards my own face. I see myself in it, and I am filled with fear and disgust. DEATH doesn't answer. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Through my indifference to my fellow men, I have isolated myself from their company. Now I live in a world of phantoms. I am imprisoned in my dreams and fantasies. <b> DEATH </b> And yet you don't want to die. <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes, I do. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> What are you waiting for? <b> KNIGHT </b> I want knowledge. <b> DEATH </b> You want guarantees? <b> KNIGHT </b> Call it whatever you like. Is it so cruelly inconceivable to grasp God with the senses? Why should He hide himself in a mist of half-spoken promises and unseen miracles? DEATH doesn't answer. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> How can we have faith in those who believe when we can't have faith in ourselves? What is going to happen to those of us who want to believe but aren't able to? And what is to become of those who neither want to nor are capable of believing? The KNIGHT stops and waits for a reply, but no one speaks or answers him. There is complete silence. <b> KNIGHT </b> Why can't I kill God within me? Why does He live on in this painful and humiliating way even though I curse Him and want to tear Him out of my heart? Why, in spite of everything, is He a baffling reality that I can't shake off? Do you hear me? <b> DEATH </b> Yes, I hear you. <b> KNIGHT </b> I want knowledge, not faith, not suppositions, but knowledge. I want God to stretch out His hand towards me, reveal Himself and speak to me. <b> DEATH </b> But He remains silent. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> I call out to Him in the dark but no one seems to be there. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> Perhaps no one is there. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Then life is an outrageous horror. No one can live in the face of death, knowing that all is nothingness. <b> DEATH </b> Most people never reflect about either death or the futility of life. <b> KNIGHT </b> But one day they will have to stand at that last moment of life and look towards the darkness. <b> DEATH </b> When that day comes ... <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> In our fear, we make an image, and that image we call God. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> You are worrying ... <b> KNIGHT </b> Death visited me this morning. We are playing chess together. This reprieve gives me the chance to arrange an urgent matter. <b> DEATH </b> What matter is that? <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> My life has been a futile pursuit, a wandering, a great deal of talk without meaning. I feel no bitterness or self-reproach because the lives of most people are very much like this. But I will use my reprieve for one meaningful deed. <b> DEATH </b> Is that why you are playing chess with Death? <b> KNIGHT </b> He is a clever opponent, but up to now I haven't lost a single man. <b> DEATH </b> How will you outwit Death in your game? <b> KNIGHT </b> I use a combination of the bishop and the knight which he hasn't yet discovered. In the next move I'll shatter one of his flanks. <b> DEATH </b> I'll remember that. DEATH shows his face at the grill of the confession booth for a moment but disappears instantly. <b> KNIGHT </b> You've tricked and cheated me! But we'll meet again, and I'll find a way. <b> DEATH </b> (invisible) We'll meet at the inn, and there we'll continue playing. The KNIGHT raises his hand and looks at it in the sunlight which comes through the tiny window. <b> KNIGHT </b> This is my hand. I can move it, feel the blood pulsing through it. The sun is still high in the sky and I, Antonius Block, am playing chess with Death. He makes a fist of his hand and lifts it to his temple. Meanwhile, JONS and the PAINTER have got drunk and are talking animatedly together. <b> JONS </b> Me and my master have been abroad and have just come home. Do you understand, you little pictor? <b> PAINTER </b> The Crusade. <b> JONS </b> (drunk) Precisely. For ten years we sat in the Holy Land and let snakes bite us, flies sting us, wild animals eat us, heathens butcher us, the wine poison us, the women give us lice, the lice devour us, the fevers rot us, all for the Glory of God. Our crusade was such madness that only a real idealist could have thought it up. But what you said about the plague was horrible. <b> PAINTER </b> It's worse than that. <b> JONS </b> Ah, me. No matter which way you turn, you have your rump behind you. That's the truth. <b> PAINTER </b> The rump behind you, the rump behind you there's a profound truth. JONS paints a small figure which is supposed to represent himself. <b> JONS </b> This is squire Jns. He grins at Death, mocks the Lord, laughs at himself and leers at the girls. His world is a Jnsworld, believable only to himself, ridiculous to all including himself, meaningless to Heaven and of no interest to Hell. The KNIGHT walks by, calls to his squire and goes out into the bright sunshine. JONS manages to set himself down from the scaffolding. Outside the church, four soldiers and a monk are in the process of putting a woman in the stocks. Her face is pale and child-like, her head has been shaved, and her knuckles are bloody and broken. Her eyes are wide open, yet she doesn't appear to be fully conscious. JONS and the KNIGHT stop and watch in silence. The soldiers are working quickly and skillfully, but they seem frightened and dejected. The monk mumbles from a small book. One of the soldiers picks up a wooden bucket and with his hand begins to smear a bloody paste on the wall of the church and around the woman. JONS holds his nose. <b> JONS </b> That soup of yours has a hell of a stink. What is it good for? <b> SOLDIER </b> She has had carnal intercourse with the Evil One. He whispers this with a horrified face and continues to splash the sticky mess on the wall. <b> JONS </b> And now she's in the stocks. <b> SOLDIER </b> She will be burned tomorrow morning at the parish boundary. But we have to keep the Devil away from the rest of us. <b> JONS </b> (holding his nose) And you do that with this stinking mess? <b> SOLDIER </b> It's the best remedy: blood mixed with the bile of a big black dog. The Devil can't stand the smell. <b> JONS </b> Neither can I. <b> </b>JONS walks over towards the horses. The KNIGHT stands for a few, moments looking at the young girl. She is almost a child. Slowly she turns her eyes towards him. <b> KNIGHT </b> Have you seen the Devil? The MONK stops reading and raises his head. <b> MONK </b> You must not talk to her. <b> KNIGHT </b> Can that be so dangerous? <b> MONK </b> I don't know, but she is believed to have caused the pestilence with which we are affected. <b> KNIGHT </b> I understand. He nods resignedly and walks away. The young woman starts to moan as though she were having a horrible nightmare. The sound of her cries follows the two riders for a considerable distance down the road. <b> </b> The sun stands high in the sky, like a red ball of fire. The waterskin is empty and JONS looks for a well where he can fill it. They approach a group of peasant cottages at the edge of the forest. JONS ties up the horses, slings the skin over his shoulder and walks along the path towards the nearest cottage. As always, his movements are light and almost soundless. The door to the cottage is open. He stops outside, but when no one appears he enters. It is very dark inside and his foot touches a soft object. He looks down. Beside the whitewashed fireplace, a woman is lying with her face to the ground. At the sound of approaching steps, JONS quickly hides behind the door. A man comes down a ladder from the loft. He is broad and thick-set. His eyes are black and his face is pale and puffy. His clothes are well cut but dirty and in rags. He carries a cloth sack. Looking around, he goes into the inner room, bends over the bed, tucks something into the bag, slinks along the walls, looking on the shelves, finds something else which he tucks in his bag. Slowly he re-enters the outer room, bends over the dead woman and carefully slips a ring from her finger. At that moment a young woman comes through the door. She stops and stares at the stranger. <b> RAVEL </b> Why do you look so surprised? I steal from the dead. These days it's quite a lucrative enterprise. The GIRL makes a movement as if to run away. <b> RAVEL </b> You're thinking of running to the village and telling. That wouldn't serve any purpose. Each of us has to save his own skin. It's as simple as that. <b> GIRL </b> Don't touch me. <b> RAVAL </b> Don't try to scream. There's no one around to hear you, neither God nor man. Slowly he closes the door behind the GIRL. The stuffy room is now in almost total darkness. But JONS becomes clearly visible. <b> JONS </b> I recognize you, although it's a long time since we met. Your name is Raval, from the theological college at Roskilde. You are Dr. Mirabilis, Coelestis et Diabilis. RAVAL smiles uneasily and looks around. <b> JONS </b> Am I not right? The GIRL stands immobile. <b> JONS </b> You were the one who, ten years ago, convinced my master of the necessity to join a better- class crusade to the Holy Land. RAVAL looks around. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> You look uncomfortable. Do you have a stomach- ache? RAVAL smiles anxiously. <b> JONS </b> When I see you, I suddenly understand the meaning of these ten years, which previously seemed to me such a waste. Our life was too good and we were too satisfied with ourselves. The Lord wanted to punish us for our complacency. That is why He sent you to spew out your holy venom and poison the knight. <b> RAVEL </b> I acted in good faith. <b> JONS </b> But now you know better, don't you? Because now you have turned into a thief. A more fitting and rewarding occupation for scoundrels. Isn't that so? With a quick movement he knocks the knife out of RAVAL'S hand, gives him a kick so that he falls on the floor and is about to finish him off. Suddenly the GIRL screams. JONS stops and makes a gesture of generosity with his hand. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> By all means. I'm not bloodthirsty. He bends over RAVAL. <b> RAVEL </b> Don't beat me. <b> JONS </b> I don't have the heart to touch you, Doctor. But remember this: the next time we meet, I'll brand your face the way one does with thieves. (he rises) What I really came for is to get my waterskin filled. <b> GIRL </b> We have a deep well with cool, fresh water. Come, I'll show you. They walk out of the house. RAVAL lies still for a few moments, then he rises slowly and looks around. When no one is in sight, he takes his bag and steals away. JONS quenches his thirst and fills his bag with water. The GIRL helps him. <b> JONS </b> Jns is my name. I am a pleasant and talkative young man who has never had anything but kind thoughts and has only done beautiful and noble deeds. I'm kindest of all to young women. With them, there is no limit to my kindness. He embraces her and tries to kiss her, but she holds herself back. Almost immediately he loses interest, hoists the waterbag on his shoulder and pats the GIRL on the cheek. <b> JONS </b> Goodbye, my girl. I could very well have raped you, but between you and me, I'm tired of that kind of love. It runs a little dry in the end. He laughs kindly and walks away from her. When he has walked a short distance he turns; the GIRL is still there. <b> JONS </b> Now that I think of it, I will need a housekeeper. Can you prepare good food? (the GIRL nods) As far as I know, I'm still a married man, but I have high hopes that my wife is dead by now. That's why I need a housekeeper. (the GIRL doesn't answer but gets up) The devil with it! Come along and don't stand there staring. I've saved your life, so you owe me a great deal. She begins walking towards him, her head bent. He doesn't wait for her but walks towards the KNIGHT, who patiently awaits his squire. <b> </b> The Embarrassment Inn lies in the eastern section of the province. The plague has not yet reached this area on its way along the coast. The actors have placed their wagon under a tree in the yard of the inn. Dressed in colorful costumes, they perform a farce. The spectators watch the performance, commenting on it noisily. There are merchants with fat, beer-sweaty faces, apprentices and journeymen, farmhands and milkmaids. A whole flock of children perch in the trees around the wagon. <b> </b>The KNIGHT and his squire have sat down in the shadow of a wall. They drink beer and doze in the midday heat. The GIRL from the deserted village sleeps at JONS'S side. SKAT beats the drums, JOF blows the flute, MIA performs a gay and lively dance. They perspire under the hot white sun. When they have finished SKAT comes forward and bows. <b> SKAT </b> Noble ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your interest. Please remain standing for a little longer, or sit on the ground, because we are now going to perform a tragedia about an unfaithful wife, her jealous husband, and the handsome lover -- that's me. MIA and JOF have quickly changed costumes and again step out on the stage. They bow, to the public. <b> SKAT </b> Here is the husband. Here is the wife. If you'll shut up over there, you'll see something splendid. As I said, I play the lover and I haven't entered yet. That's why I'm going to hide behind the curtain for the time being. (he wipes the sweat from his forehead) It's damned hot. I think we'll have a thunderstorm. He places his leg in front of JOF as if to trip him, raises MIA's skirt, makes a face as if he could see all the wonders of the world underneath it, and disappears behind the gaudily patched curtains. SKAT is very handsome, now that he can see himself in the reflection of a tin washbowl. His hair is tightly curled, his eyebrows are beautifully bushy, glittering earrings vie for equal attention with his teeth, and his cheeks are flushed rose red. <b> </b>He sits out in back on the tailboard of the wagon, dangling his legs and whistling to himself. <b> </b>In the meantime JOF and MIA play their tragedy; it is not, however, received with great acclaim. SKAT suddenly discovers that someone is watching him as he gazes contentedly into the tin bowl. A woman stands there, stately in both height and volume. <b> </b>SKAT frowns, toys with his small dagger and occasionally throws a roguish but fiery glance at the beautiful visitor. She suddenly discovers that one of her shoes doesn't quite fit. She leans down to fix it and in doing so allows her generous bosom to burst out of its prison -- no more than honor and chastity allow, but still enough so that the actor with his experienced eye immediately sees that there are ample rewards to be had here. Now she comes a little closer, kneels down and opens a bundle containing several dainty morsels and a skin filled with red wine. JONAS SKAT manages not to fall off the wagon in his excitement. Standing on the steps of the wagon, he supports himself against a nearby tree, crosses his legs and bows. <b> </b>The woman quietly bites into a chicken leg dripping with fat. At this moment the actor is stricken by a radiant glance full of lustful appetites. When he sees this look, SKAT makes an instantaneous decision, jumps down from the wagon and kneels in front of the blushing damsel. She becomes weak and faint from his nearness, looks at him with a glassy glance and breathes heavily. SKAT doesn't neglect to press kisses on her small, chubby hands. The sun shines brightly and small birds make noises in the bushes. Now she is forced to sit back; her legs seem unwilling to support her any longer. Bewildered, she singles out another chicken leg from the large sack of food and holds it up in front of SKAT with an appealing and triumphant expression, as if it were her maidenhood being offered as a prize. SKAT hesitates momentarily, but he is still the strategist. He lets the chicken leg fall to the grass, and murmurs in the woman's rosy ear. His words seem to please her. She puts her arms around the actor's neck and pulls him to her with such fierceness that both of them lose their balance and tumble down on the soft grass. The small birds take to their wings with frightened shrieks. JOF stands in the hot sun with a flickering lantern in his hand. MIA pretends to be asleep on a bench which has been pulled forward on the stage. <b> JOF </b> Night and moonlight now prevail Here sleeps my wife so frail ... <b> VOICE FROM THE PUBLIC </b> Does she snore? <b> JOF </b> May I point out that this is a tragedy, and in tragedies one doesn't snore. <b> VOICE FROM THE PUBLIC </b> I think she should snore anyhow. This opinion causes mirth in the audience. JOF becomes slightly confused and goes out of character, but MIA keeps her head and begins snoring. <b> JOF </b> Night and moonlight now prevail. There snores -- I mean sleeps -- my wife so frail. Jealous I am, as never before, I hide myself behind this door. Faithful is she To her lover -- not me. He soon comes a-stealing To awaken her lusty feeling. I shall now kill him dead For cuckolding me in my bed. There he comes in the moonlight, His white legs shining bright. Quiet as a mouse, here I'll lie, Tell him not that he's about to die. JOF hides himself. MIA immediately ends her snoring and sits up, looking to the left. <b> MIA </b> Look, there he comes in the night My lover, my heart's delight. She becomes silent and looks wide-eyed in front of her. The mood in the yard in front of the inn has, up to now, been rather lighthearted despite the heat. <b> </b>Now a rapid change occurs. People who had been laughing and chattering fall silent. Their faces seem to pale under their sunbrowned skins, the children stop their games and stand with gaping mouths and frightened eyes. <b> </b>JOF steps out in front of the curtain. His painted face bears an expression of horror. MIA has risen with MIKAEL in her arms. Some of the women in the yard have fallen on their knees, others hide their faces, many begin to mutter half-forgotten prayers. All have turned their faces towards the white road. Now a shrill song is heard. It is frenzied, almost a scream. A crucified Christ sways above the hilltop. The cross-bearers soon come into sight. They are Dominican monks, their hoods pulled down over their faces. More and more of them follow, carrying litters with heavy coffins or clutching holy relics, their hands stretched out spasmodically. The dust wells up around their black hoods; the censers sway and emit a thick, ashen smoke which smells of rancid herbs. After the line of monks comes another procession. It is a column of men, boys, old men, women, girls, children. All of them have steel-edged scourges in their hands with which they whip themselves and each other, howling ecstatically. They twist in pain; their eyes bulge wildly; their lips are gnawed to shreds and dripping with foam. They have been seized by madness. They bite their own hands and arms, whip each other in violent, almost rhythmic outbursts. Throughout it all the shrill song howls from their bursting throats. Many sway and fall, lift themselves up again, support each other and help each other to intensify the scourging. Now the procession pauses at the crossroads in front of the inn. The monks fall on their knees, hiding their faces with clenched hands, arms pressed tightly together. Their song never stops. The Christ figure on its timbered cross is raised above the heads of the crowd. It is not Christ triumphant, but the suffering Jesus with the sores, the blood, the hammered nails and the face in convulsive pain. The Son of God, nailed on the wood of the cross, suffering scorn and shame. <b> </b>The penitents have now sunk down in the dirt of the road. They collapse where they stood like slaughtered cattle. Their screams rise with the song of the monks, through misty clouds of incense, towards the white fire of the sun. <b> </b>A large square monk rises from his knees and reveals his face, which is red- brown from the sun. His eyes glitter; his voice is thick with impotent scorn. <b> MONK </b> God has sentenced us to punishment. We shall all perish in the black death. You, standing there like gaping cattle, you who sit there in your glutted complacency, do you know that this may be your last hour? Death stands right behind you. I can see how his crown gleams in the sun. His scythe flashes as he raises it above your heads. Which one of you shall he strike first? You there, who stand staring like a goat, will your mouth be twisted into the last unfinished gasp before nightfall? And you, woman, who bloom with life and self- satisfaction, will you pale and become extinguished before the morning dawns? You back there, with your swollen nose and stupid grin, do you have another year left to dirty the earth with your refuse? Do you know, you insensible fools, that you shall die today or tomorrow, or the next day, because all of you have been sentenced? Do you hear what I say? Do you hear the word? You have been sentenced, sentenced! The MONK falls silent, looking around with a bitter face and a cold, scornful glance. Now, he clenches his hands, straddles the ground and turns his face upwards. <b> MONK </b> Lord have mercy on us in our humiliation! Don't turn your face from us in loathing and contempt, but be merciful to us for the sake of your son, Jesus Christ. He makes the sign of the cross over the crowd and then begins a new song in a strong voice. The monks rise and join in the song. As if driven by some superhuman force, the penitents begin to whip themselves again, still wailing and moaning. The procession continues. New members have joined the rear of the column; others who were unable to go on lie weeping in the dust of the road. JONS the squire drinks his beer. <b> JONS </b> This damned ranting about doom. Is that food for the minds of modern people? Do they really expect us to take them seriously? The KNIGHT grins tiredly. <b> JONS </b> Yes, now you grin at me, my lord. But allow me to point out that I've either read, heard or experienced most of the tales which we people tell each other. <b> KNIGHT </b> (yawns) Yes, yes. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Even the ghost stories about God the Father, the angels, Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost -- all these I've accepted without too much emotion. He leans down over the GIRL as she crouches at his feet and pats her on the head. The KNIGHT drinks his beer silently. <b> JONS </b> (contentedly) My little stomach is my world, my head is my eternity, and my hands, two wonderful suns. My legs are time's damned pendulums, and my dirty feet are two splendid starting points for my philosophy. Everything is worth precisely as much as a belch, the only difference being that a belch is more satisfying. The beer mug is empty. Sighing, JONS gets to his feet. The GIRL follows him like a shadow. In the yard he meets a large man with a sooty face and a dark expression. He stops JONS with a roar. <b> JONS </b> What are you screaming about? <b> PLOG </b> I am Plog, the smith, and you are the squire Jns. <b> JONS </b> That's possible. <b> PLOG </b> Have you seen my wife? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> No, I haven't. But if I had seen her and she looked like you, I'd quickly forget that I'd seen her. <b> PLOG </b> Well, in that case you haven't seen her. <b> JONS </b> Maybe she's run off. <b> PLOG </b> Do you know anything? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> I know quite a lot, but not about your wife. Go to the inn. Maybe they can help you. The smith sighs sadly and goes inside. The inn is very small and full of people eating and drinking to forget their newly aroused fears of eternity. In the open fireplace a roasting pig turns on an iron spit. The sun shines outside the casement window, its sharp rays piercing the darkness of the room, which is thick with fumes and perspiration. <b> </b><b> MERCHANT </b> Yes, it's true! The plague is spreading along the west coast. People are dying like flies. Usually business would be good at this time of year, but, damn it, I've still got my whole stock unsold. <b> WOMAN </b> They speak of the judgment day. And all these omens are terrible. Worms, chopped-off hands and other monstrosities began pouring out of an old woman, and down in the village another woman gave birth to a calf's head. <b> OLD MAN </b> The day of judgment. Imagine. <b> FARMER </b> It hasn't rained here for a month. We'll surely lose our crops. <b> MERCHANT </b> And people are acting crazy, I'd say. They flee the country and carry the plague with them wherever they go. <b> OLD MAN </b> The day of judgment. Just think, just think! <b> FARMER </b> If it's as they say, I suppose a person should look after his house and try to enjoy life as long as he can. <b> WOMAN </b> But there have been other things too, such things that can't even be spoken of. (whispers) Things that mustn't be named -- but the priests say that the woman carries it between her legs and that's why she must cleanse herself. <b> OLD MAN </b> Judgment day. And the Riders of the Apocalypse stand at the bend in the village road. I imagine they'll come on judgment night, at sundown. <b> WOMAN </b> There are many who have purged themselves with fire and died from it, but the priests say that it's better to die pure than to live for hell. <b> </b><b> MERCHANT </b> This is the end, yes, it is. No one says it out loud, but all of us know that it's the end. And people are going mad from fear. <b> FARMER </b> So you're afraid too. <b> MERCHANT </b> Of course I'm afraid. <b> OLD MAN </b> The judgment day becomes night, and the angels descend and the graves open. It will be terrible to see. They whisper in low tones and sit close to each other. PLOG, the smith, shoves his way into a place next to JOF, who is still dressed in his costume. Opposite him sits RAVAL, leaning slightly forward, his face perspiring heavily. RAVAL rolls an armlet out on the table. <b> RAVAL </b> Do you want this armlet? You can have it cheap. <b> JOF </b> I can't afford it. <b> RAVAL </b> It's real silver. <b> JOF </b> It's nice. But it's surely too expensive for me. <b> PLOG </b> Excuse me, but has anyone here seen my wife? <b> JOF </b> Has she disappeared? <b> PLOG </b> They say she's run away. <b> JOF </b> Has she deserted you? <b> PLOG </b> With an actor. <b> JOF </b> An actor! If she's got such bad taste, then I think you should let her go. <b> PLOG </b> You're right. My first thought, of course, was to kill her. <b> JOF </b> Oh. But to murder her, that's a terrible thing to do. <b> PLOG </b> I'm also going to kill the actor. <b> JOF </b> The actor? <b> PLOG </b> Of course, the one she eloped with. <b> JOF </b> What has he done to deserve that? <b> PLOG </b> Are you stupid? <b> </b><b> JOF </b> The actor! Now I understand. There are too many of them, so even if he hasn't done anything in particular you ought to kill him merely because he's an actor. <b> PLOG </b> You see, my wife has always been interested in the tricks of the theatre. <b> JOF </b> And that turned out to be her misfortune. <b> PLOG </b> Her misfortune, but not mine, because a person who's born unfortunate can hardly suffer from any further misfortune. Isn't that true? Now RAVAL enters the discussion. He is slightly drunk and his voice is shrill and evil. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Listen, you! You sit there and lie to the smith. <b> JOF </b> I! A liar! <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> You're an actor too and it's probably your partner who's run off with Plog's old lady. <b> PLOG </b> Are you an actor too? <b> JOF </b> An actor! Me! I wouldn't quite call myself that! <b> RAVAL </b> We ought to kill you; it's only logical. <b> JOF </b> (laughs) You're really funny. <b> RAVAL </b> How strange -- you've turned pale. Have you anything on your conscience? <b> JOF </b> You're funny. Don't you think he's funny? (to Plog) Oh, you don't. <b> RAVAL </b> Maybe we should mark you up a little with a knife, like they do petty scoundrels of your kind. PLOG bangs his hands down on the table so that the dishes jump. He gets up. <b> </b><b> PLOG </b> (shouting) What have you done with my wife? The room becomes silent. JOF looks around, but there is no exit, no way to escape. He puts his hands on the table. Suddenly a knife flashes through the air and sinks into the table top between his fingers. JOF snatches away his hands and raises his head. He looks half surprised, as if the truth had just become apparent to him. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Do you want to hurt me? Why? Have I provoked someone, or got in the way? I'll leave right now and never come back. JOF looks from one face to another, but no one seems ready to help him or come to his defense. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Get up so everyone can hear you. Talk louder. Trembling, JOF rises. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but not a word comes out. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Stand on your head so that we can see how good an actor you are. JOF gets up on the table and stands on his head. A hand pushes him forward so that he collapses on the floor. PLOG rises, pulls him to his feet with one hand. <b> PLOG </b> (shouts) What have you done with my wife? PLOG beats him so furiously that JOF flies across the table. RAVAL leans over him. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Don't lie there moaning. Get up and dance. <b> JOF </b> I don't want to. I can't. <b> RAVEL </b> Show us how you imitate a bear. <b> JOF </b> I can't play a bear. <b> RAVAL </b> Let's see if you can't after all. RAVAL prods JOF lightly with the knife point. JOF gets up with cold sweat on his cheeks and forehead, frightened half to death. He begins to jump and hop on top of the tables, swinging his arms and legs and making grotesque faces. Some laugh, but most of the people sit silently. JOF gasps as if his lungs were about to burst. He sinks to his knees, and someone pours beer over him. <b> RAVEL </b> Up again! Be a good bear. <b> JOF </b> I haven't done any harm. I haven't got the strength to play a bear any more. At that moment the door opens and JONS enters. JOF sees his chance and steals out. RAVAL intends to follow him, but suddenly stops. JONS and RAVAL look at each other. <b> JONS </b> Do you remember what I was going to do to you if we met again? RAVAL steps back without speaking. <b> JONS </b> I'm a man who keeps his word. JONS raises his knife and cuts RAVAL from forehead to cheek. RAVAL staggers towards the wall. <b> </b> The hot day has become night. Singing and howling can be heard from the inn. In a hollow near the forest, the light still lingers. Hidden in the grass and the shrubbery, nightingales sing and their voices echo through the stillness. <b> </b>The players' wagon stands in a small ravine, and not far away the horse grazes on the dry grass. MIA has sat down in front of the wagon with her son in her arms. They play together and laugh happily. Now, a soft gleam of light strokes the hilltops, a last reflection from the red clouds over the sea. Not far from the wagon, the KNIGHT sits crouched over his chess game. He lifts his head. The evening light moves across the heavy wagon wheels, across the woman and the child. The KNIGHT gets up. MIA sees him and smiles. She holds up her struggling son, as if to amuse the <b>KNIGHT. </b> <b> KNIGHT </b> What's his name? <b> MIA </b> Mikael. <b> KNIGHT </b> How old is he? <b> MIA </b> Oh, he'll soon be two. <b> KNIGHT </b> He's big for his age. <b> MIA </b> Do you think so? Yes, I guess he's rather big. She puts the child down on the ground and half rises to shake out her red skirt. When she sits down again, the KNIGHT steps closer. <b> KNIGHT </b> You played some kind of show this afternoon. <b> MIA </b> Did you think it was bad? <b> KNIGHT </b> You are more beautiful now without your face painted, and this gown is more becoming. <b> MIA </b> You see, Jonas Skat has run off and left us, so we're in real trouble now. <b> KNIGHT </b> Is that your husband? <b> MIA </b> (laughs) Jonas! The other man is my husband. His name is Jof. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Oh, that one. <b> MIA </b> And now there's only him and me. We'll have to start doing tricks again and that's more trouble than it's worth. <b> KNIGHT </b> Do you do tricks also? <b> MIA </b> We certainly do. And Jof is a very skillful juggler. <b> KNIGHT </b> Is Mikael going to be an acrobat? <b> MIA </b> Jof wants him to be. <b> KNIGHT </b> But you don't. <b> MIA </b> I don't know. (smiling) Perhaps he'll become a knight. <b> KNIGHT </b> Let me assure you, that's no pleasure either. <b> MIA </b> No, you don't look so happy. <b> KNIGHT </b> No. <b> MIA </b> Are you tired? <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes. <b> MIA </b> Why? <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> I have dull company. <b> MIA </b> Do you mean your squire? <b> KNIGHT </b> No, not him. <b> MIA </b> Who do you mean, then? <b> KNIGHT </b> Myself. <b> MIA </b> I understand. <b> KNIGHT </b> Do you, really? <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Yes, I understand rather well. I have often wondered why people torture themselves as often as they can. Isn't that so? She nods energetically and the KNIGHT smiles seriously. Now the shrieks and the noise from the inn become louder. Black figures flicker across the grass mound. Someone collapses, gets up and runs. It is JOF. MIA stretches out her arms and receives him. He holds his hands in front of his face, moaning like a child, and his body sways. He kneels. MIA holds him close to her and sprinkles him with small, anxious questions: What have you done? How are you? What is it? Does it hurt? What can I do? Have they been cruel to you? She runs for a rag, which she dips in water, and carefully bathes her husband's dirty, bloody face. <b> </b>Eventually a rather sorrowful visage emerges. Blood runs from a bruise on his forehead and his nose, and a tooth has been loosened, but otherwise JOF seems unhurt. <b> JOF </b> Ouch, it hurts. <b> MIA </b> Why did you have to go there? And of course you drank. MIA's anxiety has been replaced by a mild anger. She pats him a little harder than necessary. <b> JOF </b> Ouch! I didn't drink anything. <b> MIA </b> Then I suppose you were boasting about the angels and devils you consort with. People don't like someone who has too many ideas and fantasies. <b> JOF </b> I swear to you that I didn't say a word about angels. <b> MIA </b> You were, of course, busy singing and dancing. You can never stop being an actor. People also become angry at that, and you know it. JOF doesn't answer but searches for the armlet. He holds it up in front of MIA with an injured expression. <b> JOF </b> Look what I bought for you. <b> MIA </b> You couldn't afford it. <b> JOF </b> (angry) But I got it anyhow. The armlet glitters faintly in the twilight. MIA now pulls it across her wrist. They look at it in silence, and their faces soften. They look at each other, touch each other's hands. JOF puts his head against MIA'S shoulder and sighs. <b> JOF </b> Oh, how they beat me. <b> MIA </b> Why didn't you beat them back? <b> JOF </b> I only become frightened and angry. I never get a chance to hit back. I can get angry, you know that. I roared like a lion. <b> MIA </b> Were they frightened? <b> JOF </b> No, they just laughed. Their son MIKAEL crawls over to them. JOF lies down on the ground and pulls his son on top of him. MIA gets down on her hands and knees and playfully sniffs at MIKAEL. <b> MIA </b> Do you notice how good he smells? <b> JOF </b> And he is so compact to hold. You're a sturdy one. A real acrobat's body. He lifts MIKAEL up and holds him by the legs. MIA looks up suddenly, remembering the knight's presence. <b> MIA </b> Yes, this is my husband, Jof. <b> JOF </b> Good evening. <b> KNIGHT </b> Good evening. <b> </b>JOF becomes a little embarrassed and rises. All three of them look at one another silently. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> I have just told your wife that you have a splendid son. He'll bring great joy to you. <b> JOF </b> Yes, he's fine. <b> </b>They become silent again. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Have we nothing to offer the knight, Mia? <b> KNIGHT </b> Thank you, I don't want anything. <b> MIA </b> (housewifely) I picked a basket of wild strawberries this afternoon. And we have a drop of milk fresh from a cow ... <b> JOF </b> ... that we were allowed to milk. So, if you would like to partake of this humble fare, it would be a great honor. <b> MIA </b> Please be seated and I'll bring the food. They sit down. MIA disappears with MIKAEL. <b> KNIGHT </b> Where are you going next? <b> JOF </b> Up to the saints' feast at Elsinore. <b> KNIGHT </b> I wouldn't advise you to go there. <b> JOF </b> Why not, if I may ask? <b> KNIGHT </b> The plague has spread in that direction, following the coast line south. It's said that people are dying by the tens of thousands. <b> JOF </b> Really! Well, sometimes life is a little hard. <b> KNIGHT </b> May I suggest ... (JOF looks at him, surprised) ... that you follow me through the forest tonight and stay at my home if you like. Or go along the east coast. You'll probably be safer there. MIA has returned with a bowl of wild strawberries and the milk, places it between them and gives each of them a spoon. <b> JOF </b> I wish you good appetite. <b> KNIGHT </b> I humbly thank you. <b> MIA </b> These are wild strawberries from the forest. I have never seen such large ones. They grow up there on the hillside. Notice how they smell! She points with a spoon and smiles. The KNIGHT nods, as if he were pondering some profound thought. JOF eats heartily. <b> JOF </b> Your suggestion is good, but I must think it over. <b> MIA </b> It might be wise to have company going through the forest. It's said to be full of trolls and ghosts and bandits. That's what I've heard. <b> JOF </b> (staunchly) Yes, I'd say that it's not a bad idea, but I have to think about it. Now that Skat has left, I am responsible for the troupe. After all, I have become director of the whole company. <b> MIA </b> (mimics) After all, I have become director of the whole company. JONS comes walking slowly down the hill, closely followed by the GIRL. MIA points with her spoon. <b> MIA </b> Do you want some strawberries? <b> JOF </b> This man saved my life. Sit down, my friend, and let us be together. <b> MIA </b> (stretches herself) Oh, how nice this is. <b> KNIGHT </b> For a short while. <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Nearly always. One day is like another. There is nothing strange about that. The summer, of course, is better than the winter, because in summer you don't have to be cold. But spring is best of all. <b> JOF </b> I have written a poem about the spring. Perhaps you'd like to hear it. I'll run and get my lyre. He sprints towards the wagon. <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Not now, Jof. Our guests may not be amused by your songs. <b> JONS </b> (politely) By all means. I write little songs myself. For example, I know a very funny song about a wanton fish which I doubt that you've heard yet. The KNIGHT looks at him. <b> JONS </b> You'll not get to hear it either. There are persons here who don't appreciate my art and I don't want to upset anyone. I'm a sensitive soul. JOF has come out with his lyre, sits on a small, gaudy box and plucks at the instrument, humming quietly, searching for his melody. JONS yawns and lies down. <b> KNIGHT </b> People are troubled by so much. <b> MIA </b> It's always better when one is two. Have you no one of your own? <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes, I think I had someone. <b> MIA </b> And what is she doing now? <b> KNIGHT </b> I don't know. <b> MIA </b> You look so solemn. Was she your beloved? <b> KNIGHT </b> We were newly married and we played together. We laughed a great deal. I wrote songs to her eyes, to her nose, to her beautiful little ears. We went hunting together and at night we danced. The house was full of life ... <b> MIA </b> Do you want some more strawberries? <b> KNIGHT </b> (shakes his head) Faith is a torment, did you know that? It is like loving someone who is out there in the darkness but never appears, no matter how loudly you call. <b> MIA </b> I don't understand what you mean. <b> KNIGHT </b> Everything I've said seems meaningless and unreal while I sit here with you and your husband. How unimportant it all becomes suddenly. He takes the bowl of milk in his hand and drinks deeply from it several times. Then he carefully puts it down and looks up, smiling. <b> MIA </b> Now you don't look so solemn. <b> KNIGHT </b> I shall remember this moment. The silence, the twilight, the bowls of strawberries and milk, your faces in the evening light. Mikael sleeping, Jof with his lyre. I'll try to remember what we have talked about. I'll carry this memory between my hands as carefully as if it were a bowl filled to the brim with fresh milk. He turns his face away and looks out towards the sea and the colorless gray sky. <b> KNIGHT </b> And it will be an adequate sign -- it will be enough for me. He rises, nods to the others and walks down towards the forest. JOF continues to play on his lyre. MIA stretches out on the grass. The KNIGHT picks up his chess game and carries it towards the beach. It is quiet and deserted; the sea is still. <b> DEATH </b> I have been waiting for you. <b> KNIGHT </b> Pardon me. I was detained for a few moments. Because I revealed my tactics to you, I'm in retreat. It's your move. <b> DEATH </b> Why do you look so satisfied? <b> KNIGHT </b> That's my secret. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> Of course. Now I take your knight. <b> KNIGHT </b> You did the right thing. <b> DEATH </b> Have you tricked me? <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Of course. You fell right in the trap. Check! <b> DEATH </b> What are you laughing at? <b> KNIGHT </b> Don't worry about my laughter; save your king instead. <b> DEATH </b> You're rather arrogant. <b> KNIGHT </b> Our game amuses me. <b> DEATH </b> It's your move. Hurry up. I'm a little pressed for time. <b> KNIGHT </b> I understand that you've a lot to do, but you can't get out of our game. It takes time. DEATH is about to answer him but stops and leans over the board. The KNIGHT smiles. <b> DEATH </b> Are you going to escort the juggler and his wife through the forest? Those whose names are Jof and Mia and who have a small son? <b> KNIGHT </b> Why do you ask? <b> DEATH </b> Oh, no reason at all. <b> </b>The KNIGHT suddenly stops smiling. DEATH looks at him scornfully. <b> </b> Immediately after sundown, the little company gathers in the yard of the inn. There is the KNIGHT, JONS and the GIRL, JOF and MIA in their wagon. Their son, MIKAEL, is already asleep. JONAS SKAT is still missing. JONS goes into the inn to get provisions for the night journey and to have a last mug of beer. The inn is now empty and quiet except for a few farmhands and maidens who are eating their evening meal in a corner. At one of the small windows sits a lonely, hunched-over fellow, with a jug of brandy in his hands. His expression is very sad. Once in a while he is shaken by a gigantic sob. It is PLOG, the smith, who sits there and whimpers. <b> JONS </b> God in heaven, isn't this Plog, the smith? <b> PLOG </b> Good evening. <b> JONS </b> Are you sitting here sniveling in loneliness? <b> PLOG </b> Yes, yes, look at the smith. He moans like a rabbit. <b> JONS </b> If I were in your boots, I'd be happy to get rid of a wife in such an easy way. JONS pats the smith on the back, quenches his thirst with beer, and sits down by his side. <b> PLOG </b> Are you married? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> I! A hundred times and more. I can't keep count of all my wives any longer. But it's often that way when you're a traveling man. <b> PLOG </b> I can assure you that one wife is worse than a hundred, or else I've had worse luck than any poor wretch in this miserable world, which isn't impossible. <b> JONS </b> Yes, it's hell with women and hell without them. So, however you look at it, it's still best to kill them off while it's most amusing. <b> </b><b> PLOG </b> Women's nagging, the shrieking of children and wet diapers, sharp nails and sharp words, blows and pokes, and the devil's aunt for a mother-in-law. And then, when one wants to sleep after a long day, there's a new song -- tears, whining and moans loud enough to wake the dead. JONS nods delightedly. He has drunk deeply and talks with an old woman's voice. <b> JONS </b> Why don't you kiss me good night? <b> PLOG </b> (in the same way) Why don't you sing a song for me? <b> JONS </b> Why don't you love me the way you did when we first met? <b> PLOG </b> Why don't you look at my new slip? <b> JONS </b> You only turn your back and snore. <b> PLOG </b> Oh hell! <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Oh hell. And now she's gone. Rejoice! <b> </b><b> PLOG </b> (furious) I'll snip their noses with pliers, I'll bash in their chests with a small hammer, I'll tap their heads ever so lightly with a sledge. PLOG begins to cry loudly and his whole body sways in an enormous attack of sorrow. JONS looks at him with interest. <b> JONS </b> Look how he howls again. <b> PLOG </b> Maybe I love her. <b> JONS </b> So, maybe you love her! Then, you poor misguided ham shank, I'll tell you that love is another word for lust, plus lust, plus lust and a damn lot of cheating, falseness, lies and all kinds of other fooling around. <b> PLOG </b> Yes, but it hurts anyway. <b> JONS </b> Of course. Love is the blackest of all plagues, and if one could die of it, there would be some pleasure in love. But you almost always get over it. <b> PLOG </b> No, no, not me. <b> JONS </b> Yes, you too. There are only a couple of poor wretches who die of love once in a while. Love is as contagious as a cold in the nose. It eats away at your strength, your independence, your morale, if you have any. If everything is imperfect in this imperfect world, love is most perfect in its perfect imperfection. <b> PLOG </b> You're happy, you with your oily words, and, besides, you believe your own drivel. <b> JONS </b> Believe! Who said that I believed it? But I love to give good advice. If you ask me for advice you'll get two pieces for the price of one, because after all I really am an educated man. JONS gets up from the table and strokes his face with his hands. PLOG becomes very unhappy and grabs his belt. <b> PLOG </b> Listen, Jns. May I go with you through the forest? I'm so lonely and don't want to go home because everyone will laugh at me. <b> JONS </b> Only if you don't whimper all the time, because in that case we'll all have to avoid you. PLOG gets up and embraces JONS. Slightly drunk, the two new friends walk towards the door. <b> </b>When they come out in the yard, JOF immediately catches sight of them, becomes angry and yells a warning to JONS. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Jns! Watch out. That one wants to fight all the time. He's not quite sane. <b> JONS </b> Yes, but now he's just sniveling. PLOG steps up to JOF, who blanches with fear. PLOG offers his hand. <b> PLOG </b> I'm really sorry if I hurt you. But I have such a hell of a temper, you know. Shake hands. JOF gingerly proffers a frightened hand and gets it thoroughly shaken and squeezed. While JOF tries to straighten out his fingers, PLOG is seized by great good will and opens his arms. <b> PLOG </b> Come in my arms, little brother. <b> JOF </b> Thank you, thank you, perhaps later. But now we're really in a hurry. JOF climbs up on the wagon seat quickly and clucks at the horse. <b> </b> The small company is on its way towards the forest and the night. It is dark in the forest. <b> </b>First comes the KNIGHT on his large horse. Then JOF and MIA follow, sitting close to each other in the juggler's wagon. MIA holds her son in her arms. JONS follows them with his heavily laden horse. He has the smith in tow. The GIRL sits on top of the load on the horse's back, hunched over as if asleep. The footsteps, the horses' heavy tramp on the soft path, the human breathing -- yet it is quiet. <b> </b>Then the moon sails out of the clouds. The forest suddenly becomes alive with the night's unreality. The dazzling light pours through the thick foliage of the beech trees, a moving, quivering world of light and shadow. The wanderers stop. Their eyes are dark with anxiety and foreboding. Their faces are pale and unreal in the floating light. It is very quiet. <b> PLOG </b> Now the moon has come out of the clouds. <b> JONS </b> That's good. Now we can see the road better. <b> MIA </b> I don't like the moon tonight. <b> JOF </b> The trees stand so still. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> That's because there's no wind. <b> PLOG </b> I guess he means that they stand very still. <b> JOF </b> It's completely quiet. <b> JONS </b> If one could hear a fox at least. <b> JOF </b> Or an owl. <b> JONS </b> Or a human voice besides one's own. <b> GIRL </b> They say it's dangerous to remain standing in moonlight. Suddenly, out of the silence and the dim light falling across the forest road, a ghostlike cart emerges. It is the WITCH being taken to the place where she will be burned. Next to her eight soldiers shuffle along tiredly, carrying their lances on their backs. The girl sits in the cart, bound with iron chains around her throat and arms. She stares fixedly into the moonlight. <b> </b>A black figure sits next to her, a monk with his hood pulled down over his head. <b> JONS </b> Where are you going? <b> SOLDIER </b> To the place of execution. <b> JONS </b> Yes, now I can see. It's the girl who has done it with the Black One. The witch? The SOLDIER nods sourly. Hesitantly, the travelers follow. The KNIGHT guides his horse over to the side of the cart. The WITCH seems to be half-conscious, but her eyes are wide open. <b> KNIGHT </b> I see that they have hurt your hands. The WITCH'S pale, childish face turns towards the KNIGHT and she shakes her head. <b> KNIGHT </b> I have a potion that will stop your pain. She shakes her head again. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Why do you burn her at this time of night? People have so few diversions these days. <b> </b><b> SOLDIER </b> Saints preserve us, be quiet! It's said that she brings the Devil with her wherever she goes. <b> JONS </b> You are eight brave men, then. <b> SOLDIER </b> Well, we've been paid. And this is a volunteer job. The SOLDIER speaks in whispers while glancing anxiously at the WITCH. <b> KNIGHT </b> (to the WITCH) What's your name? <b> TYAN </b> My name is Tyan, my lord. <b> KNIGHT </b> How old are you? <b> TYAN </b> Fourteen, my lord. <b> KNIGHT </b> And is it true that you have been in league with the Devil? TYAN nods quietly and looks away. Now they arrive at the parish border. At the foot of the nearby hills lies a crossroads. The pyre has already been stacked in the center of the forest clearing. The travelers remain there, hesitant and curious. <b> </b>The soldiers have tied up the cart horse and bring out two long wooden beams. They nail rungs across the beams so that it looks like a ladder. TYAN will be bound to this like an eelskin stretched out to dry. The sound of the hammering echoes through the forest. The KNIGHT has dismounted and walks closer to the cart. Again he tries to catch TYAN'S eyes, touches her very lightly as if to waken her. Slowly she turns her face towards him. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> They say that you have been in league with the Devil. <b> TYAN </b> Why do you ask? <b> KNIGHT </b> Not out of curiosity, but for very personal reasons. I too want to meet him. <b> TYAN </b> Why? <b> KNIGHT </b> I want to ask him about God. He, if anyone, must know. <b> TYAN </b> You can see him anytime. <b> KNIGHT </b> How? <b> TYAN </b> You must do as I tell you. The KNIGHT grips the wooden rail of the cart so tightly that his knuckles whiten. TYAN leans forward and joins her gaze with his. <b> TYAN </b> Look into my eyes. The KNIGHT meets her gaze. They stare at each other for a long time. <b> TYAN </b> What do you see? Do you see him? <b> KNIGHT </b> I see fear in your eyes, an empty, numb fear. But nothing else. He falls silent. The soldiers work at the stakes; their hammering echoes in the forest. <b> TYAN </b> No one, nothing, no one? <b> KNIGHT </b> (shakes his head) No. <b> TYAN </b> Can't you see him behind your back? <b> KNIGHT </b> (looks around) No, there is no one there. <b> TYAN </b> But he is with me everywhere. I only have to stretch out my hand and I can feel his hand. He is with me now too. The fire won't hurt me. He will protect me from everything evil. <b> KNIGHT </b> Has he told you this? <b> TYAN </b> I know it. <b> KNIGHT </b> Has he said it? <b> TYAN </b> I know it, I know it. You must see him somewhere, you must. The priests had no difficulty seeing him, nor did the soldiers. They are so afraid of him that they don't even dare touch me. The sounds of the hammers stops. The soldiers stand like black shadows rooted in the moss. They fumble with the chains and pull at the neck iron. TYAN moans weakly, as if she were far away. <b> KNIGHT </b> Why have you crushed her hands? <b> SOLDIER </b> (surly) We didn't do it. <b> KNIGHT </b> Who did? <b> SOLDIER </b> Ask the monk. The soldiers pull the iron and the chains. TYAN'S shaven head sways, gleaming in the moonlight. Her blackened mouth opens as if to scream, but no sound emerges. They take her down from the cart and lead her towards the ladder and the stake. The KNIGHT turns to the MONK, who remains seated in the cart. <b> KNIGHT </b> What have you done with the child? DEATH turns around and looks at him. <b> DEATH </b> Don't you ever stop asking questions? <b> KNIGHT </b> No, I'll never stop. The soldiers chain TYAN to the rungs of the ladder. She submits resignedly, moans weakly like an animal and tries to ease her body into position. <b> </b>When they have fastened her, they walk over to light the pyre. The KNIGHT steps up and leans over her. <b> JONS </b> For a moment I thought of killing the soldiers, but it would do no good. She's nearly dead already. One of the soldiers approaches. Thick smoke wells down from the pyre and sweeps over the quiet shadows near the crossroads and the hill. <b> SOLDIER </b> I've told you to be careful. Don't go too close to her. The KNIGHT doesn't heed this warning. He cups his hand, fills it with water from the skin and gives it to TYAN. Then he gives her a potion. <b> KNIGHT </b> Take this and it will stop the pain. Smoke billows down over them and they begin to cough. The soldiers step forward and raise the ladder against a nearby fir tree. TYAN hangs there motionlessly, her eyes wide open. The KNIGHT straightens up and stands immobile. JONS is behind him, his voice nearly choked with rage. <b> JONS </b> What does she see? Can you tell me? <b> KNIGHT </b> (shakes his head) She feels no more pain. <b> JONS </b> You don't answer my question. Who watches over that child? Is it the angels, or God, or the Devil, or only the emptiness? Emptiness, my lord! <b> KNIGHT </b> This cannot be. <b> JONS </b> Look at her eyes, my lord. Her poor brain has just made a discovery. Emptiness under the moon. <b> KNIGHT </b> No. <b> JONS </b> We stand powerless, our arms hanging at our sides, because we see what she sees, and our terror and hers are the same. (an outburst) That poor little child. I can't stand it, I can't stand it ... His voice sticks in his throat and he suddenly walks away. The KNIGHT mounts his horse. The travelers depart from the crossroads. TYAN finally closes her eyes. <b> </b> The forest is now very dark. The road winds between the trees. The wagon squeaks and rattles over stones and roots. A bird suddenly shrieks. <b> </b>JOF lifts his head and wakes up. He has been asleep with his arms around MIA's shoulders. The KNIGHT is sharply silhouetted against the tree trunks. His silence makes him seem almost unreal. JONS and PLOG are slightly drunk and support each other. Suddenly PLOG has to sit down. He puts his hands over his face and howls piteously. <b> PLOG </b> Oh, now it came over me again! <b> JONS </b> Don't scream. What came over you? <b> PLOG </b> My wife, damn it. She is so beautiful. She is so beautiful that she can't be described without the accompaniment of a lyre. <b> JONS </b> Now it starts again. <b> PLOG </b> Her smile is like brandy. Her eyes like blackberries ... PLOG searches for beautiful words. He gestures gropingly with his large hands. <b> JONS </b> (sighs) Get up, you tear-drenched pig. We'll lose the others. <b> PLOG </b> Yes, of course, of course. Her nose is like a little pink potato; her behind is like a juicy pear -- yes, the whole woman is like a strawberry patch. I can see her in front of me, with arms like wonderful cucumbers. <b> JONS </b> Saints almighty, stop! You're a very bad poet, despite the fact that you're drunk. And your vegetable garden bores me. They walk across an open meadow. Here it is a little brighter and the moon shimmers behind a thin sky. Suddenly PLOG points a large finger towards the edge of the forest. <b> PLOG </b> Look there. <b> JONS </b> Do you see something? <b> PLOG </b> There, over there! <b> JONS </b> I don't see anything. <b> PLOG </b> Hang on to something, my friends. The hour is near! Who is that at the edge of the forest if not my own dearly beloved, with actor attached? The two lovers discover PLOG and it's too late. They cannot retreat. SKAT immediately takes to his heels. PLOG chases him, swinging his sledge and bellowing like a wild boar. For a few confusing moments the two rivals stumble among the stones and bushes in the gray gloom of the forest. The duel begins to look senseless, because both of them are equally frightened. The travelers silently observe this confused performance. LISA screams once in a while, more out of duty than out of impulse. <b> SKAT </b> (panting) You miserable stubbleheaded bastard of seven scurvy bitches, if I were in your lousy rags I would be stricken with such eternal shame about my breath, my voice, my arms and legs -- in short, about my whole body -- that I would immediately rid nature of my own embarrassing self. <b> PLOG </b> (angry) Watch out, you perfumed slob, that I don't fart on you and immediately blow you down to the actor's own red-hot hell, where you can sit and recite monologues to each other until the dust comes out of the Devil's ears. Then LISA throws herself around her husband's neck. <b> LISA </b> Forgive me, dear little husband, I'll never do it again. I am so sorry and you can't imagine how terribly that man over there betrayed me. <b> PLOG </b> I'll kill him anyway. <b> LISA </b> Yes, do that, just kill him. He isn't even a human being. <b> JONS </b> Hell, he's an actor. <b> LISA </b> He is only a false beard, false teeth, false smiles, rehearsed lines, and he's as empty as a jug. Just kill him. LISA sobs with excitement and sorrow. PLOG looks around, a little confused. SKAT uses this opportunity. He pulls out a dagger and places the point against his breast. <b> SKAT </b> She's right. Just kill me. If you thought that I was going to apologize for being what I am, you are mistaken. <b> LISA </b> Look how sickening he is. How he makes a fool of himself, how he puts on an act. Dear Plog, kill him. <b> SKAT </b> My friends, you have only to push, and my unreality will soon be transformed into a new, solid reality. An absolutely tangible corpse. <b> LISA </b> Do something then. Kill him. <b> PLOG </b> (embarrassed) He has to fight me, otherwise I can't kill him. <b> SKAT </b> Your life's thread now hangs by a very ragged shred. Idiot, your day is short. <b> PLOG </b> You'll have to irritate me a little more to get me as angry as before. SKAT looks at the travelers with a pained expression and then lifts his eyes towards the night sky. <b> SKAT </b> I forgive all of you. Pray for me sometimes. SKAT sinks the dagger into his breast and slowly falls to the ground. The travelers stand confused. PLOG rushes forward and begins to pull at SKAT'S hands. <b> PLOG </b> Oh dear, dear, I didn't mean it that way! Look, there's no life left in him. I was beginning to like him, and in my opinion Lisa was much too spiteful. JOF leans over his colleague. <b> JOF </b> He's dead, totally, enormously dead. In fact, I've never seen such a dead actor. <b> LISA </b> Come on, let's go. This is nothing to mourn over. He has only himself to blame. <b> PLOG </b> And I have to be married to her. <b> JONS </b> We must go on. SKAT lies in the grass and keeps the dagger pressed tightly to his breast. The travelers depart and soon they have disappeared into the dark forest on the other side of the meadow. When SKAT is sure that no one can see him, he sits up and lifts the dagger from his breast. It is a stage dagger with a blade that pushes into the handle. SKAT laughs to himself. <b> SKAT </b> Now that was a good scene. I'm really a good actor. After all, why shouldn't I be a little pleased with myself? But where shall I go? I'll wait until it becomes light and then I'll find the easiest way out of the forest. I'll climb up a tree for the time being so that no bears, wolves or ghosts can get at me. He soon finds a likely tree and climbs up into its thick foliage. He sits down as comfortably as possible and reaches for his food pouch. <b> SKAT </b> (yawns) Tomorrow I'll find Jof and Mia and then we'll go to the saints' feast in Elsinore. We'll make lots of money there. (yawns) Now, I'll sing a little song to myself: (sings) I am a little bird Who sings whate'er he will, And when I am in danger I fling out a pissing trill As in the carnal thrill. (speaks) It's boring to be alone in the forest tonight. (sings) The terrible night doesn't frighten me ... He interrupts himself and listens. The sound of industrious sawing is heard through the silence. <b> SKAT </b> Workmen in the forest. Oh, well! (sings) The terrible night doesn't frighten me ... (speaks) Hey, what the devil ... it's my tree they're cutting down. He peers through the foliage. Below him stands a dark figure diligently sawing away at the base of the tree. SKAT becomes frightened and angry. <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> Hey, you! Do you hear me, you tricky bastard? What are you doing with my tree? The sawing continues without a pause. SKAT becomes more frightened. <b> SKAT </b> Can't you at least answer me? Politeness costs so little. Who are you? DEATH straightens his back and squints up at him. SKAT cries out in terror. <b> DEATH </b> I'm sawing down your tree because your time is up. <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> It won't do. I haven't got time. <b> DEATH </b> So you haven't got time. <b> SKAT </b> No, I have my performance. <b> DEATH </b> Then it's canceled because of death. <b> SKAT </b> My contract. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> Your contract is terminated. <b> SKAT </b> My children, my family. <b> DEATH </b> Shame on you, Skat! <b> SKAT </b> Yes, I'm ashamed. DEATH begins to saw again. The tree creaks. <b> SKAT </b> Isn't there any way to get off? Aren't there any special rules for actors? <b> DEATH </b> No, not in this case. <b> SKAT </b> No loopholes, no exceptions? DEATH saws. <b> SKAT </b> Perhaps you'll take a bribe. DEATH saws. <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> Help! DEATH saws. <b> SKAT </b> Help! Help! The tree falls. The forest becomes silent again. <b> </b> Night and then dawn. The travelers have come to a sort of clearing and have collapsed on the moss. They lie quietly and listen to their own breathing, their heartbeats, and the wind in the tree tops. Here the forest is wild and impenetrable. Huge boulders stick up out of the ground like the heads of black giants. A fallen tree lies like a mighty barrier between light and shadow. MIA, JOF and their child have sat down apart from the others. They look at the light of the moon, which is no longer full and dead but mysterious and unstable. The KNIGHT sits bent over his chess game. LISA cries quietly behind PLOG'S back. JONS lies on the ground and looks up at the heavens. <b> JONS </b> Soon dawn will come, but the heat continues to hang over us like a smothering blanket. <b> LISA </b> I'm so frightened. <b> PLOG </b> We feel that something is going to happen to us, but we don't know what. <b> JONS </b> Maybe it's the day of judgment. <b> PLOG </b> The day of judgment ... Now, something moves behind the fallen tree. There is a rustling sound and a moaning cry that seems to come from a wounded animal. Everyone listens intently, all faces turned towards the sound. A voice comes out of the darkness. <b> RAVAL </b> Do you have some water? RAVAL'S perspiring face soon becomes visible. He disappears in the darkness, but his voice is heard again. <b> RAVAL </b> Can't you give me a little water? (pause) I have the plague. <b> JONS </b> Don't come here. If you do I'll slit your throat. Keep to the other side of the tree. <b> RAVEL </b> I'm afraid of death. No one answers. There is complete silence. RAVAL gasps heavily for air. The dry leaves rustle with his movements. <b> RAVEL </b> I don't want to die! I don't want to! <b> </b>No one answers. RAVAL'S face appears suddenly at the base of the tree. His eyes bulge wildly and his mouth is ringed with foam. <b> RAVAL </b> Can't you have pity on me? Help me! At least talk to me. No one answers. The trees sigh. RAVAL begins to cry. <b> RAVAL </b> I am going to die. I. I. I! What will happen to me! Can no one console me? Haven't you any compassion? Can't you see that I ... His words are choked off by a gurgling sound. He disappears in the darkness behind the fallen tree. It becomes quiet for a few moments. <b> RAVAL </b> (whispers) Can't anyone ... only a little water. Suddenly the GIRL gets up with a quick movement, snatches JONS'S water bag and runs a few steps. JONS grabs her and holds her fast. <b> JONS </b> It's no use. It's no use. I know that it's no use. It's meaningless. It's totally meaningless. I tell you that it's meaningless. Can't you hear that I'm consoling you? <b> RAVEL </b> Help me, help me! No one answers, no one moves. RAVAL'S sobs are dry and convulsive, like a frightened child's. His sudden scream is cut off in the middle. Then it becomes quiet. <b> </b>The GIRL sinks down and hides her face in her hands. JONS places his hand on her shoulder. <b> </b> <b>16 </b>The KNIGHT is no longer alone. DEATH has come to him and he raises his hand. <b> DEATH </b> Shall we play our game to the end? <b> KNIGHT </b> Your move! DEATH raises his hand and strikes the KNIGHT'S queen. Antonius Block looks at <b>DEATH. </b> <b> DEATH </b> Now I take your queen. <b> KNIGHT </b> I didn't notice that. The KNIGHT leans over the game. The moonlight moves over the chess pieces, which seem to have a life of their own. JOF has dozed off for a few moments, but suddenly he wakens. Then he sees the KNIGHT and DEATH together. He becomes very frightened and awakens MIA. <b> JOF </b> Mia! <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Yes, what is it? <b> </b><b> JOF </b> I see something terrible. Something I almost can't talk about. <b> MIA </b> What do you see? <b> JOF </b> The knight is sitting over there playing chess. <b> MIA </b> Yes, I can see that too and I don't think it's so terrible. <b> JOF </b> But do you see who he's playing with? <b> MIA </b> He is alone. You mustn't frighten me this way. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> No, no, he isn't alone. <b> MIA </b> Who is it, then? <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Death. He is sitting there playing chess with Death himself. <b> MIA </b> You mustn't say that. <b> JOF </b> We must try to escape. <b> MIA </b> One can't do that. <b> JOF </b> We must try. They are so occupied with their game that if we move very quietly, they won't notice us. JOF gets up carefully and disappears into the darkness behind the trees. MIA remains standing, as if paralyzed by fear. She stares fixedly at the KNIGHT and the chess game. She holds her son in her arms. Now JOF returns. <b> JOF </b> I have harnessed the horse. The wagon is standing near the big tree. You go first and I'll follow you with the packs. See that Mikael doesn't wake up. MIA does what JOF has told her. At the same moment, the KNIGHT looks up from his game. <b> DEATH </b> It is your move, Antonius Block. The KNIGHT remains silent. He sees MIA go through the moonlight towards the wagon. JOF bends down to pick up the pack and follows at a distance. <b> DEATH </b> Have you lost interest in our game? <b> </b>The KNIGHT'S eyes become alarmed. DEATH looks at him intently. <b> KNIGHT </b> Lost interest? On the contrary. <b> DEATH </b> You seem anxious. Are you hiding anything? <b> KNIGHT </b> Nothing escapes you -- or does it? <b> DEATH </b> Nothing escapes me. No one escapes from me. <b> KNIGHT </b> It's true that I'm worried. He pretends to be clumsy and knocks the chess pieces over with the hem of his coat. He looks up at DEATH. <b> KNIGHT </b> I've forgotten how the pieces stood. <b> DEATH </b> (laughs contentedly) But I have not forgotten. You can't get away that easily. <b> </b>DEATH leans over the board and rearranges the pieces. The KNIGHT looks past him towards the road. MIA has just climbed up on the wagon. JOF takes the horse by the bridle and leads it down the road. DEATH notices nothing; he is completely occupied with reconstructing the game. <b> DEATH </b> Now I see something interesting. <b> KNIGHT </b> What do you see? <b> DEATH </b> You are mated on the next move, Antonius Block. <b> KNIGHT </b> That's true. <b> DEATH </b> Did you enjoy your reprieve? <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes, I did. <b> DEATH </b> I'm happy to hear that. Now I'll be leaving you. When we meet again, you and your companions' time will be up. <b> KNIGHT </b> And you will divulge your secrets. <b> DEATH </b> I have no secrets. <b> KNIGHT </b> So you know nothing. <b> DEATH </b> I have nothing to tell. The KNIGHT wants to answer, but DEATH is already gone. A murmur is heard in the tree tops. Dawn comes, a flickering light without life, making the forest seem threatening and evil. JOF drives over the twisting road. MIA sits beside him. <b> MIA </b> What a strange light. <b> JOF </b> I guess it's the thunderstorm which comes with dawn. <b> MIA </b> No, it's something else. Something terrible. Do you hear the roar in the forest? <b> JOF </b> It's probably rain. <b> MIA </b> No, it isn't rain. He has seen us and he's following us. He has overtaken us; he's coming towards us. <b> JOF </b> Not yet, Mia. In any case, not yet. <b> MIA </b> I'm so afraid. I'm so afraid. The wagon rattles over roots and stones; it sways and creaks. Now the horse stops with his ears flat against his head. The forest sighs and stirs ponderously. <b> JOF </b> Get into the wagon, Mia. Crawl in quickly. We'll lie down, Mia, with Mikael between us. They crawl into the wagon and crouch around the sleeping child. <b> JOF </b> It is the Angel of Death that's passing over us, Mia. It's the Angel of Death. The Angel of Death, and he's very big. <b> MIA </b> Do you feel how cold it is? I'm freezing. I'm terribly cold. She shivers as if she had a fever. They pull the blankets over them and lie closely together. The wagon canvas flutters and beats in the wind. The roar outside is like a giant bellowing. <b> </b> The castle is silhouetted like a black boulder against the heavy dawn. Now the storm moves there, throwing itself powerfully against walls and abutments. The sky darkens; it is almost like night. Antonius Block has brought his companions with him to the castle. But it seems deserted. They walk from room to room. There is only emptiness and quiet echoes. Outside, the rain is heard roaring noisily. Suddenly the KNIGHT stands face to face with his wife. They look at each other quietly. <b> KARIN </b> I heard from people who came from the crusade that you were on your way home. I've been waiting for you here. All the others have fled from the plague. The KNIGHT is silent. He looks at her. <b> KARIN </b> Don't you recognize me any more? The KNIGHT nods, silent. <b> KARIN </b> You also have changed. She walks closer and looks searchingly into his face. The smile lingers in her eyes and she touches his hand lightly. <b> KARIN </b> Now I can see that it's you. Somewhere in your eyes, somewhere in your face, but hidden and frightened, is that boy who went away so many years ago. <b> KNIGHT </b> It's over now and I'm a little tired. <b> KARIN </b> I see that you're tired. <b> KNIGHT </b> Over there stand my friends. <b> KARIN </b> Ask them in. They will break the fast with us. They all sit down at the table in the room, which is lit by torches on the walls. Silently they eat the hard bread and the salt-darkened meat. KARIN sits at the head of the table and reads aloud from a thick book. <b> KARIN </b> "And when the Lamb broke the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about the space of half an hour. And I saw the seven angels which stood before God; and to them were given seven trumpets. And another ..." Three mighty knocks sound on the large portal. KARIN interrupts her reading and looks up from the book. JONS rises quickly and goes to open the door. <b> KARIN </b> "The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth; and the third part of the trees was burnt up and all the green grass was burnt up." Now the rain becomes quiet. There is suddenly an immense, frightening silence in the large, murky room where the burning torches throw uneasy shadows over the ceiling and the walls. Everyone listens tensely to the stillness. <b> KARIN </b> "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and a third part of the sea became blood ..." Steps are heard on the stairs. JONS returns and sits down silently at his place but does not continue to eat. <b> KNIGHT </b> Was someone there? <b> JONS </b> No, my lord. I saw no one. KARIN lifts her head for a moment but once again leans over the large book. <b> KARIN </b> "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a torch, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers and upon the fountains of waters; and the name of the star is called Wormwood ..." They all lift their heads, and when they see who is coming towards them through the twilight of the large room, they rise from the table and stand close together. <b> KNIGHT </b> Good morning, noble lord. <b> KARIN </b> I am Karin, the knight's wife, and welcome you courteously to my house. <b> PLOG </b> I am a smith by profession and rather good at my trade, if I say so myself. My wife Lisa -- curtsy for the great lord, Lisa. She's a little difficult to handle once in a while and we had a little spat, so to speak, but no worse than most people. The KNIGHT hides his face in his hands. <b> KNIGHT </b> From our darkness, we call out to Thee, Lord. Have mercy on us because we are small and frightened and ignorant. <b> JONS </b> (bitterly) In the darkness where You are supposed to be, where all of us probably are.... In the darkness You will find no one to listen to Your cries or be touched by Your sufferings. Wash Your tears and mirror Yourself in Your indifference. <b> KNIGHT </b> God, You who are somewhere, who must be somewhere, have mercy upon us. <b> JONS </b> I could have given you an herb to purge you of your worries about eternity. Now it seems to be too late. But in any case, feel the immense triumph of this last minute when you can still roll your eyes and move your toes. <b> KARIN </b> Quiet, quiet. <b> JONS </b> I shall be silent, but under protest. <b> GIRL </b> (on her knees) It is the end. <b> </b> JOF and MIA sit close together and listen to the rain tapping lightly on the wagon canvas, a sound which diminishes until finally there are only single drops. They crawl out of their hiding place. The wagon stands on a height above a slope, protected by an enormous tree. They look across ridges, forests, the wide plains, and the sea, which glistens in the sunlight breaking through the clouds. <b> </b>JOF stretches his arms and legs. MIA dries the wagon seat and sits down next to her husband. MIKAEL crawls between JOF'S knees. A lone bird tests its voice after the storm. The trees and bushes drip. From the sea comes a strong and fragrant wind. JOF points to the dark, retreating sky where summer lightning glitters like silver needles over the horizon. <b> JOF </b> I see them, Mia! I see them! Over there against the dark, stormy sky. They are all there. The smith and Lisa and the knight and Raval and Jns and Skat. And Death, the severe master, invites them to dance. He tells them to hold each other's hands and then they must tread the dance in a long row. And first goes the master with his scythe and hourglass, but Skat dangles at the end with his lyre. They dance away from the dawn and it's a solemn dance towards the dark lands, while the rain washes their faces and cleans the salt of the tears from their cheeks. He is silent. He lowers his hand. His son, MIKAEL, has listened to his words. Now, he crawls up to MIA and sits down in her lap. <b> MIA </b> (smiling) You with your visions and dreams. <b> </b> Screenplay by Ingmar Bergman <b> </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who is the first person that falls under Vigo's spell?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and memorize the context. (Note: I will give you the question after you confirm that you have memorized the context.) \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Dr. Janosz Poha" ]	25,090	narrativeqa	en	null	f9cfda8abcc78f9e2f492d4f58ee4996430e9a8911e29726	Ghostbusters II by Harold Ramis and Dan Aykroyd September 29, 1988 Last revised Feburary 27, 1989 <b>EXT. MANHATTAN ISLAND - DAY </b> A high AERIAL SHOT of the island features the Statue of Liberty prominently in the foreground then TRAVELS ACROSS the harbor, OVER the Battery and Lower Manhattan to Greenwich Village. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY </b> A car is being hoisted up by a municipal tow truck while its owner is having a terrible screaming arguement with a parking enforcement officer. DANA BARRETT comes home pushing a baby buggy, struggling with two full bags of groceries, and trying to dig her keys out of her purse. The building superintendent FRANK, sees her struggling but pretends not to notice. <b> DANA </b> (exasperated) Frank, do you think you could give me a hand with these bags? <b> FRANK </b> I'm not a doorman, Miss Barrett. I'm a building superintendent. <b> DANA </b> You're also a human being, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> (reluctantly going to help) Okay, okay. It's not my job, but what the hell. I'll do you a favor. He takes the grocery bags from her. <b> DANA </b> (setting the wheel brakes on the buggy) Thank you, Frank. I'll get the hang of this eventually. She continues digging in her purse while Frank leans over the buggy and makes funny faces at the baby, OSCAR, a very cute nine-month old boy. <b> FRANK </b> (to the baby) Hiya, Oscar. What do you say, slugger? <b> FRANK </b> (to Dana) That's a good-looking kid you got there, Ms. Barrett. <b> DANA </b> (finding her keys) Thank you, Frank. Oh, are you ever going to fix the radiator in my bedroom? I asked you last week. <b> FRANK </b> Didn't I do it? <b>BABY BUGGY </b> It starts to vibrate as if shaken by an unseen hand. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> He GURGLES with delight at the movement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DANA AND FRANK - DAY </b> Neither of them notice the movement of the carriage. <b> DANA </b> No, you didn't, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> Okay, that's no problem. <b> DANA </b> That's exactly what you said last week. <b>BUGGY WHEELS </b> The brakes unlock themselves. <b>DANA </b> She reaches for the handlebar of the buggy, but the buggy rolls forward just out of her reach and stops. Surprised by the movement, she reaches for the handlebar again, but this time the buggy rolls away even further. Alarmed now, Dana hurries after it, but the buggy keeps rolling down the street at ever increasing speed. <b>SIDEWALK </b> Dana chases the buggy down the street, shouting to passing pedestrians for help, but every time someone reaches out to stop it, the buggy swerves and continues unchecked. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars, trucks, and buses speed by in both directions as the buggy races toward the corner. <b>DANA </b> She puts her head down and sprints after the buggy like an Olympian. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> A city bus is on a collision course with the speeding baby buggy. <b>BUGGY </b> It careens toward the corner. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> Its eyes are wide open with excitement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> Bus and buggy are closing fast as the buggy bounces over the curb and into the crosswalk. <b>BUS </b> The bus driver reacts in helpless horror as he sees the buggy enter the intersection at high speed. <b>BUGGY </b> It comes to a dead stop right in the middle of the street. The bus continues missing the buggy by inches. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars and trucks swerve and hit their brakes as Dana runs into the intersection and snatches up the baby. She hugs it close, deeply relieved, then looks at the buggy with the dawning awareness that the supernatural has re-entered her life. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UPPER WEST SIDE - NEW YORK CITY STREET - GHOSTBUSTERS LOGO - DAY </b> THEME MUSIC kicks in strongly as we see the familiar "No Ghosts" symbol and PULL BACK to reveal that it's painted on the side of Ecto-1, the Ghostbusters' emergency vehicle, which is speeding up Broadway on the Upper West Side. RAY STANTZ is driving and WINSTON ZEDDEMORE is riding shotgun. <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> The Ectomobile pulls up in front of a carefully-restored brownstone. Stantz and Winston, wearing their official Ghostbuster uniforms, jump out of the old ambulance, shoulder their proton packs and enter the house. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> A WOMAN greets them and leads them through the expensively-furnished house. <b> STANTZ </b> (all business) How many of them are there, ma'am? <b> WOMAN </b> Fourteen. They're in the back. I hope you can handle them. It's been like a nightmare. <b> WINSTON </b> How big are they? She holds her hand out indicating about four feet. <b> WINSTON </b> (resolute) We'll do our best, ma'am. <b> WOMAN </b> They're right out here. She leads them to a set of French doors that open into another room. Stantz and Winston pause to make final adjustments to their equipment. <b> STANTZ </b> Ready? <b> WINSTON </b> I'm ready. <b> STANTZ </b> Then let's do it. He pushes through the French doors and they step into the room. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They are immediately attacked by fourteen or fifteen screaming KIDS between the ages of seven and ten. <b> KIDS </b> (disappointed) Ghostbusters!! Boooo!! Tables are set with party favors, ice cream and birthday cake and the room is strewn with discarded toys and games. A couple of weary parents sink onto lawn chairs as Stantz and Winston take over the party. <b> WINSTON </b> (trying his best) How you doin', kids? <b> LITTLE BOY </b> (nasty) I though we were having He-Man. <b> STANTZ </b> He-Man couldn't make it today. That's why we're here. <b> BOY </b> My dad says you're full of crap. <b> STANTZ </b> (stopped cold) Well, a lot of people have trouble believing in the paranormal. <b> BOY </b> No, he just says you're full of crap and that's why you went out of business. He kicks Stantz in the leg. Stantz grabs him by the shirtfront. <b> STANTZ </b> (low and menacing) I'm watching you. (to Winston) Song. Winston switches on a tiny TAPE RECORDER which starts PLAYING the Ghostbusters THEME SONG. Stantz and WInston start singing <b> STANTZ AND WINSTON </b> 'There's something wrong in the neighborhood. Who you gonna call?' <b> KIDS </b> (all together) He-Man!! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Stantz and Winston wearily load their equipment into the Ectomobile. <b> WINSTON </b> That's it, Ray. I've had it. No more parties. I'm tired of taking abuse from over-privileged nine-year-olds. <b> STANTZ </b> Come on, Winston. We can't quit now. The holidays are coming up. It's our best season. They get in the car <b>INT. ECTO-1 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz tries to start the car, but the engine won't turn over. <b> WINSTON </b> Give it up, Ray. You're living in the past. Ghostbusters doesn't exist anymore. In a year these kids won't even remember who we are. <b> STANTZ </b> (tries to start the car again) Ungrateful little Yuppie larvae. After all we did for this city. <b> WINSTON </b> Yeah, what did we do, Ray? The last real job we had we bubbled up a hundred foot marshmallow man and blew the top three floors off an uptown highrise. <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, but what a ride. You can't make a hamburger without chopping up a cow. He turns the key again, the ENGING TURNS OVER, then starts GRINDING and CLUNKING disastrously, chewing up vital parts and dropping twisted bits of metal onto the pavement. Finally, with a BLAST of black sooty exhaust from the tailpipe, Ecto-1 shudders and dies. Frustrated, Stantz bangs his head lightly on the steering wheel <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. WKRR-TV STUDIO RECEPTION AREA - DAY (LATER) </b> A bank of monitors in the lobby show the program now running on WKRR, Channel 10 in New York. We PUSH IN ON one of the monitors as a title card and logo come up accompanied by some EERIE SYNTHESIZER MUSIC, and we return to the show in progress: "World of the Psychic with Dr. Peter Venkman." There is a video dissolve to a standard talk show set and sitting there is our host PETER VENKMAN, the renowned and somewhat infamous ex-Ghostbuster. <b>VENKMAN </b> He turns TO CAMERA and talks to his viewers in a suavely engaging tone, understated and intimate. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, welcome back to the 'World of the Psychic,' I'm Peter Venkman and I'm chatting with my guest, author, lecturer and of course, psychic, Milton Anglund. (to his guest) Milt, your new book is called The End of the World. Isn't that kind of like writing about gum disease. Yes, it could happen, but do you think anybody wants to read a book about it? <b> MILTON </b> Well, I think it's important for people to know that the world is in danger. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, so can you tell us when it's going to happen or do we have to buy the book? <b> MILTON </b> I predict that the world will end at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> This year? That's cutting it a little close, isn't it? I mean, just from a sales point of view, the book just came out, right? So you're not even looking at the paperback release for maybe a year. And it's going to be at least another year after that if the thing has movie-of-the-week or mini-series potential. You would have been better off predicting 1992 or even '94 just to be safe. <b> MILTON </b> (irritated) This is not just some money-making scheme! I didn't just make up the date. I have a strong psychic belief that the world will end on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> (placating) Well, for your sake, I hope you're right. But I think my other guest may disagree with you. Elaine, you had another date in mind? The CAMERA REVEALS ELAINE, an attractive, aggressive New Jersey housewife, sitting on the other side of Venkman. <b> ELAINE </b> According to my sources, the world will end on February 14, in the year 2016. <b> VENKMAN </b> Valentine's Day. That's got to be a bummer. Where did you get that date, Elaine? <b> ELAINE </b> I received this information from an alien. I was at the Paramus Holiday Inn, I was having a drink in the bar when he approached me and started talking. Then he must have used some sort of ray or a mind control device because he made me follow him to his room and that's where he told me about the end of the world. <b> VENKMAN </b> Your alien had a room in the Holiday Inn? <b> ELAINE </b> It may have been a room on the spacecraft made up to look like a room in the Holiday Inn. I can't be sure, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (humoring her) No, you can't, and I think that's the whole problem with aliens; you just can't trust them. You may get some nice ones occasionally like Starman or E.T., but most of them turn out to be some kind of lizard. Anyway, we're just about out of time. (does his wrap-up right TO the CAMERA) Next week on 'World of the Psychic,' hairless pets. (holds up a hairless cat) Until then, this is Peter Venkman saying ... (puts a finger to his temple and sends out a though to his viewers) ... Good night. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. TV STUDIO - CORRIDOR - DAY (LATER) </b> Venkman comes out of the studio squabbling with his producer, NORMAN, a well-meaning young incompetent. <b> VENKMAN </b> Where do you find these people? I thought we were having the telekinetic guy who bends the spoons? <b> NORMAN </b> A lot of the better psychics won't come on the show. They think you're too skeptical. <b> VENKMAN </b> Skeptical! Norman, I'm a pushover. I think professional wrestling is real. There is a small commotion down the hall as two plainclothes cops come out of the next studio followed by a group of mayoral assistants. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Norman) What's all this? <b> NORMAN </b> They just interviewed the mayor on 'Cityline.' <b> VENKMAN </b> The Mayor! He's a friend of mine. Venkman starts down the hall as the MAYOR and his principal aide, JACK HARDEMEYER, come walking out of the studio. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calling to the Mayor) Lenny! The Mayor sees Venkman, blanches and hurries off, pretending not to know him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (starts to follow him) Lenny! It's Pete Venkman! The plainclothesmen cut Venkman off and Hardemeyer puts a heavy hand against Venkman's chest. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (snide) Can I help you? <b> VENKMAN </b> (dangerous) Yeah, you can get your hand off my chest. Hardemeyer smiles and drops his hand. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> I'm Jack Hardemeyer. I'm the mayor's assistant. What can I do for you? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm an old friend of the mayor's. I just want to say hello to him. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (scornful) I know who you are, Doctor Venkman. Busting any ghosts lately? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, that's what I want to talk to the mayor about. We did a little job for the city a while back and we ended up getting sued, screwed and tattooed by deskworms like you. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (bristling) Look, you stay away from the mayor. Next fall, barring a disaster, he's going to be elected governor of this state and the last thing we need is for him to be associated with two-bit frauds and publicity hounds like you and your friends. You read me? Hardemeyer walks off with the two cops. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, I get it. But I want you to tell Lenny that, because of you, I'm not voting for him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - DAY </b> The broad front steps of the museum are crowded with tourists and visitors. Dana arrives carrying a portfolio and artist's tackle box and enters the museum. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATER) </b> We are FULL-FRAME ON a larger-than-life, full-figure portrait of VIGO THE CARPATHIAN, a demented and sadistic 16th century despot with an incredibly powerful evil presence. Then we PULL BACK to reveal the studio, which is a large open space on the top floor of the museum, lit by large skylights in the ceiling. Working on the Vigo painting is JANOSZ POHA, a youngish art historian and painter, the head of the department, quirky, intense and somewhat creepy. Janosz is staring longingly across the room at Dana. <b>DANA </b> She is carefully cleaning a 19th Century landscape painting, still preoccupied by the extraordinary near-accident with the buggy. Janosz watches her for a moment, then comes up behind her and looks over her shoulder. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with an East European accent) Still working on the Turner? Dana jumps, startled by the intrusion. <b> DANA </b> Oh, yes, I got in a little late this morning, Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> You know, you are really doing very good work here. I think soon you may be ready to assist me in some of the more important restorations. <b> DANA </b> Thank you, Janosz. I've learned a lot here, but now that my baby's a little older, I was hoping to rejoin the orchestra. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> At the mention of Dana's baby, the figure of Vigo miraculously turns his head and looks at Dana. <b>JANOSZ AND DANA </b> Neither of them notice the movement in the painting. <b> JANOSZ </b> (disappointed) We'll be very sorry to lose you. Perhaps I could take you to lunch today? <b> DANA </b> Actually, I'm not eating lunch today. I have an appointment. (looks at her watch) In fact, I'd better go. She starts gathering up her things. <b> JANOSZ </b> Every day I ask you, and every day you've got something else to do. Do I have bad breath or something? <b> DANA </b> (trying to brush him off) I'm sorry. Perhaps some other time. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, I'll take a raincheck on that. Janosz smiles at her as she exits, then goes back to his easel. <b> JANOSZ </b> (to himself) I think she likes me. He switches on an English language TAPE and starts practicing the phrases as he resumes working. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UNIVERSITY - DAY </b> Dana Barrett crosses the quad and enters a modern building. A sign identifies it as "The Institute for Advanced Theoretical Research." <b>INT. UNIVERSITY - DAY (A LITTLE LATER) </b> Dana is explaining the buggy incident to EGON SPENGLER, the soberly intellectual techno-wizard and former Ghostbuster, as he conducts an experiment assisted by a research team of graduate students, all of whom are Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. The device he is testing is a black box about the size of a Sony Watchman with both digital and graphic displays. <b> DANA </b> ... and then the buggy just suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the street <b> SPENGLER </b> Did anyone else see this happen? <b> DANA </b> Hundreds of people. Believe me, I didn't imagine this. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm not saying you did. In science we always look for the simplest explanation. An ASSISTANT interrupts. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready, Dr. Spengler <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Assistant) We'll start with the negative calibration. He picks up the device and prepares to test it. <b> DANA </b> (curious) What are you working on, Egon? <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm trying to determine whether human emotional states have a measurable effect on the psychomagnetheric energy field. It's a theory Ray and I were working on when we had to dissolve Ghostbusters. An assistant draws a curtain revealing a large picture window, actually a two-way mirror, that looks into a small waiting room. Inside the waiting room they can see but not hear a youngish couple having a heated arguement. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Dana) They think they're here for marriage counseling. We've kept them waiting for two hours and we've been gradually increasing the temperature in the room. (checking a heat sensor) It's up to 95 degrees at the moment. Now my assistant is going to enter and ask them if they'd mind waiting another half-hour. As Spengler, Dana, and the research team watch, the assistant enters the waiting room and tells the couple about the new delay. They explode with anger both at him and each other while Spengler monitors them through the glass. After recording his readings, he returns to his Assistant. <b> SPENGLER </b> We'll do the happiness index next. (to Dana) I'd like to bring Ray in on your case, if it's all right with you. <b> DANA </b> Okay, whatever you think -- but not Venkman. <b> SPENGLER </b> Oh no. <b> DANA </b> (affectedly casual) Do you ever see him? <b> SPENGLER </b> Occasionally <b> DANA </b> How is he these days? <b> SPENGLER </b> Venkman? I think he was borderline for a while there. Then he crossed the border. <b> DANA </b> Does he ever mention me? <b> SPENGLER </b> No. Not that I can recall. They move to another two-way mirror through which they can see a lovely little girl playing with a wonderful array of toys. <b> DANA </b> (slightly disappointed) Well, we didn't part on very good terms and we sort of lost track of each other when I got married. The Assistant interrupts again. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready for the affection test. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the assistant) Good. Send in the puppy. <b> DANA </b> (continuing) I thought of calling him after my marriage ended, but --. Anyway, I appreciate you're doing this, Egon They watch as another assistant enters the playroom with an adorable Cocker Spaniel puppy and gives it to the little girl. Spengler monitors her as she jumps for joy and hugs the little dog. <b> DANA </b> (handing him a card) This is my address and telephone number. Will you call me? <b> SPENGLER </b> Certainly. <b> DANA </b> Egon, I'd rather you didn't mention any of this to Peter if you don't mind. <b> SPENGLER </b> I won't. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. She shakes his hand and exits. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to his assistant) Now let's see how she reacts when we take away the puppy <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOK STORE - DAY (LATER) </b> It's a small basement shop located on a quaint commercial block in Greenwich Village. The window is crowded with occult artifacts and old books full of arcane metaphysical lore. The TELEPHONE RINGS. <b> STANTZ </b> (v.o., answering the phone) Ray's Occult. <b>INT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOKS - CONTINUOUS </b> The shelves are jammed floor to ceiling with books on the paranormal. Ray sits on a barstool behind the counter wearing an old cardigan sweater over a T-shirt. He has on a pair of reading glasses and chews on a battered, reeking pipe. As he talks on the phone he prepares a cup of herb tea for Spengler who is thumbing through an arcane text. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the phone) Yeah ... mmhmm ... What do you need? ... What have I got? I've got alchemy, astrology, apparitions, Bundu Magic Men, demon intercession, U.F.O. abductions, psychic surgery, stigmata, modern miracles, pixie sightings, golden geese, geists, ghosts, I've got it all -- what are you looking for? ... Don't have any. Try the stockyards. He hangs up. <b> SPENGLER </b> Who was that? <b> STANTZ </b> Some crank. Looking for goat hooves. Come up with anything? <b> SPENGLER </b> (referring to the book) This one's interesting. Berlin, 1939, a flower cart took off by itself and rolled approximately half a kilometer over level ground. Three hundred eyewitnesses. <b> STANTZ </b> You might want to check those Duke University mean averaging studies on controlled psychokinesis. <b> SPENGLER </b> (going to the stacks) Good idea. The bones hanging over the door rattle as Venkman enters the shop. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, hello, perhaps you could help me. I'm looking for an aerosol love potion I could spray on a certain Penthouse Pet that would make her unconditionally submit to an unusual personal request. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, hiya, Pete. <b> VENKMAN </b> So, no goat hooves, huh? <b> STANTZ </b> (strung) I knew that voice sounded familiar. What's up? How's it going? <b> VENKMAN </b> Nowhere -- fast. Why don't you lock up and buy me a sub? <b> STANTZ </b> (slightly evasive) Uh, I can't. I'm kind of working on something. Spengler steps out of the stacks. <b> VENKMAN </b> Egon! <b> SPENGLER </b> Hello, Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> How've you been? How's teaching? I bet those science chicks really dig that big cranium of yours, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think they're more interested in my epididymis. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't even want to know where that is. Venkman steps behind the counter and takes a beer from Ray's mini-fridge. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, your book came in, Venkman. Magical Paths to Fortune and Power. He hands Venkman the book. <b> VENKMAN </b> Great. (reading the contents) So what are you guys working on? <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, just checking something for an old friend. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? <b> STANTZ </b> (at a loss) Who? Just -- someone we know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, Ray -- He grabs Stantz by both ears and pulls up. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? Who? Who? <b> STANTZ </b> Aaah! Nobody! I can't tell you! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who, Ray? <b> STANTZ </b> (giving in) Dana! Dana Barrett! Venkman lets go of his ears and smiles. Spengler looks at Stantz and shakes his head. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - DAY (LATER) </b> The apartment is old and creatively furnished with a comfortable mix of modern and traditional pieces. Maria, a young Hispanic woman who does day care for Dana, is feeding the baby in the kitchen when the DOORBELL <b>RINGS. </b> <b> CUT TO: </b> Dana enters from the bedroom and crosses to the front door. She opens it and admits Ray and Egon. <b> DANA </b> (hugging Ray) Hi, Ray. It's good to see you. Thanks for coming. <b> STANTZ </b> No problem. Always glad to help -- and hug. <b> DANA </b> (to Spengler) Hi, Egon. She shakes his hand and is about to close the door when Venkman appears in the doorway. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, Dana. Dana is caught completely off guard by Venkman's surprise appearance. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew you'd come crawling back to me. She regards him coolly, as always amused and amazed at his presumptuousness. <b> DANA </b> Hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) You know, Dana, I'm very very hurt that you didn't call me first. I'm still into all this stuff, you know. Haven't you ever seen my show? <b> DANA </b> I have. That's why I didn't call you first. <b> VENKMAN </b> I can see that you're still very bitter about us, but in the interest of science, I'm going to give it my best shot. Let's go to work, boys. Stantz and Spengler begin a comprehensive parapsychological work-up on the baby and the immediate physical environment. <b>VENKMAN AND DANA </b> Venkman starts nosing around the apartment. Dana follows him. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what happened to Mr. Right? I hear he ditched you and the kid and moved to Europe. <b> DANA </b> He didn't "ditch" me. We had some problems, he got a good offer from an orchestra in England and he took it. <b> VENKMAN </b> He ditched you. You should've married me, you know. <b> DANA </b> You never asked me, and every time I brought it up you'd get drowsy and fall asleep. <b> VENKMAN </b> Men are very sensitive, you know. We need to feel loved and desired, too. <b> DANA </b> Well, when you started introducing me as "the old ball and chain," that's when I left. <b> VENKMAN </b> I may have a few personal problems but one thing I am is a total professional. He leaves her and crosses to Spengler. <b>SPENGLER </b> He's taking a complete set of body and head measurements of the baby with a tape measure and calipers. <b> VENKMAN </b> What are you going to do, Egon? Knit him a snowsuit? Spengler ignores the remark and hands Venkman a specimen jar. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'd like to have a stool specimen <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, you would. Is that for personal or professional reasons? <b> VENKMAN </b> (picking up the baby) Okay, kid. Up you go. He starts clowning with the baby, holding him over his head and pressing his nose into the baby's belly, pretending that the baby is attacking him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Help! Please somebody help me! Get him off! Quickly! He's gone completely berserk! Dana is amused and somewhat disarmed by Venkman's rapport with the baby. <b> DANA </b> What do you think? <b> VENKMAN </b> There's no doubt about it. He's got his father's looks. The kid is ugly -- extremely ugly. And smelly. (resumes playing with the baby) You stink! It's just horrible. You are the stinkiest baby I ever smelled. (to Dana) What's his name? <b> DANA </b> His name is Oscar. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oscar! You poor kid! <b> DANA </b> (losing patience) Peter, this is serious. I need to know if you think there's anything unusual about him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Unusual? (holds up the baby and scrutinizes him) I don't know. I haven't had a lot of experience with babies. He looks at the baby, pulling his feet up, trying to get the sleeper off. <b> DANA </b> (taking the specimen jar) I'll do it. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll supervise. <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NURSERY - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman enters and finds Stantz monitoring the room. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) Well, Holmes, what do you think? <b> STANTZ </b> It's an interesting one, Pete. If anything was going on it's totally subdued now. Spengler enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) What now, Brainiac? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think we should see if we can find anything abnormal on the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finding something abnormal on the street shouldn't be too hard. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Dana walks down the street with Venkman, retracing the path of the runaway buggy. Spengler and Stantz follow, monitoring PKE valences from the pavement and the buildings. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana, nostalgic) Brings back a lot of sweet memories, doesn't it? (pointing out familiar neighborhood sights) There's our old cash machine. And the dry cleaners we used to go to. And the old video store. (he wipes away an imaginary tear) We really had some good times, didn't we? <b> DANA </b> We definitely had a moment or two. Dana stops at the intersection and points to the middle of the street. <b> DANA </b> That's where the buggy stopped. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, let's take a look. Venkman walks right out into the middle of the street, completely oblivious to the CARS HONKING and whizzing past him and starts motioning like a traffic cop, bringing traffic to a standstill. Then he signals for Dana, Stantz and Spengler to join him in the middle of the street. <b> STANTZ </b> (reading the PKE meter) Is this the spot? <b> DANA </b> A little to the left. Right there! That's where it stopped. Stantz reads the PKE meter. <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Not a trace. <b> SPENGLER </b> Why don't we try the Giga-meter? <b> VENKMAN </b> What's that? <b> STANTZ </b> Egon and I have been working on a gauge to measure psychomagnetheric energy in GEVs - giga electron volts. <b> SPENGLER </b> That's a thousand million electron volts. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew that. Spengler switches on the Giga-meter, the device he was testing in the lab, and passes it over the spot on the street where the buggy stopped. The indicator goes right into the red zone and the DEVICE starts CLICKING <b>WILDLY. </b> <b> STANTZ </b> I think we hit the honeypot, boys. There's something brewing under the street. <b> DANA </b> (worried, to Venkman) Peter, do you think maybe I have some genetic problem or something that makes me vulnerable to these supernatural things. <b> VENKMAN </b> You mean like the time you got possessed and turned into a monster terror dog? No, not a chance. Total coincidence. (to Stantz and Spengler) Am I right? Stantz and Spengler look at him skeptically, not convinced by the coincidence theory. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - LATE AFTERNOON </b> The museum has just closed for the day and the last of the visitors and employees are leaving. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is working late on the painting of Vigo. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> Unnoticed by Janosz, the eyes of Vigo start to glow. <b>JANOSZ </b> He touches his brush to the canvas and a powerful current of red, crackling energy surges through the brush and courses through his body, driving him to his knees. <b>PAINTING </b> The figure of Vigo comes to life, turns toward Janosz and gestures dramatically at him. Then he speaks to Janosz in a commanding voice. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia, the sorrow of Moldavia, command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (in agony) Command me, lord. <b> VIGO </b> On a mountain of skulls in a castle of pain, I sat on a throne of blood. What was will be, what is will be no more. Now is the season of evil. Find me a child that I might live again. Bolts of red-hot energy shoot from the eyes of Vigo into Janosz's eyes. He screams and falls to his knees. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. COFFEE SHOP - EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT </b> Venkman and Stantz come out with small boxes containing coffee, sandwiches and Danish and start walking up the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> I love this. We're onto something really big. I can smell it, Ray. We're going to make some headlines with this one. <b> STANTZ </b> Hey, hey, hey, stresshound! Are you nuts? If anybody found out about this we'd be in serious trouble. The judge couldn't have been clearer - no ghostbusting. <b> VENKMAN </b> Relax. We're going to keep this whole thing nice and quiet, low key, no profile. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Spengler, wearing a hardhat, is JACKHAMMERING a hole in the middle of the street. Safety cones and reflectors have been set up and a small area is lit by strong work lights. <b>POLICE CAR </b> It turns onto East 77th Street, cruises slowly up to the makeshift worksite and stops. The noise of the JACKHAMMER is so loud, Spengler doesn't notice the police car and the two COPS inside looking at them. Finally, he looks up, sees the police car and freezes. <b> FIRST COP </b> How ya doing? <b> SPENGLER </b> (reeking with guilt) Fine! It's cutting fine now. <b> FIRST COP </b> (curious) Why are you cutting? <b> SPENGLER </b> (looking for one of the others) Why are we cutting? Uh - boss! Venkman and Stantz arrive just in time wearing Con Ed hardhats, doing a good imitation of a Consolidated Edison repairman. <b> FIRST COP </b> What are you doing here? <b> VENKMAN </b> (belligerent) What the hell's it look like we're doing? We're bustin out asses over here 'cause some douchebag downtown ain't got nothin' better to do than make idiots like us work late on a Friday night, right? (looks to Spengler for agreement) <b> SPENGLER </b> (with a "right on" fist) Yo. The cops seem satisfied by the explanation. <b> FIRST COP </b> Okay, boys, take it easy. They drive off. Spengler breathes a great sigh of relief and starts rubbing his sore shoulders. <b> SPENGLER </b> You were supposed to help me with this. <b> VENKMAN </b> You need the exercise. Stantz resumes JACKHAMMERING, while Venkman and Spengler clear the rubble from the hole. Suddenly he hits metal. They clear away generations of paving material revealing an ornate iron manhole cover. The manhole cover bears a strange logo and the letters NYPRR. <b> STANTZ </b> (examing it) NYPRR. What the hell -- ? Help me lift this. They prey off the iron cover with crowbars, uncovering a very dark and very deep abyss. <b> STANTZ </b> (shining a flashlight into the hole) Wow! It's an old airshaft. It just goes forever. Spengler leans in with the giga-meter which is reading even higher now. <b> SPENGLER </b> Very intense. We need a deeper reading. Somebody has to go down there. Venkman and Spengler both look at Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> Thanks, boys. They snap Stantz into a harness and lower him into the hole on a strong cable attached to a winch. Ray calls out orders to them as he descends deeper and deeper. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (his voice echoing in the airshaft) Keep going -- more -- more -- <b>INT. HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz rappels off the sides of the airshaft as he continues his descent in total darkness. <b> STANTZ </b> (using a radio now) Lower -- lower -- (to himself) Gee, this really is deep. Suddenly, his feet kick thin air as he gets to the bottom of the airshaft and swings free in some kind of tunnel. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it! Steady! He pulls a powerful flashlight from his utility belt and shines it into the tunnel below. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - NIGHT </b> He is suspended near the top of a beautifully preserved chamber with rounded, polished tile walls ardorned with intricate, colorfully enameled Art Nouveau mosaics. A finely inlaid sign identifies it as VAN HORNE <b>STATION. </b> <b>STANTZ </b> He pans the walls with his flashlight, admiring the excellent tilework, and speaks quietly to Venkman and Spengler over his walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ </b> (reverently) This is it, boys, the end of the line. Van Horne Station. The old New York Pneumatic. It's still here. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman has no idea what he's talking about. <b> SPENGLER </b> (explaining) The New York Pneumatic Railway. It was an experimental subway system. Fan-forced air-trains, built around 1870. <b> STANTZ </b> (over the walkie-talkie) This is about as deep as you can go under Manhattan without digging your own hole. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) What's the reading? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz shines his flashlight on the meter and whistles at the extremely high reading. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Off the top of the scale. This place is really hot. Lower me to the floor. As Venkman and Spengler feed him some more cable, he pans his flashlight down the wall of the station, then onto the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it!! Stop!! Whoa!! <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - FLOOR - NIGHT </b> Below him is a river of bubbling seething, glowing slime, a veritable torrent of disgusting ooze. As he stares into the foul effluent, we become aware of the strangely amplified and magnified sounds of great ENGINES THROBBING and pulsing in the bowels of the city, of WATER RUSHING through pipes, STEAM HISSING through ducts, the muffled RUMBLE of the SUBWAY and the ROAR of TRAFFIC, and mixed with it all, the unmistakable sounds of human conflict and pain -- VOICES SHOUTING in anger, SCREAMING in fear, GROANING in pain, a sad and eerie symphony. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ - NIGHT </b> <b> STANTZ </b> (ranting on the radio) Oh, my God! It's a seething, bubbling, psychic cess! Interlocked tubes of plasm, crackling with negative GEVs! It's glowing and moving! It's -- it's a river of slime!! <b>STANTZ </b> He dangles from the end of the cable, holding his feet up as high as he can. He unhooks a device from his utility belt and pulls the trigger on it, shooting out a long telescoping fishing-pole with a scoop on the end. Reaching down, he scoops up a sample of the slime and starts retracting the pole. <b>SLIME </b> Suddenly, a grotesque arm with a long skeletal fingers reaches up out of the slime and snatches at Stantz's dangling feet. He jerks his legs up as several more arms poke up out of the slime and reach for him. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Haul me up, Venkman! Now! <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman and Spengler start hauling in the cable as a Con Ed Supervisor's car drives up, and behind it, the same police car they saw earlier. A burly SUPERVISOR gets out and crosses toward them, followed by the two cops. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (no nonsense) Okay, what's the story here? Venkman and Spengler stop pulling up the cable and Venkman tries the belligerent worker ploy again, only this time he's wearing a Nynex hardhat. <b> VENKMAN </b> What, I got time for this? We got three thousand phones out in the Village and about eight million miles of cable to check. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (not buying it) The phone lines are over there. (points to the curb) Venkman pops Spengler on the head. <b> VENKMAN </b> I told ya! Stantz can be heard ranting over Venkman's walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (filtered) Help! Help! Pull me up! It's alive! It's eating my boots. Venkman switches off the walkie-talkie. <b> FIRST COP </b> You ain't with Con Ed or the phone company. We checked. Tell me another one. Venkman stares at the Cop for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Gas leak? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - SAME TIME </b> Stantz is hanging there, looking down into the shaft at the slime which is now bubbling up the shaft after him. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouting) Get me out of here!! Desperate now, he kicks wildly and knocks loose a section of an old, rusting conduit. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - BOTTOM OF THE SHAFT </b> The conduit falls on a heavy electrical transmission line, ripping through the cable with a SHOWER OF SPARKS. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman, Spengler, the cops and the supervisor all react to a bright FLASH deep down in the hole and a SHOUT from Stantz. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - STREET - NIGHT </b> One by one, all the streetlights go out; then the lights on all the buildings along East 77th street; then the whole neighborhood blacks out, and finally the entire city is plunged into darkness. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> Sorry. <b>INT. DANA BARRETT'S APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> She walks around in the dark lighting candles and placing them all over the living room. Then she finds a transistor radio and turns it on for information about the blackout. She listens to a special news report for a moment, then has a compelling impulse to go check on the baby. She crosses to the nursery carrying a candle and quietly opens the door and looks in. Suddenly the DOORBELL RINGS, scaring her half to death. Leaving the chain on the door, she opens it a crack and sees Janosz standing in the hall, eerily lit by a red emergency spot at the end of the hallway. He looks slightly dazed and even creepier. <b> DANA </b> (surprised) Janosz? <b> JANOSZ </b> Hello, Dana. I happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop by to see if everything's all right with you -- you know, with the blackout and everything? Are you okay? Is the baby all right? His affected concern is chilling. She is frightened but conceals it from him. <b> DANA </b> (mechanically and cautiously) We're fine, Janosz. He tires to look around her into the apartment. <b> JANOSZ </b> Do you need anything? You want me to come in? <b> DANA </b> No, everything's fine. Honestly. Thanks anyway. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, just thought I'd check. Good night, Dana. Sleep well. Don't let the bedbugs bite you. <b> DANA </b> Good night, Janosz. She closes the door behind him and double locks it, then stands there staring into the candlelight, alone and afraid. <b>INT. HALLWAY OF DANA'S BUILDING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz stands there in semi-darkness, then his eyes light up like headlights and he walks off down the hall. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - NEXT DAY </b> The JUDGE, a rather sour-looking jurist of the old school, calls the court to order. <b> JUDGE </b> I want to make one thing very clear before we go any further. The law does not recognize the existence of ghosts, and I don't believe in them either, so I don't want to hear a lot of malarkey about goblins and spooks and demons. We're going to stick to the facts in this case and save the ghost stories for the kiddies. Understood? <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz leans over and whispers to Spengler. <b> STANTZ </b> Seems like a pretty open-minded guy, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> His nickname is "The Hammer." Stantz and Spengler are seated with their attorney LOUIS TULLY, lawyer, CPA and former demonic possession victim. Louis is desperately paging through a mountain of legal textbooks. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervous) I think you're making a big mistake here, fellas. I do mostly tax law and some probate stuff occasionally. I got my law degree at night school. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right. We got arrested at night. <b>SPECTATORS' GALLERY </b> Venkman is talking to Dana at the wooden rail in front of the gallery. <b> DANA </b> I wish I could stay. I feel personally responsible for you being here. <b> VENKMAN </b> You are personally responsible. If I can get conjugal rights, will you visit me at Sing Sing? <b> DANA </b> Please don't say that. You won't go to prison. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry about me. I'm like a cat. <b> DANA </b> You mean you cough up hairballs all over the rug? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm El Gato. I always land on my feet. <b> DANA </b> (sincerely) Good luck. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thanks. She gives him a quick, unexpected kiss and exits. Venkman savors it for a moment then goes back to the defense table. <b>PROSECUTION TABLE </b> Jack Hardemeyer, the mayor's principal aide, is goading the PROSECUTOR, a very sober, humorless woman in her late thirties. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> How are you doing, hon? Just put these guys away fast and make sure they go away for a long, long time. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> It shouldn't be hard with this list of charges. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Good. Very good. The mayor and future governor won't forget this. He smiles conspiratorially and makes a point of passing the defense table on his way out of the courtroom. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> The Ghostbusters look up as Hardemeyer approaches. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (gloating) Nice going, Venkman. Violating a judicial restraining order, willful destruction of public property, fraud, malicious mischief -- smooth move. See you in a couple years -- at your first parole hearing. Herdemeyer exits. Louis looks devastated. <b> LOUIS </b> Gee, the whole city's against us. I think I'm going to be sick. Spengler hands him a waste basket as the Prosecutor calls her first witness. <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - DAY (LATER) </b> The Con Ed Supervisor is testifying. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Mr. Fianella, please look at Exhibits A through F on the table over there. Do you recognize that equipment? <b>EXHIBIT TABLE </b> Lying on the table are the basic tools of the Ghostbusting trade: three proton packs and particle throwers, a couple of ghost traps, and various meters and detection devices. <b> CON ED </b> (o.c.) That's the stuff the cops found in their truck. <b>WITNESS STAND </b> She continues. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Do you know what this equipment is used for? <b> CON ED </b> (shrugs) I don't know. Catching ghosts, I guess. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> (to the Judge) May I remind the court that the defendants are under a judicial restraining order that specifically forbids them from performing services as paranormal investigators and eliminators. <b> JUDGE </b> So noted. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Now, Mr. Fianella, can you identify the substance in the jar on the table marked Exhibit F? <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She goes to the exhibit table and picks up a specimen jar containing the slime sample Stantz removed from the tunnel. <b> CON ED </b> I been working underground for Con Ed for 27 years and I never saw anything like that in my life. We checked out that tunnel the next day and we didn't find nothing. If it was down there, they must have put it there. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Venkman and Spengler look at Stantz. <b> STANTZ </b> (defensively) Hey, I didn't imagine it. There must have been ten thousand gallons of it down there. <b> SPENGLER </b> It may be ebbing and flowing from some tidal source. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervously) Should I say that? <b> SPENGLER </b> I doubt that they'd believe us. Louis moans and goes back to his notes. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - LATER </b> Venkman himself is on the stand and Louis is questioning him. <b> LOUIS </b> So like you were just trying to help out your old friend because she was scared and you didn't really mean to do anything bad and you really love the city and won't ever do anything like this again, right? <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection, your Honor. He's leading the witness. <b> JUDGE </b> The witness is leading him. Sustained. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, let me rephrase that question. (to venkman) Didn't you once coach a basketball team for underprivileged children? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yes, I did. We were city champs. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection. Irrelevant and immaterial. <b> JUDGE </b> Sustained. Mr. Tully, do you have anything to ask this witness that may have some bearing on this case? <b> LOUIS </b> (to Venkman) Do I? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I think you've helped them enough already. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the Judge) No, I guess not. (to the Prosecutor) Your witness. The Prosecutor rises and approaches the witness stand with relish. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So, Dr. Venkman, please explain to the court why it is you and your co-defendants took it upon yourselves to dig a big hole in the middle of the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Seventy-seventh and First Avenue has so many holes already we didn't think anyone would notice. The gallery laughs and the Judge gavels for order. <b> JUDGE </b> Keep that up, mister, and I'll find you in contempt. <b> VENKMAN </b> Sorry, your Honor, but when somebody sets me up like that I can't resist. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> I'll ask you again, Dr. Venkman. Why were you digging the hole? And please remember that you're under oath. <b> VENKMAN </b> I had my fingers crossed when they swore me in, but I'm going to tell you the truth. There are things in this world that go way beyond human understanding, things that can't be explained and that most people don't want to know about anyway. That's where we come in. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So what are you saying? That the world of the supernatural is your special province? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I guess I'm just saying that shit happens and somebody has to deal with it. The spectators in the gallery cheer and the judge gavels for order. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - LATER </b> The trial is nearing its end. The Judge calls on Louis to make his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> Does the counsel for the defense wish to make any final arguements? Louis rises. <b> LOUIS </b> Your honor, may I approach the bench? <b> JUDGE </b> (impatient) Yes. Louis crosses to the judge's bench. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the judge) Can I have some of your water? <b> JUDGE </b> Get on with it, counselor! <b> LOUIS </b> (scared) Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the -- (he remembers there's no jury) audience. I don't think it's fair to call my clients frauds. Okay, the blackout was a big problem for everybody. I was stuck in an elevator for about three hours and I had to go to the bathroom the whole time, but I don't blame them because once I turned into a dog and they helped me. Thank you. He goes back to the defense table and sits down. Stantz and Spengler hang their heads. Venkman pats Louis on the back. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Louis) Way to go. Concise and to the point. <b>JUDGE </b> He stares at Louis, astonished at his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> That's it? That's all you have to say? <b> LOUIS </b> Did I forget something? He searches through a disorderly pile of notes. <b> JUDGE </b> That was unquestionably the worst presentation of a case I've ever heard in a court of law! I ought to cite you for contempt and have you disbarred. As for your clients, Peter Venkman, Raymond Stantz and Egon Spengler, on the charges of conspiracy, fraud and the willful destruction of public property, I find you guilty on all counts. I order you to pay fines in the amount of $25,000 each and I sentence you to eighteen months in the city correctional facility at Ryker's Island. <b>STANTZ </b> He sees the activity in the jar <b> STANTZ </b> Uh-oh, she's twitchin'. <b>THE BENCH </b> The Judge continues <b> JUDGE </b> And on a more personal note, let me go on record as saying that there is no place in decent society for fakes, charlatans and tricksters like you who prey on the gullibility of innocent people. You're beneath the contempt of this court. And believe me, if my hands were not tied by the unalterable fetters of the law, a law which has become in my view far too permissive and inadequate in it's standards of punishment, I would invoke the tradition of our illustrious forebearers, reach back to a sterner, purer justice and have you burned at the stake! He hammers the bench with his gravel as the gallery erupts noisily. Then he feels a LOW RUMBLING TREMOR in the courtroom. <b>SPECIMEN JAR </b> The slime starts to pulse and swell, pushing up the lid on the jar. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz anticipates big trouble. <b> STANTZ </b> Under the table, boys! The Ghostbusters duck under the defense table. <b>LOUIS </b> He stands up and looks around fearfully. <b>INT. COURTROOM - GHOST BATTLE - DAY </b> Everybody is silent now as the rumbling increases. All eyes turn to the exhibit table. Then suddenly all Hell breaks loose as TWO FULL-TORSO APPARITIONS explode out of the specimen jar. <b>JUDGE </b> He looks up in terror at the two huge apparitions looming above him and recognizes them immediately. <b> JUDGE </b> (in horror) Oh, my God! The Scoleri Brothers! <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> Big in life, even bigger in death, the ghostly Scoleri brothers seem ten feet tall. They are strapped into electric chairs and on their heads are metal electrocution caps with live, sparking electrical wires still attached. Twenty-five hundred volts of electricity shoot through their bodies as they start to break free of the leather restraints, trying to get at the Judge. <b>JUDGE </b> Holding his gavel like a pitiful weapon, he crawls over to the defense table where Venkman, Stantz and Spengler are now crouched, assessing the spectral intruders. <b> JUDGE </b> (terrified) You've got to do something! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who are they? <b> JUDGE </b> They're the Scoleri Brothers. I tried them for murder. They were electrocuted up at Ossining in '48. Now they want to kill me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Maybe they just want to appeal. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They break loose from the electric chairs, then turn toward the defense table and BLAST it with HIGH-VOLTAGE FINGER-LIGHTNING. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She sprints for the door, pursued by one of the Scoleri brothers. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They jump to safety behind the rail of the jury box, pulling the Judge with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These boys aren't playing around. <b> JUDGE </b> (desperately) You've got to stop them. Please! <b> LOUIS </b> (thinking like a lawyer) Violating a judicial restraining order could expose my clients to serious criminal penalties. As their attorney I'd have to advise them against it. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They start punching through the jury box. <b>JUDGE </b> He is just about hysterical with fear. <b> JUDGE </b> All right! All right! I'm recinding the order. Case dismissed!! (he pounds his gavel on the floor) Now do something! <b> STANTZ </b> Let's go to work, boys. With that, the Ghostbusters leap over the rail of the jury box and dash across the courtroom to the exhibit table where their proton packs were being displayed as evidence. They strap them on hastily as the Brothers continue tearing up the seats looing for the Judge. <b> VENKMAN </b> (slinging the pack onto his back) Geez, I forgot how heavy these things are. <b> STANTZ </b> (grabbing other gear) Okay, let's heat 'em up! They flip the power switches on their packs and draw their particle throwers. <b> STANTZ </b> All right, throwers. Set for full neutronas on stream. They switch on their throwers and turn to face the raging phantasms. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They are just about to wipe out the Judge when a loud shout distracts them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size? The towering ghosts turn in a fury and raise their arms, ready to shoot lightning at their new adversaries. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the others) On my signal, boys. Open 'em up -- Now! They all pull their triggers and the wands EXPLODE with incredible powerful STREAMS OF ENERGY, doing even more damage to the courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Spengs, take the door. Ray, let's try and work them down and into the corner. Working as a team, they gradually confine the Scoleri Brothers with the streams, forcing them closer and closer to the traps Ray has set out on the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch it! I'm coming under you, Pete. They circle around the two ghosts, prodding them with the streams while ducking the lightning bolts shooting from their fingers. Finally, Ray sees his chance and pops open the traps which emit inverted pyramids of light energy. <b> STANTZ </b> Steady -- watch your streams -- easy now -- Venky, bring him left -- Spengy, pull him down -- trapping -- trapping -- now! He stomps on a control pedal and the Scoleri Brothers are drawn into the traps which snap shut. <b>INT. COURTROOM - TRAPS - DAY </b> LEDs on the outer casing start flashing, indicating the presence of a ghost inside each trap. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking the trap) Occupado. <b>INT. COURTROOM - JUDGE - DAY (AFTER GHOST BATTLE) </b> He sticks his head up slowly from behind the debris of his bench and looks around in total amazement. <b>LOUIS </b> He crawls out from under a chair. Reporters and spectators get back on their feet and start buzzing about the incredible manifestation. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She's lying on the floor, attended to by the Bailiff and the Court Clerk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Prosecutor) Brilliant summation. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They break into big smiles as photographers start snapping pictures of them standing in the wrecked courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Case closed, boys. We're back in business. The spectators cheer and applaud. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> The old, dilapidated Ghostbusters logo comes crashing to the ground, dropped by a pair of workmen on a ladder, and the new logo is hoisted into place over the main entrance. It's just like the original "No Ghosts" logo, but in the new one the ghost in the red circle is holding up two fingers. Venkman enters the firehouse. <b>INT. BEDROOM SET (TV COMMERCIAL - FULL SCREEN VIDEO) - NIGHT </b> A man and his wife are lying in bed reading. The man is played by Louis Tully and JANINE MELNITZ, the Ghostbusters' once and future receptionist, is playing his wife. They are both terrible actors. Suddenly, a ghost, actually a very bad puppet on a wire, floats through the bedroom. Janine sees it and screams. <b> LOUIS </b> What is it, honey? <b> JANINE </b> It's that darn ghost again! I don't know what to do anymore. He just won't leave us alone. I guess we'll just have to move. <b> LOUIS </b> Don't worry. We're not moving. He is. He picks up the phone. <b> JANINE </b> Who are you going to call? <b> LOUIS </b> (with a wink) Ghostbusters. As he starts to dial, the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the Ghostbusters standing in the bedroom. Their acting isn't much better than Louis and Janine's. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> Stantz speaks directly TO the CAMERA. <b> STANTZ </b> I'm Ray -- <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm Peter -- <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm Egon -- <b> STANTZ </b> And we're the ... <b> ALL </b> (together) Ghostbusters. <b> STANTZ </b> That's right -- Ghostbusters. We're back and we're better than ever with twice the know-how and twice the particle-power to deal with all your supernatural elimination needs. During his speech, Winston can be seen in the b.g. pretending to trap the fake ghost. <b> STANTZ </b> Careful, Winston. He's a mean one. <b> (TO CAMERA) </b> And to celebrate our grand reopening, we're giving you twice the value with our special half-price 'Welcome Back' service plan. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hold on, Ray! Half-price! Have you gone crazy? <b> STANTZ </b> I guess so, Pete, because that's not all. Tell them what else we've got, Egon. Spengler actually mouths everyone else's dialogue along with them, waiting for his cue. <b> SPENGLER </b> You mean the Ghostbusters hot beverage thermal mugs and free balloons for the kids? He holds up a mug and a limp, uninflated balloon. <b> STANTZ </b> You bet. As Stantz wraps it up, SUPERS APPEAR at the bottom of the SCREEN: FULLY <b>BONDED - FULLY LICENSED - SE HABLA ESPANOL. </b> <b> STANTZ </b><b> (TO CAMERA) </b> So don't wait another minute. Make your supernatural problem our supernatural problem. Call now, because we're still -- <b> ALL </b> (in unison, mechanically) -- Ready to believe you. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. JACK HARDEMEYER'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Hardemeyer is watching the Ghostbusters commercial on a TV in his office. He bangs his fist on his desk and angrily switches OFF the TV. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY (LATER) </b> The garage door opens and the new improved ECTOMOBILE comes ROARING out onto the street, its ghostly SIREN MOANING and WAILING. Louis comes running out after it. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis comes back into the garage bay and stops as he smells a foul odor. He sniffs around, following the smell. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, geez, smells like somebody took a really big -- He freezes. <b>INT. OFFICE AREA - LOUIS'S POV </b> Slimer, a spud-like green ghost, is hovering over Louis's desk, scarfing down Louis's bag lunch. Slimer looks up and sees Louis. <b>SLIMER AND LOUIS </b> They both scream and run off in opposite directions. <b>SLIMER </b> He passes right through a wall and disappears. <b>LOUIS </b> He runs right into a wall, recovers and exits in a hurry. <b> LOUIS </b> (screaming) Help! There's a thing! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK RESERVOIR - DAY (LATER) </b> Runners of both sexes and all ages are huffing and puffing as they jog along the track that circles the reservoir. One of the runners looks behind him at the sound of APPROACHING FOOTFALLS and screams. <b>GHOSTLY JOGGER </b> A ghost jogger is loping along at a pretty fair pace. Other runners stumble and run screaming into the park as he passes them. Seemingly oblivious to the effect he's having, the ghost jogger puts two fingers to his skeletal neck and checks his watch as if taking his pulse. <b>EXT. CLEARING IN PARK - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman is sitting on a park bench near the jogging track reading the newspaper, eating a donut and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. <b>STANTZ </b> He's sitting on a bench opposite Venkman's, casually watching the jogging track. <b>GHOST JOGGER </b> He approaches the benches where the Ghostbusters are waiting. As the ghost jogger passes the benches, Stantz and Venkman simultaneously hit concealed control buttons. A ghost trap buried in the track throws up a glowing inverted pyramid and catches the ghost jogger in mid-stride. Stantz and Venkman close the trap and capture the ghost jogger. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking his watch) You know he ran that last lap in under six minutes? <b> STANTZ </b> If he wasn't dead he'd be an Olympic prospect. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. JEWELRY STORE - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters come out carrying smoking traps, wearing cheap dime-store Santa Claus hats. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the client) Merry Christmas! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - ORREFORS GLASS STORE - DAY </b> The Ectomobile is parked at the curb and a curious crowd looks on as the Ghostbusters enter the store. <b>INT. ORREFORS GLASS STORE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> All the precious crystal is floating in the air, several feet above the glass shelves and display tables. Stantz and Venkman are talking to the manager while Winston and Spengler set up an array of electronic devices positioned in each corner of the store. On a signal from Stantz, Spengler and Winston switch on the devices which throw laser-type beams around the perimeter of the store. The manager watches in horror as all the GLASSWARE suddenly drops out of the air, SMASHES through the GLASS SHELVES and SHATTERS on the display tables. There is a long pregnant pause. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the manager) So will that be cash or a check? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) </b> Everyone else has gone home. Dana is cleaning her brushes and putting her supplies away. <b>VIGO PAINTING - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Vigo turns his head and watches Dana as she walks past the painting. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis is lurking behind a pillar, peeking out at the office area. We PAN DOWN TO the floor and see a foot pedal, then PAN ALONG the cord TO a ghost trap sitting on Louis's desk. Hanging from strings over the desk are several pieces of Kentucky fried chicken. <b>WALL </b> Slimer partially emerges and furtively sniffs the air, then spots the chicken bait. He licks his lips, materializes completely and flies to the chicken. <b>LOUIS </b> His eyes light up and he stomps the foot pedal. <b> LOUIS </b> (shouts) Gotcha! <b>DESK </b> The trap pops open and shoots out a powerful cone of energy. Slimer dodges it and escapes as a big section of the ceiling comes crashing down on Louis's desk. <b> LOUIS </b> (seeing the damage) Uh-oh. He slinks off, defeated. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - SECURITY DESK - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters commercial is playing on a portable TV on the security desk. Rudy, the Security Guard, is reading a National Enquirer with a giant front-page headline: GHOSTBUSTERS SAVE JUDGE. Venkman enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm looking for Dana Barrett. <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> Room 304 -- Restorations. (recognizing him) Hey! Dr. Venkman -- 'World of the Psychic.' I'm a big, big fan. That used to be one of my two favorite shows. <b> VENKMAN </b> (flattered) Thanks. What's the other one? <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> 'Bass Masters.' It's a fishing show. Ever see it? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, really great. Take it easy. He exits. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Dana is working on a valuable Flemish still-life by Ver Meer. Janosz is at the other end of the room, still working on the painting of Vigo. Venkman enters and sneaks up behind Dana. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the Ver Meer) So this is what you do, huh? <b> DANA </b> (glad to see him) Oh, hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> You're really good, you know. <b> DANA </b> I didn't paint it. I'm just cleaning it. It's an original Ver Meer. It's worth about ten million dollars. <b>VIGO </b> He turns his head and watches Venkman and Dana. <b>VENKMAN </b> Unaware that he's being watched, Venkman squints at the still life, holding up his thumb like he's seen artists do. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know you can go to Art World and get these huge sofa-size paintings for about forty-five bucks. He starts looking around at the other artwork in the studio. <b> DANA </b> I'm sure you didn't come here just to talk about art. <b> VENKMAN </b> As a matter of fact, I stopped by to tell you that I haven't forgotten your problem and that we're still on the case. They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> (smiling at Venkman) Dana, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend? <b> DANA </b> Oh, I'm sorry. This is Peter Venkman. Peter, Janosz Poha. Venkman warily shakes his hand, trying to size him up. <b> JANOSZ </b> (avoiding his gaze) Pleasure to meet you. I've seen you on television. <b> VENKMAN </b> How are you? (looking over at the Vigo painting) What's that you're working on, Johnny? Janosz winces at the nickname but lets it go. Venkman and Dana cross to the Vigo painting. Janosz steps protectively in front of it. <b> JANOSZ </b> It's a painting I'm restoring for the new Byzantine exhibition. It's a self-portrait of Prince Vigo, the Carpathian. He ruled most of Carpathia and Moldavia in the 17th Century. <b> VENKMAN </b> (staring at the painting) Too bad for the Moldavians. <b> JANOSZ </b> (defensive) He was a very powerful magician. A genius in many ways and quite a skilled painter. <b> DANA </b> He was also a lunatic and a genocidal madman. I hate this painting. I've felt very uncomfortable since they brought it up from storage. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, it's not the kind of thing you'd want to hang in the rec room. You know what it needs? (picking up a brush) A fluffy little white kitten in the corner. Venkman reaches toward the painting, but Janosz grabs his hand. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with forced good will) We don't go around altering valuable paintings, Dr. Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, I'd make an exception in this case if I were you. Dana looks disapprovingly at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) I'll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you. <b> JANOSZ </b> My pleasure. Venkman and Dana cross back to her workspace. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) I may be wrong, but I think you've got a little crush on this guy. <b> DANA </b> Good-bye, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (dragging his feet) I'd like to stay, but I really don't have time to hang around here. I'll call you. (calls out to Janosz) Later, Johnny! He exits. <b>VIGO </b> Vigo turns his head and follows Dana as she returns to her workbench. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LIVING QUARTERS - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> Venkman and Winston enter and find Stantz and Spengler at work in the lab area. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh good, you're here. Spengler and I have something really amazing to show you. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) It's not that thing you do with your nostrils, is it? Stantz goes to the refrigerator, opens the freezer, rummages around among the TV dinners and frozen pizza and pulls out a slime specimen in a Tupperware container. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Venkman) We've been studying the stuff that we took from the subway tunnel. He pops the specimen jar in the microwave and lets it thaw for a minute. <b> VENKMAN </b> And now you're going to eat it? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm just restoring it to its normal state. He takes the specimen out of the microwave and pours some of it into a large Petri dish. <b> STANTZ </b> Now watch this. He leans over the specimen and starts shouting at it. <b> STANTZ </b> (simulating anger) You worthless piece of slime!! (as the slime starts to twitch and glow) You ignorant disgusting blob!! <b>SPECIMEN </b> It bubbles and swells, changing color with each insult. <b> STANTZ </b> You foul, obnoxious muck!! <b>STANTZ </b> He continues venting his rage on the slime. <b> STANTZ </b> I've seen some real crud in my time, but you're a chemical disgrace!! The specimen doubles its size and starts spilling over the rim of the Petri dish. <b>STANTZ AND SPENGLER </b> They turn to Venkman for his reaction. He's dumbfounded. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is what you do with your spare time? <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) This is an incredible breakthrough, Venkman. A psychoreactive substance! Whatever this is, it clearly responds to human emotional states. <b> VENKMAN </b> 'Mood slime.' We ought to bottle this stuff and sell it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We've found it at every event site we've been to lately. <b> WINSTON </b> (poking at the slime) You mean this stuff actually feeds on 'bad vibes'? <b> STANTZ </b> Like a goat on garbage. <b> STANTZ </b> We're running tests to see if we can get an equally strong positive reaction. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of tests? <b> STANTZ </b> (a little embarrassed) Well, we sing to it, we talk to it, we say supportive, nurturing things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> You're not sleeping with this stuff, are you? Spengler reacts as if he might be. <b> STANTZ </b> It really responds to music. (to Spengler) Let's calm it down. Spengler picks up a guitar and he and Stantz start singing "Cumbaya" to the slime specimen. <b>SPECIMEN </b> It stops bubbling and starts to shrink. <b> WINSTON </b> Does it have any favorites? <b> STANTZ </b> It likes all the sappy stuff: 'Cumbaya,' 'Everything is Beautiful,' 'It's a Small World' -- but it loves Jackie Wilson. Venkman and Winston watch intently as Spengler spoons some of the psych-reactive slime onto an old toaster. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch this. Stantz turns on a CASSETTE PLAYER and Jackie Wilson's "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BLASTS from the speakers. <b>TOASTER </b> It shakes, spins and actually starts moving in time with the MUSIC. <b>VENKMAN </b> He stares in disbelief at the dancing toaster as it shoots two pieces of toast into the air and catches them without missing a beat. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't care what you say. This could be a major Christmas gift item. <b> WINSTON </b> Right, and the first time someone gets mad, their toaster will eat their hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> So we'll put a warning on the label. Stantz turns OFF the MUSIC and the toaster stops moving. Venkman looks at the toaster and sticks his fingers in the slot. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the toaster) Go ahead. I dare you. Suddenly, he yelps as if the toaster has actually bitten into his hand and won't let go. The others jump in to help him, but Venkman laughs and easily withdraws his hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> Just kidding. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Dana brings Oscar into the bathroom and lays him on the bassinet. She's wearing a robe over her nightgown, preparing to bathe the baby. She turns the taps on the old claw-footed bathtub, checks the water temperature, then turns away and starts to undress the baby. <b> DANA </b> (talking sweetly to the baby) Look at you. I think we got more food on your shirt than we got in your mouth. <b>BATHTUB </b> The water pouring from the faucet changes to slime and settles at the bottom of the tub. Dana reaches over and turns off the water without looking into the tub. When she turns away, both taps start to spin by themselves and the tub flexes and bulges. <b>DANA </b> Still unaware, she routinely reaches over and squirts some bubble bath into the tub. <b>BATHTUB </b> The rim of the tub puckers up and the sides convulse as if swallowing the bubble bath. <b>DANA </b>She picks the baby up off the bassinet and turns to place him in the tub. She is just about to lower him into the water when the tub starts to close up around the baby like a hugh mouth. Dana screams, snatches the baby away and runs from the room clutching Oscar to her bosom as the bathtub convulses and vomits up buckets of slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - SAME NIGHT (LATER) </b> The big open loft space is a chaotic clutter of mismatched furniture, old magazines, books, tapes, and sports equipment. Venkman is asleep on the floor, still wearing his coat, scarf, hat and gloves, having collapsed just short of the bedroom. The DOORBELL RINGS, he wakes up, lumbers to his feet and answers it. He opens the door and sees Dana standing there. She is wearing only a nightgown under her coat and Oscar is naked, wrapped in a baby blanket. <b> DANA </b> (somewhat embarrassed to be there) I'm sorry. Were you on your way out? <b> VENKMAN </b> (surprised to see her) No, I just got in -- a couple hours ago. Come on in. (noting her apparel) Are we having a pajama party? <b> DANA </b> (upset) Peter, the bathtub tried to eat Oscar. Venkman looks at her for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know, if anyone else told me that, I'd have serious doubts. But coming from you, I can't honestly say I'm surprised. <b> DANA </b> I must be losing my mind. At the museum today I could have sworn that terrible painting of Vigo looked right at me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who could blame him? Were you wearing this nightgown? <b> DANA </b> (distraught) I don't know what to do anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll get Ray and Egon to check out the bathtub. You better stay here. He exits to the bathroom. She looks around the loft, amazed at the disorder. Venkman comes back immediately with an old sweatshirt and takes Oscar from her. <b> VENKMAN </b> Now this kid has a serious nudity problem. He spreads the sweatshirt out on the sofa, lays the baby on it and starts tying it around him like a diaper. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the baby) This is Joe Namath's old number, you know. You could get a lot of chicks with this. Just don't pee in it. <b> DANA </b> Peter, what about the bathtub? <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the phone and dials) We'll take care of that. (on the phone) Ray, Pete. Listen, get over to Dana's right away ... Her bathtub pulled a fast one -- tried to eat the kid. <b> DANA </b> It was full of this awful pink ooze. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray) Sounds like another slime job ... No, they're all right. They're here now ... Right ... Let me know. He hangs up. <b> VENKMAN </b> They're going over there right now. You might as well make yourself at home. Let me show you around. (he crosses to the kitchen area) This is the cuisine de maison -- It's an incredible mess. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes and the counters are littered with all sorts of food trash. He grabs a big open Hefty bag on the floor and starts throwing garbage into it. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the sink) We may have to wash some of these if you get hungry -- (he looks in the fridge) -- but there's no food anyway so forget about it. I have all kinds of carry-out menus if you feel like ordering. He opens a drawer full of pizza, barbecue and Chinese food menus, then crosses to the bathroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Bathroom's right here -- let me just tidy up a few things. <b> DANA </b> Peter, this is very nice, but you don't have to do any of this, you know. He goes into the bathroom and we hear WATER RUNNING, the TOILET FLUSHING and more items going into the Hefty bag. <b> VENKMAN (O.S.) </b> The shower works but it's a little tricky. They're both marked "Hot." It takes a little practice, but at least this one won't try and eat you. He comes out of the bathroom with the now-loaded Hefty bag over his shoulder. <b> VENKMAN </b> Be careful on that sofa -- it's a butt-biter. But the bed's good and I just changed the sheets so if you get tired, feel free. In fact, I think you should definitely plan on spending the night here. <b> DANA </b> Really? And how would we handle the sleeping arrangements? <b> VENKMAN </b> For me it's best if I sleep on my side and you spoon up right behind me with your arms around me. If we go the other way I'm afraid your hair will be getting in my face all night. <b> DANA </b> How about you on the sofa and me in bed with the baby. <b> VENKMAN </b> Or we could do that. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. (she picks up Oscar) Poor baby. I think I should put him down now. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll put him down for you. (taking the baby) You are way too short! And your belly-button sticks out! You're nothing but a burden to your poor mother! Venkman carries the baby into the bedroom leaving Dana in the living room, feeling more relaxed and a lot safer. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> Venkman is waiting in front of the building as ECTO-2 pulls up and Stantz, Spengler and Winston get out and report on Dana's apartment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you find anything at Dana's? <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Just some mood-slime residue in and around the bathtub. But we did turn up some interesting stuff on this Vigo character you mentioned. I found the name Vigo the Carpathian in Leon Zundinger's Magicians, Martyrs and Madmen. Listen to this: <b> SPENGLER </b> (reads from xerox of entry) "Vigo the Carpathian, born 1505, died 1610 --" <b> VENKMAN </b> A hundred and five years? He really hung on, didn't he. <b> STANTZ </b> And he didn't die of old age either. He was poisoned, stabbed, shot, hung, stretched, disemboweled, drawn and quartered. <b> WINSTON </b> I guess he wasn't too popular at the end there. <b> SPENGLER </b> No, not exactly a man of the people. (reads) "Also known as Vigo the Cruel, Vigo the Torturer, Vigo the Despised, and Vigo the Unholy." <b> STANTZ </b> This guy was a bad monkey. He dabbled in all the Black Arts, and listen to this prophecy. Just before his head died, his last words were, "Death is but a door, time is but a window. I'll be back." <b> VENKMAN </b> That's it? "I'll be back?" <b> SPENGLER </b> It's a rough translation from the Moldavian. They enter the museum carrying their monitoring equipment. <b>INT. MUSEUM - SECURITY DESK - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Rudy the guard looks up in surprise as the Ghostbusters enter. <b> RUDY </b> Hey, Dr. Venkman. What's going on? <b> VENKMAN </b> We're just going up to Restorations for a minute. <b> RUDY </b> Oh, I can't let you do that. Mr. Poha told me not to let you up there anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> (with mock seriousness) Okay, we were trying to keep this quiet but I think you can be trusted. Tell him, Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> (very official) Mister, you have an Ecto-paritic, subfusionary flux in this building. <b> RUDY </b> We got a flux? <b> WINSTON </b> You got a flux and a half. <b> STANTZ </b> Now if you don't want to be the -- (he counts) -- fifth person ever to die in meta-shock from a planar rift, I suggest you get down behind that desk and don't move until we give you the signal "Stabilize -- All Clear." Rudy gulps and starts to hunker down behind the desk as the Ghostbusters head upstairs. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Janosz is working on the Vigo painting when the Ghostbusters enter. He rushes over and stops them at the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> Dr. Venkman? Dana is not here. <b> VENKMAN </b> I know. <b> JANOSZ </b> Then why have you come? <b> VENKMAN </b> We got a major creep alert and we're just going down the list. Your name was first. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Spengler and Winston) Let's sweep it, boys. They deploy and start scanning the studio with their monitoring devices. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) You know, I never got to ask you. Where you from, Johnny? <b> JANOSZ </b> (nervous) The Upper West Side. <b> SPENGLER </b> (consulting his PKE meter) This entire room is extremely hot, Peter. <b> JANOSZ </b> What exactly are you looking for, Dr. Venkman? <b> VENKMAN </b> We'll know when we find it. You just sit tight. This won't take long. <b>STANTZ </b> Using the Giga-meter, he traces a strong psychomagnetheric reading to the painting of Vigo in the alcove at the end of the studio. Venkman comes up behind him with Janosz right on his heels. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is the one that looked at Dana. <b> JANOSZ </b> It must be the chemical fumes in the studio. People start imagining things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (interrupts) I'm going to rule out the glue-sniffing theory. If she says it looked at her, it looked at her. (to Vigo) Hey, you! Vigie! Look at me. I'm talking to you. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you. They watch the painting for any sign of movement. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes stare lifelessly into the distance. <b>STANTZ AND VENKMAN </b> Venkman starts shooting Polaroids of Vigo. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Vigo) Beautiful, beautiful. Work with me, baby. Just have fun with it. (to Stantz) Okay, he's playing it cool. Let's finish up and get out of here. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll get one more reading. Venkman walks off leaving Stantz alone with the painting. Stantz scans the painting with the Giga-meter until his eyes meet Vigo's. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes seems to burn right through to the depths of Stantz's soul. <b>STANTZ </b> He stands there transfixed, unable to look away, as a strange and subtle transformation occurs within him. Winston comes up behind him and breaks the spell. <b> WINSTON </b> (looking at the painting) Now that's one ugly dude. <b> STANTZ </b> (coming back to his senses) Huh? What? <b> WINSTON </b> You finished here? <b> STANTZ </b> (distracted) What? Yeah. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? You coming down with something? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm fine. I just got light-headed for a second there. Let's go. They head for the door. <b>JANOSZ </b> He escorts the Ghostbusters to the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> So you see, everything is in order, is it not? <b> VENKMAN </b> Not. Don't leave town and report any change in your address to the proper authorities. We'll be back. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters cross to ECTO-2. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's definitely something going on in that studio. The PKE levels were max-plus and the Giga-meter was showing all red. <b> WINSTON </b> I'd put my money on that Vigo character. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, that's a safe bet. (to Stantz) You and Spengman see what else you can dig up on Vigo and this little weasel Poha. Those two were made for each other. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are driving back to the firehouse. Stantz is at the wheel. His eyes are vacant, he seems distracted and very tense. Stantz swerves suddenly and HONKS the horn angrily. <b> STANTZ </b> (to another driver) Idiot! (honking) Move it, you jerk! Venkman and Winston exchange surprised looks. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz drives extremely fast, HONKING vindictively, weaving dangerously through traffic. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks at Ray, concerned. <b> WINSTON </b> Going a little fast, aren't we, Ray? Stantz turns on him. <b> STANTZ </b> (viciously) Are you telling me how to drive? <b> WINSTON </b> No, I just thought -- <b> STANTZ </b> Well don't think! He HONKS again and tromps hard on the accelerator. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS) </b> Ecto-2 is now barreling down the avenue. Pedestrians leap to safety as Stantz runs a red light. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They hang on to the safety straps as Stantz continues his maniacal ride. <b> WINSTON </b> (to Stantz, really worried now) Are you crazy, man? You're going to kill somebody! Stantz looks at him and smile demonically. <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm going to kill everybody! He swerves off the road. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car heads right for a big tree. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> At the last possible moment, Winston cold-cocks Stantz, grabs the wheel and steps across to stomp on the brakes. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car skids into the tree and stops. The Ghostbusters stumble out dazed and shaken, but unhurt. Stantz rubs his eyes and looks at the others, completely at a loss. <b> STANTZ </b> (himself again) What happened? <b> VENKMAN </b> You just picked up three penalty points on your driver's license. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, I guess so. It was the strangest thing. I knew what I was doing but I couldn't stop. This really terrible feeling came over me and -- I don't know -- I just felt like driving into that tree and ending it all. Whew! Sorry, boys. They inspect the damage to the car. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially, to Spengler) Watch him, Egon. Don't even let him shave. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - DAY (LATER) </b> There's a KNOCK at the front door, a key turns in the lock, and Venkman enters somewhat tentatively holding a bouquet of flowers and a small suitcase of Dana's. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calls out) I'm home! He looks around the large open loft. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to himself) I knew it. She cleaned. He hears the SHOWER RUNNING and crosses to the bathroom. The door is half-open and he can see Dana in the shower (tastefully blurred) through the transparent vinyl curtain. He closes the bathroom door and looks at the baby asleep on the bed, surrounded by pillows to prevent him rolling off. Then he turns and bumps into Dana who's just coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She jumps back into the bathroom. She comes out again, this time wearing a robe. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you all squeaky clean now? <b> DANA </b> (humoring him) Yes, I'm very clean. Did they find anything at my apartment? She squeezes past him into the bedroom and closes the door. <b> VENKMAN </b> (through the door) Nothing. They stayed there all night, went through your personal stuff, made a bunch of long-distance phone calls and cleaned out your refrigerator. And didn't find anything. Dana opens the bedroom door. <b> DANA </b> They didn't find anything? In the bathtub ... the pink ooze ... nothing? So, what do I do now? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you get dressed and we go out. I got a babysitter and everything. Trust me, you need it. <b> DANA </b> I'm not here to date. I can't leave Oscar in a strange place with someone I don't know. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's Janine Melnitz, from my staff. She's one of my most valuable employees. <b> DANA </b> Does she know anything about babies? <b> VENKMAN </b> Janine Melnitz, are you kidding? (handing her the flowers) Do I have a vase? I brought some of your clothes. Wear something intriguing. I brought along some interesting possibilities. <b> DANA </b> Okay, but it's not a date. It's a dinner. She smiles and closes the door again. He opens the closet and starts looking for his good suit. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you happen to see some shirts on the floor in here? <b> DANA (O.S.) </b> I put them in your hamper. I thought they were dirty. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shaking his head) I have a hamper? Next time ask me first, okay. I have more than two grades of laundry. There're lots of subtle levels between clean and dirty. He pulls some clothes out of the hamper and inspects them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These aren't so bad yet. You just hang them up for a while and they're fine. <b> CUT TO: </b><b>INT. FIREHOUSE - RECEPTION AREA - EARLY EVENING </b> Janine covers her computer terminal and starts turning out the lights. Then she notices that the lights are still on upstairs. She starts primping and freshening up her makeup. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LAB AREA - SAME TIME </b> Louis is strapping on a proton pack, preparing to deal with Slimer once and for all. He's wearing a bicyclist's rearview mirror on a headband. <b> LOUIS </b> (to himself) Okay, Stinky, this is it. Showdown time. You and me, pal. You think you're smarter than I am? We'll see about that. (loud) Oh, hello, Pizza Man! Oh, two larges! I only ordered one. Oh, pepperoni and pineapple. My absolute favorite. I guess I'll have to eat these both by myself. <b>THE CEILING </b> Slimer pokes his head through the ceiling and scans the room hanging upside down. <b>LOUIS </b> He spots Slimer through the rearview mirror. <b> LOUIS </b> (quietly) Okay, let's boogie! He whirls around and fires a proton stream at Slimer, slicing a burning a gash across the ceiling. <b>THE STAIRS </b> Janine comes up and ducks as a bolt of energy streaks across the room and strikes the wall behind her. Slimer disappears. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed and apologetic) Oh migod! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It was an accident. <b> JANINE </b> What are you doing up here? <b> LOUIS </b> I was trying to get that smelly green thing. The guys asked me to help out. I'm like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> JANINE </b> Why would you want to be a Ghostbuster if you're already an accountant? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, no, it's just if one of the guys calls in sick or gets hurt. Louis quickly slips off the proton pack and sets it down. <b> JANINE </b> Have you made any plans yet? You know tomorrow is New Year's Eve. <b> LOUIS </b> No, I celebrate at the beginning of my corporate tax year which is March first. That way I beat the crowds. <b> JANINE </b> That's very practical. I hate going out on New Year's Eve, too. There is an awkward silence between them and Janine starts to leave. <b> JANINE </b> Well, good night, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> (on an impulse) Janine, do you feel like maybe getting something to eat on the way home? <b> JANINE </b> I'd like to, but I told Dr. Venkman I'd babysit. (seductively) Do you want to babysit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, sure, that sounds great. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> There is a KNOCK at the door and Venkman goes to answer it. He's dressed for the evening and looking very dapper. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - ENTRANCE HALL - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman opens the door and finds Stantz, Spengler and Winston standing there wearing over-the-hip rubberized waders, firemen's slickers, and miners' helmets, carrying tons of sensing devices, meters, collection jars and photographic equipment. They look like they're rigged out for a major spelunking expedition. <b> VENKMAN </b> (ushering them in) Don't tell me, let me guess. All-you-can-eat barbecue rib night at the Sizzler? <b> STANTZ </b> We're going down into the sewer system to see if we can trace the source of the psycho-reactive slime flow. We thought you might want to come along. <b> VENKMAN </b> Darn it! I wish I'd known you were going. I'm stuck with these damn dinner reservations. <b> SPENGLER </b> You know, animals and lower life forms often anticipate major disasters. Given the new magnetheric readings we could see a tremendous breeding surge in the cockroach population. <b> VENKMAN </b> Roach breeding? Sounds better and better. (calls out) Dana? The boys are going down under the sewers tonight to look for slime. Egon thinks there might even be some kind of big roach-breeding surge. Should we forget about dinner and go with them instead? Dana steps into the living room looking very beautiful. <b> STANTZ </b> Wow. Dana looks curiously at their outfits. <b> DANA </b> Hi. They nod and wave back. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray and Egon) I think we're going to have to pass on the sewer trip, boys. Let me know what you find out. <b> STANTZ </b> (on his exit) Okay, but you're missing all the fun. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Stantz, Spengler and Winston come down the stairs into the station, guided by a very old map of the underground city. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. Van Horne Station. Right where the old transit map said it would be. They cross to the edge of the platform and look into the river of slime. <b> STANTZ </b> Let's get a sounding on the depth of that flow. Stantz has a long, coiled, graduated cord with a plumb bob on the end of it attached to his utility belt. <b> STANTZ </b> Stand back. He takes the cord in his hand, swings the plumb bob over his head and casts it out into the middle of the flow. The plumb bob sinks and Spengler reads the depth. <b> SPENGLER </b> Six feet -- seven -- eight -- <b> STANTZ </b> That's it. It's on the bottom. <b> SPENGLER </b> Nine feet -- ten -- <b> WINSTON </b> Is the line sinking? <b> SPENGLER </b> No, the slime is rising. Stantz looks down and notices the slime rising over the edge of the platform and around his boots. <b> STANTZ </b> (alarmed) Let's get out of here, boys. He starts to pull out the plumb line but it seems to be stuck. Spengler tries to help, but whatever is pulling on the cord is stronger than all three of them. As their unseen adversary pulls them closer and closer to the edge, Stantz works desperately to unhook the cord from his belt but finally just unhooks the whole belt. Spengler lets go in time but Winston doesn't. He is jerked off his feet and into the slime flow. Stantz and Spengler look at each other, summon their courage and jump in after him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Dana and Venkman are sitting at a table in an elegant restaurant nibbling caviar and toasting with very expensive champagne. <b> VENKMAN </b> (very intimate) Here's to -- us. She sighs and drinks. <b> VENKMAN </b> So -- are you making any New Year's resolutions? <b> DANA </b> I want to stop getting involved with men who aren't good for me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Does that start exactly at midnight tomorrow, or could you hold off for a few days maybe? <b> DANA </b> For one night in your life, do you think it's possible for us to be completely real? <b> VENKMAN </b> All right, you want to be real? So tell me why did you dump me? <b> DANA </b> Oh, Peter, I didn't dump you. I just had to protect myself. You really weren't very good for me, you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm not even good for me. <b> DANA </b> Why do you say things like that? You're so much better than you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thank you. If I had that kind of support on a daily basis, I could definitely shape up by the turn of the century. <b> DANA </b> (already feeling the effects of the champagne) So why don't you give me a jingle in the year 2000? <b> VENKMAN </b> Let me jingle you right now. He leans over to kiss her. <b> DANA </b> Maybe I should call Janine. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry. Janine has a very special way with children. They kiss. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine is on the sofa doing her nails while Louis paces with the baby. <b> JANINE </b> (looking around) I can't believe a person could actually live like this. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the baby) So these dwarfs had a limited partnership in a small mining operation and then one day a beautiful princess came to live with them. <b> JANINE </b> It's really not a bad place. It just needs a woman's touch. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) So they bartered room and board in exchange for housekeeping services, which was a good deal for all of them because then they didn't have to withhold tax and social security, which I'm not saying is right but it's just a story, so I guess it's all right. I can finish this later if you're tired. Louis goes into the bedroom and puts the baby down. <b> JANINE </b> You're really good with children, Louis. I can tell. (as he returns) Why don't you come here and sit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Okay. He sits stiffly beside her on the sofa. <b> JANINE </b> (getting close) Motherhood is a very natural instinct for me. I'd like to have a baby myself. Wouldn't you? <b> LOUIS </b> (gulps) Tonight? <b>EXT. STREET - MANHOLE COVER - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A manhole cover is dislodged and pushed up from below. It slides away, and Winston crawls out of the manhole followed by Stantz and Spengler. They are exhausted and covered with slime. <b> WINSTON </b> (uncharacteristically angry) Nice going, Ray! What were you trying to do -- drown me? <b> STANTZ </b> (unusually mean) Look, Zeddemore, it wasn't my fault you were too stupid to drop that line. <b> WINSTON </b> (shoves him) You better watch your mouth, man, or I'll punch your lights out. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh yeah? Anytime, anytime. Just go ahead and try it. Spengler steps between them with unprecedented aggression. <b> SPENGLER </b> If you two are looking for a fight, you got one. (putting up his fists) Who wants it first? Come on, Ray. Try me, sucker. <b> STANTZ </b> (squaring off) Butt out, you pencil-necked geek. I've had it with you. They grab each other and start to tussle. Suddenly Spengler comes to his senses and pulls them apart. <b> SPENGLER </b> (forcefully) Strip! Right now! Get out of those clothes! He starts yanking off his slicker and waders. Bewildered, Stantz and Winston start doing the same. Spengler helps pull off their clothes and throws them into the open manhole. Now wearing only long underwear, they seem to return to normal. <b> WINSTON </b> What are we doing? Ray, I was ready to kill you. <b> STANTZ </b> Don't you see? It's the slime. That stuff is like pure, concentrated evil. Stantz looks around and sees that they are standing right in front of the museum. <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing right to this spot. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT ENTRANCE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The MAITRE D' looks up in surprise as Stantz, Spengler and Winston enter the restaurant wearing only long underwear. <b> MAITRE D' </b> (intercepting them) Can I help you? Stantz looks around and spots Venkman. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right, I see him. They blow right by the Maitre d' who jumps back in horror as they pass. <b>VENKMAN </b> He's just about to pour more champagne when he sees Ray, Egon and Winston coming toward him through the restaurant. <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) You should've been there, Venkman. Absolutely incredible! <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, sorry I missed it. (noting their attire) I guess you guys didn't know about the dress code here. It's really kind of a coat and tie place. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all over the city, Pete -- well, under it actually. <b> WINSTON </b> Rivers of the stuff! <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing toward the museum. He gestures excitedly and a big gob of slime flies across the room and lands on a well-dressed diner. <b> STANTZ </b> (calls out) Sorry! <b> DANA </b> Maybe we should discuss this somewhere else. Venkman notes the look of alarm on Dana's face and pulls his colleagues aside. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) Boys, listen. You're scaring the straights. Let's save this until tomorrow, okay? <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Venkman) This won't wait until tomorrow, Venkman. It's hot and it's ready to pop. <b>MAITRE D' </b> He hurries through the restaurant with two city COPS right behind him and makes straight for Venkman's table. <b> MAITRE D' </b> Arrest these men. <b> COP </b> (recognizing them) Hey! It's the Ghostbusters. You're out of uniform, gentlemen Stantz suddenly realizes how ridiculous they look. <b> STANTZ </b> (self-conscious) Uh -- well -- we had a little accident, but forget that. We have to see the mayor as soon as possible. <b> COP </b> Look, Doc, why don't you just go home. You'll get a good night's sleep and then you can give the mayor a call in the morning. Come on. He takes Stantz by the arm but Stantz resists. <b> STANTZ </b> We're not going anywhere with you. I told you we have to see the mayor now. <b> COP </b> (grabbing Stantz) I'm warning you. You can come along peaceably or -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the Cop) Hey, don't be an idiot. This is serious. <b> COP </b> (angry) Look, pal, keep this up and you're going with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, yeah? <b> COP </b> (has had enough) Yeah, let's go. You're all under arrest. The Cop catches Venkman in an armlock and starts walking him out of the restaurant. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) Finish your dessert -- it's already paid for. I'll call you. They all exit, causing a major commotion among the other diners. <b>EXT. ARMAND'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The police car is parked right behind Ecto-2. Spengler stops at the police car and confronts the cops. <b> SPENGLER </b> Look, we're not drunk and we're not crazy. This is a matter of vital importance. Venkman steps in and looks at the policemen's nametags. <b> COP </b> What are you doing? <b> VENKMAN </b> I just want to get your names right for when the mayor asks us why we didn't let him know about this sooner. The Cops look at each other, uncertain about what to do. <b> COP </b> (relenting) Okay, Doc. You want to see the mayor, you got it. Follow us. They head for their respective vehicles. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are on the sofa making out when Dana enters. They jump up and start smoothing their clothes. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed) Oh, hello, Dana. we were just -- we were -- <b> DANA </b> I know what you were doing, Louis. It's all right. <b> JANINE </b> How was your date? <b> DANA </b> Typical. Peter was arrested. Has he called? <b> LOUIS </b> No, nobody called. Dana frowns. <b> DANA </b> Is everything all right with Oscar? <b> JANINE </b> Oh, he's fine. He's such a good baby. He was a little fussy at first, but we gave him a Freach bread pizza and he went right to sleep. <b> DANA </b> (relieved) Oh, good. I'll just check on him. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana looks at Oscar sleeping peacefully on the bed. She starts to change clothes. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine aren't sure what to do. <b> LOUIS </b> Should we go? <b> JANINE </b> I don't think we should leave her alone. <b> LOUIS </b> You're right. We should stay. He grabs Janine and they start making out again. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz stands before the painting of Vigo. Vigo comes to life and repeats the litany of his power. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> (heard all this before) Yes, the scourge -- <b> VIGO </b> -- the sorrow of Moldavia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> -- the sorrow -- <b> VIGO </b> I command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (checking his watch) I await the word of Vigo. <b> VIGO </b> The season of evil begins with the birth of the new year. Bring me the child that I might live again. <b> JANOSZ </b> (abjectly humble) Lord Vigo, the mother, Dana, is fine and strong. I was wondering -- well, would it be possible -- if I bring the baby, could I have the woman? <b> VIGO </b> So be it. On this the day of darkness, she will be ours, wife to you and mother to me. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CARL SCHURZ PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Preceded by a police car, Ecto-2 enters the small park on the East River at 88th Street and disappears into an underground entrance. The CAMERA PANS UP to reveal Gracie Mansion, the residence of the Mayor of New York City. <b>INT. GRACIE MANSION - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters, now wearing police raincoats over their longjohns are ushered through the house by a butler to a set of double oak doors. The butler knocks lightly, then opens the door to reveal the MAYOR sitting in front of the fireplace in his well-appointed private study, flanked by Jack Hardemeyer, both in tuxedoes. The Ghostbusters enter. <b>INT. STUDY - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> The Mayor is impatient and a little angry at having been pulled out of his formal reception. He frowns at their bizarre attire. <b> MAYOR </b> All right -- the Ghostbusters. I'll tell you right now; I've got two hundred of the heaviest campaign contributors in the city out there eating bad roast chicken waiting for me to give the speech of my life. You've got two minutes. Make it good. <b> STANTZ </b> You get enough negative energy flowing in a dense environment like Manhattan, it starts to build up, and if we don't do something fast this whole place will blow like a frog on a hotplate. <b> WINSTON </b> Tell him about the toaster. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't think he's ready for the toaster. <b> MAYOR </b> (shaking his head) Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right. What am I supposed to do -- go on television and tell eight million people they have to be nice to each other? I'm sorry, none of this makes any sense to me, and if anything does happen we've got plenty of paid professionals to deal with it. Your two minutes are up. Good night, gentlemen. The mayor exits, leaving the Ghostbusters to Hardemeyer. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (smirking) That's quite a story. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, I think the Times might be interested, don't you? The Post might have a lot of fun with it, too. Hardemeyer's eyes go cold and calculating. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Before you go running to the newspapers with this, would you consider telling this slime thing to some people downtown? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you're talking. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - PSYCHIATRIC WARD - NIGHT (LATER) </b> An attendant opens a locked door with a wire mesh window and the Ghostbusters, in straitjackets, are led into the psych ward as Hardemeyer confers with the chief PSYCHIATRIST. <b> WINSTON </b> (protesting) I'm telling you, we're not crazy. He is! <b>HARDEMEYER </b> He laughs off the remark. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to the Psychiatrist) The mayor wants them kept under strict observation for a few days. We think they're seriously disturbed and potentially dangerous. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> We'll do whatever's necessary. Hardemeyer shakes his hand and exits as the door slams shut on the Ghostbusters. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are watching an old rerun on TV, eating popcorn, while Dana is stretched out on the other sofa. <b> DANA </b> (wishing they'd leave) You know you really don't have to stay. Peter should be back soon. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh no, we don't mind. She hears a little CRY from the nursery and sits up. <b> DANA </b> Excuse me. I think Oscar is up. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana enters and immediately notices that the crib is empty and the window is open. <b> DANA </b> (screams) Louis! Frantic now, Dana rushes to the window and looks out, as Louis and Janine come running in. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - DANA'S POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The baby is standing out on the ledge at the corner of the building, fifty feet above the street, staring off into the distance as if he's waiting for something. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana climbs out onto the ledge and starts inching slowly toward the baby. Then she stops as a miraculous apparition materializes. <b>LOUIS AND JANINE </b> They lean out the window, gaping at the apparition. <b>EXT. VENKMAN'S LEDGE - APPARITION </b> A sweet, kindly-looking English nanny appears, pushing a pram, strolling on thin air parallel to the ledge high above the ground. Her face looks remarkably like Janosz Poha's. The nanny extends her hand to the BABY who GURGLES sweetly as he reaches out to take it. <b>DANA </b> She watches in helpless horror. <b> DANA </b> (screams) No!! <b>GHOST NANNY </b> She picks up the baby and lays it gently in the pram, then turns and smiles at Dana. The smile turns to a hideous grin, then the nanny shrieks at Dana and takes off like a shot with the baby. <b>DANA </b> She watches the creature fly off with Oscar, then climbs back through the window assisted by Louis and Janine. <b> DANA </b> (resolutely) Louis, you have to find Peter and tell him what happened. <b> LOUIS </b> (confused and worried) Where're you going? <b> DANA </b> To get my baby back. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (A LITTLE LATER) </b> A taxi pulls up, Dana jumps out and rushes into the museum. The moment the door closes behind her, there is a loud THUNDERCLAP, the ground trembles and a massive amount of slime erupts from around the base of the museum and starts covering the walls, sealing her inside the building. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC - PADDED ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are in a padded cell. They are handcuffed and the cuffs are chained to thick leather belts around their waists. Venkman stands there banging his head into the padded wall while the others try to explain the situation to a skeptical Psychiatrist. <b> STANTZ </b> We think the spirit of Vigo the Carpathian is alive in a painting at the Manhattan Museum. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> I see. And are there any other paintings in the museum with bad spirits in them? <b> SPENGLER </b> (impatient) You're wasting valuable time! We have reason to believe that Vigo is drawing strength from a psychomagnetheric slime flow that's been collecting under the city. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> Yes, tell me about the slime. <b> WINSTON </b> It's potent stuff. We made a toaster dance with it, then a bathtub tried to eat his friend's baby. The psychiatrist looks at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't look at me. I think they're nuts. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Moonlight streams through the skylight above, bathing the studio in eerie white light. Oscar is lying safely on a table in front of the painting of Vigo. Dana enters cautiously and sees the baby. Seeing no one else about, she quickly sneaks down to the table and picks up the baby, hugging hin tight, greatly relieved to find him unharmed and intact. <b> JANOSZ (O.S.) </b> I knew you would come. Startled, Dana turns at the sound of his voice as Janosz steps out from behind the Vigo painting. <b> DANA </b> (defiantly) What do you want with my baby? <b> JANOSZ </b> No harm will come to the child. You might even say it's a privilege. He will be the vessel for the spirit of Vigo. And you -- well, you will be the mother of the ruler of the world. Doesn't that sound nice? <b> DANA </b> If this is what the world will be like, I don't want to live in it. <b> JANOSZ </b> (confidentially, indicating Vigo) I don't believe we have the luxury of choice. <b> DANA </b> Everybody has a choice. <b> JANOSZ </b> Not in this case, my dear. Take a look. That's not Gainsborough's Blue Boy up there. He's Vigo! <b> DANA </b> I don't care who he is. He's not taking my baby. Dana walks quickly to the door but suddenly Oscar flies out of her arms, floats across the room and lands lightly back in the cradle. <b>DANA </b> She turns and looks at Vigo, for the first time feeling his power. <b> JANOSZ </b> You will see. It's all for the best. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> It's the last day of the year and the sun is shining brightly. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC WARD - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> The Ghostbusters are sitting in the dayroom, a dingy lounge for patients in the locked ward. There is a television set, a Ping-Pong table and a few tables and chairs. Stantz is looking at the sky through the heavy wire mesh covering the windows. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. boys. It's starting. Shit-storm <b> 2000. </b> Venkman is doing occupational therapy, weaving on a little hand-loom. <b> VENKMAN </b> It better not start yet. I'm trying to finish my potholder before lunch. <b> WINSTON </b> You think all those predictions about the world coming to an end in the 1990s are true? A PATIENT at the next table joins the discussion. <b> PATIENT </b> (with certainty) 1997. My dog told me. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of dog? <b> PATIENT </b> Labrador. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shakes his head) Habitual liars. They can't help it. It's in the breed. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - EXAMINING ROOM - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Louis is pleading with his cousin, SHERMAN TULLY, a doctor on the staff at Parkview. He looks and sounds just like Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> Come on, Sherm. You're my cousin. Do this for me. I'm begging you. <b> SHERMAN </b> I can't do it, Louis. It isn't ethical. I could lose my license. <b> LOUIS </b> Why can't you just have them released? You're a doctor. <b> SHERMAN </b> I'm a dermatologist. I can't write orders on the psych ward. <b> LOUIS </b> Sherman, I've done lots of favors for you. <b> SHERMAN </b> Like what? <b> LOUIS </b> I got you out of those bad tax shelters. <b> SHERMAN </b> You were the one who got me in. <b> LOUIS </b> I fixed you up with Diane Troxler and she put out, didn't she? <b> SHERMAN </b> Yeah, I had to give her free dermabrasion for a year. Forget it, Louis. I could get in a lot of trouble. <b> LOUIS </b> I'm telling you, we're all going to be in big trouble if we don't do something fast. That ghost guy came and took my friend's baby and we got to get it back. It's just a scared little baby, Sherm. <b> SHERMAN </b> Then you should go to the police. I don't believe in any of that stuff. Sherman looks out the window. <b>EXT. SKY - SHERMAN'S POV </b> The sky begins to go dark as the sun is magically eclipsed. <b>INT. EXAMINING ROOM - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> The room goes dark. Louis switches on a lamp which casts an eerie light on his face. <b> LOUIS </b> (spooky) Do you believe it now, Sherm? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. HUDSON RIVER PIER - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> A drainpipe starts dripping slime into the river near the Cunard Line docks. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PUBLIC FOUNTAIN (59TH AND FIFTH) - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> With the Plaza Hotel in the background, the fountain starts to spout psycho-reactive slime. <b>HOTEL ENTRANCE </b> A well-heeled MAN and WOMAN step out of a limousine and walk up the steps toward the revolving door. She looks up at the sky and frowns. <b> WOMAN </b> (shrewish) I told you we should have stayed in Palm Beach. The weather here gets stranger every year. <b> MAN </b> Yes, dear. She doesn't notice it, but a small amount of slime falls on the back of her luxurious, full-length, white mink coat. The doorman nods courteously and extends a hand to help her up the stairs. <b>WOMAN </b> She yelps in pain. <b> WOMAN </b> (to the doorman) Something just bit me! The doorman looks curiously at her, then recoils in shock as her coat comes alive. MINK HEADS pop out of the thick fur, SNARLING, BARKING and YAPPING, their sharp, little teeth biting the air. Reacting quickly, the doorman yanks the coat off the woman's back, throws it to the ground and starts stomping on it as the Woman and her husband look on in horror. The coat scuttles down the steps and runs off down the street. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MIDTOWN CENTRAL POLICE PRECINCT - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The squad room is busy as DETECTIVES try to answer the flood of calls regarding the wave of supernatural events sweeping the city. <b> DETECTIVE ONE </b> (on the phone) Look, lady, of course there are dead people there. It's a cemetery ... (his face falls) They were asking you for directions? <b> DETECTIVE TWO </b> (on another phone) Was this a big dinosaur or a little dinosaur? ... Oh, just the skeleton, huh? Well, where is it now? <b> DETECTIVE THREE </b> (on the phone) Wait a second -- the park bench was chasing you? You mean, someone was chasing you in the park ... No, the bench itself was chasing you. I see -- A weary SERGEANT answers a RINGING PHONE. <b> SERGEANT </b> Manhattan Central, Flaherty speaking ... Yeah ... yeah? ... What? Who is this? ... Wait a second. He puts the caller on "Hold" and turns the LIEUTENANT. <b> SERGEANT </b> Lieutenant, I think you better talk to this guy. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> (on another call) What is it? I'm talkin' here! <b> SERGEANT </b> It's some dock supervisor down at Pier 34 on the Hudson. The guy's going nuts. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> What's the problem? <b> SERGEANT </b> (takes a deep breath) He says the Titanic just arrived. <b>INT. PORT AUTHORITY OFFICE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The dock supervisor stands there with the phone in his hand, an assistant beside him, both staring out the window at the ocean liner tied up at the pier. <b>EXT. PIER 34 - THEIR POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The name "R.M.S. Titanic" is clearly visible on the side of the huge ship. The gangplank is down and dozens of drowned passengers, sopping wet and festooned with seaweed, are disembarking while drowned porters off-load their waterlogged baggage. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER)(ECLIPSE) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside as Louis and Sherman come out of the hospital with the Ghostbusters, now wearing their standard uniforms. <b> STANTZ </b> Good work, Louis. How did you get us out? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, I pulled a few strings. I wouldn't want to say any more than that. Louis winks conspiratorially at Sherman. <b> LOUIS </b> This is my cousin Sherman. Sherm, say hello to the Ghostbusters. (sotto voce to Stantz) I promised him a ride in the car if he got you out. <b> SHERMAN </b> (to the Ghostbusters) Hi, it's really great to meet you guys. I know this sounds weird but once I had a dream that my grandfather was standing at the foot of my bed, but I knew it was impossible because he died and he started to tell me that -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ectomobile and drive off, leaving him and Louis standing at the curb. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> SHERMAN </b> I thought you were like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> LOUIS </b> I let them handle all the little stuff. I just come in on the big ones. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b>(original version of the above scene - 11/27/88) (TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: These two versions of this scene were put in my copy of the script, so I have included both of them here) <b> LOUIS </b> Actually, they still think you're crazy, but I convinced them you're not dangerous. <b> VENKMAN </b> (determined) Yeah, well guess again. <b>EXT. BELLEVUE HOSPITAL - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(MOMENTS LATER) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside and the Ghostbusters are hastily donning their standard uniforms. <b> LOUIS </b> I brought everything you asked for and I gassed up the car with Super Unleaded. It cost twenty cents more than Regular Unleaded but you get much better performance and in an old car like this that'll end up saving you money in the long run. I put it on my credit card, so you can either reimburse me or I can take it out of petty cash -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ecto-2 and drive off without him. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(LATER) </b> ECTO-2 pulls to the curb across the street from the museum. Hundreds of spectators are already there gawking at the building as the Ghostbusters jump out and gape at the sight that greets them. <b>EXT. MUSEUM THEIR POV - BUILDING </b> The building is now totally covered in a shell of psycho-reactive slime. CITY WORKMEN and FIREMEN are trying to cut their way in with blowtorches, jackhammers, power tools and the "jaws of life," but they can't even make a dent. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They size up the situation as they don their proton packs. <b> STANTZ </b> It looks like a giant Jello mold. <b> VENKMAN </b> I hate Jello. They stride manfully across the street and approach the main entrance to the museum. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the Fire Captain) Okay, give it a rest, Captain. We'll take it from here. <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> (skeptical) Be my guest. We been cutting here for three hours. What the hell's going on? You know the Titanic arrived this morning? <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, better late than never. The workmen and firemen put down their tools and fall back as the Ghostbusters draw their particle throwers. <b> SPENGLER </b> (monitoring valences) Full neutronas, maser assist. They adjust their settings and prepare to fire. <b> STANTZ </b> Throw 'em! They trigger their throwers and spray the front doors of the building with bolts of proton energy, but it has no effect on the hardened slime. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the firemen) Okay, who knows "Cumbaya?" A few of the firemen and workmen tentatively raise their hands. Venkman grabs them and lines them up at the entrance of the museum. <b> VENKMAN </b> All right. Nice and sweet -- (starts singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya -- Stantz, Spengler, Winston and the firemen sing along, reluctantly holding hands and swaying to the music. <b> ALL </b> (singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Oh, Lord, cumbaya. Stantz inspects the wall of slime with his infra-goggles and finds that they have only managed to open a hole the size of a dime. <b> STANTZ </b> Forget it. The Vienna Boys Choir couldn't get through this stuff. <b> VENKMAN </b> Good effort. Now what? Should we say supportive, nurturing things to it, Ray? <b> SPENGLER </b> It won't work. There's no way we could generate enough positive energy to crack that shell. <b> STANTZ </b> I can't believe things have gotten so bad in this city that there's no way back. Sure, it's crowded, it's dirty, it's noisy. And there are too many people who'd just as soon step on your face as look at you. But there've got to be a few sparks of sweet humanity left in this burned-out burg. We just have to mobilize it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We need something that everyone can get behind, a symbol -- His eyes fall on ECTO-2's New York State license plate which features a line drawing of the Statue of Liberty. <b> STANTZ </b> (he sees it, too) Something that appeals to the best in each and every one of us -- <b> SPENGLER </b> Something good -- <b> VENKMAN </b> And pure -- <b> WINSTON </b> And decent. <b>EXT. THE STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> There is a commotion among the crowd as the Mayor's limousine arrives with a police escort. Jack Hardemeyer steps out followed by the Mayor himself and they cross to the museum entrance. Hardemeyer, his ASSISTANT and several police BODYGUARDS confront the Ghostbusters. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Look, I've had it with you. Get your stuff together, get back in that clown car and get out of here. This is a city matter and everything's under control. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, you think so? Well, I've got news for you. You've got Dracula's brother-in-law in there and he's got my girlfriend and her kid. Around about midnight tonight, when you're partying uptown, this guy's going to come to life and start doing amateur head transplants. And that's just round one. <b> MAYOR </b> Are you telling me there're people trapped in there? <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to his assistant) This is dynamite. Call A.P., U.P.I., and C.N.N. and get them down here right away. When the police bring this kid out I want them to hand it right to the mayor and I want it all on camera. <b> STANTZ </b> Mr. Mayor, if we don't do something by midnight, you're going to go down in history as the man who let New York get sucked down into the tenth level of hell. The Mayor stops to consider the situation. <b> MAYOR </b> (to the Fire Captain) Can you get into that museum? <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> If I had a nuclear warhead, maybe. The Mayor turns to Venkman. <b> MAYOR </b> You know why all these things are happening? <b> VENKMAN </b> We tried to tell you last night, but Mr. Hard-On over here packed us off to the loony bin. Hardemeyer flips out. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> This is preposterous! You can't seriously believe all this mumbo-jumbo! It's the Twentieth Century, for crying out loud! (viciously, to Venkman) Look, mister, I don't know what this stuff is or how you got it all over the museum, but you better get it off and I mean right now! He pounds the wall of slime with his fist, and they all watch in amazement as his fist goes through the wall and he is sucked bodily through the slime curtain. Only his shoes can be seen, embedded in the slime. <b> MAYOR </b> (to Venkman) Okay, just tell me what you need. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND (NEW YORK HARBOR) - NIGHT </b> With the city skyline in the b.g., the Ghostbusters prepare their equipment. Each of them dons a makeshift backpack consisting of tanks, hoses, nozzles and an abundance of gauges, valves and regulators. Venkman looks up at the Statue of Liberty looming above them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it? <b> WINSTON </b> Wonder what? <b> VENKMAN </b> If she's naked under that toga. She's French, you know. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's nothing under that toga but 300 tons of iron and steel. Stantz is looking worried. <b> STANTZ </b> I hope we have enough stuff to do the job. <b> VENKMAN </b> Only one way to find out. (to Stantz) Ready, Teddy? They enter the statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters are working from the iron staircase that spirals straight up 100 feet inside the hollow super-structure of the statue. Spengler and Winston are busy assembling hundreds of wires connected to various relays on the interior surface of the statue. Venkman and Stantz are mounting large auditorium loudspeakers near the top of the staircase. They finish the installation, then Stantz dons one of the new backpacks and gives the order. <b> STANTZ </b> Okay, boys. Let's frost it. They begin hosing the inside of the statue with the psycho-reactive slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine watches as Louis, wearing a Ghostbuster uniform, slings a heavy proton pack onto his back. <b> JANINE </b> I'm not sure this is such a good idea? Do they know you're doing this? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, yeah, sure -- no. But there's really not much to do here and they might need some back-up at the museum. <b> JANINE </b> You're very brave, Louis. Good luck. She kisses Louis and he gets extremely self-conscious. <b> LOUIS </b> Uh -- oh -- well, I better hurry. He rushes out. <b>EXT STREET OUTSIDE FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> Louis stands on the street corner waiting for a bus. Finally, a bus pulls up, Louis climbs aboard and finds Slimer behind the wheel. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - OBSERVATION DECK - MOMENTS LATER </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are standing in the observation windows in the crown of the statue. It looks like they're on the bridge of an ocean liner, then the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the head of the statue. <b>STANTZ </b> He plugs the main cable lead into a transformer. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all yours, Pete. (checks his watch) There's not much time left. Venkman plugs the speaker cable into a Walkman and gives a downbeat. <b> VENKMAN </b> (giving the downbeat) Okay, one, two, three, four -- He hits "Play" on the Walkman and "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BOOMS from the huge SPEAKERS, amplified by the statue's vast hollow interior. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The head of the statue lurches suddenly, but the Ghostbusters cling to the rail and manage to keep their feet. <b> STANTZ </b> She's moving! <b> WINSTON </b> I've lived in New York all my life and I never visited the Statue of Liberty. Now I finally get here and we're taking her out for a walk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (reading the Giga-meter) We've got full power. Stantz picks up a Nintendo control paddle from a home video game and starts pushing the buttons. <b> VENKMAN </b> (into a microphone) Okay, Libby. Let's get it in gear. They feel a strong vibration and the statue starts to move. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. SOUTH STREET SEAPORT - NIGHT </b> New Years Eve celebrants line the riverfront, pointing and gawking at an incredible sight. <b>EXT. EAST RIVER - THEIR POV - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The statue is moving up the river almost completely submerged, only her head from the nose up is visible above the surface. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks out apprehensively. <b> WINSTON </b> How deep does it get? That water's cold and I can't swim. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's okay. I have my Senior Lifesaving card. <b> SPENGLER </b> With a water temperature of forty degrees we'd survive approximately fifteen minutes. Stantz studies a maritime navigational chart. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll keep to the middle of the channel. We're okay to 59th Street, then we'll go ashore and take First Avenue to 79th. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you kidding? We'll hit all that bridge traffic at 59th. I'm going to take 72nd straight up to Fifth. Trust me, I used to drive a cab. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RIVERFRONT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Spectators cheer wildly, inspired by the sight of the Statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz is sitting next to Dana, still wheedling her with promises and self-serving logic. <b> JANOSZ </b> Time is running out, Dana. Soon it will be midnight and the city will be mine -- and Vigo's. Well, mainly Vigo's. But we have a spectacular opportunity to make the best of our relationship. <b> DANA </b> We don't have a relationship. <b> JANOSZ </b> I know. Marry me, Dana, and together we will raise Vigo as our son. There are many perks that come with being the mother of a living god. I'm sure he will supply for us a magnificent apartment. And perhaps a car and free parking. <b> DANA </b> I hate and despise you and everything you stand for with all my heart and soul. I could never forgive what you've done to me and my child. <b> JANOSZ </b> Many marriages begin with a certain amount of distance, but after a while I believe we could learn to love each other. Think about it. <b> DANA </b> I'd rather not. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> People are jammed together shoulder to shoulder filling Times Square, watching the big Seiko clock count down the last ten minutes to midnight. Suddenly, they look down Broadway and see a magnificent sight. <b>EXT. BROADWAY - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue of Liberty is walking up Broadway approaching 42nd Street, with "Higher and Higher" BOOMING from the SPEAKERS inside. A great cheer goes up, and the crowd goes wild with joy, dancing and singing along with the MUSIC. <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS) </b> Spengler reads the Giga-meter. <b> SPENGLER </b> It's working. The positive GeV's are climbing. <b> VENKMAN </b> (patting the Statue) They love you, Lib. Keep it up. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The avenue has been closed to traffic and barricades placed, blocking all the side streets. A squadron of police motorcycles comes speeding around the corner at 72nd Street and proceeds up Fifth Avenue in the direction of the museum. Then MUSIC is heard BOOMING in the distance, the ground shakes and the Statue of Liberty comes walking around the corner onto Fifth Avenue followed by a wildly cheering throng. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters can see the museum ahead. <b> VENKMAN </b> So far so good. <b> SPENGLER </b> (worried) I'm worried. The vibrations could shake her to pieces. We should have padded her feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I don't think they make Nikes in her size. <b> VENKMAN </b> We're almost there, Lib. (to Stantz) Step on it. <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue's huge foot comes down and squashes a car. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters look down at the flattened car. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts out the window) My Fault! <b> VENKMAN </b> (shouts) She's new in town. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is painting the last of the mystical symbols on the baby's chest. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> The people still in the square start counting off the last ten seconds to midnight and the New Year. <b> CROWD </b> (chanting) Ten .. nine ... eight ... seven ... <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> A strange light spreads over the painting. As the light moves onto his face, Vigo spreads his arms wide and his upper body starts to emerge from the canvas. <b> VIGO </b> Soon my life begins. Then woe to the weak, all power to me, the world is mine. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ - NIGHT </b> The baby's body begins to glow as Vigo reaches out for it. Then suddenly a dark shadow falls across the skylight. Janosz looks up. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ'S POV - SKYLIGHT - NIGHT </b> The Statue of Liberty is looming over the skylight looking down on Janosz with an expression of righteous anger on it's face. <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Kneeling beside the museum, the statue draws back it's mighty right arm and smashes the skylight with its torch. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz retreats from the shower of broken glass as the Ghostbusters come sliding down ropes into the studio and confront Janosz with their new weapons. Quick as a flash, Dana seizes the moment, dashes across the studio and snatches the baby from Vigo's outstretched arms. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) Happy New Year. <b>INT. MUSEUM - VIGO PAINTING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Vigo bellows in rage. <b>INT. MUSEUM - STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz steps in front of the painting. <b> SPENGLER </b> Hi there. Feel free to try something stupid. Janosz sneers, trusting the invincibility of Vigo. <b> JANOSZ </b> You pitiful, miserable creatures! You dare to challenge the power of darkness? Don't you realize what you are dealing with? He's Vigo! You are like the buzzing of flies to him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (sighs) Oh, Johnny. Did you back the wrong horse. With that, the Ghostbusters fire their slime-blowers and hose Janosz from head to toe, blowing him into the corner. Then they turn to Vigo. <b>VIGO </b> He is now almost completely out of the painting, but still held from the knees down. He spits and rages at the Ghostbusters, trying to unleash his magic powers. <b>THE GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They stand fast, secure in the knowledge that Vigo's power has been neutralized by the good will of the people. <b> STANTZ </b> Vigi, Vigi, Vigi -- you have been a bad little monkey. <b> VENKMAN </b> The whole city's together on this one. We took a vote. Everybody's down on you, you know. <b> WINSTON </b> (arming his slime-blower) Say goodnight now. Suddenly Vigo grabs Stantz by the neck and holds him up as a shield. <b> SPENGLER </b> Don't shoot! You'll hit Ray! <b> STANTZ </b> (strangling) Do it! Just do it! Winston fires and hoses both Vigo and Ray. <b>VIGO </b> He bellows and drops Ray, then falls back into the painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> The paint turns liquid, melts off the canvas and runs onto the floor revealing another painting underneath it. <b>INT. MUSEUM - GHOSTBUSTERS - NIGHT (AFTER BATTLE) </b> Venkman, Spengler and Winston rush over to Ray and kneel beside him. He is completely covered with slime and motionless. <b> SPENGLER </b> (examining him) He's breathing. Winston wipes the slime off Ray's face and Ray opens his eyes. <b> WINSTON </b> Ray -- Ray -- How do you feel, man? <b> STANTZ </b> (smiles lovingly) Groovy. I've never felt better in my life. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, no. We've got to live with this? They pull him to his feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I love you guys. You're the best friends I've ever had. He hugs them each in turn, leaving them slimed as well. Venkman recoils in disgust. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey, I just had this suit cleaned. (indicating Janosz) Take care of the wiggler, will you. Venkman crosses to Dana who is snuggling the baby. She hugs Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> What is this -- a love in? (notes the symbols painted on the baby's body) Hey, sailor. I think the tattoos are a little much, don't you? He picks up the baby. <b> DANA </b> (to Venkman) I think he likes you. I think I do too. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finally came to your senses, huh? They hug and kiss. <b>SPENGLER, WINSTON AND STANTZ </b> They help Janosz to his feet. He's dazed but unhurt. <b> JANOSZ </b> (restored to normalcy) What happened? <b> STANTZ </b> (calmly) Sir, you had a violent, prolonged, transformative psychic episode. But it's over now. Want a coffee? <b> JANOSZ </b> (extremely nice) That's very kind of you. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) He's fine, Ray. Physically intact, psychomagnetherically neutral. <b> JANOSZ </b> Is that good? <b> WINSTON </b> It's where you want to be. As they exit they stop to examine the painting that was concealed by Vigo's self-portrait. <b> SPENGLER </b> Late Renaissance, I think. Caravaggio or Brunelleschi. <b> WINSTON </b> (staring at it) There's something very familiar about this painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - NEW PAINTING - NIGHT </b> It's a beautiful painting in the high-Renaissance style depicting four archangels hovering protectively over a cherubic baby. One holds a harp, one, an olive branch, the third, a book, and the last, a sword. Most remarkably, their faces bear an uncanny resemblance to Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A city bus pulls up near the museum and Louis steps off. He waves his thanks to Slimer who is behind the wheel. <b> LOUIS </b> (to Slimer) Okay, so Monday night we'll get something to eat and maybe go bowling? Can you bowl with those little arms? SLIMER GRUNTS and SLOBBERS a reply, flexing his scrawny biceps. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, I have to go save Dana. I'll see you later. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are greeted by wild cheering and applause as they come out the main entrance with Dana and the baby. Everybody starts singing "Auld Lang Syne." Louis picks his way through the celebrating crowd and finds the Ghostbusters. <b> LOUIS </b> Am I too late? <b> STANTZ </b> No, you're right on time. Stantz pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and hands it to him. <b>EXT. MUSEUM ENTRANCE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Hardemeyer staggers out of the museum covered in slime. He looks at the celebrating crowd and his eyes fill with tears. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (weepy) Happy New Year, everybody! He joins in on "Auld Lang Syne." <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The Statue of Liberty is sprawled inert on her back in the park behind the museum, her toga up over her knees. The Mayor looks nearly suicidal. The Ghostbusters stand beside him commiserating. <b> VENKMAN </b> She's all right. She's just sleeping it off. <b> MAYOR </b> (stricken) We just had it restored. <b> VENKMAN </b> This probably isn't a good time to bring this up, but the last time we did a job for the city you stiffed us. <b> STANTZ </b> (handing the Mayor an invoice) This is a bill for tonight's job. The Mayor looks at it and gasps at the amount. <b> MAYOR </b> What! This is way too much. (hands the bill back to Venkman) We won't pay. Venkman looks at the Statue. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) I think she looks pretty good here, don't you? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, and a lot easier to get to than that island. Realizing he has no alternative, the Mayor sighs and takes the bill back. <b> MAYOR </b> All right, all right. If you can wait until Monday I'll issue you a check. <b> SPENGLER </b> Sorry. No checks. Company policy. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND - DAY (WEEKS LATER) </b> The sun is shining brightly and Liberty is back on her pedestal where she belongs. The Mayor and a host of officials are commemorating her return. The Ghostbusters, Dana, Janine and Louis are there as honored guests. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking up at the statue) Pretty impressive, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> (musing) It's probably the first thing my grandparents saw when they came to this country. <b> VENKMAN </b> From where -- Neptune? <b> SPENGLER </b> They came from Ostrov in Eastern Poland. <b> VENKMAN </b> Ostrov? I've been there. Good party town. <b> STANTZ </b> (in a similarly reflective mood) My great-grandparents were Swiss. I still have the pictures they took of the statue from the boat when they arrived. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, right, you told me that. They came to America seeking other kinds of cheese, as I recall. How about you, Winston? <b> WINSTON </b> My people weren't taking any pictures from those slave ships, man. And there wasn't any Statue in Charleston Harbor to welcome them, either. What are you, Dana? <b> VENKMAN </b> Miss Blue Blood? Her family's been here since the year 12. <b> DANA </b> That's not true. It was 1620. <b> VENKMAN </b> Same difference. <b> STANTZ </b> What's your story, Pete? <b> VENKMAN </b> Me? I'm a little of everything. Some Irish, some German, some French, Dutch -- the women in my family slept around. And that's what made this country great. <b> DANA </b> That's a terrible thing to say. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what? It's a free country. (looking up at the Statue) Thanks, Lib. They all look up at the Statue. <b>EXT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - HEAD OF STATUE - DAY </b> Slimer flies out one of the observation windows, THEME MUSIC KICKS IN and the CAMERA PULLS UP and AWAY FROM the island TO a HIGH SHOT of the Statue, lower Manhattan and the shining sea beyond. <b> FADE OUT. </b> <b> THE END </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What nationality is Ruth Anvoy?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "She is an American." ]	22,692	narrativeqa	en	null	58b8a46c20c05540367b90490846c4f9808db630026b28d4	Transcribed from the 1915 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org [Picture: Book cover] THE COXON FUND BY HENRY JAMES [Picture: Decorative graphic] * * * * * LONDON: MARTIN SECKER NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI * * * * * This edition first published 1915 The text follows that of the Definitive Edition * * * * * I “THEY’VE got him for life!” I said to myself that evening on my way back to the station; but later on, alone in the compartment (from Wimbledon to Waterloo, before the glory of the District Railway) I amended this declaration in the light of the sense that my friends would probably after all not enjoy a monopoly of Mr. Saltram. I won’t pretend to have taken his vast measure on that first occasion, but I think I had achieved a glimpse of what the privilege of his acquaintance might mean for many persons in the way of charges accepted. He had been a great experience, and it was this perhaps that had put me into the frame of foreseeing how we should all, sooner or later, have the honour of dealing with him as a whole. Whatever impression I then received of the amount of this total, I had a full enough vision of the patience of the Mulvilles. He was to stay all the winter: Adelaide dropped it in a tone that drew the sting from the inevitable emphasis. These excellent people might indeed have been content to give the circle of hospitality a diameter of six months; but if they didn’t say he was to stay all summer as well it was only because this was more than they ventured to hope. I remember that at dinner that evening he wore slippers, new and predominantly purple, of some queer carpet-stuff; but the Mulvilles were still in the stage of supposing that he might be snatched from them by higher bidders. At a later time they grew, poor dears, to fear no snatching; but theirs was a fidelity which needed no help from competition to make them proud. Wonderful indeed as, when all was said, you inevitably pronounced Frank Saltram, it was not to be overlooked that the Kent Mulvilles were in their way still more extraordinary: as striking an instance as could easily be encountered of the familiar truth that remarkable men find remarkable conveniences. They had sent for me from Wimbledon to come out and dine, and there had been an implication in Adelaide’s note—judged by her notes alone she might have been thought silly—that it was a case in which something momentous was to be determined or done. I had never known them not be in a “state” about somebody, and I dare say I tried to be droll on this point in accepting their invitation. On finding myself in the presence of their latest discovery I had not at first felt irreverence droop—and, thank heaven, I have never been absolutely deprived of that alternative in Mr. Saltram’s company. I saw, however—I hasten to declare it—that compared to this specimen their other phoenixes had been birds of inconsiderable feather, and I afterwards took credit to myself for not having even in primal bewilderments made a mistake about the essence of the man. He had an incomparable gift; I never was blind to it—it dazzles me still. It dazzles me perhaps even more in remembrance than in fact, for I’m not unaware that for so rare a subject the imagination goes to some expense, inserting a jewel here and there or giving a twist to a plume. How the art of portraiture would rejoice in this figure if the art of portraiture had only the canvas! Nature, in truth, had largely rounded it, and if memory, hovering about it, sometimes holds her breath, this is because the voice that comes back was really golden. Though the great man was an inmate and didn’t dress, he kept dinner on this occasion waiting, and the first words he uttered on coming into the room were an elated announcement to Mulville that he had found out something. Not catching the allusion and gaping doubtless a little at his face, I privately asked Adelaide what he had found out. I shall never forget the look she gave me as she replied: “Everything!” She really believed it. At that moment, at any rate, he had found out that the mercy of the Mulvilles was infinite. He had previously of course discovered, as I had myself for that matter, that their dinners were soignés. Let me not indeed, in saying this, neglect to declare that I shall falsify my counterfeit if I seem to hint that there was in his nature any ounce of calculation. He took whatever came, but he never plotted for it, and no man who was so much of an absorbent can ever have been so little of a parasite. He had a system of the universe, but he had no system of sponging—that was quite hand-to-mouth. He had fine gross easy senses, but it was not his good-natured appetite that wrought confusion. If he had loved us for our dinners we could have paid with our dinners, and it would have been a great economy of finer matter. I make free in these connexions with the plural possessive because if I was never able to do what the Mulvilles did, and people with still bigger houses and simpler charities, I met, first and last, every demand of reflexion, of emotion—particularly perhaps those of gratitude and of resentment. No one, I think, paid the tribute of giving him up so often, and if it’s rendering honour to borrow wisdom I’ve a right to talk of my sacrifices. He yielded lessons as the sea yields fish—I lived for a while on this diet. Sometimes it almost appeared to me that his massive monstrous failure—if failure after all it was—had been designed for my private recreation. He fairly pampered my curiosity; but the history of that experience would take me too far. This is not the large canvas I just now spoke of, and I wouldn’t have approached him with my present hand had it been a question of all the features. Frank Saltram’s features, for artistic purposes, are verily the anecdotes that are to be gathered. Their name is legion, and this is only one, of which the interest is that it concerns even more closely several other persons. Such episodes, as one looks back, are the little dramas that made up the innumerable facets of the big drama—which is yet to be reported. II IT is furthermore remarkable that though the two stories are distinct—my own, as it were, and this other—they equally began, in a manner, the first night of my acquaintance with Frank Saltram, the night I came back from Wimbledon so agitated with a new sense of life that, in London, for the very thrill of it, I could only walk home. Walking and swinging my stick, I overtook, at Buckingham Gate, George Gravener, and George Gravener’s story may be said to have begun with my making him, as our paths lay together, come home with me for a talk. I duly remember, let me parenthesise, that it was still more that of another person, and also that several years were to elapse before it was to extend to a second chapter. I had much to say to him, none the less, about my visit to the Mulvilles, whom he more indifferently knew, and I was at any rate so amusing that for long afterwards he never encountered me without asking for news of the old man of the sea. I hadn’t said Mr. Saltram was old, and it was to be seen that he was of an age to outweather George Gravener. I had at that time a lodging in Ebury Street, and Gravener was staying at his brother’s empty house in Eaton Square. At Cambridge, five years before, even in our devastating set, his intellectual power had seemed to me almost awful. Some one had once asked me privately, with blanched cheeks, what it was then that after all such a mind as that left standing. “It leaves itself!” I could recollect devoutly replying. I could smile at present for this remembrance, since before we got to Ebury Street I was struck with the fact that, save in the sense of being well set up on his legs, George Gravener had actually ceased to tower. The universe he laid low had somehow bloomed again—the usual eminences were visible. I wondered whether he had lost his humour, or only, dreadful thought, had never had any—not even when I had fancied him most Aristophanesque. What was the need of appealing to laughter, however, I could enviously enquire, where you might appeal so confidently to measurement? Mr. Saltram’s queer figure, his thick nose and hanging lip, were fresh to me: in the light of my old friend’s fine cold symmetry they presented mere success in amusing as the refuge of conscious ugliness. Already, at hungry twenty-six, Gravener looked as blank and parliamentary as if he were fifty and popular. In my scrap of a residence—he had a worldling’s eye for its futile conveniences, but never a comrade’s joke—I sounded Frank Saltram in his ears; a circumstance I mention in order to note that even then I was surprised at his impatience of my enlivenment. As he had never before heard of the personage it took indeed the form of impatience of the preposterous Mulvilles, his relation to whom, like mine, had had its origin in an early, a childish intimacy with the young Adelaide, the fruit of multiplied ties in the previous generation. When she married Kent Mulville, who was older than Gravener and I and much more amiable, I gained a friend, but Gravener practically lost one. We reacted in different ways from the form taken by what he called their deplorable social action—the form (the term was also his) of nasty second-rate gush. I may have held in my ‘for intérieur’ that the good people at Wimbledon were beautiful fools, but when he sniffed at them I couldn’t help taking the opposite line, for I already felt that even should we happen to agree it would always be for reasons that differed. It came home to me that he was admirably British as, without so much as a sociable sneer at my bookbinder, he turned away from the serried rows of my little French library. “Of course I’ve never seen the fellow, but it’s clear enough he’s a humbug.” “Clear ‘enough’ is just what it isn’t,” I replied; “if it only were!” That ejaculation on my part must have been the beginning of what was to be later a long ache for final frivolous rest. Gravener was profound enough to remark after a moment that in the first place he couldn’t be anything but a Dissenter, and when I answered that the very note of his fascination was his extraordinary speculative breadth my friend retorted that there was no cad like your cultivated cad, and that I might depend upon discovering—since I had had the levity not already to have enquired—that my shining light proceeded, a generation back, from a Methodist cheesemonger. I confess I was struck with his insistence, and I said, after reflexion: “It may be—I admit it may be; but why on earth are you so sure?”—asking the question mainly to lay him the trap of saying that it was because the poor man didn’t dress for dinner. He took an instant to circumvent my trap and come blandly out the other side. “Because the Kent Mulvilles have invented him. They’ve an infallible hand for frauds. All their geese are swans. They were born to be duped, they like it, they cry for it, they don’t know anything from anything, and they disgust one—luckily perhaps!—with Christian charity.” His vehemence was doubtless an accident, but it might have been a strange foreknowledge. I forget what protest I dropped; it was at any rate something that led him to go on after a moment: “I only ask one thing—it’s perfectly simple. Is a man, in a given case, a real gentleman?” “A real gentleman, my dear fellow—that’s so soon said!” “Not so soon when he isn’t! If they’ve got hold of one this time he must be a great rascal!” “I might feel injured,” I answered, “if I didn’t reflect that they don’t rave about me.” “Don’t be too sure! I’ll grant that he’s a gentleman,” Gravener presently added, “if you’ll admit that he’s a scamp.” “I don’t know which to admire most, your logic or your benevolence.” My friend coloured at this, but he didn’t change the subject. “Where did they pick him up?” “I think they were struck with something he had published.” “I can fancy the dreary thing!” “I believe they found out he had all sorts of worries and difficulties.” “That of course wasn’t to be endured, so they jumped at the privilege of paying his debts!” I professed that I knew nothing about his debts, and I reminded my visitor that though the dear Mulvilles were angels they were neither idiots nor millionaires. What they mainly aimed at was reuniting Mr. Saltram to his wife. “I was expecting to hear he has basely abandoned her,” Gravener went on, at this, “and I’m too glad you don’t disappoint me.” I tried to recall exactly what Mrs. Mulville had told me. “He didn’t leave her—no. It’s she who has left him.” “Left him to us?” Gravener asked. “The monster—many thanks! I decline to take him.” “You’ll hear more about him in spite of yourself. I can’t, no, I really can’t resist the impression that he’s a big man.” I was already mastering—to my shame perhaps be it said—just the tone my old friend least liked. “It’s doubtless only a trifle,” he returned, “but you haven’t happened to mention what his reputation’s to rest on.” “Why on what I began by boring you with—his extraordinary mind.” “As exhibited in his writings?” “Possibly in his writings, but certainly in his talk, which is far and away the richest I ever listened to.” “And what’s it all about?” “My dear fellow, don’t ask me! About everything!” I pursued, reminding myself of poor Adelaide. “About his ideas of things,” I then more charitably added. “You must have heard him to know what I mean—it’s unlike anything that ever was heard.” I coloured, I admit, I overcharged a little, for such a picture was an anticipation of Saltram’s later development and still more of my fuller acquaintance with him. However, I really expressed, a little lyrically perhaps, my actual imagination of him when I proceeded to declare that, in a cloud of tradition, of legend, he might very well go down to posterity as the greatest of all great talkers. Before we parted George Gravener had wondered why such a row should be made about a chatterbox the more and why he should be pampered and pensioned. The greater the wind-bag the greater the calamity. Out of proportion to everything else on earth had come to be this wagging of the tongue. We were drenched with talk—our wretched age was dying of it. I differed from him here sincerely, only going so far as to concede, and gladly, that we were drenched with sound. It was not however the mere speakers who were killing us—it was the mere stammerers. Fine talk was as rare as it was refreshing—the gift of the gods themselves, the one starry spangle on the ragged cloak of humanity. How many men were there who rose to this privilege, of how many masters of conversation could he boast the acquaintance? Dying of talk?—why we were dying of the lack of it! Bad writing wasn’t talk, as many people seemed to think, and even good wasn’t always to be compared to it. From the best talk indeed the best writing had something to learn. I fancifully added that we too should peradventure be gilded by the legend, should be pointed at for having listened, for having actually heard. Gravener, who had glanced at his watch and discovered it was midnight, found to all this a retort beautifully characteristic of him. “There’s one little fact to be borne in mind in the presence equally of the best talk and of the worst.” He looked, in saying this, as if he meant great things, and I was sure he could only mean once more that neither of them mattered if a man wasn’t a real gentleman. Perhaps it was what he did mean; he deprived me however of the exultation of being right by putting the truth in a slightly different way. “The only thing that really counts for one’s estimate of a person is his conduct.” He had his watch still in his palm, and I reproached him with unfair play in having ascertained beforehand that it was now the hour at which I always gave in. My pleasantry so far failed to mollify him that he promptly added that to the rule he had just enunciated there was absolutely no exception. “None whatever?” “None whatever.” “Trust me then to try to be good at any price!” I laughed as I went with him to the door. “I declare I will be, if I have to be horrible!” III IF that first night was one of the liveliest, or at any rate was the freshest, of my exaltations, there was another, four years later, that was one of my great discomposures. Repetition, I well knew by this time, was the secret of Saltram’s power to alienate, and of course one would never have seen him at his finest if one hadn’t seen him in his remorses. They set in mainly at this season and were magnificent, elemental, orchestral. I was quite aware that one of these atmospheric disturbances was now due; but none the less, in our arduous attempt to set him on his feet as a lecturer, it was impossible not to feel that two failures were a large order, as we said, for a short course of five. This was the second time, and it was past nine o’clock; the audience, a muster unprecedented and really encouraging, had fortunately the attitude of blandness that might have been looked for in persons whom the promise of (if I’m not mistaken) An Analysis of Primary Ideas had drawn to the neighbourhood of Upper Baker Street. There was in those days in that region a petty lecture-hall to be secured on terms as moderate as the funds left at our disposal by the irrepressible question of the maintenance of five small Saltrams—I include the mother—and one large one. By the time the Saltrams, of different sizes, were all maintained we had pretty well poured out the oil that might have lubricated the machinery for enabling the most original of men to appear to maintain them. It was I, the other time, who had been forced into the breach, standing up there for an odious lamplit moment to explain to half a dozen thin benches, where earnest brows were virtuously void of anything so cynical as a suspicion, that we couldn’t so much as put a finger on Mr. Saltram. There was nothing to plead but that our scouts had been out from the early hours and that we were afraid that on one of his walks abroad—he took one, for meditation, whenever he was to address such a company—some accident had disabled or delayed him. The meditative walks were a fiction, for he never, that any one could discover, prepared anything but a magnificent prospectus; hence his circulars and programmes, of which I possess an almost complete collection, are the solemn ghosts of generations never born. I put the case, as it seemed to me, at the best; but I admit I had been angry, and Kent Mulville was shocked at my want of public optimism. This time therefore I left the excuses to his more practised patience, only relieving myself in response to a direct appeal from a young lady next whom, in the hall, I found myself sitting. My position was an accident, but if it had been calculated the reason would scarce have eluded an observer of the fact that no one else in the room had an approach to an appearance. Our philosopher’s “tail” was deplorably limp. This visitor was the only person who looked at her ease, who had come a little in the spirit of adventure. She seemed to carry amusement in her handsome young head, and her presence spoke, a little mystifyingly, of a sudden extension of Saltram’s sphere of influence. He was doing better than we hoped, and he had chosen such an occasion, of all occasions, to succumb to heaven knew which of his fond infirmities. The young lady produced an impression of auburn hair and black velvet, and had on her other hand a companion of obscurer type, presumably a waiting-maid. She herself might perhaps have been a foreign countess, and before she addressed me I had beguiled our sorry interval by finding in her a vague recall of the opening of some novel of Madame Sand. It didn’t make her more fathomable to pass in a few minutes from this to the certitude that she was American; it simply engendered depressing reflexions as to the possible check to contributions from Boston. She asked me if, as a person apparently more initiated, I would recommend further waiting, and I answered that if she considered I was on my honour I would privately deprecate it. Perhaps she didn’t; at any rate our talk took a turn that prolonged it till she became aware we were left almost alone. I presently ascertained she knew Mrs. Saltram, and this explained in a manner the miracle. The brotherhood of the friends of the husband was as nothing to the brotherhood, or perhaps I should say the sisterhood, of the friends of the wife. Like the Kent Mulvilles I belonged to both fraternities, and even better than they I think I had sounded the abyss of Mrs. Saltram’s wrongs. She bored me to extinction, and I knew but too well how she had bored her husband; but there were those who stood by her, the most efficient of whom were indeed the handful of poor Saltram’s backers. They did her liberal justice, whereas her mere patrons and partisans had nothing but hatred for our philosopher. I’m bound to say it was we, however—we of both camps, as it were—who had always done most for her. I thought my young lady looked rich—I scarcely knew why; and I hoped she had put her hand in her pocket. I soon made her out, however, not at all a fine fanatic—she was but a generous, irresponsible enquirer. She had come to England to see her aunt, and it was at her aunt’s she had met the dreary lady we had all so much on our mind. I saw she’d help to pass the time when she observed that it was a pity this lady wasn’t intrinsically more interesting. That was refreshing, for it was an article of faith in Mrs. Saltram’s circle—at least among those who scorned to know her horrid husband—that she was attractive on her merits. She was in truth a most ordinary person, as Saltram himself would have been if he hadn’t been a prodigy. The question of vulgarity had no application to him, but it was a measure his wife kept challenging you to apply. I hasten to add that the consequences of your doing so were no sufficient reason for his having left her to starve. “He doesn’t seem to have much force of character,” said my young lady; at which I laughed out so loud that my departing friends looked back at me over their shoulders as if I were making a joke of their discomfiture. My joke probably cost Saltram a subscription or two, but it helped me on with my interlocutress. “She says he drinks like a fish,” she sociably continued, “and yet she allows that his mind’s wonderfully clear.” It was amusing to converse with a pretty girl who could talk of the clearness of Saltram’s mind. I expected next to hear she had been assured he was awfully clever. I tried to tell her—I had it almost on my conscience—what was the proper way to regard him; an effort attended perhaps more than ever on this occasion with the usual effect of my feeling that I wasn’t after all very sure of it. She had come to-night out of high curiosity—she had wanted to learn this proper way for herself. She had read some of his papers and hadn’t understood them; but it was at home, at her aunt’s, that her curiosity had been kindled—kindled mainly by his wife’s remarkable stories of his want of virtue. “I suppose they ought to have kept me away,” my companion dropped, “and I suppose they’d have done so if I hadn’t somehow got an idea that he’s fascinating. In fact Mrs. Saltram herself says he is.” “So you came to see where the fascination resides? Well, you’ve seen!” My young lady raised fine eyebrows. “Do you mean in his bad faith?” “In the extraordinary effects of it; his possession, that is, of some quality or other that condemns us in advance to forgive him the humiliation, as I may call it, to which he has subjected us.” “The humiliation?” “Why mine, for instance, as one of his guarantors, before you as the purchaser of a ticket.” She let her charming gay eyes rest on me. “You don’t look humiliated a bit, and if you did I should let you off, disappointed as I am; for the mysterious quality you speak of is just the quality I came to see.” “Oh, you can’t ‘see’ it!” I cried. “How then do you get at it?” “You don’t! You mustn’t suppose he’s good-looking,” I added. “Why his wife says he’s lovely!” My hilarity may have struck her as excessive, but I confess it broke out afresh. Had she acted only in obedience to this singular plea, so characteristic, on Mrs. Saltram’s part, of what was irritating in the narrowness of that lady’s point of view? “Mrs. Saltram,” I explained, “undervalues him where he’s strongest, so that, to make up for it perhaps, she overpraises him where he’s weak. He’s not, assuredly, superficially attractive; he’s middle-aged, fat, featureless save for his great eyes.” “Yes, his great eyes,” said my young lady attentively. She had evidently heard all about his great eyes—the beaux yeux for which alone we had really done it all. “They’re tragic and splendid—lights on a dangerous coast. But he moves badly and dresses worse, and altogether he’s anything but smart.” My companion, who appeared to reflect on this, after a moment appealed. “Do you call him a real gentleman?” I started slightly at the question, for I had a sense of recognising it: George Gravener, years before, that first flushed night, had put me face to face with it. It had embarrassed me then, but it didn’t embarrass me now, for I had lived with it and overcome it and disposed of it. “A real gentleman? Emphatically not!” My promptitude surprised her a little, but I quickly felt how little it was to Gravener I was now talking. “Do you say that because he’s—what do you call it in England?—of humble extraction?” “Not a bit. His father was a country school-master and his mother the widow of a sexton, but that has nothing to do with it. I say it simply because I know him well.” “But isn’t it an awful drawback?” “Awful—quite awful.” “I mean isn’t it positively fatal?” “Fatal to what? Not to his magnificent vitality.” Again she had a meditative moment. “And is his magnificent vitality the cause of his vices?” “Your questions are formidable, but I’m glad you put them. I was thinking of his noble intellect. His vices, as you say, have been much exaggerated: they consist mainly after all in one comprehensive defect.” “A want of will?” “A want of dignity.” “He doesn’t recognise his obligations?” “On the contrary, he recognises them with effusion, especially in public: he smiles and bows and beckons across the street to them. But when they pass over he turns away, and he speedily loses them in the crowd. The recognition’s purely spiritual—it isn’t in the least social. So he leaves all his belongings to other people to take care of. He accepts favours, loans, sacrifices—all with nothing more deterrent than an agony of shame. Fortunately we’re a little faithful band, and we do what we can.” I held my tongue about the natural children, engendered, to the number of three, in the wantonness of his youth. I only remarked that he did make efforts—often tremendous ones. “But the efforts,” I said, “never come to much: the only things that come to much are the abandonments, the surrenders.” “And how much do they come to?” “You’re right to put it as if we had a big bill to pay, but, as I’ve told you before, your questions are rather terrible. They come, these mere exercises of genius, to a great sum total of poetry, of philosophy, a mighty mass of speculation, notation, quotation. The genius is there, you see, to meet the surrender; but there’s no genius to support the defence.” “But what is there, after all, at his age, to show?” “In the way of achievement recognised and reputation established?” I asked. “To ‘show’ if you will, there isn’t much, since his writing, mostly, isn’t as fine, isn’t certainly as showy, as his talk. Moreover two-thirds of his work are merely colossal projects and announcements. ‘Showing’ Frank Saltram is often a poor business,” I went on: “we endeavoured, you’ll have observed, to show him to-night! However, if he had lectured he’d have lectured divinely. It would just have been his talk.” “And what would his talk just have been?” I was conscious of some ineffectiveness, as well perhaps as of a little impatience, as I replied: “The exhibition of a splendid intellect.” My young lady looked not quite satisfied at this, but as I wasn’t prepared for another question I hastily pursued: “The sight of a great suspended swinging crystal—huge lucid lustrous, a block of light—flashing back every impression of life and every possibility of thought!” This gave her something to turn over till we had passed out to the dusky porch of the hall, in front of which the lamps of a quiet brougham were almost the only thing Saltram’s treachery hadn’t extinguished. I went with her to the door of her carriage, out of which she leaned a moment after she had thanked me and taken her seat. Her smile even in the darkness was pretty. “I do want to see that crystal!” “You’ve only to come to the next lecture.” “I go abroad in a day or two with my aunt.” “Wait over till next week,” I suggested. “It’s quite worth it.” She became grave. “Not unless he really comes!” At which the brougham started off, carrying her away too fast, fortunately for my manners, to allow me to exclaim “Ingratitude!” IV MRS. SALTRAM made a great affair of her right to be informed where her husband had been the second evening he failed to meet his audience. She came to me to ascertain, but I couldn’t satisfy her, for in spite of my ingenuity I remained in ignorance. It wasn’t till much later that I found this had not been the case with Kent Mulville, whose hope for the best never twirled the thumbs of him more placidly than when he happened to know the worst. He had known it on the occasion I speak of—that is immediately after. He was impenetrable then, but ultimately confessed. What he confessed was more than I shall now venture to make public. It was of course familiar to me that Saltram was incapable of keeping the engagements which, after their separation, he had entered into with regard to his wife, a deeply wronged, justly resentful, quite irreproachable and insufferable person. She often appeared at my chambers to talk over his lapses; for if, as she declared, she had washed her hands of him, she had carefully preserved the water of this ablution, which she handed about for analysis. She had arts of her own of exciting one’s impatience, the most infallible of which was perhaps her assumption that we were kind to her because we liked her. In reality her personal fall had been a sort of social rise—since I had seen the moment when, in our little conscientious circle, her desolation almost made her the fashion. Her voice was grating and her children ugly; moreover she hated the good Mulvilles, whom I more and more loved. They were the people who by doing most for her husband had in the long run done most for herself; and the warm confidence with which he had laid his length upon them was a pressure gentle compared with her stiffer persuadability. I’m bound to say he didn’t criticise his benefactors, though practically he got tired of them; she, however, had the highest standards about eleemosynary forms. She offered the odd spectacle of a spirit puffed up by dependence, and indeed it had introduced her to some excellent society. She pitied me for not knowing certain people who aided her and whom she doubtless patronised in turn for their luck in not knowing me. I dare say I should have got on with her better if she had had a ray of imagination—if it had occasionally seemed to occur to her to regard Saltram’s expressions of his nature in any other manner than as separate subjects of woe. They were all flowers of his character, pearls strung on an endless thread; but she had a stubborn little way of challenging them one after the other, as if she never suspected that he had a character, such as it was, or that deficiencies might be organic; the irritating effect of a mind incapable of a generalisation. One might doubtless have overdone the idea that there was a general licence for such a man; but if this had happened it would have been through one’s feeling that there could be none for such a woman. I recognised her superiority when I asked her about the aunt of the disappointed young lady: it sounded like a sentence from an English-French or other phrase-book. She triumphed in what she told me and she may have triumphed still more in what she withheld. My friend of the other evening, Miss Anvoy, had but lately come to England; Lady Coxon, the aunt, had been established here for years in consequence of her marriage with the late Sir Gregory of that name. She had a house in the Regent’s Park, a Bath-chair and a fernery; and above all she had sympathy. Mrs. Saltram had made her acquaintance through mutual friends. This vagueness caused me to feel how much I was out of it and how large an independent circle Mrs. Saltram had at her command. I should have been glad to know more about the disappointed young lady, but I felt I should know most by not depriving her of her advantage, as she might have mysterious means of depriving me of my knowledge. For the present, moreover, this experience was stayed, Lady Coxon having in fact gone abroad accompanied by her niece. The niece, besides being immensely clever, was an heiress, Mrs. Saltram said; the only daughter and the light of the eyes of some great American merchant, a man, over there, of endless indulgences and dollars. She had pretty clothes and pretty manners, and she had, what was prettier still, the great thing of all. The great thing of all for Mrs. Saltram was always sympathy, and she spoke as if during the absence of these ladies she mightn’t know where to turn for it. A few months later indeed, when they had come back, her tone perceptibly changed: she alluded to them, on my leading her up to it, rather as to persons in her debt for favours received. What had happened I didn’t know, but I saw it would take only a little more or a little less to make her speak of them as thankless subjects of social countenance—people for whom she had vainly tried to do something. I confess I saw how it wouldn’t be in a mere week or two that I should rid myself of the image of Ruth Anvoy, in whose very name, when I learnt it, I found something secretly to like. I should probably neither see her nor hear of her again: the knight’s widow (he had been mayor of Clockborough) would pass away and the heiress would return to her inheritance. I gathered with surprise that she had not communicated to his wife the story of her attempt to hear Mr..Saltram, and I founded this reticence on the easy supposition that Mrs. Saltram had fatigued by overpressure the spring of the sympathy of which she boasted. The girl at any rate would forget the small adventure, be distracted, take a husband; besides which she would lack occasion to repeat her experiment. We clung to the idea of the brilliant course, delivered without an accident, that, as a lecturer, would still make the paying public aware of our great man, but the fact remained that in the case of an inspiration so unequal there was treachery, there was fallacy at least, in the very conception of a series. In our scrutiny of ways and means we were inevitably subject to the old convention of the synopsis, the syllabus, partly of course not to lose the advantage of his grand free hand in drawing up such things; but for myself I laughed at our playbills even while I stickled for them. It was indeed amusing work to be scrupulous for Frank Saltram, who also at moments laughed about it, so far as the comfort of a sigh so unstudied as to be cheerful might pass for such a sound. He admitted with a candour all his own that he was in truth only to be depended on in the Mulvilles’ drawing-room. “Yes,” he suggestively allowed, “it’s there, I think, that I’m at my best; quite late, when it gets toward eleven—and if I’ve not been too much worried.” We all knew what too much worry meant; it meant too enslaved for the hour to the superstition of sobriety. On the Saturdays I used to bring my portmanteau, so as not to have to think of eleven o’clock trains. I had a bold theory that as regards this temple of talk and its altars of cushioned chintz, its pictures and its flowers, its large fireside and clear lamplight, we might really arrive at something if the Mulvilles would but charge for admission. Here it was, however, that they shamelessly broke down; as there’s a flaw in every perfection this was the inexpugnable refuge of their egotism. They declined to make their saloon a market, so that Saltram’s golden words continued the sole coin that rang there. It can have happened to no man, however, to be paid a greater price than such an enchanted hush as surrounded him on his greatest nights. The most profane, on these occasions, felt a presence; all minor eloquence grew dumb. Adelaide Mulville, for the pride of her hospitality, anxiously watched the door or stealthily poked the fire. I used to call it the music-room, for we had anticipated Bayreuth. The very gates of the kingdom of light seemed to open and the horizon of thought to flash with the beauty of a sunrise at sea. In the consideration of ways and means, the sittings of our little board, we were always conscious of the creak of Mrs. Saltram’s shoes. She hovered, she interrupted, she almost presided, the state of affairs being mostly such as to supply her with every incentive for enquiring what was to be done next. It was the pressing pursuit of this knowledge that, in concatenations of omnibuses and usually in very wet weather, led her so often to my door. She thought us spiritless creatures with editors and publishers; but she carried matters to no great effect when she personally pushed into back-shops. She wanted all moneys to be paid to herself: they were otherwise liable to such strange adventures. They trickled away into the desert—they were mainly at best, alas, a slender stream. The editors and the publishers were the last people to take this remarkable thinker at the valuation that has now pretty well come to be established. The former were half-distraught between the desire to “cut” him and the difficulty of finding a crevice for their shears; and when a volume on this or that portentous subject was proposed to the latter they suggested alternative titles which, as reported to our friend, brought into his face the noble blank melancholy that sometimes made it handsome. The title of an unwritten book didn’t after all much matter, but some masterpiece of Saltram’s may have died in his bosom of the shudder with which it was then convulsed. The ideal solution, failing the fee at Kent Mulville’s door, would have been some system of subscription to projected treatises with their non-appearance provided for—provided for, I mean, by the indulgence of subscribers. The author’s real misfortune was that subscribers were so wretchedly literal. When they tastelessly enquired why publication hadn’t ensued I was tempted to ask who in the world had ever been so published. Nature herself had brought him out in voluminous form, and the money was simply a deposit on borrowing the work. V I WAS doubtless often a nuisance to my friends in those years; but there were sacrifices I declined to make, and I never passed the hat to George Gravener. I never forgot our little discussion in Ebury Street, and I think it stuck in my throat to have to treat him to the avowal I had found so easy to Mss Anvoy. It had cost me nothing to confide to this charming girl, but it would have cost me much to confide to the friend of my youth, that the character of the “real gentleman” wasn’t an attribute of the man I took such pains for. Was this because I had already generalised to the point of perceiving that women are really the unfastidious sex? I knew at any rate that Gravener, already quite in view but still hungry and frugal, had naturally enough more ambition than charity. He had sharp aims for stray sovereigns, being in view most from the tall steeple of Clockborough. His immediate ambition was to occupy à lui seul the field of vision of that smokily-seeing city, and all his movements and postures were calculated for the favouring angle. The movement of the hand as to the pocket had thus to alternate gracefully with the posture of the hand on the heart. He talked to Clockborough in short only less beguilingly than Frank Saltram talked to his electors; with the difference to our credit, however, that we had already voted and that our candidate had no antagonist but himself. He had more than once been at Wimbledon—it was Mrs. Mulville’s work not mine—and by the time the claret was served had seen the god descend. He took more pains to swing his censer than I had expected, but on our way back to town he forestalled any little triumph I might have been so artless as to express by the observation that such a man was—a hundred times!—a man to use and never a man to be used by. I remember that this neat remark humiliated me almost as much as if virtually, in the fever of broken slumbers, I hadn’t often made it myself. The difference was that on Gravener’s part a force attached to it that could never attach to it on mine. He was able to use people—he had the machinery; and the irony of Saltram’s being made showy at Clockborough came out to me when he said, as if he had no memory of our original talk and the idea were quite fresh to him: “I hate his type, you know, but I’ll be hanged if I don’t put some of those things in. I can find a place for them: we might even find a place for the fellow himself.” I myself should have had some fear—not, I need scarcely say, for the “things” themselves, but for some other things very near them; in fine for the rest of my eloquence. Later on I could see that the oracle of Wimbledon was not in this case so appropriate as he would have been had the polities of the gods only coincided more exactly with those of the party. There was a distinct moment when, without saying anything more definite to me, Gravener entertained the idea of annexing Mr. Saltram. Such a project was delusive, for the discovery of analogies between his body of doctrine and that pressed from headquarters upon Clockborough—the bottling, in a word, of the air of those lungs for convenient public uncorking in corn-exchanges—was an experiment for which no one had the leisure. The only thing would have been to carry him massively about, paid, caged, clipped; to turn him on for a particular occasion in a particular channel. Frank Saltram’s channel, however, was essentially not calculable, and there was no knowing what disastrous floods might have ensued. For what there would have been to do The Empire, the great newspaper, was there to look to; but it was no new misfortune that there were delicate situations in which The Empire broke down. In fine there was an instinctive apprehension that a clever young journalist commissioned to report on Mr. Saltram might never come back from the errand. No one knew better than George Gravener that that was a time when prompt returns counted double. If he therefore found our friend an exasperating waste of orthodoxy it was because of his being, as he said, poor Gravener, up in the clouds, not because he was down in the dust. The man would have been, just as he was, a real enough gentleman if he could have helped to put in a real gentleman. Gravener’s great objection to the actual member was that he was not one. Lady Coxon had a fine old house, a house with “grounds,” at Clockborough, which she had let; but after she returned from abroad I learned from Mrs. Saltram that the lease had fallen in and that she had gone down to resume possession. I could see the faded red livery, the big square shoulders, the high-walled garden of this decent abode. As the rumble of dissolution grew louder the suitor would have pressed his suit, and I found myself hoping the politics of the late Mayor’s widow wouldn’t be such as to admonish her to ask him to dinner; perhaps indeed I went so far as to pray, they would naturally form a bar to any contact. I tried to focus the many-buttoned page, in the daily airing, as he perhaps even pushed the Bath-chair over somebody’s toes. I was destined to hear, none the less, through Mrs. Saltram—who, I afterwards learned, was in correspondence with Lady Coxon’s housekeeper—that Gravener was known to have spoken of the habitation I had in my eye as the pleasantest thing at Clockborough. On his part, I was sure, this was the voice not of envy but of experience. The vivid scene was now peopled, and I could see him in the old-time garden with Miss Anvoy, who would be certain, and very justly, to think him good-looking. It would be too much to describe myself as troubled by this play of surmise; but I occur to remember the relief, singular enough, of feeling it suddenly brushed away by an annoyance really much greater; an annoyance the result of its happening to come over me about that time with a rush that I was simply ashamed of Frank Saltram. There were limits after all, and my mark at last had been reached. I had had my disgusts, if I may allow myself to-day such an expression; but this was a supreme revolt. Certain things cleared up in my mind, certain values stood out. It was all very well to have an unfortunate temperament; there was nothing so unfortunate as to have, for practical purposes, nothing else. I avoided George Gravener at this moment and reflected that at such a time I should do so most effectually by leaving England. I wanted to forget Frank Saltram—that was all. I didn’t want to do anything in the world to him but that. Indignation had withered on the stalk, and I felt that one could pity him as much as one ought only by never thinking of him again. It wasn’t for anything he had done to me; it was for what he had done to the Mulvilles. Adelaide cried about it for a week, and her husband, profiting by the example so signally given him of the fatal effect of a want of character, left the letter, the drop too much, unanswered. The letter, an incredible one, addressed by Saltram to Wimbledon during a stay with the Pudneys at Ramsgate, was the central feature of the incident, which, however, had many features, each more painful than whichever other we compared it with. The Pudneys had behaved shockingly, but that was no excuse. Base ingratitude, gross indecency—one had one’s choice only of such formulas as that the more they fitted the less they gave one rest. These are dead aches now, and I am under no obligation, thank heaven, to be definite about the business. There are things which if I had had to tell them—well, would have stopped me off here altogether. I went abroad for the general election, and if I don’t know how much, on the Continent, I forgot, I at least know how much I missed, him. At a distance, in a foreign land, ignoring, abjuring, unlearning him, I discovered what he had done for me. I owed him, oh unmistakeably, certain noble conceptions; I had lighted my little taper at his smoky lamp, and lo it continued to twinkle. But the light it gave me just showed me how much more I wanted. I was pursued of course by letters from Mrs. Saltram which I didn’t scruple not to read, though quite aware her embarrassments couldn’t but be now of the gravest. I sacrificed to propriety by simply putting them away, and this is how, one day as my absence drew to an end, my eye, while I rummaged in my desk for another paper, was caught by a name on a leaf that had detached itself from the packet. The allusion was to Miss Anvoy, who, it appeared, was engaged to be married to Mr. George Gravener; and the news was two months old. A direct question of Mrs. Saltram’s had thus remained unanswered—she had enquired of me in a postscript what sort of man this aspirant to such a hand might be. The great other fact about him just then was that he had been triumphantly returned for Clockborough in the interest of the party that had swept the country—so that I might easily have referred Mrs. Saltram to the journals of the day. Yet when I at last wrote her that I was coming home and would discharge my accumulated burden by seeing her, I but remarked in regard to her question that she must really put it to Miss Anvoy. VI I HAD almost avoided the general election, but some of its consequences, on my return, had smartly to be faced. The season, in London, began to breathe again and to flap its folded wings. Confidence, under the new Ministry, was understood to be reviving, and one of the symptoms, in a social body, was a recovery of appetite. People once more fed together, and it happened that, one Saturday night, at somebody’s house, I fed with George Gravener. When the ladies left the room I moved up to where he sat and begged to congratulate him. “On my election?” he asked after a moment; so that I could feign, jocosely, not to have heard of that triumph and to be alluding to the rumour of a victory still more personal. I dare say I coloured however, for his political success had momentarily passed out of my mind. What was present to it was that he was to marry that beautiful girl; and yet his question made me conscious of some discomposure—I hadn’t intended to put this before everything. He himself indeed ought gracefully to have done so, and I remember thinking the whole man was in this assumption that in expressing my sense of what he had won I had fixed my thoughts on his “seat.” We straightened the matter out, and he was so much lighter in hand than I had lately seen him that his spirits might well have been fed from a twofold source. He was so good as to say that he hoped I should soon make the acquaintance of Miss Anvoy, who, with her aunt, was presently coming up to town. Lady Coxon, in the country, had been seriously unwell, and this had delayed their arrival. I told him I had heard the marriage would be a splendid one; on which, brightened and humanised by his luck, he laughed and said “Do you mean for her?” When I had again explained what I meant he went on: “Oh she’s an American, but you’d scarcely know it; unless, perhaps,” he added, “by her being used to more money than most girls in England, even the daughters of rich men. That wouldn’t in the least do for a fellow like me, you know, if it wasn’t for the great liberality of her father. He really has been most kind, and everything’s quite satisfactory.” He added that his eldest brother had taken a tremendous fancy to her and that during a recent visit at Coldfield she had nearly won over Lady Maddock. I gathered from something he dropped later on that the free-handed gentleman beyond the seas had not made a settlement, but had given a handsome present and was apparently to be looked to, across the water, for other favours. People are simplified alike by great contentments and great yearnings, and, whether or no it was Gravener’s directness that begot my own, I seem to recall that in some turn taken by our talk he almost imposed it on me as an act of decorum to ask if Miss Anvoy had also by chance expectations from her aunt. My enquiry drew out that Lady Coxon, who was the oddest of women, would have in any contingency to act under her late husband’s will, which was odder still, saddling her with a mass of queer obligations complicated with queer loopholes. There were several dreary people, Coxon cousins, old maids, to whom she would have more or less to minister. Gravener laughed, without saying no, when I suggested that the young lady might come in through a loophole; then suddenly, as if he suspected my turning a lantern on him, he declared quite dryly: “That’s all rot—one’s moved by other springs!” A fortnight later, at Lady Coxon’s own house, I understood well enough the springs one was moved by. Gravener had spoken of me there as an old friend, and I received a gracious invitation to dine. The Knight’s widow was again indisposed—she had succumbed at the eleventh hour; so that I found Miss Anvoy bravely playing hostess without even Gravener’s help, since, to make matters worse, he had just sent up word that the House, the insatiable House, with which he supposed he had contracted for easier terms, positively declined to release him. I was struck with the courage, the grace and gaiety of the young lady left thus to handle the fauna and flora of the Regent’s Park. I did what I could to help her to classify them, after I had recovered from the confusion of seeing her slightly disconcerted at perceiving in the guest introduced by her intended the gentleman with whom she had had that talk about Frank Saltram. I had at this moment my first glimpse of the fact that she was a person who could carry a responsibility; but I leave the reader to judge of my sense of the aggravation, for either of us, of such a burden, when I heard the servant announce Mrs. Saltram. From what immediately passed between the two ladies I gathered that the latter had been sent for post-haste to fill the gap created by the absence of the mistress of the house. “Good!” I remember crying, “she’ll be put by me;” and my apprehension was promptly justified. Mrs. Saltram taken in to dinner, and taken in as a consequence of an appeal to her amiability, was Mrs. Saltram with a vengeance. I asked myself what Miss Anvoy meant by doing such things, but the only answer I arrived at was that Gravener was verily fortunate. She hadn’t happened to tell him of her visit to Upper Baker Street, but she’d certainly tell him to-morrow; not indeed that this would make him like any better her having had the innocence to invite such a person as Mrs. Saltram on such an occasion. It could only strike me that I had never seen a young woman put such ignorance into her cleverness, such freedom into her modesty; this, I think, was when, after dinner, she said to me frankly, with almost jubilant mirth: “Oh you don’t admire Mrs. Saltram?” Why should I? This was truly a young person without guile. I had briefly to consider before I could reply that my objection to the lady named was the objection often uttered about people met at the social board—I knew all her stories. Then as Miss Anvoy remained momentarily vague I added: “Those about her husband.” “Oh yes, but there are some new ones.” “None for me. Ah novelty would be pleasant!” “Doesn’t it appear that of late he has been particularly horrid?” “His fluctuations don’t matter”, I returned, “for at night all cats are grey. You saw the shade of this one the night we waited for him together. What will you have? He has no dignity.” Miss Anvoy, who had been introducing with her American distinctness, looked encouragingly round at some of the combinations she had risked. “It’s too bad I can’t see him.” “You mean Gravener won’t let you?” “I haven’t asked him. He lets me do everything.” “But you know he knows him and wonders what some of us see in him.” “We haven’t happened to talk of him,” the girl said. “Get him to take you some day out to see the Mulvilles.” “I thought Mr. Saltram had thrown the Mulvilles over.” “Utterly. But that won’t prevent his being planted there again, to bloom like a rose, within a month or two.” Miss Anvoy thought a moment. Then, “I should like to see them,” she said with her fostering smile. “They’re tremendously worth it. You mustn’t miss them.” “I’ll make George take me,” she went on as Mrs. Saltram came up to interrupt us. She sniffed at this unfortunate as kindly as she had smiled at me and, addressing the question to her, continued: “But the chance of a lecture—one of the wonderful lectures? Isn’t there another course announced?” “Another? There are about thirty!” I exclaimed, turning away and feeling Mrs. Saltram’s little eyes in my back. A few days after this I heard that Gravener’s marriage was near at hand—was settled for Whitsuntide; but as no invitation had reached me I had my doubts, and there presently came to me in fact the report of a postponement. Something was the matter; what was the matter was supposed to be that Lady Coxon was now critically ill. I had called on her after my dinner in the Regent’s Park, but I had neither seen her nor seen Miss Anvoy. I forget to-day the exact order in which, at this period, sundry incidents occurred and the particular stage at which it suddenly struck me, making me catch my breath a little, that the progression, the acceleration, was for all the world that of fine drama. This was probably rather late in the day, and the exact order doesn’t signify. What had already occurred was some accident determining a more patient wait. George Gravener, whom I met again, in fact told me as much, but without signs of perturbation. Lady Coxon had to be constantly attended to, and there were other good reasons as well. Lady Coxon had to be so constantly attended to that on the occasion of a second attempt in the Regent’s Park I equally failed to obtain a sight of her niece. I judged it discreet in all the conditions not to make a third; but this didn’t matter, for it was through Adelaide Mulville that the side-wind of the comedy, though I was at first unwitting, began to reach me. I went to Wimbledon at times because Saltram was there, and I went at others because he wasn’t. The Pudneys, who had taken him to Birmingham, had already got rid of him, and we had a horrible consciousness of his wandering roofless, in dishonour, about the smoky Midlands, almost as the injured Lear wandered on the storm-lashed heath. His room, upstairs, had been lately done up (I could hear the crackle of the new chintz) and the difference only made his smirches and bruises, his splendid tainted genius, the more tragic. If he wasn’t barefoot in the mire he was sure to be unconventionally shod. These were the things Adelaide and I, who were old enough friends to stare at each other in silence, talked about when we didn’t speak. When we spoke it was only about the brilliant girl George Gravener was to marry and whom he had brought out the other Sunday. I could see that this presentation had been happy, for Mrs. Mulville commemorated it after her sole fashion of showing confidence in a new relation. “She likes me—she likes me”: her native humility exulted in that measure of success. We all knew for ourselves how she liked those who liked her, and as regards Ruth Anvoy she was more easily won over than Lady Maddock. VII ONE of the consequences, for the Mulvilles, of the sacrifices they made for Frank Saltram was that they had to give up their carriage. Adelaide drove gently into London in a one-horse greenish thing, an early Victorian landau, hired, near at hand, imaginatively, from a broken-down jobmaster whose wife was in consumption—a vehicle that made people turn round all the more when her pensioner sat beside her in a soft white hat and a shawl, one of the dear woman’s own. This was his position and I dare say his costume when on an afternoon in July she went to return Miss Anvoy’s visit. The wheel of fate had now revolved, and amid silences deep and exhaustive, compunctions and condonations alike unutterable, Saltram was reinstated. Was it in pride or in penance that Mrs. Mulville had begun immediately to drive him about? If he was ashamed of his ingratitude she might have been ashamed of her forgiveness; but she was incorrigibly capable of liking him to be conspicuous in the landau while she was in shops or with her acquaintance. However, if he was in the pillory for twenty minutes in the Regent’s Park—I mean at Lady Coxon’s door while his companion paid her call—it wasn’t to the further humiliation of any one concerned that she presently came out for him in person, not even to show either of them what a fool she was that she drew him in to be introduced to the bright young American. Her account of the introduction I had in its order, but before that, very late in the season, under Gravener’s auspices, I met Miss Anvoy at tea at the House of Commons. The member for Clockborough had gathered a group of pretty ladies, and the Mulvilles were not of the party. On the great terrace, as I strolled off with her a little, the guest of honour immediately exclaimed to me: “I’ve seen him, you know—I’ve seen him!” She told me about Saltram’s call. “And how did you find him?” “Oh so strange!” “You didn’t like him?” “I can’t tell till I see him again.” “You want to do that?” She had a pause. “Immensely.” We went no further; I fancied she had become aware Gravener was looking at us. She turned back toward the knot of the others, and I said: “Dislike him as much as you will—I see you’re bitten.” “Bitten?” I thought she coloured a little. “Oh it doesn’t matter!” I laughed; “one doesn’t die of it.” “I hope I shan’t die of anything before I’ve seen more of Mrs. Mulville.” I rejoiced with her over plain Adelaide, whom she pronounced the loveliest woman she had met in England; but before we separated I remarked to her that it was an act of mere humanity to warn her that if she should see more of Frank Saltram—which would be likely to follow on any increase of acquaintance with Mrs. Mulville—she might find herself flattening her nose against the clear hard pane of an eternal question—that of the relative, that of the opposed, importances of virtue and brains. She replied that this was surely a subject on which one took everything for granted; whereupon I admitted that I had perhaps expressed myself ill. What I referred to was what I had referred to the night we met in Upper Baker Street—the relative importance (relative to virtue) of other gifts. She asked me if I called virtue a gift—a thing handed to us in a parcel on our first birthday; and I declared that this very enquiry proved to me the problem had already caught her by the skirt. She would have help however, the same help I myself had once had, in resisting its tendency to make one cross. “What help do you mean?” “That of the member for Clockborough.” She stared, smiled, then returned: “Why my idea has been to help him!” She had helped him—I had his own word for it that at Clockborough her bedevilment of the voters had really put him in. She would do so doubtless again and again, though I heard the very next month that this fine faculty had undergone a temporary eclipse. News of the catastrophe first came to me from Mrs. Saltram, and it was afterwards confirmed at Wimbledon: poor Miss Anvoy was in trouble—great disasters in America had suddenly summoned her home. Her father, in New York, had suffered reverses, lost so much money that it was really vexatious as showing how much he had had. It was Adelaide who told me she had gone off alone at less than a week’s notice. “Alone? Gravener has permitted that?” “What will you have? The House of Commons!” I’m afraid I cursed the House of Commons: I was so much interested. Of course he’d follow her as soon as he was free to make her his wife; only she mightn’t now be able to bring him anything like the marriage-portion of which he had begun by having the virtual promise. Mrs. Mulville let me know what was already said: she was charming, this American girl, but really these American fathers—! What was a man to do? Mr. Saltram, according to Mrs. Mulville, was of opinion that a man was never to suffer his relation to money to become a spiritual relation—he was to keep it exclusively material. “Moi pas comprendre!” I commented on this; in rejoinder to which Adelaide, with her beautiful sympathy, explained that she supposed he simply meant that the thing was to use it, don’t you know? but not to think too much about it. “To take it, but not to thank you for it?” I still more profanely enquired. For a quarter of an hour afterwards she wouldn’t look at me, but this didn’t prevent my asking her what had been the result, that afternoon—in the Regent’s Park, of her taking our friend to see Miss Anvoy. “Oh so charming!” she answered, brightening. “He said he recognised in her a nature he could absolutely trust.” “Yes, but I’m speaking of the effect on herself.” Mrs. Mulville had to remount the stream. “It was everything one could wish.” Something in her tone made me laugh. “Do you mean she gave him—a dole?” “Well, since you ask me!” “Right there on the spot?” Again poor Adelaide faltered. “It was to me of course she gave it.” I stared; somehow I couldn’t see the scene. “Do you mean a sum of money?” “It was very handsome.” Now at last she met my eyes, though I could see it was with an effort. “Thirty pounds.” “Straight out of her pocket?” “Out of the drawer of a table at which she had been writing. She just slipped the folded notes into my hand. He wasn’t looking; it was while he was going back to the carriage.” “Oh,” said Adelaide reassuringly, “I take care of it for him!” The dear practical soul thought my agitation, for I confess I was agitated, referred to the employment of the money. Her disclosure made me for a moment muse violently, and I dare say that during that moment I wondered if anything else in the world makes people so gross as unselfishness. I uttered, I suppose, some vague synthetic cry, for she went on as if she had had a glimpse of my inward amaze at such passages. “I assure you, my dear friend, he was in one of his happy hours.” But I wasn’t thinking of that. “Truly indeed these Americans!” I said. “With her father in the very act, as it were, of swindling her betrothed!” Mrs. Mulville stared. “Oh I suppose Mr. Anvoy has scarcely gone bankrupt—or whatever he has done—on purpose. Very likely they won’t be able to keep it up, but there it was, and it was a very beautiful impulse.” “You say Saltram was very fine?” “Beyond everything. He surprised even me.” “And I know what you’ve enjoyed.” After a moment I added: “Had he peradventure caught a glimpse of the money in the table-drawer?” At this my companion honestly flushed. “How can you be so cruel when you know how little he calculates?” “Forgive me, I do know it. But you tell me things that act on my nerves. I’m sure he hadn’t caught a glimpse of anything but some splendid idea.” Mrs. Mulville brightly concurred. “And perhaps even of her beautiful listening face.” “Perhaps even! And what was it all about?” “His talk? It was apropos of her engagement, which I had told him about: the idea of marriage, the philosophy, the poetry, the sublimity of it.” It was impossible wholly to restrain one’s mirth at this, and some rude ripple that I emitted again caused my companion to admonish me. “It sounds a little stale, but you know his freshness.” “Of illustration? Indeed I do!” “And how he has always been right on that great question.” “On what great question, dear lady, hasn’t he been right?” “Of what other great men can you equally say it?—and that he has never, but never, had a deflexion?” Mrs. Mulville exultantly demanded. I tried to think of some other great man, but I had to give it up. “Didn’t Miss Anvoy express her satisfaction in any less diffident way than by her charming present?” I was reduced to asking instead. “Oh yes, she overflowed to me on the steps while he was getting into the carriage.” These words somehow brushed up a picture of Saltram’s big shawled back as he hoisted himself into the green landau. “She said she wasn’t disappointed,” Adelaide pursued. I turned it over. “Did he wear his shawl?” “His shawl?” She hadn’t even noticed. “I mean yours.” “He looked very nice, and you know he’s really clean. Miss Anvoy used such a remarkable expression—she said his mind’s like a crystal!” I pricked up my ears. “A crystal?” “Suspended in the moral world—swinging and shining and flashing there. She’s monstrously clever, you know.” I thought again. “Monstrously!” VIII GEORGE GRAVENER didn’t follow her, for late in September, after the House had risen, I met him in a railway-carriage. He was coming up from Scotland and I had just quitted some relations who lived near Durham. The current of travel back to London wasn’t yet strong; at any rate on entering the compartment I found he had had it for some time to himself. We fared in company, and though he had a blue-book in his lap and the open jaws of his bag threatened me with the white teeth of confused papers, we inevitably, we even at last sociably conversed. I saw things weren’t well with him, but I asked no question till something dropped by himself made, as it had made on another occasion, an absence of curiosity invidious. He mentioned that he was worried about his good old friend Lady Coxon, who, with her niece likely to be detained some time in America, lay seriously ill at Clockborough, much on his mind and on his hands. “Ah Miss Anvoy’s in America?” “Her father has got into horrid straits—has lost no end of money.” I waited, after expressing due concern, but I eventually said: “I hope that raises no objection to your marriage.” “None whatever; moreover it’s my trade to meet objections. But it may create tiresome delays, of which there have been too many, from various causes, already. Lady Coxon got very bad, then she got much better. Then Mr. Anvoy suddenly began to totter, and now he seems quite on his back. I’m afraid he’s really in for some big reverse. Lady Coxon’s worse again, awfully upset by the news from America, and she sends me word that she _must_ have Ruth. How can I supply her with Ruth? I haven’t got Ruth myself!” “Surely you haven’t lost her?” I returned. “She’s everything to her wretched father. She writes me every post—telling me to smooth her aunt’s pillow. I’ve other things to smooth; but the old lady, save for her servants, is really alone. She won’t receive her Coxon relations—she’s angry at so much of her money going to them. Besides, she’s hopelessly mad,” said Gravener very frankly. I don’t remember whether it was this, or what it was, that made me ask if she hadn’t such an appreciation of Mrs. Saltram as might render that active person of some use. He gave me a cold glance, wanting to know what had put Mrs. Saltram into my head, and I replied that she was unfortunately never out of it. I happened to remember the wonderful accounts she had given me of the kindness Lady Coxon had shown her. Gravener declared this to be false; Lady Coxon, who didn’t care for her, hadn’t seen her three times. The only foundation for it was that Miss Anvoy, who used, poor girl, to chuck money about in a manner she must now regret, had for an hour seen in the miserable woman—you could never know what she’d see in people—an interesting pretext for the liberality with which her nature overflowed. But even Miss Anvoy was now quite tired of her. Gravener told me more about the crash in New York and the annoyance it had been to him, and we also glanced here and there in other directions; but by the time we got to Doncaster the principal thing he had let me see was that he was keeping something back. We stopped at that station, and, at the carriage-door, some one made a movement to get in. Gravener uttered a sound of impatience, and I felt sure that but for this I should have had the secret. Then the intruder, for some reason, spared us his company; we started afresh, and my hope of a disclosure returned. My companion held his tongue, however, and I pretended to go to sleep; in fact I really dozed for discouragement. When I reopened my eyes he was looking at me with an injured air. He tossed away with some vivacity the remnant of a cigarette and then said: “If you’re not too sleepy I want to put you a case.” I answered that I’d make every effort to attend, and welcomed the note of interest when he went on: “As I told you a while ago, Lady Coxon, poor dear, is demented.” His tone had much behind it—was full of promise. I asked if her ladyship’s misfortune were a trait of her malady or only of her character, and he pronounced it a product of both. The case he wanted to put to me was a matter on which it concerned him to have the impression—the judgement, he might also say—of another person. “I mean of the average intelligent man, but you see I take what I can get.” There would be the technical, the strictly legal view; then there would be the way the question would strike a man of the world. He had lighted another cigarette while he talked, and I saw he was glad to have it to handle when he brought out at last, with a laugh slightly artificial: “In fact it’s a subject on which Miss Anvoy and I are pulling different ways.” “And you want me to decide between you? I decide in advance for Miss Anvoy.” “In advance—that’s quite right. That’s how I decided when I proposed to her. But my story will interest you only so far as your mind isn’t made up.” Gravener puffed his cigarette a minute and then continued: “Are you familiar with the idea of the Endowment of Research?” “Of Research?” I was at sea a moment. “I give you Lady Coxon’s phrase. She has it on the brain.” “She wishes to endow—?” “Some earnest and ‘loyal’ seeker,” Gravener said. “It was a sketchy design of her late husband’s, and he handed it on to her; setting apart in his will a sum of money of which she was to enjoy the interest for life, but of which, should she eventually see her opportunity—the matter was left largely to her discretion—she would best honour his memory by determining the exemplary public use. This sum of money, no less than thirteen thousand pounds, was to be called The Coxon Fund; and poor Sir Gregory evidently proposed to himself that The Coxon Fund should cover his name with glory—be universally desired and admired. He left his wife a full declaration of his views, so far at least as that term may be applied to views vitiated by a vagueness really infantine. A little learning’s a dangerous thing, and a good citizen who happens to have been an ass is worse for a community than bad sewerage. He’s worst of all when he’s dead, because then he can’t be stopped. However, such as they were, the poor man’s aspirations are now in his wife’s bosom, or fermenting rather in her foolish brain: it lies with her to carry them out. But of course she must first catch her hare.” “Her earnest loyal seeker?” “The flower that blushes unseen for want of such a pecuniary independence as may aid the light that’s in it to shine upon the human race. The individual, in a word, who, having the rest of the machinery, the spiritual, the intellectual, is most hampered in his search.” “His search for what?” “For Moral Truth. That’s what Sir Gregory calls it.” I burst out laughing. “Delightful munificent Sir Gregory! It’s a charming idea.” “So Miss Anvoy thinks.” “Has she a candidate for the Fund?” “Not that I know of—and she’s perfectly reasonable about it. But Lady Coxon has put the matter before her, and we’ve naturally had a lot of talk.” “Talk that, as you’ve so interestingly intimated, has landed you in a disagreement.” “She considers there’s something in it,” Gravener said. “And you consider there’s nothing?” “It seems to me a piece of solemn twaddle—which can’t fail to be attended with consequences certainly grotesque and possibly immoral. To begin with, fancy constituting an endowment without establishing a tribunal—a bench of competent people, of judges.” “The sole tribunal is Lady Coxon?” “And any one she chooses to invite.” “But she has invited you,” I noted. “I’m not competent—I hate the thing. Besides, she hasn’t,” my friend went on. “The real history of the matter, I take it, is that the inspiration was originally Lady Coxon’s own, that she infected him with it, and that the flattering option left her is simply his tribute to her beautiful, her aboriginal enthusiasm. She came to England forty years ago, a thin transcendental Bostonian, and even her odd happy frumpy Clockborough marriage never really materialised her. She feels indeed that she has become very British—as if that, as a process, as a ‘Werden,’ as anything but an original sign of grace, were conceivable; but it’s precisely what makes her cling to the notion of the ‘Fund’—cling to it as to a link with the ideal.” “How can she cling if she’s dying?” “Do you mean how can she act in the matter?” Gravener asked. “That’s precisely the question. She can’t! As she has never yet caught her hare, never spied out her lucky impostor—how should she, with the life she has led?—her husband’s intention has come very near lapsing. His idea, to do him justice, was that it _should_ lapse if exactly the right person, the perfect mixture of genius and chill penury, should fail to turn up. Ah the poor dear woman’s very particular—she says there must be no mistake.” I found all this quite thrilling—I took it in with avidity. “And if she dies without doing anything, what becomes of the money?” I demanded. “It goes back to his family, if she hasn’t made some other disposition of it.” “She may do that then—she may divert it?” “Her hands are not tied. She has a grand discretion. The proof is that three months ago she offered to make the proceeds over to her niece.” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use?” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use—on the occasion of her prospective marriage. She was discouraged—the earnest seeker required so earnest a search. She was afraid of making a mistake; every one she could think of seemed either not earnest enough or not poor enough. On the receipt of the first bad news about Mr. Anvoy’s affairs she proposed to Ruth to make the sacrifice for her. As the situation in New York got worse she repeated her proposal.” “Which Miss Anvoy declined?” “Except as a formal trust.” “You mean except as committing herself legally to place the money?” “On the head of the deserving object, the great man frustrated,” said Gravener. “She only consents to act in the spirit of Sir Gregory’s scheme.” “And you blame her for that?” I asked with some intensity. My tone couldn’t have been harsh, but he coloured a little and there was a queer light in his eye. “My dear fellow, if I ‘blamed’ the young lady I’m engaged to I shouldn’t immediately say it even to so old a friend as you.” I saw that some deep discomfort, some restless desire to be sided with, reassuringly, approvingly mirrored, had been at the bottom of his drifting so far, and I was genuinely touched by his confidence. It was inconsistent with his habits; but being troubled about a woman was not, for him, a habit: that itself was an inconsistency. George Gravener could stand straight enough before any other combination of forces. It amused me to think that the combination he had succumbed to had an American accent, a transcendental aunt and an insolvent father; but all my old loyalty to him mustered to meet this unexpected hint that I could help him. I saw that I could from the insincere tone in which he pursued: “I’ve criticised her of course, I’ve contended with her, and it has been great fun.” Yet it clearly couldn’t have been such great fun as to make it improper for me presently to ask if Miss Anvoy had nothing at all settled on herself. To this he replied that she had only a trifle from her mother—a mere four hundred a year, which was exactly why it would be convenient to him that she shouldn’t decline, in the face of this total change in her prospects, an accession of income which would distinctly help them to marry. When I enquired if there were no other way in which so rich and so affectionate an aunt could cause the weight of her benevolence to be felt, he answered that Lady Coxon was affectionate indeed, but was scarcely to be called rich. She could let her project of the Fund lapse for her niece’s benefit, but she couldn’t do anything else. She had been accustomed to regard her as tremendously provided for, and she was up to her eyes in promises to anxious Coxons. She was a woman of an inordinate conscience, and her conscience was now a distress to her, hovering round her bed in irreconcilable forms of resentful husbands, portionless nieces and undiscoverable philosophers. We were by this time getting into the whirr of fleeting platforms, the multiplication of lights. “I think you’ll find,” I said with a laugh, “that your predicament will disappear in the very fact that the philosopher _is_ undiscoverable.” He began to gather up his papers. “Who can set a limit to the ingenuity of an extravagant woman?” “Yes, after all, who indeed?” I echoed as I recalled the extravagance commemorated in Adelaide’s anecdote of Miss Anvoy and the thirty pounds. IX THE thing I had been most sensible of in that talk with George Gravener was the way Saltram’s name kept out of it. It seemed to me at the time that we were quite pointedly silent about him; but afterwards it appeared more probable there had been on my companion’s part no conscious avoidance. Later on I was sure of this, and for the best of reasons—the simple reason of my perceiving more completely that, for evil as well as for good, he said nothing to Gravener’s imagination. That honest man didn’t fear him—he was too much disgusted with him. No more did I, doubtless, and for very much the same reason. I treated my friend’s story as an absolute confidence; but when before Christmas, by Mrs. Saltram, I was informed of Lady Coxon’s death without having had news of Miss Anvoy’s return, I found myself taking for granted we should hear no more of these nuptials, in which, as obscurely unnatural, I now saw I had never _too_ disconcertedly believed. I began to ask myself how people who suited each other so little could please each other so much. The charm was some material charm, some afffinity, exquisite doubtless, yet superficial some surrender to youth and beauty and passion, to force and grace and fortune, happy accidents and easy contacts. They might dote on each other’s persons, but how could they know each other’s souls? How could they have the same prejudices, how could they have the same horizon? Such questions, I confess, seemed quenched but not answered when, one day in February, going out to Wimbledon, I found our young lady in the house. A passion that had brought her back across the wintry ocean was as much of a passion as was needed. No impulse equally strong indeed had drawn George Gravener to America; a circumstance on which, however, I reflected only long enough to remind myself that it was none of my business. Ruth Anvoy was distinctly different, and I felt that the difference was not simply that of her marks of mourning. Mrs. Mulville told me soon enough what it was: it was the difference between a handsome girl with large expectations and a handsome girl with only four hundred a year. This explanation indeed didn’t wholly content me, not even when I learned that her mourning had a double cause—learned that poor Mr. Anvoy, giving way altogether, buried under the ruins of his fortune and leaving next to nothing, had died a few weeks before. “So she has come out to marry George Gravener?” I commented. “Wouldn’t it have been prettier of him to have saved her the trouble?” “Hasn’t the House just met?” Adelaide replied. “And for Mr. Gravener the House—!” Then she added: “I gather that her having come is exactly a sign that the marriage is a little shaky. If it were quite all right a self-respecting girl like Ruth would have waited for him over there.” I noted that they were already Ruth and Adelaide, but what I said was: “Do you mean she’ll have had to return to _make_ it so?” “No, I mean that she must have come out for some reason independent of it.” Adelaide could only surmise, however, as yet, and there was more, as we found, to be revealed. Mrs. Mulville, on hearing of her arrival, had brought the young lady out in the green landau for the Sunday. The Coxons were in possession of the house in Regent’s Park, and Miss Anvoy was in dreary lodgings. George Gravener had been with her when Adelaide called, but had assented graciously enough to the little visit at Wimbledon. The carriage, with Mr. Saltram in it but not mentioned, had been sent off on some errand from which it was to return and pick the ladies up. Gravener had left them together, and at the end of an hour, on the Saturday afternoon, the party of three had driven out to Wimbledon. This was the girl’s second glimpse of our great man, and I was interested in asking Mrs. Mulville if the impression made by the first appeared to have been confirmed. On her replying after consideration, that of course with time and opportunity it couldn’t fail to be, but that she was disappointed, I was sufficiently struck with her use of this last word to question her further. “Do you mean you’re disappointed because you judge Miss Anvoy to be?” “Yes; I hoped for a greater effect last evening. We had two or three people, but he scarcely opened his mouth.” “He’ll be all the better to-night,” I opined after a moment. Then I pursued: “What particular importance do you attach to the idea of her being impressed?” Adelaide turned her mild pale eyes on me as for rebuke of my levity. “Why the importance of her being as happy as _we_ are!” I’m afraid that at this my levity grew. “Oh that’s a happiness almost too great to wish a person!” I saw she hadn’t yet in her mind what I had in mine, and at any rate the visitor’s actual bliss was limited to a walk in the garden with Kent Mulville. Later in the afternoon I also took one, and I saw nothing of Miss Anvoy till dinner, at which we failed of the company of Saltram, who had caused it to be reported that he was indisposed and lying down. This made us, most of us—for there were other friends present—convey to each other in silence some of the unutterable things that in those years our eyes had inevitably acquired the art of expressing. If a fine little American enquirer hadn’t been there we would have expressed them otherwise, and Adelaide would have pretended not to hear. I had seen her, before the very fact, abstract herself nobly; and I knew that more than once, to keep it from the servants, managing, dissimulating cleverly, she had helped her husband to carry him bodily to his room. Just recently he had been so wise and so deep and so high that I had begun to get nervous—to wonder if by chance there were something behind it, if he were kept straight for instance by the knowledge that the hated Pudneys would have more to tell us if they chose. He was lying low, but unfortunately it was common wisdom with us in this connexion that the biggest splashes took place in the quietest pools. We should have had a merry life indeed if all the splashes had sprinkled us as refreshingly as the waters we were even then to feel about our ears. Kent Mulville had been up to his room, but had come back with a face that told as few tales as I had seen it succeed in telling on the evening I waited in the lecture-room with Miss Anvoy. I said to myself that our friend had gone out, but it was a comfort that the presence of a comparative stranger deprived us of the dreary duty of suggesting to each other, in respect of his errand, edifying possibilities in which we didn’t ourselves believe. At ten o’clock he came into the drawing-room with his waistcoat much awry but his eyes sending out great signals. It was precisely with his entrance that I ceased to be vividly conscious of him. I saw that the crystal, as I had called it, had begun to swing, and I had need of my immediate attention for Miss Anvoy. Even when I was told afterwards that he had, as we might have said to-day, broken the record, the manner in which that attention had been rewarded relieved me of a sense of loss. I had of course a perfect general consciousness that something great was going on: it was a little like having been etherised to hear Herr Joachim play. The old music was in the air; I felt the strong pulse of thought, the sink and swell, the flight, the poise, the plunge; but I knew something about one of the listeners that nobody else knew, and Saltram’s monologue could reach me only through that medium. To this hour I’m of no use when, as a witness, I’m appealed to—for they still absurdly contend about it—as to whether or no on that historic night he was drunk; and my position is slightly ridiculous, for I’ve never cared to tell them what it really was I was taken up with. What I got out of it is the only morsel of the total experience that is quite my own. The others were shared, but this is incommunicable. I feel that now, I’m bound to say, even in thus roughly evoking the occasion, and it takes something from my pride of clearness. However, I shall perhaps be as clear as is absolutely needful if I remark that our young lady was too much given up to her own intensity of observation to be sensible of mine. It was plainly not the question of her marriage that had brought her back. I greatly enjoyed this discovery and was sure that had that question alone been involved she would have stirred no step. In this case doubtless Gravener would, in spite of the House of Commons, have found means to rejoin her. It afterwards made me uncomfortable for her that, alone in the lodging Mrs. Mulville had put before me as dreary, she should have in any degree the air of waiting for her fate; so that I was presently relieved at hearing of her having gone to stay at Coldfield. If she was in England at all while the engagement stood the only proper place for her was under Lady Maddock’s wing. Now that she was unfortunate and relatively poor, perhaps her prospective sister-in-law would be wholly won over. There would be much to say, if I had space, about the way her behaviour, as I caught gleams of it, ministered to the image that had taken birth in my mind, to my private amusement, while that other night I listened to George Gravener in the railway-carriage. I watched her in the light of this queer possibility—a formidable thing certainly to meet—and I was aware that it coloured, extravagantly perhaps, my interpretation of her very looks and tones. At Wimbledon for instance it had appeared to me she was literally afraid of Saltram, in dread of a coercion that she had begun already to feel. I had come up to town with her the next day and had been convinced that, though deeply interested, she was immensely on her guard. She would show as little as possible before she should be ready to show everything. What this final exhibition might be on the part of a girl perceptibly so able to think things out I found it great sport to forecast. It would have been exciting to be approached by her, appealed to by her for advice; but I prayed to heaven I mightn’t find myself in such a predicament. If there was really a present rigour in the situation of which Gravener had sketched for me the elements, she would have to get out of her difficulty by herself. It wasn’t I who had launched her and it wasn’t I who could help her. I didn’t fail to ask myself why, since I couldn’t help her, I should think so much about her. It was in part my suspense that was responsible for this; I waited impatiently to see whether she wouldn’t have told Mrs. Mulville a portion at least of what I had learned from Gravener. But I saw Mrs. Mulville was still reduced to wonder what she had come out again for if she hadn’t come as a conciliatory bride. That she had come in some other character was the only thing that fitted all the appearances. Having for family reasons to spend some time that spring in the west of England, I was in a manner out of earshot of the great oceanic rumble—I mean of the continuous hum of Saltram’s thought—and my uneasiness tended to keep me quiet. There was something I wanted so little to have to say that my prudence surmounted my curiosity. I only wondered if Ruth Anvoy talked over the idea of The Coxon Fund with Lady Maddock, and also somewhat why I didn’t hear from Wimbledon. I had a reproachful note about something or other from Mrs. Saltram, but it contained no mention of Lady Coxon’s niece, on whom her eyes had been much less fixed since the recent untoward events. X POOR Adelaide’s silence was fully explained later—practically explained when in June, returning to London, I was honoured by this admirable woman with an early visit. As soon as she arrived I guessed everything, and as soon as she told me that darling Ruth had been in her house nearly a month I had my question ready. “What in the name of maidenly modesty is she staying in England for?” “Because she loves me so!” cried Adelaide gaily. But she hadn’t come to see me only to tell me Miss Anvoy loved her: that was quite sufficiently established, and what was much more to the point was that Mr. Gravener had now raised an objection to it. He had protested at least against her being at Wimbledon, where in the innocence of his heart he had originally brought her himself; he called on her to put an end to their engagement in the only proper, the only happy manner. “And why in the world doesn’t she do do?” I asked. Adelaide had a pause. “She says you know.” Then on my also hesitating she added: “A condition he makes.” “The Coxon Fund?” I panted. “He has mentioned to her his having told you about it.” “Ah but so little! Do you mean she has accepted the trust?” “In the most splendid spirit—as a duty about which there can be no two opinions.” To which my friend added: “Of course she’s thinking of Mr. Saltram.” I gave a quick cry at this, which, in its violence, made my visitor turn pale. “How very awful!” “Awful?” “Why, to have anything to do with such an idea one’s self.” “I’m sure _you_ needn’t!” and Mrs. Mulville tossed her head. “He isn’t good enough!” I went on; to which she opposed a sound almost as contentious as my own had been. This made me, with genuine immediate horror, exclaim: “You haven’t influenced her, I hope!” and my emphasis brought back the blood with a rush to poor Adelaide’s face. She declared while she blushed—for I had frightened her again—that she had never influenced anybody and that the girl had only seen and heard and judged for herself. _He_ had influenced her, if I would, as he did every one who had a soul: that word, as we knew, even expressed feebly the power of the things he said to haunt the mind. How could she, Adelaide, help it if Miss Anvoy’s mind was haunted? I demanded with a groan what right a pretty girl engaged to a rising M.P. had to _have_ a mind; but the only explanation my bewildered friend could give me was that she was so clever. She regarded Mr. Saltram naturally as a tremendous force for good. She was intelligent enough to understand him and generous enough to admire. “She’s many things enough, but is she, among them, rich enough?” I demanded. “Rich enough, I mean, to sacrifice such a lot of good money?” “That’s for herself to judge. Besides, it’s not her own money; she doesn’t in the least consider it so.” “And Gravener does, if not _his_ own; and that’s the whole difficulty?” “The difficulty that brought her back, yes: she had absolutely to see her poor aunt’s solicitor. It’s clear that by Lady Coxon’s will she may have the money, but it’s still clearer to her conscience that the original condition, definite, intensely implied on her uncle’s part, is attached to the use of it. She can only take one view of it. It’s for the Endowment or it’s for nothing.” “The Endowment,” I permitted myself to observe, “is a conception superficially sublime, but fundamentally ridiculous.” “Are you repeating Mr. Gravener’s words?” Adelaide asked. “Possibly, though I’ve not seen him for months. It’s simply the way it strikes me too. It’s an old wife’s tale. Gravener made some reference to the legal aspect, but such an absurdly loose arrangement has _no_ legal aspect.” “Ruth doesn’t insist on that,” said Mrs. Mulville; “and it’s, for her, exactly this technical weakness that constitutes the force of the moral obligation.” “Are you repeating _her_ words?” I enquired. I forget what else Adelaide said, but she said she was magnificent. I thought of George Gravener confronted with such magnificence as that, and I asked what could have made two such persons ever suppose they understood each other. Mrs. Mulville assured me the girl loved him as such a woman could love and that she suffered as such a woman could suffer. Nevertheless she wanted to see _me_. At this I sprang up with a groan. “Oh I’m so sorry!—when?” Small though her sense of humour, I think Adelaide laughed at my sequence. We discussed the day, the nearest it would be convenient I should come out; but before she went I asked my visitor how long she had been acquainted with these prodigies. “For several weeks, but I was pledged to secrecy.” “And that’s why you didn’t write?” “I couldn’t very well tell you she was with me without telling you that no time had even yet been fixed for her marriage. And I couldn’t very well tell you as much as that without telling you what I knew of the reason of it. It was not till a day or two ago,” Mrs. Mulville went on, “that she asked me to ask you if you wouldn’t come and see her. Then at last she spoke of your knowing about the idea of the Endowment.” I turned this over. “Why on earth does she want to see me?” “To talk with you, naturally, about Mr. Saltram.” “As a subject for the prize?” This was hugely obvious, and I presently returned: “I think I’ll sail to-morrow for Australia.” “Well then—sail!” said Mrs. Mulville, getting up. But I frivolously, continued. “On Thursday at five, we said?” The appointment was made definite and I enquired how, all this time, the unconscious candidate had carried himself. “In perfection, really, by the happiest of chances: he has positively been a dear. And then, as to what we revere him for, in the most wonderful form. His very highest—pure celestial light. You _won’t_ do him an ill turn?” Adelaide pleaded at the door. “What danger can equal for him the danger to which he’s exposed from himself?” I asked. “Look out sharp, if he has lately been too prim. He’ll presently take a day off, treat us to some exhibition that will make an Endowment a scandal.” “A scandal?” Mrs. Mulville dolorously echoed. “Is Miss Anvoy prepared for that?” My visitor, for a moment, screwed her parasol into my carpet. “He grows bigger every day.” “So do you!” I laughed as she went off. That girl at Wimbledon, on the Thursday afternoon, more than justified my apprehensions. I recognised fully now the cause of the agitation she had produced in me from the first—the faint foreknowledge that there was something very stiff I should have to do for her. I felt more than ever committed to my fate as, standing before her in the big drawing-room where they had tactfully left us to ourselves, I tried with a smile to string together the pearls of lucidity which, from her chair, she successively tossed me. Pale and bright, in her monotonous mourning, she was an image of intelligent purpose, of the passion of duty; but I asked myself whether any girl had ever had so charming an instinct as that which permitted her to laugh out, as for the joy of her difficulty, into the priggish old room. This remarkable young woman could be earnest without being solemn, and at moments when I ought doubtless to have cursed her obstinacy I found myself watching the unstudied play of her eyebrows or the recurrence of a singularly intense whiteness produced by the parting of her lips. These aberrations, I hasten to add, didn’t prevent my learning soon enough why she had wished to see me. Her reason for this was as distinct as her beauty: it was to make me explain what I had meant, on the occasion of our first meeting, by Mr. Saltram’s want of dignity. It wasn’t that she couldn’t imagine, but she desired it there from my lips. What she really desired of course was to know whether there was worse about him than what she had found out for herself. She hadn’t been a month so much in the house with him without discovering that he wasn’t a man of monumental bronze. He was like a jelly minus its mould, he had to be embanked; and that was precisely the source of her interest in him and the ground of her project. She put her project boldly before me: there it stood in its preposterous beauty. She was as willing to take the humorous view of it as I could be: the only difference was that for her the humorous view of a thing wasn’t necessarily prohibitive, wasn’t paralysing. Moreover she professed that she couldn’t discuss with me the primary question—the moral obligation: that was in her own breast. There were things she couldn’t go into—injunctions, impressions she had received. They were a part of the closest intimacy of her intercourse with her aunt, they were absolutely clear to her; and on questions of delicacy, the interpretation of a fidelity, of a promise, one had always in the last resort to make up one’s mind for one’s self. It was the idea of the application to the particular case, such a splendid one at last, that troubled her, and she admitted that it stirred very deep things. She didn’t pretend that such a responsibility was a simple matter; if it _had_ been she wouldn’t have attempted to saddle me with any portion of it. The Mulvilles were sympathy itself, but were they absolutely candid? Could they indeed be, in their position—would it even have been to be desired? Yes, she had sent for me to ask no less than that of me—whether there was anything dreadful kept back. She made no allusion whatever to George Gravener—I thought her silence the only good taste and her gaiety perhaps a part of the very anxiety of that discretion, the effect of a determination that people shouldn’t know from herself that her relations with the man she was to marry were strained. All the weight, however, that she left me to throw was a sufficient implication of the weight _he_ had thrown in vain. Oh she knew the question of character was immense, and that one couldn’t entertain any plan for making merit comfortable without running the gauntlet of that terrible procession of interrogation-points which, like a young ladies’ school out for a walk, hooked their uniform noses at the tail of governess Conduct. But were we absolutely to hold that there was never, never, never an exception, never, never, never an occasion for liberal acceptance, for clever charity, for suspended pedantry—for letting one side, in short, outbalance another? When Miss Anvoy threw off this appeal I could have embraced her for so delightfully emphasising her unlikeness to Mrs. Saltram. “Why not have the courage of one’s forgiveness,” she asked, “as well as the enthusiasm of one’s adhesion?” “Seeing how wonderfully you’ve threshed the whole thing out,” I evasively replied, “gives me an extraordinary notion of the point your enthusiasm has reached.” She considered this remark an instant with her eyes on mine, and I divined that it struck her I might possibly intend it as a reference to some personal subjection to our fat philosopher, to some aberration of sensibility, some perversion of taste. At least I couldn’t interpret otherwise the sudden flash that came into her face. Such a manifestation, as the result of any word of mine, embarrassed me; but while I was thinking how to reassure her the flush passed away in a smile of exquisite good nature. “Oh you see one forgets so wonderfully how one dislikes him!” she said; and if her tone simply extinguished his strange figure with the brush of its compassion, it also rings in my ear to-day as the purest of all our praises. But with what quick response of fine pity such a relegation of the man himself made me privately sigh “Ah poor Saltram!” She instantly, with this, took the measure of all I didn’t believe, and it enabled her to go on: “What can one do when a person has given such a lift to one’s interest in life?” “Yes, what can one do?” If I struck her as a little vague it was because I was thinking of another person. I indulged in another inarticulate murmur—“Poor George Gravener!” What had become of the lift _he_ had given that interest? Later on I made up my mind that she was sore and stricken at the appearance he presented of wanting the miserable money. This was the hidden reason of her alienation. The probable sincerity, in spite of the illiberality, of his scruples about the particular use of it under discussion didn’t efface the ugliness of his demand that they should buy a good house with it. Then, as for _his_ alienation, he didn’t, pardonably enough, grasp the lift Frank Saltram had given her interest in life. If a mere spectator could ask that last question, with what rage in his heart the man himself might! He wasn’t, like her, I was to see, too proud to show me why he was disappointed. XI I WAS unable this time to stay to dinner: such at any rate was the plea on which I took leave. I desired in truth to get away from my young lady, for that obviously helped me not to pretend to satisfy her. How _could_ I satisfy her? I asked myself—how could I tell her how much had been kept back? I didn’t even know and I certainly didn’t desire to know. My own policy had ever been to learn the least about poor Saltram’s weaknesses—not to learn the most. A great deal that I had in fact learned had been forced upon me by his wife. There was something even irritating in Miss Anvoy’s crude conscientiousness, and I wondered why, after all, she couldn’t have let him alone and been content to entrust George Gravener with the purchase of the good house. I was sure he would have driven a bargain, got something excellent and cheap. I laughed louder even than she, I temporised, I failed her; I told her I must think over her case. I professed a horror of responsibilities and twitted her with her own extravagant passion for them. It wasn’t really that I was afraid of the scandal, the moral discredit for the Fund; what troubled me most was a feeling of a different order. Of course, as the beneficiary of the Fund was to enjoy a simple life-interest, as it was hoped that new beneficiaries would arise and come up to new standards, it wouldn’t be a trifle that the first of these worthies shouldn’t have been a striking example of the domestic virtues. The Fund would start badly, as it were, and the laurel would, in some respects at least, scarcely be greener from the brows of the original wearer. That idea, however, was at that hour, as I have hinted, not the source of solicitude it ought perhaps to have been, for I felt less the irregularity of Saltram’s getting the money than that of this exalted young woman’s giving it up. I wanted her to have it for herself, and I told her so before I went away. She looked graver at this than she had looked at all, saying she hoped such a preference wouldn’t make me dishonest. It made me, to begin with, very restless—made me, instead of going straight to the station, fidget a little about that many-coloured Common which gives Wimbledon horizons. There was a worry for me to work off, or rather keep at a distance, for I declined even to admit to myself that I had, in Miss Anvoy’s phrase, been saddled with it. What could have been clearer indeed than the attitude of recognising perfectly what a world of trouble The Coxon Fund would in future save us, and of yet liking better to face a continuance of that trouble than see, and in fact contribute to, a deviation from attainable bliss in the life of two other persons in whom I was deeply interested? Suddenly, at the end of twenty minutes, there was projected across this clearness the image of a massive middle-aged man seated on a bench under a tree, with sad far-wandering eyes and plump white hands folded on the head of a stick—a stick I recognised, a stout gold-headed staff that I had given him in devoted days. I stopped short as he turned his face to me, and it happened that for some reason or other I took in as I had perhaps never done before the beauty of his rich blank gaze. It was charged with experience as the sky is charged with light, and I felt on the instant as if we had been overspanned and conjoined by the great arch of a bridge or the great dome of a temple. Doubtless I was rendered peculiarly sensitive to it by something in the way I had been giving him up and sinking him. While I met it I stood there smitten, and I felt myself responding to it with a sort of guilty grimace. This brought back his attention in a smile which expressed for me a cheerful weary patience, a bruised noble gentleness. I had told Miss Anvoy that he had no dignity, but what did he seem to me, all unbuttoned and fatigued as he waited for me to come up, if he didn’t seem unconcerned with small things, didn’t seem in short majestic? There was majesty in his mere unconsciousness of our little conferences and puzzlements over his maintenance and his reward. After I had sat by him a few minutes I passed my arm over his big soft shoulder—wherever you touched him you found equally little firmness—and said in a tone of which the suppliance fell oddly on my own ear: “Come back to town with me, old friend—come back and spend the evening.” I wanted to hold him, I wanted to keep him, and at Waterloo, an hour later, I telegraphed possessively to the Mulvilles. When he objected, as regards staying all night, that he had no things, I asked him if he hadn’t everything of mine. I had abstained from ordering dinner, and it was too late for preliminaries at a club; so we were reduced to tea and fried fish at my rooms—reduced also to the transcendent. Something had come up which made me want him to feel at peace with me—and which, precisely, was all the dear man himself wanted on any occasion. I had too often had to press upon him considerations irrelevant, but it gives me pleasure now to think that on that particular evening I didn’t even mention Mrs. Saltram and the children. Late into the night we smoked and talked; old shames and old rigours fell away from us; I only let him see that I was conscious of what I owed him. He was as mild as contrition and as copious as faith; he was never so fine as on a shy return, and even better at forgiving than at being forgiven. I dare say it was a smaller matter than that famous night at Wimbledon, the night of the problematical sobriety and of Miss Anvoy’s initiation; but I was as much in it on this occasion as I had been out of it then. At about 1.30 he was sublime. He never, in whatever situation, rose till all other risings were over, and his breakfasts, at Wimbledon, had always been the principal reason mentioned by departing cooks. The coast was therefore clear for me to receive her when, early the next morning, to my surprise, it was announced to me his wife had called. I hesitated, after she had come up, about telling her Saltram was in the house, but she herself settled the question, kept me reticent by drawing forth a sealed letter which, looking at me very hard in the eyes, she placed, with a pregnant absence of comment, in my hand. For a single moment there glimmered before me the fond hope that Mrs. Saltram had tendered me, as it were, her resignation and desired to embody the act in an unsparing form. To bring this about I would have feigned any humiliation; but after my eyes had caught the superscription I heard myself say with a flatness that betrayed a sense of something very different from relief: “Oh the Pudneys!” I knew their envelopes though they didn’t know mine. They always used the kind sold at post-offices with the stamp affixed, and as this letter hadn’t been posted they had wasted a penny on me. I had seen their horrid missives to the Mulvilles, but hadn’t been in direct correspondence with them. “They enclosed it to me, to be delivered. They doubtless explain to you that they hadn’t your address.” I turned the thing over without opening it. “Why in the world should they write to me?” “Because they’ve something to tell you. The worst,” Mrs. Saltram dryly added. It was another chapter, I felt, of the history of their lamentable quarrel with her husband, the episode in which, vindictively, disingenuously as they themselves had behaved, one had to admit that he had put himself more grossly in the wrong than at any moment of his life. He had begun by insulting the matchless Mulvilles for these more specious protectors, and then, according to his wont at the end of a few months, had dug a still deeper ditch for his aberration than the chasm left yawning behind. The chasm at Wimbledon was now blessedly closed; but the Pudneys, across their persistent gulf, kept up the nastiest fire. I never doubted they had a strong case, and I had been from the first for not defending him—reasoning that if they weren’t contradicted they’d perhaps subside. This was above all what I wanted, and I so far prevailed that I did arrest the correspondence in time to save our little circle an infliction heavier than it perhaps would have borne. I knew, that is I divined, that their allegations had gone as yet only as far as their courage, conscious as they were in their own virtue of an exposed place in which Saltram could have planted a blow. It was a question with them whether a man who had himself so much to cover up would dare his blow; so that these vessels of rancour were in a manner afraid of each other. I judged that on the day the Pudneys should cease for some reason or other to be afraid they would treat us to some revelation more disconcerting than any of its predecessors. As I held Mrs. Saltram’s letter in my hand it was distinctly communicated to me that the day had come—they had ceased to be afraid. “I don’t want to know the worst,” I presently declared. “You’ll have to open the letter. It also contains an enclosure.” I felt it—it was fat and uncanny. “Wheels within wheels!” I exclaimed. “There’s something for me too to deliver.” “So they tell me—to Miss Anvoy.” I stared; I felt a certain thrill. “Why don’t they send it to her directly?” Mrs. Saltram hung fire. “Because she’s staying with Mr. and Mrs. Mulville.” “And why should that prevent?” Again my visitor faltered, and I began to reflect on the grotesque, the unconscious perversity of her action. I was the only person save George Gravener and the Mulvilles who was aware of Sir Gregory Coxon’s and of Miss Anvoy’s strange bounty. Where could there have been a more signal illustration of the clumsiness of human affairs than her having complacently selected this moment to fly in the face of it? “There’s the chance of their seeing her letters. They know Mr. Pudney’s hand.” Still I didn’t understand; then it flashed upon me. “You mean they might intercept it? How can you imply anything so base?” I indignantly demanded. “It’s not I—it’s Mr. Pudney!” cried Mrs. Saltram with a flush. “It’s his own idea.” “Then why couldn’t he send the letter to you to be delivered?” Mrs. Saltram’s embarrassment increased; she gave me another hard look. “You must make that out for yourself.” I made it out quickly enough. “It’s a denunciation?” “A real lady doesn’t betray her husband!” this virtuous woman exclaimed. I burst out laughing, and I fear my laugh may have had an effect of impertinence. “Especially to Miss Anvoy, who’s so easily shocked? Why do such things concern _her_?” I asked, much at a loss. “Because she’s there, exposed to all his craft. Mr. and Mrs. Pudney have been watching this: they feel she may be taken in.” “Thank you for all the rest of us! What difference can it make when she has lost her power to contribute?” Again Mrs. Saltram considered; then very nobly: “There are other things in the world than money.” This hadn’t occurred to her so long as the young lady had any; but she now added, with a glance at my letter, that Mr. and Mrs. Pudney doubtless explained their motives. “It’s all in kindness,” she continued as she got up. “Kindness to Miss Anvoy? You took, on the whole, another view of kindness before her reverses.” My companion smiled with some acidity “Perhaps you’re no safer than the Mulvilles!” I didn’t want her to think that, nor that she should report to the Pudneys that they had not been happy in their agent; and I well remember that this was the moment at which I began, with considerable emotion, to promise myself to enjoin upon Miss Anvoy never to open any letter that should come to her in one of those penny envelopes. My emotion, and I fear I must add my confusion, quickly deepened; I presently should have been as glad to frighten Mrs. Saltram as to think I might by some diplomacy restore the Pudneys to a quieter vigilance. “It’s best you should take _my_ view of my safety,” I at any rate soon responded. When I saw she didn’t know what I meant by this I added: “You may turn out to have done, in bringing me this letter, a thing you’ll profoundly regret.” My tone had a significance which, I could see, did make her uneasy, and there was a moment, after I had made two or three more remarks of studiously bewildering effect, at which her eyes followed so hungrily the little flourish of the letter with which I emphasised them that I instinctively slipped Mr. Pudney’s communication into my pocket. She looked, in her embarrassed annoyance, capable of grabbing it to send it back to him. I felt, after she had gone, as if I had almost given her my word I wouldn’t deliver the enclosure. The passionate movement, at any rate, with which, in solitude, I transferred the whole thing, unopened, from my pocket to a drawer which I double-locked would have amounted, for an initiated observer, to some such pledge. XII MRS. SALTRAM left me drawing my breath more quickly and indeed almost in pain—as if I had just perilously grazed the loss of something precious. I didn’t quite know what it was—it had a shocking resemblance to my honour. The emotion was the livelier surely in that my pulses even yet vibrated to the pleasure with which, the night before, I had rallied to the rare analyst, the great intellectual adventurer and pathfinder. What had dropped from me like a cumbersome garment as Saltram appeared before me in the afternoon on the heath was the disposition to haggle over his value. Hang it, one had to choose, one had to put that value somewhere; so I would put it really high and have done with it. Mrs. Mulville drove in for him at a discreet hour—the earliest she could suppose him to have got up; and I learned that Miss Anvoy would also have come had she not been expecting a visit from Mr. Gravener. I was perfectly mindful that I was under bonds to see this young lady, and also that I had a letter to hand to her; but I took my time, I waited from day to day. I left Mrs. Saltram to deal as her apprehensions should prompt with the Pudneys. I knew at last what I meant—I had ceased to wince at my responsibility. I gave this supreme impression of Saltram time to fade if it would; but it didn’t fade, and, individually, it hasn’t faded even now. During the month that I thus invited myself to stiffen again, Adelaide Mulville, perplexed by my absence, wrote to me to ask why I _was_ so stiff. At that season of the year I was usually oftener “with” them. She also wrote that she feared a real estrangement had set in between Mr. Gravener and her sweet young friend—a state of things but half satisfactory to her so long as the advantage resulting to Mr. Saltram failed to disengage itself from the merely nebulous state. She intimated that her sweet young friend was, if anything, a trifle too reserved; she also intimated that there might now be an opening for another clever young man. There never was the slightest opening, I may here parenthesise, and of course the question can’t come up to-day. These are old frustrations now. Ruth Anvoy hasn’t married, I hear, and neither have I. During the month, toward the end, I wrote to George Gravener to ask if, on a special errand, I might come to see him, and his answer was to knock the very next day at my door. I saw he had immediately connected my enquiry with the talk we had had in the railway-carriage, and his promptitude showed that the ashes of his eagerness weren’t yet cold. I told him there was something I felt I ought in candour to let him know—I recognised the obligation his friendly confidence had laid on me. “You mean Miss Anvoy has talked to you? She has told me so herself,” he said. “It wasn’t to tell you so that I wanted to see you,” I replied; “for it seemed to me that such a communication would rest wholly with herself. If however she did speak to you of our conversation she probably told you I was discouraging.” “Discouraging?” “On the subject of a present application of The Coxon Fund.” “To the case of Mr. Saltram? My dear fellow, I don’t know what you call discouraging!” Gravener cried. “Well I thought I was, and I thought she thought I was.” “I believe she did, but such a thing’s measured by the effect. She’s not ‘discouraged,’” he said. “That’s her own affair. The reason I asked you to see me was that it appeared to me I ought to tell you frankly that—decidedly!—I can’t undertake to produce that effect. In fact I don’t want to!” “It’s very good of you, damn you!” my visitor laughed, red and really grave. Then he said: “You’d like to see that scoundrel publicly glorified—perched on the pedestal of a great complimentary pension?” I braced myself. “Taking one form of public recognition with another it seems to me on the whole I should be able to bear it. When I see the compliments that _are_ paid right and left I ask myself why this one shouldn’t take its course. This therefore is what you’re entitled to have looked to me to mention to you. I’ve some evidence that perhaps would be really dissuasive, but I propose to invite Mss Anvoy to remain in ignorance of it.” “And to invite me to do the same?” “Oh you don’t require it—you’ve evidence enough. I speak of a sealed letter that I’ve been requested to deliver to her.” “And you don’t mean to?” “There’s only one consideration that would make me,” I said. Gravener’s clear handsome eyes plunged into mine a minute, but evidently without fishing up a clue to this motive—a failure by which I was almost wounded. “What does the letter contain?” “It’s sealed, as I tell you, and I don’t know what it contains.” “Why is it sent through you?” “Rather than you?” I wondered how to put the thing. “The only explanation I can think of is that the person sending it may have imagined your relations with Miss Anvoy to be at an end—may have been told this is the case by Mrs. Saltram.” “My relations with Miss Anvoy are not at an end,” poor Gravener stammered. Again for an instant I thought. “The offer I propose to make you gives me the right to address you a question remarkably direct. Are you still engaged to Miss Anvoy?” “No, I’m not,” he slowly brought out. “But we’re perfectly good friends.” “Such good friends that you’ll again become prospective husband and wife if the obstacle in your path be removed?” “Removed?” he anxiously repeated. “If I send Miss Anvoy the letter I speak of she may give up her idea.” “Then for God’s sake send it!” “I’ll do so if you’re ready to assure me that her sacrifice would now presumably bring about your marriage.” “I’d marry her the next day!” my visitor cried. “Yes, but would she marry _you_? What I ask of you of course is nothing less than your word of honour as to your conviction of this. If you give it me,” I said, “I’ll engage to hand her the letter before night.” Gravener took up his hat; turning it mechanically round he stood looking a moment hard at its unruffled perfection. Then very angrily honestly and gallantly, “Hand it to the devil!” he broke out; with which he clapped the hat on his head and left me. “Will you read it or not?” I said to Ruth Anvoy, at Wimbledon, when I had told her the story of Mrs. Saltram’s visit. She debated for a time probably of the briefest, but long enough to make me nervous. “Have you brought it with you?” “No indeed. It’s at home, locked up.” There was another great silence, and then she said “Go back and destroy it.” I went back, but I didn’t destroy it till after Saltram’s death, when I burnt it unread. The Pudneys approached her again pressingly, but, prompt as they were, The Coxon Fund had already become an operative benefit and a general amaze: Mr. Saltram, while we gathered about, as it were, to watch the manna descend, had begun to draw the magnificent income. He drew it as he had always drawn everything, with a grand abstracted gesture. Its magnificence, alas, as all the world now knows, quite quenched him; it was the beginning of his decline. It was also naturally a new grievance for his wife, who began to believe in him as soon as he was blighted, and who at this hour accuses us of having bribed him, on the whim of a meddlesome American, to renounce his glorious office, to become, as she says, like everybody else. The very day he found himself able to publish he wholly ceased to produce. This deprived us, as may easily be imagined, of much of our occupation, and especially deprived the Mulvilles, whose want of self-support I never measured till they lost their great inmate. They’ve no one to live on now. Adelaide’s most frequent reference to their destitution is embodied in the remark that dear far-away Ruth’s intentions were doubtless good. She and Kent are even yet looking for another prop, but no one presents a true sphere of usefulness. They complain that people are self-sufficing. With Saltram the fine type of the child of adoption was scattered, the grander, the elder style. They’ve got their carriage back, but what’s an empty carriage? In short I think we were all happier as well as poorer before; even including George Gravener, who by the deaths of his brother and his nephew has lately become Lord Maddock. His wife, whose fortune clears the property, is criminally dull; he hates being in the Upper House, and hasn’t yet had high office. But what are these accidents, which I should perhaps apologise for mentioning, in the light of the great eventual boon promised the patient by the rate at which The Coxon Fund must be rolling up? Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who did the Witch want to have reveal their own lies?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Witch of Atlas is a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. It is a narrative poem that tells the story of a witch who lives on Atlas' mountain. The poem consists of 80 stanzas, each with four lines. The witch is described as a beautiful and powerful being who has the ability to control the elements and to see into the future. She lives in a cave on the mountain, surrounded by magic and wonder. The poem describes her daily life, her interactions with other beings, and her powers and abilities. The witch is also described as being lonely and isolated, and the poem suggests that she may be searching for connection and companionship. Context Cheat Sheet: * The Witch of Atlas is a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. * The poem consists of 80 stanzas, each with four lines. * The witch lives on Atlas' mountain in a cave. * The witch is described as beautiful and powerful. * The witch has the ability to control the elements and to see into the future. * The witch lives in a world of magic and wonder. * The witch is lonely and isolated. * The witch may be searching for connection and companionship. Now, here is your question: What is the name of the mountain where the witch lives? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "The scribe." ]	5,403	narrativeqa	en	null	c89fd516348b68f96538948b052cb10d5b6f21bc441f5a55	Produced by Sue Asscher The Witch of Atlas by Percy Bysshe Shelley TO MARY (ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST). 1. How, my dear Mary,--are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, _5 May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme. 2. What hand would crush the silken-winged fly, The youngest of inconstant April's minions, _10 Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions? Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die, When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, _15 Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. 3. To thy fair feet a winged Vision came, Whose date should have been longer than a day, And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; _20 The watery bow burned in the evening flame. But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way-- And that is dead.--O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live! 4. Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years _25 Considering and retouching Peter Bell; Watering his laurels with the killing tears Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well _30 May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. 5. My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise Clothes for our grandsons--but she matches Peter, _35 Though he took nineteen years, and she three days In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays, Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress Like King Lear's 'looped and windowed raggedness.' _40 6. If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow: A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at; In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. _45 If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate Can shrive you of that sin,--if sin there be In love, when it becomes idolatry. THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 1. Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, _50 Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth All those bright natures which adorned its prime, And left us nothing to believe in, worth The pains of putting into learned rhyme, A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain _55 Within a cavern, by a secret fountain. 2. Her mother was one of the Atlantides: The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden _60 In the warm shadow of her loveliness;-- He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden The chamber of gray rock in which she lay-- She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. 3. 'Tis said, she first was changed into a vapour, _65 And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, Like splendour-winged moths about a taper, Round the red west when the sun dies in it: And then into a meteor, such as caper On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit: _70 Then, into one of those mysterious stars Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars. 4. Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden With that bright sign the billows to indent _75 The sea-deserted sand--like children chidden, At her command they ever came and went-- Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden Took shape and motion: with the living form Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm. _80 5. A lovely lady garmented in light From her own beauty--deep her eyes, as are Two openings of unfathomable night Seen through a Temple's cloven roof--her hair Dark--the dim brain whirls dizzy with delight. _85 Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar, And her low voice was heard like love, and drew All living things towards this wonder new. 6. And first the spotted cameleopard came, And then the wise and fearless elephant; _90 Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame Of his own volumes intervolved;--all gaunt And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. They drank before her at her sacred fount; And every beast of beating heart grew bold, _95 Such gentleness and power even to behold. 7. The brinded lioness led forth her young, That she might teach them how they should forego Their inborn thirst of death; the pard unstrung His sinews at her feet, and sought to know _100 With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue How he might be as gentle as the doe. The magic circle of her voice and eyes All savage natures did imparadise. 8. And old Silenus, shaking a green stick _105 Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew: And Dryope and Faunus followed quick, Teasing the God to sing them something new; _110 Till in this cave they found the lady lone, Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. 9. And universal Pan, 'tis said, was there, And though none saw him,--through the adamant Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air, _115 And through those living spirits, like a want, He passed out of his everlasting lair Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant, And felt that wondrous lady all alone,-- And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. _120 10. And every nymph of stream and spreading tree, And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks, Who drives her white waves over the green sea, And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks, And quaint Priapus with his company, _125 All came, much wondering how the enwombed rocks Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth;-- Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth. 11. The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant-- _130 Their spirits shook within them, as a flame Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt: Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name, Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt Wet clefts,--and lumps neither alive nor dead, _135 Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. 12. For she was beautiful--her beauty made The bright world dim, and everything beside Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade: No thought of living spirit could abide, _140 Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, On any object in the world so wide, On any hope within the circling skies, But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. 13. Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle _145 And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle The clouds and waves and mountains with; and she As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle In the belated moon, wound skilfully; _150 And with these threads a subtle veil she wove-- A shadow for the splendour of her love. 14. The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling Were stored with magic treasures--sounds of air, Which had the power all spirits of compelling, _155 Folded in cells of crystal silence there; Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling Will never die--yet ere we are aware, The feeling and the sound are fled and gone, And the regret they leave remains alone. _160 15. And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint, Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis, Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint With the soft burthen of intensest bliss. It was its work to bear to many a saint _165 Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is, Even Love's:--and others white, green, gray, and black, And of all shapes--and each was at her beck. 16. And odours in a kind of aviary Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, _170 Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept; As bats at the wired window of a dairy, They beat their vans; and each was an adept, When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds, _175 To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds. 17. And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep, And change eternal death into a night Of glorious dreams--or if eyes needs must weep, _180 Could make their tears all wonder and delight, She in her crystal vials did closely keep: If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said The living were not envied of the dead. 18. Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, _185 The works of some Saturnian Archimage, Which taught the expiations at whose price Men from the Gods might win that happy age Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice; And which might quench the Earth-consuming rage _190 Of gold and blood--till men should live and move Harmonious as the sacred stars above; 19. And how all things that seem untameable, Not to be checked and not to be confined, Obey the spells of Wisdom's wizard skill; _195 Time, earth, and fire--the ocean and the wind, And all their shapes--and man's imperial will; And other scrolls whose writings did unbind The inmost lore of Love--let the profane Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. _200 20. And wondrous works of substances unknown, To which the enchantment of her father's power Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, Were heaped in the recesses of her bower; Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone _205 In their own golden beams--each like a flower, Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light Under a cypress in a starless night. 21. At first she lived alone in this wild home, And her own thoughts were each a minister, _210 Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam, Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, To work whatever purposes might come Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, _215 Through all the regions which he shines upon. 22. The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks, Offered to do her bidding through the seas, Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, _220 And far beneath the matted roots of trees, And in the gnarled heart of stubborn oaks, So they might live for ever in the light Of her sweet presence--each a satellite. 23. 'This may not be,' the wizard maid replied; _225 'The fountains where the Naiades bedew Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried; The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide; The boundless ocean like a drop of dew _230 Will be consumed--the stubborn centre must Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust. 24. 'And ye with them will perish, one by one;-- If I must sigh to think that this shall be, If I must weep when the surviving Sun _235 Shall smile on your decay--oh, ask not me To love you till your little race is run; I cannot die as ye must--over me Your leaves shall glance--the streams in which ye dwell Shall be my paths henceforth, and so--farewell!'-- _240 25. She spoke and wept:--the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, And every little circlet where they fell Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres And intertangled lines of light:--a knell _245 Of sobbing voices came upon her ears From those departing Forms, o'er the serene Of the white streams and of the forest green. 26. All day the wizard lady sate aloof, Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, _250 Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; Or broidering the pictured poesy Of some high tale upon her growing woof, Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye In hues outshining heaven--and ever she _255 Added some grace to the wrought poesy. 27. While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is-- Each flame of it is as a precious stone _260 Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this Belongs to each and all who gaze upon. The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand. 28. This lady never slept, but lay in trance _265 All night within the fountain--as in sleep. Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance; Through the green splendour of the water deep She saw the constellations reel and dance Like fire-flies--and withal did ever keep _270 The tenour of her contemplations calm, With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm. 29. And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, She passed at dewfall to a space extended, _275 Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended, There yawned an inextinguishable well Of crimson fire--full even to the brim, And overflowing all the margin trim. _280 30. Within the which she lay when the fierce war Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor In many a mimic moon and bearded star O'er woods and lawns;--the serpent heard it flicker In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar-- _285 And when the windless snow descended thicker Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came Melt on the surface of the level flame. 31. She had a boat, which some say Vulcan wrought For Venus, as the chariot of her star; _290 But it was found too feeble to be fraught With all the ardours in that sphere which are, And so she sold it, and Apollo bought And gave it to this daughter: from a car Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat _295 Which ever upon mortal stream did float. 32. And others say, that, when but three hours old, The first-born Love out of his cradle lept, And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, And like a horticultural adept, _300 Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in mould, And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, And with his wings fanning it as it grew. 33. The plant grew strong and green, the snowy flower _305 Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began To turn the light and dew by inward power To its own substance; woven tracery ran Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o'er The solid rind, like a leaf's veined fan-- _310 Of which Love scooped this boat--and with soft motion Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. 34. This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit A living spirit within all its frame, Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. _315 Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit-- Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame-- Or on blind Homer's heart a winged thought,-- In joyous expectation lay the boat. _320 35. Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow Together, tempering the repugnant mass With liquid love--all things together grow Through which the harmony of love can pass; And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow-- _325 A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. 36. A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect _330 Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,-- In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, _335 Imaging forth such perfect purity. 37. From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings, Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere: _340 She led her creature to the boiling springs Where the light boat was moored, and said: 'Sit here!' And pointed to the prow, and took her seat Beside the rudder, with opposing feet. 38. And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, _345 Around their inland islets, and amid The panther-peopled forests whose shade cast Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; By many a star-surrounded pyramid _350 Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, And caverns yawning round unfathomably. 39. The silver noon into that winding dell, With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell; _355 A green and glowing light, like that which drops From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell, When Earth over her face Night's mantle wraps; Between the severed mountains lay on high, Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. _360 40. And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes; And o'er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, _365 And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had aroused from that full heart and brain. 41. And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went: _370 Now lingering on the pools, in which abode The calm and darkness of the deep content In which they paused; now o'er the shallow road Of white and dancing waters, all besprent With sand and polished pebbles:--mortal boat _375 In such a shallow rapid could not float. 42. And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver Their snow-like waters into golden air, Or under chasms unfathomable ever Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear _380 A subterranean portal for the river, It fled--the circling sunbows did upbear Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, Lighting it far upon its lampless way. 43. And when the wizard lady would ascend _385 The labyrinths of some many-winding vale, Which to the inmost mountain upward tend-- She called 'Hermaphroditus!'--and the pale And heavy hue which slumber could extend Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale _390 A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, Into the darkness of the stream did pass. 44. And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions, With stars of fire spotting the stream below; And from above into the Sun's dominions _395 Flinging a glory, like the golden glow In which Spring clothes her emerald-winged minions, All interwoven with fine feathery snow And moonlight splendour of intensest rime, With which frost paints the pines in winter time. _400 45. And then it winnowed the Elysian air Which ever hung about that lady bright, With its aethereal vans--and speeding there, Like a star up the torrent of the night, Or a swift eagle in the morning glare _405 Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight, The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings, Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs. 46. The water flashed, like sunlight by the prow Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven; _410 The still air seemed as if its waves did flow In tempest down the mountains; loosely driven The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro: Beneath, the billows having vainly striven Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel _415 The swift and steady motion of the keel. 47. Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, Or in the noon of interlunar night, The lady-witch in visions could not chain Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light _420 Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite; She to the Austral waters took her way, Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana,-- 48. Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, _425 Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake, With the Antarctic constellations paven, Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake-- There she would build herself a windless haven Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make _430 The bastions of the storm, when through the sky The spirits of the tempest thundered by: 49. A haven beneath whose translucent floor The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably, And around which the solid vapours hoar, _435 Based on the level waters, to the sky Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray, And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. _440 50. And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a wounded thing, And the incessant hail with stony clash Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash _445 Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering Fragment of inky thunder-smoke--this haven Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven,-- 51. On which that lady played her many pranks, Circling the image of a shooting star, _450 Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are, In her light boat; and many quips and cranks She played upon the water, till the car Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan, _455 To journey from the misty east began. 52. And then she called out of the hollow turrets Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion, The armies of her ministering spirits-- In mighty legions, million after million, _460 They came, each troop emblazoning its merits On meteor flags; and many a proud pavilion Of the intertexture of the atmosphere They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere. 53. They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen _465 Of woven exhalations, underlaid With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid With crimson silk--cressets from the serene Hung there, and on the water for her tread _470 A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn, Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. 54. And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, caught Upon those wandering isles of aery dew, Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, _475 She sate, and heard all that had happened new Between the earth and moon, since they had brought The last intelligence--and now she grew Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night-- And now she wept, and now she laughed outright. _480 55. These were tame pleasures; she would often climb The steepest ladder of the crudded rack Up to some beaked cape of cloud sublime, And like Arion on the dolphin's back Ride singing through the shoreless air;--oft-time _485 Following the serpent lightning's winding track, She ran upon the platforms of the wind, And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind. 56. And sometimes to those streams of upper air Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round, _490 She would ascend, and win the spirits there To let her join their chorus. Mortals found That on those days the sky was calm and fair, And mystic snatches of harmonious sound Wandered upon the earth where'er she passed, _495 And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last. 57. But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep, To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads Egypt and Aethiopia, from the steep Of utmost Axume, until he spreads, _500 Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep, His waters on the plain: and crested heads Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, And many a vapour-belted pyramid. 58. By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes, _505 Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors, Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes, Or charioteering ghastly alligators, Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes Of those huge forms--within the brazen doors _510 Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast, Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast. 59. And where within the surface of the river The shadows of the massy temples lie, And never are erased--but tremble ever _515 Like things which every cloud can doom to die, Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever The works of man pierced that serenest sky With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her delight To wander in the shadow of the night. _520 60. With motion like the spirit of that wind Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet Passed through the peopled haunts of humankind. Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet, Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined _525 With many a dark and subterranean street Under the Nile, through chambers high and deep She passed, observing mortals in their sleep. 61. A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. _530 Here lay two sister twins in infancy; There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep; Within, two lovers linked innocently In their loose locks which over both did creep Like ivy from one stem;--and there lay calm _535 Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm. 62. But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, Not to be mirrored in a holy song-- Distortions foul of supernatural awe, And pale imaginings of visioned wrong; _540 And all the code of Custom's lawless law Written upon the brows of old and young: 'This,' said the wizard maiden, 'is the strife Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life.' 63. And little did the sight disturb her soul.-- _545 We, the weak mariners of that wide lake Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, Our course unpiloted and starless make O'er its wild surface to an unknown goal:-- But she in the calm depths her way could take, _550 Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. 64. And she saw princes couched under the glow Of sunlike gems; and round each temple-court In dormitories ranged, row after row, _555 She saw the priests asleep--all of one sort-- For all were educated to be so.-- The peasants in their huts, and in the port The sailors she saw cradled on the waves, And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. _560 65. And all the forms in which those spirits lay Were to her sight like the diaphanous Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us Only their scorn of all concealment: they _565 Move in the light of their own beauty thus. But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, And little thought a Witch was looking on them. 66. She, all those human figures breathing there, Beheld as living spirits--to her eyes _570 The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And often through a rude and worn disguise She saw the inner form most bright and fair-- And then she had a charm of strange device, Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone, _575 Could make that spirit mingle with her own. 67. Alas! Aurora, what wouldst thou have given For such a charm when Tithon became gray? Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina _580 Had half (oh! why not all?) the debt forgiven Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay, To any witch who would have taught you it? The Heliad doth not know its value yet. 68. 'Tis said in after times her spirit free _585 Knew what love was, and felt itself alone-- But holy Dian could not chaster be Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, Than now this lady--like a sexless bee Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none, _590 Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen. 69. To those she saw most beautiful, she gave Strange panacea in a crystal bowl:-- They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave, _595 And lived thenceforward as if some control, Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul, Was as a green and overarching bower Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. _600 70. For on the night when they were buried, she Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook The light out of the funeral lamps, to be A mimic day within that deathy nook; And she unwound the woven imagery _605 Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, And threw it with contempt into a ditch. 71. And there the body lay, age after age. Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying, _610 Like one asleep in a green hermitage, With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing, And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind _615 And fleeting generations of mankind. 72. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain Of those who were less beautiful, and make All harsh and crooked purposes more vain Than in the desert is the serpent's wake _620 Which the sand covers--all his evil gain The miser in such dreams would rise and shake Into a beggar's lap;--the lying scribe Would his own lies betray without a bribe. 73. The priests would write an explanation full, _625 Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, How the God Apis really was a bull, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The same against the temple doors, and pull The old cant down; they licensed all to speak _630 Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese. 74. The king would dress an ape up in his crown And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat, And on the right hand of the sunlike throne _635 Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat The chatterings of the monkey.--Every one Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet Of their great Emperor, when the morning came, And kissed--alas, how many kiss the same! _640 75. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Walked out of quarters in somnambulism; Round the red anvils you might see them stand Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm, Beating their swords to ploughshares;--in a band _645 The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis, To the annoyance of king Amasis. 76. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, _650 Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done _655 Only in fancy--till the tenth moon shone; 77. And then the Witch would let them take no ill: Of many thousand schemes which lovers find, The Witch found one,--and so they took their fill Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. _660 Friends who, by practice of some envious skill, Were torn apart--a wide wound, mind from mind!-- She did unite again with visions clear Of deep affection and of truth sincere. 80. These were the pranks she played among the cities _665 Of mortal men, and what she did to Sprites And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties To do her will, and show their subtle sleights, I will declare another time; for it is A tale more fit for the weird winter nights _670 Than for these garish summer days, when we Scarcely believe much more than we can see. End of Project Gutenberg's The Witch of Atlas, by Percy Bysshe Shelley Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why do the bosses of Wilma's gang believe that Anthony Rogers will be useful to them in the current conflict?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Because he fought in the first world war." ]	27,521	narrativeqa	en	null	67933dc11fce5ce5b80acc04541f0442117aca5eccc06b6f	Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net ARMAGEDDON--2419 A.D. _By Philip Francis Nowlan_ _Here, once more, is a real scientifiction story plus. It is a story which will make the heart of many readers leap with joy._ _We have rarely printed a story in this magazine that for scientific interest, as well as suspense, could hold its own with this particular story. We prophesy that this story will become more valuable as the years go by. It certainly holds a number of interesting prophecies, of which no doubt, many will come true. For wealth of science, it will be hard to beat for some time to come. It is one of those rare stories that will bear reading and re-reading many times._ _This story has impressed us so favorably, that we hope the author may be induced to write a sequel to it soon._ Foreword Elsewhere I have set down, for whatever interest they have in this, the 25th Century, my personal recollections of the 20th Century. Now it occurs to me that my memoirs of the 25th Century may have an equal interest 500 years from now--particularly in view of that unique perspective from which I have seen the 25th Century, entering it as I did, in one leap across a gap of 492 years. This statement requires elucidation. There are still many in the world who are not familiar with my unique experience. Five centuries from now there may be many more, especially if civilization is fated to endure any worse convulsions than those which have occurred between 1975 A.D. and the present time. I should state therefore, that I, Anthony Rogers, am, so far as I know, the only man alive whose normal span of eighty-one years of life has been spread over a period of 573 years. To be precise, I lived the first twenty-nine years of my life between 1898 and 1927; the other fifty-two since 2419. The gap between these two, a period of nearly five hundred years, I spent in a state of suspended animation, free from the ravages of katabolic processes, and without any apparent effect on my physical or mental faculties. When I began my long sleep, man had just begun his real conquest of the air in a sudden series of transoceanic flights in airplanes driven by internal combustion motors. He had barely begun to speculate on the possibilities of harnessing sub-atomic forces, and had made no further practical penetration into the field of ethereal pulsations than the primitive radio and television of that day. The United States of America was the most powerful nation in the world, its political, financial, industrial and scientific influence being supreme; and in the arts also it was rapidly climbing into leadership. I awoke to find the America I knew a total wreck--to find Americans a hunted race in their own land, hiding in the dense forests that covered the shattered and leveled ruins of their once magnificent cities, desperately preserving, and struggling to develop in their secret retreats, the remnants of their culture and science--and the undying flame of their sturdy independence. World domination was in the hands of Mongolians and the center of world power lay in inland China, with Americans one of the few races of mankind unsubdued--and it must be admitted in fairness to the truth, not worth the trouble of subduing in the eyes of the Han Airlords who ruled North America as titular tributaries of the Most Magnificent. For they needed not the forests in which the Americans lived, nor the resources of the vast territories these forests covered. With the perfection to which they had reduced the synthetic production of necessities and luxuries, their remarkable development of scientific processes and mechanical accomplishment of work, they had no economic need for the forests, and no economic desire for the enslaved labor of an unruly race. They had all they needed for their magnificently luxurious and degraded scheme of civilization, within the walls of the fifteen cities of sparkling glass they had flung skyward on the sites of ancient American centers, into the bowels of the earth underneath them, and with relatively small surrounding areas of agriculture. Complete domination of the air rendered communication between these centers a matter of ease and safety. Occasional destructive raids on the waste lands were considered all that was necessary to keep the "wild" Americans on the run within the shelter of their forests, and prevent their becoming a menace to the Han civilization. But nearly three hundred years of easily maintained security, the last century of which had been nearly sterile in scientific, social and economic progress, had softened and devitalized the Hans. It had likewise developed, beneath the protecting foliage of the forest, the growth of a vigorous new American civilization, remarkable in the mobility and flexibility of its organization, in its conquest of almost insuperable obstacles, in the development and guarding of its industrial and scientific resources, all in anticipation of that "Day of Hope" to which it had been looking forward for generations, when it would be strong enough to burst from the green chrysalis of the forests, soar into the upper air lanes and destroy the yellow incubus. At the time I awoke, the "Day of Hope" was almost at hand. I shall not attempt to set forth a detailed history of the Second War of Independence, for that has been recorded already by better historians than I am. Instead I shall confine myself largely to the part I was fortunate enough to play in this struggle and in the events leading up to it. [Illustration: Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance.] It all resulted from my interest in radioactive gases. During the latter part of 1927 my company, the American Radioactive Gas Corporation, had been keeping me busy investigating reports of unusual phenomena observed in certain abandoned coal mines near the Wyoming Valley, in Pennsylvania. With two assistants and a complete equipment of scientific instruments, I began the exploration of a deserted working in a mountainous district, where several weeks before, a number of mining engineers had reported traces of carnotite[1] and what they believed to be radioactive gases. Their report was not without foundation, it was apparent from the outset, for in our examination of the upper levels of the mine, our instruments indicated a vigorous radioactivity. [1] A hydrovanadate of uranium, and other metals; used as a source of radium compounds. On the morning of December 15th, we descended to one of the lowest levels. To our surprise, we found no water there. Obviously it had drained off through some break in the strata. We noticed too that the rock in the side walls of the shaft was soft, evidently due to the radioactivity, and pieces crumbled under foot rather easily. We made our way cautiously down the shaft, when suddenly the rotted timbers above us gave way. I jumped ahead, barely escaping the avalanche of coal and soft rock, but my companions, who were several paces behind me, were buried under it, and undoubtedly met instant death. I was trapped. Return was impossible. With my electric torch I explored the shaft to its end, but could find no other way out. The air became increasingly difficult to breathe, probably from the rapid accumulation of the radioactive gas. In a little while my senses reeled and I lost consciousness. When I awoke, there was a cool and refreshing circulation of air in the shaft. I had no thought that I had been unconscious more than a few hours, although it seems that the radioactive gas had kept me in a state of suspended animation for something like 500 years. My awakening, I figured out later, had been due to some shifting of the strata which reopened the shaft and cleared the atmosphere in the working. This must have been the case, for I was able to struggle back up the shaft over a pile of debris, and stagger up the long incline to the mouth of the mine, where an entirely different world, overgrown with a vast forest and no visible sign of human habitation, met my eyes. I shall pass over the days of mental agony that followed in my attempt to grasp the meaning of it all. There were times when I felt that I was on the verge of insanity. I roamed the unfamiliar forest like a lost soul. Had it not been for the necessity of improvising traps and crude clubs with which to slay my food, I believe I should have gone mad. Suffice it to say, however, that I survived this psychic crisis. I shall begin my narrative proper with my first contact with Americans of the year 2419 A.D. CHAPTER I Floating Men My first glimpse of a human being of the 25th Century was obtained through a portion of woodland where the trees were thinly scattered, with a dense forest beyond. I had been wandering along aimlessly, and hopelessly, musing over my strange fate, when I noticed a figure that cautiously backed out of the dense growth across the glade. I was about to call out joyfully, but there was something furtive about the figure that prevented me. The boy's attention (for it seemed to be a lad of fifteen or sixteen) was centered tensely on the heavy growth of trees from which he had just emerged. He was clad in rather tight-fitting garments entirely of green, and wore a helmet-like cap of the same color. High around his waist he wore a broad, thick belt, which bulked up in the back across the shoulders, into something of the proportions of a knapsack. As I was taking in these details, there came a vivid flash and heavy detonation, like that of a hand grenade, not far to the left of him. He threw up an arm and staggered a bit in a queer, gliding way; then he recovered himself and slipped cautiously away from the place of the explosion, crouching slightly, and still facing the denser part of the forest. Every few steps he would raise his arm, and point into the forest with something he held in his hand. Wherever he pointed there was a terrific explosion, deeper in among the trees. It came to me then that he was shooting with some form of pistol, though there was neither flash nor detonation from the muzzle of the weapon itself. After firing several times, he seemed to come to a sudden resolution, and turning in my general direction, leaped--to my amazement sailing through the air between the sparsely scattered trees in such a jump as I had never in my life seen before. That leap must have carried him a full fifty feet, although at the height of his arc, he was not more than ten or twelve feet from the ground. When he alighted, his foot caught in a projecting root, and he sprawled gently forward. I say "gently" for he did not crash down as I expected him to do. The only thing I could compare it with was a slow-motion cinema, although I had never seen one in which horizontal motions were registered at normal speed and only the vertical movements were slowed down. Due to my surprise, I suppose my brain did not function with its normal quickness, for I gazed at the prone figure for several seconds before I saw the blood that oozed out from under the tight green cap. Regaining my power of action, I dragged him out of sight back of the big tree. For a few moments I busied myself in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The wound was not a deep one. My companion was more dazed than hurt. But what of the pursuers? I took the weapon from his grasp and examined it hurriedly. It was not unlike the automatic pistol to which I was accustomed, except that it apparently fired with a button instead of a trigger. I inserted several fresh rounds of ammunition into its magazine from my companion's belt, as rapidly as I could, for I soon heard, near us, the suppressed conversation of his pursuers. There followed a series of explosions round about us, but none very close. They evidently had not spotted our hiding place, and were firing at random. I waited tensely, balancing the gun in my hand, to accustom myself to its weight and probable throw. Then I saw a movement in the green foliage of a tree not far away, and the head and face of a man appeared. Like my companion, he was clad entirely in green, which made his figure difficult to distinguish. But his face could be seen clearly. It was an evil face, and had murder in it. That decided me. I raised the gun and fired. My aim was bad, for there was no kick in the gun, as I had expected, and I hit the trunk of the tree several feet below him. It blew him from his perch like a crumpled bit of paper, and he _floated_ down to the ground, like some limp, dead thing, gently lowered by an invisible hand. The tree, its trunk blown apart by the explosion, crashed down. There followed another series of explosions around us. These guns we were using made no sound in the firing, and my opponents were evidently as much at sea as to my position as I was to theirs. So I made no attempt to reply to their fire, contenting myself with keeping a sharp lookout in their general direction. And patience had its reward. Very soon I saw a cautious movement in the top of another tree. Exposing myself as little as possible, I aimed carefully at the tree trunk and fired again. A shriek followed the explosion. I heard the tree crash down; then a groan. There was silence for a while. Then I heard a faint sound of boughs swishing. I shot three times in its direction, pressing the button as rapidly as I could. Branches crashed down where my shells had exploded, but there was no body. Then I saw one of them. He was starting one of those amazing leaps from the bough of one tree to another, about forty feet away. I threw up my gun impulsively and fired. By now I had gotten the feel of the weapon, and my aim was good. I hit him. The "bullet" must have penetrated his body and exploded. For one moment I saw him flying through the air. Then the explosion, and he had vanished. He never finished his leap. It was annihilation. How many more of them there were I don't know. But this must have been too much for them. They used a final round of shells on us, all of which exploded harmlessly, and shortly after I heard them swishing and crashing away from us through the tree tops. Not one of them descended to earth. Now I had time to give some attention to my companion. She was, I found, a girl, and not a boy. Despite her bulky appearance, due to the peculiar belt strapped around her body high up under the arms, she was very slender, and very pretty. There was a stream not far away, from which I brought water and bathed her face and wound. Apparently the mystery of these long leaps, the monkey-like ability to jump from bough to bough, and of the bodies that floated gently down instead of falling, lay in the belt. The thing was some sort of anti-gravity belt that almost balanced the weight of the wearer, thereby tremendously multiplying the propulsive power of the leg muscles, and the lifting power of the arms. When the girl came to, she regarded me as curiously as I did her, and promptly began to quiz me. Her accent and intonation puzzled me a lot, but nevertheless we were able to understand each other fairly well, except for certain words and phrases. I explained what had happened while she lay unconscious, and she thanked me simply for saving her life. "You are a strange exchange," she said, eying my clothing quizzically. Evidently she found it mirth provoking by contrast with her own neatly efficient garb. "Don't you understand what I mean by 'exchange?' I mean ah--let me see--a stranger, somebody from some other gang. What gang do you belong to?" (She pronounced it "gan," with only a suspicion of a nasal sound.) I laughed. "I'm not a gangster," I said. But she evidently did not understand this word. "I don't belong to any gang," I explained, "and never did. Does everybody belong to a gang nowadays?" "Naturally," she said, frowning. "If you don't belong to a gang, where and how do you live? Why have you not found and joined a gang? How do you eat? Where do you get your clothing?" "I've been eating wild game for the past two weeks," I explained, "and this clothing I--er--ah--." I paused, wondering how I could explain that it must be many hundred years old. In the end I saw I would have to tell my story as well as I could, piecing it together with my assumptions as to what had happened. She listened patiently; incredulously at first, but with more confidence as I went on. When I had finished, she sat thinking for a long time. "That's hard to believe," she said, "but I believe it." She looked me over with frank interest. "Were you married when you slipped into unconsciousness down in that mine?" she asked me suddenly. I assured her I had never married. "Well, that simplifies matters," she continued. "You see, if you were technically classed as a family man, I could take you back only as an invited exchange and I, being unmarried, and no relation of yours, couldn't do the inviting." CHAPTER II The Forest Gangs She gave me a brief outline of the very peculiar social and economic system under which her people lived. At least it seemed very peculiar from my 20th Century viewpoint. I learned with amazement that exactly 492 years had passed over my head as I lay unconscious in the mine. Wilma, for that was her name, did not profess to be a historian, and so could give me only a sketchy outline of the wars that had been fought, and the manner in which such radical changes had come about. It seemed that another war had followed the First World War, in which nearly all the European nations had banded together to break the financial and industrial power of America. They succeeded in their purpose, though they were beaten, for the war was a terrific one, and left America, like themselves, gasping, bleeding and disorganized, with only the hollow shell of a victory. This opportunity had been seized by the Russian Soviets, who had made a coalition with the Chinese, to sweep over all Europe and reduce it to a state of chaos. America, industrially geared to world production and the world trade, collapsed economically, and there ensued a long period of stagnation and desperate attempts at economic reconstruction. But it was impossible to stave off war with the Mongolians, who by now had subjugated the Russians, and were aiming at a world empire. In about 2109, it seems, the conflict was finally precipitated. The Mongolians, with overwhelming fleets of great airships, and a science that far outstripped that of crippled America, swept in over the Pacific and Atlantic Coasts, and down from Canada, annihilating American aircraft, armies and cities with their terrific _disintegrator_ rays. These rays were projected from a machine not unlike a searchlight in appearance, the reflector of which, however, was not material substance, but a complicated balance of interacting electronic forces. This resulted in a terribly destructive beam. Under its influence, material substance melted into "nothingness"; i. e., into electronic vibrations. It destroyed all then known substances, from air to the most dense metals and stone. They settled down to the establishment of what became known as the Han dynasty in America, as a sort of province in their World Empire. Those were terrible days for the Americans. They were hunted like wild beasts. Only those survived who finally found refuge in mountains, canyons and forests. Government was at an end among them. Anarchy prevailed for several generations. Most would have been eager to submit to the Hans, even if it meant slavery. But the Hans did not want them, for they themselves had marvelous machinery and scientific process by which all difficult labor was accomplished. Ultimately they stopped their active search for, and annihilation of, the widely scattered groups of now savage Americans. So long as they remained hidden in their forests, and did not venture near the great cities the Hans had built, little attention was paid to them. Then began the building of the new American civilization. Families and individuals gathered together in clans or "gangs" for mutual protection. For nearly a century they lived a nomadic and primitive life, moving from place to place, in desperate fear of the casual and occasional Han air raids, and the terrible disintegrator ray. As the frequency of these raids decreased, they began to stay permanently in given localities, organizing upon lines which in many respects were similar to those of the military households of the Norman feudal barons, except that instead of gathering together in castles, their defense tactics necessitated a certain scattering of living quarters for families and individuals. They lived virtually in the open air, in the forests, in green tents, resorting to camouflage tactics that would conceal their presence from air observers. They dug underground factories and laboratories, that they might better be shielded from the electrical detectors of the Hans. They tapped the radio communication lines of the Hans, with crude instruments at first; better ones later on. They bent every effort toward the redevelopment of science. For many generations they labored as unseen, unknown scholars of the Hans, picking up their knowledge piecemeal, as fast as they were able to. During the earlier part of this period, there were many deadly wars fought between the various gangs, and occasional courageous but childishly futile attacks upon the Hans, followed by terribly punitive raids. But as knowledge progressed, the sense of American brotherhood redeveloped. Reciprocal arrangements were made among the gangs over constantly increasing areas. Trade developed to a certain extent, as between one gang and another. But the interchange of knowledge became more important than that of goods, as skill in the handling of synthetic processes developed. Within the gang, an economy was developed that was a compromise between individual liberty and a military socialism. The right of private property was limited practically to personal possessions, but private privileges were many, and sacredly regarded. Stimulation to achievement lay chiefly in the winning of various kinds of leadership and prerogatives, and only in a very limited degree in the hope of owning anything that might be classified as "wealth," and nothing that might be classified as "resources." Resources of every description, for military safety and efficiency, belonged as a matter of public interest to the community as a whole. In the meantime, through these many generations, the Hans had developed a luxury economy, and with it the perfection of gilded vice and degradation. The Americans were regarded as "wild men of the woods." And since they neither needed nor wanted the woods or the wild men, they treated them as beasts, and were conscious of no human brotherhood with them. As time went on, and synthetic processes of producing foods and materials were further developed, less and less ground was needed by the Hans for the purposes of agriculture, and finally, even the working of mines was abandoned when it became cheaper to build up metal from electronic vibrations than to dig them out of the ground. The Han race, devitalized by its vices and luxuries, with machinery and scientific processes to satisfy its every want, with virtually no necessity of labor, began to assume a defensive attitude toward the Americans. And quite naturally, the Americans regarded the Hans with a deep, grim hatred. Conscious of individual superiority as men, knowing that latterly they were outstripping the Hans in science and civilization, they longed desperately for the day when they should be powerful enough to rise and annihilate the Yellow Blight that lay over the continent. At the time of my awakening, the gangs were rather loosely organized, but were considering the establishment of a special military force, whose special business it would be to harry the Hans and bring down their air ships whenever possible without causing general alarm among the Mongolians. This force was destined to become the nucleus of the national force, when the Day of Retribution arrived. But that, however, did not happen for ten years, and is another story. [Illustration: On the left of the illustration is a Han girl, and on the right is an American girl, who, like all of her race, is equipped with an inertron belt and a rocket gun.] Wilma told me she was a member of the Wyoming Gang, which claimed the entire Wyoming Valley as its territory, under the leadership of Boss Hart. Her mother and father were dead, and she was unmarried, so she was not a "family member." She lived in a little group of tents known as Camp 17, under a woman Camp Boss, with seven other girls. Her duties alternated between military or police scouting and factory work. For the two-week period which would end the next day, she had been on "air patrol." This did not mean, as I first imagined, that she was flying, but rather that she was on the lookout for Han ships over this outlying section of the Wyoming territory, and had spent most of her time perched in the tree tops scanning the skies. Had she seen one she would have fired a "drop flare" several miles off to one side, which would ignite when it was floating vertically toward the earth, so that the direction or point from which it had been fired might not be guessed by the airship and bring a blasting play of the disintegrator ray in her vicinity. Other members of the air patrol would send up rockets on seeing hers, until finally a scout equipped with an ultrophone, which, unlike the ancient radio, operated on the ultronic ethereal vibrations, would pass the warning simultaneously to the headquarters of the Wyoming Gang and other communities within a radius of several hundred miles, not to mention the few American rocket ships that might be in the air, and which instantly would duck to cover either through forest clearings or by flattening down to earth in green fields where their coloring would probably protect them from observation. The favorite American method of propulsion was known as "_rocketing_." The _rocket_ is what I would describe, from my 20th Century comprehension of the matter, as an extremely powerful gas blast, atomically produced through the stimulation of chemical action. Scientists of today regard it as a childishly simple reaction, but by that very virtue, most economical and efficient. But tomorrow, she explained, she would go back to work in the cloth plant, where she would take charge of one of the synthetic processes by which those wonderful substitutes for woven fabrics of wool, cotton and silk are produced. At the end of another two weeks, she would be back on military duty again, perhaps at the same work, or maybe as a "contact guard," on duty where the territory of the Wyomings merged with that of the Delawares, or the "Susquannas" (Susquehannas) or one of the half dozen other "gangs" in that section of the country which I knew as Pennsylvania and New York States. Wilma cleared up for me the mystery of those flying leaps which she and her assailants had made, and explained in the following manner, how the inertron belt balances weight: "_Jumpers_" were in common use at the time I "awoke," though they were costly, for at that time _inertron_ had not been produced in very great quantity. They were very useful in the forest. They were belts, strapped high under the arms, containing an amount of inertron adjusted to the wearer's weight and purposes. In effect they made a man weigh as little as he desired; two pounds if he liked. "_Floaters_" are a later development of "_jumpers_"--rocket motors encased in _inertron_ blocks and strapped to the back in such a way that the wearer floats, when drifting, facing slightly downward. With his motor in operation, he moves like a diver, headforemost, controlling his direction by twisting his body and by movements of his outstretched arms and hands. Ballast weights locked in the front of the belt adjust weight and lift. Some men prefer a few ounces of weight in floating, using a slight motor thrust to overcome this. Others prefer a buoyance balance of a few ounces. The inadvertent dropping of weight is not a serious matter. The motor thrust always can be used to descend. But as an extra precaution, in case the motor should fail, for any reason, there are built into every belt a number of detachable sections, one or more of which can be discarded to balance off any loss in weight. "But who were your assailants," I asked, "and why were you attacked?" Her assailants, she told me, were members of an outlaw gang, referred to as "Bad Bloods," a group which for several generations had been under the domination of conscienceless leaders who tried to advance the interests of their clan by tactics which their neighbors had come to regard as unfair, and who in consequence had been virtually boycotted. Their purpose had been to slay her near the Delaware frontier, making it appear that the crime had been committed by Delaware scouts and thus embroil the Delawares and Wyomings in acts of reprisal against each other, or at least cause suspicions. Fortunately they had not succeeded in surprising her, and she had been successful in dodging them for some two hours before the shooting began, at the moment when I arrived on the scene. "But we must not stay here talking," Wilma concluded. "I have to take you in, and besides I must report this attack right away. I think we had better slip over to the other side of the mountain. Whoever is on that post will have a phone, and I can make a direct report. But you'll have to have a belt. Mine alone won't help much against our combined weights, and there's little to be gained by jumping heavy. It's almost as bad as walking." After a little search, we found one of the men I had killed, who had floated down among the trees some distance away and whose belt was not badly damaged. In detaching it from his body, it nearly got away from me and shot up in the air. Wilma caught it, however, and though it reinforced the lift of her own belt so that she had to hook her knee around a branch to hold herself down, she saved it. I climbed the tree and, with my weight added to hers, we floated down easily. CHAPTER III Life in the 25th Century We were delayed in starting for quite a while since I had to acquire a few crude ideas about the technique of using these belts. I had been sitting down, for instance, with the belt strapped about me, enjoying an ease similar to that of a comfortable armchair; when I stood up with a natural exertion of muscular effort, I shot ten feet into the air, with a wild instinctive thrashing of arms and legs that amused Wilma greatly. But after some practice, I began to get the trick of gauging muscular effort to a minimum of vertical and a maximum of horizontal. The correct form, I found, was in a measure comparable to that of skating. I found, also, that in forest work particularly the arms and hands could be used to great advantage in swinging along from branch to branch, so prolonging leaps almost indefinitely at times. In going up the side of the mountain, I found that my 20th Century muscles did have an advantage, in spite of lack of skill with the belt, and since the slopes were very sharp, and most of our leaps were upward, I could have distanced Wilma easily. But when we crossed the ridge and descended, she outstripped me with her superior technique. Choosing the steepest slopes, she would crouch in the top of a tree, and propel herself outward, literally diving until, with the loss of horizontal momentum, she would assume a more upright position and float downward. In this manner she would sometimes cover as much as a quarter of a mile in a single leap, while I leaped and scrambled clumsily behind, thoroughly enjoying the novel sensation. Half way down the mountain, we saw another green-clad figure leap out above the tree tops toward us. The three of us perched on an outcropping of rock from which a view for many miles around could be had, while Wilma hastily explained her adventure and my presence to her fellow guard; whose name was Alan. I learned later that this was the modern form of Helen. "You want to report by phone then, don't you?" Alan took a compact packet about six inches square from a holster attached to her belt and handed it to Wilma. So far as I could see, it had no special receiver for the ear. Wilma merely threw back a lid, as though she were opening a book, and began to talk. The voice that came back from the machine was as audible as her own. She was queried closely as to the attack upon her, and at considerable length as to myself, and I could tell from the tone of that voice that its owner was not prepared to take me at my face value as readily as Wilma had. For that matter, neither was the other girl. I could realize it from the suspicious glances she threw my way, when she thought my attention was elsewhere, and the manner in which her hand hovered constantly near her gun holster. Wilma was ordered to bring me in at once, and informed that another scout would take her place on the other side of the mountain. So she closed down the lid of the phone and handed it back to Alan, who seemed relieved to see us departing over the tree tops in the direction of the camps. We had covered perhaps ten miles, in what still seemed to me a surprisingly easy fashion, when Wilma explained, that from here on we would have to keep to the ground. We were nearing the camps, she said, and there was always the possibility that some small Han scoutship, invisible high in the sky, might catch sight of us through a projectoscope and thus find the general location of the camps. Wilma took me to the Scout office, which proved to be a small building of irregular shape, conforming to the trees around it, and substantially constructed of green sheet-like material. I was received by the assistant Scout Boss, who reported my arrival at once to the historical office, and to officials he called the Psycho Boss and the History Boss, who came in a few minutes later. The attitude of all three men was at first polite but skeptical, and Wilma's ardent advocacy seemed to amuse them secretly. For the next two hours I talked, explained and answered questions. I had to explain, in detail, the manner of my life in the 20th Century and my understanding of customs, habits, business, science and the history of that period, and about developments in the centuries that had elapsed. Had I been in a classroom, I would have come through the examination with a very poor mark, for I was unable to give any answer to fully half of their questions. But before long I realized that the majority of these questions were designed as traps. Objects, of whose purpose I knew nothing, were casually handed to me, and I was watched keenly as I handled them. In the end I could see both amazement and belief begin to show in the faces of my inquisitors, and at last the Historical and Psycho Bosses agreed openly that they could find no flaw in my story or reactions, and that unbelievable as it seemed, my story must be accepted as genuine. They took me at once to Big Boss Hart. He was a portly man with a "poker face." He would probably have been the successful politician even in the 20th Century. They gave him a brief outline of my story and a report of their examination of me. He made no comment other than to nod his acceptance of it. Then he turned to me. "How does it feel?" he asked. "Do we look funny to you?" "A bit strange," I admitted. "But I'm beginning to lose that dazed feeling, though I can see I have an awful lot to learn." "Maybe we can learn some things from you, too," he said. "So you fought in the First World War. Do you know, we have very little left in the way of records of the details of that war, that is, the precise conditions under which it was fought, and the tactics employed. We forgot many things during the Han terror, and--well, I think you might have a lot of ideas worth thinking over for our raid masters. By the way, now that you're here, and can't go back to your own century, so to speak, what do you want to do? You're welcome to become one of us. Or perhaps you'd just like to visit with us for a while, and then look around among the other gangs. Maybe you'd like some of the others better. Don't make up your mind now. We'll put you down as an exchange for a while. Let's see. You and Bill Hearn ought to get along well together. He's Camp Boss of Number 34 when he isn't acting as Raid Boss or Scout Boss. There's a vacancy in his camp. Stay with him and think things over as long as you want to. As soon as you make up your mind to anything, let me know." We all shook hands, for that was one custom that had not died out in five hundred years, and I set out with Bill Hearn. Bill, like all the others, was clad in green. He was a big man. That is, he was about my own height, five feet eleven. This was considerably above the average now, for the race had lost something in stature, it seemed, through the vicissitudes of five centuries. Most of the women were a bit below five feet, and the men only a trifle above this height. For a period of two weeks Bill was to confine himself to camp duties, so I had a good chance to familiarize myself with the community life. It was not easy. There were so many marvels to absorb. I never ceased to wonder at the strange combination of rustic social life and feverish industrial activity. At least, it was strange to me. For in my experience, industrial development meant crowded cities, tenements, paved streets, profusion of vehicles, noise, hurrying men and women with strained or dull faces, vast structures and ornate public works. Here, however, was rustic simplicity, apparently isolated families and groups, living in the heart of the forest, with a quarter of a mile or more between households, a total absence of crowds, no means of conveyance other than the belts called jumpers, almost constantly worn by everybody, and an occasional rocket ship, used only for longer journeys, and underground plants or factories that were to my mind more like laboratories and engine rooms; many of them were excavations as deep as mines, with well finished, lighted and comfortable interiors. These people were adepts at camouflage against air observation. Not only would their activity have been unsuspected by an airship passing over the center of the community, but even by an enemy who might happen to drop through the screen of the upper branches to the floor of the forest. The camps, or household structures, were all irregular in shape and of colors that blended with the great trees among which they were hidden. There were 724 dwellings or "camps" among the Wyomings, located within an area of about fifteen square miles. The total population was 8,688, every man, woman and child, whether member or "exchange," being listed. The plants were widely scattered through the territory also. Nowhere was anything like congestion permitted. So far as possible, families and individuals were assigned to living quarters, not too far from the plants or offices in which their work lay. All able-bodied men and women alternated in two-week periods between military and industrial service, except those who were needed for household work. Since working conditions in the plants and offices were ideal, and everybody thus had plenty of healthy outdoor activity in addition, the population was sturdy and active. Laziness was regarded as nearly the greatest of social offenses. Hard work and general merit were variously rewarded with extra privileges, advancement to positions of authority, and with various items of personal equipment for convenience and luxury. In leisure moments, I got great enjoyment from sitting outside the dwelling in which I was quartered with Bill Hearn and ten other men, watching the occasional passers-by, as with leisurely, but swift movements, they swung up and down the forest trail, rising from the ground in long almost-horizontal leaps, occasionally swinging from one convenient branch overhead to another before "sliding" back to the ground farther on. Normal traveling pace, where these trails were straight enough, was about twenty miles an hour. Such things as automobiles and railroad trains (the memory of them not more than a month old in my mind) seemed inexpressibly silly and futile compared with such convenience as these belts or jumpers offered. Bill suggested that I wander around for several days, from plant to plant, to observe and study what I could. The entire community had been apprised of my coming, my rating as an "exchange" reaching every building and post in the community, by means of ultronic broadcast. Everywhere I was welcomed in an interested and helpful spirit. I visited the plants where ultronic vibrations were isolated from the ether and through slow processes built up into sub-electronic, electronic and atomic forms into the two great synthetic elements, ultron and inertron. I learned something, superficially at least, of the processes of combined chemical and mechanical action through which were produced the various forms of synthetic cloth. I watched the manufacture of the machines which were used at locations of construction to produce the various forms of building materials. But I was particularly interested in the munitions plants and the rocket-ship shops. Ultron is a solid of great molecular density and moderate elasticity, which has the property of being 100 percent conductive to those pulsations known as light, electricity and heat. Since it is completely permeable to light vibrations, it is therefore _absolutely invisible and non-reflective_. Its magnetic response is almost, but not quite, 100 percent also. It is therefore very heavy under normal conditions but extremely responsive to the _repellor_ or anti-gravity rays, such as the Hans use as "_legs_" for their airships. Inertron is the second great triumph of American research and experimentation with ultronic forces. It was developed just a few years before my awakening in the abandoned mine. It is a synthetic element, built up, through a complicated heterodyning of ultronic pulsations, from "infra-balanced" sub-ionic forms. It is completely inert to both electric and magnetic forces in all the orders above the _ultronic_; that is to say, the _sub-electronic_, the _electronic_, the _atomic_ and the _molecular_. In consequence it has a number of amazing and valuable properties. One of these is _the total lack of weight_. Another is a total lack of heat. It has no molecular vibration whatever. It reflects 100 percent of the heat and light impinging upon it. It does not feel cold to the touch, of course, since it will not absorb the heat of the hand. It is a solid, very dense in molecular structure despite its lack of weight, of great strength and considerable elasticity. It is a perfect shield against the disintegrator rays. [Illustration: Setting his rocket gun for a long-distance shot.] Rocket guns are very simple contrivances so far as the mechanism of launching the bullet is concerned. They are simple light tubes, closed at the rear end, with a trigger-actuated pin for piercing the thin skin at the base of the cartridge. This piercing of the skin starts the chemical and atomic reaction. The entire cartridge leaves the tube under its own power, at a very easy initial velocity, just enough to insure accuracy of aim; so the tube does not have to be of heavy construction. The bullet increases in velocity as it goes. It may be solid or explosive. It may explode on contact or on time, or a combination of these two. Bill and I talked mostly of weapons, military tactics and strategy. Strangely enough he had no idea whatever of the possibilities of the barrage, though the tremendous effect of a "curtain of fire" with such high-explosive projectiles as these modern rocket guns used was obvious to me. But the barrage idea, it seemed, has been lost track of completely in the air wars that followed the First World War, and in the peculiar guerilla tactics developed by Americans in the later period of operations from the ground against Han airships, and in the gang wars which, until a few generations ago I learned, had been almost continuous. "I wonder," said Bill one day, "if we couldn't work up some form of barrage to spring on the Bad Bloods. The Big Boss told me today that he's been in communication with the other gangs, and all are agreed that the Bad Bloods might as well be wiped out for good. That attempt on Wilma Deering's life and their evident desire to make trouble among the gangs, has stirred up every community east of the Alleghenies. The Boss says that none of the others will object if we go after them. So I imagine that before long we will. Now show me again how you worked that business in the Argonne forest. The conditions ought to be pretty much the same." I went over it with him in detail, and gradually we worked out a modified plan that would be better adapted to our more powerful weapons, and the use of jumpers. "It will be easy," Bill exulted. "I'll slide down and talk it over with the Boss tomorrow." During the first two weeks of my stay with the Wyomings, Wilma Deering and I saw a great deal of each other. I naturally felt a little closer friendship for her, in view of the fact that she was the first human being I saw after waking from my long sleep; her appreciation of my saving her life, though I could not have done otherwise than I did in that matter, and most of all my own appreciation of the fact that she had not found it as difficult as the others to believe my story, operated in the same direction. I could easily imagine my story must have sounded incredible. It was natural enough too, that she should feel an unusual interest in me. In the first place, I was her personal discovery. In the second, she was a girl of studious and reflective turn of mind. She never got tired of my stories and descriptions of the 20th Century. The others of the community, however, seemed to find our friendship a bit amusing. It seemed that Wilma had a reputation for being cold toward the opposite sex, and so others, not being able to appreciate some of her fine qualities as I did, misinterpreted her attitude, much to their own delight. Wilma and I, however, ignored this as much as we could. CHAPTER IV A Han Air Raid There was a girl in Wilma's camp named Gerdi Mann, with whom Bill Hearn was desperately in love, and the four of us used to go around a lot together. Gerdi was a distinct type. Whereas Wilma had the usual dark brown hair and hazel eyes that marked nearly every member of the community, Gerdi had red hair, blue eyes and very fair skin. She has been dead many years now, but I remember her vividly because she was a throwback in physical appearance to a certain 20th Century type which I have found very rare among modern Americans; also because the four of us were engaged one day in a discussion of this very point, when I obtained my first experience of a Han air raid. We were sitting high on the side of a hill overlooking the valley that teemed with human activity, invisible beneath its blanket of foliage. The other three, who knew of the Irish but vaguely and indefinitely, as a race on the other side of the globe, which, like ourselves, had succeeded in maintaining a precarious and fugitive existence in rebellion against the Mongolian domination of the earth, were listening with interest to my theory that Gerdi's ancestors of several hundred years ago must have been Irish. I explained that Gerdi was an Irish type, evidently a throwback, and that her surname might well have been McMann, or McMahan, and still more anciently "mac Mathghamhain." They were interested too in my surmise that "Gerdi" was the same name as that which had been "Gerty" or "Gertrude" in the 20th Century. In the middle of our discussion, we were startled by an alarm rocket that burst high in the air, far to the north, spreading a pall of red smoke that drifted like a cloud. It was followed by others at scattered points in the northern sky. "A Han raid!" Bill exclaimed in amazement. "The first in seven years!" "Maybe it's just one of their ships off its course," I ventured. "No," said Wilma in some agitation. "That would be green rockets. Red means only one thing, Tony. They're sweeping the countryside with their dis beams. Can you see anything, Bill?" "We had better get under cover," Gerdi said nervously. "The four of us are bunched here in the open. For all we know they may be twelve miles up, out of sight, yet looking at us with a projecto'." Bill had been sweeping the horizon hastily with his glass, but apparently saw nothing. "We had better scatter, at that," he said finally. "It's orders, you know. See!" He pointed to the valley. Here and there a tiny human figure shot for a moment above the foliage of the treetops. "That's bad," Wilma commented, as she counted the jumpers. "No less than fifteen people visible, and all clearly radiating from a central point. Do they want to give away our location?" The standard orders covering air raids were that the population was to scatter individually. There should be no grouping, or even pairing, in view of the destructiveness of the disintegrator rays. Experience of generations had proved that if this were done, and everybody remained hidden beneath the tree screens, the Hans would have to sweep mile after mile of territory, foot by foot, to catch more than a small percentage of the community. Gerdi, however, refused to leave Bill, and Wilma developed an equal obstinacy against quitting my side. I was inexperienced at this sort of thing, she explained, quite ignoring the fact that she was too; she was only thirteen or fourteen years old at the time of the last air raid. However, since I could not argue her out of it, we leaped together about a quarter of a mile to the right, while Bill and Gerdi disappeared down the hillside among the trees. Wilma and I both wanted a point of vantage from which we might overlook the valley and the sky to the north, and we found it near the top of the ridge, where, protected from visibility by thick branches, we could look out between the tree trunks, and get a good view of the valley. No more rockets went up. Except for a few of those warning red clouds, drifting lazily in a blue sky, there was no visible indication of man's past or present existence anywhere in the sky or on the ground. Then Wilma gripped my arm and pointed. I saw it; away off in the distance; looking like a phantom dirigible airship, in its coat of low-visibility paint, a bare spectre. "Seven thousand feet up," Wilma whispered, crouching close to me. "Watch." The ship was about the same shape as the great dirigibles of the 20th Century that I had seen, but without the suspended control car, engines, propellors, rudders or elevating planes. As it loomed rapidly nearer, I saw that it was wider and somewhat flatter than I had supposed. Now I could see the repellor rays that held the ship aloft, like searchlight beams faintly visible in the bright daylight (and still faintly visible to the human eye at night). Actually, I had been informed by my instructors, there were two rays; the visible one generated by the ship's apparatus, and directed toward the ground as a beam of "carrier" impulses; and the true repellor ray, the complement of the other in one sense, induced by the action of the "carrier" and reacting in a concentrating upward direction from the mass of the earth, becoming successively electronic, atomic and finally molecular, in its nature, according to various ratios of distance between earth mass and "carrier" source, until, in the last analysis, the ship itself actually is supported on an upward rushing column of air, much like a ball continuously supported on a fountain jet. The raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum. The ship was operating two disintegrator rays, though only in a casual, intermittent fashion. But whenever they flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them. When later I inspected the scars left by these rays I found them some five feet deep and thirty feet wide, the exposed surfaces being lava-like in texture, but of a pale, iridescent, greenish hue. No systematic use of the rays was made by the ship, however, until it reached a point over the center of the valley--the center of the community's activities. There it came to a sudden stop by shooting its repellor beams sharply forward and easing them back gradually to the vertical, holding the ship floating and motionless. Then the work of destruction began systematically. Back and forth traveled the destroying rays, ploughing parallel furrows from hillside to hillside. We gasped in dismay, Wilma and I, as time after time we saw it plough through sections where we knew camps or plants were located. "This is awful," she moaned, a terrified question in her eyes. "How could they know the location so exactly, Tony? Did you see? They were never in doubt. They stalled at a predetermined spot--and--and it was exactly the right spot." We did not talk of what might happen if the rays were turned in our direction. We both knew. We would simply disintegrate in a split second into mere scattered electronic vibrations. Strangely enough, it was this self-reliant girl of the 25th Century, who clung to me, a relatively primitive man of the 20th, less familiar than she with the thought of this terrifying possibility, for moral support. We knew that many of our companions must have been whisked into absolute non-existence before our eyes in these few moments. The whole thing paralyzed us into mental and physical immobility for I do not know how long. It couldn't have been long, however, for the rays had not ploughed more than thirty of their twenty-foot furrows or so across the valley, when I regained control of myself, and brought Wilma to herself by shaking her roughly. "How far will this rocket gun shoot, Wilma?" I demanded, drawing my pistol. "It depends on your rocket, Tony. It will take even the longest range rocket, but you could shoot more accurately from a longer tube. But why? You couldn't penetrate the shell of that ship with rocket force, even if you could reach it." I fumbled clumsily with my rocket pouch, for I was excited. I had an idea I wanted to try; a "hunch" I called it, forgetting that Wilma could not understand my ancient slang. But finally, with her help, I selected the longest range explosive rocket in my pouch, and fitted it to my pistol. "It won't carry seven thousand feet, Tony," Wilma objected. But I took aim carefully. It was another thought that I had in my mind. The supporting repellor ray, I had been told, became molecular in character at what was called a logarithmic level of five (below that it was a purely electronic "flow" or pulsation between the source of the "carrier" and the average mass of the earth). Below that level if I could project my explosive bullet into this stream where it began to carry material substance upward, might it not rise with the air column, gathering speed and hitting the ship with enough impact to carry it through the shell? It was worth trying anyhow. Wilma became greatly excited, too, when she grasped the nature of my inspiration. Feverishly I looked around for some formation of branches against which I could rest the pistol, for I had to aim most carefully. At last I found one. Patiently I sighted on the hulk of the ship far above us, aiming at the far side of it, at such an angle as would, so far as I could estimate, bring my bullet path through the forward repellor beam. At last the sights wavered across the point I sought and I pressed the button gently. For a moment we gazed breathlessly. Suddenly the ship swung bow down, as on a pivot, and swayed like a pendulum. Wilma screamed in her excitement. "Oh, Tony, you hit it! You hit it! Do it again; bring it down!" We had only one more rocket of extreme range between us, and we dropped it three times in our excitement in inserting it in my gun. Then, forcing myself to be calm by sheer will power, while Wilma stuffed her little fist into her mouth to keep from shrieking, I sighted carefully again and fired. In a flash, Wilma had grasped the hope that this discovery of mine might lead to the end of the Han domination. The elapsed time of the rocket's invisible flight seemed an age. Then we saw the ship falling. It seemed to plunge lazily, but actually it fell with terrific acceleration, turning end over end, its disintegrator rays, out of control, describing vast, wild arcs, and once cutting a gash through the forest less than two hundred feet from where we stood. The crash with which the heavy craft hit the ground reverberated from the hills--the momentum of eighteen or twenty thousand tons, in a sheer drop of seven thousand feet. A mangled mass of metal, it buried itself in the ground, with poetic justice, in the middle of the smoking, semi-molten field of destruction it had been so deliberately ploughing. The silence, the vacuity of the landscape, was oppressive, as the last echoes died away. Then far down the hillside, a single figure leaped exultantly above the foliage screen. And in the distance another, and another. In a moment the sky was punctured by signal rockets. One after another the little red puffs became drifting clouds. "Scatter! Scatter!" Wilma exclaimed. "In half an hour there'll be an entire Han fleet here from Nu-yok, and another from Bah-flo. They'll get this instantly on their recordographs and location finders. They'll blast the whole valley and the country for miles beyond. Come, Tony. There's no time for the gang to rally. See the signals. We've got to jump. Oh, I'm so proud of you!" Over the ridge we went, in long leaps toward the east, the country of the Delawares. From time to time signal rockets puffed in the sky. Most of them were the "red warnings," the "scatter" signals. But from certain of the others, which Wilma identified as Wyoming rockets, she gathered that whoever was in command (we did not know whether the Boss was alive or not) was ordering an ultimate rally toward the south, and so we changed our course. It was a great pity, I thought, that the clan had not been equipped throughout its membership with ultrophones, but Wilma explained to me, that not enough of these had been built for distribution as yet, although general distribution had been contemplated within a couple of months. We traveled far before nightfall overtook us, trying only to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the valley. When gathering dusk made jumping too dangerous, we sought a comfortable spot beneath the trees, and consumed part of our emergency rations. It was the first time I had tasted the stuff--a highly nutritive synthetic substance called "concentro," which was, however, a bit bitter and unpalatable. But as only a mouthful or so was needed, it did not matter. Neither of us had a cloak, but we were both thoroughly tired and happy, so we curled up together for warmth. I remember Wilma making some sleepy remark about our mating, as she cuddled up, as though the matter were all settled, and my surprise at my own instant acceptance of the idea, for I had not consciously thought of her that way before. But we both fell asleep at once. In the morning we found little time for love making. The practical problem facing us was too great. Wilma felt that the Wyoming plan must be to rally in the Susquanna territory, but she had her doubts about the wisdom of this plan. In my elation at my success in bringing down the Han ship, and my newly found interest in my charming companion, who was, from my viewpoint of another century, at once more highly civilized and yet more primitive than myself, I had forgotten the ominous fact that the Han ship I had destroyed must have known the exact location of the Wyoming Works. This meant, to Wilma's logical mind, either that the Hans had perfected new instruments as yet unknown to us, or that somewhere, among the Wyomings or some other nearby gang, there were traitors so degraded as to commit that unthinkable act of trafficking in information with the Hans. In either contingency, she argued, other Han raids would follow, and since the Susquannas had a highly developed organization and more than usually productive plants, the next raid might be expected to strike them. But at any rate it was clearly our business to get in touch with the other fugitives as quickly as possible, so in spite of muscles that were sore from the excessive leaping of the day before, we continued on our way. We traveled for only a couple of hours when we saw a multi-colored rocket in the sky, some ten miles ahead of us. "Bear to the left, Tony," Wilma said, "and listen for the whistle." "Why?" I asked. "Haven't they given you the rocket code yet?" she replied. "That's what the green, followed by yellow and purple means; to concentrate five miles east of the rocket position. You know the rocket position itself might draw a play of disintegrator beams." It did not take us long to reach the neighborhood of the indicated rallying, though we were now traveling beneath the trees, with but an occasional leap to a top branch to see if any more rocket smoke was floating above. And soon we heard a distant whistle. We found about half the Gang already there, in a spot where the trees met high above a little stream. The Big Boss and Raid Bosses were busy reorganizing the remnants. We reported to Boss Hart at once. He was silent, but interested, when he heard our story. "You two stick close to me," he said, adding grimly, "I'm going back to the valley at once with a hundred picked men, and I'll need you." CHAPTER V Setting the Trap Inside of fifteen minutes we were on our way. A certain amount of caution was sacrificed for the sake of speed, and the men leaped away either across the forest top, or over open spaces of ground, but concentration was forbidden. The Big Boss named the spot on the hillside as the rallying point. "We'll have to take a chance on being seen, so long as we don't group," he declared, "at least until within five miles of the rallying spot. From then on I want every man to disappear from sight and to travel under cover. And keep your ultrophones open, and tuned on ten-four-seven-six." Wilma and I had received our battle equipment from the Gear boss. It consisted of a long-gun, a hand-gun, with a special case of ammunition constructed of inertron, which made the load weigh but a few ounces, and a short sword. This gear we strapped over each other's shoulders, on top of our jumping belts. In addition, we each received an ultrophone, and a light inertron blanket rolled into a cylinder about six inches long by two or three in diameter. This fabric was exceedingly thin and light, but it had considerable warmth, because of the mixture of inertron in its composition. [Illustration: The Han raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum.... Whenever the disintegrator rays flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them.] "This looks like business," Wilma remarked to me with sparkling eyes. (And I might mention a curious thing here. The word "business" had survived from the 20th Century American vocabulary, but not with any meaning of "industry" or "trade," for such things being purely community activities were spoken of as "work" and "clearing." Business simply meant fighting, and that was all.) "Did you bring all this equipment from the valley?" I asked the Gear Boss. "No," he said. "There was no time to gather anything. All this stuff we cleared from the Susquannas a few hours ago. I was with the Boss on the way down, and he had me jump on ahead and arrange it. But you two had better be moving. He's beckoning you now." Hart was about to call us on our phones when we looked up. As soon as we did so, he leaped away, waving us to follow closely. He was a powerful man, and he darted ahead in long, swift, low leaps up the banks of the stream, which followed a fairly straight course at this point. By extending ourselves, however, Wilma and I were able to catch up to him. As we gradually synchronized our leaps with his, he outlined to us, between the grunts that accompanied each leap, his plan of action. "We have to start the big business--unh--sooner or later," he said. "And if--unh--the Hans have found any way of locating our positions--unh--it's time to start now, although the Council of Bosses--unh--had intended waiting a few years until enough rocket ships have been--unh--built. But no matter what the sacrifice--unh--we can't afford to let them get us on the run--unh--. We'll set a trap for the yellow devils in the--unh--valley if they come back for their wreckage--unh--and if they don't, we'll go rocketing for some of their liners--unh--on the Nu-yok, Clee-lan, Si-ka-ga course. We can use--unh--that idea of yours of shooting up the repellor--unh--beams. Want you to give us a demonstration." With further admonition to follow him closely, he increased his pace, and Wilma and I were taxed to our utmost to keep up with him. It was only in ascending the slopes that my tougher muscles overbalanced his greater skill, and I was able to set the pace for him, as I had for Wilma. We slept in greater comfort that night, under our inertron blankets, and were off with the dawn, leaping cautiously to the top of the ridge overlooking the valley which Wilma and I had left. The Boss scanned the sky with his ultroscope, patiently taking some fifteen minutes to the task, and then swung his phone into use, calling the roll and giving the men their instructions. His first order was for us all to slip our ear and chest discs into permanent position. These ultrophones were quite different from the one used by Wilma's companion scout the day I saved her from the vicious attack of the bandit Gang. That one was contained entirely in a small pocket case. These, with which we were now equipped, consisted of a pair of ear discs, each a separate and self-contained receiving set. They slipped into little pockets over our ears in the fabric helmets we wore, and shut out virtually all extraneous sounds. The chest discs were likewise self-contained sending sets, strapped to the chest a few inches below the neck and actuated by the vibrations from the vocal cords through the body tissues. The total range of these sets was about eighteen miles. Reception was remarkably clear, quite free from the static that so marked the 20th Century radios, and of a strength in direct proportion to the distance of the speaker. The Boss' set was triple powered, so that his orders would cut in on any local conversations, which were indulged in, however, with great restraint, and only for the purpose of maintaining contacts. I marveled at the efficiency of this modern method of battle communication in contrast to the clumsy signaling devices of more ancient times; and also at other military contrasts in which the 20th and 25th Century methods were the reverse of each other in efficiency. These modern Americans, for instance, knew little of hand to hand fighting, and nothing, naturally, of trench warfare. Of barrages they were quite ignorant, although they possessed weapons of terrific power. And until my recent flash of inspiration, no one among them, apparently, had ever thought of the scheme of shooting a rocket into a repellor beam and letting the beam itself hurl it upward into the most vital part of the Han ship. Hart patiently placed his men, first giving his instructions to the campmasters, and then remaining silent, while they placed the individuals. In the end, the hundred men were ringed about the valley, on the hillsides and tops, each in a position from which he had a good view of the wreckage of the Han ship. But not a man had come in view, so far as I could see, in the whole process. The Boss explained to me that it was his idea that he, Wilma and I should investigate the wreck. If Han ships should appear in the sky, we would leap for the hillsides. I suggested to him to have the men set up their long-guns trained on an imaginary circle surrounding the wreck. He busied himself with this after the three of us leaped down to the Han ship, serving as a target himself, while he called on the men individually to aim their pieces and lock them in position. In the meantime Wilma and I climbed into the wreckage, but did not find much. Practically all of the instruments and machinery had been twisted out of all recognizable shape, or utterly destroyed by the ship's disintegrator rays which apparently had continued to operate in the midst of its warped remains for some moments after the crash. It was unpleasant work searching the mangled bodies of the crew. But it had to be done. The Han clothing, I observed, was quite different from that of the Americans, and in many respects more like the garb to which I had been accustomed in the earlier part of my life. It was made of synthetic fabrics like silks, loose and comfortable trousers of knee length, and sleeveless shirts. No protection, except that against drafts, was needed, Wilma explained to me, for the Han cities were entirely enclosed, with splendid arrangements for ventilation and heating. These arrangements of course were equally adequate in their airships. The Hans, indeed, had quite a distaste for unshaded daylight, since their lighting apparatus diffused a controlled amount of violet rays, making the unmodified sunlight unnecessary for health, and undesirable for comfort. Since the Hans did not have the secret of inertron, none of them wore anti-gravity belts. Yet in spite of the fact that they had to bear their own full weights at all times, they were physically far inferior to the Americans, for they lived lives of degenerative physical inertia, having machinery of every description for the performance of all labor, and convenient conveyances for any movement of more than a few steps. Even from the twisted wreckage of this ship I could see that seats, chairs and couches played an extremely important part in their scheme of existence. But none of the bodies were overweight. They seemed to have been the bodies of men in good health, but muscularly much underdeveloped. Wilma explained to me that they had mastered the science of gland control, and of course dietetics, to the point where men and women among them not uncommonly reached the age of a hundred years with arteries and general health in splendid condition. I did not have time to study the ship and its contents as carefully as I would have liked, however. Time pressed, and it was our business to discover some clue to the deadly accuracy with which the ship had spotted the Wyoming Works. The Boss had hardly finished his arrangements for the ring barrage, when one of the scouts on an eminence to the north, announced the approach of seven Han ships, spread out in a great semi-circle. Hart leaped for the hillside, calling to us to do likewise, but Wilma and I had raised the flaps of our helmets and switched off our "speakers" for conversation between ourselves, and by the time we discovered what had happened, the ships were clearly visible, so fast were they approaching. "Jump!" we heard the Boss order, "Deering to the north. Rogers to the east." But Wilma looked at me meaningly and pointed to where the twisted plates of the ship, projecting from the ground, offered a shelter. "Too late, Boss," she said. "They'd see us. Besides I think there's something here we ought to look at. It's probably their magnetic graph." "You're signing your death warrant," Hart warned. "We'll risk it," said Wilma and I together. "Good for you," replied the Boss. "Take command then, Rogers, for the present. Do you all know his voice, boys?" A chorus of assent rang in our ears, and I began to do some fast thinking as the girl and I ducked into the twisted mass of metal. "Wilma, hunt for that record," I said, knowing that by the simple process of talking I could keep the entire command continuously informed as to the situation. "On the hillsides, keep your guns trained on the circles and stand by. On the hilltops, how many of you are there? Speak in rotation from Bald Knob around to the east, north, west." In turn the men called their names. There were twenty of them. I assigned them by name to cover the various Han ships, numbering the latter from left to right. "Train your rockets on their repellor rays about three-quarters of the way up, between ships and ground. Aim is more important than elevation. Follow those rays with your aim continuously. Shoot when I tell you, not before. Deering has the record. The Hans probably have not seen us, or at least think there are but two of us in the valley, since they're settling without opening up disintegrators. Any opinions?" My ear discs remained silent. "Deering and I remain here until they land and debark. Stand by and keep alert." Rapidly and easily the largest of the Han ships settled to the earth. Three scouted sharply to the south, rising to a higher level. The others floated motionless about a thousand feet above. Peeping through a small fissure between two plates, I saw the vast hulk of the ship come to rest full on the line of our prospective ring barrage. A door clanged open a couple of feet from the ground, and one by one the crew emerged. CHAPTER VI The "Wyoming Massacre" "They're coming out of the ship." I spoke quietly, with my hand over my mouth, for fear they might hear me. "One--two--three--four, five--six--seven--eight--nine. That seems to be all. Who knows how many men a ship like that is likely to carry?" "About ten, if there are no passengers," replied one of my men, probably one of those on the hillside. "How are they armed?" I asked. "Just knives," came the reply. "They never permit hand-rays on the ships. Afraid of accidents. Have a ruling against it." "Leave them to us then," I said, for I had a hastily formed plan in my mind. "You, on the hillsides, take the ships above. Abandon the ring target. Divide up in training on those repellor rays. You, on the hilltops, all train on the repellors of the ships to the south. Shoot at the word, but not before. "Wilma, crawl over to your left where you can make a straight leap for the door in that ship. These men are all walking around the wreck in a bunch. When they're on the far side, I'll give the word and you leap through that door in one bound. I'll follow. Maybe we won't be seen. We'll overpower the guard inside, but don't shoot. We may escape being seen by both this crew and ships above. They can't see over this wreck." It was so easy that it seemed too good to be true. The Hans who had emerged from the ship walked round the wreckage lazily, talking in guttural tones, keenly interested in the wreck, but quite unsuspicious. At last they were on the far side. In a moment they would be picking their way into the wreck. "Wilma, leap!" I almost whispered the order. The distance between Wilma's hiding place and the door in the side of the Han ship was not more than fifteen feet. She was already crouched with her feet braced against a metal beam. Taking the lift of that wonderful inertron belt into her calculation, she dove headforemost, like a green projectile, through the door. I followed in a split second, more clumsily, but no less speedily, bruising my shoulder painfully, as I ricocheted from the edge of the opening and brought up sliding against the unconscious girl; for she evidently had hit her head against the partition within the ship into which she had crashed. We had made some noise within the ship. Shuffling footsteps were approaching down a well lit gangway. "Any signs we have been observed?" I asked my men on the hillsides. "Not yet," I heard the Boss reply. "Ships overhead still standing. No beams have been broken out. Men on ground absorbed in wreck. Most of them have crawled into it out of sight." "Good," I said quickly. "Deering hit her head. Knocked out. One or more members of the crew approaching. We're not discovered yet. I'll take care of them. Stand a bit longer, but be ready." I think my last words must have been heard by the man who was approaching, for he stopped suddenly. I crouched at the far side of the compartment, motionless. I would not draw my sword if there were only one of them. He would be a weakling, I figured, and I should easily overcome him with my bare hands. Apparently reassured at the absence of any further sound, a man came around a sort of bulkhead--and I leaped. I swung my legs up in front of me as I did so, catching him full in the stomach and knocked him cold. I ran forward along the keel gangway, searching for the control room. I found it well up in the nose of the ship. And it was deserted. What could I do to jam the controls of the ships that would not register on the recording instruments of the other ships? I gazed at the mass of controls. Levers and wheels galore. In the center of the compartment, on a massively braced universal joint mounting, was what I took for the repellor generator. A dial on it glowed and a faint hum came from within its shielding metallic case. But I had no time to study it. Above all else, I was afraid that some automatic telephone apparatus existed in the room, through which I might be heard on the other ships. The risk of trying to jam the controls was too great. I abandoned the idea and withdrew softly. I would have to take a chance that there was no other member of the crew aboard. I ran back to the entrance compartment. Wilma still lay where she had slumped down. I heard the voices of the Hans approaching. It was time to act. The next few seconds would tell whether the ships in the air would try or be able to melt us into nothingness. I spoke. "Are you boys all ready?" I asked, creeping to a position opposite the door and drawing my hand-gun. Again there was a chorus of assent. "Then on the count of three, shoot up those repellor rays--all of them--and for God's sake, don't miss." And I counted. I think my "three" was a bit weak. I know it took all the courage I had to utter it. For an agonizing instant nothing happened, except that the landing party from the ship strolled into my range of vision. Then startled, they turned their eyes upward. For an instant they stood frozen with horror at whatever they saw. One hurled his knife at me. It grazed my cheek. Then a couple of them made a break for the doorway. The rest followed. But I fired pointblank with my hand-gun, pressing the button as fast as I could and aiming at their feet to make sure my explosive rockets would make contact and do their work. The detonations of my rockets were deafening. The spot on which the Hans stood flashed into a blinding glare. Then there was nothing there except their torn and mutilated corpses. They had been fairly bunched, and I got them all. I ran to the door, expecting any instant to be hurled into infinity by the sweep of a disintegrator ray. Some eighth of a mile away I saw one of the ships crash to earth. A disintegrator ray came into my line of vision, wavered uncertainly for a moment and then began to sweep directly toward the ship in which I stood. But it never reached it. Suddenly, like a light switched off, it shot to one side, and a moment later another vast hulk crashed to earth. I looked out, then stepped out on the ground. The only Han ships in the sky were two of the scouts to the south which were hanging perpendicularly, and sagging slowly down. The others must have crashed down while I was deafened by the sound of the explosion of my own rockets. Somebody hit the other repellor ray of one of the two remaining ships and it fell out of sight beyond a hilltop. The other, farther away, drifted down diagonally, its disintegrator ray playing viciously over the ground below it. I shouted with exultation and relief. "Take back the command, Boss!" I yelled. His commands, sending out jumpers in pursuit of the descending ship, rang in my ears, but I paid no attention to them. I leaped back into the compartment of the Han ship and knelt beside my Wilma. Her padded helmet had absorbed much of the blow, I thought; otherwise, her skull might have been fractured. "Oh, my head!" she groaned, coming to as I lifted her gently in my arms and strode out in the open with her. "We must have won, dearest, did we?" "We most certainly did," I reassured her. "All but one crashed and that one is drifting down toward the south; we've captured this one we're in intact. There was only one member of the crew aboard when we dove in." [Illustration: As the American leaped, he swung his legs up in front of him, catching the Han full in the stomach.] Less than an hour afterward the Big Boss ordered the outfit to tune in ultrophones on three-twenty-three to pick up a translated broadcast of the Han intelligence office in Nu-yok from the Susquanna station. It was in the form of a public warning and news item, and read as follows: "This is Public Intelligence Office, Nu-yok, broadcasting warning to navigators of private ships, and news of public interest. The squadron of seven ships, which left Nu-yok this morning to investigate the recent destruction of the GK-984 in the Wyoming Valley, has been destroyed by a series of mysterious explosions similar to those which wrecked the GK-984. "The phones, viewplates, and all other signaling devices of five of the seven ships ceased operating suddenly at approximately the same moment, about seven-four-nine." (According to the Han system of reckoning time, seven and forty-nine one hundredths after midnight.) "After violent disturbances the location finders went out of operation. Electroactivity registers applied to the territory of the Wyoming Valley remain dead. "The Intelligence Office has no indication of the kind of disaster which overtook the squadron except certain evidences of explosive phenomena similar to those in the case of the GK-984, which recently went dead while beaming the valley in a systematic effort to wipe out the works and camps of the tribesmen. The Office considers, as obvious, the deduction that the tribesmen have developed a new, and as yet undetermined, technique of attack on airships, and has recommended to the Heaven-Born that immediate and unlimited authority be given the Navigation Intelligence Division to make an investigation of this technique and develop a defense against it. "In the meantime it urges that private navigators avoid this territory in particular, and in general hold as closely as possible to the official inter-city routes, which now are being patrolled by the entire force of the Military Office, which is beaming the routes generously to a width of ten miles. The Military Office reports that it is at present considering no retaliatory raids against the tribesmen. With the Navigation Intelligence Division, it holds that unless further evidence of the nature of the disaster is developed in the near future, the public interest will be better served, and at smaller cost of life, by a scientific research than by attempts at retaliation, which may bring destruction on all ships engaging therein. So unless further evidence actually is developed, or the Heaven-Born orders to the contrary, the Military will hold to a defensive policy. "Unofficial intimations from Lo-Tan are to the effect that the Heaven-Council has the matter under consideration. "The Navigation Intelligence Office permits the broadcast of the following condensation of its detailed observations: "The squadron proceeded to a position above the Wyoming Valley where the wreck of the GK-984 was known to be, from the record of its location finder before it went dead recently. There the bottom projectoscope relays of all ships registered the wreck of the GK-984. Teleprojectoscope views of the wreck and the bowl of the valley showed no evidence of the presence of tribesmen. Neither ship registers nor base registers showed any indication of electroactivity except from the squadron itself. On orders from the Base Squadron Commander, the LD-248, LK-745 and LG-25 scouted southward at 3,000 feet. The GK-43, GK-981 and GK-220 stood above at 2,500 feet, and the GK-18 landed to permit personal inspection of the wreck by the science committee. The party debarked, leaving one man on board in the control cabin. He set all projectoscopes at universal focus except RB-3," (this meant the third projectoscope from the bow of the ship, on the right-hand side of the lower deck) "with which he followed the landing group as it walked around the wreck. "The first abnormal phenomenon recorded by any of the instruments at Base was that relayed automatically from projectoscope RB-4 of the GK-18, which as the party disappeared from view in back of the wreck, recorded two green missiles of roughly cylindrical shape, projected from the wreckage into the landing compartment of the ship. At such close range these were not clearly defined, owing to the universal focus at which the projectoscope was set. The Base Captain of GK-18 at once ordered the man in the control room to investigate, and saw him leave the control room in compliance with this order. An instant later confused sounds reached the control-room electrophone, such as might be made by a man falling heavily, and footsteps reapproached the control room, a figure entering and leaving the control room hurriedly. The Base Captain now believes, and the stills of the photorecord support his belief, that this was not the crew member who had been left in the control room. Before the Base Captain could speak to him he left the room, nor was any response given to the attention signal the Captain flashed throughout the ship. "At this point projectoscope RB-3 of the ship now out of focus control, dimly showed the landing party walking back toward the ship. RB-4 showed it more clearly. Then on both these instruments, a number of blinding explosives in rapid succession were seen and the electrophone relays registered terrific concussions; the ship's electronic apparatus and projectoscopes apparatus went dead. "Reports of the other ships' Base Observers and Executives, backed by the photorecords, show the explosions as taking place in the midst of the landing party as it returned, evidently unsuspicious, to the ship. Then in rapid succession they indicate that terrific explosions occurred inside and outside the three ships standing above close to their rep-ray generators, and all signals from these ships thereupon went dead. "Of the three ships scouting to the south, the LD-248 suffered an identical fate, at the same moment. Its records add little to the knowledge of the disaster. But with the LK-745 and the LG-25 it was different. "The relay instruments of the LK-745 indicated the destruction by an explosion of the rear rep-ray generator, and that the ship hung stern down for a short space, swinging like a pendulum. The forward viewplates and indicators did not cease functioning, but their records are chaotic, except for one projectoscope still, which shows the bowl of the valley, and the GK-981 falling, but no visible evidence of tribesmen. The control-room viewplate is also a chaotic record of the ship's crew tumbling and falling to the rear wall. Then the forward rep-ray generator exploded, and all signals went dead. "The fate of the LG-25 was somewhat similar, except that this ship hung nose down, and drifted on the wind southward as it slowly descended out of control. "As its control room was shattered, verbal report from its Action Captain was precluded. The record of the interior rear viewplate shows members of the crew climbing toward the rear rep-ray generator in an attempt to establish manual control of it, and increase the lift. The projectoscope relays, swinging in wide arcs, recorded little of value except at the ends of their swings. One of these, from a machine which happened to be set in telescopic focus, shows several views of great value in picturing the falls of the other ships, and all of the rear projectoscope records enable the reconstruction in detail of the pendulum and torsional movements of the ship, and its sag toward the earth. But none of the views showing the forest below contain any indication of tribesmen's presence. A final explosion put this ship out of commission at a height of 1,000 feet, and at a point four miles S. by E. of the center of the valley." The message ended with a repetition of the warning to other airmen to avoid the valley. CHAPTER VII Incredible Treason After receiving this report, and reassurances of support from the Big Bosses of the neighboring Gangs, Hart determined to reestablish the Wyoming Valley community. A careful survey of the territory showed that it was only the northern sections and slopes that had been "beamed" by the first Han ship. The synthetic-fabrics plant had been partially wiped out, though the lower levels underground had not been reached by the dis ray. The forest screen above it, however, had been annihilated, and it was determined to abandon it, after removing all usable machinery and evidences of the processes that might be of interest to the Han scientists, should they return to the valley in the future. The ammunition plant, and the rocket-ship plant, which had just been about to start operation at the time of the raid, were intact, as were the other important plants. Hart brought the Camboss up from the Susquanna Works, and laid out new camp locations, scattering them farther to the south, and avoiding ground which had been seared by the Han beams and the immediate locations of the Han wrecks. During this period, a sharp check was kept upon Han messages, for the phone plant had been one of the first to be put in operation, and when it became evident that the Hans did not intend any immediate reprisals, the entire membership of the community was summoned back, and normal life was resumed. Wilma and I had been married the day after the destruction of the ships, and spent this intervening period in a delightful honeymoon, camping high in the mountains. On our return, we had a camp of our own, of course. We were assigned to location 1017. And as might be expected, we had a great deal of banter over which one of us was Camp Boss. The title stood after my name on the Big Boss' records, and those of the Big Camboss, of course, but Wilma airily held that this meant nothing at all--and generally succeeded in making me admit it whenever she chose. I found myself a full-fledged member of the Gang now, for I had elected to search no farther for a permanent alliance, much as I would have liked to familiarize myself with this 25th Century life in other sections of the country. The Wyomings had a high morale, and had prospered under the rule of Big Boss Hart for many years. But many of the gangs, I found, were badly organized, lacked strong hands in authority, and were rife with intrigue. On the whole, I thought I would be wise to stay with a group which had already proved its friendliness, and in which I seemed to have prospects of advancement. Under these modern social and economic conditions, the kind of individual freedom to which I had been accustomed in the 20th Century was impossible. I would have been as much of a nonentity in every phase of human relationship by attempting to avoid alliances, as any man of the 20th Century would have been politically, who aligned himself with no political party. This entire modern life, it appeared to me, judging from my ancient viewpoint, was organized along what I called "political" lines. And in this connection, it amused me to notice how universal had become the use of the word "boss." The leader, the person in charge or authority over anything, was a "boss." There was as little formality in his relations with his followers as there was in the case of the 20th Century political boss, and the same high respect paid him by his followers as well as the same high consideration by him of their interests. He was just as much of an autocrat, and just as much dependent upon the general popularity of his actions for the ability to maintain his autocracy. The sub-boss who could not command the loyalty of his followers was as quickly deposed, either by them or by his superiors, as the ancient ward leader of the 20th Century who lost control of his votes. As society was organized in the 20th Century, I do not believe the system could have worked in anything but politics. I tremble to think what would have happened, had the attempt been made to handle the A. E. F. this way during the First World War, instead of by that rigid military discipline and complete assumption of the individual as a mere standardized cog in the machine. But owing to the centuries of desperate suffering the people had endured at the hands of the Hans, there developed a spirit of self-sacrifice and consideration for the common good that made the scheme applicable and efficient in all forms of human co-operation. I have a little heresy about all this, however. My associates regard the thought with as much horror as many worthy people of the 20th Century felt in regard to any heretical suggestion that the original outline of government as laid down in the First Constitution did not apply as well to 20th Century conditions as to those of the early 19th. In later years, I felt that there was a certain softening of moral fiber among the people, since the Hans had been finally destroyed with all their works; and Americans have developed a new luxury economy. I have seen signs of the reawakening of greed, of selfishness. The eternal cycle seems to be at work. I fear that slowly, though surely, private wealth is reappearing, codes of inflexibility are developing; they will be followed by corruption, degradation; and in the end some cataclysmic event will end this era and usher in a new one. All this, however, is wandering afar from my story, which concerns our early battles against the Hans, and not our more modern problems of self-control. Our victory over the seven Han ships had set the country ablaze. The secret had been carefully communicated to the other gangs, and the country was agog from one end to the other. There was feverish activity in the ammunition plants, and the hunting of stray Han ships became an enthusiastic sport. The results were disastrous to our hereditary enemies. From the Pacific Coast came the report of a great transpacific liner of 75,000 tons "lift" being brought to earth from a position of invisibility above the clouds. A dozen Sacramentos had caught the hazy outlines of its rep rays approaching them, head-on, in the twilight, like ghostly pillars reaching into the sky. They had fired rockets into it with ease, whereas they would have had difficulty in hitting it if it had been moving at right angles to their position. They got one rep ray. The other was not strong enough to hold it up. It floated to earth, nose down, and since it was unarmed and unarmored, they had no difficulty in shooting it to pieces and massacring its crew and passengers. It seemed barbarous to me. But then I did not have centuries of bitter persecution in my blood. From the Jersey Beaches we received news of the destruction of a Nu-yok-A-lan-a liner. The Sand-snipers, practically invisible in their sand-colored clothing, and half buried along the beaches, lay in wait for days, risking the play of dis beams along the route, and finally registering four hits within a week. The Hans discontinued their service along this route, and as evidence that they were badly shaken by our success, sent no raiders down the Beaches. It was a few weeks later that Big Boss Hart sent for me. "Tony," he said, "There are two things I want to talk to you about. One of them will become public property in a few days, I think. We aren't going to get any more Han ships by shooting up their repellor rays unless we use much larger rockets. They are wise to us now. They're putting armor of great thickness in the hulls of their ships below the rep-ray machines. Near Bah-flo this morning a party of Eries shot one without success. The explosions staggered her, but did not penetrate. As near as we can gather from their reports, their laboratories have developed a new alloy of great tensile strength and elasticity which nevertheless lets the rep rays through like a sieve. Our reports indicate that the Eries' rockets bounced off harmlessly. Most of the party was wiped out as the dis rays went into action on them. "This is going to mean real business for all of the gangs before long. The Big Bosses have just held a national ultrophone council. It was decided that America must organize on a national basis. The first move is to develop sectional organization by Zones. I have been made Superboss of the Mid-Atlantic Zone. "We're in for it now. The Hans are sure to launch reprisal expeditions. If we're to save the race we must keep them away from our camps and plants. I'm thinking of developing a permanent field force, along the lines of the regular armies of the 20th Century you told me about. Its business will be twofold: to carry the warfare as much as possible to the Hans, and to serve as a decoy, to keep their attention from our plants. I'm going to need your help in this. "The other thing I wanted to talk to you about is this: Amazing and impossible as it seems, there is a group, or perhaps an entire gang, somewhere among us, that is betraying us to the Hans. It may be the Bad Bloods, or it may be one of those gangs who live near one of the Han cities. You know, a hundred and fifteen or twenty years ago there were certain of these people's ancestors who actually degraded themselves by mating with the Hans, sometimes even serving them as slaves, in the days before they brought all their service machinery to perfection. "There is such a gang, called the Nagras, up near Bah-flo, and another in Mid-Jersey that men call the Pineys. But I hardly suspect the Pineys. There is little intelligence among them. They wouldn't have the information to give the Hans, nor would they be capable of imparting it. They're absolute savages." "Just what evidence is there that anybody has been clearing information to the Hans?" I asked. "Well," he replied, "first of all there was that raid upon us. That first Han ship knew the location of our plants exactly. You remember it floated directly into position above the valley and began a systematic beaming. Then, the Hans quite obviously have learned that we are picking up their electrophone waves, for they've gone back to their old, but extremely accurate, system of directional control. But we've been getting them for the past week by installing automatic re-broadcast units along the scar paths. This is what the Americans called those strips of country directly under the regular ship routes of the Hans, who as a matter of precaution frequently blasted them with their dis beams to prevent the growth of foliage which might give shelter to the Americans. But they've been beaming those paths so hard, it looks as though they even had information of this strategy. And in addition, they've been using code. Finally, we've picked up three of their messages in which they discuss, with some nervousness, the existence of our 'mysterious' ultrophone." "But they still have no knowledge of the nature and control of ultronic activity?" I asked. "No," said the Big Boss thoughtfully, "they don't seem to have a bit of information about it." "Then it's quite clear," I ventured, "that whoever is 'clearing' us to them is doing it piecemeal. It sounds like a bit of occasional barter, rather than an out-and-out alliance. They're holding back as much information as possible for future bartering, perhaps." "Yes," Hart said, "and it isn't information the Hans are giving in return, but some form of goods, or privilege. The trick would be to locate the goods. I guess I'll have to make a personal trip around among the Big Bosses." CHAPTER VIII The Han City This conversation set me thinking. All of the Han electrophone inter-communication had been an open record to the Americans for a good many years, and the Hans were just finding it out. For centuries they had not regarded us as any sort of a menace. Unquestionably it had never occurred to them to secrete their own records. Somewhere in Nu-yok or Bah-flo, or possibly in Lo-Tan itself, the record of this traitorous transaction would be more or less openly filed. If we could only get at it! I wondered if a raid might not be possible. Bill Hearn and I talked it over with our Han-affairs Boss and his experts. There ensued several days of research, in which the Han records of the entire decade were scanned and analyzed. In the end they picked out a mass of detail, and fitted it together into a very definite picture of the great central filing office of the Hans in Nu-yok, where the entire mass of official records was kept, constantly available for instant projectoscoping to any of the city's offices, and of the system by which the information was filed. The attempt began to look feasible, though Hart instantly turned the idea down when I first presented it to him. It was unthinkable, he said. Sheer suicide. But in the end I persuaded him. "I will need," I said, "Blash, who is thoroughly familiar with the Han library system; Bert Gaunt, who for years has specialized on their military offices; Bill Barker, the ray specialist, and the best swooper pilot we have." _Swoopers_ are one-man and two-man ships, developed by the Americans, with skeleton backbones of inertron (during the war painted green for invisibility against the green forests below) and "bellies" of clear ultron. "That will be Mort Gibbons," said Hart. "We've only got three swoopers left, Tony, but I'll risk one of them if you and the others will voluntarily risk your existences. But mind, I won't urge or order one of you to go. I'll spread the word to every Plant Boss at once to give you anything and everything you need in the way of equipment." When I told Wilma of the plan, I expected her to raise violent and tearful objections, but she didn't. She was made of far sterner stuff than the women of the 20th Century. Not that she couldn't weep as copiously or be just as whimsical on occasion; but she wouldn't weep for the same reasons. She just gave me an unfathomable look, in which there seemed to be a bit of pride, and asked eagerly for the details. I confess I was somewhat disappointed that she could so courageously risk my loss, even though I was amazed at her fortitude. But later I was to learn how little I knew her then. We were ready to slide off at dawn the next morning. I had kissed Wilma good-bye at our camp, and after a final conference over our plans, we boarded our craft and gently glided away over the tree tops on a course, which, after crossing three routes of the Han ships, would take us out over the Atlantic, off the Jersey coast, whence we would come up on Nu-yok from the ocean. Twice we had to nose down and lie motionless on the ground near a route while Han ships passed. Those were tense moments. Had the green back of our ship been observed, we would have been disintegrated in a second. But it wasn't. Once over the water, however, we climbed in a great spiral, ten miles in diameter, until our altimeter registered ten miles. Here Gibbons shut off his rocket motor, and we floated, far above the level of the Atlantic liners, whose course was well to the north of us anyhow, and waited for nightfall. Then Gibbons turned from his control long enough to grin at me. "I have a surprise for you, Tony," he said, throwing back the lid of what I had supposed was a big supply case. And with a sigh of relief, Wilma stepped out of the case. "If you 'go into zero' (a common expression of the day for being annihilated by the disintegrator ray), you don't think I'm going to let you go alone, do you, Tony? I couldn't believe my ears last night when you spoke of going without me, until I realized that you are still five hundred years behind the times in lots of ways. Don't you know, dear heart, that you offered me the greatest insult a husband could give a wife? You didn't, of course." The others, it seemed, had all been in on the secret, and now they would have kidded me unmercifully, except that Wilma's eyes blazed dangerously. At nightfall, we maneuvered to a position directly above the city. This took some time and calculation on the part of Bill Barker, who explained to me that he had to determine our point by ultronic bearings. The slightest resort to an electronic instrument, he feared, might be detected by our enemies' locators. In fact, we did not dare bring our swooper any lower than five miles for fear that its capacity might be reflected in their instruments. Finally, however, he succeeded in locating above the central tower of the city. "If my calculations are as much as ten feet off," he remarked with confidence, "I'll eat the tower. Now the rest is up to you, Mort. See what you can do to hold her steady. No--here, watch this indicator--the red beam, not the green one. See--if you keep it exactly centered on the needle, you're O.K. The width of the beam represents seventeen feet. The tower platform is fifty feet square, so we've got a good margin to work on." For several moments we watched as Gibbons bent over his levers, constantly adjusting them with deft touches of his fingers. After a bit of wavering, the beam remained centered on the needle. "Now," I said, "let's drop." I opened the trap and looked down, but quickly shut it again when I felt the air rushing out of the ship into the rarefied atmosphere in a torrent. Gibbons literally yelled a protest from his instrument board. "I forgot," I mumbled. "Silly of me. Of course, we'll have to drop out of compartment." The compartment, to which I referred, was similar to those in some of the 20th Century submarines. We all entered it. There was barely room for us to stand, shoulder to shoulder. With some struggles, we got into our special air helmets and adjusted the pressure. At our signal, Gibbons exhausted the air in the compartment, pumping it into the body of the ship, and as the little signal light flashed, Wilma threw open the hatch. Setting the ultron-wire reel, I climbed through, and began to slide down gently. We all had our belts on, of course, adjusted to a weight balance of but a few ounces. And the five-mile reel of ultron wire that was to be our guide, was of gossamer fineness, though, anyway, I believe it would have lifted the full weight of the five of us, so strong and tough was this invisible metal. As an extra precaution, since the wire was of the purest metal, and therefore totally invisible, even in daylight, we all had our belts hooked on small rings that slid down the wire. I went down with the end of the wire. Wilma followed a few feet above me, then Barker, Gaunt and Blash. Gibbons, of course, stayed behind to hold the ship in position and control the paying out of the line. We all had our ultrophones in place inside our air helmets, and so could converse with one another and with Gibbons. But at Wilma's suggestion, although we would have liked to let the Big Boss listen in, we kept them adjusted to short-range work, for fear that those who had been clearing with the Hans, and against whom we were on a raid for evidence, might also pick up our conversation. We had no fear that the Hans would hear us. In fact, we had the added advantage that, even after we landed, we could converse freely without danger of their hearing our voices through our air helmets. For a while I could see nothing below but utter darkness. Then I realized, from the feel of the air as much as from anything, that we were sinking through a cloud layer. We passed through two more cloud layers before anything was visible to us. Then there came under my gaze, about two miles below, one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen; the soft, yet brilliant, radiance of the great Han city of Nu-yok. Every foot of its structural members seemed to glow with a wonderful incandescence, tower piled up on tower, and all built on the vast base-mass of the city, which, so I had been told, sheered upward from the surface of the rivers to a height of 728 levels. The city, I noticed with some surprise, did not cover anything like the same area as the New York of the 20th Century. It occupied, as a matter of fact, only the lower half of Manhattan Island, with one section straddling the East River, and spreading out sufficiently over what once had been Brooklyn, to provide berths for the great liners and other air craft. Straight beneath my feet was a tiny dark patch. It seemed the only spot in the entire city that was not aflame with radiance. This was the central tower, in the top floors of which were housed the vast library of record files and the main projectoscope plant. "You can shoot the wire now," I ultrophoned Gibbons, and let go the little weighted knob. It dropped like a plummet, and we followed with considerable speed, but braking our descent with gloved hands sufficiently to see whether the knob, on which a faint light glowed as a signal for ourselves, might be observed by any Han guard or night prowler. Apparently it was not, and we again shot down with accelerated speed. We landed on the roof of the tower without any mishap, and fortunately for our plan, in darkness. Since there was nothing above it on which it would have been worth while to shed illumination, or from which there was any need to observe it, the Hans had neglected to light the tower roof, or indeed to occupy it at all. This was the reason we had selected it as our landing place. As soon as Gibbons had our word, he extinguished the knob light, and the knob, as well as the wire, became totally invisible. At our ultrophoned word, he would light it again. "No gun play now," I warned. "Swords only, and then only if absolutely necessary." Closely bunched, and treading as lightly as only inertron-belted people could, we made our way cautiously through a door and down an inclined plane to the floor below, where Gaunt and Blash assured us the military offices were located. Twice Barker cautioned us to stop as we were about to pass in front of mirror-like "windows" in the passage wall, and flattening ourselves to the floor, we crawled past them. "Projectoscopes," he said. "Probably on automatic record only, at this time of night. Still, we don't want to leave any records for them to study after we're gone." "Were you ever here before?" I asked. "No," he replied, "but I haven't been studying their electrophone communications for seven years without being able to recognize these machines when I run across them." CHAPTER IX The Fight in the Tower So far we had not laid eyes on a Han. The tower seemed deserted. Blash and Gaunt, however, assured me that there would be at least one man on "duty" in the military offices, though he would probably be asleep, and two or three in the library proper and the projectoscope plant. "We've got to put them out of commission," I said. "Did you bring the 'dope' cans, Wilma?" "Yes," she said, "two for each. Here," and she distributed them. We were now two levels below the roof, and at the point where we were to separate. I did not want to let Wilma out of my sight, but it was necessary. According to our plan, Barker was to make his way to the projectoscope plant, Blash and I to the library, and Wilma and Gaunt to the military office. Blash and I traversed a long corridor, and paused at the great arched doorway of the library. Cautiously we peered in. Seated at three great switchboards were library operatives. Occasionally one of them would reach lazily for a lever, or sleepily push a button, as little numbered lights winked on and off. They were answering calls for electrograph and viewplate records on all sorts of subjects from all sections of the city. I apprised my companions of the situation. "Better wait a bit," Blash added. "The calls will lessen shortly." Wilma reported an officer in the military office sound asleep. "Give him the can, then," I said. Barker was to do nothing more than keep watch in the projectoscope plant, and a few moments later he reported himself well concealed, with a splendid view of the floor. "I think we can take a chance now," Blash said to me, and at my nod, he opened the lid of his dope can. Of course, the fumes did not affect us, through our helmets. They were absolutely without odor or visibility, and in a few seconds the librarians were unconscious. We stepped into the room. There ensued considerable cautious observation and experiment on the part of Gaunt, working from the military office, and Blash in the library; while Wilma and I, with drawn swords and sharply attuned microphones, stood guard, and occasionally patrolled nearby corridors. "I hear something approaching," Wilma said after a bit, with excitement in her voice. "It's a soft, gliding sound." "That's an elevator somewhere," Barker cut in from the projectoscope floor. "Can you locate it? I can't hear it." "It's to the east of me," she replied. "And to my west," said I, faintly catching it. "It's between us, Wilma, and nearer you than me. Be careful. Have you got any information yet, Blash and Gaunt?" "Getting it now," one of them replied. "Give us two minutes more." "Keep at it then," I said. "We'll guard." The soft, gliding sound ceased. "I think it's very close to me," Wilma almost whispered. "Come closer, Tony. I have a feeling something is going to happen. I've never known my nerves to get taut like this without reason." In some alarm, I launched myself down the corridor in a great leap toward the intersection whence I knew I could see her. In the middle of my leap my ultrophone registered her gasp of alarm. The next instant I glided to a stop at the intersection to see Wilma backing toward the door of the military office, her sword red with blood, and an inert form on the corridor floor. Two other Hans were circling to either side of her with wicked-looking knives, while a third evidently a high officer, judging by the resplendence of his garb tugged desperately to get an electrophone instrument out of a bulky pocket. If he ever gave the alarm, there was no telling what might happen to us. I was at least seventy feet away, but I crouched low and sprang with every bit of strength in my legs. It would be more correct to say that I dived, for I reached the fellow head on, with no attempt to draw my legs beneath me. Some instinct must have warned him, for he turned suddenly as I hurtled close to him. But by this time I had sunk close to the floor, and had stiffened myself rigidly, lest a dragging knee or foot might just prevent my reaching him. I brought my blade upward and over. It was a vicious slash that laid him open, bisecting him from groin to chin, and his dead body toppled down on me, as I slid to a tangled stop. The other two startled, turned. Wilma leaped at one and struck him down with a side slash. I looked up at this instant, and the dazed fear on his face at the length of her leap registered vividly. The Hans knew nothing of our inertron belts, it seemed, and these leaps and dives of ours filled them with terror. As I rose to my feet, a gory mess, Wilma, with a poise and speed which I found time to admire even in this crisis, again leaped. This time she dove head first as I had done and, with a beautifully executed thrust, ran the last Han through the throat. Uncertainly, she scrambled to her feet, staggered queerly, and then sank gently prone on the corridor. She had fainted. At this juncture, Blash and Gaunt reported with elation that they had the record we wanted. "Back to the roof, everybody!" I ordered, as I picked Wilma up in my arms. With her inertron belt, she felt as light as a feather. Gaunt joined me at once from the military office, and at the intersection of the corridor, we came upon Blash waiting for us. Barker, however, was not in evidence. "Where are you, Barker?" I called. "Go ahead," he replied. "I'll be with you on the roof at once." We came out in the open without any further mishap, and I instructed Gibbons in the ship to light the knob on the end of the ultron wire. It flashed dully a few feet away from us. Just how he had maneuvered the ship to keep our end of the line in position, without its swinging in a tremendous arc, I have never been able to understand. Had not the night been an unusually still one, he could not have checked the initial pendulum-like movements. As it was, there was considerable air current at certain of the levels, and in different directions too. But Gibbons was an expert of rare ability and sensitivity in the handling of a rocket ship, and he managed, with the aid of his delicate instruments, to sense the drifts almost before they affected the fine ultron wire, and to neutralize them with little shifts in the position of the ship. Blash and Gaunt fastened their rings to the wire, and I hooked my own and Wilma's on, too. But on looking around, I found Barker was still missing. "Barker, come!" I called. "We're waiting." "Coming!" he replied, and indeed, at that instant, his figure appeared up the ramp. He chuckled as he fastened his ring to the wire, and said something about a little surprise he had left for the Hans. "Don't reel in the wire more than a few hundred feet," I instructed Gibbons. "It will take too long to wind it in. We'll float up, and when we're aboard, we can drop it." In order to float up, we had to dispense with a pound or two of weight apiece. We hurled our swords from us, and kicked off our shoes as Gibbons reeled up the line a bit, and then letting go of the wire, began to hum upward on our rings with increasing velocity. The rush of air brought Wilma to, and I hastily explained to her that we had been successful. Receding far below us now, I could see our dully shining knob swinging to and fro in an ever widening arc, as it crossed and recrossed the black square of the tower roof. As an extra precaution, I ordered Gibbons to shut off the light, and to show one from the belly of the ship, for so great was our speed now, that I began to fear we would have difficulty in checking ourselves. We were literally falling upward, and with terrific acceleration. Fortunately, we had several minutes in which to solve this difficulty, which none of us, strangely enough, had foreseen. It was Gibbons who found the answer. "You'll be all right if all of you grab the wire tight when I give the word," he said. "First I'll start reeling it in at full speed. You won't get much of a jar, and then I'll decrease its speed again gradually, and its weight will hold you back. Are you ready? One--two--three!" We all grabbed tightly with our gloved hands as he gave the word. We must have been rising a good bit faster than he figured, however, for it wrenched our arms considerably, and the maneuver set up a sickening pendulum motion. For a while all we could do was swing there in an arc that may have been a quarter of a mile across, about three and a half miles above the city, and still more than a mile from our ship. Gibbons skilfully took up the slack as our momentum pulled up the line. Then at last we had ourselves under control again, and continued our upward journey, checking our speed somewhat with our gloves. There was not one of us who did not breathe a big sigh of relief when we scrambled through the hatch safely into the ship again, cast off the ultron line and slammed the trap shut. Little realizing that we had a still more terrible experience to go through, we discussed the information Blash and Gaunt had between them extracted from the Han records, and the advisability of ultrophoning Hart at once. CHAPTER X The Walls of Hell The traitors were, it seemed, a degenerate gang of Americans, located a few miles north of Nu-yok on the wooded banks of the Hudson, the Sinsings. They had exchanged scraps of information to the Hans in return for several old repellor-ray machines, and the privilege of tuning in on the Han electronic power broadcast for their operation, provided their ships agreed to subject themselves to the orders of the Han traffic office, while aloft. The rest wanted to ultrophone their news at once, since there was always danger that we might never get back to the gang with it. I objected, however. The Sinsings would be likely to pick up our message. Even if we used the directional projector, they might have scouts out to the west and south in the big inter-gang stretches of country. They would flee to Nu-yok and escape the punishment they merited. It seemed to be vitally important that they should not, for the sake of example to other weak groups among the American gangs, as well as to prevent a crisis in which they might clear more vital information to the enemy. "Out to sea again," I ordered Gibbons. "They'll be less likely to look for us in that direction." "Easy, Boss, easy," he replied. "Wait until we get up a mile or two more. They must have discovered evidences of our raid by now, and their dis-ray wall may go in operation any moment." Even as he spoke, the ship lurched downward and to one side. "There it is!" he shouted. "Hang on, everybody. We're going to nose straight up!" And he flipped the rocket-motor control wide open. Looking through one of the rear ports, I could see a nebulous, luminous ring, and on all sides the atmosphere took on a faint iridescence. We were almost over the destructive range of the disintegrator-ray wall, a hollow cylinder of annihilation shooting upward from a solid ring of generators surrounding the city. It was the main defense system of the Hans, which had never been used except in periodic tests. They may or may not have suspected that an American rocket ship was within the cylinder; probably they had turned on their generators more as a precaution to prevent any reaching a position above the city. But even at our present great height, we were in great danger. It was a question how much we might have been harmed by the rays themselves, for their effective range was not much more than seven or eight miles. The greater danger lay in the terrific downward rush of air within the cylinder to replace that which was being burned into nothingness by the continual play of the disintegrators. The air fell into the cylinder with the force of a gale. It would be rushing toward the wall from the outside with terrific force also, but, naturally, the effect was intensified on the interior. Our ship vibrated and trembled. We had only one chance of escape--to fight our way well above the current. To drift down with it meant ultimately, and inevitably, to be sucked into the destruction wall at some lower level. But very gradually and jerkily our upward movement, as shown on the indicators, began to increase, and after an hour of desperate struggle we were free of the maelstrom and into the rarefied upper levels. The terror beneath us was now invisible through several layers of cloud formations. Gibbons brought the ship back to an even keel, and drove her eastward into one of the most brilliantly gorgeous sunrises I have ever seen. We described a great circle to the south and west, in a long easy dive, for he had cut out his rocket motors to save them as much as possible. We had drawn terrifically on their fuel reserves in our battle with the elements. For the moment, the atmosphere below cleared, and we could see the Jersey coast far beneath, like a great map. "We're not through yet," remarked Gibbons suddenly, pointing at his periscope, and adjusting it to telescopic focus. "A Han ship, and a 'drop ship' at that--and he's seen us. If he whips that beam of his on us, we're done." I gazed, fascinated, at the viewplate. What I saw was a cigar-shaped ship not dissimilar to our own in design, and from the proportional size of its ports, of about the same size as our swoopers. We learned later that they carried crews, for the most part of not more than three or four men. They had streamline hulls and tails that embodied universal-jointed double fish-tail rudders. In operation they rose to great heights on their powerful repellor rays, then gathered speed either by a straight nose dive, or an inclined dive in which they sometimes used the repellor ray slanted at a sharp angle. He was already above us, though several miles to the north. He could, of course, try to get on our tail and "spear" us with his beam as he dropped at us from a great height. Suddenly his beam blazed forth in a blinding flash, whipping downward slowly to our right. He went through a peculiar corkscrew-like evolution, evidently maneuvering to bring his beam to bear on us with a spiral motion. Gibbons instantly sent our ship into a series of evolutions that must have looked like those of a frightened hen. Alternately, he used the forward and the reverse rocket blasts, and in varying degree. We fluttered, we shot suddenly to right and left, and dropped like a plummet in uncertain movements. But all the time the Han scout dropped toward us, determinedly whipping the air around us with his beam. Once it sliced across beneath us, not more than a hundred feet, and we dropped with a jar into the pocket formed by the destruction of the air. He had dropped to within a mile of us, and was coming with the speed of a projectile, when the end came. Gibbons always swore it was sheer luck. Maybe it was, but I like pilots who are lucky that way. In the midst of a dizzy, fluttering maneuver of our own, with the Han ship enlarging to our gaze with terrifying rapidity, and its beam slowly slicing toward us in what looked like certain destruction within the second, I saw Gibbons' fingers flick at the lever of his rocket gun and a split second later the Han ship flew apart like a clay pigeon. We staggered, and fluttered crazily for several moments while Gibbons struggled to bring our ship into balance, and a section of about four square feet in the side of the ship near the stern slowly crumbled like rusted metal. His beam actually had touched us, but our explosive rocket had got him a thousandth of a second sooner. Part of our rudder had been annihilated, and our motor damaged. But we were able to swoop gently back across Jersey, fortunately crossing the ship lanes without sighting any more Han craft, and finally settling to rest in the little glade beneath the trees, near Hart's camp. CHAPTER XI The New Boss We had ultrophoned our arrival and the Big Boss himself, surrounded by the Council, was on hand to welcome us and learn our news. In turn we were informed that during the night a band of raiding Bad Bloods, disguised under the insignia of the Altoonas, a gang some distance to the west of us, had destroyed several of our camps before our people had rallied and driven them off. Their purpose, evidently, had been to embroil us with the Altoonas, but fortunately, one of our exchanges recognized the Bad Blood leader, who had been slain. The Big Boss had mobilized the full raiding force of the Gang, and was on the point of heading an expedition for the extermination of the Bad Bloods. I looked around the grim circle of the sub-bosses, and realized the fate of America, at this moment, lay in their hands. Their temper demanded the immediate expenditure of our full effort in revenging ourselves for this raid. But the strategic exigencies, to my mind, quite clearly demanded the instant and absolute extermination of the Sinsings. It might be only a matter of hours, for all we knew, before these degraded people would barter clues to the American ultronic secrets to the Hans. "How large a force have we?" I asked Hart. "Every man and maid who can be spared," he replied. "That gives us seven hundred married and unmarried men, and three hundred girls, more than the entire Bad Blood Gang. Every one is equipped with belts, ultrophones, rocket guns and swords, and all fighting mad." I meditated how I might put the matter to these determined men, and was vaguely conscious that they were awaiting my words. Finally I began to speak. I do not remember to this day just what I said. I talked calmly, with due regard for their passion, but with deep conviction. I went over the information we had collected, point by point, building my case logically, and painting a lurid picture of the danger impending in that half-alliance between the Sinsings and the Hans of Nu-yok. I became impassioned, culminating, I believe, with a vow to proceed single-handed against the hereditary enemies of our race, "if the Wyomings were blindly set on placing a gang feud ahead of honor and duty and the hopes of all America." As I concluded, a great calm came over me, as of one detached. I had felt much the same way during several crises in the First World War. I gazed from face to face, striving to read their expressions, and in a mood to make good my threat without any further heroics, if the decision was against me. But it was Hart who sensed the temper of the Council more quickly than I did, and looked beyond it into the future. He arose from the tree trunk on which he had been sitting. "That settles it," he said, looking around the ring. "I have felt this thing coming on for some time now. I'm sure the Council agrees with me that there is among us a man more capable than I, to boss the Wyoming Gang, despite his handicap of having had all too short a time in which to familiarize himself with our modern ways and facilities. Whatever I can do to support his effective leadership, at any cost, I pledge myself to do." As he concluded, he advanced to where I stood, and taking from his head the green-crested helmet that constituted his badge of office, to my surprise he placed it in my mechanically extended hand. The roar of approval that went up from the Council members left me dazed. Somebody ultrophoned the news to the rest of the Gang, and even though the earflaps of my helmet were turned up, I could hear the cheers with which my invisible followers greeted me, from near and distant hillsides, camps and plants. My first move was to make sure that the Phone Boss, in communicating this news to the members of the Gang, had not re-broadcast my talk nor mentioned my plan of shifting the attack from the Bad Bloods to the Sinsings. I was relieved by his assurance that he had not, for it would have wrecked the whole plan. Everything depended upon our ability to surprise the Sinsings. So I pledged the Council and my companions to secrecy, and allowed it to be believed that we were about to take to the air and the trees against the Bad Bloods. That outfit must have been badly scared, the way they were "burning" the ether with ultrophone alibis and propaganda for the benefit of the more distant gangs. It was their old game, and the only method by which they had avoided extermination long ago from their immediate neighbors--these appeals to the spirit of American brotherhood, addressed to gangs too far away to have had the sort of experience with them that had fallen to our lot. I chuckled. Here was another good reason for the shift in my plans. Were we actually to undertake the exterminations of the Bad Bloods at once, it would have been a hard job to convince some of the gangs that we had not been precipitate and unjustified. Jealousies and prejudices existed. There were gangs which would give the benefit of the doubt to the Bad Bloods, rather than to ourselves, and the issue was now hopelessly beclouded with the clever lies that were being broadcast in an unceasing stream. But the extermination of the Sinsings would be another thing. In the first place, there would be no warning of our action until it was all over, I hoped. In the second place, we would have indisputable proof, in the form of their rep-ray ships and other paraphernalia, of their traffic with the Hans; and the state of American prejudice, at the time of which I write held trafficking with the Hans a far more heinous thing than even a vicious gang feud. I called an executive session of the Council at once. I wanted to inventory our military resources. I created a new office on the spot, that of "Control Boss," and appointed Ned Garlin to the post, turning over his former responsibility as Plants Boss to his assistant. I needed someone, I felt, to tie in the records of the various functional activities of the campaign, and take over from me the task of keeping the records of them up to the minute. I received reports from the bosses of the ultrophone unit, and those of food, transportation, fighting gear, chemistry, electronic activity and electrophone intelligence, ultroscopes, air patrol and contact guard. My ideas for the campaign, of course, were somewhat tinged with my 20th Century experience, and I found myself faced with the task of working out a staff organization that was a composite of the best and most easily applied principles of business and military efficiency, as I knew them from the viewpoint of immediate practicality. What I wanted was an organization that would be specialized, functionally, not as that indicated above, but from the angles of: intelligence as to the Sinsings' activities; intelligence as to Han activities; perfection of communication with my own units; co-operation of field command; and perfect mobilization of emergency supplies and resources. It took several hours of hard work with the Council to map out the plan. First we assigned functional experts and equipment to each "Division" in accordance with its needs. Then these in turn were reassigned by the new Division Bosses to the Field Commands as needed, or as Independent or Headquarters Units. The two intelligence divisions were named the White and the Yellow, indicating that one specialized on the American enemy and the other on the Mongolians. The division in charge of our own communications, the assignment of ultrophone frequencies and strengths, and the maintenance of operators and equipment, I called "Communications." I named Bill Hearn to the post of Field Boss, in charge of the main or undetached fighting units, and to the Resources Division, I assigned all responsibility for what few aircraft we had; and all transportation and supply problems, I assigned to "Resources." The functional bosses stayed with this division. We finally completed our organization with the assignment of liaison representatives among the various divisions as needed. Thus I had a "Headquarters Staff" composed of the Division Bosses who reported directly to Ned Garlin as Control Boss, or to Wilma as my personal assistant. And each of the Division Bosses had a small staff of his own. In the final summing up of our personnel and resources, I found we had roughly a thousand "troops," of whom some three hundred and fifty were, in what I called the Service Divisions, the rest being in Bill Hearn's Field Division. This latter number, however, was cut down somewhat by the assignment of numerous small units to detached service. Altogether, the actual available fighting force, I figured, would number about five hundred, by the time we actually went into action. We had only six small swoopers, but I had an ingenious plan in my mind, as the result of our little raid on Nu-yok, that would make this sufficient, since the reserves of inertron blocks were larger than I expected to find them. The Resources Division, by packing its supply cases a bit tight, or by slipping in extra blocks of inertron, was able to reduce each to a weight of a few ounces. These easily could be floated and towed by the swoopers in any quantity. Hitched to ultron lines, it would be a virtual impossibility for them to break loose. The entire personnel, of course, was supplied with jumpers, and if each man and girl was careful to adjust balances properly, the entire number could also be towed along through the air, grasping wires of ultron, swinging below the swoopers, or stringing out behind them. There would be nothing tiring about this, because the strain would be no greater than that of carrying a one or two pound weight in the hand, except for air friction at high speeds. But to make doubly sure that we should lose none of our personnel, I gave strict orders that the belts and tow lines should be equipped with rings and hooks. So great was the efficiency of the fundamental organization and discipline of the Gang, that we got under way at nightfall. One by one the swoopers eased into the air, each followed by its long train or "kite-tail" of humanity and supply cases hanging lightly from its tow line. For convenience, the tow lines were made of an alloy of ultron which, unlike the metal itself, is visible. At first these "tails" hung downward, but as the ships swung into formation and headed eastward toward the Bad Blood territory, gathering speed, they began to string out behind. And swinging low from each ship on heavily weighted lines, ultroscope, ultrophone, and straight-vision observers keenly scanned the countryside, while intelligence men in the swoopers above bent over their instrument boards and viewplates. Leaving Control Boss Ned Garlin temporarily in charge of affairs, Wilma and I dropped a weighted line from our ship, and slid down about half way to the under lookouts, that is to say, about a thousand feet. The sensation of floating swiftly through the air like this, in the absolute security of one's confidence in the inertron belt, was one of never-ending delight to me. We reascended into the swooper as the expedition approached the territory of the Bad Bloods, and directed the preparations for the bombardment. It was part of my plan to appear to carry out the attack as originally planned. About fifteen miles from their camps our ships came to a halt and maintained their positions for a while with the idling blasts of their rocket motors, to give the ultroscope operators a chance to make a thorough examination of the territory below us, for it was very important that this next step in our program should be carried out with all secrecy. At length they reported the ground below us entirely clear of any appearance of human occupation, and a gun unit of long-range specialists was lowered with a dozen rocket guns, equipped with special automatic devices that the Resources Division had developed at my request, a few hours before our departure. These were aiming and timing devices. After calculating the range, elevation and rocket charges carefully, the guns were left, concealed in a ravine, and the men were hauled up into the ship again. At the predetermined hour, those unmanned rocket guns would begin automatically to bombard the Bad Bloods' hillsides, shifting their aim and elevation slightly with each shot, as did many of our artillery pieces in the First World War. In the meantime, we turned south about twenty miles, and grounded, waiting for the bombardment to begin before we attempted to sneak across the Han ship lane. I was relying for security on the distraction that the bombardment might furnish the Han observers. It was tense work waiting, but the affair went through as planned, our squadron drifting across the route high enough to enable the ships' tails of troops and supply cases to clear the ground. In crossing the second ship route, out along the Beaches of Jersey, we were not so successful in escaping observation. A Han ship came speeding along at a very low elevation. We caught it on our electronic location and direction finders, and also located it with our ultroscopes, but it came so fast and so low that I thought it best to remain where we had grounded the second time, and lie quiet, rather than get under way and cross in front of it. The point was this. While the Hans had no such devices as our ultroscopes, with which we could see in the dark (within certain limitations of course), and their electronic instruments would be virtually useless in uncovering our presence, since all but natural electronic activities were carefully eliminated from our apparatus, except electrophone receivers (which are not easily spotted), the Hans did have some very highly sensitive sound devices which operated with great efficiency in calm weather, so far as sounds emanating from the air were concerned. But the "ground roar" greatly confused their use of these instruments in the location of specific sounds floating up from the surface of the earth. This ship must have caught some slight noise of ours, however, in its sensitive instruments, for we heard its electronic devices go into play, and picked up the routine report of the noise to its Base Ship Commander. But from the nature of the conversation, I judged they had not identified it, and were, in fact, more curious about the detonations they were picking up now from the Bad Blood lands some sixty miles or so to the west. Immediately after this ship had shot by, we took the air again, and following much the same route that I had taken the previous night, climbed in a long semi-circle out over the ocean, swung toward the north and finally the west. We set our course, however, for the Sinsings' land north of Nu-yok, instead of for the city itself. CHAPTER XII The Finger of Doom As we crossed the Hudson River, a few miles north of the city, we dropped several units of the Yellow Intelligence Division, with full instrumental equipment. Their apparatus cases were nicely balanced at only a few ounces weight each, and the men used their chute capes to ease their drops. We recrossed the river a little distance above and began dropping White Intelligence units and a few long and short range gun units. Then we held our position until we began to get reports. Gradually we ringed the territory of the Sinsings, our observation units working busily and patiently at their locators and scopes, both aloft and aground, until Garlin finally turned to me with the remark: "The map circle is complete now, Boss. We've got clear locations all the way around them." "Let me see it," I replied, and studied the illuminated viewplate map, with its little overlapping circles of light that indicated spots proved clear of the enemy by ultroscopic observation. I nodded to Bill Hearn. "Go ahead now, Hearn," I said, "and place your barrage men." He spoke into his ultrophone, and three of the ships began to glide in a wide ring around the enemy territory. Every few seconds, at the word from his Unit Boss, a gunner would drop off the wire, and slipping the clasp of his chute cape, drift down into the darkness below. Bill formed two lines, parallel to and facing the river, and enclosing the entire territory of the enemy between them. Above and below, straddling the river, were two defensive lines. These latter were merely to hold their positions. The others were to close in toward each other, pushing a high-explosive barrage five miles ahead of them. When the two barrages met, both lines were to switch to short-vision-range barrage and continue to close in on any of the enemy who might have drifted through the previous curtain of fire. In the meantime Bill kept his reserves, a picked corps of a hundred men (the same that had accompanied Hart and myself in our fight with the Han squadron) in the air, divided about equally among the "kite-tails" of four ships. A final roll call, by units, companies, divisions and functions, established the fact that all our forces were in position. No Han activity was reported, and no Han broadcasts indicated any suspicion of our expedition. Nor was there any indication that the Sinsings had any knowledge of the fate in store for them. The idling of rep-ray generators was reported from the center of their camp, obviously those of the ships the Hans had given them--the price of their treason to their race. Again I gave the word, and Hearn passed on the order to his subordinates. Far below us, and several miles to the right and left, the two barrage lines made their appearance. From the great height to which we had risen, they appeared like lines of brilliant, winking lights, and the detonations were muffled by the distances into a sort of rumbling, distant thunder. Hearn and his assistants were very busy: measuring, calculating, and snapping out ultrophone orders to unit commanders that resulted in the straightening of lines and the closing of gaps in the barrage. The White Division Boss reported the utmost confusion in the Sinsing organization. They were, as might be expected, an inefficient, loosely disciplined gang, and repeated broadcasts for help to neighboring gangs. Ignoring the fact that the Mongolians had not used explosives for many generations, they nevertheless jumped at the conclusion that they were being raided by the Hans. Their frantic broadcasts persisted in this thought, despite the nervous electrophonic inquiries of the Hans themselves, to whom the sound of the battle was evidently audible, and who were trying to locate the trouble. At this point, the swooper I had sent south toward the city went into action as a diversion, to keep the Hans at home. Its "kite-tail" loaded with long-range gunners, using the most highly explosive rockets we had, hung invisible in the darkness of the sky and bombarded the city from a distance of about five miles. With an entire city to shoot at, and the object of creating as much commotion therein as possible, regardless of actual damage, the gunners had no difficulty in hitting the mark. I could see the glow of the city and the stabbing flashes of exploding rockets. In the end, the Hans, uncertain as to what was going on, fell back on a defensive policy, and shot their "hell cylinder," or wall of upturned disintegrator rays into operation. That, of course, ended our bombardment of them. The rays were a perfect defense, disintegrating our rockets as they were reached. If they had not sent out ships before turning on the rays, and if they had none within sufficient radius already in the air, all would be well. I queried Garlin on this, but he assured me Yellow Intelligence reported no indications of Han ships nearer than 800 miles. This would probably give us a free hand for a while, since most of their instruments recorded only imperfectly or not at all, through the death wall. Requisitioning one of the viewplates of the headquarters ship, and the services of an expert operator, I instructed him to focus on our lines below. I wanted a close-up of the men in action. He began to manipulate his controls and chaotic shadows moved rapidly across the plate, fading in and out of focus, until he reached an adjustment that gave me a picture of the forest floor, apparently 100 feet wide, with the intervening branches and foliage of the trees appearing like shadows that melted into reality a few feet above the ground. I watched one man setting up his long-gun with skillful speed. His lips pursed slightly as though he were whistling, as he adjusted the tall tripod on which the long tube was balanced. Swiftly he twirled the knobs controlling the aim and elevation of his piece. Then, lifting a belt of ammunition from the big box, which itself looked heavy enough to break down the spindly tripod, he inserted the end of it in the lock of his tube and touched the proper combination of buttons. Then he stepped aside, and occupied himself with peering carefully through the trees ahead. Not even a tremor shook the tube, but I knew that at intervals of something less than a second, it was discharging small projectiles which, traveling under their own continuously reduced power, were arching into the air, to fall precisely five miles ahead and explode with the force of eight-inch shells, such as we used in the First World War. Another gunner, fifty feet to the right of him, waved a hand and called out something to him. Then, picking up his own tube and tripod, he gauged the distance between the trees ahead of him, and the height of their lowest branches, and bending forward a bit, flexed his muscles and leaped lightly, some twenty-five feet. Another leap took him another twenty feet or so, where he began to set up his piece. I ordered my observer then to switch to the barrage itself. He got a close focus on it, but this showed little except a continuous series of blinding flashes, which, from the viewplate, lit up the entire interior of the ship. An eight-hundred-foot focus proved better. I had thought that some of our French and American artillery of the 20th Century had achieved the ultimate in mathematical precision of fire, but I had never seen anything to equal the accuracy of that line of terrific explosions as it moved steadily forward, mowing down trees as a scythe cuts grass (or used to 500 years ago), literally churning up the earth and the splintered, blasted remains of the forest giants, to a depth of from ten to twenty feet. By now the two curtains of fire were nearing each other, lines of vibrant, shimmering, continuous, brilliant destruction, inevitably squeezing the panic-stricken Sinsings between them. Even as I watched, a group of them, who had been making a futile effort to get their three rep-ray machines into the air, abandoned their efforts, and rushed forth into the milling mob. I queried the Control Boss sharply on the futility of this attempt of theirs, and learned that the Hans, apparently in doubt as to what was going on, had continued to "play safe," and broken off their power broadcast, after ordering all their own ships east of the Alleghenies to the ground, for fear these ships they had traded to the Sinsings might be used against them. Again I turned to my viewplate, which was still focussed on the central section of the Sinsing works. The confusion of the traitors was entirely that of fear, for our barrage had not yet reached them. Some of them set up their long-guns and fired at random over the barrage line, then gave it up. They realized that they had no target to shoot at, no way of knowing whether our gunners were a few hundred feet or several miles beyond it. Their ultrophone men, of whom they did not have many, stood around in tense attitudes, their helmet phones strapped around their ears, nervously fingering the tuning controls at their belts. Unquestionably they must have located some of our frequencies, and overheard many of our reports and orders. But they were confused and disorganized. If they had an Ultrophone Boss they evidently were not reporting to him in an organized way. They were beginning to draw back now before our advancing fire. With intermittent desperation, they began to shoot over our barrage again, and the explosions of their rockets flashed at widely scattered points beyond. A few took distance "pot shots." Oddly enough it was our own forces that suffered the first casualties in the battle. Some of these distance shots by chance registered hits, while our men were under strict orders not to exceed their barrage distances. Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance. The two barrage lines were not more than five hundred feet apart when the Sinsings resorted to tactics we had not foreseen. We noticed first that they began to lighten themselves by throwing away extra equipment. A few of them in their excitement threw away too much, and shot suddenly into the air. Then a scattering few floated up gently, followed by increasing numbers, while still others, preserving a weight balance, jumped toward the closing barrages and leaped high, hoping to clear them. Some succeeded. We saw others blown about like leaves in a windstorm, to crumple and drift slowly down, or else to fall into the barrage, their belts blown from their bodies. However, it was not part of our plan to allow a single one of them to escape and find his way to the Hans. I quickly passed the word to Bill Hearn to have the alternate men in his line raise their barrages and heard him bark out a mathematical formula to the Unit Bosses. We backed off our ships as the explosions climbed into the air in stagger formation until they reached a height of three miles. I don't believe any of the Sinsings who tried to float away to freedom succeeded. But we did know later, that a few who leaped the barrage got away and ultimately reached Nu-yok. It was those who managed to jump the barrage who gave us the most trouble. With half of our long-guns turned aloft, I foresaw we would not have enough to establish successive ground barrages and so ordered the barrage back two miles, from which positions our "curtains" began to close in again, this time, however, gauged to explode, not on contact, but thirty feet in the air. This left little chance for the Sinsings to leap either over or under it. Gradually, the two barrages approached each other until they finally met, and in the grey dawn the battle ended. Our own casualties amounted to forty-seven men in the ground forces, eighteen of whom had been slain in hand to hand fighting with the few of the enemy who managed to reach our lines, and sixty-two in the crew and "kite-tail" force of swooper No. 4, which had been located by one of the enemy's ultroscopes and brought down with long-gun fire. Since nearly every member of the Sinsing Gang had, so far as we knew, been killed, we considered the raid a great success. It had, however, a far greater significance than this. To all of us who took part in the expedition, the effectiveness of our barrage tactics definitely established a confidence in our ability to overcome the Hans. As I pointed out to Wilma: "It has been my belief all along, dear, that the American explosive rocket is a far more efficient weapon than the disintegrator ray of the Hans, once we can train all our gangs to use it systematically and in co-ordinated fashion. As a weapon in the hands of a single individual, shooting at a mark in direct line of vision, the rocket-gun is inferior in destructive power to the dis ray, except as its range may be a little greater. The trouble is that to date it has been used only as we used our rifles and shot guns in the 20th Century. The possibilities of its use as artillery, in laying barrages that advance along the ground, or climb into the air, are tremendous. "The dis ray inevitably reveals its source of emanation. The rocket gun does not. The dis ray can reach its target only in a straight line. The rocket may be made to travel in an arc, over intervening obstacles, to an unseen target. "Nor must we forget that our ultronists now are promising us a perfect shield against the dis ray in inertron." "I tremble though, Tony dear, when I think of the horrors that are ahead of us. The Hans are clever. They will develop defenses against our new tactics. And they are sure to mass against us not only the full force of their power in America, but the united forces of the World Empire. They are a cowardly race in one sense, but clever as the very Devils in Hell, and inheritors of a calm, ruthless, vicious persistency." "Nevertheless," I prophesied, "the Finger of Doom points squarely at them today, and unless you and I are killed in the struggle, we shall live to see America blast the Yellow Blight from the face of the Earth." THE END. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ August 1928. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of Project Gutenberg's Armageddon--2419 A.D., by Philip Francis Nowlan Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Which descriptions of the future world does Soames provide upon his return?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "ones that are vague" ]	11,201	narrativeqa	en	null	b097807317fd6df3e69b46d4332b558f2d6c7f1f893770a6	Produced by Judith Boss. Enoch Soames A Memory of the Eighteen-nineties By MAX BEERBOHM When a book about the literature of the eighteen-nineties was given by Mr. Holbrook Jackson to the world, I looked eagerly in the index for Soames, Enoch. It was as I feared: he was not there. But everybody else was. Many writers whom I had quite forgotten, or remembered but faintly, lived again for me, they and their work, in Mr. Holbrook Jackson's pages. The book was as thorough as it was brilliantly written. And thus the omission found by me was an all the deadlier record of poor Soames's failure to impress himself on his decade. I dare say I am the only person who noticed the omission. Soames had failed so piteously as all that! Nor is there a counterpoise in the thought that if he had had some measure of success he might have passed, like those others, out of my mind, to return only at the historian's beck. It is true that had his gifts, such as they were, been acknowledged in his lifetime, he would never have made the bargain I saw him make--that strange bargain whose results have kept him always in the foreground of my memory. But it is from those very results that the full piteousness of him glares out. Not my compassion, however, impels me to write of him. For his sake, poor fellow, I should be inclined to keep my pen out of the ink. It is ill to deride the dead. And how can I write about Enoch Soames without making him ridiculous? Or, rather, how am I to hush up the horrid fact that he WAS ridiculous? I shall not be able to do that. Yet, sooner or later, write about him I must. You will see in due course that I have no option. And I may as well get the thing done now. In the summer term of '93 a bolt from the blue flashed down on Oxford. It drove deep; it hurtlingly embedded itself in the soil. Dons and undergraduates stood around, rather pale, discussing nothing but it. Whence came it, this meteorite? From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. Its aim? To do a series of twenty-four portraits in lithograph. These were to be published from the Bodley Head, London. The matter was urgent. Already the warden of A, and the master of B, and the Regius Professor of C had meekly "sat." Dignified and doddering old men who had never consented to sit to any one could not withstand this dynamic little stranger. He did not sue; he invited: he did not invite; he commanded. He was twenty-one years old. He wore spectacles that flashed more than any other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of ideas. He knew Whistler. He knew Daudet and the Goncourts. He knew every one in Paris. He knew them all by heart. He was Paris in Oxford. It was whispered that, so soon as he had polished off his selection of dons, he was going to include a few undergraduates. It was a proud day for me when I--I was included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; and there arose between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, and been more and more valued by me, with every passing year. At the end of term he settled in, or, rather, meteoritically into, London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever-enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other August elders who dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were already famous among the few--Aubrey Beardsley by name. With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. By him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the domino-room of the Cafe Royal. There, on that October evening--there, in that exuberant vista of gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted and pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled on marble tables, I drew a deep breath and, "This indeed," said I to myself, "is life!" (Forgive me that theory. Remember the waging of even the South African War was not yet.) It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermuth. Those who knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering slowly up and down in search of vacant tables or of tables occupied by friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted to catch Rothenstein's eye. He had twice passed our table, with a hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. He had a thin, vague beard, or, rather, he had a chin on which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but in the nineties odd apparitions were more frequent, I think, than they are now. The young writers of that era--and I was sure this man was a writer--strove earnestly to be distinct in aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat of clerical kind, but of Bohemian intention, and a gray waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I decided that "dim" was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the period. The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up his mind to pause in front of it. "You don't remember me," he said in a toneless voice. Rothenstein brightly focused him. "Yes, I do," he replied after a moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive memory. "Edwin Soames." "Enoch Soames," said Enoch. "Enoch Soames," repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough to have hit on the surname. "We met in Paris a few times when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche." "And I came to your studio once." "Oh, yes; I was sorry I was out." "But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know. I hear you're in Chelsea now." "Yes." I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like a donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to me that "hungry" was perhaps the mot juste for him; but--hungry for what? He looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him to sit down and have something to drink. Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his cape with a gesture which, had not those wings been waterproof, might have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an absinthe. "Je me tiens toujours fidele," he told Rothenstein, "a la sorciere glauque." "It is bad for you," said Rothenstein, dryly. "Nothing is bad for one," answered Soames. "Dans ce monde il n'y a ni bien ni mal." "Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?" "I explained it all in the preface to 'Negations.'" "'Negations'?" "Yes, I gave you a copy of it." "Oh, yes, of course. But, did you explain, for instance, that there was no such thing as bad or good grammar?" "N-no," said Soames. "Of course in art there is the good and the evil. But in life--no." He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak, white hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained with nicotine. "In life there are illusions of good and evil, but"--his voice trailed away to a murmur in which the words "vieux jeu" and "rococo" were faintly audible. I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his throat and said, "Parlons d'autre chose." It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was young, and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was quite five or six years older than either of us. Also--he had written a book. It was wonderful to have written a book. If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what kind of book it was to be. "My poems," he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather thought of giving the book no title at all. "If a book is good in itself--" he murmured, and waved his cigarette. Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale of a book. "If," he urged, "I went into a bookseller's and said simply, 'Have you got?' or, 'Have you a copy of?' how would they know what I wanted?" "Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover," Soames answered earnestly. "And I rather want," he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, "to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece." Rothenstein admitted that this was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the country and would be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, exclaimed at the hour, paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. Soames remained at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch. "Why were you so determined not to draw him?" I asked. "Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn't exist?" "He is dim," I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein repeated that Soames was non-existent. Still, Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had read "Negations." He said he had looked into it, "but," he added crisply, "I don't profess to know anything about writing." A reservation very characteristic of the period! Painters would not then allow that any one outside their own order had a right to any opinion about painting. This law (graven on the tablets brought down by Whistler from the summit of Fuji-yama) imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were not utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practiced them, the law tottered--the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold good. Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book without warning you at any rate that his opinion was worthless. No one is a better judge of literature than Rothenstein; but it wouldn't have done to tell him so in those days, and I knew that I must form an unaided judgment of "Negations." Not to buy a book of which I had met the author face to face would have been for me in those days an impossible act of self-denial. When I returned to Oxford for the Christmas term I had duly secured "Negations." I used to keep it lying carelessly on the table in my room, and whenever a friend took it up and asked what it was about, I would say: "Oh, it's rather a remarkable book. It's by a man whom I know." Just "what it was about" I never was able to say. Head or tail was just what I hadn't made of that slim, green volume. I found in the preface no clue to the labyrinth of contents, and in that labyrinth nothing to explain the preface. Lean near to life. Lean very near-- nearer. Life is web and therein nor warp nor woof is, but web only. It is for this I am Catholick in church and in thought, yet do let swift Mood weave there what the shuttle of Mood wills. These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which followed were less easy to understand. Then came "Stark: A Conte," about a midinette who, so far as I could gather, murdered, or was about to murder, a mannequin. It was rather like a story by Catulle Mendes in which the translator had either skipped or cut out every alternate sentence. Next, a dialogue between Pan and St. Ursula, lacking, I rather thought, in "snap." Next, some aphorisms (entitled "Aphorismata" [spelled in Greek]). Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form, and the forms had evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather the substance that eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any substance at all? It did now occur to me: suppose Enoch Soames was a fool! Up cropped a rival hypothesis: suppose _I_ was! I inclined to give Soames the benefit of the doubt. I had read "L'Apres-midi d'un faune" without extracting a glimmer of meaning; yet Mallarme, of course, was a master. How was I to know that Soames wasn't another? There was a sort of music in his prose, not indeed, arresting, but perhaps, I thought, haunting, and laden, perhaps, with meanings as deep as Mallarme's own. I awaited his poems with an open mind. And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I had had a second meeting with him. This was on an evening in January. Going into the aforesaid domino-room, I had passed a table at which sat a pale man with an open book before him. He had looked from his book to me, and I looked back over my shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognized him. I returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I said with a glance to the open book, "I see I am interrupting you," and was about to pass on, but, "I prefer," Soames replied in his toneless voice, "to be interrupted," and I obeyed his gesture that I should sit down. I asked him if he often read here. "Yes; things of this kind I read here," he answered, indicating the title of his book--"The Poems of Shelley." "Anything that you really"--and I was going to say "admire?" But I cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I had done so, for he said with unwonted emphasis, "Anything second-rate." I had read little of Shelley, but, "Of course," I murmured, "he's very uneven." "I should have thought evenness was just what was wrong with him. A deadly evenness. That's why I read him here. The noise of this place breaks the rhythm. He's tolerable here." Soames took up the book and glanced through the pages. He laughed. Soames's laugh was a short, single, and mirthless sound from the throat, unaccompanied by any movement of the face or brightening of the eyes. "What a period!" he uttered, laying the book down. And, "What a country!" he added. I asked rather nervously if he didn't think Keats had more or less held his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He admitted that there were "passages in Keats," but did not specify them. Of "the older men," as he called them, he seemed to like only Milton. "Milton," he said, "wasn't sentimental." Also, "Milton had a dark insight." And again, "I can always read Milton in the reading-room." "The reading-room?" "Of the British Museum. I go there every day." "You do? I've only been there once. I'm afraid I found it rather a depressing place. It--it seemed to sap one's vitality." "It does. That's why I go there. The lower one's vitality, the more sensitive one is to great art. I live near the museum. I have rooms in Dyott Street." "And you go round to the reading-room to read Milton?" "Usually Milton." He looked at me. "It was Milton," he certificatively added, "who converted me to diabolism." "Diabolism? Oh, yes? Really?" said I, with that vague discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own religion. "You--worship the devil?" Soames shook his head. "It's not exactly worship," he qualified, sipping his absinthe. "It's more a matter of trusting and encouraging." "I see, yes. I had rather gathered from the preface to 'Negations' that you were a--a Catholic." "Je l'etais a cette epoque. In fact, I still am. I am a Catholic diabolist." But this profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see that what was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read "Negations." His pale eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt as one who is about to be examined viva voce on the very subject in which he is shakiest. I hastily asked him how soon his poems were to be published. "Next week," he told me. "And are they to be published without a title?" "No. I found a title at last. But I sha'n't tell you what it is," as though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. "I am not sure that it wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It suggests something of the quality of the poems--strange growths, natural and wild, yet exquisite," he added, "and many-hued, and full of poisons." I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort that was his laugh, and, "Baudelaire," he said, "was a bourgeois malgre lui." France had had only one poet--Villon; "and two thirds of Villon were sheer journalism." Verlaine was "an epicier malgre lui." Altogether, rather to my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. There were "passages" in Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. But, "I," he summed up, "owe nothing to France." He nodded at me. "You'll see," he predicted. I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of "Fungoids" did, unconsciously of course, owe something to the young Parisian decadents or to the young English ones who owed something to THEM. I still think so. The little book, bought by me in Oxford, lies before me as I write. Its pale-gray buckram cover and silver lettering have not worn well. Nor have its contents. Through these, with a melancholy interest, I have again been looking. They are not much. But at the time of their publication I had a vague suspicion that they MIGHT be. I suppose it is my capacity for faith, not poor Soames's work, that is weaker than it once was. TO A YOUNG WOMAN THOU ART, WHO HAST NOT BEEN! Pale tunes irresolute And traceries of old sounds Blown from a rotted flute Mingle with noise of cymbals rouged with rust, Nor not strange forms and epicene Lie bleeding in the dust, Being wounded with wounds. For this it is That in thy counterpart Of age-long mockeries THOU HAST NOT BEEN NOR ART! There seemed to me a certain inconsistency as between the first and last lines of this. I tried, with bent brows, to resolve the discord. But I did not take my failure as wholly incompatible with a meaning in Soames's mind. Might it not rather indicate the depth of his meaning? As for the craftsmanship, "rouged with rust" seemed to me a fine stroke, and "nor not" instead of "and" had a curious felicity. I wondered who the "young woman" was and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that Soames could not have made more of it than she. Yet even now, if one doesn't try to make any sense at all of the poem, and reads it just for the sound, there is a certain grace of cadence. Soames was an artist, in so far as he was anything, poor fellow! It seemed to me, when first I read "Fungoids," that, oddly enough, the diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism seemed to be a cheerful, even a wholesome influence in his life. NOCTURNE Round and round the shutter'd Square I strolled with the Devil's arm in mine. No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there And the ring of his laughter and mine. We had drunk black wine. I scream'd, "I will race you, Master!" "What matter," he shriek'd, "to-night Which of us runs the faster? There is nothing to fear to-night In the foul moon's light!" Then I look'd him in the eyes And I laugh'd full shrill at the lie he told And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise. It was true, what I'd time and again been told: He was old--old. There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza--a joyous and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly hysterical, perhaps. But I liked the third, it was so bracingly unorthodox, even according to the tenets of Soames's peculiar sect in the faith. Not much "trusting and encouraging" here! Soames triumphantly exposing the devil as a liar, and laughing "full shrill," cut a quite heartening figure, I thought, then! Now, in the light of what befell, none of his other poems depresses me so much as "Nocturne." I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to say. They seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little to say and those who had nothing. The second class was the larger, and the words of the first were cold; insomuch that Strikes a note of modernity. . . . These tripping numbers.--"The Preston Telegraph." was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames's publisher. I had hoped that when next I met the poet I could congratulate him on having made a stir, for I fancied he was not so sure of his intrinsic greatness as he seemed. I was but able to say, rather coarsely, when next I did see him, that I hoped "Fungoids" was "selling splendidly." He looked at me across his glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at a jest. "You don't suppose I CARE, do you?" he said, with something like a snarl. I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a tradesman. I said mildly that I wasn't, either, and murmured that an artist who gave truly new and great things to the world had always to wait long for recognition. He said he cared not a sou for recognition. I agreed that the act of creation was its own reward. His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded myself as a nobody. But ah! hadn't both John Lane and Aubrey Beardsley suggested that I should write an essay for the great new venture that was afoot--"The Yellow Book"? And hadn't Henry Harland, as editor, accepted my essay? And wasn't it to be in the very first number? At Oxford I was still in statu pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much indeed a graduate now--one whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to show off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he ought to contribute to "The Yellow Book." He uttered from the throat a sound of scorn for that publication. Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland paused in the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up his hands toward the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met "that absurd creature" in Paris, and this very morning had received some poems in manuscript from him. "Has he NO talent?" I asked. "He has an income. He's all right." Harland was the most joyous of men and most generous of critics, and he hated to talk of anything about which he couldn't be enthusiastic. So I dropped the subject of Soames. The news that Soames had an income did take the edge off solicitude. I learned afterward that he was the son of an unsuccessful and deceased bookseller in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of three hundred pounds from a married aunt, and had no surviving relatives of any kind. Materially, then, he was "all right." But there was still a spiritual pathos about him, sharpened for me now by the possibility that even the praises of "The Preston Telegraph" might not have been forthcoming had he not been the son of a Preston man He had a sort of weak doggedness which I could not but admire. Neither he nor his work received the slightest encouragement; but he persisted in behaving as a personage: always he kept his dingy little flag flying. Wherever congregated the jeunes feroces of the arts, in whatever Soho restaurant they had just discovered, in whatever music-hall they were most frequently, there was Soames in the midst of them, or, rather, on the fringe of them, a dim, but inevitable, figure. He never sought to propitiate his fellow-writers, never bated a jot of his arrogance about his own work or of his contempt for theirs. To the painters he was respectful, even humble; but for the poets and prosaists of "The Yellow Book" and later of "The Savoy" he had never a word but of scorn. He wasn't resented. It didn't occur to anybody that he or his Catholic diabolism mattered. When, in the autumn of '96, he brought out (at his own expense, this time) a third book, his last book, nobody said a word for or against it. I meant, but forgot, to buy it. I never saw it, and am ashamed to say I don't even remember what it was called. But I did, at the time of its publication, say to Rothenstein that I thought poor old Soames was really a rather tragic figure, and that I believed he would literally die for want of recognition. Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for a kind heart which I didn't possess; and perhaps this was so. But at the private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I beheld a pastel portrait of "Enoch Soames, Esq." It was very like him, and very like Rothenstein to have done it. Soames was standing near it, in his soft hat and his waterproof cape, all through the afternoon. Anybody who knew him would have recognized the portrait at a glance, but nobody who didn't know him would have recognized the portrait from its bystander: it "existed" so much more than he; it was bound to. Also, it had not that expression of faint happiness which on that day was discernible, yes, in Soames's countenance. Fame had breathed on him. Twice again in the course of the month I went to the New English, and on both occasions Soames himself was on view there. Looking back, I regard the close of that exhibition as having been virtually the close of his career. He had felt the breath of Fame against his cheek--so late, for such a little while; and at its withdrawal he gave in, gave up, gave out. He, who had never looked strong or well, looked ghastly now--a shadow of the shade he had once been. He still frequented the domino-room, but having lost all wish to excite curiosity, he no longer read books there. "You read only at the museum now?" I asked, with attempted cheerfulness. He said he never went there now. "No absinthe there," he muttered. It was the sort of thing that in old days he would have said for effect; but it carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the "personality" he had striven so hard to build up, was solace and necessity now. He no longer called it "la sorciere glauque." He had shed away all his French phrases. He had become a plain, unvarnished Preston man. Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even though it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I avoided Soames because he made me feel rather vulgar. John Lane had published, by this time, two little books of mine, and they had had a pleasant little success of esteem. I was a--slight, but definite--"personality." Frank Harris had engaged me to kick up my heels in "The Saturday Review," Alfred Harmsworth was letting me do likewise in "The Daily Mail." I was just what Soames wasn't. And he shamed my gloss. Had I known that he really and firmly believed in the greatness of what he as an artist had achieved, I might not have shunned him. No man who hasn't lost his vanity can be held to have altogether failed. Soames's dignity was an illusion of mine. One day, in the first week of June, 1897, that illusion went. But on the evening of that day Soames went, too. I had been out most of the morning and, as it was too late to reach home in time for luncheon, I sought the Vingtieme. This little place--Restaurant du Vingtieme Siecle, to give it its full title--had been discovered in '96 by the poets and prosaists, but had now been more or less abandoned in favor of some later find. I don't think it lived long enough to justify its name; but at that time there it still was, in Greek Street, a few doors from Soho Square, and almost opposite to that house where, in the first years of the century, a little girl, and with her a boy named De Quincey, made nightly encampment in darkness and hunger among dust and rats and old legal parchments. The Vingtieme was but a small whitewashed room, leading out into the street at one end and into a kitchen at the other. The proprietor and cook was a Frenchman, known to us as Monsieur Vingtieme; the waiters were his two daughters, Rose and Berthe; and the food, according to faith, was good. The tables were so narrow and were set so close together that there was space for twelve of them, six jutting from each wall. Only the two nearest to the door, as I went in, were occupied. On one side sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man whom I had seen from time to time in the domino-room and elsewhere. On the other side sat Soames. They made a queer contrast in that sunlit room, Soames sitting haggard in that hat and cape, which nowhere at any season had I seen him doff, and this other, this keenly vital man, at sight of whom I more than ever wondered whether he were a diamond merchant, a conjurer, or the head of a private detective agency. I was sure Soames didn't want my company; but I asked, as it would have seemed brutal not to, whether I might join him, and took the chair opposite to his. He was smoking a cigarette, with an untasted salmi of something on his plate and a half-empty bottle of Sauterne before him, and he was quite silent. I said that the preparations for the Jubilee made London impossible. (I rather liked them, really.) I professed a wish to go right away till the whole thing was over. In vain did I attune myself to his gloom. He seemed not to hear me or even to see me. I felt that his behavior made me ridiculous in the eyes of the other man. The gangway between the two rows of tables at the Vingtieme was hardly more than two feet wide (Rose and Berthe, in their ministrations, had always to edge past each other, quarreling in whispers as they did so), and any one at the table abreast of yours was virtually at yours. I thought our neighbor was amused at my failure to interest Soames, and so, as I could not explain to him that my insistence was merely charitable, I became silent. Without turning my head, I had him well within my range of vision. I hoped I looked less vulgar than he in contrast with Soames. I was sure he was not an Englishman, but what WAS his nationality? Though his jet-black hair was en brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, who waited on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native idiom and accent. I gathered that this was his first visit to the Vingtieme; but Berthe was offhand in her manner to him: he had not made a good impression. His eyes were handsome, but, like the Vingtieme's tables, too narrow and set too close together. His nose was predatory, and the points of his mustache, waxed up behind his nostrils, gave a fixity to his smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of discomfort in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat which tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest. This waistcoat wasn't wrong merely because of the heat, either. It was somehow all wrong in itself. It wouldn't have done on Christmas morning. It would have struck a jarring note at the first night of "Hernani." I was trying to account for its wrongness when Soames suddenly and strangely broke silence. "A hundred years hence!" he murmured, as in a trance. "We shall not be here," I briskly, but fatuously, added. "We shall not be here. No," he droned, "but the museum will still be just where it is. And the reading-room just where it is. And people will be able to go and read there." He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as of actual pain contorted his features. I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He did not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, "You think I haven't minded." "Minded what, Soames?" "Neglect. Failure." "FAILURE?" I said heartily. "Failure?" I repeated vaguely. "Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. Of course you haven't been--appreciated. But what, then? Any artist who--who gives--" What I wanted to say was, "Any artist who gives truly new and great things to the world has always to wait long for recognition"; but the flattery would not out: in the face of his misery--a misery so genuine and so unmasked--my lips would not say the words. And then he said them for me. I flushed. "That's what you were going to say, isn't it?" he asked. "How did you know?" "It's what you said to me three years ago, when 'Fungoids' was published." I flushed the more. I need not have flushed at all. "It's the only important thing I ever heard you say," he continued. "And I've never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a horrible truth. But--d'you remember what I answered? I said, 'I don't care a sou for recognition.' And you believed me. You've gone on believing I'm above that sort of thing. You're shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist's faith in himself and in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy. You've never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the"--his voice broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in him. "Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn't know that people are visiting his grave, visiting his birthplace, putting up tablets to him, unveiling statues of him. A dead man can't read the books that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could come back to life THEN--just for a few hours--and go to the reading-room and READ! Or, better still, if I could be projected now, at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I'd sell myself body and soul to the devil for that! Think of the pages and pages in the catalogue: 'Soames, Enoch' endlessly--endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, biographies"-- But here he was interrupted by a sudden loud crack of the chair at the next table. Our neighbor had half risen from his place. He was leaning toward us, apologetically intrusive. "Excuse--permit me," he said softly. "I have been unable not to hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon--might I, as the phrase is, cut in?" I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a full view of Soames. "Though not an Englishman," he explained, "I know my London well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm's, too--very known to me. Your point is, who am _I_?" He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, "I am the devil." I couldn't help it; I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me; but--I laughed with increasing volume. The devil's quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro; I lay back aching; I behaved deplorably. "I am a gentleman, and," he said with intense emphasis, "I thought I was in the company of GENTLEMEN." "Don't!" I gasped faintly. "Oh, don't!" "Curious, nicht wahr?" I heard him say to Soames. "There is a type of person to whom the very mention of my name is--oh, so awfully--funny! In your theaters the dullest comedien needs only to say 'The devil!' and right away they give him 'the loud laugh what speaks the vacant mind.' Is it not so?" I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames. "I am a man of business," he said, "and always I would put things through 'right now,' as they say in the States. You are a poet. Les affaires--you detest them. So be it. But with me you will deal, eh? What you have said just now gives me furiously to hope." Soames had not moved except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat crouched forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his head just above the level of his hands, staring up at the devil. "Go on," he nodded. I had no remnant of laughter in me now. "It will be the more pleasant, our little deal," the devil went on, "because you are--I mistake not?--a diabolist." "A Catholic diabolist," said Soames. The devil accepted the reservation genially. "You wish," he resumed, "to visit now--this afternoon as-ever-is--the reading-room of the British Museum, yes? But of a hundred years hence, yes? Parfaitement. Time--an illusion. Past and future--they are as ever present as the present, or at any rate only what you call 'just round the corner.' I switch you on to any date. I project you--pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room just as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find yourself standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very minute, yes? And to stay there till closing-time? Am I right?" Soames nodded. The devil looked at his watch. "Ten past two," he said. "Closing-time in summer same then as now--seven o'clock. That will give you almost five hours. At seven o'clock--pouf!--you find yourself again here, sitting at this table. I am dining to-night dans le monde--dans le higlif. That concludes my present visit to your great city. I come and fetch you here, Mr. Soames, on my way home." "Home?" I echoed. "Be it never so humble!" said the devil, lightly. "All right," said Soames. "Soames!" I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle. The devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the table, but he paused in his gesture. "A hundred years hence, as now," he smiled, "no smoking allowed in the reading-room. You would better therefore--" Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his glass of Sauterne. "Soames!" again I cried. "Can't you"--but the devil had now stretched forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on the table-cloth. Soames's chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden in his wine-glass. There was no other trace of him. For a few moments the devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at me out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant. A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and rose from my chair. "Very clever," I said condescendingly. "But--'The Time Machine' is a delightful book, don't you think? So entirely original!" "You are pleased to sneer," said the devil, who had also risen, "but it is one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a quite other thing to be a supernatural power." All the same, I had scored. Berthe had come forth at the sound of our rising. I explained to her that Mr. Soames had been called away, and that both he and I would be dining here. It was not until I was out in the open air that I began to feel giddy. I have but the haziest recollection of what I did, where I wandered, in the glaring sunshine of that endless afternoon. I remember the sound of carpenters' hammers all along Piccadilly and the bare chaotic look of the half-erected "stands." Was it in the Green Park or in Kensington Gardens or WHERE was it that I sat on a chair beneath a tree, trying to read an evening paper? There was a phrase in the leading article that went on repeating itself in my fagged mind: "Little is hidden from this August Lady full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty." I remember wildly conceiving a letter (to reach Windsor by an express messenger told to await answer): "Madam: Well knowing that your Majesty is full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty, I venture to ask your advice in the following delicate matter. Mr. Enoch Soames, whose poems you may or may not know--" Was there NO way of helping him, saving him? A bargain was a bargain, and I was the last man to aid or abet any one in wriggling out of a reasonable obligation. I wouldn't have lifted a little finger to save Faust. But poor Soames! Doomed to pay without respite an eternal price for nothing but a fruitless search and a bitter disillusioning. Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, in the waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last decade of the next century, poring over books not yet written, and seeing and seen by men not yet born. Uncannier and odder still that to-night and evermore he would be in hell. Assuredly, truth was stranger than fiction. Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with Soames, not, indeed, to stay in the reading-room, but to sally forth for a brisk sight-seeing walk around a new London. I wandered restlessly out of the park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to imagine myself an ardent tourist from the eighteenth century. Intolerable was the strain of the slow-passing and empty minutes. Long before seven o'clock I was back at the Vingtieme. I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe appeared for a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till Mr. Soames came. A hurdy-gurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the noise of a quarrel between some Frenchmen farther up the street. Whenever the tune was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever away from it to the clock over the kitchen door. Five minutes now to the hour! I remembered that clocks in restaurants are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes on the paper. I vowed I would not look away from it again. I held it upright, at its full width, close to my face, so that I had no view of anything but it. Rather a tremulous sheet? Only because of the draft, I told myself. My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not drop them--now. I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, what, then? What else had I come for? Yet I held tight that barrier of newspaper. Only the sound of Berthe's brisk footstep from the kitchen enabled me, forced me, to drop it, and to utter: "What shall we have to eat, Soames?" "Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?" asked Berthe. "He's only--tired." I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy--and whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the table exactly as when last I had seen him. It was as though he had never moved--he who had moved so unimaginably far. Once or twice in the afternoon it had for an instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey was not to be fruitless, that perhaps we had all been wrong in our estimate of the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right was horribly clear from the look of him. But, "Don't be discouraged," I falteringly said. "Perhaps it's only that you--didn't leave enough time. Two, three centuries hence, perhaps--" "Yes," his voice came; "I've thought of that." "And now--now for the more immediate future! Where are you going to hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express from Charing Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don't go on to Paris. Stop at Calais. Live in Calais. He'd never think of looking for you in Calais." "It's like my luck," he said, "to spend my last hours on earth with an ass." But I was not offended. "And a treacherous ass," he strangely added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing on it--some sort of gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently aside. "Come, Soames, pull yourself together! This isn't a mere matter of life or death. It's a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don't mean to say you're going to wait limply here till the devil comes to fetch you." "I can't do anything else. I've no choice." "Come! This is 'trusting and encouraging' with a vengeance! This is diabolism run mad!" I filled his glass with wine. "Surely, now that you've SEEN the brute--" "It's no good abusing him." "You must admit there's nothing Miltonic about him, Soames." "I don't say he's not rather different from what I expected." "He's a vulgarian, he's a swell mobs-man, he's the sort of man who hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies' jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!" "You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?" "Then why not slip quietly out of the way?" Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did not eat, and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that any dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the capture certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. I told Soames that for the honor of the human race he ought to make some show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for him. "Besides," he said, "can't you understand that I'm in his power? You saw him touch me, didn't you? There's an end of it. I've no will. I'm sealed." I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word "sealed." I began to realize that the wine had clouded his brain. No wonder! Foodless he had gone into futurity, foodless he still was. I urged him to eat, at any rate, some bread. It was maddening to think that he, who had so much to tell, might tell nothing. "How was it all," I asked, "yonder? Come, tell me your adventures!" "They'd make first-rate 'copy,' wouldn't they?" "I'm awfully sorry for you, Soames, and I make all possible allowances; but what earthly right have you to insinuate that I should make 'copy,' as you call it, out of you?" The poor fellow pressed his hands to his forehead. "I don't know," he said. "I had some reason, I know. I'll try to remember. He sat plunged in thought. "That's right. Try to remember everything. Eat a little more bread. What did the reading-room look like?" "Much as usual," he at length muttered. "Many people there?" "Usual sort of number." "What did they look like?" Soames tried to visualize them. "They all," he presently remembered, "looked very like one another." My mind took a fearsome leap. "All dressed in sanitary woolen?" "Yes, I think so. Grayish-yellowish stuff." "A sort of uniform?" He nodded. "With a number on it perhaps--a number on a large disk of metal strapped round the left arm? D. K. F. 78,910--that sort of thing?" It was even so. "And all of them, men and women alike, looking very well cared for? Very Utopian, and smelling rather strongly of carbolic, and all of them quite hairless?" I was right every time. Soames was only not sure whether the men and women were hairless or shorn. "I hadn't time to look at them very closely," he explained. "No, of course not. But--" "They stared at ME, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of attention." At last he had done that! "I think I rather scared them. They moved away whenever I came near. They followed me about, at a distance, wherever I went. The men at the round desk in the middle seemed to have a sort of panic whenever I went to make inquiries." "What did you do when you arrived?" Well, he had gone straight to the catalogue, of course,--to the S volumes,--and had stood long before SN-SOF, unable to take this volume out of the shelf because his heart was beating so. At first, he said, he wasn't disappointed; he only thought there was some new arrangement. He went to the middle desk and asked where the catalogue of twentieth-century books was kept. He gathered that there was still only one catalogue. Again he looked up his name, stared at the three little pasted slips he had known so well. Then he went and sat down for a long time. "And then," he droned, "I looked up the 'Dictionary of National Biography,' and some encyclopedias. I went back to the middle desk and asked what was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton's book was considered the best. I looked it up in the catalogue and filled in a form for it. It was brought to me. My name wasn't in the index, but--yes!" he said with a sudden change of tone, "that's what I'd forgotten. Where's that bit of paper? Give it me back." I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the floor, and handed it to him. He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. "I found myself glancing through Nupton's book," he resumed. "Not very easy reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling. All the modern books I saw were phonetic." "Then I don't want to hear any more, Soames, please." "The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for that I mightn't have noticed my own name." "Your own name? Really? Soames, I'm VERY glad." "And yours." "No!" "I thought I should find you waiting here to-night, so I took the trouble to copy out the passage. Read it." I snatched the paper. Soames's handwriting was characteristically dim. It and the noisome spelling and my excitement made me all the slower to grasp what T. K. Nupton was driving at. The document lies before me at this moment. Strange that the words I here copy out for you were copied out for me by poor Soames just eighty-two years hence! From page 234 of "Inglish Littracher 1890-1900" bi T. K. Nupton, publishd bi th Stait, 1992. Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimed Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive in th twentith senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid an immajnari karrakter kauld "Enoch Soames"--a thurd-rait poit hoo beleevz imself a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th Devvl in auder ter no wot posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot labud sattire, but not without vallu az showing hou seriusli the yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took themselvz. Nou that th littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a departmnt of publik servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav lernt ter doo their duti without thort ov th morro. "Th laibrer iz werthi ov hiz hire" an that iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch Soameses amung us to-dai! I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I commend to my reader) I was able to master them little by little. The clearer they became, the greater was my bewilderment, my distress and horror. The whole thing was a nightmare. Afar, the great grisly background of what was in store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at the table, fixing on me a gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow whom--whom evidently--but no: whatever down-grade my character might take in coming years, I should never be such a brute as to-- Again I examined the screed. "Immajnari." But here Soames was, no more imaginary, alas! than I. And "labud"--what on earth was that? (To this day I have never made out that word.) "It's all very--baffling," I at length stammered. Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. "Are you sure," I temporized, "quite sure you copied the thing out correctly?" "Quite." "Well, then, it's this wretched Nupton who must have made--must be going to make--some idiotic mistake. Look here Soames, you know me better than to suppose that I-- After all, the name Max Beerbohm is not at all an uncommon one, and there must be several Enoch Soameses running around, or, rather, Enoch Soames is a name that might occur to any one writing a story. And I don't write stories; I'm an essayist, an observer, a recorder. I admit that it's an extraordinary coincidence. But you must see--" "I see the whole thing," said Soames, quietly. And he added, with a touch of his old manner, but with more dignity than I had ever known in him, "Parlons d'autre chose." I accepted that suggestion very promptly. I returned straight to the more immediate future. I spent most of the long evening in renewed appeals to Soames to come away and seek refuge somewhere. I remember saying at last that if indeed I was destined to write about him, the supposed "stauri" had better have at least a happy ending. Soames repeated those last three words in a tone of intense scorn. "In life and in art," he said, "all that matters is an INEVITABLE ending." "But," I urged more hopefully than I felt, "an ending that can be avoided ISN'T inevitable." "You aren't an artist," he rasped. "And you're so hopelessly not an artist that, so far from being able to imagine a thing and make it seem true, you're going to make even a true thing seem as if you'd made it up. You're a miserable bungler. And it's like my luck." I protested that the miserable bungler was not I, was not going to be I, but T. K. Nupton; and we had a rather heated argument, in the thick of which it suddenly seemed to me that Soames saw he was in the wrong: he had quite physically cowered. But I wondered why--and now I guessed with a cold throb just why--he stared so past me. The bringer of that "inevitable ending" filled the doorway. I managed to turn in my chair and to say, not without a semblance of lightness, "Aha, come in!" Dread was indeed rather blunted in me by his looking so absurdly like a villain in a melodrama. The sheen of his tilted hat and of his shirt-front, the repeated twists he was giving to his mustache, and most of all the magnificence of his sneer, gave token that he was there only to be foiled. He was at our table in a stride. "I am sorry," he sneered witheringly, "to break up your pleasant party, but--" "You don't; you complete it," I assured him. "Mr. Soames and I want to have a little talk with you. Won't you sit? Mr. Soames got nothing, frankly nothing, by his journey this afternoon. We don't wish to say that the whole thing was a swindle, a common swindle. On the contrary, we believe you meant well. But of course the bargain, such as it was, is off." The devil gave no verbal answer. He merely looked at Soames and pointed with rigid forefinger to the door. Soames was wretchedly rising from his chair when, with a desperate, quick gesture, I swept together two dinner-knives that were on the table, and laid their blades across each other. The devil stepped sharp back against the table behind him, averting his face and shuddering. "You are not superstitious!" he hissed. "Not at all," I smiled. "Soames," he said as to an underling, but without turning his face, "put those knives straight!" With an inhibitive gesture to my friend, "Mr. Soames," I said emphatically to the devil, "is a Catholic diabolist"; but my poor friend did the devil's bidding, not mine; and now, with his master's eyes again fixed on him, he arose, he shuffled past me. I tried to speak. It was he that spoke. "Try," was the prayer he threw back at me as the devil pushed him roughly out through the door--"TRY to make them know that I did exist!" In another instant I, too, was through that door. I stood staring all ways, up the street, across it, down it. There was moonlight and lamplight, but there was not Soames nor that other. Dazed, I stood there. Dazed, I turned back at length into the little room, and I suppose I paid Berthe or Rose for my dinner and luncheon and for Soames's; I hope so, for I never went to the Vingtieme again. Ever since that night I have avoided Greek Street altogether. And for years I did not set foot even in Soho Square, because on that same night it was there that I paced and loitered, long and long, with some such dull sense of hope as a man has in not straying far from the place where he has lost something. "Round and round the shutter'd Square"--that line came back to me on my lonely beat, and with it the whole stanza, ringing in my brain and bearing in on me how tragically different from the happy scene imagined by him was the poet's actual experience of that prince in whom of all princes we should put not our trust! But strange how the mind of an essayist, be it never so stricken, roves and ranges! I remember pausing before a wide door-step and wondering if perchance it was on this very one that the young De Quincey lay ill and faint while poor Ann flew as fast as her feet would carry her to Oxford Street, the "stony-hearted stepmother" of them both, and came back bearing that "glass of port wine and spices" but for which he might, so he thought, actually have died. Was this the very door-step that the old De Quincey used to revisit in homage? I pondered Ann's fate, the cause of her sudden vanishing from the ken of her boy friend; and presently I blamed myself for letting the past override the present. Poor vanished Soames! And for myself, too, I began to be troubled. What had I better do? Would there be a hue and cry--"Mysterious Disappearance of an Author," and all that? He had last been seen lunching and dining in my company. Hadn't I better get a hansom and drive straight to Scotland Yard? They would think I was a lunatic. After all, I reassured myself, London was a very large place, and one very dim figure might easily drop out of it unobserved, now especially, in the blinding glare of the near Jubilee. Better say nothing at all, I thought. AND I was right. Soames's disappearance made no stir at all. He was utterly forgotten before any one, so far as I am aware, noticed that he was no longer hanging around. Now and again some poet or prosaist may have said to another, "What has become of that man Soames?" but I never heard any such question asked. As for his landlady in Dyott Street, no doubt he had paid her weekly, and what possessions he may have had in his rooms were enough to save her from fretting. The solicitor through whom he was paid his annuity may be presumed to have made inquiries, but no echo of these resounded. There was something rather ghastly to me in the general unconsciousness that Soames had existed, and more than once I caught myself wondering whether Nupton, that babe unborn, were going to be right in thinking him a figment of my brain. In that extract from Nupton's repulsive book there is one point which perhaps puzzles you. How is it that the author, though I have here mentioned him by name and have quoted the exact words he is going to write, is not going to grasp the obvious corollary that I have invented nothing? The answer can be only this: Nupton will not have read the later passages of this memoir. Such lack of thoroughness is a serious fault in any one who undertakes to do scholar's work. And I hope these words will meet the eye of some contemporary rival to Nupton and be the undoing of Nupton. I like to think that some time between 1992 and 1997 somebody will have looked up this memoir, and will have forced on the world his inevitable and startling conclusions. And I have reason for believing that this will be so. You realize that the reading-room into which Soames was projected by the devil was in all respects precisely as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997. You realize, therefore, that on that afternoon, when it comes round, there the selfsame crowd will be, and there Soames will be, punctually, he and they doing precisely what they did before. Recall now Soames's account of the sensation he made. You may say that the mere difference of his costume was enough to make him sensational in that uniformed crowd. You wouldn't say so if you had ever seen him, and I assure you that in no period would Soames be anything but dim. The fact that people are going to stare at him and follow him around and seem afraid of him, can be explained only on the hypothesis that they will somehow have been prepared for his ghostly visitation. They will have been awfully waiting to see whether he really would come. And when he does come the effect will of course be--awful. An authentic, guaranteed, proved ghost, but; only a ghost, alas! Only that. In his first visit Soames was a creature of flesh and blood, whereas the creatures among whom he was projected were but ghosts, I take it--solid, palpable, vocal, but unconscious and automatic ghosts, in a building that was itself an illusion. Next time that building and those creatures will be real. It is of Soames that there will be but the semblance. I wish I could think him destined to revisit the world actually, physically, consciously. I wish he had this one brief escape, this one small treat, to look forward to. I never forget him for long. He is where he is and forever. The more rigid moralists among you may say he has only himself to blame. For my part, I think he has been very hardly used. It is well that vanity should be chastened; and Enoch Soames's vanity was, I admit, above the average, and called for special treatment. But there was no need for vindictiveness. You say he contracted to pay the price he is paying. Yes; but I maintain that he was induced to do so by fraud. Well informed in all things, the devil must have known that my friend would gain nothing by his visit to futurity. The whole thing was a very shabby trick. The more I think of it, the more detestable the devil seems to me. Of him I have caught sight several times, here and there, since that day at the Vingtieme. Only once, however, have I seen him at close quarters. This was a couple of years ago, in Paris. I was walking one afternoon along the rue d'Antin, and I saw him advancing from the opposite direction, overdressed as ever, and swinging an ebony cane and altogether behaving as though the whole pavement belonged to him. At thought of Enoch Soames and the myriads of other sufferers eternally in this brute's dominion, a great cold wrath filled me, and I drew myself up to my full height. But--well, one is so used to nodding and smiling in the street to anybody whom one knows that the action becomes almost independent of oneself; to prevent it requires a very sharp effort and great presence of mind. I was miserably aware, as I passed the devil, that I nodded and smiled to him. And my shame was the deeper and hotter because he, if you please, stared straight at me with the utmost haughtiness. To be cut, deliberately cut, by HIM! I was, I still am, furious at having had that happen to me. [Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions in the text; e.g., "does n't" has become "doesn't" etc.] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Enoch Soames, by Max Beerbohm Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How long after Madame de Merret dies before people are allowed inter manor?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "50 years" ]	8,147	narrativeqa	en	null	24c995f1a10e348519cdc6cd24685ab64bcf6454554de945	Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny LA GRANDE BRETECHE (Sequel to "Another Study of Woman.") By Honore De Balzac Translated by Ellen Marriage and Clara Bell LA GRANDE BRETECHE "Ah! madame," replied the doctor, "I have some appalling stories in my collection. But each one has its proper hour in a conversation--you know the pretty jest recorded by Chamfort, and said to the Duc de Fronsac: 'Between your sally and the present moment lie ten bottles of champagne.'" "But it is two in the morning, and the story of Rosina has prepared us," said the mistress of the house. "Tell us, Monsieur Bianchon!" was the cry on every side. The obliging doctor bowed, and silence reigned. "At about a hundred paces from Vendome, on the banks of the Loir," said he, "stands an old brown house, crowned with very high roofs, and so completely isolated that there is nothing near it, not even a fetid tannery or a squalid tavern, such as are commonly seen outside small towns. In front of this house is a garden down to the river, where the box shrubs, formerly clipped close to edge the walks, now straggle at their own will. A few willows, rooted in the stream, have grown up quickly like an enclosing fence, and half hide the house. The wild plants we call weeds have clothed the bank with their beautiful luxuriance. The fruit-trees, neglected for these ten years past, no longer bear a crop, and their suckers have formed a thicket. The espaliers are like a copse. The paths, once graveled, are overgrown with purslane; but, to be accurate there is no trace of a path. "Looking down from the hilltop, to which cling the ruins of the old castle of the Dukes of Vendome, the only spot whence the eye can see into this enclosure, we think that at a time, difficult now to determine, this spot of earth must have been the joy of some country gentleman devoted to roses and tulips, in a word, to horticulture, but above all a lover of choice fruit. An arbor is visible, or rather the wreck of an arbor, and under it a table still stands not entirely destroyed by time. At the aspect of this garden that is no more, the negative joys of the peaceful life of the provinces may be divined as we divine the history of a worthy tradesman when we read the epitaph on his tomb. To complete the mournful and tender impressions which seize the soul, on one of the walls there is a sundial graced with this homely Christian motto, '_Ultimam cogita_.' "The roof of this house is dreadfully dilapidated; the outside shutters are always closed; the balconies are hung with swallows' nests; the doors are for ever shut. Straggling grasses have outlined the flagstones of the steps with green; the ironwork is rusty. Moon and sun, winter, summer, and snow have eaten into the wood, warped the boards, peeled off the paint. The dreary silence is broken only by birds and cats, polecats, rats, and mice, free to scamper round, and fight, and eat each other. An invisible hand has written over it all: 'Mystery.' "If, prompted by curiosity, you go to look at this house from the street, you will see a large gate, with a round-arched top; the children have made many holes in it. I learned later that this door had been blocked for ten years. Through these irregular breaches you will see that the side towards the courtyard is in perfect harmony with the side towards the garden. The same ruin prevails. Tufts of weeds outline the paving-stones; the walls are scored by enormous cracks, and the blackened coping is laced with a thousand festoons of pellitory. The stone steps are disjointed; the bell-cord is rotten; the gutter-spouts broken. What fire from heaven could have fallen there? By what decree has salt been sown on this dwelling? Has God been mocked here? Or was France betrayed? These are the questions we ask ourselves. Reptiles crawl over it, but give no reply. This empty and deserted house is a vast enigma of which the answer is known to none. "It was formerly a little domain, held in fief, and is known as La Grande Breteche. During my stay at Vendome, where Despleins had left me in charge of a rich patient, the sight of this strange dwelling became one of my keenest pleasures. Was it not far better than a ruin? Certain memories of indisputable authenticity attach themselves to a ruin; but this house, still standing, though being slowly destroyed by an avenging hand, contained a secret, an unrevealed thought. At the very least, it testified to a caprice. More than once in the evening I boarded the hedge, run wild, which surrounded the enclosure. I braved scratches, I got into this ownerless garden, this plot which was no longer public or private; I lingered there for hours gazing at the disorder. I would not, as the price of the story to which this strange scene no doubt was due, have asked a single question of any gossiping native. On that spot I wove delightful romances, and abandoned myself to little debauches of melancholy which enchanted me. If I had known the reason--perhaps quite commonplace--of this neglect, I should have lost the unwritten poetry which intoxicated me. To me this refuge represented the most various phases of human life, shadowed by misfortune; sometimes the peace of the graveyard without the dead, who speak in the language of epitaphs; one day I saw in it the home of lepers; another, the house of the Atridae; but, above all, I found there provincial life, with its contemplative ideas, its hour-glass existence. I often wept there, I never laughed. "More than once I felt involuntary terrors as I heard overhead the dull hum of the wings of some hurrying wood-pigeon. The earth is dank; you must be on the watch for lizards, vipers, and frogs, wandering about with the wild freedom of nature; above all, you must have no fear of cold, for in a few moments you feel an icy cloak settle on your shoulders, like the Commendatore's hand on Don Giovanni's neck. "One evening I felt a shudder; the wind had turned an old rusty weathercock, and the creaking sounded like a cry from the house, at the very moment when I was finishing a gloomy drama to account for this monumental embodiment of woe. I returned to my inn, lost in gloomy thoughts. When I had supped, the hostess came into my room with an air of mystery, and said, 'Monsieur, here is Monsieur Regnault.' "'Who is Monsieur Regnault?' "'What, sir, do you not know Monsieur Regnault?--Well, that's odd,' said she, leaving the room. "On a sudden I saw a man appear, tall, slim, dressed in black, hat in hand, who came in like a ram ready to butt his opponent, showing a receding forehead, a small pointed head, and a colorless face of the hue of a glass of dirty water. You would have taken him for an usher. The stranger wore an old coat, much worn at the seams; but he had a diamond in his shirt frill, and gold rings in his ears. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'whom have I the honor of addressing?'--He took a chair, placed himself in front of my fire, put his hat on my table, and answered while he rubbed his hands: 'Dear me, it is very cold.--Monsieur, I am Monsieur Regnault.' "I was encouraging myself by saying to myself, '_Il bondo cani!_ Seek!' "'I am,' he went on, 'notary at Vendome.' "'I am delighted to hear it, monsieur,' I exclaimed. 'But I am not in a position to make a will for reasons best known to myself.' "'One moment!' said he, holding up his hand as though to gain silence. 'Allow me, monsieur, allow me! I am informed that you sometimes go to walk in the garden of la Grande Breteche.' "'Yes, monsieur.' "'One moment!' said he, repeating his gesture. 'That constitutes a misdemeanor. Monsieur, as executor under the will of the late Comtesse de Merret, I come in her name to beg you to discontinue the practice. One moment! I am not a Turk, and do not wish to make a crime of it. And besides, you are free to be ignorant of the circumstances which compel me to leave the finest mansion in Vendome to fall into ruin. Nevertheless, monsieur, you must be a man of education, and you should know that the laws forbid, under heavy penalties, any trespass on enclosed property. A hedge is the same as a wall. But, the state in which the place is left may be an excuse for your curiosity. For my part, I should be quite content to make you free to come and go in the house; but being bound to respect the will of the testatrix, I have the honor, monsieur, to beg that you will go into the garden no more. I myself, monsieur, since the will was read, have never set foot in the house, which, as I had the honor of informing you, is part of the estate of the late Madame de Merret. We have done nothing there but verify the number of doors and windows to assess the taxes I have to pay annually out of the funds left for that purpose by the late Madame de Merret. Ah! my dear sir, her will made a great commotion in the town.' "The good man paused to blow his nose. I respected his volubility, perfectly understanding that the administration of Madame de Merret's estate had been the most important event of his life, his reputation, his glory, his Restoration. As I was forced to bid farewell to my beautiful reveries and romances, I was to reject learning the truth on official authority. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'would it be indiscreet if I were to ask you the reasons for such eccentricity?' "At these words an expression, which revealed all the pleasure which men feel who are accustomed to ride a hobby, overspread the lawyer's countenance. He pulled up the collar of his shirt with an air, took out his snuffbox, opened it, and offered me a pinch; on my refusing, he took a large one. He was happy! A man who has no hobby does not know all the good to be got out of life. A hobby is the happy medium between a passion and a monomania. At this moment I understood the whole bearing of Sterne's charming passion, and had a perfect idea of the delight with which my uncle Toby, encouraged by Trim, bestrode his hobby-horse. "'Monsieur,' said Monsieur Regnault, 'I was head-clerk in Monsieur Roguin's office, in Paris. A first-rate house, which you may have heard mentioned? No! An unfortunate bankruptcy made it famous.--Not having money enough to purchase a practice in Paris at the price to which they were run up in 1816, I came here and bought my predecessor's business. I had relations in Vendome; among others, a wealthy aunt, who allowed me to marry her daughter.--Monsieur,' he went on after a little pause, 'three months after being licensed by the Keeper of the Seals, one evening, as I was going to bed--it was before my marriage--I was sent for by Madame la Comtesse de Merret, to her Chateau of Merret. Her maid, a good girl, who is now a servant in this inn, was waiting at my door with the Countess' own carriage. Ah! one moment! I ought to tell you that Monsieur le Comte de Merret had gone to Paris to die two months before I came here. He came to a miserable end, flinging himself into every kind of dissipation. You understand? "'On the day when he left, Madame la Comtesse had quitted la Grand Breteche, having dismantled it. Some people even say that she had burnt all the furniture, the hangings--in short, all the chattels and furniture whatever used in furnishing the premises now let by the said M.--(Dear, what am I saying? I beg your pardon, I thought I was dictating a lease.)--In short, that she burnt everything in the meadow at Merret. Have you been to Merret, monsieur?--No,' said he, answering himself, 'Ah, it is a very fine place.' "'For about three months previously,' he went on, with a jerk of his head, 'the Count and Countess had lived in a very eccentric way; they admitted no visitors; Madame lived on the ground-floor, and Monsieur on the first floor. When the Countess was left alone, she was never seen excepting at church. Subsequently, at home, at the chateau, she refused to see the friends, whether gentlemen or ladies, who went to call on her. She was already very much altered when she left la Grande Breteche to go to Merret. That dear lady--I say dear lady, for it was she who gave me this diamond, but indeed I saw her but once--that kind lady was very ill; she had, no doubt, given up all hope, for she died without choosing to send for a doctor; indeed, many of our ladies fancied she was not quite right in her head. Well, sir, my curiosity was strangely excited by hearing that Madame de Merret had need of my services. Nor was I the only person who took an interest in the affair. That very night, though it was already late, all the town knew that I was going to Merret. "'The waiting-woman replied but vaguely to the questions I asked her on the way; nevertheless, she told me that her mistress had received the Sacrament in the course of the day at the hands of the Cure of Merret, and seemed unlikely to live through the night. It was about eleven when I reached the chateau. I went up the great staircase. After crossing some large, lofty, dark rooms, diabolically cold and damp, I reached the state bedroom where the Countess lay. From the rumors that were current concerning this lady (monsieur, I should never end if I were to repeat all the tales that were told about her), I had imagined her a coquette. Imagine, then, that I had great difficulty in seeing her in the great bed where she was lying. To be sure, to light this enormous room, with old-fashioned heavy cornices, and so thick with dust that merely to see it was enough to make you sneeze, she had only an old Argand lamp. Ah! but you have not been to Merret. Well, the bed is one of those old world beds, with a high tester hung with flowered chintz. A small table stood by the bed, on which I saw an "Imitation of Christ," which, by the way, I bought for my wife, as well as the lamp. There were also a deep armchair for her confidential maid, and two small chairs. There was no fire. That was all the furniture, not enough to fill ten lines in an inventory. "'My dear sir, if you had seen, as I then saw, that vast room, papered and hung with brown, you would have felt yourself transported into a scene of a romance. It was icy, nay more, funereal,' and he lifted his hand with a theatrical gesture and paused. "'By dint of seeking, as I approached the bed, at last I saw Madame de Merret, under the glimmer of the lamp, which fell on the pillows. Her face was as yellow as wax, and as narrow as two folded hands. The Countess had a lace cap showing her abundant hair, but as white as linen thread. She was sitting up in bed, and seemed to keep upright with great difficulty. Her large black eyes, dimmed by fever, no doubt, and half-dead already, hardly moved under the bony arch of her eyebrows.--There,' he added, pointing to his own brow. 'Her forehead was clammy; her fleshless hands were like bones covered with soft skin; the veins and muscles were perfectly visible. She must have been very handsome; but at this moment I was startled into an indescribable emotion at the sight. Never, said those who wrapped her in her shroud, had any living creature been so emaciated and lived. In short, it was awful to behold! Sickness so consumed that woman, that she was no more than a phantom. Her lips, which were pale violet, seemed to me not to move when she spoke to me. "'Though my profession has familiarized me with such spectacles, by calling me not infrequently to the bedside of the dying to record their last wishes, I confess that families in tears and the agonies I have seen were as nothing in comparison with this lonely and silent woman in her vast chateau. I heard not the least sound, I did not perceive the movement which the sufferer's breathing ought to have given to the sheets that covered her, and I stood motionless, absorbed in looking at her in a sort of stupor. In fancy I am there still. At last her large eyes moved; she tried to raise her right hand, but it fell back on the bed, and she uttered these words, which came like a breath, for her voice was no longer a voice: "I have waited for you with the greatest impatience." A bright flush rose to her cheeks. It was a great effort to her to speak. "'"Madame," I began. She signed to me to be silent. At that moment the old housekeeper rose and said in my ear, "Do not speak; Madame la Comtesse is not in a state to bear the slightest noise, and what you say might agitate her." "'I sat down. A few instants after, Madame de Merret collected all her remaining strength to move her right hand, and slipped it, not without infinite difficulty, under the bolster; she then paused a moment. With a last effort she withdrew her hand; and when she brought out a sealed paper, drops of perspiration rolled from her brow. "I place my will in your hands--Oh! God! Oh!" and that was all. She clutched a crucifix that lay on the bed, lifted it hastily to her lips, and died. "'The expression of her eyes still makes me shudder as I think of it. She must have suffered much! There was joy in her last glance, and it remained stamped on her dead eyes. "'I brought away the will, and when it was opened I found that Madame de Merret had appointed me her executor. She left the whole of her property to the hospital at Vendome excepting a few legacies. But these were her instructions as relating to la Grande Breteche: She ordered me to leave the place, for fifty years counting from the day of her death, in the state in which it might be at the time of her death, forbidding any one, whoever he might be, to enter the apartments, prohibiting any repairs whatever, and even settling a salary to pay watchmen if it were needful to secure the absolute fulfilment of her intentions. At the expiration of that term, if the will of the testatrix has been duly carried out, the house is to become the property of my heirs, for, as you know, a notary cannot take a bequest. Otherwise la Grande Breteche reverts to the heirs-at-law, but on condition of fulfilling certain conditions set forth in a codicil to the will, which is not to be opened till the expiration of the said term of fifty years. The will has not been disputed, so----' And without finishing his sentence, the lanky notary looked at me with an air of triumph; I made him quite happy by offering him my congratulations. "'Monsieur,' I said in conclusion, 'you have so vividly impressed me that I fancy I see the dying woman whiter than her sheets; her glittering eyes frighten me; I shall dream of her to-night.--But you must have formed some idea as to the instructions contained in that extraordinary will.' "'Monsieur,' said he, with comical reticence, 'I never allow myself to criticise the conduct of a person who honors me with the gift of a diamond.' "However, I soon loosened the tongue of the discreet notary of Vendome, who communicated to me, not without long digressions, the opinions of the deep politicians of both sexes whose judgments are law in Vendome. But these opinions were so contradictory, so diffuse, that I was near falling asleep in spite of the interest I felt in this authentic history. The notary's ponderous voice and monotonous accent, accustomed no doubt to listen to himself and to make himself listened to by his clients or fellow-townsmen, were too much for my curiosity. Happily, he soon went away. "'Ah, ha, monsieur,' said he on the stairs, 'a good many persons would be glad to live five-and-forty years longer; but--one moment!' and he laid the first finger of his right hand to his nostril with a cunning look, as much as to say, 'Mark my words!--To last as long as that--as long as that,' said he, 'you must not be past sixty now.' "I closed my door, having been roused from my apathy by this last speech, which the notary thought very funny; then I sat down in my armchair, with my feet on the fire-dogs. I had lost myself in a romance _a la_ Radcliffe, constructed on the juridical base given me by Monsieur Regnault, when the door, opened by a woman's cautious hand, turned on the hinges. I saw my landlady come in, a buxom, florid dame, always good-humored, who had missed her calling in life. She was a Fleming, who ought to have seen the light in a picture by Teniers. "'Well, monsieur,' said she, 'Monsieur Regnault has no doubt been giving you his history of la Grande Breteche?' "'Yes, Madame Lepas.' "'And what did he tell you?' "I repeated in a few words the creepy and sinister story of Madame de Merret. At each sentence my hostess put her head forward, looking at me with an innkeeper's keen scrutiny, a happy compromise between the instinct of a police constable, the astuteness of a spy, and the cunning of a dealer. "'My good Madame Lepas,' said I as I ended, 'you seem to know more about it. Heh? If not, why have you come up to me?' "'On my word, as an honest woman----' "'Do not swear; your eyes are big with a secret. You knew Monsieur de Merret; what sort of man was he?' "'Monsieur de Merret--well, you see he was a man you never could see the top of, he was so tall! A very good gentleman, from Picardy, and who had, as we say, his head close to his cap. He paid for everything down, so as never to have difficulties with any one. He was hot-tempered, you see! All our ladies liked him very much.' "'Because he was hot-tempered?' I asked her. "'Well, may be,' said she; 'and you may suppose, sir, that a man had to have something to show for a figurehead before he could marry Madame de Merret, who, without any reflection on others, was the handsomest and richest heiress in our parts. She had about twenty thousand francs a year. All the town was at the wedding; the bride was pretty and sweet-looking, quite a gem of a woman. Oh, they were a handsome couple in their day!' "'And were they happy together?' "'Hm, hm! so-so--so far as can be guessed, for, as you may suppose, we of the common sort were not hail-fellow-well-met with them.--Madame de Merret was a kind woman and very pleasant, who had no doubt sometimes to put up with her husband's tantrums. But though he was rather haughty, we were fond of him. After all, it was his place to behave so. When a man is a born nobleman, you see----' "'Still, there must have been some catastrophe for Monsieur and Madame de Merret to part so violently?' "'I did not say there was any catastrophe, sir. I know nothing about it.' "'Indeed. Well, now, I am sure you know everything.' "'Well, sir, I will tell you the whole story.--When I saw Monsieur Regnault go up to see you, it struck me that he would speak to you about Madame de Merret as having to do with la Grande Breteche. That put it into my head to ask your advice, sir, seeming to me that you are a man of good judgment and incapable of playing a poor woman like me false--for I never did any one a wrong, and yet I am tormented by my conscience. Up to now I have never dared to say a word to the people of these parts; they are all chatter-mags, with tongues like knives. And never till now, sir, have I had any traveler here who stayed so long in the inn as you have, and to whom I could tell the history of the fifteen thousand francs----' "'My dear Madame Lepas, if there is anything in your story of a nature to compromise me,' I said, interrupting the flow of her words, 'I would not hear it for all the world.' "'You need have no fears,' said she; 'you will see.' "Her eagerness made me suspect that I was not the only person to whom my worthy landlady had communicated the secret of which I was to be the sole possessor, but I listened. "'Monsieur,' said she, 'when the Emperor sent the Spaniards here, prisoners of war and others, I was required to lodge at the charge of the Government a young Spaniard sent to Vendome on parole. Notwithstanding his parole, he had to show himself every day to the sub-prefect. He was a Spanish grandee--neither more nor less. He had a name in _os_ and _dia_, something like Bagos de Feredia. I wrote his name down in my books, and you may see it if you like. Ah! he was a handsome young fellow for a Spaniard, who are all ugly they say. He was not more than five feet two or three in height, but so well made; and he had little hands that he kept so beautifully! Ah! you should have seen them. He had as many brushes for his hands as a woman has for her toilet. He had thick, black hair, a flame in his eye, a somewhat coppery complexion, but which I admired all the same. He wore the finest linen I have ever seen, though I have had princesses to lodge here, and, among others, General Bertrand, the Duc and Duchesse d'Abrantes, Monsieur Descazes, and the King of Spain. He did not eat much, but he had such polite and amiable ways that it was impossible to owe him a grudge for that. Oh! I was very fond of him, though he did not say four words to me in a day, and it was impossible to have the least bit of talk with him; if he was spoken to, he did not answer; it is a way, a mania they all have, it would seem. "'He read his breviary like a priest, and went to mass and all the services quite regularly. And where did he post himself?--we found this out later.--Within two yards of Madame de Merret's chapel. As he took that place the very first time he entered the church, no one imagined that there was any purpose in it. Besides, he never raised his nose above his book, poor young man! And then, monsieur, of an evening he went for a walk on the hill among the ruins of the old castle. It was his only amusement, poor man; it reminded him of his native land. They say that Spain is all hills! "'One evening, a few days after he was sent here, he was out very late. I was rather uneasy when he did not come in till just on the stroke of midnight; but we all got used to his whims; he took the key of the door, and we never sat up for him. He lived in a house belonging to us in the Rue des Casernes. Well, then, one of our stable-boys told us one evening that, going down to wash the horses in the river, he fancied he had seen the Spanish Grandee swimming some little way off, just like a fish. When he came in, I told him to be careful of the weeds, and he seemed put out at having been seen in the water. "'At last, monsieur, one day, or rather one morning, we did not find him in his room; he had not come back. By hunting through his things, I found a written paper in the drawer of his table, with fifty pieces of Spanish gold of the kind they call doubloons, worth about five thousand francs; and in a little sealed box ten thousand francs worth of diamonds. The paper said that in case he should not return, he left us this money and these diamonds in trust to found masses to thank God for his escape and for his salvation. "'At that time I still had my husband, who ran off in search of him. And this is the queer part of the story: he brought back the Spaniard's clothes, which he had found under a big stone on a sort of breakwater along the river bank, nearly opposite la Grande Breteche. My husband went so early that no one saw him. After reading the letter, he burnt the clothes, and, in obedience to Count Feredia's wish, we announced that he had escaped. "'The sub-prefect set all the constabulary at his heels; but, pshaw! he was never caught. Lepas believed that the Spaniard had drowned himself. I, sir, have never thought so; I believe, on the contrary, that he had something to do with the business about Madame de Merret, seeing that Rosalie told me that the crucifix her mistress was so fond of that she had it buried with her, was made of ebony and silver; now in the early days of his stay here, Monsieur Feredia had one of ebony and silver which I never saw later.--And now, monsieur, do not you say that I need have no remorse about the Spaniard's fifteen thousand francs? Are they not really and truly mine?' "'Certainly.--But have you never tried to question Rosalie?' said I. "'Oh, to be sure I have, sir. But what is to be done? That girl is like a wall. She knows something, but it is impossible to make her talk.' "After chatting with me for a few minutes, my hostess left me a prey to vague and sinister thoughts, to romantic curiosity, and a religious dread, not unlike the deep emotion which comes upon us when we go into a dark church at night and discern a feeble light glimmering under a lofty vault--a dim figure glides across--the sweep of a gown or of a priest's cassock is audible--and we shiver! La Grande Breteche, with its rank grasses, its shuttered windows, its rusty iron-work, its locked doors, its deserted rooms, suddenly rose before me in fantastic vividness. I tried to get into the mysterious dwelling to search out the heart of this solemn story, this drama which had killed three persons. "Rosalie became in my eyes the most interesting being in Vendome. As I studied her, I detected signs of an inmost thought, in spite of the blooming health that glowed in her dimpled face. There was in her soul some element of ruth or of hope; her manner suggested a secret, like the expression of devout souls who pray in excess, or of a girl who has killed her child and for ever hears its last cry. Nevertheless, she was simple and clumsy in her ways; her vacant smile had nothing criminal in it, and you would have pronounced her innocent only from seeing the large red and blue checked kerchief that covered her stalwart bust, tucked into the tight-laced bodice of a lilac- and white-striped gown. 'No,' said I to myself, 'I will not quit Vendome without knowing the whole history of la Grande Breteche. To achieve this end, I will make love to Rosalie if it proves necessary.' "'Rosalie!' said I one evening. "'Your servant, sir?' "'You are not married?' She started a little. "'Oh! there is no lack of men if ever I take a fancy to be miserable!' she replied, laughing. She got over her agitation at once; for every woman, from the highest lady to the inn-servant inclusive, has a native presence of mind. "'Yes; you are fresh and good-looking enough never to lack lovers! But tell me, Rosalie, why did you become an inn-servant on leaving Madame de Merret? Did she not leave you some little annuity?' "'Oh yes, sir. But my place here is the best in all the town of Vendome.' "This reply was such an one as judges and attorneys call evasive. Rosalie, as it seemed to me, held in this romantic affair the place of the middle square of the chess-board: she was at the very centre of the interest and of the truth; she appeared to me to be tied into the knot of it. It was not a case for ordinary love-making; this girl contained the last chapter of a romance, and from that moment all my attentions were devoted to Rosalie. By dint of studying the girl, I observed in her, as in every woman whom we make our ruling thought, a variety of good qualities; she was clean and neat; she was handsome, I need not say; she soon was possessed of every charm that desire can lend to a woman in whatever rank of life. A fortnight after the notary's visit, one evening, or rather one morning, in the small hours, I said to Rosalie: "'Come, tell me all you know about Madame de Merret.' "'Oh!' she said, 'I will tell you; but keep the secret carefully.' "'All right, my child; I will keep all your secrets with a thief's honor, which is the most loyal known.' "'If it is all the same to you,' said she, 'I would rather it should be with your own.' "Thereupon she set her head-kerchief straight, and settled herself to tell the tale; for there is no doubt a particular attitude of confidence and security is necessary to the telling of a narrative. The best tales are told at a certain hour--just as we are all here at table. No one ever told a story well standing up, or fasting. "If I were to reproduce exactly Rosalie's diffuse eloquence, a whole volume would scarcely contain it. Now, as the event of which she gave me a confused account stands exactly midway between the notary's gossip and that of Madame Lepas, as precisely as the middle term of a rule-of-three sum stands between the first and third, I have only to relate it in as few words as may be. I shall therefore be brief. "The room at la Grande Breteche in which Madame de Merret slept was on the ground floor; a little cupboard in the wall, about four feet deep, served her to hang her dresses in. Three months before the evening of which I have to relate the events, Madame de Merret had been seriously ailing, so much so that her husband had left her to herself, and had his own bedroom on the first floor. By one of those accidents which it is impossible to foresee, he came in that evening two hours later than usual from the club, where he went to read the papers and talk politics with the residents in the neighborhood. His wife supposed him to have come in, to be in bed and asleep. But the invasion of France had been the subject of a very animated discussion; the game of billiards had waxed vehement; he had lost forty francs, an enormous sum at Vendome, where everybody is thrifty, and where social habits are restrained within the bounds of a simplicity worthy of all praise, and the foundation perhaps of a form of true happiness which no Parisian would care for. "For some time past Monsieur de Merret had been satisfied to ask Rosalie whether his wife was in bed; on the girl's replying always in the affirmative, he at once went to his own room, with the good faith that comes of habit and confidence. But this evening, on coming in, he took it into his head to go to see Madame de Merret, to tell her of his ill-luck, and perhaps to find consolation. During dinner he had observed that his wife was very becomingly dressed; he reflected as he came home from the club that his wife was certainly much better, that convalescence had improved her beauty, discovering it, as husbands discover everything, a little too late. Instead of calling Rosalie, who was in the kitchen at the moment watching the cook and the coachman playing a puzzling hand at cards, Monsieur de Merret made his way to his wife's room by the light of his lantern, which he set down at the lowest step of the stairs. His step, easy to recognize, rang under the vaulted passage. "At the instant when the gentleman turned the key to enter his wife's room, he fancied he heard the door shut of the closet of which I have spoken; but when he went in, Madame de Merret was alone, standing in front of the fireplace. The unsuspecting husband fancied that Rosalie was in the cupboard; nevertheless, a doubt, ringing in his ears like a peal of bells, put him on his guard; he looked at his wife, and read in her eyes an indescribably anxious and haunted expression. "'You are very late,' said she.--Her voice, usually so clear and sweet, struck him as being slightly husky. "Monsieur de Merret made no reply, for at this moment Rosalie came in. This was like a thunder-clap. He walked up and down the room, going from one window to another at a regular pace, his arms folded. "'Have you had bad news, or are you ill?' his wife asked him timidly, while Rosalie helped her to undress. He made no reply. "'You can go, Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret to her maid; 'I can put in my curl-papers myself.'--She scented disaster at the mere aspect of her husband's face, and wished to be alone with him. As soon as Rosalie was gone, or supposed to be gone, for she lingered a few minutes in the passage, Monsieur de Merret came and stood facing his wife, and said coldly, 'Madame, there is some one in your cupboard!' She looked at her husband calmly, and replied quite simply, 'No, monsieur.' "This 'No' wrung Monsieur de Merret's heart; he did not believe it; and yet his wife had never appeared purer or more saintly than she seemed to be at this moment. He rose to go and open the closet door. Madame de Merret took his hand, stopped him, looked at him sadly, and said in a voice of strange emotion, 'Remember, if you should find no one there, everything must be at an end between you and me.' "The extraordinary dignity of his wife's attitude filled him with deep esteem for her, and inspired him with one of those resolves which need only a grander stage to become immortal. "'No, Josephine,' he said, 'I will not open it. In either event we should be parted for ever. Listen; I know all the purity of your soul, I know you lead a saintly life, and would not commit a deadly sin to save your life.'--At these words Madame de Merret looked at her husband with a haggard stare.--'See, here is your crucifix,' he went on. 'Swear to me before God that there is no one in there; I will believe you--I will never open that door.' "Madame de Merret took up the crucifix and said, 'I swear it.' "'Louder,' said her husband; 'and repeat: "I swear before God that there is nobody in that closet."' She repeated the words without flinching. "'That will do,' said Monsieur de Merret coldly. After a moment's silence: 'You have there a fine piece of work which I never saw before,' said he, examining the crucifix of ebony and silver, very artistically wrought. "'I found it at Duvivier's; last year when that troop of Spanish prisoners came through Vendome, he bought it of a Spanish monk.' "'Indeed,' said Monsieur de Merret, hanging the crucifix on its nail; and he rang the bell. "He had to wait for Rosalie. Monsieur de Merret went forward quickly to meet her, led her into the bay of the window that looked on to the garden, and said to her in an undertone: "'I know that Gorenflot wants to marry you, that poverty alone prevents your setting up house, and that you told him you would not be his wife till he found means to become a master mason.--Well, go and fetch him; tell him to come here with his trowel and tools. Contrive to wake no one in his house but himself. His reward will be beyond your wishes. Above all, go out without saying a word--or else!' and he frowned. "Rosalie was going, and he called her back. 'Here, take my latch-key,' said he. "'Jean!' Monsieur de Merret called in a voice of thunder down the passage. Jean, who was both coachman and confidential servant, left his cards and came. "'Go to bed, all of you,' said his master, beckoning him to come close; and the gentleman added in a whisper, 'When they are all asleep--mind, _asleep_--you understand?--come down and tell me.' "Monsieur de Merret, who had never lost sight of his wife while giving his orders, quietly came back to her at the fireside, and began to tell her the details of the game of billiards and the discussion at the club. When Rosalie returned she found Monsieur and Madame de Merret conversing amiably. "Not long before this Monsieur de Merret had had new ceilings made to all the reception-rooms on the ground floor. Plaster is very scarce at Vendome; the price is enhanced by the cost of carriage; the gentleman had therefore had a considerable quantity delivered to him, knowing that he could always find purchasers for what might be left. It was this circumstance which suggested the plan he carried out. "'Gorenflot is here, sir,' said Rosalie in a whisper. "'Tell him to come in,' said her master aloud. "Madame de Merret turned paler when she saw the mason. "'Gorenflot,' said her husband, 'go and fetch some bricks from the coach-house; bring enough to wall up the door of this cupboard; you can use the plaster that is left for cement.' Then, dragging Rosalie and the workman close to him--'Listen, Gorenflot,' said he, in a low voice, 'you are to sleep here to-night; but to-morrow morning you shall have a passport to take you abroad to a place I will tell you of. I will give you six thousand francs for your journey. You must live in that town for ten years; if you find you do not like it, you may settle in another, but it must be in the same country. Go through Paris and wait there till I join you. I will there give you an agreement for six thousand francs more, to be paid to you on your return, provided you have carried out the conditions of the bargain. For that price you are to keep perfect silence as to what you have to do this night. To you, Rosalie, I will secure ten thousand francs, which will not be paid to you till your wedding day, and on condition of your marrying Gorenflot; but, to get married, you must hold your tongue. If not, no wedding gift!' "'Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret, 'come and brush my hair.' "Her husband quietly walked up and down the room, keeping an eye on the door, on the mason, and on his wife, but without any insulting display of suspicion. Gorenflot could not help making some noise. Madame de Merret seized a moment when he was unloading some bricks, and when her husband was at the other end of the room to say to Rosalie: 'My dear child, I will give you a thousand francs a year if only you will tell Gorenflot to leave a crack at the bottom.' Then she added aloud quite coolly: 'You had better help him.' "Monsieur and Madame de Merret were silent all the time while Gorenflot was walling up the door. This silence was intentional on the husband's part; he did not wish to give his wife the opportunity of saying anything with a double meaning. On Madame de Merret's side it was pride or prudence. When the wall was half built up the cunning mason took advantage of his master's back being turned to break one of the two panes in the top of the door with a blow of his pick. By this Madame de Merret understood that Rosalie had spoken to Gorenflot. They all three then saw the face of a dark, gloomy-looking man, with black hair and flaming eyes. "Before her husband turned round again the poor woman had nodded to the stranger, to whom the signal was meant to convey, 'Hope.' "At four o'clock, as the day was dawning, for it was the month of September, the work was done. The mason was placed in charge of Jean, and Monsieur de Merret slept in his wife's room. "Next morning when he got up he said with apparent carelessness, 'Oh, by the way, I must go to the Maire for the passport.' He put on his hat, took two or three steps towards the door, paused, and took the crucifix. His wife was trembling with joy. "'He will go to Duvivier's,' thought she. "As soon as he had left, Madame de Merret rang for Rosalie, and then in a terrible voice she cried: 'The pick! Bring the pick! and set to work. I saw how Gorenflot did it yesterday; we shall have time to make a gap and build it up again.' "In an instant Rosalie had brought her mistress a sort of cleaver; she, with a vehemence of which no words can give an idea, set to work to demolish the wall. She had already got out a few bricks, when, turning to deal a stronger blow than before, she saw behind her Monsieur de Merret. She fainted away. "'Lay madame on her bed,' said he coldly. "Foreseeing what would certainly happen in his absence, he had laid this trap for his wife; he had merely written to the Maire and sent for Duvivier. The jeweler arrived just as the disorder in the room had been repaired. "'Duvivier,' asked Monsieur de Merret, 'did not you buy some crucifixes of the Spaniards who passed through the town?' "'No, monsieur.' "'Very good; thank you,' said he, flashing a tiger's glare at his wife. 'Jean,' he added, turning to his confidential valet, 'you can serve my meals here in Madame de Merret's room. She is ill, and I shall not leave her till she recovers.' "The cruel man remained in his wife's room for twenty days. During the earlier time, when there was some little noise in the closet, and Josephine wanted to intercede for the dying man, he said, without allowing her to utter a word, 'You swore on the Cross that there was no one there.'" After this story all the ladies rose from table, and thus the spell under which Bianchon had held them was broken. But there were some among them who had almost shivered at the last words. ADDENDUM The following personage appears in other stories of the Human Comedy. Bianchon, Horace Father Goriot The Atheist's Mass Cesar Birotteau The Commission in Lunacy Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Government Clerks Pierrette A Study of Woman Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Honorine The Seamy Side of History The Magic Skin A Second Home A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two Brides The Muse of the Department The Imaginary Mistress The Middle Classes Cousin Betty The Country Parson In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: Another Study of Woman End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of La Grande Breteche, by Honore de Balzac Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who doe the Vervelle couple believe Grassou is the perfect match for?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: Pierre Grassou, a genre painter, lives in a small studio in the rue de Navarin. He is a hard worker and has a steady income, thanks to his pictures being sold by Elie Magus, a picture-dealer. Grassou's life is simple and quiet, and he has never had time to love. He is a bachelor and has no family. He has a notary, Cardot, who manages his finances. One day, Elie Magus brings a family, the Vervelles, to Grassou's studio to have their portraits painted. The family is wealthy and has a country house at Ville d'Avray. The father, Monsieur Vervelle, is a retired merchant who has made a fortune in the bottle trade. He is a great lover of art and has a large collection of paintings. The mother, Madame Vervelle, is a woman of fashion and has a large dowry. The daughter, Virginie, is a young woman with red hair and a beautiful face. Grassou is immediately smitten with Virginie and begins to think of marrying her. He is invited to the Vervelle's country house, where he meets the family and their friends. The family is very fond of Grassou and treats him like a member of the family. Grassou is impressed by the family's wealth and their love of art. He begins to think of himself as a great artist and a member of the aristocracy. He starts to see himself as a great painter and a master of his craft. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. He begins to think of marrying Virginie and starting a new life with her. He starts to see himself as a great artist and a great lover. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. He starts to think of marrying Virginie and starting a new life with her. He starts to see himself as a great artist and a great lover. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. Question: What is the name of the notary who manages Pierre Grassou's finances? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Their daughter, Virgine. " ]	7,903	narrativeqa	en	null	8134d2aaf4e735e59f38656a3c804171a8d1084faef2da93	Produced by John Bickers and Dagny PIERRE GRASSOU By Honore De Balzac Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley Dedication To The Lieutenant-Colonel of Artillery, Periollas, As a Testimony of the Affectionate Esteem of the Author, De Balzac PIERRE GRASSOU Whenever you have gone to take a serious look at the exhibition of works of sculpture and painting, such as it has been since the revolution of 1830, have you not been seized by a sense of uneasiness, weariness, sadness, at the sight of those long and over-crowded galleries? Since 1830, the true Salon no longer exists. The Louvre has again been taken by assault,--this time by a populace of artists who have maintained themselves in it. In other days, when the Salon presented only the choicest works of art, it conferred the highest honor on the creations there exhibited. Among the two hundred selected paintings, the public could still choose: a crown was awarded to the masterpiece by hands unseen. Eager, impassioned discussions arose about some picture. The abuse showered on Delacroix, on Ingres, contributed no less to their fame than the praises and fanaticism of their adherents. To-day, neither the crowd nor the criticism grows impassioned about the products of that bazaar. Forced to make the selection for itself, which in former days the examining jury made for it, the attention of the public is soon wearied and the exhibition closes. Before the year 1817 the pictures admitted never went beyond the first two columns of the long gallery of the old masters; but in that year, to the great astonishment of the public, they filled the whole space. Historical, high-art, genre paintings, easel pictures, landscapes, flowers, animals, and water-colors,--these eight specialties could surely not offer more than twenty pictures in one year worthy of the eyes of the public, which, indeed, cannot give its attention to a greater number of such works. The more the number of artists increases, the more careful and exacting the jury of admission ought to be. The true character of the Salon was lost as soon as it spread along the galleries. The Salon should have remained within fixed limits of inflexible proportions, where each distinct specialty could show its masterpieces only. An experience of ten years has shown the excellence of the former institution. Now, instead of a tournament, we have a mob; instead of a noble exhibition, we have a tumultuous bazaar; instead of a choice selection we have a chaotic mass. What is the result? A great artist is swamped. Decamps' "Turkish Cafe," "Children at a Fountain," "Joseph," and "The Torture," would have redounded far more to his credit if the four pictures had been exhibited in the great Salon with the hundred good pictures of that year, than his twenty pictures could, among three thousand others, jumbled together in six galleries. By some strange contradiction, ever since the doors are open to every one there has been much talk of unknown and unrecognized genius. When, twelve years earlier, Ingres' "Courtesan," and that of Sigalon, the "Medusa" of Gericault, the "Massacre of Scio" by Delacroix, the "Baptism of Henri IV." by Eugene Deveria, admitted by celebrated artists accused of jealousy, showed the world, in spite of the denials of criticism, that young and vigorous palettes existed, no such complaint was made. Now, when the veriest dauber of canvas can send in his work, the whole talk is of genius neglected! Where judgment no longer exists, there is no longer anything judged. But whatever artists may be doing now, they will come back in time to the examination and selection which presents their works to the admiration of the crowd for whom they work. Without selection by the Academy there will be no Salon, and without the Salon art may perish. Ever since the catalogue has grown into a book, many names have appeared in it which still remain in their native obscurity, in spite of the ten or a dozen pictures attached to them. Among these names perhaps the most unknown to fame is that of an artist named Pierre Grassou, coming from Fougeres, and called simply "Fougeres" among his brother-artists, who, at the present moment holds a place, as the saying is, "in the sun," and who suggested the rather bitter reflections by which this sketch of his life is introduced,--reflections that are applicable to many other individuals of the tribe of artists. In 1832, Fougeres lived in the rue de Navarin, on the fourth floor of one of those tall, narrow houses which resemble the obelisk of Luxor, and possess an alley, a dark little stairway with dangerous turnings, three windows only on each floor, and, within the building, a courtyard, or, to speak more correctly, a square pit or well. Above the three or four rooms occupied by Grassou of Fougeres was his studio, looking over to Montmartre. This studio was painted in brick-color, for a background; the floor was tinted brown and well frotted; each chair was furnished with a bit of carpet bound round the edges; the sofa, simple enough, was clean as that in the bedroom of some worthy bourgeoise. All these things denoted the tidy ways of a small mind and the thrift of a poor man. A bureau was there, in which to put away the studio implements, a table for breakfast, a sideboard, a secretary; in short, all the articles necessary to a painter, neatly arranged and very clean. The stove participated in this Dutch cleanliness, which was all the more visible because the pure and little changing light from the north flooded with its cold clear beams the vast apartment. Fougeres, being merely a genre painter, does not need the immense machinery and outfit which ruin historical painters; he has never recognized within himself sufficient faculty to attempt high-art, and he therefore clings to easel painting. At the beginning of the month of December of that year, a season at which the bourgeois of Paris conceive, periodically, the burlesque idea of perpetuating their forms and figures already too bulky in themselves, Pierre Grassou, who had risen early, prepared his palette, and lighted his stove, was eating a roll steeped in milk, and waiting till the frost on his windows had melted sufficiently to let the full light in. The weather was fine and dry. At this moment the artist, who ate his bread with that patient, resigned air that tells so much, heard and recognized the step of a man who had upon his life the influence such men have on the lives of nearly all artists,--the step of Elie Magus, a picture-dealer, a usurer in canvas. The next moment Elie Magus entered and found the painter in the act of beginning his work in the tidy studio. "How are you, old rascal?" said the painter. Fougeres had the cross of the Legion of honor, and Elie Magus bought his pictures at two and three hundred francs apiece, so he gave himself the airs of a fine artist. "Business is very bad," replied Elie. "You artists have such pretensions! You talk of two hundred francs when you haven't put six sous' worth of color on a canvas. However, you are a good fellow, I'll say that. You are steady; and I've come to put a good bit of business in your way." "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes," said Fougeres. "Do you know Latin?" "No." "Well, it means that the Greeks never proposed a good bit of business to the Trojans without getting their fair share of it. In the olden time they used to say, 'Take my horse.' Now we say, 'Take my bear.' Well, what do you want, Ulysses-Lagingeole-Elie Magus?" These words will give an idea of the mildness and wit with which Fougeres employed what painters call studio fun. "Well, I don't deny that you are to paint me two pictures for nothing." "Oh! oh!" "I'll leave you to do it, or not; I don't ask it. But you're an honest man." "Come, out with it!" "Well, I'm prepared to bring you a father, mother, and only daughter." "All for me?" "Yes--they want their portraits taken. These bourgeois--they are crazy about art--have never dared to enter a studio. The girl has a 'dot' of a hundred thousand francs. You can paint all three,--perhaps they'll turn out family portraits." And with that the old Dutch log of wood who passed for a man and who was called Elie Magus, interrupted himself to laugh an uncanny laugh which frightened the painter. He fancied he heard Mephistopheles talking marriage. "Portraits bring five hundred francs apiece," went on Elie; "so you can very well afford to paint me three pictures." "True for you!" cried Fougeres, gleefully. "And if you marry the girl, you won't forget me." "Marry! I?" cried Pierre Grassou,--"I, who have a habit of sleeping alone; and get up at cock-crow, and all my life arranged--" "One hundred thousand francs," said Magus, "and a quiet girl, full of golden tones, as you call 'em, like a Titian." "What class of people are they?" "Retired merchants; just now in love with art; have a country-house at Ville d'Avray, and ten or twelve thousand francs a year." "What business did they do?" "Bottles." "Now don't say that word; it makes me think of corks and sets my teeth on edge." "Am I to bring them?" "Three portraits--I could put them in the Salon; I might go in for portrait-painting. Well, yes!" Old Elie descended the staircase to go in search of the Vervelle family. To know to what extend this proposition would act upon the painter, and what effect would be produced upon him by the Sieur and Dame Vervelle, adorned by their only daughter, it is necessary to cast an eye on the anterior life of Pierre Grassou of Fougeres. When a pupil, Fougeres had studied drawing with Servin, who was thought a great draughtsman in academic circles. After that he went to Schinner's, to learn the secrets of the powerful and magnificent color which distinguishes that master. Master and scholars were all discreet; at any rate Pierre discovered none of their secrets. From there he went to Sommervieux' atelier, to acquire that portion of the art of painting which is called composition, but composition was shy and distant to him. Then he tried to snatch from Decamps and Granet the mystery of their interior effects. The two masters were not robbed. Finally Fougeres ended his education with Duval-Lecamus. During these studied and these different transformations Fougeres' habits and ways of life were tranquil and moral to a degree that furnished matter of jesting to the various ateliers where he sojourned; but everywhere he disarmed his comrades by his modesty and by the patience and gentleness of a lamblike nature. The masters, however, had no sympathy for the good lad; masters prefer bright fellows, eccentric spirits, droll or fiery, or else gloomy and deeply reflective, which argue future talent. Everything about Pierre Grassou smacked of mediocrity. His nickname "Fougeres" (that of the painter in the play of "The Eglantine") was the source of much teasing; but, by force of circumstances, he accepted the name of the town in which he had first seen light. Grassou of Fougeres resembled his name. Plump and of medium height, he had a dull complexion, brown eyes, black hair, a turned-up nose, rather wide mouth, and long ears. His gentle, passive, and resigned air gave a certain relief to these leading features of a physiognomy that was full of health, but wanting in action. This young man, born to be a virtuous bourgeois, having left his native place and come to Paris to be clerk with a color-merchant (formerly of Mayenne and a distant connection of the Orgemonts) made himself a painter simply by the fact of an obstinacy which constitutes the Breton character. What he suffered, the manner in which he lived during those years of study, God only knows. He suffered as much as great men suffer when they are hounded by poverty and hunted like wild beasts by the pack of commonplace minds and by troops of vanities athirst for vengeance. As soon as he thought himself able to fly on his own wings, Fougeres took a studio in the upper part of the rue des Martyrs, where he began to delve his way. He made his first appearance in 1819. The first picture he presented to the jury of the Exhibition at the Louvre represented a village wedding rather laboriously copied from Greuze's picture. It was rejected. When Fougeres heard of the fatal decision, he did not fall into one of those fits of epileptic self-love to which strong natures give themselves up, and which sometimes end in challenges sent to the director or the secretary of the Museum, or even by threats of assassination. Fougeres quietly fetched his canvas, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and brought it home, vowing in his heart that he would still make himself a great painter. He placed his picture on the easel, and went to one of his former masters, a man of immense talent,--to Schinner, a kind and patient artist, whose triumph at that year's Salon was complete. Fougeres asked him to come and criticise the rejected work. The great painter left everything and went at once. When poor Fougeres had placed the work before him Schinner, after a glance, pressed Fougeres' hand. "You are a fine fellow," he said; "you've a heart of gold, and I must not deceive you. Listen; you are fulfilling all the promises you made in the studios. When you find such things as that at the tip of your brush, my good Fougeres, you had better leave colors with Brullon, and not take the canvas of others. Go home early, put on your cotton night-cap, and be in bed by nine o'clock. The next morning early go to some government office, ask for a place, and give up art." "My dear friend," said Fougeres, "my picture is already condemned; it is not a verdict that I want of you, but the cause of that verdict." "Well--you paint gray and sombre; you see nature being a crape veil; your drawing is heavy, pasty; your composition is a medley of Greuze, who only redeemed his defects by the qualities which you lack." While detailing these faults of the picture Schinner saw on Fougeres' face so deep an expression of sadness that he carried him off to dinner and tried to console him. The next morning at seven o'clock Fougeres was at his easel working over the rejected picture; he warmed the colors; he made the corrections suggested by Schinner, he touched up his figures. Then, disgusted with such patching, he carried the picture to Elie Magus. Elie Magus, a sort of Dutch-Flemish-Belgian, had three reasons for being what he became,--rich and avaricious. Coming last from Bordeaux, he was just starting in Paris, selling old pictures and living on the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Fougeres, who relied on his palette to go to the baker's, bravely ate bread and nuts, or bread and milk, or bread and cherries, or bread and cheese, according to the seasons. Elie Magus, to whom Pierre offered his first picture, eyed it for some time and then gave him fifteen francs. "With fifteen francs a year coming in, and a thousand francs for expenses," said Fougeres, smiling, "a man will go fast and far." Elie Magus made a gesture; he bit his thumbs, thinking that he might have had that picture for five francs. For several days Pierre walked down from the rue des Martyrs and stationed himself at the corner of the boulevard opposite to Elie's shop, whence his eye could rest upon his picture, which did not obtain any notice from the eyes of the passers along the street. At the end of a week the picture disappeared; Fougeres walked slowly up and approached the dealer's shop in a lounging manner. The Jew was at his door. "Well, I see you have sold my picture." "No, here it is," said Magus; "I've framed it, to show it to some one who fancies he knows about painting." Fougeres had not the heart to return to the boulevard. He set about another picture, and spent two months upon it,--eating mouse's meals and working like a galley-slave. One evening he went to the boulevard, his feet leading him fatefully to the dealer's shop. His picture was not to be seen. "I've sold your picture," said Elie Magus, seeing him. "For how much?" "I got back what I gave and a small interest. Make me some Flemish interiors, a lesson of anatomy, landscapes, and such like, and I'll buy them of you," said Elie. Fougeres would fain have taken old Magus in his arms; he regarded him as a father. He went home with joy in his heart; the great painter Schinner was mistaken after all! In that immense city of Paris there were some hearts that beat in unison with Pierre's; his talent was understood and appreciated. The poor fellow of twenty-seven had the innocence of a lad of sixteen. Another man, one of those distrustful, surly artists, would have noticed the diabolical look on Elie's face and seen the twitching of the hairs of his beard, the irony of his moustache, and the movement of his shoulders which betrayed the satisfaction of Walter Scott's Jew in swindling a Christian. Fougeres marched along the boulevard in a state of joy which gave to his honest face an expression of pride. He was like a schoolboy protecting a woman. He met Joseph Bridau, one of his comrades, and one of those eccentric geniuses destined to fame and sorrow. Joseph Bridau, who had, to use his own expression, a few sous in his pocket, took Fougeres to the Opera. But Fougeres didn't see the ballet, didn't hear the music; he was imagining pictures, he was painting. He left Joseph in the middle of the evening, and ran home to make sketches by lamp-light. He invented thirty pictures, all reminiscence, and felt himself a man of genius. The next day he bought colors, and canvases of various dimensions; he piled up bread and cheese on his table, he filled a water-pot with water, he laid in a provision of wood for his stove; then, to use a studio expression, he dug at his pictures. He hired several models and Magus lent him stuffs. After two months' seclusion the Breton had finished four pictures. Again he asked counsel of Schinner, this time adding Bridau to the invitation. The two painters saw in three of these pictures a servile imitation of Dutch landscapes and interiors by Metzu, in the fourth a copy of Rembrandt's "Lesson of Anatomy." "Still imitating!" said Schinner. "Ah! Fougeres can't manage to be original." "You ought to do something else than painting," said Bridau. "What?" asked Fougeres. "Fling yourself into literature." Fougeres lowered his head like a sheep when it rains. Then he asked and obtained certain useful advice, and retouched his pictures before taking them to Elie Magus. Elie paid him twenty-five francs apiece. At that price of course Fougeres earned nothing; neither did he lose, thanks to his sober living. He made a few excursions to the boulevard to see what became of his pictures, and there he underwent a singular hallucination. His neat, clean paintings, hard as tin and shiny as porcelain, were covered with a sort of mist; they looked like old daubs. Magus was out, and Pierre could obtain no information on this phenomenon. He fancied something was wrong with his eyes. The painter went back to his studio and made more pictures. After seven years of continued toil Fougeres managed to compose and execute quite passable work. He did as well as any artist of the second class. Elie bought and sold all the paintings of the poor Breton, who earned laboriously about two thousand francs a year while he spent but twelve hundred. At the Exhibition of 1829, Leon de Lora, Schinner, and Bridau, who all three occupied a great position and were, in fact, at the head of the art movement, were filled with pity for the perseverance and the poverty of their old friend; and they caused to be admitted into the grand salon of the Exhibition, a picture by Fougeres. This picture, powerful in interest but derived from Vigneron as to sentiment and from Dubufe's first manner as to execution, represented a young man in prison, whose hair was being cut around the nape of the neck. On one side was a priest, on the other two women, one old, one young, in tears. A sheriff's clerk was reading aloud a document. On a wretched table was a meal, untouched. The light came in through the bars of a window near the ceiling. It was a picture fit to make the bourgeois shudder, and the bourgeois shuddered. Fougeres had simply been inspired by the masterpiece of Gerard Douw; he had turned the group of the "Dropsical Woman" toward the window, instead of presenting it full front. The condemned man was substituted for the dying woman--same pallor, same glance, same appeal to God. Instead of the Dutch doctor, he had painted the cold, official figure of the sheriff's clerk attired in black; but he had added an old woman to the young one of Gerard Douw. The cruelly simple and good-humored face of the executioner completed and dominated the group. This plagiarism, very cleverly disguised, was not discovered. The catalogue contained the following:-- 510. Grassou de Fougeres (Pierre), rue de Navarin, 2. Death-toilet of a Chouan, condemned to execution in 1809. Though wholly second-rate, the picture had immense success, for it recalled the affair of the "chauffeurs," of Mortagne. A crowd collected every day before the now fashionable canvas; even Charles X. paused to look at it. "Madame," being told of the patient life of the poor Breton, became enthusiastic over him. The Duc d'Orleans asked the price of the picture. The clergy told Madame la Dauphine that the subject was suggestive of good thoughts; and there was, in truth, a most satisfying religious tone about it. Monseigneur the Dauphin admired the dust on the stone-floor,--a huge blunder, by the way, for Fougeres had painted greenish tones suggestive of mildew along the base of the walls. "Madame" finally bought the picture for a thousand francs, and the Dauphin ordered another like it. Charles X. gave the cross of the Legion of honor to this son of a peasant who had fought for the royal cause in 1799. (Joseph Bridau, the great painter, was not yet decorated.) The minister of the Interior ordered two church pictures of Fougeres. This Salon of 1829 was to Pierre Grassou his whole fortune, fame, future, and life. Be original, invent, and you die by inches; copy, imitate, and you'll live. After this discovery of a gold mine, Grassou de Fougeres obtained his benefit of the fatal principle to which society owes the wretched mediocrities to whom are intrusted in these days the election of leaders in all social classes; who proceed, naturally, to elect themselves and who wage a bitter war against all true talent. The principle of election applied indiscriminately is false, and France will some day abandon it. Nevertheless the modesty, simplicity, and genuine surprise of the good and gentle Fougeres silenced all envy and all recriminations. Besides, he had on his side all of his clan who had succeeded, and all who expected to succeed. Some persons, touched by the persistent energy of a man whom nothing had discouraged, talked of Domenichino and said:-- "Perseverance in the arts should be rewarded. Grassou hasn't stolen his successes; he has delved for ten years, the poor dear man!" That exclamation of "poor dear man!" counted for half in the support and the congratulations which the painter received. Pity sets up mediocrities as envy pulls down great talents, and in equal numbers. The newspapers, it is true, did not spare criticism, but the chevalier Fougeres digested them as he had digested the counsel of his friends, with angelic patience. Possessing, by this time, fifteen thousand francs, laboriously earned, he furnished an apartment and studio in the rue de Navarin, and painted the picture ordered by Monseigneur the Dauphin, also the two church pictures, and delivered them at the time agreed on, with a punctuality that was very discomforting to the exchequer of the ministry, accustomed to a different course of action. But--admire the good fortune of men who are methodical--if Grassou, belated with his work, had been caught by the revolution of July he would not have got his money. By the time he was thirty-seven Fougeres had manufactured for Elie Magus some two hundred pictures, all of them utterly unknown, by the help of which he had attained to that satisfying manner, that point of execution before which the true artist shrugs his shoulders and the bourgeoisie worships. Fougeres was dear to friends for rectitude of ideas, for steadiness of sentiment, absolute kindliness, and great loyalty; though they had no esteem for his palette, they loved the man who held it. "What a misfortune it is that Fougeres has the vice of painting!" said his comrades. But for all this, Grassou gave excellent counsel, like those feuilletonists incapable of writing a book who know very well where a book is wanting. There was this difference, however, between literary critics and Fougeres; he was eminently sensitive to beauties; he felt them, he acknowledged them, and his advice was instinct with a spirit of justice that made the justness of his remarks acceptable. After the revolution of July, Fougeres sent about ten pictures a year to the Salon, of which the jury admitted four or five. He lived with the most rigid economy, his household being managed solely by an old charwoman. For all amusement he visited his friends, he went to see works of art, he allowed himself a few little trips about France, and he planned to go to Switzerland in search of inspiration. This detestable artist was an excellent citizen; he mounted guard duly, went to reviews, and paid his rent and provision-bills with bourgeois punctuality. Having lived all his life in toil and poverty, he had never had the time to love. Poor and a bachelor, until now he did not desire to complicate his simple life. Incapable of devising any means of increasing his little fortune, he carried, every three months, to his notary, Cardot, his quarterly earnings and economies. When the notary had received about three thousand francs he invested them in some first mortgage, the interest of which he drew himself and added to the quarterly payments made to him by Fougeres. The painter was awaiting the fortunate moment when his property thus laid by would give him the imposing income of two thousand francs, to allow himself the otium cum dignitate of the artist and paint pictures; but oh! what pictures! true pictures! each a finished picture! chouette, Koxnoff, chocnosoff! His future, his dreams of happiness, the superlative of his hopes--do you know what it was? To enter the Institute and obtain the grade of officer of the Legion of honor; to side down beside Schinner and Leon de Lora, to reach the Academy before Bridau, to wear a rosette in his buttonhole! What a dream! It is only commonplace men who think of everything. Hearing the sound of several steps on the staircase, Fougeres rubbed up his hair, buttoned his jacket of bottle-green velveteen, and was not a little amazed to see, entering his doorway, a simpleton face vulgarly called in studio slang a "melon." This fruit surmounted a pumpkin, clothed in blue cloth adorned with a bunch of tintinnabulating baubles. The melon puffed like a walrus; the pumpkin advanced on turnips, improperly called legs. A true painter would have turned the little bottle-vendor off at once, assuring him that he didn't paint vegetables. This painter looked at his client without a smile, for Monsieur Vervelle wore a three-thousand-franc diamond in the bosom of his shirt. Fougeres glanced at Magus and said: "There's fat in it!" using a slang term then much in vogue in the studios. Hearing those words Monsieur Vervelle frowned. The worthy bourgeois drew after him another complication of vegetables in the persons of his wife and daughter. The wife had a fine veneer of mahogany on her face, and in figure she resembled a cocoa-nut, surmounted by a head and tied in around the waist. She pivoted on her legs, which were tap-rooted, and her gown was yellow with black stripes. She proudly exhibited unutterable mittens on a puffy pair of hands; the plumes of a first-class funeral floated on an over-flowing bonnet; laces adorned her shoulders, as round behind as they were before; consequently, the spherical form of the cocoa-nut was perfect. Her feet, of a kind that painters call abatis, rose above the varnished leather of the shoes in a swelling that was some inches high. How the feet were ever got into the shoes, no one knows. Following these vegetable parents was a young asparagus, who presented a tiny head with smoothly banded hair of the yellow-carroty tone that a Roman adores, long, stringy arms, a fairly white skin with reddish spots upon it, large innocent eyes, and white lashes, scarcely any brows, a leghorn bonnet bound with white satin and adorned with two honest bows of the same satin, hands virtuously red, and the feet of her mother. The faces of these three beings wore, as they looked round the studio, an air of happiness which bespoke in them a respectable enthusiasm for Art. "So it is you, monsieur, who are going to take our likenesses?" said the father, assuming a jaunty air. "Yes, monsieur," replied Grassou. "Vervelle, he has the cross!" whispered the wife to the husband while the painter's back was turned. "Should I be likely to have our portraits painted by an artist who wasn't decorated?" returned the former bottle-dealer. Elie Magus here bowed to the Vervelle family and went away. Grassou accompanied him to the landing. "There's no one but you who would fish up such whales." "One hundred thousand francs of 'dot'!" "Yes, but what a family!" "Three hundred thousand francs of expectations, a house in the rue Boucherat, and a country-house at Ville d'Avray!" "Bottles and corks! bottles and corks!" said the painter; "they set my teeth on edge." "Safe from want for the rest of your days," said Elie Magus as he departed. That idea entered the head of Pierre Grassou as the daylight had burst into his garret that morning. While he posed the father of the young person, he thought the bottle-dealer had a good countenance, and he admired the face full of violent tones. The mother and daughter hovered about the easel, marvelling at all his preparations; they evidently thought him a demigod. This visible admiration pleased Fougeres. The golden calf threw upon the family its fantastic reflections. "You must earn lots of money; but of course you don't spend it as you get it," said the mother. "No, madame," replied the painter; "I don't spend it; I have not the means to amuse myself. My notary invests my money; he knows what I have; as soon as I have taken him the money I never think of it again." "I've always been told," cried old Vervelle, "that artists were baskets with holes in them." "Who is your notary--if it is not indiscreet to ask?" said Madame Vervelle. "A good fellow, all round," replied Grassou. "His name is Cardot." "Well, well! if that isn't a joke!" exclaimed Vervelle. "Cardot is our notary too." "Take care! don't move," said the painter. "Do pray hold still, Antenor," said the wife. "If you move about you'll make monsieur miss; you should just see him working, and then you'd understand." "Oh! why didn't you have me taught the arts?" said Mademoiselle Vervelle to her parents. "Virginie," said her mother, "a young person ought not to learn certain things. When you are married--well, till then, keep quiet." During this first sitting the Vervelle family became almost intimate with the worthy artist. They were to come again two days later. As they went away the father told Virginie to walk in front; but in spite of this separation, she overheard the following words, which naturally awakened her curiosity. "Decorated--thirty-seven years old--an artist who gets orders--puts his money with our notary. We'll consult Cardot. Hein! Madame de Fougeres! not a bad name--doesn't look like a bad man either! One might prefer a merchant; but before a merchant retires from business one can never know what one's daughter may come to; whereas an economical artist--and then you know we love Art--Well, we'll see!" While the Vervelle family discussed Pierre Grassou, Pierre Grassou discussed in his own mind the Vervelle family. He found it impossible to stay peacefully in his studio, so he took a walk on the boulevard, and looked at all the red-haired women who passed him. He made a series of the oddest reasonings to himself: gold was the handsomest of metals; a tawny yellow represented gold; the Romans were fond of red-haired women, and he turned Roman, etc. After two years of marriage what man would ever care about the color of his wife's hair? Beauty fades,--but ugliness remains! Money is one-half of all happiness. That night when he went to bed the painter had come to think Virginie Vervelle charming. When the three Vervelles arrived on the day of the second sitting the artist received them with smiles. The rascal had shaved and put on clean linen; he had also arranged his hair in a pleasing manner, and chosen a very becoming pair of trousers and red leather slippers with pointed toes. The family replied with smiles as flattering as those of the artist. Virginie became the color of her hair, lowered her eyes, and turned aside her head to look at the sketches. Pierre Grassou thought these little affectations charming, Virginie had such grace; happily she didn't look like her father or her mother; but whom did she look like? During this sitting there were little skirmishes between the family and the painter, who had the audacity to call pere Vervelle witty. This flattery brought the family on the double-quick to the heart of the artist; he gave a drawing to the daughter, and a sketch to the mother. "What! for nothing?" they said. Pierre Grassou could not help smiling. "You shouldn't give away your pictures in that way; they are money," said old Vervelle. At the third sitting pere Vervelle mentioned a fine gallery of pictures which he had in his country-house at Ville d'Avray--Rubens, Gerard Douw, Mieris, Terburg, Rembrandt, Titian, Paul Potter, etc. "Monsieur Vervelle has been very extravagant," said Madame Vervelle, ostentatiously. "He has over one hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures." "I love Art," said the former bottle-dealer. When Madame Vervelle's portrait was begun that of her husband was nearly finished, and the enthusiasm of the family knew no bounds. The notary had spoken in the highest praise of the painter. Pierre Grassou was, he said, one of the most honest fellows on earth; he had laid by thirty-six thousand francs; his days of poverty were over; he now saved about ten thousand francs a year and capitalized the interest; in short, he was incapable of making a woman unhappy. This last remark had enormous weight in the scales. Vervelle's friends now heard of nothing but the celebrated painter Fougeres. The day on which Fougeres began the portrait of Mademoiselle Virginie, he was virtually son-in-law to the Vervelle family. The three Vervelles bloomed out in this studio, which they were now accustomed to consider as one of their residences; there was to them an inexplicable attraction in this clean, neat, pretty, and artistic abode. Abyssus abyssum, the commonplace attracts the commonplace. Toward the end of the sitting the stairway shook, the door was violently thrust open by Joseph Bridau; he came like a whirlwind, his hair flying. He showed his grand haggard face as he looked about him, casting everywhere the lightning of his glance; then he walked round the whole studio, and returned abruptly to Grassou, pulling his coat together over the gastric region, and endeavouring, but in vain, to button it, the button mould having escaped from its capsule of cloth. "Wood is dear," he said to Grassou. "Ah!" "The British are after me" (slang term for creditors) "Gracious! do you paint such things as that?" "Hold your tongue!" "Ah! to be sure, yes." The Vervelle family, extremely shocked by this extraordinary apparition, passed from its ordinary red to a cherry-red, two shades deeper. "Brings in, hey?" continued Joseph. "Any shot in your locker?" "How much do you want?" "Five hundred. I've got one of those bull-dog dealers after me, and if the fellow once gets his teeth in he won't let go while there's a bit of me left. What a crew!" "I'll write you a line for my notary." "Have you got a notary?" "Yes." "That explains to me why you still make cheeks with pink tones like a perfumer's sign." Grassou could not help coloring, for Virginie was sitting. "Take Nature as you find her," said the great painter, going on with his lecture. "Mademoiselle is red-haired. Well, is that a sin? All things are magnificent in painting. Put some vermillion on your palette, and warm up those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots; come, butter it well in. Do you pretend to have more sense than Nature?" "Look here," said Fougeres, "take my place while I go and write that note." Vervelle rolled to the table and whispered in Grassou's ear:-- "Won't that country lout spoilt it?" "If he would only paint the portrait of your Virginie it would be worth a thousand times more than mine," replied Fougeres, vehemently. Hearing that reply the bourgeois beat a quiet retreat to his wife, who was stupefied by the invasion of this ferocious animal, and very uneasy at his co-operation in her daughter's portrait. "Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette, and taking the note. "I won't thank you. I can go back now to d'Arthez' chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora the tops of the doors--masterpieces! Come and see us." And off he went without taking leave, having had enough of looking at Virginie. "Who is that man?" asked Madame Vervelle. "A great artist," answered Grassou. There was silence for a moment. "Are you quite sure," said Virginie, "that he has done no harm to my portrait? He frightened me." "He has only done it good," replied Grassou. "Well, if he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist like you," said Madame Vervelle. The ways of genius had ruffled up these orderly bourgeois. The phase of autumn so pleasantly named "Saint Martin's summer" was just beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in presence of a man of genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an invitation to come out to his country-house on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how little attraction a plain bourgeois family could offer to an artist. "You artists," he continued, "want emotions, great scenes, and witty talk; but you'll find good wines, and I rely on my collection of pictures to compensate an artist like you for the bore of dining with mere merchants." This form of idolatry, which stroked his innocent self-love, was charming to our poor Pierre Grassou, so little accustomed to such compliments. The honest artist, that atrocious mediocrity, that heart of gold, that loyal soul, that stupid draughtsman, that worthy fellow, decorated by royalty itself with the Legion of honor, put himself under arms to go out to Ville d'Avray and enjoy the last fine days of the year. The painter went modestly by public conveyance, and he could not but admire the beautiful villa of the bottle-dealer, standing in a park of five acres at the summit of Ville d'Avray, commanding a noble view of the landscape. Marry Virginie, and have that beautiful villa some day for his own! He was received by the Vervelles with an enthusiasm, a joy, a kindliness, a frank bourgeois absurdity which confounded him. It was indeed a day of triumph. The prospective son-in-law was marched about the grounds on the nankeen-colored paths, all raked as they should be for the steps of so great a man. The trees themselves looked brushed and combed, and the lawns had just been mown. The pure country air wafted to the nostrils a most enticing smell of cooking. All things about the mansion seemed to say: "We have a great artist among us." Little old Vervelle himself rolled like an apple through his park, the daughter meandered like an eel, the mother followed with dignified step. These three beings never let go for one moment of Pierre Grassou for seven hours. After dinner, the length of which equalled its magnificence, Monsieur and Madame Vervelle reached the moment of their grand theatrical effect,--the opening of the picture gallery illuminated by lamps, the reflections of which were managed with the utmost care. Three neighbours, also retired merchants, an old uncle (from whom were expectations), an elderly Demoiselle Vervelle, and a number of other guests invited to be present at this ovation to a great artist followed Grassou into the picture gallery, all curious to hear his opinion of the famous collection of pere Vervelle, who was fond of oppressing them with the fabulous value of his paintings. The bottle-merchant seemed to have the idea of competing with King Louis-Philippe and the galleries of Versailles. The pictures, magnificently framed, each bore labels on which was read in black letters on a gold ground: Rubens Dance of fauns and nymphs Rembrandt Interior of a dissecting room. The physician van Tromp instructing his pupils. In all, there were one hundred and fifty pictures, varnished and dusted. Some were covered with green baize curtains which were not undrawn in presence of young ladies. Pierre Grassou stood with arms pendent, gaping mouth, and no word upon his lips as he recognized half his own pictures in these works of art. He was Rubens, he was Rembrandt, Mieris, Metzu, Paul Potter, Gerard Douw! He was twenty great masters all by himself. "What is the matter? You've turned pale!" "Daughter, a glass of water! quick!" cried Madame Vervelle. The painter took pere Vervelle by the button of his coat and led him to a corner on pretence of looking at a Murillo. Spanish pictures were then the rage. "You bought your pictures from Elie Magus?" "Yes, all originals." "Between ourselves, tell me what he made you pay for those I shall point out to you." Together they walked round the gallery. The guests were amazed at the gravity in which the artist proceeded, in company with the host, to examine each picture. "Three thousand francs," said Vervelle in a whisper, as they reached the last, "but I tell everybody forty thousand." "Forty thousand for a Titian!" said the artist, aloud. "Why, it is nothing at all!" "Didn't I tell you," said Vervelle, "that I had three hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures?" "I painted those pictures," said Pierre Grassou in Vervelle's ear, "and I sold them one by one to Elie Magus for less than ten thousand francs the whole lot." "Prove it to me," said the bottle-dealer, "and I double my daughter's 'dot,' for if it is so, you are Rubens, Rembrandt, Titian, Gerard Douw!" "And Magus is a famous picture-dealer!" said the painter, who now saw the meaning of the misty and aged look imparted to his pictures in Elie's shop, and the utility of the subjects the picture-dealer had required of him. Far from losing the esteem of his admiring bottle-merchant, Monsieur de Fougeres (for so the family persisted in calling Pierre Grassou) advanced so much that when the portraits were finished he presented them gratuitously to his father-in-law, his mother-in-law and his wife. At the present day, Pierre Grassou, who never misses exhibiting at the Salon, passes in bourgeois regions for a fine portrait-painter. He earns some twenty thousand francs a year and spoils a thousand francs' worth of canvas. His wife has six thousand francs a year in dowry, and he lives with his father-in-law. The Vervelles and the Grassous, who agree delightfully, keep a carriage, and are the happiest people on earth. Pierre Grassou never emerges from the bourgeois circle, in which he is considered one of the greatest artists of the period. Not a family portrait is painted between the barrier du Trone and the rue du Temple that is not done by this great painter; none of them costs less than five hundred francs. The great reason which the bourgeois families have for employing him is this:-- "Say what you will of him, he lays by twenty thousand francs a year with his notary." As Grassou took a creditable part on the occasion of the riots of May 12th he was appointed an officer of the Legion of honor. He is a major in the National Guard. The Museum of Versailles felt it incumbent to order a battle-piece of so excellent a citizen, who thereupon walked about Paris to meet his old comrades and have the happiness of saying to them:-- "The King has given me an order for the Museum of Versailles." Madame de Fougeres adores her husband, to whom she has presented two children. This painter, a good father and a good husband, is unable to eradicate from his heart a fatal thought, namely, that artists laugh at his work; that his name is a term of contempt in the studios; and that the feuilletons take no notice of his pictures. But he still works on; he aims for the Academy, where, undoubtedly, he will enter. And--oh! vengeance which dilates his heart!--he buys the pictures of celebrated artists who are pinched for means, and he substitutes these true works of arts that are not his own for the wretched daubs in the collection at Ville d'Avray. There are many mediocrities more aggressive and more mischievous than that of Pierre Grassou, who is, moreover, anonymously benevolent and truly obliging. ADDENDUM The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. Bridau, Joseph The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Start in Life Modeste Mignon Another Study of Woman Letters of Two Brides Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis Cardot (Parisian notary) The Muse of the Department A Man of Business Jealousies of a Country Town The Middle Classes Cousin Pons Grassou, Pierre A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Betty The Middle Classes Cousin Pons Lora, Leon de The Unconscious Humorists A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Honorine Cousin Betty Beatrix Magus, Elie The Vendetta A Marriage Settlement A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Pons Schinner, Hippolyte The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Albert Savarus The Government Clerks Modeste Mignon The Imaginary Mistress The Unconscious Humorists End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pierre Grassou, by Honore de Balzac Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who does Vervelle want his daughter to marry?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: Pierre Grassou, a genre painter, lives in a small studio in the rue de Navarin. He is a hard worker and has a steady income, thanks to his pictures being sold by Elie Magus, a picture-dealer. Grassou's life is simple and quiet, and he has never had time to love. He is a bachelor and has no family. He has a notary, Cardot, who manages his finances. One day, Elie Magus brings a family, the Vervelles, to Grassou's studio to have their portraits painted. The family is wealthy and has a country house at Ville d'Avray. The father, Monsieur Vervelle, is a retired merchant who has made a fortune in the bottle trade. He is a great lover of art and has a large collection of paintings. The mother, Madame Vervelle, is a woman of fashion and has a large dowry. The daughter, Virginie, is a young woman with red hair and a beautiful face. Grassou is immediately smitten with Virginie and begins to think of marrying her. He is invited to the Vervelle's country house, where he meets the family and their friends. The family is very fond of Grassou and treats him like a member of the family. Grassou is impressed by the family's wealth and their love of art. He begins to think of himself as a great artist and a member of the aristocracy. He starts to see himself as a great painter and a master of his craft. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. He begins to think of marrying Virginie and starting a new life with her. He starts to see himself as a great artist and a great lover. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. He starts to think of marrying Virginie and starting a new life with her. He starts to see himself as a great artist and a great lover. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. Question: What is the name of the notary who manages Pierre Grassou's finances? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Grassou" ]	7,899	narrativeqa	en	null	321a85aa34669657c041d72547da9f30764447d789bf0e2d	Produced by John Bickers and Dagny PIERRE GRASSOU By Honore De Balzac Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley Dedication To The Lieutenant-Colonel of Artillery, Periollas, As a Testimony of the Affectionate Esteem of the Author, De Balzac PIERRE GRASSOU Whenever you have gone to take a serious look at the exhibition of works of sculpture and painting, such as it has been since the revolution of 1830, have you not been seized by a sense of uneasiness, weariness, sadness, at the sight of those long and over-crowded galleries? Since 1830, the true Salon no longer exists. The Louvre has again been taken by assault,--this time by a populace of artists who have maintained themselves in it. In other days, when the Salon presented only the choicest works of art, it conferred the highest honor on the creations there exhibited. Among the two hundred selected paintings, the public could still choose: a crown was awarded to the masterpiece by hands unseen. Eager, impassioned discussions arose about some picture. The abuse showered on Delacroix, on Ingres, contributed no less to their fame than the praises and fanaticism of their adherents. To-day, neither the crowd nor the criticism grows impassioned about the products of that bazaar. Forced to make the selection for itself, which in former days the examining jury made for it, the attention of the public is soon wearied and the exhibition closes. Before the year 1817 the pictures admitted never went beyond the first two columns of the long gallery of the old masters; but in that year, to the great astonishment of the public, they filled the whole space. Historical, high-art, genre paintings, easel pictures, landscapes, flowers, animals, and water-colors,--these eight specialties could surely not offer more than twenty pictures in one year worthy of the eyes of the public, which, indeed, cannot give its attention to a greater number of such works. The more the number of artists increases, the more careful and exacting the jury of admission ought to be. The true character of the Salon was lost as soon as it spread along the galleries. The Salon should have remained within fixed limits of inflexible proportions, where each distinct specialty could show its masterpieces only. An experience of ten years has shown the excellence of the former institution. Now, instead of a tournament, we have a mob; instead of a noble exhibition, we have a tumultuous bazaar; instead of a choice selection we have a chaotic mass. What is the result? A great artist is swamped. Decamps' "Turkish Cafe," "Children at a Fountain," "Joseph," and "The Torture," would have redounded far more to his credit if the four pictures had been exhibited in the great Salon with the hundred good pictures of that year, than his twenty pictures could, among three thousand others, jumbled together in six galleries. By some strange contradiction, ever since the doors are open to every one there has been much talk of unknown and unrecognized genius. When, twelve years earlier, Ingres' "Courtesan," and that of Sigalon, the "Medusa" of Gericault, the "Massacre of Scio" by Delacroix, the "Baptism of Henri IV." by Eugene Deveria, admitted by celebrated artists accused of jealousy, showed the world, in spite of the denials of criticism, that young and vigorous palettes existed, no such complaint was made. Now, when the veriest dauber of canvas can send in his work, the whole talk is of genius neglected! Where judgment no longer exists, there is no longer anything judged. But whatever artists may be doing now, they will come back in time to the examination and selection which presents their works to the admiration of the crowd for whom they work. Without selection by the Academy there will be no Salon, and without the Salon art may perish. Ever since the catalogue has grown into a book, many names have appeared in it which still remain in their native obscurity, in spite of the ten or a dozen pictures attached to them. Among these names perhaps the most unknown to fame is that of an artist named Pierre Grassou, coming from Fougeres, and called simply "Fougeres" among his brother-artists, who, at the present moment holds a place, as the saying is, "in the sun," and who suggested the rather bitter reflections by which this sketch of his life is introduced,--reflections that are applicable to many other individuals of the tribe of artists. In 1832, Fougeres lived in the rue de Navarin, on the fourth floor of one of those tall, narrow houses which resemble the obelisk of Luxor, and possess an alley, a dark little stairway with dangerous turnings, three windows only on each floor, and, within the building, a courtyard, or, to speak more correctly, a square pit or well. Above the three or four rooms occupied by Grassou of Fougeres was his studio, looking over to Montmartre. This studio was painted in brick-color, for a background; the floor was tinted brown and well frotted; each chair was furnished with a bit of carpet bound round the edges; the sofa, simple enough, was clean as that in the bedroom of some worthy bourgeoise. All these things denoted the tidy ways of a small mind and the thrift of a poor man. A bureau was there, in which to put away the studio implements, a table for breakfast, a sideboard, a secretary; in short, all the articles necessary to a painter, neatly arranged and very clean. The stove participated in this Dutch cleanliness, which was all the more visible because the pure and little changing light from the north flooded with its cold clear beams the vast apartment. Fougeres, being merely a genre painter, does not need the immense machinery and outfit which ruin historical painters; he has never recognized within himself sufficient faculty to attempt high-art, and he therefore clings to easel painting. At the beginning of the month of December of that year, a season at which the bourgeois of Paris conceive, periodically, the burlesque idea of perpetuating their forms and figures already too bulky in themselves, Pierre Grassou, who had risen early, prepared his palette, and lighted his stove, was eating a roll steeped in milk, and waiting till the frost on his windows had melted sufficiently to let the full light in. The weather was fine and dry. At this moment the artist, who ate his bread with that patient, resigned air that tells so much, heard and recognized the step of a man who had upon his life the influence such men have on the lives of nearly all artists,--the step of Elie Magus, a picture-dealer, a usurer in canvas. The next moment Elie Magus entered and found the painter in the act of beginning his work in the tidy studio. "How are you, old rascal?" said the painter. Fougeres had the cross of the Legion of honor, and Elie Magus bought his pictures at two and three hundred francs apiece, so he gave himself the airs of a fine artist. "Business is very bad," replied Elie. "You artists have such pretensions! You talk of two hundred francs when you haven't put six sous' worth of color on a canvas. However, you are a good fellow, I'll say that. You are steady; and I've come to put a good bit of business in your way." "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes," said Fougeres. "Do you know Latin?" "No." "Well, it means that the Greeks never proposed a good bit of business to the Trojans without getting their fair share of it. In the olden time they used to say, 'Take my horse.' Now we say, 'Take my bear.' Well, what do you want, Ulysses-Lagingeole-Elie Magus?" These words will give an idea of the mildness and wit with which Fougeres employed what painters call studio fun. "Well, I don't deny that you are to paint me two pictures for nothing." "Oh! oh!" "I'll leave you to do it, or not; I don't ask it. But you're an honest man." "Come, out with it!" "Well, I'm prepared to bring you a father, mother, and only daughter." "All for me?" "Yes--they want their portraits taken. These bourgeois--they are crazy about art--have never dared to enter a studio. The girl has a 'dot' of a hundred thousand francs. You can paint all three,--perhaps they'll turn out family portraits." And with that the old Dutch log of wood who passed for a man and who was called Elie Magus, interrupted himself to laugh an uncanny laugh which frightened the painter. He fancied he heard Mephistopheles talking marriage. "Portraits bring five hundred francs apiece," went on Elie; "so you can very well afford to paint me three pictures." "True for you!" cried Fougeres, gleefully. "And if you marry the girl, you won't forget me." "Marry! I?" cried Pierre Grassou,--"I, who have a habit of sleeping alone; and get up at cock-crow, and all my life arranged--" "One hundred thousand francs," said Magus, "and a quiet girl, full of golden tones, as you call 'em, like a Titian." "What class of people are they?" "Retired merchants; just now in love with art; have a country-house at Ville d'Avray, and ten or twelve thousand francs a year." "What business did they do?" "Bottles." "Now don't say that word; it makes me think of corks and sets my teeth on edge." "Am I to bring them?" "Three portraits--I could put them in the Salon; I might go in for portrait-painting. Well, yes!" Old Elie descended the staircase to go in search of the Vervelle family. To know to what extend this proposition would act upon the painter, and what effect would be produced upon him by the Sieur and Dame Vervelle, adorned by their only daughter, it is necessary to cast an eye on the anterior life of Pierre Grassou of Fougeres. When a pupil, Fougeres had studied drawing with Servin, who was thought a great draughtsman in academic circles. After that he went to Schinner's, to learn the secrets of the powerful and magnificent color which distinguishes that master. Master and scholars were all discreet; at any rate Pierre discovered none of their secrets. From there he went to Sommervieux' atelier, to acquire that portion of the art of painting which is called composition, but composition was shy and distant to him. Then he tried to snatch from Decamps and Granet the mystery of their interior effects. The two masters were not robbed. Finally Fougeres ended his education with Duval-Lecamus. During these studied and these different transformations Fougeres' habits and ways of life were tranquil and moral to a degree that furnished matter of jesting to the various ateliers where he sojourned; but everywhere he disarmed his comrades by his modesty and by the patience and gentleness of a lamblike nature. The masters, however, had no sympathy for the good lad; masters prefer bright fellows, eccentric spirits, droll or fiery, or else gloomy and deeply reflective, which argue future talent. Everything about Pierre Grassou smacked of mediocrity. His nickname "Fougeres" (that of the painter in the play of "The Eglantine") was the source of much teasing; but, by force of circumstances, he accepted the name of the town in which he had first seen light. Grassou of Fougeres resembled his name. Plump and of medium height, he had a dull complexion, brown eyes, black hair, a turned-up nose, rather wide mouth, and long ears. His gentle, passive, and resigned air gave a certain relief to these leading features of a physiognomy that was full of health, but wanting in action. This young man, born to be a virtuous bourgeois, having left his native place and come to Paris to be clerk with a color-merchant (formerly of Mayenne and a distant connection of the Orgemonts) made himself a painter simply by the fact of an obstinacy which constitutes the Breton character. What he suffered, the manner in which he lived during those years of study, God only knows. He suffered as much as great men suffer when they are hounded by poverty and hunted like wild beasts by the pack of commonplace minds and by troops of vanities athirst for vengeance. As soon as he thought himself able to fly on his own wings, Fougeres took a studio in the upper part of the rue des Martyrs, where he began to delve his way. He made his first appearance in 1819. The first picture he presented to the jury of the Exhibition at the Louvre represented a village wedding rather laboriously copied from Greuze's picture. It was rejected. When Fougeres heard of the fatal decision, he did not fall into one of those fits of epileptic self-love to which strong natures give themselves up, and which sometimes end in challenges sent to the director or the secretary of the Museum, or even by threats of assassination. Fougeres quietly fetched his canvas, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and brought it home, vowing in his heart that he would still make himself a great painter. He placed his picture on the easel, and went to one of his former masters, a man of immense talent,--to Schinner, a kind and patient artist, whose triumph at that year's Salon was complete. Fougeres asked him to come and criticise the rejected work. The great painter left everything and went at once. When poor Fougeres had placed the work before him Schinner, after a glance, pressed Fougeres' hand. "You are a fine fellow," he said; "you've a heart of gold, and I must not deceive you. Listen; you are fulfilling all the promises you made in the studios. When you find such things as that at the tip of your brush, my good Fougeres, you had better leave colors with Brullon, and not take the canvas of others. Go home early, put on your cotton night-cap, and be in bed by nine o'clock. The next morning early go to some government office, ask for a place, and give up art." "My dear friend," said Fougeres, "my picture is already condemned; it is not a verdict that I want of you, but the cause of that verdict." "Well--you paint gray and sombre; you see nature being a crape veil; your drawing is heavy, pasty; your composition is a medley of Greuze, who only redeemed his defects by the qualities which you lack." While detailing these faults of the picture Schinner saw on Fougeres' face so deep an expression of sadness that he carried him off to dinner and tried to console him. The next morning at seven o'clock Fougeres was at his easel working over the rejected picture; he warmed the colors; he made the corrections suggested by Schinner, he touched up his figures. Then, disgusted with such patching, he carried the picture to Elie Magus. Elie Magus, a sort of Dutch-Flemish-Belgian, had three reasons for being what he became,--rich and avaricious. Coming last from Bordeaux, he was just starting in Paris, selling old pictures and living on the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Fougeres, who relied on his palette to go to the baker's, bravely ate bread and nuts, or bread and milk, or bread and cherries, or bread and cheese, according to the seasons. Elie Magus, to whom Pierre offered his first picture, eyed it for some time and then gave him fifteen francs. "With fifteen francs a year coming in, and a thousand francs for expenses," said Fougeres, smiling, "a man will go fast and far." Elie Magus made a gesture; he bit his thumbs, thinking that he might have had that picture for five francs. For several days Pierre walked down from the rue des Martyrs and stationed himself at the corner of the boulevard opposite to Elie's shop, whence his eye could rest upon his picture, which did not obtain any notice from the eyes of the passers along the street. At the end of a week the picture disappeared; Fougeres walked slowly up and approached the dealer's shop in a lounging manner. The Jew was at his door. "Well, I see you have sold my picture." "No, here it is," said Magus; "I've framed it, to show it to some one who fancies he knows about painting." Fougeres had not the heart to return to the boulevard. He set about another picture, and spent two months upon it,--eating mouse's meals and working like a galley-slave. One evening he went to the boulevard, his feet leading him fatefully to the dealer's shop. His picture was not to be seen. "I've sold your picture," said Elie Magus, seeing him. "For how much?" "I got back what I gave and a small interest. Make me some Flemish interiors, a lesson of anatomy, landscapes, and such like, and I'll buy them of you," said Elie. Fougeres would fain have taken old Magus in his arms; he regarded him as a father. He went home with joy in his heart; the great painter Schinner was mistaken after all! In that immense city of Paris there were some hearts that beat in unison with Pierre's; his talent was understood and appreciated. The poor fellow of twenty-seven had the innocence of a lad of sixteen. Another man, one of those distrustful, surly artists, would have noticed the diabolical look on Elie's face and seen the twitching of the hairs of his beard, the irony of his moustache, and the movement of his shoulders which betrayed the satisfaction of Walter Scott's Jew in swindling a Christian. Fougeres marched along the boulevard in a state of joy which gave to his honest face an expression of pride. He was like a schoolboy protecting a woman. He met Joseph Bridau, one of his comrades, and one of those eccentric geniuses destined to fame and sorrow. Joseph Bridau, who had, to use his own expression, a few sous in his pocket, took Fougeres to the Opera. But Fougeres didn't see the ballet, didn't hear the music; he was imagining pictures, he was painting. He left Joseph in the middle of the evening, and ran home to make sketches by lamp-light. He invented thirty pictures, all reminiscence, and felt himself a man of genius. The next day he bought colors, and canvases of various dimensions; he piled up bread and cheese on his table, he filled a water-pot with water, he laid in a provision of wood for his stove; then, to use a studio expression, he dug at his pictures. He hired several models and Magus lent him stuffs. After two months' seclusion the Breton had finished four pictures. Again he asked counsel of Schinner, this time adding Bridau to the invitation. The two painters saw in three of these pictures a servile imitation of Dutch landscapes and interiors by Metzu, in the fourth a copy of Rembrandt's "Lesson of Anatomy." "Still imitating!" said Schinner. "Ah! Fougeres can't manage to be original." "You ought to do something else than painting," said Bridau. "What?" asked Fougeres. "Fling yourself into literature." Fougeres lowered his head like a sheep when it rains. Then he asked and obtained certain useful advice, and retouched his pictures before taking them to Elie Magus. Elie paid him twenty-five francs apiece. At that price of course Fougeres earned nothing; neither did he lose, thanks to his sober living. He made a few excursions to the boulevard to see what became of his pictures, and there he underwent a singular hallucination. His neat, clean paintings, hard as tin and shiny as porcelain, were covered with a sort of mist; they looked like old daubs. Magus was out, and Pierre could obtain no information on this phenomenon. He fancied something was wrong with his eyes. The painter went back to his studio and made more pictures. After seven years of continued toil Fougeres managed to compose and execute quite passable work. He did as well as any artist of the second class. Elie bought and sold all the paintings of the poor Breton, who earned laboriously about two thousand francs a year while he spent but twelve hundred. At the Exhibition of 1829, Leon de Lora, Schinner, and Bridau, who all three occupied a great position and were, in fact, at the head of the art movement, were filled with pity for the perseverance and the poverty of their old friend; and they caused to be admitted into the grand salon of the Exhibition, a picture by Fougeres. This picture, powerful in interest but derived from Vigneron as to sentiment and from Dubufe's first manner as to execution, represented a young man in prison, whose hair was being cut around the nape of the neck. On one side was a priest, on the other two women, one old, one young, in tears. A sheriff's clerk was reading aloud a document. On a wretched table was a meal, untouched. The light came in through the bars of a window near the ceiling. It was a picture fit to make the bourgeois shudder, and the bourgeois shuddered. Fougeres had simply been inspired by the masterpiece of Gerard Douw; he had turned the group of the "Dropsical Woman" toward the window, instead of presenting it full front. The condemned man was substituted for the dying woman--same pallor, same glance, same appeal to God. Instead of the Dutch doctor, he had painted the cold, official figure of the sheriff's clerk attired in black; but he had added an old woman to the young one of Gerard Douw. The cruelly simple and good-humored face of the executioner completed and dominated the group. This plagiarism, very cleverly disguised, was not discovered. The catalogue contained the following:-- 510. Grassou de Fougeres (Pierre), rue de Navarin, 2. Death-toilet of a Chouan, condemned to execution in 1809. Though wholly second-rate, the picture had immense success, for it recalled the affair of the "chauffeurs," of Mortagne. A crowd collected every day before the now fashionable canvas; even Charles X. paused to look at it. "Madame," being told of the patient life of the poor Breton, became enthusiastic over him. The Duc d'Orleans asked the price of the picture. The clergy told Madame la Dauphine that the subject was suggestive of good thoughts; and there was, in truth, a most satisfying religious tone about it. Monseigneur the Dauphin admired the dust on the stone-floor,--a huge blunder, by the way, for Fougeres had painted greenish tones suggestive of mildew along the base of the walls. "Madame" finally bought the picture for a thousand francs, and the Dauphin ordered another like it. Charles X. gave the cross of the Legion of honor to this son of a peasant who had fought for the royal cause in 1799. (Joseph Bridau, the great painter, was not yet decorated.) The minister of the Interior ordered two church pictures of Fougeres. This Salon of 1829 was to Pierre Grassou his whole fortune, fame, future, and life. Be original, invent, and you die by inches; copy, imitate, and you'll live. After this discovery of a gold mine, Grassou de Fougeres obtained his benefit of the fatal principle to which society owes the wretched mediocrities to whom are intrusted in these days the election of leaders in all social classes; who proceed, naturally, to elect themselves and who wage a bitter war against all true talent. The principle of election applied indiscriminately is false, and France will some day abandon it. Nevertheless the modesty, simplicity, and genuine surprise of the good and gentle Fougeres silenced all envy and all recriminations. Besides, he had on his side all of his clan who had succeeded, and all who expected to succeed. Some persons, touched by the persistent energy of a man whom nothing had discouraged, talked of Domenichino and said:-- "Perseverance in the arts should be rewarded. Grassou hasn't stolen his successes; he has delved for ten years, the poor dear man!" That exclamation of "poor dear man!" counted for half in the support and the congratulations which the painter received. Pity sets up mediocrities as envy pulls down great talents, and in equal numbers. The newspapers, it is true, did not spare criticism, but the chevalier Fougeres digested them as he had digested the counsel of his friends, with angelic patience. Possessing, by this time, fifteen thousand francs, laboriously earned, he furnished an apartment and studio in the rue de Navarin, and painted the picture ordered by Monseigneur the Dauphin, also the two church pictures, and delivered them at the time agreed on, with a punctuality that was very discomforting to the exchequer of the ministry, accustomed to a different course of action. But--admire the good fortune of men who are methodical--if Grassou, belated with his work, had been caught by the revolution of July he would not have got his money. By the time he was thirty-seven Fougeres had manufactured for Elie Magus some two hundred pictures, all of them utterly unknown, by the help of which he had attained to that satisfying manner, that point of execution before which the true artist shrugs his shoulders and the bourgeoisie worships. Fougeres was dear to friends for rectitude of ideas, for steadiness of sentiment, absolute kindliness, and great loyalty; though they had no esteem for his palette, they loved the man who held it. "What a misfortune it is that Fougeres has the vice of painting!" said his comrades. But for all this, Grassou gave excellent counsel, like those feuilletonists incapable of writing a book who know very well where a book is wanting. There was this difference, however, between literary critics and Fougeres; he was eminently sensitive to beauties; he felt them, he acknowledged them, and his advice was instinct with a spirit of justice that made the justness of his remarks acceptable. After the revolution of July, Fougeres sent about ten pictures a year to the Salon, of which the jury admitted four or five. He lived with the most rigid economy, his household being managed solely by an old charwoman. For all amusement he visited his friends, he went to see works of art, he allowed himself a few little trips about France, and he planned to go to Switzerland in search of inspiration. This detestable artist was an excellent citizen; he mounted guard duly, went to reviews, and paid his rent and provision-bills with bourgeois punctuality. Having lived all his life in toil and poverty, he had never had the time to love. Poor and a bachelor, until now he did not desire to complicate his simple life. Incapable of devising any means of increasing his little fortune, he carried, every three months, to his notary, Cardot, his quarterly earnings and economies. When the notary had received about three thousand francs he invested them in some first mortgage, the interest of which he drew himself and added to the quarterly payments made to him by Fougeres. The painter was awaiting the fortunate moment when his property thus laid by would give him the imposing income of two thousand francs, to allow himself the otium cum dignitate of the artist and paint pictures; but oh! what pictures! true pictures! each a finished picture! chouette, Koxnoff, chocnosoff! His future, his dreams of happiness, the superlative of his hopes--do you know what it was? To enter the Institute and obtain the grade of officer of the Legion of honor; to side down beside Schinner and Leon de Lora, to reach the Academy before Bridau, to wear a rosette in his buttonhole! What a dream! It is only commonplace men who think of everything. Hearing the sound of several steps on the staircase, Fougeres rubbed up his hair, buttoned his jacket of bottle-green velveteen, and was not a little amazed to see, entering his doorway, a simpleton face vulgarly called in studio slang a "melon." This fruit surmounted a pumpkin, clothed in blue cloth adorned with a bunch of tintinnabulating baubles. The melon puffed like a walrus; the pumpkin advanced on turnips, improperly called legs. A true painter would have turned the little bottle-vendor off at once, assuring him that he didn't paint vegetables. This painter looked at his client without a smile, for Monsieur Vervelle wore a three-thousand-franc diamond in the bosom of his shirt. Fougeres glanced at Magus and said: "There's fat in it!" using a slang term then much in vogue in the studios. Hearing those words Monsieur Vervelle frowned. The worthy bourgeois drew after him another complication of vegetables in the persons of his wife and daughter. The wife had a fine veneer of mahogany on her face, and in figure she resembled a cocoa-nut, surmounted by a head and tied in around the waist. She pivoted on her legs, which were tap-rooted, and her gown was yellow with black stripes. She proudly exhibited unutterable mittens on a puffy pair of hands; the plumes of a first-class funeral floated on an over-flowing bonnet; laces adorned her shoulders, as round behind as they were before; consequently, the spherical form of the cocoa-nut was perfect. Her feet, of a kind that painters call abatis, rose above the varnished leather of the shoes in a swelling that was some inches high. How the feet were ever got into the shoes, no one knows. Following these vegetable parents was a young asparagus, who presented a tiny head with smoothly banded hair of the yellow-carroty tone that a Roman adores, long, stringy arms, a fairly white skin with reddish spots upon it, large innocent eyes, and white lashes, scarcely any brows, a leghorn bonnet bound with white satin and adorned with two honest bows of the same satin, hands virtuously red, and the feet of her mother. The faces of these three beings wore, as they looked round the studio, an air of happiness which bespoke in them a respectable enthusiasm for Art. "So it is you, monsieur, who are going to take our likenesses?" said the father, assuming a jaunty air. "Yes, monsieur," replied Grassou. "Vervelle, he has the cross!" whispered the wife to the husband while the painter's back was turned. "Should I be likely to have our portraits painted by an artist who wasn't decorated?" returned the former bottle-dealer. Elie Magus here bowed to the Vervelle family and went away. Grassou accompanied him to the landing. "There's no one but you who would fish up such whales." "One hundred thousand francs of 'dot'!" "Yes, but what a family!" "Three hundred thousand francs of expectations, a house in the rue Boucherat, and a country-house at Ville d'Avray!" "Bottles and corks! bottles and corks!" said the painter; "they set my teeth on edge." "Safe from want for the rest of your days," said Elie Magus as he departed. That idea entered the head of Pierre Grassou as the daylight had burst into his garret that morning. While he posed the father of the young person, he thought the bottle-dealer had a good countenance, and he admired the face full of violent tones. The mother and daughter hovered about the easel, marvelling at all his preparations; they evidently thought him a demigod. This visible admiration pleased Fougeres. The golden calf threw upon the family its fantastic reflections. "You must earn lots of money; but of course you don't spend it as you get it," said the mother. "No, madame," replied the painter; "I don't spend it; I have not the means to amuse myself. My notary invests my money; he knows what I have; as soon as I have taken him the money I never think of it again." "I've always been told," cried old Vervelle, "that artists were baskets with holes in them." "Who is your notary--if it is not indiscreet to ask?" said Madame Vervelle. "A good fellow, all round," replied Grassou. "His name is Cardot." "Well, well! if that isn't a joke!" exclaimed Vervelle. "Cardot is our notary too." "Take care! don't move," said the painter. "Do pray hold still, Antenor," said the wife. "If you move about you'll make monsieur miss; you should just see him working, and then you'd understand." "Oh! why didn't you have me taught the arts?" said Mademoiselle Vervelle to her parents. "Virginie," said her mother, "a young person ought not to learn certain things. When you are married--well, till then, keep quiet." During this first sitting the Vervelle family became almost intimate with the worthy artist. They were to come again two days later. As they went away the father told Virginie to walk in front; but in spite of this separation, she overheard the following words, which naturally awakened her curiosity. "Decorated--thirty-seven years old--an artist who gets orders--puts his money with our notary. We'll consult Cardot. Hein! Madame de Fougeres! not a bad name--doesn't look like a bad man either! One might prefer a merchant; but before a merchant retires from business one can never know what one's daughter may come to; whereas an economical artist--and then you know we love Art--Well, we'll see!" While the Vervelle family discussed Pierre Grassou, Pierre Grassou discussed in his own mind the Vervelle family. He found it impossible to stay peacefully in his studio, so he took a walk on the boulevard, and looked at all the red-haired women who passed him. He made a series of the oddest reasonings to himself: gold was the handsomest of metals; a tawny yellow represented gold; the Romans were fond of red-haired women, and he turned Roman, etc. After two years of marriage what man would ever care about the color of his wife's hair? Beauty fades,--but ugliness remains! Money is one-half of all happiness. That night when he went to bed the painter had come to think Virginie Vervelle charming. When the three Vervelles arrived on the day of the second sitting the artist received them with smiles. The rascal had shaved and put on clean linen; he had also arranged his hair in a pleasing manner, and chosen a very becoming pair of trousers and red leather slippers with pointed toes. The family replied with smiles as flattering as those of the artist. Virginie became the color of her hair, lowered her eyes, and turned aside her head to look at the sketches. Pierre Grassou thought these little affectations charming, Virginie had such grace; happily she didn't look like her father or her mother; but whom did she look like? During this sitting there were little skirmishes between the family and the painter, who had the audacity to call pere Vervelle witty. This flattery brought the family on the double-quick to the heart of the artist; he gave a drawing to the daughter, and a sketch to the mother. "What! for nothing?" they said. Pierre Grassou could not help smiling. "You shouldn't give away your pictures in that way; they are money," said old Vervelle. At the third sitting pere Vervelle mentioned a fine gallery of pictures which he had in his country-house at Ville d'Avray--Rubens, Gerard Douw, Mieris, Terburg, Rembrandt, Titian, Paul Potter, etc. "Monsieur Vervelle has been very extravagant," said Madame Vervelle, ostentatiously. "He has over one hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures." "I love Art," said the former bottle-dealer. When Madame Vervelle's portrait was begun that of her husband was nearly finished, and the enthusiasm of the family knew no bounds. The notary had spoken in the highest praise of the painter. Pierre Grassou was, he said, one of the most honest fellows on earth; he had laid by thirty-six thousand francs; his days of poverty were over; he now saved about ten thousand francs a year and capitalized the interest; in short, he was incapable of making a woman unhappy. This last remark had enormous weight in the scales. Vervelle's friends now heard of nothing but the celebrated painter Fougeres. The day on which Fougeres began the portrait of Mademoiselle Virginie, he was virtually son-in-law to the Vervelle family. The three Vervelles bloomed out in this studio, which they were now accustomed to consider as one of their residences; there was to them an inexplicable attraction in this clean, neat, pretty, and artistic abode. Abyssus abyssum, the commonplace attracts the commonplace. Toward the end of the sitting the stairway shook, the door was violently thrust open by Joseph Bridau; he came like a whirlwind, his hair flying. He showed his grand haggard face as he looked about him, casting everywhere the lightning of his glance; then he walked round the whole studio, and returned abruptly to Grassou, pulling his coat together over the gastric region, and endeavouring, but in vain, to button it, the button mould having escaped from its capsule of cloth. "Wood is dear," he said to Grassou. "Ah!" "The British are after me" (slang term for creditors) "Gracious! do you paint such things as that?" "Hold your tongue!" "Ah! to be sure, yes." The Vervelle family, extremely shocked by this extraordinary apparition, passed from its ordinary red to a cherry-red, two shades deeper. "Brings in, hey?" continued Joseph. "Any shot in your locker?" "How much do you want?" "Five hundred. I've got one of those bull-dog dealers after me, and if the fellow once gets his teeth in he won't let go while there's a bit of me left. What a crew!" "I'll write you a line for my notary." "Have you got a notary?" "Yes." "That explains to me why you still make cheeks with pink tones like a perfumer's sign." Grassou could not help coloring, for Virginie was sitting. "Take Nature as you find her," said the great painter, going on with his lecture. "Mademoiselle is red-haired. Well, is that a sin? All things are magnificent in painting. Put some vermillion on your palette, and warm up those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots; come, butter it well in. Do you pretend to have more sense than Nature?" "Look here," said Fougeres, "take my place while I go and write that note." Vervelle rolled to the table and whispered in Grassou's ear:-- "Won't that country lout spoilt it?" "If he would only paint the portrait of your Virginie it would be worth a thousand times more than mine," replied Fougeres, vehemently. Hearing that reply the bourgeois beat a quiet retreat to his wife, who was stupefied by the invasion of this ferocious animal, and very uneasy at his co-operation in her daughter's portrait. "Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette, and taking the note. "I won't thank you. I can go back now to d'Arthez' chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora the tops of the doors--masterpieces! Come and see us." And off he went without taking leave, having had enough of looking at Virginie. "Who is that man?" asked Madame Vervelle. "A great artist," answered Grassou. There was silence for a moment. "Are you quite sure," said Virginie, "that he has done no harm to my portrait? He frightened me." "He has only done it good," replied Grassou. "Well, if he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist like you," said Madame Vervelle. The ways of genius had ruffled up these orderly bourgeois. The phase of autumn so pleasantly named "Saint Martin's summer" was just beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in presence of a man of genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an invitation to come out to his country-house on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how little attraction a plain bourgeois family could offer to an artist. "You artists," he continued, "want emotions, great scenes, and witty talk; but you'll find good wines, and I rely on my collection of pictures to compensate an artist like you for the bore of dining with mere merchants." This form of idolatry, which stroked his innocent self-love, was charming to our poor Pierre Grassou, so little accustomed to such compliments. The honest artist, that atrocious mediocrity, that heart of gold, that loyal soul, that stupid draughtsman, that worthy fellow, decorated by royalty itself with the Legion of honor, put himself under arms to go out to Ville d'Avray and enjoy the last fine days of the year. The painter went modestly by public conveyance, and he could not but admire the beautiful villa of the bottle-dealer, standing in a park of five acres at the summit of Ville d'Avray, commanding a noble view of the landscape. Marry Virginie, and have that beautiful villa some day for his own! He was received by the Vervelles with an enthusiasm, a joy, a kindliness, a frank bourgeois absurdity which confounded him. It was indeed a day of triumph. The prospective son-in-law was marched about the grounds on the nankeen-colored paths, all raked as they should be for the steps of so great a man. The trees themselves looked brushed and combed, and the lawns had just been mown. The pure country air wafted to the nostrils a most enticing smell of cooking. All things about the mansion seemed to say: "We have a great artist among us." Little old Vervelle himself rolled like an apple through his park, the daughter meandered like an eel, the mother followed with dignified step. These three beings never let go for one moment of Pierre Grassou for seven hours. After dinner, the length of which equalled its magnificence, Monsieur and Madame Vervelle reached the moment of their grand theatrical effect,--the opening of the picture gallery illuminated by lamps, the reflections of which were managed with the utmost care. Three neighbours, also retired merchants, an old uncle (from whom were expectations), an elderly Demoiselle Vervelle, and a number of other guests invited to be present at this ovation to a great artist followed Grassou into the picture gallery, all curious to hear his opinion of the famous collection of pere Vervelle, who was fond of oppressing them with the fabulous value of his paintings. The bottle-merchant seemed to have the idea of competing with King Louis-Philippe and the galleries of Versailles. The pictures, magnificently framed, each bore labels on which was read in black letters on a gold ground: Rubens Dance of fauns and nymphs Rembrandt Interior of a dissecting room. The physician van Tromp instructing his pupils. In all, there were one hundred and fifty pictures, varnished and dusted. Some were covered with green baize curtains which were not undrawn in presence of young ladies. Pierre Grassou stood with arms pendent, gaping mouth, and no word upon his lips as he recognized half his own pictures in these works of art. He was Rubens, he was Rembrandt, Mieris, Metzu, Paul Potter, Gerard Douw! He was twenty great masters all by himself. "What is the matter? You've turned pale!" "Daughter, a glass of water! quick!" cried Madame Vervelle. The painter took pere Vervelle by the button of his coat and led him to a corner on pretence of looking at a Murillo. Spanish pictures were then the rage. "You bought your pictures from Elie Magus?" "Yes, all originals." "Between ourselves, tell me what he made you pay for those I shall point out to you." Together they walked round the gallery. The guests were amazed at the gravity in which the artist proceeded, in company with the host, to examine each picture. "Three thousand francs," said Vervelle in a whisper, as they reached the last, "but I tell everybody forty thousand." "Forty thousand for a Titian!" said the artist, aloud. "Why, it is nothing at all!" "Didn't I tell you," said Vervelle, "that I had three hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures?" "I painted those pictures," said Pierre Grassou in Vervelle's ear, "and I sold them one by one to Elie Magus for less than ten thousand francs the whole lot." "Prove it to me," said the bottle-dealer, "and I double my daughter's 'dot,' for if it is so, you are Rubens, Rembrandt, Titian, Gerard Douw!" "And Magus is a famous picture-dealer!" said the painter, who now saw the meaning of the misty and aged look imparted to his pictures in Elie's shop, and the utility of the subjects the picture-dealer had required of him. Far from losing the esteem of his admiring bottle-merchant, Monsieur de Fougeres (for so the family persisted in calling Pierre Grassou) advanced so much that when the portraits were finished he presented them gratuitously to his father-in-law, his mother-in-law and his wife. At the present day, Pierre Grassou, who never misses exhibiting at the Salon, passes in bourgeois regions for a fine portrait-painter. He earns some twenty thousand francs a year and spoils a thousand francs' worth of canvas. His wife has six thousand francs a year in dowry, and he lives with his father-in-law. The Vervelles and the Grassous, who agree delightfully, keep a carriage, and are the happiest people on earth. Pierre Grassou never emerges from the bourgeois circle, in which he is considered one of the greatest artists of the period. Not a family portrait is painted between the barrier du Trone and the rue du Temple that is not done by this great painter; none of them costs less than five hundred francs. The great reason which the bourgeois families have for employing him is this:-- "Say what you will of him, he lays by twenty thousand francs a year with his notary." As Grassou took a creditable part on the occasion of the riots of May 12th he was appointed an officer of the Legion of honor. He is a major in the National Guard. The Museum of Versailles felt it incumbent to order a battle-piece of so excellent a citizen, who thereupon walked about Paris to meet his old comrades and have the happiness of saying to them:-- "The King has given me an order for the Museum of Versailles." Madame de Fougeres adores her husband, to whom she has presented two children. This painter, a good father and a good husband, is unable to eradicate from his heart a fatal thought, namely, that artists laugh at his work; that his name is a term of contempt in the studios; and that the feuilletons take no notice of his pictures. But he still works on; he aims for the Academy, where, undoubtedly, he will enter. And--oh! vengeance which dilates his heart!--he buys the pictures of celebrated artists who are pinched for means, and he substitutes these true works of arts that are not his own for the wretched daubs in the collection at Ville d'Avray. There are many mediocrities more aggressive and more mischievous than that of Pierre Grassou, who is, moreover, anonymously benevolent and truly obliging. ADDENDUM The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. Bridau, Joseph The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Start in Life Modeste Mignon Another Study of Woman Letters of Two Brides Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis Cardot (Parisian notary) The Muse of the Department A Man of Business Jealousies of a Country Town The Middle Classes Cousin Pons Grassou, Pierre A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Betty The Middle Classes Cousin Pons Lora, Leon de The Unconscious Humorists A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Honorine Cousin Betty Beatrix Magus, Elie The Vendetta A Marriage Settlement A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Pons Schinner, Hippolyte The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Albert Savarus The Government Clerks Modeste Mignon The Imaginary Mistress The Unconscious Humorists End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pierre Grassou, by Honore de Balzac Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How does the slime get into Dana's apartment?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and memorize the context. (Note: I will give you the question after you confirm that you have memorized the context.) \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "The slime gets into Dana's apartment from the bathtub." ]	25,088	narrativeqa	en	null	31a2673d857b4ae705288436804dd94343b7f7d9bfdd1298	Ghostbusters II by Harold Ramis and Dan Aykroyd September 29, 1988 Last revised Feburary 27, 1989 <b>EXT. MANHATTAN ISLAND - DAY </b> A high AERIAL SHOT of the island features the Statue of Liberty prominently in the foreground then TRAVELS ACROSS the harbor, OVER the Battery and Lower Manhattan to Greenwich Village. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY </b> A car is being hoisted up by a municipal tow truck while its owner is having a terrible screaming arguement with a parking enforcement officer. DANA BARRETT comes home pushing a baby buggy, struggling with two full bags of groceries, and trying to dig her keys out of her purse. The building superintendent FRANK, sees her struggling but pretends not to notice. <b> DANA </b> (exasperated) Frank, do you think you could give me a hand with these bags? <b> FRANK </b> I'm not a doorman, Miss Barrett. I'm a building superintendent. <b> DANA </b> You're also a human being, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> (reluctantly going to help) Okay, okay. It's not my job, but what the hell. I'll do you a favor. He takes the grocery bags from her. <b> DANA </b> (setting the wheel brakes on the buggy) Thank you, Frank. I'll get the hang of this eventually. She continues digging in her purse while Frank leans over the buggy and makes funny faces at the baby, OSCAR, a very cute nine-month old boy. <b> FRANK </b> (to the baby) Hiya, Oscar. What do you say, slugger? <b> FRANK </b> (to Dana) That's a good-looking kid you got there, Ms. Barrett. <b> DANA </b> (finding her keys) Thank you, Frank. Oh, are you ever going to fix the radiator in my bedroom? I asked you last week. <b> FRANK </b> Didn't I do it? <b>BABY BUGGY </b> It starts to vibrate as if shaken by an unseen hand. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> He GURGLES with delight at the movement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DANA AND FRANK - DAY </b> Neither of them notice the movement of the carriage. <b> DANA </b> No, you didn't, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> Okay, that's no problem. <b> DANA </b> That's exactly what you said last week. <b>BUGGY WHEELS </b> The brakes unlock themselves. <b>DANA </b> She reaches for the handlebar of the buggy, but the buggy rolls forward just out of her reach and stops. Surprised by the movement, she reaches for the handlebar again, but this time the buggy rolls away even further. Alarmed now, Dana hurries after it, but the buggy keeps rolling down the street at ever increasing speed. <b>SIDEWALK </b> Dana chases the buggy down the street, shouting to passing pedestrians for help, but every time someone reaches out to stop it, the buggy swerves and continues unchecked. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars, trucks, and buses speed by in both directions as the buggy races toward the corner. <b>DANA </b> She puts her head down and sprints after the buggy like an Olympian. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> A city bus is on a collision course with the speeding baby buggy. <b>BUGGY </b> It careens toward the corner. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> Its eyes are wide open with excitement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> Bus and buggy are closing fast as the buggy bounces over the curb and into the crosswalk. <b>BUS </b> The bus driver reacts in helpless horror as he sees the buggy enter the intersection at high speed. <b>BUGGY </b> It comes to a dead stop right in the middle of the street. The bus continues missing the buggy by inches. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars and trucks swerve and hit their brakes as Dana runs into the intersection and snatches up the baby. She hugs it close, deeply relieved, then looks at the buggy with the dawning awareness that the supernatural has re-entered her life. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UPPER WEST SIDE - NEW YORK CITY STREET - GHOSTBUSTERS LOGO - DAY </b> THEME MUSIC kicks in strongly as we see the familiar "No Ghosts" symbol and PULL BACK to reveal that it's painted on the side of Ecto-1, the Ghostbusters' emergency vehicle, which is speeding up Broadway on the Upper West Side. RAY STANTZ is driving and WINSTON ZEDDEMORE is riding shotgun. <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> The Ectomobile pulls up in front of a carefully-restored brownstone. Stantz and Winston, wearing their official Ghostbuster uniforms, jump out of the old ambulance, shoulder their proton packs and enter the house. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> A WOMAN greets them and leads them through the expensively-furnished house. <b> STANTZ </b> (all business) How many of them are there, ma'am? <b> WOMAN </b> Fourteen. They're in the back. I hope you can handle them. It's been like a nightmare. <b> WINSTON </b> How big are they? She holds her hand out indicating about four feet. <b> WINSTON </b> (resolute) We'll do our best, ma'am. <b> WOMAN </b> They're right out here. She leads them to a set of French doors that open into another room. Stantz and Winston pause to make final adjustments to their equipment. <b> STANTZ </b> Ready? <b> WINSTON </b> I'm ready. <b> STANTZ </b> Then let's do it. He pushes through the French doors and they step into the room. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They are immediately attacked by fourteen or fifteen screaming KIDS between the ages of seven and ten. <b> KIDS </b> (disappointed) Ghostbusters!! Boooo!! Tables are set with party favors, ice cream and birthday cake and the room is strewn with discarded toys and games. A couple of weary parents sink onto lawn chairs as Stantz and Winston take over the party. <b> WINSTON </b> (trying his best) How you doin', kids? <b> LITTLE BOY </b> (nasty) I though we were having He-Man. <b> STANTZ </b> He-Man couldn't make it today. That's why we're here. <b> BOY </b> My dad says you're full of crap. <b> STANTZ </b> (stopped cold) Well, a lot of people have trouble believing in the paranormal. <b> BOY </b> No, he just says you're full of crap and that's why you went out of business. He kicks Stantz in the leg. Stantz grabs him by the shirtfront. <b> STANTZ </b> (low and menacing) I'm watching you. (to Winston) Song. Winston switches on a tiny TAPE RECORDER which starts PLAYING the Ghostbusters THEME SONG. Stantz and WInston start singing <b> STANTZ AND WINSTON </b> 'There's something wrong in the neighborhood. Who you gonna call?' <b> KIDS </b> (all together) He-Man!! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Stantz and Winston wearily load their equipment into the Ectomobile. <b> WINSTON </b> That's it, Ray. I've had it. No more parties. I'm tired of taking abuse from over-privileged nine-year-olds. <b> STANTZ </b> Come on, Winston. We can't quit now. The holidays are coming up. It's our best season. They get in the car <b>INT. ECTO-1 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz tries to start the car, but the engine won't turn over. <b> WINSTON </b> Give it up, Ray. You're living in the past. Ghostbusters doesn't exist anymore. In a year these kids won't even remember who we are. <b> STANTZ </b> (tries to start the car again) Ungrateful little Yuppie larvae. After all we did for this city. <b> WINSTON </b> Yeah, what did we do, Ray? The last real job we had we bubbled up a hundred foot marshmallow man and blew the top three floors off an uptown highrise. <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, but what a ride. You can't make a hamburger without chopping up a cow. He turns the key again, the ENGING TURNS OVER, then starts GRINDING and CLUNKING disastrously, chewing up vital parts and dropping twisted bits of metal onto the pavement. Finally, with a BLAST of black sooty exhaust from the tailpipe, Ecto-1 shudders and dies. Frustrated, Stantz bangs his head lightly on the steering wheel <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. WKRR-TV STUDIO RECEPTION AREA - DAY (LATER) </b> A bank of monitors in the lobby show the program now running on WKRR, Channel 10 in New York. We PUSH IN ON one of the monitors as a title card and logo come up accompanied by some EERIE SYNTHESIZER MUSIC, and we return to the show in progress: "World of the Psychic with Dr. Peter Venkman." There is a video dissolve to a standard talk show set and sitting there is our host PETER VENKMAN, the renowned and somewhat infamous ex-Ghostbuster. <b>VENKMAN </b> He turns TO CAMERA and talks to his viewers in a suavely engaging tone, understated and intimate. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, welcome back to the 'World of the Psychic,' I'm Peter Venkman and I'm chatting with my guest, author, lecturer and of course, psychic, Milton Anglund. (to his guest) Milt, your new book is called The End of the World. Isn't that kind of like writing about gum disease. Yes, it could happen, but do you think anybody wants to read a book about it? <b> MILTON </b> Well, I think it's important for people to know that the world is in danger. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, so can you tell us when it's going to happen or do we have to buy the book? <b> MILTON </b> I predict that the world will end at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> This year? That's cutting it a little close, isn't it? I mean, just from a sales point of view, the book just came out, right? So you're not even looking at the paperback release for maybe a year. And it's going to be at least another year after that if the thing has movie-of-the-week or mini-series potential. You would have been better off predicting 1992 or even '94 just to be safe. <b> MILTON </b> (irritated) This is not just some money-making scheme! I didn't just make up the date. I have a strong psychic belief that the world will end on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> (placating) Well, for your sake, I hope you're right. But I think my other guest may disagree with you. Elaine, you had another date in mind? The CAMERA REVEALS ELAINE, an attractive, aggressive New Jersey housewife, sitting on the other side of Venkman. <b> ELAINE </b> According to my sources, the world will end on February 14, in the year 2016. <b> VENKMAN </b> Valentine's Day. That's got to be a bummer. Where did you get that date, Elaine? <b> ELAINE </b> I received this information from an alien. I was at the Paramus Holiday Inn, I was having a drink in the bar when he approached me and started talking. Then he must have used some sort of ray or a mind control device because he made me follow him to his room and that's where he told me about the end of the world. <b> VENKMAN </b> Your alien had a room in the Holiday Inn? <b> ELAINE </b> It may have been a room on the spacecraft made up to look like a room in the Holiday Inn. I can't be sure, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (humoring her) No, you can't, and I think that's the whole problem with aliens; you just can't trust them. You may get some nice ones occasionally like Starman or E.T., but most of them turn out to be some kind of lizard. Anyway, we're just about out of time. (does his wrap-up right TO the CAMERA) Next week on 'World of the Psychic,' hairless pets. (holds up a hairless cat) Until then, this is Peter Venkman saying ... (puts a finger to his temple and sends out a though to his viewers) ... Good night. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. TV STUDIO - CORRIDOR - DAY (LATER) </b> Venkman comes out of the studio squabbling with his producer, NORMAN, a well-meaning young incompetent. <b> VENKMAN </b> Where do you find these people? I thought we were having the telekinetic guy who bends the spoons? <b> NORMAN </b> A lot of the better psychics won't come on the show. They think you're too skeptical. <b> VENKMAN </b> Skeptical! Norman, I'm a pushover. I think professional wrestling is real. There is a small commotion down the hall as two plainclothes cops come out of the next studio followed by a group of mayoral assistants. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Norman) What's all this? <b> NORMAN </b> They just interviewed the mayor on 'Cityline.' <b> VENKMAN </b> The Mayor! He's a friend of mine. Venkman starts down the hall as the MAYOR and his principal aide, JACK HARDEMEYER, come walking out of the studio. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calling to the Mayor) Lenny! The Mayor sees Venkman, blanches and hurries off, pretending not to know him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (starts to follow him) Lenny! It's Pete Venkman! The plainclothesmen cut Venkman off and Hardemeyer puts a heavy hand against Venkman's chest. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (snide) Can I help you? <b> VENKMAN </b> (dangerous) Yeah, you can get your hand off my chest. Hardemeyer smiles and drops his hand. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> I'm Jack Hardemeyer. I'm the mayor's assistant. What can I do for you? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm an old friend of the mayor's. I just want to say hello to him. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (scornful) I know who you are, Doctor Venkman. Busting any ghosts lately? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, that's what I want to talk to the mayor about. We did a little job for the city a while back and we ended up getting sued, screwed and tattooed by deskworms like you. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (bristling) Look, you stay away from the mayor. Next fall, barring a disaster, he's going to be elected governor of this state and the last thing we need is for him to be associated with two-bit frauds and publicity hounds like you and your friends. You read me? Hardemeyer walks off with the two cops. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, I get it. But I want you to tell Lenny that, because of you, I'm not voting for him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - DAY </b> The broad front steps of the museum are crowded with tourists and visitors. Dana arrives carrying a portfolio and artist's tackle box and enters the museum. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATER) </b> We are FULL-FRAME ON a larger-than-life, full-figure portrait of VIGO THE CARPATHIAN, a demented and sadistic 16th century despot with an incredibly powerful evil presence. Then we PULL BACK to reveal the studio, which is a large open space on the top floor of the museum, lit by large skylights in the ceiling. Working on the Vigo painting is JANOSZ POHA, a youngish art historian and painter, the head of the department, quirky, intense and somewhat creepy. Janosz is staring longingly across the room at Dana. <b>DANA </b> She is carefully cleaning a 19th Century landscape painting, still preoccupied by the extraordinary near-accident with the buggy. Janosz watches her for a moment, then comes up behind her and looks over her shoulder. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with an East European accent) Still working on the Turner? Dana jumps, startled by the intrusion. <b> DANA </b> Oh, yes, I got in a little late this morning, Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> You know, you are really doing very good work here. I think soon you may be ready to assist me in some of the more important restorations. <b> DANA </b> Thank you, Janosz. I've learned a lot here, but now that my baby's a little older, I was hoping to rejoin the orchestra. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> At the mention of Dana's baby, the figure of Vigo miraculously turns his head and looks at Dana. <b>JANOSZ AND DANA </b> Neither of them notice the movement in the painting. <b> JANOSZ </b> (disappointed) We'll be very sorry to lose you. Perhaps I could take you to lunch today? <b> DANA </b> Actually, I'm not eating lunch today. I have an appointment. (looks at her watch) In fact, I'd better go. She starts gathering up her things. <b> JANOSZ </b> Every day I ask you, and every day you've got something else to do. Do I have bad breath or something? <b> DANA </b> (trying to brush him off) I'm sorry. Perhaps some other time. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, I'll take a raincheck on that. Janosz smiles at her as she exits, then goes back to his easel. <b> JANOSZ </b> (to himself) I think she likes me. He switches on an English language TAPE and starts practicing the phrases as he resumes working. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UNIVERSITY - DAY </b> Dana Barrett crosses the quad and enters a modern building. A sign identifies it as "The Institute for Advanced Theoretical Research." <b>INT. UNIVERSITY - DAY (A LITTLE LATER) </b> Dana is explaining the buggy incident to EGON SPENGLER, the soberly intellectual techno-wizard and former Ghostbuster, as he conducts an experiment assisted by a research team of graduate students, all of whom are Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. The device he is testing is a black box about the size of a Sony Watchman with both digital and graphic displays. <b> DANA </b> ... and then the buggy just suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the street <b> SPENGLER </b> Did anyone else see this happen? <b> DANA </b> Hundreds of people. Believe me, I didn't imagine this. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm not saying you did. In science we always look for the simplest explanation. An ASSISTANT interrupts. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready, Dr. Spengler <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Assistant) We'll start with the negative calibration. He picks up the device and prepares to test it. <b> DANA </b> (curious) What are you working on, Egon? <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm trying to determine whether human emotional states have a measurable effect on the psychomagnetheric energy field. It's a theory Ray and I were working on when we had to dissolve Ghostbusters. An assistant draws a curtain revealing a large picture window, actually a two-way mirror, that looks into a small waiting room. Inside the waiting room they can see but not hear a youngish couple having a heated arguement. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Dana) They think they're here for marriage counseling. We've kept them waiting for two hours and we've been gradually increasing the temperature in the room. (checking a heat sensor) It's up to 95 degrees at the moment. Now my assistant is going to enter and ask them if they'd mind waiting another half-hour. As Spengler, Dana, and the research team watch, the assistant enters the waiting room and tells the couple about the new delay. They explode with anger both at him and each other while Spengler monitors them through the glass. After recording his readings, he returns to his Assistant. <b> SPENGLER </b> We'll do the happiness index next. (to Dana) I'd like to bring Ray in on your case, if it's all right with you. <b> DANA </b> Okay, whatever you think -- but not Venkman. <b> SPENGLER </b> Oh no. <b> DANA </b> (affectedly casual) Do you ever see him? <b> SPENGLER </b> Occasionally <b> DANA </b> How is he these days? <b> SPENGLER </b> Venkman? I think he was borderline for a while there. Then he crossed the border. <b> DANA </b> Does he ever mention me? <b> SPENGLER </b> No. Not that I can recall. They move to another two-way mirror through which they can see a lovely little girl playing with a wonderful array of toys. <b> DANA </b> (slightly disappointed) Well, we didn't part on very good terms and we sort of lost track of each other when I got married. The Assistant interrupts again. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready for the affection test. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the assistant) Good. Send in the puppy. <b> DANA </b> (continuing) I thought of calling him after my marriage ended, but --. Anyway, I appreciate you're doing this, Egon They watch as another assistant enters the playroom with an adorable Cocker Spaniel puppy and gives it to the little girl. Spengler monitors her as she jumps for joy and hugs the little dog. <b> DANA </b> (handing him a card) This is my address and telephone number. Will you call me? <b> SPENGLER </b> Certainly. <b> DANA </b> Egon, I'd rather you didn't mention any of this to Peter if you don't mind. <b> SPENGLER </b> I won't. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. She shakes his hand and exits. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to his assistant) Now let's see how she reacts when we take away the puppy <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOK STORE - DAY (LATER) </b> It's a small basement shop located on a quaint commercial block in Greenwich Village. The window is crowded with occult artifacts and old books full of arcane metaphysical lore. The TELEPHONE RINGS. <b> STANTZ </b> (v.o., answering the phone) Ray's Occult. <b>INT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOKS - CONTINUOUS </b> The shelves are jammed floor to ceiling with books on the paranormal. Ray sits on a barstool behind the counter wearing an old cardigan sweater over a T-shirt. He has on a pair of reading glasses and chews on a battered, reeking pipe. As he talks on the phone he prepares a cup of herb tea for Spengler who is thumbing through an arcane text. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the phone) Yeah ... mmhmm ... What do you need? ... What have I got? I've got alchemy, astrology, apparitions, Bundu Magic Men, demon intercession, U.F.O. abductions, psychic surgery, stigmata, modern miracles, pixie sightings, golden geese, geists, ghosts, I've got it all -- what are you looking for? ... Don't have any. Try the stockyards. He hangs up. <b> SPENGLER </b> Who was that? <b> STANTZ </b> Some crank. Looking for goat hooves. Come up with anything? <b> SPENGLER </b> (referring to the book) This one's interesting. Berlin, 1939, a flower cart took off by itself and rolled approximately half a kilometer over level ground. Three hundred eyewitnesses. <b> STANTZ </b> You might want to check those Duke University mean averaging studies on controlled psychokinesis. <b> SPENGLER </b> (going to the stacks) Good idea. The bones hanging over the door rattle as Venkman enters the shop. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, hello, perhaps you could help me. I'm looking for an aerosol love potion I could spray on a certain Penthouse Pet that would make her unconditionally submit to an unusual personal request. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, hiya, Pete. <b> VENKMAN </b> So, no goat hooves, huh? <b> STANTZ </b> (strung) I knew that voice sounded familiar. What's up? How's it going? <b> VENKMAN </b> Nowhere -- fast. Why don't you lock up and buy me a sub? <b> STANTZ </b> (slightly evasive) Uh, I can't. I'm kind of working on something. Spengler steps out of the stacks. <b> VENKMAN </b> Egon! <b> SPENGLER </b> Hello, Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> How've you been? How's teaching? I bet those science chicks really dig that big cranium of yours, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think they're more interested in my epididymis. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't even want to know where that is. Venkman steps behind the counter and takes a beer from Ray's mini-fridge. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, your book came in, Venkman. Magical Paths to Fortune and Power. He hands Venkman the book. <b> VENKMAN </b> Great. (reading the contents) So what are you guys working on? <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, just checking something for an old friend. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? <b> STANTZ </b> (at a loss) Who? Just -- someone we know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, Ray -- He grabs Stantz by both ears and pulls up. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? Who? Who? <b> STANTZ </b> Aaah! Nobody! I can't tell you! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who, Ray? <b> STANTZ </b> (giving in) Dana! Dana Barrett! Venkman lets go of his ears and smiles. Spengler looks at Stantz and shakes his head. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - DAY (LATER) </b> The apartment is old and creatively furnished with a comfortable mix of modern and traditional pieces. Maria, a young Hispanic woman who does day care for Dana, is feeding the baby in the kitchen when the DOORBELL <b>RINGS. </b> <b> CUT TO: </b> Dana enters from the bedroom and crosses to the front door. She opens it and admits Ray and Egon. <b> DANA </b> (hugging Ray) Hi, Ray. It's good to see you. Thanks for coming. <b> STANTZ </b> No problem. Always glad to help -- and hug. <b> DANA </b> (to Spengler) Hi, Egon. She shakes his hand and is about to close the door when Venkman appears in the doorway. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, Dana. Dana is caught completely off guard by Venkman's surprise appearance. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew you'd come crawling back to me. She regards him coolly, as always amused and amazed at his presumptuousness. <b> DANA </b> Hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) You know, Dana, I'm very very hurt that you didn't call me first. I'm still into all this stuff, you know. Haven't you ever seen my show? <b> DANA </b> I have. That's why I didn't call you first. <b> VENKMAN </b> I can see that you're still very bitter about us, but in the interest of science, I'm going to give it my best shot. Let's go to work, boys. Stantz and Spengler begin a comprehensive parapsychological work-up on the baby and the immediate physical environment. <b>VENKMAN AND DANA </b> Venkman starts nosing around the apartment. Dana follows him. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what happened to Mr. Right? I hear he ditched you and the kid and moved to Europe. <b> DANA </b> He didn't "ditch" me. We had some problems, he got a good offer from an orchestra in England and he took it. <b> VENKMAN </b> He ditched you. You should've married me, you know. <b> DANA </b> You never asked me, and every time I brought it up you'd get drowsy and fall asleep. <b> VENKMAN </b> Men are very sensitive, you know. We need to feel loved and desired, too. <b> DANA </b> Well, when you started introducing me as "the old ball and chain," that's when I left. <b> VENKMAN </b> I may have a few personal problems but one thing I am is a total professional. He leaves her and crosses to Spengler. <b>SPENGLER </b> He's taking a complete set of body and head measurements of the baby with a tape measure and calipers. <b> VENKMAN </b> What are you going to do, Egon? Knit him a snowsuit? Spengler ignores the remark and hands Venkman a specimen jar. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'd like to have a stool specimen <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, you would. Is that for personal or professional reasons? <b> VENKMAN </b> (picking up the baby) Okay, kid. Up you go. He starts clowning with the baby, holding him over his head and pressing his nose into the baby's belly, pretending that the baby is attacking him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Help! Please somebody help me! Get him off! Quickly! He's gone completely berserk! Dana is amused and somewhat disarmed by Venkman's rapport with the baby. <b> DANA </b> What do you think? <b> VENKMAN </b> There's no doubt about it. He's got his father's looks. The kid is ugly -- extremely ugly. And smelly. (resumes playing with the baby) You stink! It's just horrible. You are the stinkiest baby I ever smelled. (to Dana) What's his name? <b> DANA </b> His name is Oscar. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oscar! You poor kid! <b> DANA </b> (losing patience) Peter, this is serious. I need to know if you think there's anything unusual about him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Unusual? (holds up the baby and scrutinizes him) I don't know. I haven't had a lot of experience with babies. He looks at the baby, pulling his feet up, trying to get the sleeper off. <b> DANA </b> (taking the specimen jar) I'll do it. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll supervise. <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NURSERY - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman enters and finds Stantz monitoring the room. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) Well, Holmes, what do you think? <b> STANTZ </b> It's an interesting one, Pete. If anything was going on it's totally subdued now. Spengler enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) What now, Brainiac? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think we should see if we can find anything abnormal on the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finding something abnormal on the street shouldn't be too hard. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Dana walks down the street with Venkman, retracing the path of the runaway buggy. Spengler and Stantz follow, monitoring PKE valences from the pavement and the buildings. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana, nostalgic) Brings back a lot of sweet memories, doesn't it? (pointing out familiar neighborhood sights) There's our old cash machine. And the dry cleaners we used to go to. And the old video store. (he wipes away an imaginary tear) We really had some good times, didn't we? <b> DANA </b> We definitely had a moment or two. Dana stops at the intersection and points to the middle of the street. <b> DANA </b> That's where the buggy stopped. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, let's take a look. Venkman walks right out into the middle of the street, completely oblivious to the CARS HONKING and whizzing past him and starts motioning like a traffic cop, bringing traffic to a standstill. Then he signals for Dana, Stantz and Spengler to join him in the middle of the street. <b> STANTZ </b> (reading the PKE meter) Is this the spot? <b> DANA </b> A little to the left. Right there! That's where it stopped. Stantz reads the PKE meter. <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Not a trace. <b> SPENGLER </b> Why don't we try the Giga-meter? <b> VENKMAN </b> What's that? <b> STANTZ </b> Egon and I have been working on a gauge to measure psychomagnetheric energy in GEVs - giga electron volts. <b> SPENGLER </b> That's a thousand million electron volts. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew that. Spengler switches on the Giga-meter, the device he was testing in the lab, and passes it over the spot on the street where the buggy stopped. The indicator goes right into the red zone and the DEVICE starts CLICKING <b>WILDLY. </b> <b> STANTZ </b> I think we hit the honeypot, boys. There's something brewing under the street. <b> DANA </b> (worried, to Venkman) Peter, do you think maybe I have some genetic problem or something that makes me vulnerable to these supernatural things. <b> VENKMAN </b> You mean like the time you got possessed and turned into a monster terror dog? No, not a chance. Total coincidence. (to Stantz and Spengler) Am I right? Stantz and Spengler look at him skeptically, not convinced by the coincidence theory. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - LATE AFTERNOON </b> The museum has just closed for the day and the last of the visitors and employees are leaving. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is working late on the painting of Vigo. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> Unnoticed by Janosz, the eyes of Vigo start to glow. <b>JANOSZ </b> He touches his brush to the canvas and a powerful current of red, crackling energy surges through the brush and courses through his body, driving him to his knees. <b>PAINTING </b> The figure of Vigo comes to life, turns toward Janosz and gestures dramatically at him. Then he speaks to Janosz in a commanding voice. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia, the sorrow of Moldavia, command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (in agony) Command me, lord. <b> VIGO </b> On a mountain of skulls in a castle of pain, I sat on a throne of blood. What was will be, what is will be no more. Now is the season of evil. Find me a child that I might live again. Bolts of red-hot energy shoot from the eyes of Vigo into Janosz's eyes. He screams and falls to his knees. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. COFFEE SHOP - EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT </b> Venkman and Stantz come out with small boxes containing coffee, sandwiches and Danish and start walking up the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> I love this. We're onto something really big. I can smell it, Ray. We're going to make some headlines with this one. <b> STANTZ </b> Hey, hey, hey, stresshound! Are you nuts? If anybody found out about this we'd be in serious trouble. The judge couldn't have been clearer - no ghostbusting. <b> VENKMAN </b> Relax. We're going to keep this whole thing nice and quiet, low key, no profile. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Spengler, wearing a hardhat, is JACKHAMMERING a hole in the middle of the street. Safety cones and reflectors have been set up and a small area is lit by strong work lights. <b>POLICE CAR </b> It turns onto East 77th Street, cruises slowly up to the makeshift worksite and stops. The noise of the JACKHAMMER is so loud, Spengler doesn't notice the police car and the two COPS inside looking at them. Finally, he looks up, sees the police car and freezes. <b> FIRST COP </b> How ya doing? <b> SPENGLER </b> (reeking with guilt) Fine! It's cutting fine now. <b> FIRST COP </b> (curious) Why are you cutting? <b> SPENGLER </b> (looking for one of the others) Why are we cutting? Uh - boss! Venkman and Stantz arrive just in time wearing Con Ed hardhats, doing a good imitation of a Consolidated Edison repairman. <b> FIRST COP </b> What are you doing here? <b> VENKMAN </b> (belligerent) What the hell's it look like we're doing? We're bustin out asses over here 'cause some douchebag downtown ain't got nothin' better to do than make idiots like us work late on a Friday night, right? (looks to Spengler for agreement) <b> SPENGLER </b> (with a "right on" fist) Yo. The cops seem satisfied by the explanation. <b> FIRST COP </b> Okay, boys, take it easy. They drive off. Spengler breathes a great sigh of relief and starts rubbing his sore shoulders. <b> SPENGLER </b> You were supposed to help me with this. <b> VENKMAN </b> You need the exercise. Stantz resumes JACKHAMMERING, while Venkman and Spengler clear the rubble from the hole. Suddenly he hits metal. They clear away generations of paving material revealing an ornate iron manhole cover. The manhole cover bears a strange logo and the letters NYPRR. <b> STANTZ </b> (examing it) NYPRR. What the hell -- ? Help me lift this. They prey off the iron cover with crowbars, uncovering a very dark and very deep abyss. <b> STANTZ </b> (shining a flashlight into the hole) Wow! It's an old airshaft. It just goes forever. Spengler leans in with the giga-meter which is reading even higher now. <b> SPENGLER </b> Very intense. We need a deeper reading. Somebody has to go down there. Venkman and Spengler both look at Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> Thanks, boys. They snap Stantz into a harness and lower him into the hole on a strong cable attached to a winch. Ray calls out orders to them as he descends deeper and deeper. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (his voice echoing in the airshaft) Keep going -- more -- more -- <b>INT. HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz rappels off the sides of the airshaft as he continues his descent in total darkness. <b> STANTZ </b> (using a radio now) Lower -- lower -- (to himself) Gee, this really is deep. Suddenly, his feet kick thin air as he gets to the bottom of the airshaft and swings free in some kind of tunnel. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it! Steady! He pulls a powerful flashlight from his utility belt and shines it into the tunnel below. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - NIGHT </b> He is suspended near the top of a beautifully preserved chamber with rounded, polished tile walls ardorned with intricate, colorfully enameled Art Nouveau mosaics. A finely inlaid sign identifies it as VAN HORNE <b>STATION. </b> <b>STANTZ </b> He pans the walls with his flashlight, admiring the excellent tilework, and speaks quietly to Venkman and Spengler over his walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ </b> (reverently) This is it, boys, the end of the line. Van Horne Station. The old New York Pneumatic. It's still here. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman has no idea what he's talking about. <b> SPENGLER </b> (explaining) The New York Pneumatic Railway. It was an experimental subway system. Fan-forced air-trains, built around 1870. <b> STANTZ </b> (over the walkie-talkie) This is about as deep as you can go under Manhattan without digging your own hole. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) What's the reading? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz shines his flashlight on the meter and whistles at the extremely high reading. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Off the top of the scale. This place is really hot. Lower me to the floor. As Venkman and Spengler feed him some more cable, he pans his flashlight down the wall of the station, then onto the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it!! Stop!! Whoa!! <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - FLOOR - NIGHT </b> Below him is a river of bubbling seething, glowing slime, a veritable torrent of disgusting ooze. As he stares into the foul effluent, we become aware of the strangely amplified and magnified sounds of great ENGINES THROBBING and pulsing in the bowels of the city, of WATER RUSHING through pipes, STEAM HISSING through ducts, the muffled RUMBLE of the SUBWAY and the ROAR of TRAFFIC, and mixed with it all, the unmistakable sounds of human conflict and pain -- VOICES SHOUTING in anger, SCREAMING in fear, GROANING in pain, a sad and eerie symphony. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ - NIGHT </b> <b> STANTZ </b> (ranting on the radio) Oh, my God! It's a seething, bubbling, psychic cess! Interlocked tubes of plasm, crackling with negative GEVs! It's glowing and moving! It's -- it's a river of slime!! <b>STANTZ </b> He dangles from the end of the cable, holding his feet up as high as he can. He unhooks a device from his utility belt and pulls the trigger on it, shooting out a long telescoping fishing-pole with a scoop on the end. Reaching down, he scoops up a sample of the slime and starts retracting the pole. <b>SLIME </b> Suddenly, a grotesque arm with a long skeletal fingers reaches up out of the slime and snatches at Stantz's dangling feet. He jerks his legs up as several more arms poke up out of the slime and reach for him. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Haul me up, Venkman! Now! <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman and Spengler start hauling in the cable as a Con Ed Supervisor's car drives up, and behind it, the same police car they saw earlier. A burly SUPERVISOR gets out and crosses toward them, followed by the two cops. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (no nonsense) Okay, what's the story here? Venkman and Spengler stop pulling up the cable and Venkman tries the belligerent worker ploy again, only this time he's wearing a Nynex hardhat. <b> VENKMAN </b> What, I got time for this? We got three thousand phones out in the Village and about eight million miles of cable to check. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (not buying it) The phone lines are over there. (points to the curb) Venkman pops Spengler on the head. <b> VENKMAN </b> I told ya! Stantz can be heard ranting over Venkman's walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (filtered) Help! Help! Pull me up! It's alive! It's eating my boots. Venkman switches off the walkie-talkie. <b> FIRST COP </b> You ain't with Con Ed or the phone company. We checked. Tell me another one. Venkman stares at the Cop for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Gas leak? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - SAME TIME </b> Stantz is hanging there, looking down into the shaft at the slime which is now bubbling up the shaft after him. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouting) Get me out of here!! Desperate now, he kicks wildly and knocks loose a section of an old, rusting conduit. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - BOTTOM OF THE SHAFT </b> The conduit falls on a heavy electrical transmission line, ripping through the cable with a SHOWER OF SPARKS. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman, Spengler, the cops and the supervisor all react to a bright FLASH deep down in the hole and a SHOUT from Stantz. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - STREET - NIGHT </b> One by one, all the streetlights go out; then the lights on all the buildings along East 77th street; then the whole neighborhood blacks out, and finally the entire city is plunged into darkness. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> Sorry. <b>INT. DANA BARRETT'S APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> She walks around in the dark lighting candles and placing them all over the living room. Then she finds a transistor radio and turns it on for information about the blackout. She listens to a special news report for a moment, then has a compelling impulse to go check on the baby. She crosses to the nursery carrying a candle and quietly opens the door and looks in. Suddenly the DOORBELL RINGS, scaring her half to death. Leaving the chain on the door, she opens it a crack and sees Janosz standing in the hall, eerily lit by a red emergency spot at the end of the hallway. He looks slightly dazed and even creepier. <b> DANA </b> (surprised) Janosz? <b> JANOSZ </b> Hello, Dana. I happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop by to see if everything's all right with you -- you know, with the blackout and everything? Are you okay? Is the baby all right? His affected concern is chilling. She is frightened but conceals it from him. <b> DANA </b> (mechanically and cautiously) We're fine, Janosz. He tires to look around her into the apartment. <b> JANOSZ </b> Do you need anything? You want me to come in? <b> DANA </b> No, everything's fine. Honestly. Thanks anyway. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, just thought I'd check. Good night, Dana. Sleep well. Don't let the bedbugs bite you. <b> DANA </b> Good night, Janosz. She closes the door behind him and double locks it, then stands there staring into the candlelight, alone and afraid. <b>INT. HALLWAY OF DANA'S BUILDING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz stands there in semi-darkness, then his eyes light up like headlights and he walks off down the hall. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - NEXT DAY </b> The JUDGE, a rather sour-looking jurist of the old school, calls the court to order. <b> JUDGE </b> I want to make one thing very clear before we go any further. The law does not recognize the existence of ghosts, and I don't believe in them either, so I don't want to hear a lot of malarkey about goblins and spooks and demons. We're going to stick to the facts in this case and save the ghost stories for the kiddies. Understood? <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz leans over and whispers to Spengler. <b> STANTZ </b> Seems like a pretty open-minded guy, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> His nickname is "The Hammer." Stantz and Spengler are seated with their attorney LOUIS TULLY, lawyer, CPA and former demonic possession victim. Louis is desperately paging through a mountain of legal textbooks. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervous) I think you're making a big mistake here, fellas. I do mostly tax law and some probate stuff occasionally. I got my law degree at night school. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right. We got arrested at night. <b>SPECTATORS' GALLERY </b> Venkman is talking to Dana at the wooden rail in front of the gallery. <b> DANA </b> I wish I could stay. I feel personally responsible for you being here. <b> VENKMAN </b> You are personally responsible. If I can get conjugal rights, will you visit me at Sing Sing? <b> DANA </b> Please don't say that. You won't go to prison. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry about me. I'm like a cat. <b> DANA </b> You mean you cough up hairballs all over the rug? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm El Gato. I always land on my feet. <b> DANA </b> (sincerely) Good luck. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thanks. She gives him a quick, unexpected kiss and exits. Venkman savors it for a moment then goes back to the defense table. <b>PROSECUTION TABLE </b> Jack Hardemeyer, the mayor's principal aide, is goading the PROSECUTOR, a very sober, humorless woman in her late thirties. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> How are you doing, hon? Just put these guys away fast and make sure they go away for a long, long time. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> It shouldn't be hard with this list of charges. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Good. Very good. The mayor and future governor won't forget this. He smiles conspiratorially and makes a point of passing the defense table on his way out of the courtroom. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> The Ghostbusters look up as Hardemeyer approaches. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (gloating) Nice going, Venkman. Violating a judicial restraining order, willful destruction of public property, fraud, malicious mischief -- smooth move. See you in a couple years -- at your first parole hearing. Herdemeyer exits. Louis looks devastated. <b> LOUIS </b> Gee, the whole city's against us. I think I'm going to be sick. Spengler hands him a waste basket as the Prosecutor calls her first witness. <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - DAY (LATER) </b> The Con Ed Supervisor is testifying. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Mr. Fianella, please look at Exhibits A through F on the table over there. Do you recognize that equipment? <b>EXHIBIT TABLE </b> Lying on the table are the basic tools of the Ghostbusting trade: three proton packs and particle throwers, a couple of ghost traps, and various meters and detection devices. <b> CON ED </b> (o.c.) That's the stuff the cops found in their truck. <b>WITNESS STAND </b> She continues. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Do you know what this equipment is used for? <b> CON ED </b> (shrugs) I don't know. Catching ghosts, I guess. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> (to the Judge) May I remind the court that the defendants are under a judicial restraining order that specifically forbids them from performing services as paranormal investigators and eliminators. <b> JUDGE </b> So noted. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Now, Mr. Fianella, can you identify the substance in the jar on the table marked Exhibit F? <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She goes to the exhibit table and picks up a specimen jar containing the slime sample Stantz removed from the tunnel. <b> CON ED </b> I been working underground for Con Ed for 27 years and I never saw anything like that in my life. We checked out that tunnel the next day and we didn't find nothing. If it was down there, they must have put it there. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Venkman and Spengler look at Stantz. <b> STANTZ </b> (defensively) Hey, I didn't imagine it. There must have been ten thousand gallons of it down there. <b> SPENGLER </b> It may be ebbing and flowing from some tidal source. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervously) Should I say that? <b> SPENGLER </b> I doubt that they'd believe us. Louis moans and goes back to his notes. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - LATER </b> Venkman himself is on the stand and Louis is questioning him. <b> LOUIS </b> So like you were just trying to help out your old friend because she was scared and you didn't really mean to do anything bad and you really love the city and won't ever do anything like this again, right? <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection, your Honor. He's leading the witness. <b> JUDGE </b> The witness is leading him. Sustained. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, let me rephrase that question. (to venkman) Didn't you once coach a basketball team for underprivileged children? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yes, I did. We were city champs. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection. Irrelevant and immaterial. <b> JUDGE </b> Sustained. Mr. Tully, do you have anything to ask this witness that may have some bearing on this case? <b> LOUIS </b> (to Venkman) Do I? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I think you've helped them enough already. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the Judge) No, I guess not. (to the Prosecutor) Your witness. The Prosecutor rises and approaches the witness stand with relish. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So, Dr. Venkman, please explain to the court why it is you and your co-defendants took it upon yourselves to dig a big hole in the middle of the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Seventy-seventh and First Avenue has so many holes already we didn't think anyone would notice. The gallery laughs and the Judge gavels for order. <b> JUDGE </b> Keep that up, mister, and I'll find you in contempt. <b> VENKMAN </b> Sorry, your Honor, but when somebody sets me up like that I can't resist. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> I'll ask you again, Dr. Venkman. Why were you digging the hole? And please remember that you're under oath. <b> VENKMAN </b> I had my fingers crossed when they swore me in, but I'm going to tell you the truth. There are things in this world that go way beyond human understanding, things that can't be explained and that most people don't want to know about anyway. That's where we come in. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So what are you saying? That the world of the supernatural is your special province? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I guess I'm just saying that shit happens and somebody has to deal with it. The spectators in the gallery cheer and the judge gavels for order. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - LATER </b> The trial is nearing its end. The Judge calls on Louis to make his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> Does the counsel for the defense wish to make any final arguements? Louis rises. <b> LOUIS </b> Your honor, may I approach the bench? <b> JUDGE </b> (impatient) Yes. Louis crosses to the judge's bench. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the judge) Can I have some of your water? <b> JUDGE </b> Get on with it, counselor! <b> LOUIS </b> (scared) Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the -- (he remembers there's no jury) audience. I don't think it's fair to call my clients frauds. Okay, the blackout was a big problem for everybody. I was stuck in an elevator for about three hours and I had to go to the bathroom the whole time, but I don't blame them because once I turned into a dog and they helped me. Thank you. He goes back to the defense table and sits down. Stantz and Spengler hang their heads. Venkman pats Louis on the back. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Louis) Way to go. Concise and to the point. <b>JUDGE </b> He stares at Louis, astonished at his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> That's it? That's all you have to say? <b> LOUIS </b> Did I forget something? He searches through a disorderly pile of notes. <b> JUDGE </b> That was unquestionably the worst presentation of a case I've ever heard in a court of law! I ought to cite you for contempt and have you disbarred. As for your clients, Peter Venkman, Raymond Stantz and Egon Spengler, on the charges of conspiracy, fraud and the willful destruction of public property, I find you guilty on all counts. I order you to pay fines in the amount of $25,000 each and I sentence you to eighteen months in the city correctional facility at Ryker's Island. <b>STANTZ </b> He sees the activity in the jar <b> STANTZ </b> Uh-oh, she's twitchin'. <b>THE BENCH </b> The Judge continues <b> JUDGE </b> And on a more personal note, let me go on record as saying that there is no place in decent society for fakes, charlatans and tricksters like you who prey on the gullibility of innocent people. You're beneath the contempt of this court. And believe me, if my hands were not tied by the unalterable fetters of the law, a law which has become in my view far too permissive and inadequate in it's standards of punishment, I would invoke the tradition of our illustrious forebearers, reach back to a sterner, purer justice and have you burned at the stake! He hammers the bench with his gravel as the gallery erupts noisily. Then he feels a LOW RUMBLING TREMOR in the courtroom. <b>SPECIMEN JAR </b> The slime starts to pulse and swell, pushing up the lid on the jar. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz anticipates big trouble. <b> STANTZ </b> Under the table, boys! The Ghostbusters duck under the defense table. <b>LOUIS </b> He stands up and looks around fearfully. <b>INT. COURTROOM - GHOST BATTLE - DAY </b> Everybody is silent now as the rumbling increases. All eyes turn to the exhibit table. Then suddenly all Hell breaks loose as TWO FULL-TORSO APPARITIONS explode out of the specimen jar. <b>JUDGE </b> He looks up in terror at the two huge apparitions looming above him and recognizes them immediately. <b> JUDGE </b> (in horror) Oh, my God! The Scoleri Brothers! <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> Big in life, even bigger in death, the ghostly Scoleri brothers seem ten feet tall. They are strapped into electric chairs and on their heads are metal electrocution caps with live, sparking electrical wires still attached. Twenty-five hundred volts of electricity shoot through their bodies as they start to break free of the leather restraints, trying to get at the Judge. <b>JUDGE </b> Holding his gavel like a pitiful weapon, he crawls over to the defense table where Venkman, Stantz and Spengler are now crouched, assessing the spectral intruders. <b> JUDGE </b> (terrified) You've got to do something! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who are they? <b> JUDGE </b> They're the Scoleri Brothers. I tried them for murder. They were electrocuted up at Ossining in '48. Now they want to kill me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Maybe they just want to appeal. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They break loose from the electric chairs, then turn toward the defense table and BLAST it with HIGH-VOLTAGE FINGER-LIGHTNING. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She sprints for the door, pursued by one of the Scoleri brothers. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They jump to safety behind the rail of the jury box, pulling the Judge with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These boys aren't playing around. <b> JUDGE </b> (desperately) You've got to stop them. Please! <b> LOUIS </b> (thinking like a lawyer) Violating a judicial restraining order could expose my clients to serious criminal penalties. As their attorney I'd have to advise them against it. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They start punching through the jury box. <b>JUDGE </b> He is just about hysterical with fear. <b> JUDGE </b> All right! All right! I'm recinding the order. Case dismissed!! (he pounds his gavel on the floor) Now do something! <b> STANTZ </b> Let's go to work, boys. With that, the Ghostbusters leap over the rail of the jury box and dash across the courtroom to the exhibit table where their proton packs were being displayed as evidence. They strap them on hastily as the Brothers continue tearing up the seats looing for the Judge. <b> VENKMAN </b> (slinging the pack onto his back) Geez, I forgot how heavy these things are. <b> STANTZ </b> (grabbing other gear) Okay, let's heat 'em up! They flip the power switches on their packs and draw their particle throwers. <b> STANTZ </b> All right, throwers. Set for full neutronas on stream. They switch on their throwers and turn to face the raging phantasms. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They are just about to wipe out the Judge when a loud shout distracts them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size? The towering ghosts turn in a fury and raise their arms, ready to shoot lightning at their new adversaries. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the others) On my signal, boys. Open 'em up -- Now! They all pull their triggers and the wands EXPLODE with incredible powerful STREAMS OF ENERGY, doing even more damage to the courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Spengs, take the door. Ray, let's try and work them down and into the corner. Working as a team, they gradually confine the Scoleri Brothers with the streams, forcing them closer and closer to the traps Ray has set out on the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch it! I'm coming under you, Pete. They circle around the two ghosts, prodding them with the streams while ducking the lightning bolts shooting from their fingers. Finally, Ray sees his chance and pops open the traps which emit inverted pyramids of light energy. <b> STANTZ </b> Steady -- watch your streams -- easy now -- Venky, bring him left -- Spengy, pull him down -- trapping -- trapping -- now! He stomps on a control pedal and the Scoleri Brothers are drawn into the traps which snap shut. <b>INT. COURTROOM - TRAPS - DAY </b> LEDs on the outer casing start flashing, indicating the presence of a ghost inside each trap. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking the trap) Occupado. <b>INT. COURTROOM - JUDGE - DAY (AFTER GHOST BATTLE) </b> He sticks his head up slowly from behind the debris of his bench and looks around in total amazement. <b>LOUIS </b> He crawls out from under a chair. Reporters and spectators get back on their feet and start buzzing about the incredible manifestation. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She's lying on the floor, attended to by the Bailiff and the Court Clerk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Prosecutor) Brilliant summation. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They break into big smiles as photographers start snapping pictures of them standing in the wrecked courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Case closed, boys. We're back in business. The spectators cheer and applaud. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> The old, dilapidated Ghostbusters logo comes crashing to the ground, dropped by a pair of workmen on a ladder, and the new logo is hoisted into place over the main entrance. It's just like the original "No Ghosts" logo, but in the new one the ghost in the red circle is holding up two fingers. Venkman enters the firehouse. <b>INT. BEDROOM SET (TV COMMERCIAL - FULL SCREEN VIDEO) - NIGHT </b> A man and his wife are lying in bed reading. The man is played by Louis Tully and JANINE MELNITZ, the Ghostbusters' once and future receptionist, is playing his wife. They are both terrible actors. Suddenly, a ghost, actually a very bad puppet on a wire, floats through the bedroom. Janine sees it and screams. <b> LOUIS </b> What is it, honey? <b> JANINE </b> It's that darn ghost again! I don't know what to do anymore. He just won't leave us alone. I guess we'll just have to move. <b> LOUIS </b> Don't worry. We're not moving. He is. He picks up the phone. <b> JANINE </b> Who are you going to call? <b> LOUIS </b> (with a wink) Ghostbusters. As he starts to dial, the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the Ghostbusters standing in the bedroom. Their acting isn't much better than Louis and Janine's. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> Stantz speaks directly TO the CAMERA. <b> STANTZ </b> I'm Ray -- <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm Peter -- <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm Egon -- <b> STANTZ </b> And we're the ... <b> ALL </b> (together) Ghostbusters. <b> STANTZ </b> That's right -- Ghostbusters. We're back and we're better than ever with twice the know-how and twice the particle-power to deal with all your supernatural elimination needs. During his speech, Winston can be seen in the b.g. pretending to trap the fake ghost. <b> STANTZ </b> Careful, Winston. He's a mean one. <b> (TO CAMERA) </b> And to celebrate our grand reopening, we're giving you twice the value with our special half-price 'Welcome Back' service plan. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hold on, Ray! Half-price! Have you gone crazy? <b> STANTZ </b> I guess so, Pete, because that's not all. Tell them what else we've got, Egon. Spengler actually mouths everyone else's dialogue along with them, waiting for his cue. <b> SPENGLER </b> You mean the Ghostbusters hot beverage thermal mugs and free balloons for the kids? He holds up a mug and a limp, uninflated balloon. <b> STANTZ </b> You bet. As Stantz wraps it up, SUPERS APPEAR at the bottom of the SCREEN: FULLY <b>BONDED - FULLY LICENSED - SE HABLA ESPANOL. </b> <b> STANTZ </b><b> (TO CAMERA) </b> So don't wait another minute. Make your supernatural problem our supernatural problem. Call now, because we're still -- <b> ALL </b> (in unison, mechanically) -- Ready to believe you. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. JACK HARDEMEYER'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Hardemeyer is watching the Ghostbusters commercial on a TV in his office. He bangs his fist on his desk and angrily switches OFF the TV. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY (LATER) </b> The garage door opens and the new improved ECTOMOBILE comes ROARING out onto the street, its ghostly SIREN MOANING and WAILING. Louis comes running out after it. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis comes back into the garage bay and stops as he smells a foul odor. He sniffs around, following the smell. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, geez, smells like somebody took a really big -- He freezes. <b>INT. OFFICE AREA - LOUIS'S POV </b> Slimer, a spud-like green ghost, is hovering over Louis's desk, scarfing down Louis's bag lunch. Slimer looks up and sees Louis. <b>SLIMER AND LOUIS </b> They both scream and run off in opposite directions. <b>SLIMER </b> He passes right through a wall and disappears. <b>LOUIS </b> He runs right into a wall, recovers and exits in a hurry. <b> LOUIS </b> (screaming) Help! There's a thing! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK RESERVOIR - DAY (LATER) </b> Runners of both sexes and all ages are huffing and puffing as they jog along the track that circles the reservoir. One of the runners looks behind him at the sound of APPROACHING FOOTFALLS and screams. <b>GHOSTLY JOGGER </b> A ghost jogger is loping along at a pretty fair pace. Other runners stumble and run screaming into the park as he passes them. Seemingly oblivious to the effect he's having, the ghost jogger puts two fingers to his skeletal neck and checks his watch as if taking his pulse. <b>EXT. CLEARING IN PARK - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman is sitting on a park bench near the jogging track reading the newspaper, eating a donut and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. <b>STANTZ </b> He's sitting on a bench opposite Venkman's, casually watching the jogging track. <b>GHOST JOGGER </b> He approaches the benches where the Ghostbusters are waiting. As the ghost jogger passes the benches, Stantz and Venkman simultaneously hit concealed control buttons. A ghost trap buried in the track throws up a glowing inverted pyramid and catches the ghost jogger in mid-stride. Stantz and Venkman close the trap and capture the ghost jogger. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking his watch) You know he ran that last lap in under six minutes? <b> STANTZ </b> If he wasn't dead he'd be an Olympic prospect. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. JEWELRY STORE - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters come out carrying smoking traps, wearing cheap dime-store Santa Claus hats. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the client) Merry Christmas! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - ORREFORS GLASS STORE - DAY </b> The Ectomobile is parked at the curb and a curious crowd looks on as the Ghostbusters enter the store. <b>INT. ORREFORS GLASS STORE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> All the precious crystal is floating in the air, several feet above the glass shelves and display tables. Stantz and Venkman are talking to the manager while Winston and Spengler set up an array of electronic devices positioned in each corner of the store. On a signal from Stantz, Spengler and Winston switch on the devices which throw laser-type beams around the perimeter of the store. The manager watches in horror as all the GLASSWARE suddenly drops out of the air, SMASHES through the GLASS SHELVES and SHATTERS on the display tables. There is a long pregnant pause. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the manager) So will that be cash or a check? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) </b> Everyone else has gone home. Dana is cleaning her brushes and putting her supplies away. <b>VIGO PAINTING - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Vigo turns his head and watches Dana as she walks past the painting. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis is lurking behind a pillar, peeking out at the office area. We PAN DOWN TO the floor and see a foot pedal, then PAN ALONG the cord TO a ghost trap sitting on Louis's desk. Hanging from strings over the desk are several pieces of Kentucky fried chicken. <b>WALL </b> Slimer partially emerges and furtively sniffs the air, then spots the chicken bait. He licks his lips, materializes completely and flies to the chicken. <b>LOUIS </b> His eyes light up and he stomps the foot pedal. <b> LOUIS </b> (shouts) Gotcha! <b>DESK </b> The trap pops open and shoots out a powerful cone of energy. Slimer dodges it and escapes as a big section of the ceiling comes crashing down on Louis's desk. <b> LOUIS </b> (seeing the damage) Uh-oh. He slinks off, defeated. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - SECURITY DESK - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters commercial is playing on a portable TV on the security desk. Rudy, the Security Guard, is reading a National Enquirer with a giant front-page headline: GHOSTBUSTERS SAVE JUDGE. Venkman enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm looking for Dana Barrett. <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> Room 304 -- Restorations. (recognizing him) Hey! Dr. Venkman -- 'World of the Psychic.' I'm a big, big fan. That used to be one of my two favorite shows. <b> VENKMAN </b> (flattered) Thanks. What's the other one? <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> 'Bass Masters.' It's a fishing show. Ever see it? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, really great. Take it easy. He exits. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Dana is working on a valuable Flemish still-life by Ver Meer. Janosz is at the other end of the room, still working on the painting of Vigo. Venkman enters and sneaks up behind Dana. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the Ver Meer) So this is what you do, huh? <b> DANA </b> (glad to see him) Oh, hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> You're really good, you know. <b> DANA </b> I didn't paint it. I'm just cleaning it. It's an original Ver Meer. It's worth about ten million dollars. <b>VIGO </b> He turns his head and watches Venkman and Dana. <b>VENKMAN </b> Unaware that he's being watched, Venkman squints at the still life, holding up his thumb like he's seen artists do. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know you can go to Art World and get these huge sofa-size paintings for about forty-five bucks. He starts looking around at the other artwork in the studio. <b> DANA </b> I'm sure you didn't come here just to talk about art. <b> VENKMAN </b> As a matter of fact, I stopped by to tell you that I haven't forgotten your problem and that we're still on the case. They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> (smiling at Venkman) Dana, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend? <b> DANA </b> Oh, I'm sorry. This is Peter Venkman. Peter, Janosz Poha. Venkman warily shakes his hand, trying to size him up. <b> JANOSZ </b> (avoiding his gaze) Pleasure to meet you. I've seen you on television. <b> VENKMAN </b> How are you? (looking over at the Vigo painting) What's that you're working on, Johnny? Janosz winces at the nickname but lets it go. Venkman and Dana cross to the Vigo painting. Janosz steps protectively in front of it. <b> JANOSZ </b> It's a painting I'm restoring for the new Byzantine exhibition. It's a self-portrait of Prince Vigo, the Carpathian. He ruled most of Carpathia and Moldavia in the 17th Century. <b> VENKMAN </b> (staring at the painting) Too bad for the Moldavians. <b> JANOSZ </b> (defensive) He was a very powerful magician. A genius in many ways and quite a skilled painter. <b> DANA </b> He was also a lunatic and a genocidal madman. I hate this painting. I've felt very uncomfortable since they brought it up from storage. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, it's not the kind of thing you'd want to hang in the rec room. You know what it needs? (picking up a brush) A fluffy little white kitten in the corner. Venkman reaches toward the painting, but Janosz grabs his hand. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with forced good will) We don't go around altering valuable paintings, Dr. Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, I'd make an exception in this case if I were you. Dana looks disapprovingly at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) I'll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you. <b> JANOSZ </b> My pleasure. Venkman and Dana cross back to her workspace. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) I may be wrong, but I think you've got a little crush on this guy. <b> DANA </b> Good-bye, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (dragging his feet) I'd like to stay, but I really don't have time to hang around here. I'll call you. (calls out to Janosz) Later, Johnny! He exits. <b>VIGO </b> Vigo turns his head and follows Dana as she returns to her workbench. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LIVING QUARTERS - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> Venkman and Winston enter and find Stantz and Spengler at work in the lab area. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh good, you're here. Spengler and I have something really amazing to show you. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) It's not that thing you do with your nostrils, is it? Stantz goes to the refrigerator, opens the freezer, rummages around among the TV dinners and frozen pizza and pulls out a slime specimen in a Tupperware container. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Venkman) We've been studying the stuff that we took from the subway tunnel. He pops the specimen jar in the microwave and lets it thaw for a minute. <b> VENKMAN </b> And now you're going to eat it? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm just restoring it to its normal state. He takes the specimen out of the microwave and pours some of it into a large Petri dish. <b> STANTZ </b> Now watch this. He leans over the specimen and starts shouting at it. <b> STANTZ </b> (simulating anger) You worthless piece of slime!! (as the slime starts to twitch and glow) You ignorant disgusting blob!! <b>SPECIMEN </b> It bubbles and swells, changing color with each insult. <b> STANTZ </b> You foul, obnoxious muck!! <b>STANTZ </b> He continues venting his rage on the slime. <b> STANTZ </b> I've seen some real crud in my time, but you're a chemical disgrace!! The specimen doubles its size and starts spilling over the rim of the Petri dish. <b>STANTZ AND SPENGLER </b> They turn to Venkman for his reaction. He's dumbfounded. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is what you do with your spare time? <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) This is an incredible breakthrough, Venkman. A psychoreactive substance! Whatever this is, it clearly responds to human emotional states. <b> VENKMAN </b> 'Mood slime.' We ought to bottle this stuff and sell it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We've found it at every event site we've been to lately. <b> WINSTON </b> (poking at the slime) You mean this stuff actually feeds on 'bad vibes'? <b> STANTZ </b> Like a goat on garbage. <b> STANTZ </b> We're running tests to see if we can get an equally strong positive reaction. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of tests? <b> STANTZ </b> (a little embarrassed) Well, we sing to it, we talk to it, we say supportive, nurturing things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> You're not sleeping with this stuff, are you? Spengler reacts as if he might be. <b> STANTZ </b> It really responds to music. (to Spengler) Let's calm it down. Spengler picks up a guitar and he and Stantz start singing "Cumbaya" to the slime specimen. <b>SPECIMEN </b> It stops bubbling and starts to shrink. <b> WINSTON </b> Does it have any favorites? <b> STANTZ </b> It likes all the sappy stuff: 'Cumbaya,' 'Everything is Beautiful,' 'It's a Small World' -- but it loves Jackie Wilson. Venkman and Winston watch intently as Spengler spoons some of the psych-reactive slime onto an old toaster. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch this. Stantz turns on a CASSETTE PLAYER and Jackie Wilson's "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BLASTS from the speakers. <b>TOASTER </b> It shakes, spins and actually starts moving in time with the MUSIC. <b>VENKMAN </b> He stares in disbelief at the dancing toaster as it shoots two pieces of toast into the air and catches them without missing a beat. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't care what you say. This could be a major Christmas gift item. <b> WINSTON </b> Right, and the first time someone gets mad, their toaster will eat their hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> So we'll put a warning on the label. Stantz turns OFF the MUSIC and the toaster stops moving. Venkman looks at the toaster and sticks his fingers in the slot. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the toaster) Go ahead. I dare you. Suddenly, he yelps as if the toaster has actually bitten into his hand and won't let go. The others jump in to help him, but Venkman laughs and easily withdraws his hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> Just kidding. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Dana brings Oscar into the bathroom and lays him on the bassinet. She's wearing a robe over her nightgown, preparing to bathe the baby. She turns the taps on the old claw-footed bathtub, checks the water temperature, then turns away and starts to undress the baby. <b> DANA </b> (talking sweetly to the baby) Look at you. I think we got more food on your shirt than we got in your mouth. <b>BATHTUB </b> The water pouring from the faucet changes to slime and settles at the bottom of the tub. Dana reaches over and turns off the water without looking into the tub. When she turns away, both taps start to spin by themselves and the tub flexes and bulges. <b>DANA </b> Still unaware, she routinely reaches over and squirts some bubble bath into the tub. <b>BATHTUB </b> The rim of the tub puckers up and the sides convulse as if swallowing the bubble bath. <b>DANA </b>She picks the baby up off the bassinet and turns to place him in the tub. She is just about to lower him into the water when the tub starts to close up around the baby like a hugh mouth. Dana screams, snatches the baby away and runs from the room clutching Oscar to her bosom as the bathtub convulses and vomits up buckets of slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - SAME NIGHT (LATER) </b> The big open loft space is a chaotic clutter of mismatched furniture, old magazines, books, tapes, and sports equipment. Venkman is asleep on the floor, still wearing his coat, scarf, hat and gloves, having collapsed just short of the bedroom. The DOORBELL RINGS, he wakes up, lumbers to his feet and answers it. He opens the door and sees Dana standing there. She is wearing only a nightgown under her coat and Oscar is naked, wrapped in a baby blanket. <b> DANA </b> (somewhat embarrassed to be there) I'm sorry. Were you on your way out? <b> VENKMAN </b> (surprised to see her) No, I just got in -- a couple hours ago. Come on in. (noting her apparel) Are we having a pajama party? <b> DANA </b> (upset) Peter, the bathtub tried to eat Oscar. Venkman looks at her for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know, if anyone else told me that, I'd have serious doubts. But coming from you, I can't honestly say I'm surprised. <b> DANA </b> I must be losing my mind. At the museum today I could have sworn that terrible painting of Vigo looked right at me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who could blame him? Were you wearing this nightgown? <b> DANA </b> (distraught) I don't know what to do anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll get Ray and Egon to check out the bathtub. You better stay here. He exits to the bathroom. She looks around the loft, amazed at the disorder. Venkman comes back immediately with an old sweatshirt and takes Oscar from her. <b> VENKMAN </b> Now this kid has a serious nudity problem. He spreads the sweatshirt out on the sofa, lays the baby on it and starts tying it around him like a diaper. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the baby) This is Joe Namath's old number, you know. You could get a lot of chicks with this. Just don't pee in it. <b> DANA </b> Peter, what about the bathtub? <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the phone and dials) We'll take care of that. (on the phone) Ray, Pete. Listen, get over to Dana's right away ... Her bathtub pulled a fast one -- tried to eat the kid. <b> DANA </b> It was full of this awful pink ooze. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray) Sounds like another slime job ... No, they're all right. They're here now ... Right ... Let me know. He hangs up. <b> VENKMAN </b> They're going over there right now. You might as well make yourself at home. Let me show you around. (he crosses to the kitchen area) This is the cuisine de maison -- It's an incredible mess. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes and the counters are littered with all sorts of food trash. He grabs a big open Hefty bag on the floor and starts throwing garbage into it. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the sink) We may have to wash some of these if you get hungry -- (he looks in the fridge) -- but there's no food anyway so forget about it. I have all kinds of carry-out menus if you feel like ordering. He opens a drawer full of pizza, barbecue and Chinese food menus, then crosses to the bathroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Bathroom's right here -- let me just tidy up a few things. <b> DANA </b> Peter, this is very nice, but you don't have to do any of this, you know. He goes into the bathroom and we hear WATER RUNNING, the TOILET FLUSHING and more items going into the Hefty bag. <b> VENKMAN (O.S.) </b> The shower works but it's a little tricky. They're both marked "Hot." It takes a little practice, but at least this one won't try and eat you. He comes out of the bathroom with the now-loaded Hefty bag over his shoulder. <b> VENKMAN </b> Be careful on that sofa -- it's a butt-biter. But the bed's good and I just changed the sheets so if you get tired, feel free. In fact, I think you should definitely plan on spending the night here. <b> DANA </b> Really? And how would we handle the sleeping arrangements? <b> VENKMAN </b> For me it's best if I sleep on my side and you spoon up right behind me with your arms around me. If we go the other way I'm afraid your hair will be getting in my face all night. <b> DANA </b> How about you on the sofa and me in bed with the baby. <b> VENKMAN </b> Or we could do that. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. (she picks up Oscar) Poor baby. I think I should put him down now. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll put him down for you. (taking the baby) You are way too short! And your belly-button sticks out! You're nothing but a burden to your poor mother! Venkman carries the baby into the bedroom leaving Dana in the living room, feeling more relaxed and a lot safer. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> Venkman is waiting in front of the building as ECTO-2 pulls up and Stantz, Spengler and Winston get out and report on Dana's apartment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you find anything at Dana's? <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Just some mood-slime residue in and around the bathtub. But we did turn up some interesting stuff on this Vigo character you mentioned. I found the name Vigo the Carpathian in Leon Zundinger's Magicians, Martyrs and Madmen. Listen to this: <b> SPENGLER </b> (reads from xerox of entry) "Vigo the Carpathian, born 1505, died 1610 --" <b> VENKMAN </b> A hundred and five years? He really hung on, didn't he. <b> STANTZ </b> And he didn't die of old age either. He was poisoned, stabbed, shot, hung, stretched, disemboweled, drawn and quartered. <b> WINSTON </b> I guess he wasn't too popular at the end there. <b> SPENGLER </b> No, not exactly a man of the people. (reads) "Also known as Vigo the Cruel, Vigo the Torturer, Vigo the Despised, and Vigo the Unholy." <b> STANTZ </b> This guy was a bad monkey. He dabbled in all the Black Arts, and listen to this prophecy. Just before his head died, his last words were, "Death is but a door, time is but a window. I'll be back." <b> VENKMAN </b> That's it? "I'll be back?" <b> SPENGLER </b> It's a rough translation from the Moldavian. They enter the museum carrying their monitoring equipment. <b>INT. MUSEUM - SECURITY DESK - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Rudy the guard looks up in surprise as the Ghostbusters enter. <b> RUDY </b> Hey, Dr. Venkman. What's going on? <b> VENKMAN </b> We're just going up to Restorations for a minute. <b> RUDY </b> Oh, I can't let you do that. Mr. Poha told me not to let you up there anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> (with mock seriousness) Okay, we were trying to keep this quiet but I think you can be trusted. Tell him, Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> (very official) Mister, you have an Ecto-paritic, subfusionary flux in this building. <b> RUDY </b> We got a flux? <b> WINSTON </b> You got a flux and a half. <b> STANTZ </b> Now if you don't want to be the -- (he counts) -- fifth person ever to die in meta-shock from a planar rift, I suggest you get down behind that desk and don't move until we give you the signal "Stabilize -- All Clear." Rudy gulps and starts to hunker down behind the desk as the Ghostbusters head upstairs. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Janosz is working on the Vigo painting when the Ghostbusters enter. He rushes over and stops them at the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> Dr. Venkman? Dana is not here. <b> VENKMAN </b> I know. <b> JANOSZ </b> Then why have you come? <b> VENKMAN </b> We got a major creep alert and we're just going down the list. Your name was first. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Spengler and Winston) Let's sweep it, boys. They deploy and start scanning the studio with their monitoring devices. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) You know, I never got to ask you. Where you from, Johnny? <b> JANOSZ </b> (nervous) The Upper West Side. <b> SPENGLER </b> (consulting his PKE meter) This entire room is extremely hot, Peter. <b> JANOSZ </b> What exactly are you looking for, Dr. Venkman? <b> VENKMAN </b> We'll know when we find it. You just sit tight. This won't take long. <b>STANTZ </b> Using the Giga-meter, he traces a strong psychomagnetheric reading to the painting of Vigo in the alcove at the end of the studio. Venkman comes up behind him with Janosz right on his heels. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is the one that looked at Dana. <b> JANOSZ </b> It must be the chemical fumes in the studio. People start imagining things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (interrupts) I'm going to rule out the glue-sniffing theory. If she says it looked at her, it looked at her. (to Vigo) Hey, you! Vigie! Look at me. I'm talking to you. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you. They watch the painting for any sign of movement. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes stare lifelessly into the distance. <b>STANTZ AND VENKMAN </b> Venkman starts shooting Polaroids of Vigo. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Vigo) Beautiful, beautiful. Work with me, baby. Just have fun with it. (to Stantz) Okay, he's playing it cool. Let's finish up and get out of here. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll get one more reading. Venkman walks off leaving Stantz alone with the painting. Stantz scans the painting with the Giga-meter until his eyes meet Vigo's. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes seems to burn right through to the depths of Stantz's soul. <b>STANTZ </b> He stands there transfixed, unable to look away, as a strange and subtle transformation occurs within him. Winston comes up behind him and breaks the spell. <b> WINSTON </b> (looking at the painting) Now that's one ugly dude. <b> STANTZ </b> (coming back to his senses) Huh? What? <b> WINSTON </b> You finished here? <b> STANTZ </b> (distracted) What? Yeah. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? You coming down with something? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm fine. I just got light-headed for a second there. Let's go. They head for the door. <b>JANOSZ </b> He escorts the Ghostbusters to the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> So you see, everything is in order, is it not? <b> VENKMAN </b> Not. Don't leave town and report any change in your address to the proper authorities. We'll be back. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters cross to ECTO-2. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's definitely something going on in that studio. The PKE levels were max-plus and the Giga-meter was showing all red. <b> WINSTON </b> I'd put my money on that Vigo character. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, that's a safe bet. (to Stantz) You and Spengman see what else you can dig up on Vigo and this little weasel Poha. Those two were made for each other. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are driving back to the firehouse. Stantz is at the wheel. His eyes are vacant, he seems distracted and very tense. Stantz swerves suddenly and HONKS the horn angrily. <b> STANTZ </b> (to another driver) Idiot! (honking) Move it, you jerk! Venkman and Winston exchange surprised looks. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz drives extremely fast, HONKING vindictively, weaving dangerously through traffic. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks at Ray, concerned. <b> WINSTON </b> Going a little fast, aren't we, Ray? Stantz turns on him. <b> STANTZ </b> (viciously) Are you telling me how to drive? <b> WINSTON </b> No, I just thought -- <b> STANTZ </b> Well don't think! He HONKS again and tromps hard on the accelerator. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS) </b> Ecto-2 is now barreling down the avenue. Pedestrians leap to safety as Stantz runs a red light. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They hang on to the safety straps as Stantz continues his maniacal ride. <b> WINSTON </b> (to Stantz, really worried now) Are you crazy, man? You're going to kill somebody! Stantz looks at him and smile demonically. <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm going to kill everybody! He swerves off the road. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car heads right for a big tree. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> At the last possible moment, Winston cold-cocks Stantz, grabs the wheel and steps across to stomp on the brakes. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car skids into the tree and stops. The Ghostbusters stumble out dazed and shaken, but unhurt. Stantz rubs his eyes and looks at the others, completely at a loss. <b> STANTZ </b> (himself again) What happened? <b> VENKMAN </b> You just picked up three penalty points on your driver's license. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, I guess so. It was the strangest thing. I knew what I was doing but I couldn't stop. This really terrible feeling came over me and -- I don't know -- I just felt like driving into that tree and ending it all. Whew! Sorry, boys. They inspect the damage to the car. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially, to Spengler) Watch him, Egon. Don't even let him shave. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - DAY (LATER) </b> There's a KNOCK at the front door, a key turns in the lock, and Venkman enters somewhat tentatively holding a bouquet of flowers and a small suitcase of Dana's. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calls out) I'm home! He looks around the large open loft. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to himself) I knew it. She cleaned. He hears the SHOWER RUNNING and crosses to the bathroom. The door is half-open and he can see Dana in the shower (tastefully blurred) through the transparent vinyl curtain. He closes the bathroom door and looks at the baby asleep on the bed, surrounded by pillows to prevent him rolling off. Then he turns and bumps into Dana who's just coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She jumps back into the bathroom. She comes out again, this time wearing a robe. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you all squeaky clean now? <b> DANA </b> (humoring him) Yes, I'm very clean. Did they find anything at my apartment? She squeezes past him into the bedroom and closes the door. <b> VENKMAN </b> (through the door) Nothing. They stayed there all night, went through your personal stuff, made a bunch of long-distance phone calls and cleaned out your refrigerator. And didn't find anything. Dana opens the bedroom door. <b> DANA </b> They didn't find anything? In the bathtub ... the pink ooze ... nothing? So, what do I do now? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you get dressed and we go out. I got a babysitter and everything. Trust me, you need it. <b> DANA </b> I'm not here to date. I can't leave Oscar in a strange place with someone I don't know. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's Janine Melnitz, from my staff. She's one of my most valuable employees. <b> DANA </b> Does she know anything about babies? <b> VENKMAN </b> Janine Melnitz, are you kidding? (handing her the flowers) Do I have a vase? I brought some of your clothes. Wear something intriguing. I brought along some interesting possibilities. <b> DANA </b> Okay, but it's not a date. It's a dinner. She smiles and closes the door again. He opens the closet and starts looking for his good suit. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you happen to see some shirts on the floor in here? <b> DANA (O.S.) </b> I put them in your hamper. I thought they were dirty. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shaking his head) I have a hamper? Next time ask me first, okay. I have more than two grades of laundry. There're lots of subtle levels between clean and dirty. He pulls some clothes out of the hamper and inspects them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These aren't so bad yet. You just hang them up for a while and they're fine. <b> CUT TO: </b><b>INT. FIREHOUSE - RECEPTION AREA - EARLY EVENING </b> Janine covers her computer terminal and starts turning out the lights. Then she notices that the lights are still on upstairs. She starts primping and freshening up her makeup. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LAB AREA - SAME TIME </b> Louis is strapping on a proton pack, preparing to deal with Slimer once and for all. He's wearing a bicyclist's rearview mirror on a headband. <b> LOUIS </b> (to himself) Okay, Stinky, this is it. Showdown time. You and me, pal. You think you're smarter than I am? We'll see about that. (loud) Oh, hello, Pizza Man! Oh, two larges! I only ordered one. Oh, pepperoni and pineapple. My absolute favorite. I guess I'll have to eat these both by myself. <b>THE CEILING </b> Slimer pokes his head through the ceiling and scans the room hanging upside down. <b>LOUIS </b> He spots Slimer through the rearview mirror. <b> LOUIS </b> (quietly) Okay, let's boogie! He whirls around and fires a proton stream at Slimer, slicing a burning a gash across the ceiling. <b>THE STAIRS </b> Janine comes up and ducks as a bolt of energy streaks across the room and strikes the wall behind her. Slimer disappears. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed and apologetic) Oh migod! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It was an accident. <b> JANINE </b> What are you doing up here? <b> LOUIS </b> I was trying to get that smelly green thing. The guys asked me to help out. I'm like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> JANINE </b> Why would you want to be a Ghostbuster if you're already an accountant? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, no, it's just if one of the guys calls in sick or gets hurt. Louis quickly slips off the proton pack and sets it down. <b> JANINE </b> Have you made any plans yet? You know tomorrow is New Year's Eve. <b> LOUIS </b> No, I celebrate at the beginning of my corporate tax year which is March first. That way I beat the crowds. <b> JANINE </b> That's very practical. I hate going out on New Year's Eve, too. There is an awkward silence between them and Janine starts to leave. <b> JANINE </b> Well, good night, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> (on an impulse) Janine, do you feel like maybe getting something to eat on the way home? <b> JANINE </b> I'd like to, but I told Dr. Venkman I'd babysit. (seductively) Do you want to babysit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, sure, that sounds great. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> There is a KNOCK at the door and Venkman goes to answer it. He's dressed for the evening and looking very dapper. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - ENTRANCE HALL - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman opens the door and finds Stantz, Spengler and Winston standing there wearing over-the-hip rubberized waders, firemen's slickers, and miners' helmets, carrying tons of sensing devices, meters, collection jars and photographic equipment. They look like they're rigged out for a major spelunking expedition. <b> VENKMAN </b> (ushering them in) Don't tell me, let me guess. All-you-can-eat barbecue rib night at the Sizzler? <b> STANTZ </b> We're going down into the sewer system to see if we can trace the source of the psycho-reactive slime flow. We thought you might want to come along. <b> VENKMAN </b> Darn it! I wish I'd known you were going. I'm stuck with these damn dinner reservations. <b> SPENGLER </b> You know, animals and lower life forms often anticipate major disasters. Given the new magnetheric readings we could see a tremendous breeding surge in the cockroach population. <b> VENKMAN </b> Roach breeding? Sounds better and better. (calls out) Dana? The boys are going down under the sewers tonight to look for slime. Egon thinks there might even be some kind of big roach-breeding surge. Should we forget about dinner and go with them instead? Dana steps into the living room looking very beautiful. <b> STANTZ </b> Wow. Dana looks curiously at their outfits. <b> DANA </b> Hi. They nod and wave back. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray and Egon) I think we're going to have to pass on the sewer trip, boys. Let me know what you find out. <b> STANTZ </b> (on his exit) Okay, but you're missing all the fun. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Stantz, Spengler and Winston come down the stairs into the station, guided by a very old map of the underground city. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. Van Horne Station. Right where the old transit map said it would be. They cross to the edge of the platform and look into the river of slime. <b> STANTZ </b> Let's get a sounding on the depth of that flow. Stantz has a long, coiled, graduated cord with a plumb bob on the end of it attached to his utility belt. <b> STANTZ </b> Stand back. He takes the cord in his hand, swings the plumb bob over his head and casts it out into the middle of the flow. The plumb bob sinks and Spengler reads the depth. <b> SPENGLER </b> Six feet -- seven -- eight -- <b> STANTZ </b> That's it. It's on the bottom. <b> SPENGLER </b> Nine feet -- ten -- <b> WINSTON </b> Is the line sinking? <b> SPENGLER </b> No, the slime is rising. Stantz looks down and notices the slime rising over the edge of the platform and around his boots. <b> STANTZ </b> (alarmed) Let's get out of here, boys. He starts to pull out the plumb line but it seems to be stuck. Spengler tries to help, but whatever is pulling on the cord is stronger than all three of them. As their unseen adversary pulls them closer and closer to the edge, Stantz works desperately to unhook the cord from his belt but finally just unhooks the whole belt. Spengler lets go in time but Winston doesn't. He is jerked off his feet and into the slime flow. Stantz and Spengler look at each other, summon their courage and jump in after him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Dana and Venkman are sitting at a table in an elegant restaurant nibbling caviar and toasting with very expensive champagne. <b> VENKMAN </b> (very intimate) Here's to -- us. She sighs and drinks. <b> VENKMAN </b> So -- are you making any New Year's resolutions? <b> DANA </b> I want to stop getting involved with men who aren't good for me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Does that start exactly at midnight tomorrow, or could you hold off for a few days maybe? <b> DANA </b> For one night in your life, do you think it's possible for us to be completely real? <b> VENKMAN </b> All right, you want to be real? So tell me why did you dump me? <b> DANA </b> Oh, Peter, I didn't dump you. I just had to protect myself. You really weren't very good for me, you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm not even good for me. <b> DANA </b> Why do you say things like that? You're so much better than you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thank you. If I had that kind of support on a daily basis, I could definitely shape up by the turn of the century. <b> DANA </b> (already feeling the effects of the champagne) So why don't you give me a jingle in the year 2000? <b> VENKMAN </b> Let me jingle you right now. He leans over to kiss her. <b> DANA </b> Maybe I should call Janine. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry. Janine has a very special way with children. They kiss. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine is on the sofa doing her nails while Louis paces with the baby. <b> JANINE </b> (looking around) I can't believe a person could actually live like this. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the baby) So these dwarfs had a limited partnership in a small mining operation and then one day a beautiful princess came to live with them. <b> JANINE </b> It's really not a bad place. It just needs a woman's touch. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) So they bartered room and board in exchange for housekeeping services, which was a good deal for all of them because then they didn't have to withhold tax and social security, which I'm not saying is right but it's just a story, so I guess it's all right. I can finish this later if you're tired. Louis goes into the bedroom and puts the baby down. <b> JANINE </b> You're really good with children, Louis. I can tell. (as he returns) Why don't you come here and sit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Okay. He sits stiffly beside her on the sofa. <b> JANINE </b> (getting close) Motherhood is a very natural instinct for me. I'd like to have a baby myself. Wouldn't you? <b> LOUIS </b> (gulps) Tonight? <b>EXT. STREET - MANHOLE COVER - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A manhole cover is dislodged and pushed up from below. It slides away, and Winston crawls out of the manhole followed by Stantz and Spengler. They are exhausted and covered with slime. <b> WINSTON </b> (uncharacteristically angry) Nice going, Ray! What were you trying to do -- drown me? <b> STANTZ </b> (unusually mean) Look, Zeddemore, it wasn't my fault you were too stupid to drop that line. <b> WINSTON </b> (shoves him) You better watch your mouth, man, or I'll punch your lights out. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh yeah? Anytime, anytime. Just go ahead and try it. Spengler steps between them with unprecedented aggression. <b> SPENGLER </b> If you two are looking for a fight, you got one. (putting up his fists) Who wants it first? Come on, Ray. Try me, sucker. <b> STANTZ </b> (squaring off) Butt out, you pencil-necked geek. I've had it with you. They grab each other and start to tussle. Suddenly Spengler comes to his senses and pulls them apart. <b> SPENGLER </b> (forcefully) Strip! Right now! Get out of those clothes! He starts yanking off his slicker and waders. Bewildered, Stantz and Winston start doing the same. Spengler helps pull off their clothes and throws them into the open manhole. Now wearing only long underwear, they seem to return to normal. <b> WINSTON </b> What are we doing? Ray, I was ready to kill you. <b> STANTZ </b> Don't you see? It's the slime. That stuff is like pure, concentrated evil. Stantz looks around and sees that they are standing right in front of the museum. <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing right to this spot. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT ENTRANCE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The MAITRE D' looks up in surprise as Stantz, Spengler and Winston enter the restaurant wearing only long underwear. <b> MAITRE D' </b> (intercepting them) Can I help you? Stantz looks around and spots Venkman. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right, I see him. They blow right by the Maitre d' who jumps back in horror as they pass. <b>VENKMAN </b> He's just about to pour more champagne when he sees Ray, Egon and Winston coming toward him through the restaurant. <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) You should've been there, Venkman. Absolutely incredible! <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, sorry I missed it. (noting their attire) I guess you guys didn't know about the dress code here. It's really kind of a coat and tie place. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all over the city, Pete -- well, under it actually. <b> WINSTON </b> Rivers of the stuff! <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing toward the museum. He gestures excitedly and a big gob of slime flies across the room and lands on a well-dressed diner. <b> STANTZ </b> (calls out) Sorry! <b> DANA </b> Maybe we should discuss this somewhere else. Venkman notes the look of alarm on Dana's face and pulls his colleagues aside. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) Boys, listen. You're scaring the straights. Let's save this until tomorrow, okay? <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Venkman) This won't wait until tomorrow, Venkman. It's hot and it's ready to pop. <b>MAITRE D' </b> He hurries through the restaurant with two city COPS right behind him and makes straight for Venkman's table. <b> MAITRE D' </b> Arrest these men. <b> COP </b> (recognizing them) Hey! It's the Ghostbusters. You're out of uniform, gentlemen Stantz suddenly realizes how ridiculous they look. <b> STANTZ </b> (self-conscious) Uh -- well -- we had a little accident, but forget that. We have to see the mayor as soon as possible. <b> COP </b> Look, Doc, why don't you just go home. You'll get a good night's sleep and then you can give the mayor a call in the morning. Come on. He takes Stantz by the arm but Stantz resists. <b> STANTZ </b> We're not going anywhere with you. I told you we have to see the mayor now. <b> COP </b> (grabbing Stantz) I'm warning you. You can come along peaceably or -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the Cop) Hey, don't be an idiot. This is serious. <b> COP </b> (angry) Look, pal, keep this up and you're going with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, yeah? <b> COP </b> (has had enough) Yeah, let's go. You're all under arrest. The Cop catches Venkman in an armlock and starts walking him out of the restaurant. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) Finish your dessert -- it's already paid for. I'll call you. They all exit, causing a major commotion among the other diners. <b>EXT. ARMAND'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The police car is parked right behind Ecto-2. Spengler stops at the police car and confronts the cops. <b> SPENGLER </b> Look, we're not drunk and we're not crazy. This is a matter of vital importance. Venkman steps in and looks at the policemen's nametags. <b> COP </b> What are you doing? <b> VENKMAN </b> I just want to get your names right for when the mayor asks us why we didn't let him know about this sooner. The Cops look at each other, uncertain about what to do. <b> COP </b> (relenting) Okay, Doc. You want to see the mayor, you got it. Follow us. They head for their respective vehicles. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are on the sofa making out when Dana enters. They jump up and start smoothing their clothes. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed) Oh, hello, Dana. we were just -- we were -- <b> DANA </b> I know what you were doing, Louis. It's all right. <b> JANINE </b> How was your date? <b> DANA </b> Typical. Peter was arrested. Has he called? <b> LOUIS </b> No, nobody called. Dana frowns. <b> DANA </b> Is everything all right with Oscar? <b> JANINE </b> Oh, he's fine. He's such a good baby. He was a little fussy at first, but we gave him a Freach bread pizza and he went right to sleep. <b> DANA </b> (relieved) Oh, good. I'll just check on him. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana looks at Oscar sleeping peacefully on the bed. She starts to change clothes. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine aren't sure what to do. <b> LOUIS </b> Should we go? <b> JANINE </b> I don't think we should leave her alone. <b> LOUIS </b> You're right. We should stay. He grabs Janine and they start making out again. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz stands before the painting of Vigo. Vigo comes to life and repeats the litany of his power. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> (heard all this before) Yes, the scourge -- <b> VIGO </b> -- the sorrow of Moldavia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> -- the sorrow -- <b> VIGO </b> I command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (checking his watch) I await the word of Vigo. <b> VIGO </b> The season of evil begins with the birth of the new year. Bring me the child that I might live again. <b> JANOSZ </b> (abjectly humble) Lord Vigo, the mother, Dana, is fine and strong. I was wondering -- well, would it be possible -- if I bring the baby, could I have the woman? <b> VIGO </b> So be it. On this the day of darkness, she will be ours, wife to you and mother to me. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CARL SCHURZ PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Preceded by a police car, Ecto-2 enters the small park on the East River at 88th Street and disappears into an underground entrance. The CAMERA PANS UP to reveal Gracie Mansion, the residence of the Mayor of New York City. <b>INT. GRACIE MANSION - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters, now wearing police raincoats over their longjohns are ushered through the house by a butler to a set of double oak doors. The butler knocks lightly, then opens the door to reveal the MAYOR sitting in front of the fireplace in his well-appointed private study, flanked by Jack Hardemeyer, both in tuxedoes. The Ghostbusters enter. <b>INT. STUDY - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> The Mayor is impatient and a little angry at having been pulled out of his formal reception. He frowns at their bizarre attire. <b> MAYOR </b> All right -- the Ghostbusters. I'll tell you right now; I've got two hundred of the heaviest campaign contributors in the city out there eating bad roast chicken waiting for me to give the speech of my life. You've got two minutes. Make it good. <b> STANTZ </b> You get enough negative energy flowing in a dense environment like Manhattan, it starts to build up, and if we don't do something fast this whole place will blow like a frog on a hotplate. <b> WINSTON </b> Tell him about the toaster. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't think he's ready for the toaster. <b> MAYOR </b> (shaking his head) Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right. What am I supposed to do -- go on television and tell eight million people they have to be nice to each other? I'm sorry, none of this makes any sense to me, and if anything does happen we've got plenty of paid professionals to deal with it. Your two minutes are up. Good night, gentlemen. The mayor exits, leaving the Ghostbusters to Hardemeyer. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (smirking) That's quite a story. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, I think the Times might be interested, don't you? The Post might have a lot of fun with it, too. Hardemeyer's eyes go cold and calculating. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Before you go running to the newspapers with this, would you consider telling this slime thing to some people downtown? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you're talking. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - PSYCHIATRIC WARD - NIGHT (LATER) </b> An attendant opens a locked door with a wire mesh window and the Ghostbusters, in straitjackets, are led into the psych ward as Hardemeyer confers with the chief PSYCHIATRIST. <b> WINSTON </b> (protesting) I'm telling you, we're not crazy. He is! <b>HARDEMEYER </b> He laughs off the remark. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to the Psychiatrist) The mayor wants them kept under strict observation for a few days. We think they're seriously disturbed and potentially dangerous. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> We'll do whatever's necessary. Hardemeyer shakes his hand and exits as the door slams shut on the Ghostbusters. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are watching an old rerun on TV, eating popcorn, while Dana is stretched out on the other sofa. <b> DANA </b> (wishing they'd leave) You know you really don't have to stay. Peter should be back soon. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh no, we don't mind. She hears a little CRY from the nursery and sits up. <b> DANA </b> Excuse me. I think Oscar is up. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana enters and immediately notices that the crib is empty and the window is open. <b> DANA </b> (screams) Louis! Frantic now, Dana rushes to the window and looks out, as Louis and Janine come running in. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - DANA'S POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The baby is standing out on the ledge at the corner of the building, fifty feet above the street, staring off into the distance as if he's waiting for something. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana climbs out onto the ledge and starts inching slowly toward the baby. Then she stops as a miraculous apparition materializes. <b>LOUIS AND JANINE </b> They lean out the window, gaping at the apparition. <b>EXT. VENKMAN'S LEDGE - APPARITION </b> A sweet, kindly-looking English nanny appears, pushing a pram, strolling on thin air parallel to the ledge high above the ground. Her face looks remarkably like Janosz Poha's. The nanny extends her hand to the BABY who GURGLES sweetly as he reaches out to take it. <b>DANA </b> She watches in helpless horror. <b> DANA </b> (screams) No!! <b>GHOST NANNY </b> She picks up the baby and lays it gently in the pram, then turns and smiles at Dana. The smile turns to a hideous grin, then the nanny shrieks at Dana and takes off like a shot with the baby. <b>DANA </b> She watches the creature fly off with Oscar, then climbs back through the window assisted by Louis and Janine. <b> DANA </b> (resolutely) Louis, you have to find Peter and tell him what happened. <b> LOUIS </b> (confused and worried) Where're you going? <b> DANA </b> To get my baby back. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (A LITTLE LATER) </b> A taxi pulls up, Dana jumps out and rushes into the museum. The moment the door closes behind her, there is a loud THUNDERCLAP, the ground trembles and a massive amount of slime erupts from around the base of the museum and starts covering the walls, sealing her inside the building. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC - PADDED ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are in a padded cell. They are handcuffed and the cuffs are chained to thick leather belts around their waists. Venkman stands there banging his head into the padded wall while the others try to explain the situation to a skeptical Psychiatrist. <b> STANTZ </b> We think the spirit of Vigo the Carpathian is alive in a painting at the Manhattan Museum. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> I see. And are there any other paintings in the museum with bad spirits in them? <b> SPENGLER </b> (impatient) You're wasting valuable time! We have reason to believe that Vigo is drawing strength from a psychomagnetheric slime flow that's been collecting under the city. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> Yes, tell me about the slime. <b> WINSTON </b> It's potent stuff. We made a toaster dance with it, then a bathtub tried to eat his friend's baby. The psychiatrist looks at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't look at me. I think they're nuts. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Moonlight streams through the skylight above, bathing the studio in eerie white light. Oscar is lying safely on a table in front of the painting of Vigo. Dana enters cautiously and sees the baby. Seeing no one else about, she quickly sneaks down to the table and picks up the baby, hugging hin tight, greatly relieved to find him unharmed and intact. <b> JANOSZ (O.S.) </b> I knew you would come. Startled, Dana turns at the sound of his voice as Janosz steps out from behind the Vigo painting. <b> DANA </b> (defiantly) What do you want with my baby? <b> JANOSZ </b> No harm will come to the child. You might even say it's a privilege. He will be the vessel for the spirit of Vigo. And you -- well, you will be the mother of the ruler of the world. Doesn't that sound nice? <b> DANA </b> If this is what the world will be like, I don't want to live in it. <b> JANOSZ </b> (confidentially, indicating Vigo) I don't believe we have the luxury of choice. <b> DANA </b> Everybody has a choice. <b> JANOSZ </b> Not in this case, my dear. Take a look. That's not Gainsborough's Blue Boy up there. He's Vigo! <b> DANA </b> I don't care who he is. He's not taking my baby. Dana walks quickly to the door but suddenly Oscar flies out of her arms, floats across the room and lands lightly back in the cradle. <b>DANA </b> She turns and looks at Vigo, for the first time feeling his power. <b> JANOSZ </b> You will see. It's all for the best. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> It's the last day of the year and the sun is shining brightly. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC WARD - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> The Ghostbusters are sitting in the dayroom, a dingy lounge for patients in the locked ward. There is a television set, a Ping-Pong table and a few tables and chairs. Stantz is looking at the sky through the heavy wire mesh covering the windows. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. boys. It's starting. Shit-storm <b> 2000. </b> Venkman is doing occupational therapy, weaving on a little hand-loom. <b> VENKMAN </b> It better not start yet. I'm trying to finish my potholder before lunch. <b> WINSTON </b> You think all those predictions about the world coming to an end in the 1990s are true? A PATIENT at the next table joins the discussion. <b> PATIENT </b> (with certainty) 1997. My dog told me. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of dog? <b> PATIENT </b> Labrador. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shakes his head) Habitual liars. They can't help it. It's in the breed. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - EXAMINING ROOM - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Louis is pleading with his cousin, SHERMAN TULLY, a doctor on the staff at Parkview. He looks and sounds just like Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> Come on, Sherm. You're my cousin. Do this for me. I'm begging you. <b> SHERMAN </b> I can't do it, Louis. It isn't ethical. I could lose my license. <b> LOUIS </b> Why can't you just have them released? You're a doctor. <b> SHERMAN </b> I'm a dermatologist. I can't write orders on the psych ward. <b> LOUIS </b> Sherman, I've done lots of favors for you. <b> SHERMAN </b> Like what? <b> LOUIS </b> I got you out of those bad tax shelters. <b> SHERMAN </b> You were the one who got me in. <b> LOUIS </b> I fixed you up with Diane Troxler and she put out, didn't she? <b> SHERMAN </b> Yeah, I had to give her free dermabrasion for a year. Forget it, Louis. I could get in a lot of trouble. <b> LOUIS </b> I'm telling you, we're all going to be in big trouble if we don't do something fast. That ghost guy came and took my friend's baby and we got to get it back. It's just a scared little baby, Sherm. <b> SHERMAN </b> Then you should go to the police. I don't believe in any of that stuff. Sherman looks out the window. <b>EXT. SKY - SHERMAN'S POV </b> The sky begins to go dark as the sun is magically eclipsed. <b>INT. EXAMINING ROOM - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> The room goes dark. Louis switches on a lamp which casts an eerie light on his face. <b> LOUIS </b> (spooky) Do you believe it now, Sherm? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. HUDSON RIVER PIER - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> A drainpipe starts dripping slime into the river near the Cunard Line docks. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PUBLIC FOUNTAIN (59TH AND FIFTH) - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> With the Plaza Hotel in the background, the fountain starts to spout psycho-reactive slime. <b>HOTEL ENTRANCE </b> A well-heeled MAN and WOMAN step out of a limousine and walk up the steps toward the revolving door. She looks up at the sky and frowns. <b> WOMAN </b> (shrewish) I told you we should have stayed in Palm Beach. The weather here gets stranger every year. <b> MAN </b> Yes, dear. She doesn't notice it, but a small amount of slime falls on the back of her luxurious, full-length, white mink coat. The doorman nods courteously and extends a hand to help her up the stairs. <b>WOMAN </b> She yelps in pain. <b> WOMAN </b> (to the doorman) Something just bit me! The doorman looks curiously at her, then recoils in shock as her coat comes alive. MINK HEADS pop out of the thick fur, SNARLING, BARKING and YAPPING, their sharp, little teeth biting the air. Reacting quickly, the doorman yanks the coat off the woman's back, throws it to the ground and starts stomping on it as the Woman and her husband look on in horror. The coat scuttles down the steps and runs off down the street. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MIDTOWN CENTRAL POLICE PRECINCT - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The squad room is busy as DETECTIVES try to answer the flood of calls regarding the wave of supernatural events sweeping the city. <b> DETECTIVE ONE </b> (on the phone) Look, lady, of course there are dead people there. It's a cemetery ... (his face falls) They were asking you for directions? <b> DETECTIVE TWO </b> (on another phone) Was this a big dinosaur or a little dinosaur? ... Oh, just the skeleton, huh? Well, where is it now? <b> DETECTIVE THREE </b> (on the phone) Wait a second -- the park bench was chasing you? You mean, someone was chasing you in the park ... No, the bench itself was chasing you. I see -- A weary SERGEANT answers a RINGING PHONE. <b> SERGEANT </b> Manhattan Central, Flaherty speaking ... Yeah ... yeah? ... What? Who is this? ... Wait a second. He puts the caller on "Hold" and turns the LIEUTENANT. <b> SERGEANT </b> Lieutenant, I think you better talk to this guy. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> (on another call) What is it? I'm talkin' here! <b> SERGEANT </b> It's some dock supervisor down at Pier 34 on the Hudson. The guy's going nuts. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> What's the problem? <b> SERGEANT </b> (takes a deep breath) He says the Titanic just arrived. <b>INT. PORT AUTHORITY OFFICE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The dock supervisor stands there with the phone in his hand, an assistant beside him, both staring out the window at the ocean liner tied up at the pier. <b>EXT. PIER 34 - THEIR POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The name "R.M.S. Titanic" is clearly visible on the side of the huge ship. The gangplank is down and dozens of drowned passengers, sopping wet and festooned with seaweed, are disembarking while drowned porters off-load their waterlogged baggage. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER)(ECLIPSE) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside as Louis and Sherman come out of the hospital with the Ghostbusters, now wearing their standard uniforms. <b> STANTZ </b> Good work, Louis. How did you get us out? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, I pulled a few strings. I wouldn't want to say any more than that. Louis winks conspiratorially at Sherman. <b> LOUIS </b> This is my cousin Sherman. Sherm, say hello to the Ghostbusters. (sotto voce to Stantz) I promised him a ride in the car if he got you out. <b> SHERMAN </b> (to the Ghostbusters) Hi, it's really great to meet you guys. I know this sounds weird but once I had a dream that my grandfather was standing at the foot of my bed, but I knew it was impossible because he died and he started to tell me that -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ectomobile and drive off, leaving him and Louis standing at the curb. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> SHERMAN </b> I thought you were like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> LOUIS </b> I let them handle all the little stuff. I just come in on the big ones. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b>(original version of the above scene - 11/27/88) (TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: These two versions of this scene were put in my copy of the script, so I have included both of them here) <b> LOUIS </b> Actually, they still think you're crazy, but I convinced them you're not dangerous. <b> VENKMAN </b> (determined) Yeah, well guess again. <b>EXT. BELLEVUE HOSPITAL - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(MOMENTS LATER) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside and the Ghostbusters are hastily donning their standard uniforms. <b> LOUIS </b> I brought everything you asked for and I gassed up the car with Super Unleaded. It cost twenty cents more than Regular Unleaded but you get much better performance and in an old car like this that'll end up saving you money in the long run. I put it on my credit card, so you can either reimburse me or I can take it out of petty cash -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ecto-2 and drive off without him. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(LATER) </b> ECTO-2 pulls to the curb across the street from the museum. Hundreds of spectators are already there gawking at the building as the Ghostbusters jump out and gape at the sight that greets them. <b>EXT. MUSEUM THEIR POV - BUILDING </b> The building is now totally covered in a shell of psycho-reactive slime. CITY WORKMEN and FIREMEN are trying to cut their way in with blowtorches, jackhammers, power tools and the "jaws of life," but they can't even make a dent. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They size up the situation as they don their proton packs. <b> STANTZ </b> It looks like a giant Jello mold. <b> VENKMAN </b> I hate Jello. They stride manfully across the street and approach the main entrance to the museum. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the Fire Captain) Okay, give it a rest, Captain. We'll take it from here. <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> (skeptical) Be my guest. We been cutting here for three hours. What the hell's going on? You know the Titanic arrived this morning? <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, better late than never. The workmen and firemen put down their tools and fall back as the Ghostbusters draw their particle throwers. <b> SPENGLER </b> (monitoring valences) Full neutronas, maser assist. They adjust their settings and prepare to fire. <b> STANTZ </b> Throw 'em! They trigger their throwers and spray the front doors of the building with bolts of proton energy, but it has no effect on the hardened slime. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the firemen) Okay, who knows "Cumbaya?" A few of the firemen and workmen tentatively raise their hands. Venkman grabs them and lines them up at the entrance of the museum. <b> VENKMAN </b> All right. Nice and sweet -- (starts singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya -- Stantz, Spengler, Winston and the firemen sing along, reluctantly holding hands and swaying to the music. <b> ALL </b> (singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Oh, Lord, cumbaya. Stantz inspects the wall of slime with his infra-goggles and finds that they have only managed to open a hole the size of a dime. <b> STANTZ </b> Forget it. The Vienna Boys Choir couldn't get through this stuff. <b> VENKMAN </b> Good effort. Now what? Should we say supportive, nurturing things to it, Ray? <b> SPENGLER </b> It won't work. There's no way we could generate enough positive energy to crack that shell. <b> STANTZ </b> I can't believe things have gotten so bad in this city that there's no way back. Sure, it's crowded, it's dirty, it's noisy. And there are too many people who'd just as soon step on your face as look at you. But there've got to be a few sparks of sweet humanity left in this burned-out burg. We just have to mobilize it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We need something that everyone can get behind, a symbol -- His eyes fall on ECTO-2's New York State license plate which features a line drawing of the Statue of Liberty. <b> STANTZ </b> (he sees it, too) Something that appeals to the best in each and every one of us -- <b> SPENGLER </b> Something good -- <b> VENKMAN </b> And pure -- <b> WINSTON </b> And decent. <b>EXT. THE STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> There is a commotion among the crowd as the Mayor's limousine arrives with a police escort. Jack Hardemeyer steps out followed by the Mayor himself and they cross to the museum entrance. Hardemeyer, his ASSISTANT and several police BODYGUARDS confront the Ghostbusters. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Look, I've had it with you. Get your stuff together, get back in that clown car and get out of here. This is a city matter and everything's under control. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, you think so? Well, I've got news for you. You've got Dracula's brother-in-law in there and he's got my girlfriend and her kid. Around about midnight tonight, when you're partying uptown, this guy's going to come to life and start doing amateur head transplants. And that's just round one. <b> MAYOR </b> Are you telling me there're people trapped in there? <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to his assistant) This is dynamite. Call A.P., U.P.I., and C.N.N. and get them down here right away. When the police bring this kid out I want them to hand it right to the mayor and I want it all on camera. <b> STANTZ </b> Mr. Mayor, if we don't do something by midnight, you're going to go down in history as the man who let New York get sucked down into the tenth level of hell. The Mayor stops to consider the situation. <b> MAYOR </b> (to the Fire Captain) Can you get into that museum? <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> If I had a nuclear warhead, maybe. The Mayor turns to Venkman. <b> MAYOR </b> You know why all these things are happening? <b> VENKMAN </b> We tried to tell you last night, but Mr. Hard-On over here packed us off to the loony bin. Hardemeyer flips out. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> This is preposterous! You can't seriously believe all this mumbo-jumbo! It's the Twentieth Century, for crying out loud! (viciously, to Venkman) Look, mister, I don't know what this stuff is or how you got it all over the museum, but you better get it off and I mean right now! He pounds the wall of slime with his fist, and they all watch in amazement as his fist goes through the wall and he is sucked bodily through the slime curtain. Only his shoes can be seen, embedded in the slime. <b> MAYOR </b> (to Venkman) Okay, just tell me what you need. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND (NEW YORK HARBOR) - NIGHT </b> With the city skyline in the b.g., the Ghostbusters prepare their equipment. Each of them dons a makeshift backpack consisting of tanks, hoses, nozzles and an abundance of gauges, valves and regulators. Venkman looks up at the Statue of Liberty looming above them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it? <b> WINSTON </b> Wonder what? <b> VENKMAN </b> If she's naked under that toga. She's French, you know. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's nothing under that toga but 300 tons of iron and steel. Stantz is looking worried. <b> STANTZ </b> I hope we have enough stuff to do the job. <b> VENKMAN </b> Only one way to find out. (to Stantz) Ready, Teddy? They enter the statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters are working from the iron staircase that spirals straight up 100 feet inside the hollow super-structure of the statue. Spengler and Winston are busy assembling hundreds of wires connected to various relays on the interior surface of the statue. Venkman and Stantz are mounting large auditorium loudspeakers near the top of the staircase. They finish the installation, then Stantz dons one of the new backpacks and gives the order. <b> STANTZ </b> Okay, boys. Let's frost it. They begin hosing the inside of the statue with the psycho-reactive slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine watches as Louis, wearing a Ghostbuster uniform, slings a heavy proton pack onto his back. <b> JANINE </b> I'm not sure this is such a good idea? Do they know you're doing this? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, yeah, sure -- no. But there's really not much to do here and they might need some back-up at the museum. <b> JANINE </b> You're very brave, Louis. Good luck. She kisses Louis and he gets extremely self-conscious. <b> LOUIS </b> Uh -- oh -- well, I better hurry. He rushes out. <b>EXT STREET OUTSIDE FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> Louis stands on the street corner waiting for a bus. Finally, a bus pulls up, Louis climbs aboard and finds Slimer behind the wheel. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - OBSERVATION DECK - MOMENTS LATER </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are standing in the observation windows in the crown of the statue. It looks like they're on the bridge of an ocean liner, then the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the head of the statue. <b>STANTZ </b> He plugs the main cable lead into a transformer. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all yours, Pete. (checks his watch) There's not much time left. Venkman plugs the speaker cable into a Walkman and gives a downbeat. <b> VENKMAN </b> (giving the downbeat) Okay, one, two, three, four -- He hits "Play" on the Walkman and "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BOOMS from the huge SPEAKERS, amplified by the statue's vast hollow interior. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The head of the statue lurches suddenly, but the Ghostbusters cling to the rail and manage to keep their feet. <b> STANTZ </b> She's moving! <b> WINSTON </b> I've lived in New York all my life and I never visited the Statue of Liberty. Now I finally get here and we're taking her out for a walk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (reading the Giga-meter) We've got full power. Stantz picks up a Nintendo control paddle from a home video game and starts pushing the buttons. <b> VENKMAN </b> (into a microphone) Okay, Libby. Let's get it in gear. They feel a strong vibration and the statue starts to move. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. SOUTH STREET SEAPORT - NIGHT </b> New Years Eve celebrants line the riverfront, pointing and gawking at an incredible sight. <b>EXT. EAST RIVER - THEIR POV - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The statue is moving up the river almost completely submerged, only her head from the nose up is visible above the surface. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks out apprehensively. <b> WINSTON </b> How deep does it get? That water's cold and I can't swim. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's okay. I have my Senior Lifesaving card. <b> SPENGLER </b> With a water temperature of forty degrees we'd survive approximately fifteen minutes. Stantz studies a maritime navigational chart. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll keep to the middle of the channel. We're okay to 59th Street, then we'll go ashore and take First Avenue to 79th. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you kidding? We'll hit all that bridge traffic at 59th. I'm going to take 72nd straight up to Fifth. Trust me, I used to drive a cab. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RIVERFRONT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Spectators cheer wildly, inspired by the sight of the Statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz is sitting next to Dana, still wheedling her with promises and self-serving logic. <b> JANOSZ </b> Time is running out, Dana. Soon it will be midnight and the city will be mine -- and Vigo's. Well, mainly Vigo's. But we have a spectacular opportunity to make the best of our relationship. <b> DANA </b> We don't have a relationship. <b> JANOSZ </b> I know. Marry me, Dana, and together we will raise Vigo as our son. There are many perks that come with being the mother of a living god. I'm sure he will supply for us a magnificent apartment. And perhaps a car and free parking. <b> DANA </b> I hate and despise you and everything you stand for with all my heart and soul. I could never forgive what you've done to me and my child. <b> JANOSZ </b> Many marriages begin with a certain amount of distance, but after a while I believe we could learn to love each other. Think about it. <b> DANA </b> I'd rather not. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> People are jammed together shoulder to shoulder filling Times Square, watching the big Seiko clock count down the last ten minutes to midnight. Suddenly, they look down Broadway and see a magnificent sight. <b>EXT. BROADWAY - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue of Liberty is walking up Broadway approaching 42nd Street, with "Higher and Higher" BOOMING from the SPEAKERS inside. A great cheer goes up, and the crowd goes wild with joy, dancing and singing along with the MUSIC. <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS) </b> Spengler reads the Giga-meter. <b> SPENGLER </b> It's working. The positive GeV's are climbing. <b> VENKMAN </b> (patting the Statue) They love you, Lib. Keep it up. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The avenue has been closed to traffic and barricades placed, blocking all the side streets. A squadron of police motorcycles comes speeding around the corner at 72nd Street and proceeds up Fifth Avenue in the direction of the museum. Then MUSIC is heard BOOMING in the distance, the ground shakes and the Statue of Liberty comes walking around the corner onto Fifth Avenue followed by a wildly cheering throng. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters can see the museum ahead. <b> VENKMAN </b> So far so good. <b> SPENGLER </b> (worried) I'm worried. The vibrations could shake her to pieces. We should have padded her feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I don't think they make Nikes in her size. <b> VENKMAN </b> We're almost there, Lib. (to Stantz) Step on it. <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue's huge foot comes down and squashes a car. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters look down at the flattened car. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts out the window) My Fault! <b> VENKMAN </b> (shouts) She's new in town. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is painting the last of the mystical symbols on the baby's chest. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> The people still in the square start counting off the last ten seconds to midnight and the New Year. <b> CROWD </b> (chanting) Ten .. nine ... eight ... seven ... <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> A strange light spreads over the painting. As the light moves onto his face, Vigo spreads his arms wide and his upper body starts to emerge from the canvas. <b> VIGO </b> Soon my life begins. Then woe to the weak, all power to me, the world is mine. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ - NIGHT </b> The baby's body begins to glow as Vigo reaches out for it. Then suddenly a dark shadow falls across the skylight. Janosz looks up. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ'S POV - SKYLIGHT - NIGHT </b> The Statue of Liberty is looming over the skylight looking down on Janosz with an expression of righteous anger on it's face. <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Kneeling beside the museum, the statue draws back it's mighty right arm and smashes the skylight with its torch. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz retreats from the shower of broken glass as the Ghostbusters come sliding down ropes into the studio and confront Janosz with their new weapons. Quick as a flash, Dana seizes the moment, dashes across the studio and snatches the baby from Vigo's outstretched arms. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) Happy New Year. <b>INT. MUSEUM - VIGO PAINTING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Vigo bellows in rage. <b>INT. MUSEUM - STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz steps in front of the painting. <b> SPENGLER </b> Hi there. Feel free to try something stupid. Janosz sneers, trusting the invincibility of Vigo. <b> JANOSZ </b> You pitiful, miserable creatures! You dare to challenge the power of darkness? Don't you realize what you are dealing with? He's Vigo! You are like the buzzing of flies to him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (sighs) Oh, Johnny. Did you back the wrong horse. With that, the Ghostbusters fire their slime-blowers and hose Janosz from head to toe, blowing him into the corner. Then they turn to Vigo. <b>VIGO </b> He is now almost completely out of the painting, but still held from the knees down. He spits and rages at the Ghostbusters, trying to unleash his magic powers. <b>THE GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They stand fast, secure in the knowledge that Vigo's power has been neutralized by the good will of the people. <b> STANTZ </b> Vigi, Vigi, Vigi -- you have been a bad little monkey. <b> VENKMAN </b> The whole city's together on this one. We took a vote. Everybody's down on you, you know. <b> WINSTON </b> (arming his slime-blower) Say goodnight now. Suddenly Vigo grabs Stantz by the neck and holds him up as a shield. <b> SPENGLER </b> Don't shoot! You'll hit Ray! <b> STANTZ </b> (strangling) Do it! Just do it! Winston fires and hoses both Vigo and Ray. <b>VIGO </b> He bellows and drops Ray, then falls back into the painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> The paint turns liquid, melts off the canvas and runs onto the floor revealing another painting underneath it. <b>INT. MUSEUM - GHOSTBUSTERS - NIGHT (AFTER BATTLE) </b> Venkman, Spengler and Winston rush over to Ray and kneel beside him. He is completely covered with slime and motionless. <b> SPENGLER </b> (examining him) He's breathing. Winston wipes the slime off Ray's face and Ray opens his eyes. <b> WINSTON </b> Ray -- Ray -- How do you feel, man? <b> STANTZ </b> (smiles lovingly) Groovy. I've never felt better in my life. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, no. We've got to live with this? They pull him to his feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I love you guys. You're the best friends I've ever had. He hugs them each in turn, leaving them slimed as well. Venkman recoils in disgust. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey, I just had this suit cleaned. (indicating Janosz) Take care of the wiggler, will you. Venkman crosses to Dana who is snuggling the baby. She hugs Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> What is this -- a love in? (notes the symbols painted on the baby's body) Hey, sailor. I think the tattoos are a little much, don't you? He picks up the baby. <b> DANA </b> (to Venkman) I think he likes you. I think I do too. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finally came to your senses, huh? They hug and kiss. <b>SPENGLER, WINSTON AND STANTZ </b> They help Janosz to his feet. He's dazed but unhurt. <b> JANOSZ </b> (restored to normalcy) What happened? <b> STANTZ </b> (calmly) Sir, you had a violent, prolonged, transformative psychic episode. But it's over now. Want a coffee? <b> JANOSZ </b> (extremely nice) That's very kind of you. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) He's fine, Ray. Physically intact, psychomagnetherically neutral. <b> JANOSZ </b> Is that good? <b> WINSTON </b> It's where you want to be. As they exit they stop to examine the painting that was concealed by Vigo's self-portrait. <b> SPENGLER </b> Late Renaissance, I think. Caravaggio or Brunelleschi. <b> WINSTON </b> (staring at it) There's something very familiar about this painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - NEW PAINTING - NIGHT </b> It's a beautiful painting in the high-Renaissance style depicting four archangels hovering protectively over a cherubic baby. One holds a harp, one, an olive branch, the third, a book, and the last, a sword. Most remarkably, their faces bear an uncanny resemblance to Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A city bus pulls up near the museum and Louis steps off. He waves his thanks to Slimer who is behind the wheel. <b> LOUIS </b> (to Slimer) Okay, so Monday night we'll get something to eat and maybe go bowling? Can you bowl with those little arms? SLIMER GRUNTS and SLOBBERS a reply, flexing his scrawny biceps. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, I have to go save Dana. I'll see you later. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are greeted by wild cheering and applause as they come out the main entrance with Dana and the baby. Everybody starts singing "Auld Lang Syne." Louis picks his way through the celebrating crowd and finds the Ghostbusters. <b> LOUIS </b> Am I too late? <b> STANTZ </b> No, you're right on time. Stantz pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and hands it to him. <b>EXT. MUSEUM ENTRANCE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Hardemeyer staggers out of the museum covered in slime. He looks at the celebrating crowd and his eyes fill with tears. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (weepy) Happy New Year, everybody! He joins in on "Auld Lang Syne." <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The Statue of Liberty is sprawled inert on her back in the park behind the museum, her toga up over her knees. The Mayor looks nearly suicidal. The Ghostbusters stand beside him commiserating. <b> VENKMAN </b> She's all right. She's just sleeping it off. <b> MAYOR </b> (stricken) We just had it restored. <b> VENKMAN </b> This probably isn't a good time to bring this up, but the last time we did a job for the city you stiffed us. <b> STANTZ </b> (handing the Mayor an invoice) This is a bill for tonight's job. The Mayor looks at it and gasps at the amount. <b> MAYOR </b> What! This is way too much. (hands the bill back to Venkman) We won't pay. Venkman looks at the Statue. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) I think she looks pretty good here, don't you? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, and a lot easier to get to than that island. Realizing he has no alternative, the Mayor sighs and takes the bill back. <b> MAYOR </b> All right, all right. If you can wait until Monday I'll issue you a check. <b> SPENGLER </b> Sorry. No checks. Company policy. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND - DAY (WEEKS LATER) </b> The sun is shining brightly and Liberty is back on her pedestal where she belongs. The Mayor and a host of officials are commemorating her return. The Ghostbusters, Dana, Janine and Louis are there as honored guests. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking up at the statue) Pretty impressive, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> (musing) It's probably the first thing my grandparents saw when they came to this country. <b> VENKMAN </b> From where -- Neptune? <b> SPENGLER </b> They came from Ostrov in Eastern Poland. <b> VENKMAN </b> Ostrov? I've been there. Good party town. <b> STANTZ </b> (in a similarly reflective mood) My great-grandparents were Swiss. I still have the pictures they took of the statue from the boat when they arrived. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, right, you told me that. They came to America seeking other kinds of cheese, as I recall. How about you, Winston? <b> WINSTON </b> My people weren't taking any pictures from those slave ships, man. And there wasn't any Statue in Charleston Harbor to welcome them, either. What are you, Dana? <b> VENKMAN </b> Miss Blue Blood? Her family's been here since the year 12. <b> DANA </b> That's not true. It was 1620. <b> VENKMAN </b> Same difference. <b> STANTZ </b> What's your story, Pete? <b> VENKMAN </b> Me? I'm a little of everything. Some Irish, some German, some French, Dutch -- the women in my family slept around. And that's what made this country great. <b> DANA </b> That's a terrible thing to say. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what? It's a free country. (looking up at the Statue) Thanks, Lib. They all look up at the Statue. <b>EXT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - HEAD OF STATUE - DAY </b> Slimer flies out one of the observation windows, THEME MUSIC KICKS IN and the CAMERA PULLS UP and AWAY FROM the island TO a HIGH SHOT of the Statue, lower Manhattan and the shining sea beyond. <b> FADE OUT. </b> <b> THE END </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What does Elder Childers argue?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "That a mule bone is very powerful and can be a weapon." ]	14,760	narrativeqa	en	null	7e1df407b7018ef82e2ade488c601066798bbe67a39a6da4	Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress) [Transcriber's Note: A few obvious typo's in stage directions have been fixed, though nothing in the dialogue has been changed.] THE MULE-BONE A COMEDY OF NEGRO LIFE IN THREE ACTS BY LANGSTON HUGHES and ZORA HURSTON CHARACTERS JIM WESTON: Guitarist, Methodist, slightly arrogant, agressive, somewhat self-important, ready with his tongue. DAVE CARTER: Dancer, Baptist, soft, happy-go-lucky character, slightly dumb and unable to talk rapidly and wittily. DAISY TAYLOR: Methodist, domestic servant, plump, dark and sexy, self-conscious of clothes and appeal, fickle. JOE CLARK: The Mayor, storekeeper and postmaster, arrogant, ignorant and powerful in a self-assertive way, large, fat man, Methodist. ELDER SIMMS: Methodist minister, newcomer in town, ambitious, small and fly, but not very intelligent. ELDER CHILDERS: Big, loose-jointed, slow spoken but not dumb. Long resident in the town, calm and sure of himself. KATIE CARTER: Dave's aunt, little old wizened dried-up lady. MRS. HATTIE CLARK: The Mayor's wife, fat and flabby mulatto high-pitched voice. THE MRS. REV. SIMMS: Large and agressive. THE MRS. REV. Just a wife who thinks of details. CHILDERS: LUM BOGER: Young town marshall about twenty, tall, gangly, with big flat feet, liked to show off in public. TEET MILLER: Village vamp who is jealous of DAISY. LIGE MOSELY: A village wag. WALTER THOMAS: Another village wag. ADA LEWIS: A promiscuous lover. DELLA LEWIS: Baptist, poor housekeeper, mother of ADA. BOOTSIE PITTS: A local vamp. MRS. DILCIE ANDERSON: Village housewife, Methodist. WILLIE NIXON: Methodist, short runt. ACT I SETTING: The raised porch of JOE CLARK'S Store and the street in front. Porch stretches almost completely across the stage, with a plank bench at either end. At the center of the porch three steps leading from street. Rear of porch, center, door to the store. On either side are single windows on which signs, at left, "POST OFFICE", and at right, "GENERAL STORE" are painted. Soap boxes, axe handles, small kegs, etc., on porch on which townspeople sit and lounge during action. Above the roof of the porch the "false front", or imitation second story of the shop is seen with large sign painted across it "JOE CLARK'S GENERAL STORE". Large kerosine street lamp on post at right in front of porch. Saturday afternoon and the villagers are gathered around the store. Several men sitting on boxes at edge of porch chewing sugar cane, spitting tobacco juice, arguing, some whittling, others eating peanuts. During the act the women all dressed up in starched dresses parade in and out of store. People buying groceries, kids playing in the street, etc. General noise of conversation, laughter and children shouting. But when the curtain rises there is momentary lull for cane-chewing. At left of porch four men are playing cards on a soap box, and seated on the edge of the porch at extreme right two children are engaged in a checker game, with the board on the floor between them. When the curtain goes up the following characters are discovered on the porch: MAYOR JOE CLARK, the storekeeper; DEACON HAMBO; DEACON GOODWIN; Old Man MATT BRAZZLE; WILL CODY; SYKES JONES; LUM BOGER, the young town marshall; LIGE MOSELY and WALTER THOMAS, two village wags; TOM NIXON and SAM MOSELY, and several others, seated on boxes, kegs, benches and floor of the porch. TONY TAYLOR is sitting on steps of porch with empty basket. MRS. TAYLOR comes out with her arms full of groceries, empties them into basket and goes back in store. All the men are chewing sugar cane earnestly with varying facial expressions. The noise of the breaking and sucking of cane can be clearly heard in the silence. Occasionally the laughter and shouting of children is heard nearby off stage. HAMBO: (To BRAZZLE) Say, Matt, gimme a jint or two of dat green cane--dis ribbon cane is hard. LIGE: Yeah, and you ain't got de chears in yo' parlor you useter have. HAMBO: Dat's all right, Lige, but I betcha right now wid dese few teeth I got I kin eat up more cane'n you kin grow. LIGE: I know you kin and that's de reason I ain't going to tempt you. But youse gettin' old in lots of ways--look at dat bald-head--just as clean as my hand. (Exposes his palm). HAMBO: Don't keer if it tis--I don't want nothin'--not even hair--between me and God. (General laughter--LIGE joins in as well. Cane chewing keeps up. Silence for a moment.) (Off stage a high shrill voice can be heard calling:) VOICE: Sister Mosely, Oh, Sister Mosely! (A pause) Miz Mosely! (Very irritated) Oh, Sister Mattie! You hear me out here--you just won't answer! VOICE OF MRS. MOSELY: Whoo-ee ... somebody calling me? VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (Angrily) Never mind now--you couldn't come when I called you. I don't want yo' lil ole weasley turnip greens. (Silence) MATT BRAZZLE: Sister Roberts is en town agin! If she was mine, I'll be hen-fired if I wouldn't break her down in de lines (loins)--good as dat man is to her! HAMBO: I wish she was mine jes' one day--de first time she open her mouf to beg _anybody_, I'd lam her wid lightning. JOE CLARK: I God, Jake Roberts buys mo' rations out dis store than any man in dis town. I don't see to my Maker whut she do wid it all.... Here she come.... (ENTER MRS. JAKE ROBERTS, a heavy light brown woman with a basket on her arm. A boy about ten walks beside her carrying a small child about a year old straddle of his back. Her skirts are sweeping the ground. She walks up to the step, puts one foot upon the steps and looks forlornly at all the men, then fixes her look on JOE CLARK.) MRS. ROBERTS: Evenin', Brother Mayor. CLARK: Howdy do, Mrs. Roberts. How's yo' husband? MRS. ROBERTS: (Beginning her professional whine): He ain't much and I ain't much and my chillun is poly. We ain't got 'nough to eat! Lawd, Mr. Clark, gimme a lil piece of side meat to cook us a pot of greens. CLARK: Aw gwan, Sister Roberts. You got plenty bacon home. Last week Jake bought.... MRS. ROBERTS: (Frantically) Lawd, Mist' Clark, how long you think dat lil piece of meat last me an' my chillun? Lawd, me and my chillun is _hongry_! God knows, Jake don't fee-eed me! (MR. CLARK sits unmoved. MRS. ROBERTS advances upon him) Mist' Clark! CLARK: I God, woman, don't keep on after me! Every time I look, youse round here beggin' for everything you see. LIGE: And whut she don't see she whoops for it just de same. MRS. ROBERTS: (In dramatic begging pose) Mist' Clark! Ain't you boin' do nuthin' for me? And you see me and my poor chillun is starvin'.... CLARK: (Exasperated rises) I God, woman, a man can't git no peace wid somebody like you in town. (He goes angrily into the store followed by MRS. ROBERTS. The boy sits down on the edge of the porch sucking the baby's thumb.) VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: A piece 'bout dis wide.... VOICE OF CLARK: I God, naw! Yo' husband done bought you plenty meat, nohow. VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (In great anguish) Ow! Mist' Clark! Don't you cut dat lil tee-ninchy piece of meat for me and my chillun! (Sound of running feet inside the store.) I ain't a going to tetch it! VOICE OF CLARK: Well, don't touch it then. That's all you'll git outa me. VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (Calmer) Well, hand it chear den. Lawd, me and my chillun is _so_ hongry.... Jake don't fee-eed me. (She re-enters by door of store with the slab of meat in her hand and an outraged look on her face. She gazes all about her for sympathy.) Lawd, me and my poor chillun is _so_ hongry ... and some folks has _every_thing and they's so _stingy_ and gripin'.... Lawd knows, Jake don't fee-eed me! (She exits right on this line followed by the boy with the baby on his back.) (All the men gaze behind her, then at each other and shake their heads.) HAMBO: Poor Jak.... I'm really sorry for dat man. If she was mine I'd beat her till her ears hung down like a Georgy mule. WALTER THOMAS: I'd beat her till she smell like onions. LIGE: I'd romp on her till she slack like lime. NIXON: I'd stomp her till she rope like okra. VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (Off stage right) Lawd, Miz Lewis, you goin' give me dat lil han'ful of greens for me and my chillun. Why dat ain't a eye-full. I ought not to take 'em ... but me and my chillun is _so_ hongry.... Some folks is so stingy and gripin'! Lawd knows, Tony don't _feed_ me! (The noise of cane-chewing is heard again. Enter JOE LINDSAY left with a gun over his shoulder and the large leg bone of a mule in the other hand. He approaches the step wearily.) HAMBO: Well, did you git any partridges, Joe? JOE: (Resting his gun and seating himself) Nope, but I made de feathers fly. HAMBO: I don't see no birds. JOE: Oh, the feathers flew off on de birds. LIGE: I don't see nothin' but dat bone. Look lak you done kilt a cow and et 'im raw out in de woods. JOE: Don't y'all know dat hock-bone? WALTER: How you reckon we gointer know every hock-bone in Orange County sight unseen? JOE: (Standing the bone up on the floor of the porch) Dis is a hock-bone of Brazzle's ole yaller mule. (General pleased interest. Everybody wants to touch it.) BRAZZLE: (Coming forward) Well, sir! (Takes bone in both hands and looks up and down the length of it) If 'tain't my ole mule! This sho was one hell of a mule, too. He'd fight every inch in front of de plow ... he'd turn over de mowing machine ... run away wid de wagon ... and you better not look like you wanter _ride_ 'im! LINDSAY: (Laughing) Yeah, I 'member seein' you comin' down de road just so ... (He limps wid one hand on his buttocks) one day. BRAZZLE: Dis mule was so evil he used to try to bite and kick when I'd go in de stable to feed 'im. WALTER: He was too mean to git fat. He was so skinny you could do a week's washing on his ribs for a washboard and hang 'em up on his hip-bones to dry. LIGE: I 'member one day, Brazzle, you sent yo' boy to Winter Park after some groceries wid a basket. So here he went down de road ridin' dis mule wid dis basket on his arm.... Whut you reckon dat ole contrary mule done when he got to dat crooked place in de road going round Park Lake? He turnt right round and went through de handle of dat basket ... wid de boy still up on his back. (General laughter) BRAZZLE: Yeah, he up and died one Sat'day just for spite ... but he was too contrary to lay down on his side like a mule orter and die decent. Naw, he made out to lay down on his narrer contracted back and die wid his feets sticking straight up in de air just so. (He gets down on his back and illustrates.) We drug him out to de swamp wid 'im dat way, didn't we, Hambo? JOE CLARK: I God, Brazzle, we all seen it. Didn't we all go to de draggin' out? More folks went to yo' mule's draggin' out than went to last school closing.... Bet there ain't been a thing right in mule-hell for four years. HAMBO: Been dat long since he been dead? CLARK: I God, yes. He died de week after I started to cutting' dat new ground. (The bone is passing from hand to hand. At last a boy about twelve takes it. He has just walked up and is proudly handling the bone when a woman's voice is heard off stage right.) VOICE: Senator! Senator!! Oh, you Senator? BOY: (Turning displeased mutters) Aw, shux. (Loudly) Ma'm? VOICE: If you don't come here you better! SENATOR: Yes ma'am. (He drops bone on ground down stage and trots off frowning.) Soon as we men git to doing something dese wimmen.... (Exits, right.) (Enter TEET and BOOTSIE left, clean and primped in voile dresses just alike. They speak diffidently and enter store. The men admire them casually.) LIGE: Them girls done turned out to be right good-looking. WALTER: Teet ain't as pretty now as she was a few years back. She used to be fat as a butter ball wid legs just like two whiskey-kegs. She's too skinny since she got her growth. CODY: Ain't none of 'em pretty as dat Miss Daisy. God! She's pretty as a speckled pup. LIGE: But she was sho nuff ugly when she was little ... little ole hard black knot. She sho has changed since she been away up North. If she ain't pretty now, there ain't a hound dog in Georgy. (Re-enter SENATOR BAILEY and stops on the steps. He addresses JOE CLARK.) SENATOR: Mist' Clark.... HAMBO: (To Senator) Ain't you got no manners? We all didn't sleep wid you last night. SENATOR: (Embarrassed) Good evening, everybody. ALL THE MEN: Good evening, son, boy, Senator, etc. SENATOR: Mist' Clark, mama said is Daisy been here dis evenin'? JOE CLARK: Ain't laid my eyes on her. Ain't she working over in Maitland? SENATOR: Yessuh ... but she's off today and mama sent her down here to get de groceries. JOE CLARK: Well, tell yo' ma I ain't seen her. SENATOR: Well, she say to tell you when she come, to tell her ma say she better git home and dat quick. JOE CLARK: I will. (Exit BOY right.) LIGE: Bet she's off somewhere wid Dave or Jim. WALTER: I don't bet it ... I know it. She's got them two in de go-long. (Re-enter TEET and BOOTSIE from store. TEET has a letter and BOOTSIE two or three small parcels. The men look up with interest as they come out on the porch.) WALTER: (Winking) Whut's dat you got, Teet ... letter from Dave? TEET: (Flouncing) Naw indeed! It's a letter from my B-I-T-sweetie! (Rolls her eyes and hips.) WALTER: (Winking) Well, ain't Dave yo' B-I-T-sweetie? I thought y'all was 'bout to git married. Everywhere I looked dis summer 'twas you and Dave, Bootsie and Jim. I thought all of y'all would've done jumped over de broomstick by now. TEET: (Flourishing letter) Don't tell it to me ... tell it to the ever-loving Mr. Albert Johnson way over in Apopka. BOOTSIE: (Rolling her eyes) Oh, tell 'em 'bout the ever-loving Mr. Jimmy Cox from Altamont. Oh, I can't stand to see my baby lose. HAMBO: It's lucky y'all girls done got some more fellers, cause look like Daisy done treed both Jim and Dave at once, or they done treed here one. TEET: Let her have 'em ... nobody don't keer. They don't handle de "In God we trust" lak my Johnson. He's head bellman at de hotel. BOOTSIE: Mr. Cox got money's grandma and old grandpa change. (The girls exit huffily.) LINDSAY: (To HAMBO, pseudo-seriously) You oughtn't tease dem gals lak dat. HAMBO: Oh, I laks to see gals all mad. But dem boys is crazy sho nuff. Before Daisy come back here they both had a good-looking gal a piece. Now they 'bout to fall out and fight over half a gal a piece. Neither one won't give over and let de other one have her. LIGE: And she ain't thinking too much 'bout no one man. (Looks off left.) Here she come now. God! She got a mean walk on her! WALTER: Yeah, man. She handles a lot of traffic! Oh, mama, throw it in de river ... papa'll come git it! LINDSAY: Aw, shut up, you married men! LIGE: Man don't go blind cause he gits married, do he? (Enter DAISY hurriedly. Stops at step a moment. She is dressed in sheer organdie, white shoes and stockings.) DAISY: Good evening, everybody. (Walks up on the porch.) ALL THE MEN: (Very pleasantly) Good evening, Miss Daisy. DAISY: (To CLARK) Mama sent me after some meal and flour and some bacon and sausage oil. CLARK: Senator been here long time ago hunting you. DAISY: (Frightened) Did he? Oo ... Mist' Clark, hurry up and fix it for me. (She starts on in the store.) LINDSAY: (Giving her his seat) You better wait here, Daisy. (WALTER kicks LIGE to call his attention to LINDSAY'S attitude) It's powerful hot in dat store. Lemme run fetch 'em out to you. LIGE: (To LINDSAY) _Run!_ Joe Lindsay, you ain't been able to run since de big bell rung. Look at dat gray beard. LINDSAY: Thank God, I ain't gray all over. I'm just as good a man right now as any of you young 'uns. (He hurries on into the store.) WALTER: Daisy, where's yo' two body guards? It don't look natural to see you thout nary one of 'em. DAISY: (Archly) I ain't got no body guards. I don't know what you talkin' about. LIGE: Aw, don' try to come dat over us, Daisy. You know who we talkin' 'bout all right ... but if you want me to come out flat footed ... where's Jim and Dave? DAISY: Ain't they playin' somewhere for de white folks? LIGE: (To WALTER) Will you listen at dis gal, Walter? (To DAISY) When I ain't been long seen you and Dave going down to de Lake. DAISY: (Frightened) Don't y'all run tell mama where I been. WALTER: Well, you tell us which one you laks de best and we'll wipe our mouf (Gesture) and say nothin'. Dem boys been de best of friends all they life, till both of 'em took after you ... then good-bye, Katy bar de door! DAISY: (Affected innocence) Ain't they still playin' and dancin' together? LIGE: Yeah, but that's 'bout all they do 'gree on these days. That's de way it is wid men, young and old.... I don't keer how long they been friends and how thick they been ... a woman kin come between 'em. David and Jonather never would have been friends so long if Jonather had of been any great hand wid de wimmen. You ain't never seen no two roosters that likes one another. DAISY: I ain't tried to break 'em up. WALTER: Course you ain't. You don't have to. All two boys need to do is to git stuck on de same girl and they done broke up ... _right now_! Wimmen is something can't be divided equal. (Re-enter JOE LINDSAY and CLARK with the groceries. DAISY jumps up and grabs the packages.) LIGE: (To DAISY) Want some of us ... me ... to go long and tote yo' things for you? DAISY: (Nervously) Naw, mama is riding her high horse today. Long as I been gone it wouldn't do for me to come walking up wid nobody. (She exits hurriedly right.) (All the men watch her out of sight in silence.) CLARK: (Sighing) I God, know whut Daisy puts me in de mind of? HAMBO: No, what? (They all lean together.) CLARK: I God, a great big mango ... a sweet smell, you know, Th a strong flavor, but not something you could mash up like a strawberry. Something with a body to it. (General laughter, but not obscene.) HAMBO: (Admiringly) Joe Clark! I didn't know you had it in you! (MRS. CLARK enters from store door and they all straighten up guiltily) CLARK: (Angrily to his wife) Now whut do you want? I God, the minute I set down, here you come.... MRS. CLARK: Somebody want a stamp, Jody. You know you don't 'low me to bove wid de post office. (HE rises sullenly and goes inside the store.) BRAZZLE: Say, Hambo, I didn't see you at our Sunday School picnic. HAMBO: (Slicing some plug-cut tobacco) Nope, wan't there dis time. WALTER: Looka here, Hambo. Y'all Baptist carry dis close-communion business too far. If a person ain't half drownded in de lake and half et up by alligators, y'all think he ain't baptized, so you can't take communion wid him. Now I reckon you can't even drink lemonade and eat chicken perlow wid us. HAMBO: My Lord, boy, youse just _full_ of words. Now, in de first place, if this year's picnic was lak de one y'all had last year ... you ain't had no lemonade for us Baptists to turn down. You had a big ole barrel of rain water wid about a pound of sugar in it and one lemon cut up over de top of it. LIGE: Man, you sho kin mold 'em! WALTER: Well, I went to de Baptist picnic wid my mouf all set to eat chicken, when lo and behold y'all had chitlings! Do Jesus! LINDSAY: Hold on there a minute. There was plenty chicken at dat picnic, which I do know is right. WALTER: Only chicken I seen was half a chicken yo' pastor musta tried to swaller whole cause he was choked stiff as a board when I come long ... wid de whole deacon's board beating him in de back, trying to knock it out his throat. LIGE: Say, dat puts me in de mind of a Baptist brother that was crazy 'bout de preachers and de preacher was crazy 'bout feeding his face. So his son got tired of trying to beat dese stump-knockers to de grub on the table, so one day he throwed out some slams 'bout dese preachers. Dat made his old man mad, so he tole his son to git out. He boy ast him "Where must I go, papa?" He says, "Go on to hell I reckon ... I don't keer where you go." So de boy left and was gone seven years. He come back one cold, windy night and rapped on de door. "Who dat?" de old man ast him "It's me, Jack." De old man opened de door, so glad to see his son agin, and tole Jack to come in. He did and looked all round de place. Seven or eight preachers was sitting round de fire eatin' and drinkin'. "Where you been all dis time, Jack?" de old man ast him. "I been to hell," Jack tole him. "Tell us how it is down there, Jack." "Well," he says, "It's just like it is here ... you cain't git to de fire for de preachers." HAMBO: Boy, you kin lie just like de cross-ties from Jacksonville to Key West. De presidin' elder must come round on his circuit teaching y'all how to tell 'em, cause you couldn't lie dat good just natural. WALTER: Can't nobody beat Baptist folks lying ... and I ain't never found out how come you think youse so important. LINDSAY: Ain't we got de finest and de biggest church? Macedonia Baptist will hold more folks than any two buildings in town. LIGE: Thass right, y'all got a heap more church than you got members to go in it. HAMBO: Thass all right ... y'all ain't got neither de church nor de members. Everything that's had in this town got to be held in our church. (Re-enter JOE CLARK.) CLARK: What you-all talkin'? HAMBO: Come on out, Tush Hawg, lemme beat you some checkers. I'm tired of fending and proving wid dese boys ain't got no hair on they chest yet. CLARK: I God, you mean you gointer get beat. You can't handle me ... I'm a tush hawg. HAMBO: Well, I'm going to draw dem tushes right now. (To two small boys using checker board on edge of porch.) Here you chilluns, let de Mayor and me have that board. Go on out an' play an' give us grown folks a little peace. (The children go down stage and call out:) SMALL BOY: Hey, Senator. Hey, Marthy. Come on let's play chick-me, chick-me, cranie-crow. CHILD'S VOICE: (Off stage) All right! Come on, Jessie! (Enter several children, led by SENATOR, and a game begins in front of the store as JOE CLARK and HAMBO play checkers.) JOE CLARK: I God! Hambo, you can't play no checkers. HAMBO: (As they seat themselves at the check board) Aw, man, if you wasn't de Mayor I'd beat you all de time. (The children get louder and louder, drowning out the men's voices.) SMALL GIRL: I'm gointer be de hen. BOY: And I'm gointer be de hawk. Lemme git maself a stick to mark wid. (The boy who is the hawk squats center stage with a short twig in his hand. The largest girl lines up the other children behind her.) GIRL: (Mother Hen) (Looking back over her flock): Y'all ketch holt of one 'Nother's clothes so de hawk can't git yuh. (They do.) You all straight now? CHILDREN: Yeah. (The march around the hawk commences.) HEN AND CHICKS: Chick mah chick mah craney crow Went to de well to wash ma toe When I come back ma chick was gone What time, ole witch? HAWK: (Making a tally on the ground) One! HEN AND CHICKS: (Repeat song and march.) HAWK: (Scoring again) Two! (Can be repeated any number of times.) HAWK: Four. (He rises and imitates a hawk flying and trying to catch a chicken. Calling in a high voice:) Chickee. HEN: (Flapping wings to protect her young) My chickens sleep. HAWK: Chickee. (During all this the hawk is feinting and darting in his efforts to catch a chicken, and the chickens are dancing defensively, the hen trying to protect them.) HEN: My chicken's sleep. HAWK: I shall have a chick. HEN: You shan't have a chick. HAWK: I'm goin' home. (Flies off) HEN: Dere's de road. HAWK: My pot's a boilin'. HEN: Let it boil. HAWK: My guts a growlin'. HEN: Let 'em growl. HAWK: I must have a chick. HEN: You shan't have n'airn. HAWK: My mama's sick. HEN: Let her die. HAWK: Chickie! HEN: My chicken's sleep. (HAWK darts quickly around the hen and grabs a chicken and leads him off and places his captive on his knees at the store porch. After a brief bit of dancing he catches another, then a third, etc.) HAMBO: (At the checker board, his voice rising above the noise of the playing children, slapping his sides jubilantly) Ha! Ha! I got you now. Go ahead on and move, Joe Clark ... jus' go ahead on and move. LOUNGERS: (Standing around two checker players) Ol' Deacon's got you now. ANOTHER VOICE: Don't see how he can beat the Mayor like that. ANOTHER VOICE: Got him in the Louisville loop. (These remarks are drowned by the laughter of the playing children directly in front of the porch. MAYOR JOE CLARK disturbed in his concentration on the checkers and peeved at being beaten suddenly turns toward the children, throwing up his hands.) CLARK: Get on 'way from here, you limbs of Satan, making all that racket so a man can't hear his ears. Go on, go on! (THE MAYOR looks about excitedly for the town marshall. Seeing him playing cards on the other side of porch, he bellows:) Lum Boger, whyn't you git these kids away from here! What kind of a marshall is you? All this passle of young'uns around here under grown people's feet, creatin' disorder in front of my store. (LUM BOGER puts his cards down lazily, comes down stage and scatters the children away. One saucy little girl refuses to move.) LUM BOGER: Why'nt you go on away from here, Matilda? Didn't you hear me tell you-all to move? LITTLE MATILDA: (Defiantly) I ain't goin' nowhere. You ain't none of my mama. (Jerking herself free from him as LUM touches her.) My mama in the store and she told me to wait out here. So take that, ol' Lum. LUM BOGER: You impudent little huzzy, you! You must smell yourself ... youse so fresh. MATILDA: The wind musta changed and you smell your own top lip. LUM BOGER: Don't make me have to grab you and take you down a buttonhole lower. MATILDA: (Switching her little head) Go ahead on and grab me. You sho can't kill me, and if you kill me, you sho can't eat me. (She marches into the store.) SENATOR: (Derisively from behind stump) Ol' dumb Lum! Hey! Hey! (LITTLE BOY at edge of stage thumbs his nose at the marshall.) (LUM lumbers after the small boy. Both exit.) HAMBO: (To CLARK who has been thinking all this while what move to make) You ain't got but one move ... go ahead on and make it. What's de matter, Mayor? CLARK: (Moving his checker) Aw, here. HAMBO: (Triumphant) Now! Look at him, boys. I'm gonna laugh in notes. (Laughing to the scale and jumping a checker each time) Do, sol, fa, me, lo ... one! (Jumping another checker) La, sol, fa, me, do ... two! (Another jump.) Do sol, re, me, lo ... three! (Jumping a third.) Lo sol, fa, me, re ... four! (The crowd begins to roar with laughter. LUM BOGER returns, looking on. Children come drifting back again playing chick-me-chick-me-cranie crow.) VOICE: Oh, ha! Done got the ol' tush hog. ANOTHER VOICE: Thought you couldn't be beat, Brother Mayor? CLARK: (Peeved, gets up and goes into the store mumbling) Oh, I coulda beat you if I didn't have this store on my mind. Saturday afternoon and I got work to do. Lum, ain't I told you to keep them kids from playin' right in front of this store? (LUM makes a pass at the nearest half-grown boy. The kids dart around him teasingly.) ANOTHER VOICE: Eh, heh.... Hambo done run him on his store ... done run the ol' coon in his hole. ANOTHER VOICE: That ain't good politics, Hambo, beatin' the Mayor. ANOTHER VOICE: Well, Hambo, you don't got to be so hard at checkers, come on let's see what you can do with de cards. Lum Boger there got his hands full nursin' the chilluns. ANOTHER VOICE: (At the table) We ain't playin' for money, nohow, Deacon. We just playin' a little Florida Flip. HAMBO: Ya all can't play no Florida Flip. When I was a sinner there wasn't a man in this state could beat me playin' that game. But I'm a deacon in Macedonia Baptist now and I don't bother with the cards no more. VOICE AT CARD TABLE: All right, then, come on here Tony (To man with basket on steps.) let me catch your jack. TAYLOR: (Looking toward door) I don't reckon I got time. I guess my wife gonna get through buying out that store some time or other and want to go home. OLD MAN: (On opposite side of porch from card game) I bet my wife would know better than expect me to sit around and wait for her with a basket. Whyn't you tell her to tote it on home herself? TAYLOR: (Sighing and shaking his head.) Eh, Lawd! VOICE AT CARD TABLE: Look like we can't get nobody to come into this game. Seem like everybody's scared a us. Come on back here, Lum, and take your hand. (LUM makes a final futile gesture at the children.) LUM: Ain't I tole you little haitians to stay away from here? (CHILDREN scatter teasingly only to return to their play in front of the store later on. LUM comes up on the porch and re-joins the card game. Just as he gets seated, MRS. CLARK comes to the door of the store and calls him.) MRS. CLARK: (Drawlingly) Columbus! LUM: (Wearily) Ma'am? MRS. CLARK: De Mayor say for you to go round in de back yard and tie up old lady Jackson's mule what's trampin' aup all de tomatoes in my garden. LUM: All right. (Leaving card game.) Wait till I come back, folkses. LIGE: Oh, hum! (Yawning and putting down the deck of cards) Lum's sho a busy marshall. Say, ain't Dave and Jim been round here yet? I feel kinder like hearin' a little music 'bout now. BOY: Naw, they ain't been here today. You-all know they ain't so thick nohow as they was since Daisy Bailey come back and they started runnin' after her. WOMAN: You mean since she started runnin' after them, the young hussy. MRS. CLARK: (In doorway) She don't mean 'em no good. WALTER: That's a shame, ain't it now? (Enter LUM from around back of store. He jumps on the porch and takes his place at the card box.) LUM: (To the waiting players) All right, boys! Turn it on and let the bad luck happen. LIGE: My deal. (He begins shuffling the cards with an elaborate fan-shape movement.) VOICE AT TABLE: Look out there, Lige, you shuffling mighty lot. Don't carry the cub to us. LIGE: Aw, we ain't gonna cheat you ... we gonna beat you. (He slams down the cards for LUM BOGER to cut.) Wanta cut 'em? LUM: No, ain't no need of cutting a rabbit out when you can twist him out. Deal 'em. (LIGE deals out the cards.) CLARK'S VOICE: (Inside the store) You, Mattie! (MRS. CLARK, who has been standing in the DOE, quickly turns and goes inside.) LIGE: Y-e-e-e! Spades! (The game is started.) LUM: Didn't snatch that jack, did you? LIGE: Aw, no, ain't snatched no jack. Play. WALTER: (LUM'S partner) Well, here it is, partner. What you want me to play for you? LUM: Play jus' like I'm in New York, partner. But we gotta try to catch that jack. LIGE: (Threateningly) Stick out your hand and draw back a nub. (WALTER THOMAS plays.) WALTER: I'm playin' a diamond for you, partner. LUM: I done tole you you ain't got no partner. LIGE: Heh, Heh! Partner, we got 'em. Pull off wid your king. Dey got to play 'em. (When that trick is turned, triumphantly:) Didn't I tell you, partner? (Stands on his feet and slams down with his ace violently) Now, come up under this ace. Aw, hah, look at ol' low, partner. I knew I was gonna catch 'em. (When LUM plays) Ho, ho, there goes the queen.... Now, the jack's a gentleman.... Now, I'm playin' my knots. (Everybody plays and the hand is ended.) Partner, high, low, jack and the game and four. WALTER: Give me them cards. I believe you-all done give me the cub that time. Look at me ... this is Booker T Washington dealing these cards. (Shuffles cards grandly and gives them to LIGE to cut.) Wanta cut 'em? LIGE: Yeah, cut 'em and shoot 'em. I'd cut behind my ma. (He cuts the cards.) WALTER: (Turning to player at left, FRANK, LIGE'S partner) What you saying, Frank? FRANK: I'm beggin'. (LIGE is trying to peep at cards.) WALTER: (Turning to LIGE) Stop peepin' at them cards, Lige. (To FRANK) Did you say you was beggin' or standin'? FRANK: I'm beggin'. WALTER: Get up off your knees. Go ahead and tell 'em I sent you. FRANK: Well, that makes us four. WALTER: I don't care if you is. (Pulls a quarter out of his pocket and lays it down on the box.) Twenty-five cents says I know the best one. Let's go. (Everybody puts down a quarter.) FRANK: What you want me to play for you partner? LIGE: Play me a club. (The play goes around to dealer, WALTER, who gets up and takes the card off the top of the deck and slams it down on the table.) WALTER: Get up ol' deuce of deamonds and gallop off with your load. (TO LUM) Partner, how many times you seen the deck? LUM: Two times. WALTER: Well, then I'm gonna pull off, partner. Watch this ol' queen. (Everyone plays) Ha! Ha! Wash day and no soap. (Takes the jack of diamonds and sticks him up on his forehead. Stands up on his feet.) Partner, I'm dumping to you ... play your king. (When it comes to his play LUM, too, stands up. The others get up and they, too, excitedly slam their cards down.) Now, come on in this kitchen and let me splice that cabbage! (He slams down the ace of diamonds. Pats the jack on his for head, sings:) Hey, hey, back up, jenny, get your load. (Talking) Dump to that jack, boys, dump to it. High, low, jack and the game and four. One to go. We're four wid you, boys. LIGE: Yeah, but you-all playin' catch-up. FRANK: Gimme them cards ... lemme deal some. LIGE: Frank, now you really got responsibility on you. They's got one game on us. FRANK: Aw, man, I'm gonna deal 'em up a mess. This deal's in the White House. (He shuffles and puts the cards down for WALTER to cut.) Cut 'em. WALTER: Nope, I never cut green timber. (FRANK deals and turns the card up.) FRANK: Hearts, boys. (He turns up an ace.) LUM: Aw, you snatched that ace, nigger. WALTER: Yeah, they done carried the cub to us, partner. LIGE: Oh, he didn't do no such a thing. That ace was turned fair. We jus' too hard for you ... we eats our dinner out a the blacksmith shop. WALTER: Aw, you all cheatin'. You know it wasn't fair. FRANK: Aw, shut up, you all jus' whoopin' and hollerin' for nothin'. Tryin' to bully the game. (FRANK and LIGE rise and shake hands grandly.) LIGE: Mr. Hoover, you sho is a noble president. We done stuck these niggers full of cobs. They done got scared to play us. LIGE (?) Scared to play you? Get back down to this table, let me spread my mess. LOUNGER: Yonder comes Elder Simms. You all better squat that rabbit. They'll be having you all up in the church for playin' cards. (FRANK grabs up the cards and puts them in his pocket quickly. Everybody picks up the money and looks unconcerned as the preacher enters. Enter ELDER SIMMS with his two prim-looking little children by the hand.) ELDER SIMMS: How do, children. Right warm for this time in November, ain't it? VOICE: Yes sir, Reverend, sho is. How's Sister Simms? SIMMS: She's feelin' kinda po'ly today. (Goes on in store with his children) VOICE: (Whispering loudly) Don't see how that great big ole powerful woman could be sick. Look like she could go bear huntin' with her fist. ANOTHER VOICE: She look jus' as good as you-all's Baptist pastor's wife. Pshaw, you ain't seen no big woman, nohow, man. I seen one once so big she went to whip her little boy and he run up under her belly and hid six months 'fore she could find him. ANOTHER VOICE: Well, I knowed a woman so little that she had to get up on a soap box to look over a grain of sand. (REV. SIMMS comes out of store, each child behind him sucking a stick of candy.) SIMMS: (To his children) Run on home to your mother and don't get dirty on the way. (The two children start primly off down the street but just out of sight one of them utters a loud cry.) SIMMS'S CHILD: (Off stage) Papa, papa. Nunkie's trying to lick my candy. SIMMS: I told you to go on and leave them other children alone. VOICE ON PORCH: (Kidding) Lum, whyn't you tend to your business. (TOWN MARSHALL rises and shoos the children off again.) LUM: You all varmints leave them nice chillun alone. LIGE: (Continuing the lying on porch) Well, you all done seen so much, but I bet you ain't never seen a snake as big as the one I saw when I was a boy up in middle Georgia. He was so big couldn't hardly move his self. He laid in one spot so long he growed moss on him and everybody thought he was a log, till one day I set down on him and went to sleep, and when I woke up that snake done crawled to Florida. (Loud laughter.) FRANK: (Seriously) Layin' all jokes aside though now, you all remember that rattlesnake I killed last year was almost as big as that Georgia snake. VOICE: How big, you say it was, Frank? FRANK: Maybe not quite as big as that, but jus' about fourteen feet. VOICE: (Derisively) Gimme that lyin' snake. That snake wasn't but four foot long when you killed him last year and you done growed him ten feet in a year. ANOTHER VOICE: Well, I don't know about that. Some of the snakes around here is powerful long. I went out in my front yard yesterday right after the rain and killed a great big ol' cottonmouth. SIMMS: This sho is a snake town. I certainly can't raise no chickens for 'em. They kill my little biddies jus' as fast as they hatch out. And yes ... if I hadn't cut them weeds out of the street in front of my parsonage, me or some of my folks woulda been snake-bit right at our front door. (To whole crowd) Whyn't you all cut down these weeds and clean up these streets? HAMBO: Well, the Mayor ain't said nothin' 'bout it. SIMMS: When the folks misbehaves in this town I think they oughta lock 'em up in a jail and make 'em work their fine out on the streets, then these weeds would be cut down. VOICE: How we gonna do that when we ain't got no jail? SIMMS: Well, you sho needs a jail ... you-all needs a whole lot of improvements round this town. I ain't never pastored no town so way-back as this one here. CLARK: (Who has lately emerged from the store, fanning himself, overhears this last remark and bristles up) What's that you say 'bout this town? SIMMS: I say we needs some improvements here in this town ... that's what. CLARK: (In a powerful voice) And what improvements you figgers we needs? SIMMS: A whole heap. Now, for one thing we really does need a jail, Mayor. We oughta stop runnin' these people out of town that misbehaves, and lock 'em up. Others towns has jails, everytown I ever pastored had a jail. Don't see how come we can't have one. CLARK: (Towering angrily above the preacher) Now, wait a minute, Simms. Don't you reckon the man who knows how to start a town knows how to run it? I paid two hundred dollars out of this right hand for this land and walked out here and started this town befo' you was born. I ain't like some of you new niggers, come here when grapes' ripe. I was here to cut new ground, and I been Mayor ever since. SIMMS: Well, there ain't no sense in no one man stayin' Mayor all the time. CLARK: Well, it's my town and I can be mayor jus' as long as I want to. It was me that put this town on the map. SIMMS: What map you put it on, Joe Clark? I ain't seen it on no map. CLARK: (Indignant) I God! Listen here, Elder Simms. If you don't like the way I run this town, just' take your flat feets right on out and git yonder crost the woods. You ain't been here long enough to say nothin' nohow. HAMBO: (From a nail keg) Yeah, you Methodist niggers always telling people how to run things. TAYLOR: (Practically unheard by the others) We do so know how to run things, don't we? Ain't Brother Mayor a Methodist, and ain't the school-teacher a ...? (His remarks are drowned out by the others.) SIMMS: No, we don't like the way you're runnin' things. Now looka here, (Pointing at the Marshall) You got that lazy Lum Boger here for marshall and he ain't old enough to be dry behind his ears yet ... and all these able-bodied means in this town! You won't 'low nobody else to run a store 'ceptin' you. And looka yonder (happening to notice the street light) only street lamp in town, you got in front of your place. (Indignantly) We pay the taxes and you got the lamp. VILLAGER: Don't you-all fuss now. How come you two always yam-yamming at each other? CLARK: How come this fly-by-night Methodist preacher over here ... ain't been here three months ... tries to stand up on my store porch and tries to tell me how to run my town? (MATTIE CLARK, the Mayor's wife, comes timidly to the door, wiping her hands on her apron.) Ain't no man gonna tell me how to run my town. I God, I 'lected myself in and I'm gonna run it. (Turns and sees wife standing in door. Commandingly.) I God, Mattie, git on back in there and wait on that store! MATTIE: (Timidly) Jody, somebody else wantin' stamps. CLARK: I God, woman, what good is you? Gwan, git in. Look like between women and preachers a man can't have no peace. (Exit CLARK.) SIMMS: (Continuing his argument) Now, when I pastored in Jacksonville you oughta see what kinda jails they got there.... LOUNGER: White folks needs jails. We colored folks don't need no jail. ANOTHER VILLAGER: Yes, we do, too. Elder Simms is right.... (The argument becomes a hubbub of voices.) TAYLOR: (Putting down his basket) Now, I tell you a jail.... MRS. TAYLOR: (Emerging from the store door, arms full of groceries, looking at her husband) Yeah, and if you don't shut up and git these rations home I'm gonna be worse on you than a jail and six judges. Pickup that basket and let's go. (TONY meekly picks up the basket and he and his wife exit as the sound of an approaching guitar is heard off stage.) (Two carelessly dressed, happy-go-lucky fellows enter together. One is fingering a guitar without playing any particular tune, and the other has his hat cocked over his eyes in a burlesque, dude-like manner. There are casual greetings.) WALTER: Hey, there, bums, how's tricks? LIGE: What yo' sayin', boys? HAMBO: Good evenin' sons. LIGE: How did you-all make out this evenin', boys? JIM: Oh, them white folks at the party shelled out right well. Kept Dave busy pickin' it up. How much did we make today, Dave? DAVE: (Striking his pocket) I don't know, boy, but feels right heavy here. Kept me pickin' up money just like this.... (As JIM picks a few dance chords, Dave gives a dance imitation of how he picked up the coins from the ground as the white folks threw them.) We count it after while. Woulda divided up with you already if you hadn't left me when you seen Daisy comin' by. Let's sit down on the porch and rest now. LIGE: She sho is lookin' stylish and pretty since she come back with her white folks from up North. Wearin' the swellest clothes. And that coal-black hair of hers jus' won't quit. MATTIE CLARK: (In doorway) I don't see what the mens always hanging after Daisy Taylor for. CLARK: (Turning around on the porch) I God, you back here again. Who's tendin' that store? (MATTIE disappears inside.) DAVE: Well, she always did look like new money to me when she was here before. JIM: Well, that's all you ever did get was a look. DAVE: That's all you know! I bet I get more than that now. JIM: You might git it but I'm the man to use it. I'm a bottom fish. DAVE: Aw, man. You musta been walking round here fast asleep when Daisy was in this county last. You ain't seen de go I had with her. JIM: No, I ain't seen it. Bet you didn't have no letter from her while she been away. DAVE: Bet you didn't neither. JIM: Well, it's just cause she can't write. If she knew how to scratch with a pencil I'd had a ton of 'em. DAVE: Shaw, man! I'd had a post office full of 'em. OLD WOMAN: You-all ought to be shame, carrying on over a brazen heifer like Daisy Taylor. Jus' cause she's been up North and come back, I reckon you cutting de fool sho 'nough now. She ain't studying none of you-all nohow. All she wants is what you got in your pocket. JIM: I likes her but she won't git nothin' outa me. She never did. I wouldn't give a poor consumpted cripple crab a crutch to cross the River Jurdon. DAVE: I know I ain't gonna give no woman nothin'. I wouldn't give a dog a doughnut if he treed a terrapin. LIGE: Youse a cottontail dispute ... both of you. You'd give her anything you got. You'd give her Georgia with a fence 'round it. OLD MAN: Yeah, and she'd take it, too. LINDSAY: Don't distriminate the woman like that. That ain't nothing but hogism. Ain't nothin' the matter with Daisy, she's all right. (Enter TEETS and BOOTSIE tittering coyly and switching themselves.) BOOTSIE: Is you seen my mama? OLD WOMAN: You know you ain't lookin' for no mama. Jus' come back down here to show your shape and fan around awhile. (BOOTSIE and TEETS going into the store.) BOOTSIE & TEETS: No, we ain't. We'se come to get our mail. OLD WOMAN: (After girls enter store) Why don't you all keep up some attention to these nice girls here, Bootsie and Teets. They wants to marry. DAVE: Aw, who thinkin' 'bout marryin' now? They better stay home and eat their own pa's rations. I gotta buy myself some shoes. JIM: The woman I'm gonna marry ain't born yet and her maw is dead. (GIRLS come out giggling and exit.) (JIM begins to strum his guitar lightly at first as the talk goes on.) CLARK: (To DAVE and JIM) Two of the finest gals that ever lived and friendly jus' like you-all is. You two boys better take 'em back and stop them shiftless ways. HAMBO: Yeah, hurry up and do somethin'! I wants to taste a piece yo' weddin' cake. JIM: (Embarrassed but trying to be jocular) Whut you trying to rush me up so fast?... Look at Will Cody here (Pointing to little man on porch) he been promising to bring his already wife down for two months ... and nair one of us ain't seen her yet. DAVE: Yeah, how you speck me to haul in a brand new wife when he can't lead a wagon-broke wife eighteen miles? Me, I'm going git one soon's Cody show me his'n. (General sly laughter at CODY'S expense.) WALTER: (Snaps his fingers and pretends to remember something) Thass right, Cody. I been intending to tell you.... I know where you kin buy a ready-built house for you and yo' wife. (Calls into the store.) Hey, Clark, cime on out here and tell Cody 'bout dat Bradley house. (To CODY.) I know you wants to git a place of yo' own so you kin settle down. HAMBO: He done moved so much since he been here till every time he walk out in his back yeard his chickens lay down and cross they legs. LINDSAY: Cody, I thought you tole us you was going up to Sanford to bring dat 'oman down here last Sat'day. LIGE: That ain't de way he tole me 'bout it. Look, fellers, (Getting up and putting one hand on his hips and one finger of the other hand against his chin coquettishly) Where you reckon I'll be next Sat'day night?... Sittin' up side of Miz Cody. (Great burst of laughter.) SYKES JONES: (Laughing) Know what de folks tole me in Sanford? Dat was another man's wife. (Guffaws.) CODY: (Feebly) Aw, you don't know whut you talkin' bout. JONES: Naw, I don't know, but de folks in Sanford does. (Laughing) Dey tell me when dat lady's husband come home Sat'day night, ole Cody jumped out de window. De man grabbed his old repeater and run out in de yard to head him off. When Cody seen him come round de corner de house (Gesture) he flopped his wings and flew up on de fence. De man thowed dat shotgun dead on him. (Laughs) Den, man! Cody flopped his wings lak a buzzard (Gesture) and sailed on off. De man dropped to his knees lak dis (Gesture of kneeling on one knee and taking aim) Die! die! die! (Supposedly sound of shots as the gun is moved in a circle following the course of Cody's supposed flight) Cody just flew right on off and lit on a hill two miles off. Then, man! (Gesture of swift flight) In ten minutes he was back here in Eatonville and in he bed. WALTER: I passed there and seen his house shakin', but I didn't know how come. HAMBO: Aw, leave de boy alone.... If you don't look out some of y'all going to have to break his record. LIGE: I'm prepared to break it now. (General laughter.) JIM: Well, anyhow, I don't want to marry and leave Dave ... yet awhile. (Picking a chord.) DAVE: And I ain't gonna leave Jim. We been palling around together ever since we hollered titty mama, ain't we, boy? JIM: Sho is. (Music of the guitar increases in volume. DAVE shuffles a few steps and the two begin to sing.) JIM: Rabbit on the log. I ain't got no dog. How am I gonna git him? God knows. DAVE: Rabbit on the log. Ain't got no dog. Shoot him with my rifle Bam! Bam! (Some of the villagers join in song and others get up and march around the porch in time with the music. BOOTSIE and TEETS re-enter, TEETS sticking her letter down the neck of her blouse. JOE LINDSAY grabs TEETS and WALTER THOMAS grabs BOOTSIE. There is dancing, treating and general jollification. Little children dance the parse-me-la. The music fills the air just as the sun begins to go down. Enter DAISY TAYLOR coming down the road toward the store.) CLARK: (Bawls out from the store porch) I God, there's Daisy again. (Most of the dancing stops, the music slows down and then stops completely. DAVE and JIM greet DAISY casually as she approaches the porch.) JIM: Well, Daisy, we knows you, too. DAVE: Gal, youse jus' as pretty as a speckled pup. DAISY: (Giggling) I see you two boys always playin' and singin' together. That music sounded right good floating down the road. JIM: Yeah, child, we'se been playin' for the white folks all week. We'se playin' for the colored now. DAVE: (Showing off, twirling his dancing feet) Yeah, we're standin' on our abstract and livin' on our income. OLD MAN: Um-ump, but they ain't never workin'. Just round here playing as usual. JIM: Some folks think you ain't workin' lessen you smellin' a mule. (He sits back down on box and picks at his guitar.) Think you gotta be beatin' a man to his barn every mornin'. VOICE: Glad to be round home with we-all again, ain't you Daisy? DAISY: Is I glad? I jus' got off special early this evenin' to come over here and see everybody. I was kinda 'fraid sundown would catch me 'fore I got round that lake. Don't know how I'm gonna walk back to my workin' place in the dark by muself. DAVE: Don't no girl as good-lookin' as you is have to go home by herself tonight. JIM: No, cause I'm here. DAVE: (To DAISY) Don't you trust yourself round that like wid all them 'gators and moccasins with that nigger there, Daisy (Pointing at JIM) He's jus' full of rabbit blood. What you need is a real man ... with good feet. (Cutting a dance step.) DAISY: I ain't thinking 'bout goin' home yet. I'm goin' in the store. JIM: What you want in the store? DAISY: I want some gum. DAVE: (Starting toward door) Girl, you don't have to go in there to git no gum. I'll go in there and buy you a carload of gum. What kind you want? DAISY: Bubble gum. (DAVE goes in the store with his hand in his pocket. The sun is setting and the twilight deepens.) JIM: (Pulling package out of his pocket and laughing) Here your gum, baby. What it takes to please the ladies, I totes it. I don't have to go get it, like Dave. What you gimme for it? DAISY: A bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck. (She embraces JIM playfully. He hands her the gum, patting his shoulder as he sits on box.) Oh, thank you. Youse a ready man. JIM: Yeah, there's a lot of good parts to me. You can have West Tampa if you want it. DAISY: You always was a nice quiet boy, Jim. DAVE: (Emerging from the store with a package of gum) Here's your gum, Daisy. JIM: Oh, youse late. She's done got gum now. Chaw that yourself. DAVE: (Slightly peeved and surprised) Hunh, you mighty fast here now with Daisy but you wasn't that fast gettin' out of that white man's chicken house last week. JIM: Who you talkin' 'bout? DAVE: Hoo-oo? (Facetiously) You ain't no owl. Your feet don't fit no limb. JIM: Aw, nigger, hush. DAVE: Aw, hush, yourself. (He walks away for a minute as DAISY turns to meet some newcomers. DAVE throws his package of gum down on the ground. It breaks and several children scramble for the pieces. An old man, very drunk, carrying an empty jug enters on left and staggers tipsily across stage.) (MAYOR JOE CLARK emerges from the store and looks about for his marshall.) CLARK: (Bellowing) Lum Boger! LUM BOGER: (Eating a stalk of cane) Yessir! CLARK: I God, Lum, take your lazy self off that keg and go light that town lamp. All summer long you eatin' up my melon, and all winter long you chawin' up my cane. What you think this town is payin' you for? Laying round here doin' nothin'? Can't you see it's gettin' dark? (LUM BOGER rises lazily and takes the soap box down stage, stands on it to light the lamp, discovers no oil in it and goes in store. In a few moments he comes out of store, fills the lamp and lights it.) DAISY: (Coming back toward JIM) Ain't you all gonna play and sing a little somethin' for me? I ain't heard your all's music much for so long. JIM: Play anything you want, Daisy. Don't make no difference what 'tis I can pick it. Where's that old coon, Dave? (Looking around for his partner.) LIGE: (Calling Dave, who is leaning against post at opposite end of porch) Come here, an' get warmed up for Daisy. DAVE: Aw, ma throat's tired. JIM: Leave the baby be. DAISY: Come on, sing a little, Dave. DAVE: (Going back toward Jim) Well, seeing who's asking ... all right. What song yo like, Daisy? DAISY: Um-m. Lemme think. VOICE ON PORCH: "Got on the train, didn't have no fare". DAISY: (Gaily) Yes, that one. That's a good one. JIM: (Begins to tune up. DAVE touches Daisy's hand.) VOICE: (In fun) Hunh, you all wouldn't play at the hall last week when we asked you. VOICE OF SPITEFUL OLD WOMAN: Daisy wasn't here then. ANOTHER VOICE: (Teasingly) All you got to do to some men is to shake a skirt tail in their face and they goes off their head. DAVE: (To JIM who is still tuning up) Come if you're comin' boy, let's go if you gwine. (The full melody of the guitar comes out in a lively, old-fashioned tune.) VOICE: All right now, boys, do it for Daisy jus' as good as you do for dem white folks over in Maitland. DAVE & JIM: (Beginning to sing) Got on the train, Didn't have no fare, But I rode some, I rode some. Got on the train, Didn't have no fare, But I rode some, But I rode some. Got on the train, Didn't have no fare, Conductor asked me what I'm doin' there, But I rode some! Grabbed me by the neck And led me to the door. But I rode some, But I rode some. Grabbed me by the neck And led me to the door. But I rode some, But I rode some. Grabbed me by the neck, And led me to the door. Rapped me cross the head with a forty-four, But I rode some. First thing I saw in jail Was a pot of peas. But I rode some, But I rode some. First thing I saw in jail Was a pot of peas. But I rode some, But I rode some. The peas was good, The meat was fat, Fell in love with the chain gang jus' for that, But I rode some. (DAVE acts out the song in dancing pantomime and when it ends there are shouts and general exclamations of approval from the crowd.) VOICES: I don't blame them white folks for goin' crazy 'bout that.... OLD MAN: Oh, when I was a young boy I used to swing the gals round on that piece. DAISY: (TO JIM) Seem like your playin' gits better and better. DAVE: (Quickly) And how 'bout my singin'? (Everybody laughs.) VOICES IN THE CROWD: Ha! Ha! Ol' Dave's gittin' jealous when she speaks o' Jim. JIM: (To DAVE, in fun) Ain't nothin' to it but my playin'. You ain't got no singin' voice. If that's singin', God's a gopher. DAVE: (Half-seriously) My singin' is a whole lot better'n your playin'. You jus' go along and fram. The reason why the white folks gives us money is cause I'm singin'. JIM: Yeah? DAVE: And you can't dance. VOICE IN THE CROWD: You oughta dance. Big as your feet is, Dave. DAISY: (Diplomatically) Both of you all is wonderful and I would like to see Dave dance a little. DAVE: There now, I told you. What did I tell you. (To JIM) Stop woofing and pick a little tune there so that I can show Daisy somethin'. JIM: Pick a tune? I bet if you fool with me I'll pick your bones jus' like a buzzard did the rabbit. You can't sing and now you wants to dance. DAVE: Yeah, and I'll lam your head. Come on and play, good-for-nothing. JIM: All right, then. You say you can dance ... show these people what you can do. But don't bring that little stuff I been seein' you doin' all these years. (JIM plays and DAVE dances, various members of the crowd keep time with their hands and feet, DAISY looks on enjoying herself immensely.) DAISY: (As DAVE cuts a very fancy step) I ain't seen nothin' like this up North. Dave you sho hot. (As DAVE cuts a more complicated step the crowd applauds, but just as the show begins to get good, suddenly JIM stops playing.) DAVE: (Surprised) What's the matter, buddy? JIM: (Envious of the attention DAVE has been getting from DAISY, disgustedly) Oh, nigger, I'm tired of seein' you cut the fool. 'Sides that, I been playin' all afternoon for the white folks. DAISY: But I though you was playin' for me now, Jim. JIM: Yeah, I'd play all night long for you, but I'm gettin' sick of Dave round here showin' off. Let him git somethin' and play for himself if he can. (An OLD MAN with a lighted lantern enters.) DAISY: (Coyly) Well, honey, play some more for me, then, and don't mind Dave. I reckon he done danced enough. Play me "Shake That Thing". OLD MAN WITH LANTERN: Sho, you ain't stopped, is you, boy? Music sound mighty good floatin' down that dark road. OLD WOMAN: Yeah, Jim, go on play a little more. Don't get to acting so niggerish this evening. DAVE: Aw, let the ol' darky alone. Nobody don't want to hear him play, nohow. I know I don't. JIM: Well, I'm gonna play. (And he begins to pick "Shake That Thing". TEETS and BOOTSIE begin to dance with LIGE MOSELY and FRANK WARRICK. As the tune gets good, DAVE cannot resist the music either.) DAVE: Old nigger's eveil but he sho can play. (He begins to do a few steps by himself, then twirls around in front of DAISY and approaches her. DAISY, overcome by the music, begins to step rhythmically toward DAVE and together they dance unobserved by JIM, absorbed in picking his guitar.) DAISY: Look here, baby, at this new step I learned up North. DAVE: You can show me anything, sugar lump. DAISY: Hold me tight now. (But just as they begin the new movement JIM notices DAISY and DAVE. He stops playing again and lays his guitar down.) VOICES IN THE CROWD: (Disgustedly) Aw, come on, Jim.... You must be jealous.... JIM: No, I ain't jealous. I jus' get tired of seein' that ol' nigger clownin' all the time. DAVE: (Laughing and pointing to JIM on porch) Look at that mad baby. Take that lip up off the ground. Got your mouth stuck out jus' because some one is enjoying themselves. (He comes up and pushes JIM playfully.) JIM: You better go head and let me alone. (TO DAISY) Come here, Daisy! LIGE: That's just what I say. Niggers can't have no fun without someone getting mad ... specially over a woman. JIM: I ain't mad.... Daisy, 'scuse me, honey, but that fool, Dave.... DAVE: I ain't mad neither.... Jim always tryin' to throw off on me. But you can't joke him. DAISY: (Soothingly) Aw, now, now! JIM: You ain't jokin'. You means that, nigger. And if you tryin' to get hot, first thing, you can pull of my blue shirt you put on this morning. DAVE: Youse a got that wrong. I ain't got on no shirt of yours. JIM: Yes, you is got on my shirt, too. Don't tell me you ain't got on my shirt. DAVE: Well, even if I is, you can just lift your big plantations out of my shoes. You can just foot it home barefooted. JIM: You try to take any shoes offa me! LIGE: (Pacifying them) Aw, there ain't no use of all that. What you all want to start this quarreling for over a little jokin'. JIM: Nobody's quarreling.... I'm just playin' a little for Daisy and Dave's out there clownin' with her. CLARK: (In doorway) I ain't gonna have no fussin' round my store, no way. Shut up, you all. JIM: Well, Mayor Clark, I ain't mad with him. We'se been friends all our lives. He's slept in my bed and wore my clothes and et my grub.... DAVE: I et your grub? And many time as you done laid down with your belly full of my grandma's collard greens. You done et my meat and bread a whole lot more times than I et your stewed fish-heads. JIM: I'd rather eat stewed fish-heads than steal out of other folkses houses so much till you went to sleep on the roost and fell down one night and broke up the settin' hen. (Loud laughter from the crowd) DAVE: Youse a liar if you say I stole anybody's chickens. I didn't have to. But you ... 'fore you started goin' around with me, playin' that little box of yours, you was so hungry you had the white mouth. If it wasn't for these white folks throwin' _me_ money for _my_ dancin', you would be thin as a whisper right now. JIM: (Laughing sarcastically) Your dancin'! You been leapin' around here like a tailless monkey in a wash pot for a long time and nobody was payin' no 'tention to you, till I come along playing. LINDSAY: Boys, boys, that ain't no way for friends to carry on. DAISY: Well, if you all gonna keep up this quarrelin' and carryin' on I'm goin' home. 'Bout time for me to be gittin' back to my white folks anyhow. It's dark now. I'm goin', even if I have to go by myself. I shouldn't a stopped by here nohow. JIM: (Stopping his quarrel) You ain't gonna go home by yourself. I'm goin' with you. DAVE: (Singing softly) It may be so, I don't know. But it sounds to me Like a lie. WALTER: Dave ain't' got as much rabbit blood as folks thought. DAVE: Tell 'em 'bout me. (Turns to DAISY) Won't you choose a treat on me, Miss Daisy, 'fore we go? DAISY: (Coyly) Yessir, thank you. I wants a drink of soda water. (DAVE pulls his hat down over his eyes, whirls around and offers his arm to DAISY. They strut into the store, DAVE gazing contemptuously at JIM as he passes. Crowd roars with laughter, much to the embarrassment of JIM.) LIGE: Ol' fast Dave jus' runnin' the hog right over you, Jim. WALTER: Thought you was such a hot man. LUM BOGER: Want me to go in there and put Daisy under arrest and bring her to you? JIM: (Sitting down on the edge of porch with one foot on the step and lights a cigarette pretending not to be bothered.) Aw, I'll get her when I want her. Let him treat her, but see who struts around that lake and down the railroad with her by and by. (DAVE and DAISY emerge from the store, each holding a bottle of red soda pop and laughing together. As they start down the steps DAVE accidentally steps on JIM's outstretched foot. JIM jumps up and pushes DAVE back, causing him to spill the red soda all over his white shirt front.) JIM: Stay off my foot, you big ox. DAVE: Well, you don't have to wet me all up, do you, and me in company? Why don't you put your damn foot in your pocket? DAISY: (Wiping DAVE'S shirt front with her handkerchief) Aw, ain't that too bad. JIM: (To DAVE) Well, who's shirt did I wet? It's mine, anyhow, ain't it? DAVE: (Belligerently) Well, if it's your shirt, then you come take it off me. I'm tired of your lip. JIM: Well, I will. DAVE: Well, put your fist where you lip is. (Pushing DAISY aside.) DAISY: (Frightened) I want to go home. Now, don't you all boys fight. (JIM attempts to come up the steps. DAVE pushes him back and he stumbles and falls in the dust. General excitement as the crowd senses a fight.) LITTLE BOY: (On the edge of crowd) Fight, fight, you're no kin. Kill one another, won't be no sin. Fight, fight, you're no kin. (JIM jumps up and rushes for DAVE as the latter starts down the steps. DAVE meets him with his fist squarely in the face and causes him to step backward, confused.) DAISY: (Still on porch, half crying) Aw, my Lawd! I want to go home. (General hubbub, women's cries of "Don't let 'em fight." "Why don't somebody stop 'em?" "What kind of men is you all, sit there and let them boys fight like that." Men's voices urging the fight: "Aw, let 'em fight." "Go for him, Dave." "Slug him, Jim." JIM makes another rush toward the steps. He staggers DAVE. DAVE knocks JIM sprawling once more. This time JIM grabs the mule bone as he rises, rushes DAVE, strikes DAVE over the head with it and knocks him out. DAVE falls prone on his back. There is great excitement.) OLD WOMAN: (Screams) Lawdy, is he kilt? (Several men rush to the fallen man.) VOICE: Run down to the pump and get a dipper o' water. CLARK: (To his wife in door) Mattie, come out of that store with a bottle of witch hazely oil quick as you can. Jim Weston, I'm gonna arrest you for this. You Lum Boger. Where is that marshall? Lum Boger! (LUM BOGER detaches himself from the crowd.) Arrest Jim. LUM: (Grabs JIM'S arm, relieves him of the mule bone and looks helplessly at the Mayor.) Now I got him arrested, what's I going to do with him? CLARK: Lock him up back yonder in my barn till Monday when we'll have the trial in de Baptist Church. LINDSAY: Yeah, just like all the rest of them Methodists ... always tryin' to take undercurrents on people. WALTER: Ain't no worse then some of you Baptists, nohow. You all don't run this town. We got jus' as much to say as you have. CLARK: (Angrily to both men) Shut up! Done had enough arguing in front of my place. (To LUM BOGER) Take that boy on and lock him up in my barn. And save that mule bone for evidence. (LUM BOGER leads JIM off toward the back of the store. A crowd follows him. Other men and women are busy applying restoratives to DAVE. DAISY stands alone, unnoticed in the center of the stage.) DAISY: (Worriedly) Now, who's gonna take me home? :::: CURTAIN:::: ACT TWO SCENE I SETTING: Village street scene; huge oak tree upstage center; a house or two on back drop. When curtain goes up, Sister LUCY TAYLOR is seen standing under the tree. She is painfully spelling it out. (Enter SISTER THOMAS, a younger woman (In her thirties) at left.) SISTER THOMAS: Evenin', Sis Taylor. SISTER TAYLOR: Evenin'. (Returns to the notice) SISTER THOMAS: Whut you doin'? Readin' dat notice Joe Clark put up 'bout de meeting? (Approaches tree) SISTER TAYLOR: Is dat whut it says? I ain't much on readin' since I had my teeth pulled out. You know if you pull out dem eye teeth you ruins' yo' eye sight. (Turns back to notice) Whut it say? SISTER THOMAS: (Reading notice) "The trial of Jim Weston for assault and battery on Dave Carter wid a dangerous weapon will be held at Macedonia Baptist Church on Monday, November 10, at three o'clock. All are welcome. By order of J. Clark, Mayor of Eatonville, Florida." (Turning to SISTER TAYLOR) Hit's makin' on to three now. SISTER TAYLOR: You mean it's right _now_. (Looks up at sun to tell time) Lemme go git ready to be at de trial 'cause I'm sho goin' to be there an' I ain't goin' to bite my tongue neither. SISTER THOMAS: I done went an' crapped a mess of collard greens for supper. I better go put 'em on 'cause Lawd knows when we goin' to git outa there an' my husband is one of them dat's gointer eat don't keer whut happen. I bet if judgment day was to happen tomorrow he'd speck I orter fix him a bucket to carry long. (She moves to exit, right) SISTER TAYLOR: All men favors they guts, chile. But what you think of all dis mess they got goin' on round here? SISTER THOMAS: I just think it's a sin an' a shame befo' de livin' justice de way dese Baptis' niggers is runnin' round here carryin' on. SISTER TAYLOR: Oh, they been puttin' out the brags ever since Sat'day night 'bout whut they gointer do to Jim. They thinks they runs this town. They tell me Rev. CHILDERS preached a sermon on it yistiddy. SISTER THOMAS: Lawd help us! He can't preach an' he look like 10 cents worth of have-mercy let lone gittin' up dere tryin' to throw slams at us. Now all Elder Simms done wuz to explain to us our rights ... whut you think 'bout Joe Clarke runnin' round here takin' up for these ole Baptist niggers? SISTER TAYLOR: De puzzle-gut rascal ... we oughter have him up in conference an' put him out de Methdis' faith. He don't b'long in there--wanter tun dat boy outa town for nothin'. SISTER THOMAS: But we all know how come he so hot to law Jim outa town--hit's to dig de foundation out from under Elder Simms. SISTER TAYLOR: Whut he wants do dat for? SISTER THOMAS: 'Cause he wants to be a God-know-it-all an' a God-do-it-all an' Simms is de onliest one in this town whut will buck up to him. (Enter SISTER JONES, walking leisurely) SISTER JONES: Hello, Hoyt, hello, Lucy. SISTER TAYLOR: Goin' to de meetin'? SISTER JONES: Done got my clothes on de line an' I'm bound to be dere. SISTER THOMAS: Gointer testify for Jim? SISTER JONES: Naw, I reckon--don't make such difference to me which way de drop fall.... 'Tain't neither one of 'em much good. SISTER TAYLOR: I know it. I know it, Ida. But dat ain't de point. De crow we wants to pick is: Is we gointer set still an' let dese Baptist tell us when to plant an' when to pluck up? SISTER JONES: Dat is something to think about when you come to think 'bout it. (Starts to move on) Guess I better go ahead--see y'all later an tell you straighter. (Enter ELDER SIMMS, right, walking fast, Bible under his arm, almost collides with SISTER JONES as she exits.) SIMMS: Oh, 'scuse me, Sister Jones. (She nods and smiles and exits.) How you do, Sister Taylor, Sister Thomas. BOTH: Good evenin', Elder. SIMMS: Sho is a hot day. SISTER TAYLOR: Yeah, de bear is walkin' de earth lak a natural man. SISTER THOMAS: Reverend, look like you headed de wrong way. It's almost time for de trial an' youse all de dependence we got. SIMMS: I know it. I'm tryin' to find de marshall so we kin go after Jim. I wants a chance to talk wid him a minute before court sets. SISTER TAYLOR: Y'think he'll come clear? SIMMS: (Proudly) I _know_ it! (Shakes the Bible) I'm goin' to law 'em from Genesis to Revelation. SISTER THOMAS: Give it to 'em, Elder. Wear 'em out! SIMMS: We'se liable to havea new Mayor when all dis dust settle. Well, I better scuffle on down de road. (Exits, left.) SISTER THOMAS: Lord, lemme gwan home an' put dese greens on. (Looks off stage left) Here come Mayor Clark now, wid his belly settin' out in front of him like a cow catcher! His name oughter be Mayor Belly. SISTER TAYLOR: (Arms akimbo) Jus' look at him! Tryin' to look like a jigadier Breneral. (Enter CLARK hot and perspiring. They look at him coldly.) CLARK: I God, de bear got me! (Silence for a moment) How y'all feelin', ladies? SISTER TAYLOR: Brother Mayor, I ain't one of these folks dat bite my tongue an' bust my gall--whut's inside got to come out! I can't see to my rest why you cloakin' in wid dese Baptist buzzards 'ginst yo' own church. MAYOR CLARK: I ain't cloakin' in wid _none_. I'm de Mayor of dis whole town I stands for de right an' ginst de wrong--I don't keer who it kill or cure. SISTER THOMAS: You think it's right to be runnin' dat boy off for nothin'? CLARK: I God! You call knockin' a man in de head wid a mule bone nothin'? 'Nother thin; I done missed nine of my best-layin' hens. I ain't sayin' Jim got 'em, but different people has tole me he burries a powerful lot of feathers in his back yard. I God, I'm a ruint man! (He starts towards the right exit, but LUM BOGER enters right.) I God, Lum, I been lookin' for you all day. It's almost three o'clock. (Hands him a key from his ring) Take dis key an' go fetch Jim Weston on to de church. LUM: Have you got yo' gavel from de lodge-room? CLARK: I God, that's right, Lum. I'll go get it from de lodge room whilst you go git de bone an' de prisoner. Hurry up! You walk like dead lice droppin' off you. (He exits right while LUM crosses stage towards left.) SISTER TAYLOR: Lum, Elder Simms been huntin' you--he's gone on down 'bout de barn. (She gestures) LUM BOGER: I reckon I'll overtake him. (Exit left.) SISTER THOMAS: I better go put dese greens on. My husband will kill me if he don't find no supper ready. Here come Mrs. Blunt. She oughter feel like a penny's worth of have-mercy wid all dis stink behind her daughter. SISTER TAYLOR: Chile, some folks don't keer. They don't raise they chillun; they drags 'em up. God knows if dat Daisy wuz mine, I'd throw her down an' put a hundred lashes on her back wid a plow-line. Here she come in de store Sat'day night (Acts coy and coquettish, burlesques DAISY'S walk) a wringing and a twisting! (Enter MRS. BLUNT, left.) MRS. BLUNT: How y'all sisters? SISTER THOMAS: Very well, Miz Blunt, how you? MRS. BLUNT: Oh, so-so. MRS. TAYLOR: I'm kickin', but not high. MRS. BLUNT: Well, thank God you still on prayin' ground an' in a Bible country. Me, I ain't so many today. De niggers got my Daisy's name all mixed up in dis mess. MRS. TAYLOR: You musn't mind dat, Sister Blunt. People jus' _will_ talk. They's talkin' in New York an' they's talkin' in Georgy an' they's talkin' in Italy. SISTER THOMAS: Chile, if you talk folkses talk, they'll have you in de graveyard or in Chattahoochee one. You can't pay no 'tention to talk. MRS. BLUNT: Well, I know one thing. De man or women, chick or child, grizzly or gray, that tells me to my face anything wrong 'bout _my_ chile, I'm goin' to take _my_ fist (Rolls up right sleeve and gestures with right fist) and knock they teeth down they throat. (She looks ferocious) 'Case y'all know I raised my Daisy right round my feet till I let her go up north last year wid them white folks. I'd ruther her to be in de white folks' kitchen than walkin' de streets like some of dese girls round here. If I do say so, I done raised a lady. She can't help it if all dese mens get stuck on her. MRS. TAYLOR: You'se tellin' de truth, Sister Blunt. That's whut I always say: Don't confidence dese niggers. Do, they'll sho put you in de street. MRS. THOMAS: Naw indeed, never syndicate wid niggers. Do, they will distriminate you. They'll be an _anybody_. You goin' to de trial, ain't you? MRS. BLUNT: Just as sho as you snore. An' they better leave Daisy's name outa dis, too. I done told her and told her to come straight home from her work. Naw, she had to stop by dat store and skin her gums back wid dem trashy niggers. She better not leave them white folks today to come traipsin' over here scornin' her name all up wid dis nigger mess. Do, I'll kill her. No daughter of mine ain't goin' to do as she please, long as she live under de sound of my voice. (She crosses to right.) MRS. THOMAS: That's right, Sister Blunt. I glory in yo' spunk. Lord, I better go put on my supper. (As MRS. BLUNT exits, right, REV. CHILDERS enters left with DAVE and DEACON LINDSAY and SISTER LEWIS. Very hostile glances from SISTERS THOMAS and TAYLOR toward the others.) CHILDERS: Good evenin', folks. (SISTERS THOMAS and TAYLOR just grunt. MRS. THOMAS moves a step or two towards exit. Flirts her skirts and exits.) LINDSAY: (Angrily) Whut's de matter, y'all? Cat got yo' tongue? MRS. TAYLOR: More matter than you kin scatter all over Cincinnatti. LINDSAY: Go 'head on, Lucy Taylor. Go 'head on. You know a very little of yo' sugar sweetens my coffee. Go 'head on. Everytime you lift yo' arm you smell like a nest of yellow hammers. MRS. TAYLOR: Go 'head on yo'self. Yo' head look like it done wore out three bodies. Talkin' 'bout _me_ smellin'--you smell lak a nest of grand daddies yo'self. LINDSAY: Aw rock on down de road, 'oman. Ah, don't wantuh change words wid yuh. Youse too ugly. MRS. TAYLOR: You ain't nobody's pretty baby, yo'self. You so ugly I betcha yo' wife have to spread uh sheet over yo' head tuh let sleep slip up on yuh. LINDSAY: (Threatening) You better git way from me while you able. I done tole you I don't wanter break a breath wid you. It's uh whole heap better tuh walk off on yo' own legs than it is to be toted off. I'm tired of yo' achin' round here. You fool wid me now an' I'll knock you into doll rags, Tony or no Tony. MRS. TAYLOR: (Jumping up in his face) Hit me? Hit me! I dare you tuh hit me. If you take dat dare, you'll steal uh hawg an' eat his hair. LINDSAY: Lemme gwan down to dat church befo' you make me stomp you. (He exits, right.) MRS. TAYLOR: You mean you'll _git_ stomped. Ah'm goin' to de trial, too. De nex trial gointer be _me_ for kickin' some uh you Baptist niggers around. (A great noise is heard off stage left. The angry and jeering voices of children. MRS. TAYLOR looks off left and takes a step or two towards left exit as the noise comes nearer.) VOICE OF ONE CHILD: Tell her! Tell her! Turn her up and smell her. Yo' mama ain't got nothin' to do wid me. MRS. TAYLOR: (Hollering off left) You lil Baptis' haitians leave them chillun alone. If you don't, you better! (Enter about ten children struggling and wrestling in a bunch. MRS. TAYLOR looks about on the ground for a stick to strike the children with.) VOICE OF CHILD: Hey! Hey! He's skeered tuh knock it off. Coward! MRS. TAYLOR: If y'all don't git on home! SASSY LITTLE GIRL: (Standing akimbo) I know you better not touch me, do my mama will 'tend to you. MRS. TAYLOR: (Making as if to strike her.) Shet up you nasty lil heifer, sassin' me! You ain't half raised. (The little girl shakes herself at MRS. TAYLOR and is joined by two or three others.) MRS. TAYLOR: (Walkin' towards right exit.) I'm goin' on down to de church an' tell yo' mammy. But she ain't been half raised herself. (She exits right with several children making faces behind her.) ONE BOY: (To sassy GIRL) Aw, haw! Y'all ol' Baptis' ain't got no bookcase in yo' chuch. We went there one day an' I saw uh soda cracker box settin' up in de corner so I set down on it. (Pointing at sassy GIRL) Know what ole Mary Ella say? (Jeering laughter) Willie, you git up off our library! Haw! Haw! MARY ELLA: Y'all ole Meth'dis' ain't got no window panes in yo' ole church. ANOTHER GIRL: (Takes center of stand, hands akimbo and shakes her hips) I don't keer whut y'all say, I'm a Meth'dis' bred an' uh Meth'dis' born an' when I'm dead there'll be uh Meth'dis' gone. MARY ELLA: (Snaps fingers under other girl's nose and starts singing. Several join her.) Oh Baptis', Baptis' is my name My name's written on high I got my lick in de Baptis' church Gointer eat up de Meth'dis' pie. (The Methodist children jeer and make faces. The Baptist camp make faces back; for a full minute there is silence while each camp tries to outdo the other in face making. The Baptist makes the last face.) METHODIST BOY: Come on, less us don't notice 'em. Less gwan down to de church an' hear de trial. MARY ELLA: Y'all ain't de onliest ones kin go. We goin', too. WILLIE: Aw, haw! Copy cats! (Makes face) Dat's right. Follow on behind us lak uh puppy dog tail. (They start walking toward right exit, switching their clothes behind.) Dat's right. Follow on behind us lak uh puppy dog tail. (They start walking toward right exit, switching their clothes behind.) (Baptist children stage a rush and struggle to get in front of the Methodists. They finally succeed in flinging some of the Methodist children to the ground and some behind them and walk towards right exit haughtily switching their clothes.) WILLIE: (Whispers to his crowd) Less go round by Mosely's lot an' beat 'em there! OTHERS: All right! WILLIE: (Yellin' to Baptists) We wouldn't walk behind no ole Baptists! (The Methodists turn and walk off towards left exit, switching their clothes as the Baptists are doing.) SLOW CURTAIN End of Project Gutenberg's The Mule-Bone:, by Zora Hurston and Langston Hughes Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why do the bosses of Wilma's gang believe that Anthony Rogers will be useful to them in the current conflict?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Anthony Rogers has previous wartime and combatant experience." ]	27,521	narrativeqa	en	null	7efd1cc4cce3770765ac6c7304b68cfe28c83aec18c01577	Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net ARMAGEDDON--2419 A.D. _By Philip Francis Nowlan_ _Here, once more, is a real scientifiction story plus. It is a story which will make the heart of many readers leap with joy._ _We have rarely printed a story in this magazine that for scientific interest, as well as suspense, could hold its own with this particular story. We prophesy that this story will become more valuable as the years go by. It certainly holds a number of interesting prophecies, of which no doubt, many will come true. For wealth of science, it will be hard to beat for some time to come. It is one of those rare stories that will bear reading and re-reading many times._ _This story has impressed us so favorably, that we hope the author may be induced to write a sequel to it soon._ Foreword Elsewhere I have set down, for whatever interest they have in this, the 25th Century, my personal recollections of the 20th Century. Now it occurs to me that my memoirs of the 25th Century may have an equal interest 500 years from now--particularly in view of that unique perspective from which I have seen the 25th Century, entering it as I did, in one leap across a gap of 492 years. This statement requires elucidation. There are still many in the world who are not familiar with my unique experience. Five centuries from now there may be many more, especially if civilization is fated to endure any worse convulsions than those which have occurred between 1975 A.D. and the present time. I should state therefore, that I, Anthony Rogers, am, so far as I know, the only man alive whose normal span of eighty-one years of life has been spread over a period of 573 years. To be precise, I lived the first twenty-nine years of my life between 1898 and 1927; the other fifty-two since 2419. The gap between these two, a period of nearly five hundred years, I spent in a state of suspended animation, free from the ravages of katabolic processes, and without any apparent effect on my physical or mental faculties. When I began my long sleep, man had just begun his real conquest of the air in a sudden series of transoceanic flights in airplanes driven by internal combustion motors. He had barely begun to speculate on the possibilities of harnessing sub-atomic forces, and had made no further practical penetration into the field of ethereal pulsations than the primitive radio and television of that day. The United States of America was the most powerful nation in the world, its political, financial, industrial and scientific influence being supreme; and in the arts also it was rapidly climbing into leadership. I awoke to find the America I knew a total wreck--to find Americans a hunted race in their own land, hiding in the dense forests that covered the shattered and leveled ruins of their once magnificent cities, desperately preserving, and struggling to develop in their secret retreats, the remnants of their culture and science--and the undying flame of their sturdy independence. World domination was in the hands of Mongolians and the center of world power lay in inland China, with Americans one of the few races of mankind unsubdued--and it must be admitted in fairness to the truth, not worth the trouble of subduing in the eyes of the Han Airlords who ruled North America as titular tributaries of the Most Magnificent. For they needed not the forests in which the Americans lived, nor the resources of the vast territories these forests covered. With the perfection to which they had reduced the synthetic production of necessities and luxuries, their remarkable development of scientific processes and mechanical accomplishment of work, they had no economic need for the forests, and no economic desire for the enslaved labor of an unruly race. They had all they needed for their magnificently luxurious and degraded scheme of civilization, within the walls of the fifteen cities of sparkling glass they had flung skyward on the sites of ancient American centers, into the bowels of the earth underneath them, and with relatively small surrounding areas of agriculture. Complete domination of the air rendered communication between these centers a matter of ease and safety. Occasional destructive raids on the waste lands were considered all that was necessary to keep the "wild" Americans on the run within the shelter of their forests, and prevent their becoming a menace to the Han civilization. But nearly three hundred years of easily maintained security, the last century of which had been nearly sterile in scientific, social and economic progress, had softened and devitalized the Hans. It had likewise developed, beneath the protecting foliage of the forest, the growth of a vigorous new American civilization, remarkable in the mobility and flexibility of its organization, in its conquest of almost insuperable obstacles, in the development and guarding of its industrial and scientific resources, all in anticipation of that "Day of Hope" to which it had been looking forward for generations, when it would be strong enough to burst from the green chrysalis of the forests, soar into the upper air lanes and destroy the yellow incubus. At the time I awoke, the "Day of Hope" was almost at hand. I shall not attempt to set forth a detailed history of the Second War of Independence, for that has been recorded already by better historians than I am. Instead I shall confine myself largely to the part I was fortunate enough to play in this struggle and in the events leading up to it. [Illustration: Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance.] It all resulted from my interest in radioactive gases. During the latter part of 1927 my company, the American Radioactive Gas Corporation, had been keeping me busy investigating reports of unusual phenomena observed in certain abandoned coal mines near the Wyoming Valley, in Pennsylvania. With two assistants and a complete equipment of scientific instruments, I began the exploration of a deserted working in a mountainous district, where several weeks before, a number of mining engineers had reported traces of carnotite[1] and what they believed to be radioactive gases. Their report was not without foundation, it was apparent from the outset, for in our examination of the upper levels of the mine, our instruments indicated a vigorous radioactivity. [1] A hydrovanadate of uranium, and other metals; used as a source of radium compounds. On the morning of December 15th, we descended to one of the lowest levels. To our surprise, we found no water there. Obviously it had drained off through some break in the strata. We noticed too that the rock in the side walls of the shaft was soft, evidently due to the radioactivity, and pieces crumbled under foot rather easily. We made our way cautiously down the shaft, when suddenly the rotted timbers above us gave way. I jumped ahead, barely escaping the avalanche of coal and soft rock, but my companions, who were several paces behind me, were buried under it, and undoubtedly met instant death. I was trapped. Return was impossible. With my electric torch I explored the shaft to its end, but could find no other way out. The air became increasingly difficult to breathe, probably from the rapid accumulation of the radioactive gas. In a little while my senses reeled and I lost consciousness. When I awoke, there was a cool and refreshing circulation of air in the shaft. I had no thought that I had been unconscious more than a few hours, although it seems that the radioactive gas had kept me in a state of suspended animation for something like 500 years. My awakening, I figured out later, had been due to some shifting of the strata which reopened the shaft and cleared the atmosphere in the working. This must have been the case, for I was able to struggle back up the shaft over a pile of debris, and stagger up the long incline to the mouth of the mine, where an entirely different world, overgrown with a vast forest and no visible sign of human habitation, met my eyes. I shall pass over the days of mental agony that followed in my attempt to grasp the meaning of it all. There were times when I felt that I was on the verge of insanity. I roamed the unfamiliar forest like a lost soul. Had it not been for the necessity of improvising traps and crude clubs with which to slay my food, I believe I should have gone mad. Suffice it to say, however, that I survived this psychic crisis. I shall begin my narrative proper with my first contact with Americans of the year 2419 A.D. CHAPTER I Floating Men My first glimpse of a human being of the 25th Century was obtained through a portion of woodland where the trees were thinly scattered, with a dense forest beyond. I had been wandering along aimlessly, and hopelessly, musing over my strange fate, when I noticed a figure that cautiously backed out of the dense growth across the glade. I was about to call out joyfully, but there was something furtive about the figure that prevented me. The boy's attention (for it seemed to be a lad of fifteen or sixteen) was centered tensely on the heavy growth of trees from which he had just emerged. He was clad in rather tight-fitting garments entirely of green, and wore a helmet-like cap of the same color. High around his waist he wore a broad, thick belt, which bulked up in the back across the shoulders, into something of the proportions of a knapsack. As I was taking in these details, there came a vivid flash and heavy detonation, like that of a hand grenade, not far to the left of him. He threw up an arm and staggered a bit in a queer, gliding way; then he recovered himself and slipped cautiously away from the place of the explosion, crouching slightly, and still facing the denser part of the forest. Every few steps he would raise his arm, and point into the forest with something he held in his hand. Wherever he pointed there was a terrific explosion, deeper in among the trees. It came to me then that he was shooting with some form of pistol, though there was neither flash nor detonation from the muzzle of the weapon itself. After firing several times, he seemed to come to a sudden resolution, and turning in my general direction, leaped--to my amazement sailing through the air between the sparsely scattered trees in such a jump as I had never in my life seen before. That leap must have carried him a full fifty feet, although at the height of his arc, he was not more than ten or twelve feet from the ground. When he alighted, his foot caught in a projecting root, and he sprawled gently forward. I say "gently" for he did not crash down as I expected him to do. The only thing I could compare it with was a slow-motion cinema, although I had never seen one in which horizontal motions were registered at normal speed and only the vertical movements were slowed down. Due to my surprise, I suppose my brain did not function with its normal quickness, for I gazed at the prone figure for several seconds before I saw the blood that oozed out from under the tight green cap. Regaining my power of action, I dragged him out of sight back of the big tree. For a few moments I busied myself in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The wound was not a deep one. My companion was more dazed than hurt. But what of the pursuers? I took the weapon from his grasp and examined it hurriedly. It was not unlike the automatic pistol to which I was accustomed, except that it apparently fired with a button instead of a trigger. I inserted several fresh rounds of ammunition into its magazine from my companion's belt, as rapidly as I could, for I soon heard, near us, the suppressed conversation of his pursuers. There followed a series of explosions round about us, but none very close. They evidently had not spotted our hiding place, and were firing at random. I waited tensely, balancing the gun in my hand, to accustom myself to its weight and probable throw. Then I saw a movement in the green foliage of a tree not far away, and the head and face of a man appeared. Like my companion, he was clad entirely in green, which made his figure difficult to distinguish. But his face could be seen clearly. It was an evil face, and had murder in it. That decided me. I raised the gun and fired. My aim was bad, for there was no kick in the gun, as I had expected, and I hit the trunk of the tree several feet below him. It blew him from his perch like a crumpled bit of paper, and he _floated_ down to the ground, like some limp, dead thing, gently lowered by an invisible hand. The tree, its trunk blown apart by the explosion, crashed down. There followed another series of explosions around us. These guns we were using made no sound in the firing, and my opponents were evidently as much at sea as to my position as I was to theirs. So I made no attempt to reply to their fire, contenting myself with keeping a sharp lookout in their general direction. And patience had its reward. Very soon I saw a cautious movement in the top of another tree. Exposing myself as little as possible, I aimed carefully at the tree trunk and fired again. A shriek followed the explosion. I heard the tree crash down; then a groan. There was silence for a while. Then I heard a faint sound of boughs swishing. I shot three times in its direction, pressing the button as rapidly as I could. Branches crashed down where my shells had exploded, but there was no body. Then I saw one of them. He was starting one of those amazing leaps from the bough of one tree to another, about forty feet away. I threw up my gun impulsively and fired. By now I had gotten the feel of the weapon, and my aim was good. I hit him. The "bullet" must have penetrated his body and exploded. For one moment I saw him flying through the air. Then the explosion, and he had vanished. He never finished his leap. It was annihilation. How many more of them there were I don't know. But this must have been too much for them. They used a final round of shells on us, all of which exploded harmlessly, and shortly after I heard them swishing and crashing away from us through the tree tops. Not one of them descended to earth. Now I had time to give some attention to my companion. She was, I found, a girl, and not a boy. Despite her bulky appearance, due to the peculiar belt strapped around her body high up under the arms, she was very slender, and very pretty. There was a stream not far away, from which I brought water and bathed her face and wound. Apparently the mystery of these long leaps, the monkey-like ability to jump from bough to bough, and of the bodies that floated gently down instead of falling, lay in the belt. The thing was some sort of anti-gravity belt that almost balanced the weight of the wearer, thereby tremendously multiplying the propulsive power of the leg muscles, and the lifting power of the arms. When the girl came to, she regarded me as curiously as I did her, and promptly began to quiz me. Her accent and intonation puzzled me a lot, but nevertheless we were able to understand each other fairly well, except for certain words and phrases. I explained what had happened while she lay unconscious, and she thanked me simply for saving her life. "You are a strange exchange," she said, eying my clothing quizzically. Evidently she found it mirth provoking by contrast with her own neatly efficient garb. "Don't you understand what I mean by 'exchange?' I mean ah--let me see--a stranger, somebody from some other gang. What gang do you belong to?" (She pronounced it "gan," with only a suspicion of a nasal sound.) I laughed. "I'm not a gangster," I said. But she evidently did not understand this word. "I don't belong to any gang," I explained, "and never did. Does everybody belong to a gang nowadays?" "Naturally," she said, frowning. "If you don't belong to a gang, where and how do you live? Why have you not found and joined a gang? How do you eat? Where do you get your clothing?" "I've been eating wild game for the past two weeks," I explained, "and this clothing I--er--ah--." I paused, wondering how I could explain that it must be many hundred years old. In the end I saw I would have to tell my story as well as I could, piecing it together with my assumptions as to what had happened. She listened patiently; incredulously at first, but with more confidence as I went on. When I had finished, she sat thinking for a long time. "That's hard to believe," she said, "but I believe it." She looked me over with frank interest. "Were you married when you slipped into unconsciousness down in that mine?" she asked me suddenly. I assured her I had never married. "Well, that simplifies matters," she continued. "You see, if you were technically classed as a family man, I could take you back only as an invited exchange and I, being unmarried, and no relation of yours, couldn't do the inviting." CHAPTER II The Forest Gangs She gave me a brief outline of the very peculiar social and economic system under which her people lived. At least it seemed very peculiar from my 20th Century viewpoint. I learned with amazement that exactly 492 years had passed over my head as I lay unconscious in the mine. Wilma, for that was her name, did not profess to be a historian, and so could give me only a sketchy outline of the wars that had been fought, and the manner in which such radical changes had come about. It seemed that another war had followed the First World War, in which nearly all the European nations had banded together to break the financial and industrial power of America. They succeeded in their purpose, though they were beaten, for the war was a terrific one, and left America, like themselves, gasping, bleeding and disorganized, with only the hollow shell of a victory. This opportunity had been seized by the Russian Soviets, who had made a coalition with the Chinese, to sweep over all Europe and reduce it to a state of chaos. America, industrially geared to world production and the world trade, collapsed economically, and there ensued a long period of stagnation and desperate attempts at economic reconstruction. But it was impossible to stave off war with the Mongolians, who by now had subjugated the Russians, and were aiming at a world empire. In about 2109, it seems, the conflict was finally precipitated. The Mongolians, with overwhelming fleets of great airships, and a science that far outstripped that of crippled America, swept in over the Pacific and Atlantic Coasts, and down from Canada, annihilating American aircraft, armies and cities with their terrific _disintegrator_ rays. These rays were projected from a machine not unlike a searchlight in appearance, the reflector of which, however, was not material substance, but a complicated balance of interacting electronic forces. This resulted in a terribly destructive beam. Under its influence, material substance melted into "nothingness"; i. e., into electronic vibrations. It destroyed all then known substances, from air to the most dense metals and stone. They settled down to the establishment of what became known as the Han dynasty in America, as a sort of province in their World Empire. Those were terrible days for the Americans. They were hunted like wild beasts. Only those survived who finally found refuge in mountains, canyons and forests. Government was at an end among them. Anarchy prevailed for several generations. Most would have been eager to submit to the Hans, even if it meant slavery. But the Hans did not want them, for they themselves had marvelous machinery and scientific process by which all difficult labor was accomplished. Ultimately they stopped their active search for, and annihilation of, the widely scattered groups of now savage Americans. So long as they remained hidden in their forests, and did not venture near the great cities the Hans had built, little attention was paid to them. Then began the building of the new American civilization. Families and individuals gathered together in clans or "gangs" for mutual protection. For nearly a century they lived a nomadic and primitive life, moving from place to place, in desperate fear of the casual and occasional Han air raids, and the terrible disintegrator ray. As the frequency of these raids decreased, they began to stay permanently in given localities, organizing upon lines which in many respects were similar to those of the military households of the Norman feudal barons, except that instead of gathering together in castles, their defense tactics necessitated a certain scattering of living quarters for families and individuals. They lived virtually in the open air, in the forests, in green tents, resorting to camouflage tactics that would conceal their presence from air observers. They dug underground factories and laboratories, that they might better be shielded from the electrical detectors of the Hans. They tapped the radio communication lines of the Hans, with crude instruments at first; better ones later on. They bent every effort toward the redevelopment of science. For many generations they labored as unseen, unknown scholars of the Hans, picking up their knowledge piecemeal, as fast as they were able to. During the earlier part of this period, there were many deadly wars fought between the various gangs, and occasional courageous but childishly futile attacks upon the Hans, followed by terribly punitive raids. But as knowledge progressed, the sense of American brotherhood redeveloped. Reciprocal arrangements were made among the gangs over constantly increasing areas. Trade developed to a certain extent, as between one gang and another. But the interchange of knowledge became more important than that of goods, as skill in the handling of synthetic processes developed. Within the gang, an economy was developed that was a compromise between individual liberty and a military socialism. The right of private property was limited practically to personal possessions, but private privileges were many, and sacredly regarded. Stimulation to achievement lay chiefly in the winning of various kinds of leadership and prerogatives, and only in a very limited degree in the hope of owning anything that might be classified as "wealth," and nothing that might be classified as "resources." Resources of every description, for military safety and efficiency, belonged as a matter of public interest to the community as a whole. In the meantime, through these many generations, the Hans had developed a luxury economy, and with it the perfection of gilded vice and degradation. The Americans were regarded as "wild men of the woods." And since they neither needed nor wanted the woods or the wild men, they treated them as beasts, and were conscious of no human brotherhood with them. As time went on, and synthetic processes of producing foods and materials were further developed, less and less ground was needed by the Hans for the purposes of agriculture, and finally, even the working of mines was abandoned when it became cheaper to build up metal from electronic vibrations than to dig them out of the ground. The Han race, devitalized by its vices and luxuries, with machinery and scientific processes to satisfy its every want, with virtually no necessity of labor, began to assume a defensive attitude toward the Americans. And quite naturally, the Americans regarded the Hans with a deep, grim hatred. Conscious of individual superiority as men, knowing that latterly they were outstripping the Hans in science and civilization, they longed desperately for the day when they should be powerful enough to rise and annihilate the Yellow Blight that lay over the continent. At the time of my awakening, the gangs were rather loosely organized, but were considering the establishment of a special military force, whose special business it would be to harry the Hans and bring down their air ships whenever possible without causing general alarm among the Mongolians. This force was destined to become the nucleus of the national force, when the Day of Retribution arrived. But that, however, did not happen for ten years, and is another story. [Illustration: On the left of the illustration is a Han girl, and on the right is an American girl, who, like all of her race, is equipped with an inertron belt and a rocket gun.] Wilma told me she was a member of the Wyoming Gang, which claimed the entire Wyoming Valley as its territory, under the leadership of Boss Hart. Her mother and father were dead, and she was unmarried, so she was not a "family member." She lived in a little group of tents known as Camp 17, under a woman Camp Boss, with seven other girls. Her duties alternated between military or police scouting and factory work. For the two-week period which would end the next day, she had been on "air patrol." This did not mean, as I first imagined, that she was flying, but rather that she was on the lookout for Han ships over this outlying section of the Wyoming territory, and had spent most of her time perched in the tree tops scanning the skies. Had she seen one she would have fired a "drop flare" several miles off to one side, which would ignite when it was floating vertically toward the earth, so that the direction or point from which it had been fired might not be guessed by the airship and bring a blasting play of the disintegrator ray in her vicinity. Other members of the air patrol would send up rockets on seeing hers, until finally a scout equipped with an ultrophone, which, unlike the ancient radio, operated on the ultronic ethereal vibrations, would pass the warning simultaneously to the headquarters of the Wyoming Gang and other communities within a radius of several hundred miles, not to mention the few American rocket ships that might be in the air, and which instantly would duck to cover either through forest clearings or by flattening down to earth in green fields where their coloring would probably protect them from observation. The favorite American method of propulsion was known as "_rocketing_." The _rocket_ is what I would describe, from my 20th Century comprehension of the matter, as an extremely powerful gas blast, atomically produced through the stimulation of chemical action. Scientists of today regard it as a childishly simple reaction, but by that very virtue, most economical and efficient. But tomorrow, she explained, she would go back to work in the cloth plant, where she would take charge of one of the synthetic processes by which those wonderful substitutes for woven fabrics of wool, cotton and silk are produced. At the end of another two weeks, she would be back on military duty again, perhaps at the same work, or maybe as a "contact guard," on duty where the territory of the Wyomings merged with that of the Delawares, or the "Susquannas" (Susquehannas) or one of the half dozen other "gangs" in that section of the country which I knew as Pennsylvania and New York States. Wilma cleared up for me the mystery of those flying leaps which she and her assailants had made, and explained in the following manner, how the inertron belt balances weight: "_Jumpers_" were in common use at the time I "awoke," though they were costly, for at that time _inertron_ had not been produced in very great quantity. They were very useful in the forest. They were belts, strapped high under the arms, containing an amount of inertron adjusted to the wearer's weight and purposes. In effect they made a man weigh as little as he desired; two pounds if he liked. "_Floaters_" are a later development of "_jumpers_"--rocket motors encased in _inertron_ blocks and strapped to the back in such a way that the wearer floats, when drifting, facing slightly downward. With his motor in operation, he moves like a diver, headforemost, controlling his direction by twisting his body and by movements of his outstretched arms and hands. Ballast weights locked in the front of the belt adjust weight and lift. Some men prefer a few ounces of weight in floating, using a slight motor thrust to overcome this. Others prefer a buoyance balance of a few ounces. The inadvertent dropping of weight is not a serious matter. The motor thrust always can be used to descend. But as an extra precaution, in case the motor should fail, for any reason, there are built into every belt a number of detachable sections, one or more of which can be discarded to balance off any loss in weight. "But who were your assailants," I asked, "and why were you attacked?" Her assailants, she told me, were members of an outlaw gang, referred to as "Bad Bloods," a group which for several generations had been under the domination of conscienceless leaders who tried to advance the interests of their clan by tactics which their neighbors had come to regard as unfair, and who in consequence had been virtually boycotted. Their purpose had been to slay her near the Delaware frontier, making it appear that the crime had been committed by Delaware scouts and thus embroil the Delawares and Wyomings in acts of reprisal against each other, or at least cause suspicions. Fortunately they had not succeeded in surprising her, and she had been successful in dodging them for some two hours before the shooting began, at the moment when I arrived on the scene. "But we must not stay here talking," Wilma concluded. "I have to take you in, and besides I must report this attack right away. I think we had better slip over to the other side of the mountain. Whoever is on that post will have a phone, and I can make a direct report. But you'll have to have a belt. Mine alone won't help much against our combined weights, and there's little to be gained by jumping heavy. It's almost as bad as walking." After a little search, we found one of the men I had killed, who had floated down among the trees some distance away and whose belt was not badly damaged. In detaching it from his body, it nearly got away from me and shot up in the air. Wilma caught it, however, and though it reinforced the lift of her own belt so that she had to hook her knee around a branch to hold herself down, she saved it. I climbed the tree and, with my weight added to hers, we floated down easily. CHAPTER III Life in the 25th Century We were delayed in starting for quite a while since I had to acquire a few crude ideas about the technique of using these belts. I had been sitting down, for instance, with the belt strapped about me, enjoying an ease similar to that of a comfortable armchair; when I stood up with a natural exertion of muscular effort, I shot ten feet into the air, with a wild instinctive thrashing of arms and legs that amused Wilma greatly. But after some practice, I began to get the trick of gauging muscular effort to a minimum of vertical and a maximum of horizontal. The correct form, I found, was in a measure comparable to that of skating. I found, also, that in forest work particularly the arms and hands could be used to great advantage in swinging along from branch to branch, so prolonging leaps almost indefinitely at times. In going up the side of the mountain, I found that my 20th Century muscles did have an advantage, in spite of lack of skill with the belt, and since the slopes were very sharp, and most of our leaps were upward, I could have distanced Wilma easily. But when we crossed the ridge and descended, she outstripped me with her superior technique. Choosing the steepest slopes, she would crouch in the top of a tree, and propel herself outward, literally diving until, with the loss of horizontal momentum, she would assume a more upright position and float downward. In this manner she would sometimes cover as much as a quarter of a mile in a single leap, while I leaped and scrambled clumsily behind, thoroughly enjoying the novel sensation. Half way down the mountain, we saw another green-clad figure leap out above the tree tops toward us. The three of us perched on an outcropping of rock from which a view for many miles around could be had, while Wilma hastily explained her adventure and my presence to her fellow guard; whose name was Alan. I learned later that this was the modern form of Helen. "You want to report by phone then, don't you?" Alan took a compact packet about six inches square from a holster attached to her belt and handed it to Wilma. So far as I could see, it had no special receiver for the ear. Wilma merely threw back a lid, as though she were opening a book, and began to talk. The voice that came back from the machine was as audible as her own. She was queried closely as to the attack upon her, and at considerable length as to myself, and I could tell from the tone of that voice that its owner was not prepared to take me at my face value as readily as Wilma had. For that matter, neither was the other girl. I could realize it from the suspicious glances she threw my way, when she thought my attention was elsewhere, and the manner in which her hand hovered constantly near her gun holster. Wilma was ordered to bring me in at once, and informed that another scout would take her place on the other side of the mountain. So she closed down the lid of the phone and handed it back to Alan, who seemed relieved to see us departing over the tree tops in the direction of the camps. We had covered perhaps ten miles, in what still seemed to me a surprisingly easy fashion, when Wilma explained, that from here on we would have to keep to the ground. We were nearing the camps, she said, and there was always the possibility that some small Han scoutship, invisible high in the sky, might catch sight of us through a projectoscope and thus find the general location of the camps. Wilma took me to the Scout office, which proved to be a small building of irregular shape, conforming to the trees around it, and substantially constructed of green sheet-like material. I was received by the assistant Scout Boss, who reported my arrival at once to the historical office, and to officials he called the Psycho Boss and the History Boss, who came in a few minutes later. The attitude of all three men was at first polite but skeptical, and Wilma's ardent advocacy seemed to amuse them secretly. For the next two hours I talked, explained and answered questions. I had to explain, in detail, the manner of my life in the 20th Century and my understanding of customs, habits, business, science and the history of that period, and about developments in the centuries that had elapsed. Had I been in a classroom, I would have come through the examination with a very poor mark, for I was unable to give any answer to fully half of their questions. But before long I realized that the majority of these questions were designed as traps. Objects, of whose purpose I knew nothing, were casually handed to me, and I was watched keenly as I handled them. In the end I could see both amazement and belief begin to show in the faces of my inquisitors, and at last the Historical and Psycho Bosses agreed openly that they could find no flaw in my story or reactions, and that unbelievable as it seemed, my story must be accepted as genuine. They took me at once to Big Boss Hart. He was a portly man with a "poker face." He would probably have been the successful politician even in the 20th Century. They gave him a brief outline of my story and a report of their examination of me. He made no comment other than to nod his acceptance of it. Then he turned to me. "How does it feel?" he asked. "Do we look funny to you?" "A bit strange," I admitted. "But I'm beginning to lose that dazed feeling, though I can see I have an awful lot to learn." "Maybe we can learn some things from you, too," he said. "So you fought in the First World War. Do you know, we have very little left in the way of records of the details of that war, that is, the precise conditions under which it was fought, and the tactics employed. We forgot many things during the Han terror, and--well, I think you might have a lot of ideas worth thinking over for our raid masters. By the way, now that you're here, and can't go back to your own century, so to speak, what do you want to do? You're welcome to become one of us. Or perhaps you'd just like to visit with us for a while, and then look around among the other gangs. Maybe you'd like some of the others better. Don't make up your mind now. We'll put you down as an exchange for a while. Let's see. You and Bill Hearn ought to get along well together. He's Camp Boss of Number 34 when he isn't acting as Raid Boss or Scout Boss. There's a vacancy in his camp. Stay with him and think things over as long as you want to. As soon as you make up your mind to anything, let me know." We all shook hands, for that was one custom that had not died out in five hundred years, and I set out with Bill Hearn. Bill, like all the others, was clad in green. He was a big man. That is, he was about my own height, five feet eleven. This was considerably above the average now, for the race had lost something in stature, it seemed, through the vicissitudes of five centuries. Most of the women were a bit below five feet, and the men only a trifle above this height. For a period of two weeks Bill was to confine himself to camp duties, so I had a good chance to familiarize myself with the community life. It was not easy. There were so many marvels to absorb. I never ceased to wonder at the strange combination of rustic social life and feverish industrial activity. At least, it was strange to me. For in my experience, industrial development meant crowded cities, tenements, paved streets, profusion of vehicles, noise, hurrying men and women with strained or dull faces, vast structures and ornate public works. Here, however, was rustic simplicity, apparently isolated families and groups, living in the heart of the forest, with a quarter of a mile or more between households, a total absence of crowds, no means of conveyance other than the belts called jumpers, almost constantly worn by everybody, and an occasional rocket ship, used only for longer journeys, and underground plants or factories that were to my mind more like laboratories and engine rooms; many of them were excavations as deep as mines, with well finished, lighted and comfortable interiors. These people were adepts at camouflage against air observation. Not only would their activity have been unsuspected by an airship passing over the center of the community, but even by an enemy who might happen to drop through the screen of the upper branches to the floor of the forest. The camps, or household structures, were all irregular in shape and of colors that blended with the great trees among which they were hidden. There were 724 dwellings or "camps" among the Wyomings, located within an area of about fifteen square miles. The total population was 8,688, every man, woman and child, whether member or "exchange," being listed. The plants were widely scattered through the territory also. Nowhere was anything like congestion permitted. So far as possible, families and individuals were assigned to living quarters, not too far from the plants or offices in which their work lay. All able-bodied men and women alternated in two-week periods between military and industrial service, except those who were needed for household work. Since working conditions in the plants and offices were ideal, and everybody thus had plenty of healthy outdoor activity in addition, the population was sturdy and active. Laziness was regarded as nearly the greatest of social offenses. Hard work and general merit were variously rewarded with extra privileges, advancement to positions of authority, and with various items of personal equipment for convenience and luxury. In leisure moments, I got great enjoyment from sitting outside the dwelling in which I was quartered with Bill Hearn and ten other men, watching the occasional passers-by, as with leisurely, but swift movements, they swung up and down the forest trail, rising from the ground in long almost-horizontal leaps, occasionally swinging from one convenient branch overhead to another before "sliding" back to the ground farther on. Normal traveling pace, where these trails were straight enough, was about twenty miles an hour. Such things as automobiles and railroad trains (the memory of them not more than a month old in my mind) seemed inexpressibly silly and futile compared with such convenience as these belts or jumpers offered. Bill suggested that I wander around for several days, from plant to plant, to observe and study what I could. The entire community had been apprised of my coming, my rating as an "exchange" reaching every building and post in the community, by means of ultronic broadcast. Everywhere I was welcomed in an interested and helpful spirit. I visited the plants where ultronic vibrations were isolated from the ether and through slow processes built up into sub-electronic, electronic and atomic forms into the two great synthetic elements, ultron and inertron. I learned something, superficially at least, of the processes of combined chemical and mechanical action through which were produced the various forms of synthetic cloth. I watched the manufacture of the machines which were used at locations of construction to produce the various forms of building materials. But I was particularly interested in the munitions plants and the rocket-ship shops. Ultron is a solid of great molecular density and moderate elasticity, which has the property of being 100 percent conductive to those pulsations known as light, electricity and heat. Since it is completely permeable to light vibrations, it is therefore _absolutely invisible and non-reflective_. Its magnetic response is almost, but not quite, 100 percent also. It is therefore very heavy under normal conditions but extremely responsive to the _repellor_ or anti-gravity rays, such as the Hans use as "_legs_" for their airships. Inertron is the second great triumph of American research and experimentation with ultronic forces. It was developed just a few years before my awakening in the abandoned mine. It is a synthetic element, built up, through a complicated heterodyning of ultronic pulsations, from "infra-balanced" sub-ionic forms. It is completely inert to both electric and magnetic forces in all the orders above the _ultronic_; that is to say, the _sub-electronic_, the _electronic_, the _atomic_ and the _molecular_. In consequence it has a number of amazing and valuable properties. One of these is _the total lack of weight_. Another is a total lack of heat. It has no molecular vibration whatever. It reflects 100 percent of the heat and light impinging upon it. It does not feel cold to the touch, of course, since it will not absorb the heat of the hand. It is a solid, very dense in molecular structure despite its lack of weight, of great strength and considerable elasticity. It is a perfect shield against the disintegrator rays. [Illustration: Setting his rocket gun for a long-distance shot.] Rocket guns are very simple contrivances so far as the mechanism of launching the bullet is concerned. They are simple light tubes, closed at the rear end, with a trigger-actuated pin for piercing the thin skin at the base of the cartridge. This piercing of the skin starts the chemical and atomic reaction. The entire cartridge leaves the tube under its own power, at a very easy initial velocity, just enough to insure accuracy of aim; so the tube does not have to be of heavy construction. The bullet increases in velocity as it goes. It may be solid or explosive. It may explode on contact or on time, or a combination of these two. Bill and I talked mostly of weapons, military tactics and strategy. Strangely enough he had no idea whatever of the possibilities of the barrage, though the tremendous effect of a "curtain of fire" with such high-explosive projectiles as these modern rocket guns used was obvious to me. But the barrage idea, it seemed, has been lost track of completely in the air wars that followed the First World War, and in the peculiar guerilla tactics developed by Americans in the later period of operations from the ground against Han airships, and in the gang wars which, until a few generations ago I learned, had been almost continuous. "I wonder," said Bill one day, "if we couldn't work up some form of barrage to spring on the Bad Bloods. The Big Boss told me today that he's been in communication with the other gangs, and all are agreed that the Bad Bloods might as well be wiped out for good. That attempt on Wilma Deering's life and their evident desire to make trouble among the gangs, has stirred up every community east of the Alleghenies. The Boss says that none of the others will object if we go after them. So I imagine that before long we will. Now show me again how you worked that business in the Argonne forest. The conditions ought to be pretty much the same." I went over it with him in detail, and gradually we worked out a modified plan that would be better adapted to our more powerful weapons, and the use of jumpers. "It will be easy," Bill exulted. "I'll slide down and talk it over with the Boss tomorrow." During the first two weeks of my stay with the Wyomings, Wilma Deering and I saw a great deal of each other. I naturally felt a little closer friendship for her, in view of the fact that she was the first human being I saw after waking from my long sleep; her appreciation of my saving her life, though I could not have done otherwise than I did in that matter, and most of all my own appreciation of the fact that she had not found it as difficult as the others to believe my story, operated in the same direction. I could easily imagine my story must have sounded incredible. It was natural enough too, that she should feel an unusual interest in me. In the first place, I was her personal discovery. In the second, she was a girl of studious and reflective turn of mind. She never got tired of my stories and descriptions of the 20th Century. The others of the community, however, seemed to find our friendship a bit amusing. It seemed that Wilma had a reputation for being cold toward the opposite sex, and so others, not being able to appreciate some of her fine qualities as I did, misinterpreted her attitude, much to their own delight. Wilma and I, however, ignored this as much as we could. CHAPTER IV A Han Air Raid There was a girl in Wilma's camp named Gerdi Mann, with whom Bill Hearn was desperately in love, and the four of us used to go around a lot together. Gerdi was a distinct type. Whereas Wilma had the usual dark brown hair and hazel eyes that marked nearly every member of the community, Gerdi had red hair, blue eyes and very fair skin. She has been dead many years now, but I remember her vividly because she was a throwback in physical appearance to a certain 20th Century type which I have found very rare among modern Americans; also because the four of us were engaged one day in a discussion of this very point, when I obtained my first experience of a Han air raid. We were sitting high on the side of a hill overlooking the valley that teemed with human activity, invisible beneath its blanket of foliage. The other three, who knew of the Irish but vaguely and indefinitely, as a race on the other side of the globe, which, like ourselves, had succeeded in maintaining a precarious and fugitive existence in rebellion against the Mongolian domination of the earth, were listening with interest to my theory that Gerdi's ancestors of several hundred years ago must have been Irish. I explained that Gerdi was an Irish type, evidently a throwback, and that her surname might well have been McMann, or McMahan, and still more anciently "mac Mathghamhain." They were interested too in my surmise that "Gerdi" was the same name as that which had been "Gerty" or "Gertrude" in the 20th Century. In the middle of our discussion, we were startled by an alarm rocket that burst high in the air, far to the north, spreading a pall of red smoke that drifted like a cloud. It was followed by others at scattered points in the northern sky. "A Han raid!" Bill exclaimed in amazement. "The first in seven years!" "Maybe it's just one of their ships off its course," I ventured. "No," said Wilma in some agitation. "That would be green rockets. Red means only one thing, Tony. They're sweeping the countryside with their dis beams. Can you see anything, Bill?" "We had better get under cover," Gerdi said nervously. "The four of us are bunched here in the open. For all we know they may be twelve miles up, out of sight, yet looking at us with a projecto'." Bill had been sweeping the horizon hastily with his glass, but apparently saw nothing. "We had better scatter, at that," he said finally. "It's orders, you know. See!" He pointed to the valley. Here and there a tiny human figure shot for a moment above the foliage of the treetops. "That's bad," Wilma commented, as she counted the jumpers. "No less than fifteen people visible, and all clearly radiating from a central point. Do they want to give away our location?" The standard orders covering air raids were that the population was to scatter individually. There should be no grouping, or even pairing, in view of the destructiveness of the disintegrator rays. Experience of generations had proved that if this were done, and everybody remained hidden beneath the tree screens, the Hans would have to sweep mile after mile of territory, foot by foot, to catch more than a small percentage of the community. Gerdi, however, refused to leave Bill, and Wilma developed an equal obstinacy against quitting my side. I was inexperienced at this sort of thing, she explained, quite ignoring the fact that she was too; she was only thirteen or fourteen years old at the time of the last air raid. However, since I could not argue her out of it, we leaped together about a quarter of a mile to the right, while Bill and Gerdi disappeared down the hillside among the trees. Wilma and I both wanted a point of vantage from which we might overlook the valley and the sky to the north, and we found it near the top of the ridge, where, protected from visibility by thick branches, we could look out between the tree trunks, and get a good view of the valley. No more rockets went up. Except for a few of those warning red clouds, drifting lazily in a blue sky, there was no visible indication of man's past or present existence anywhere in the sky or on the ground. Then Wilma gripped my arm and pointed. I saw it; away off in the distance; looking like a phantom dirigible airship, in its coat of low-visibility paint, a bare spectre. "Seven thousand feet up," Wilma whispered, crouching close to me. "Watch." The ship was about the same shape as the great dirigibles of the 20th Century that I had seen, but without the suspended control car, engines, propellors, rudders or elevating planes. As it loomed rapidly nearer, I saw that it was wider and somewhat flatter than I had supposed. Now I could see the repellor rays that held the ship aloft, like searchlight beams faintly visible in the bright daylight (and still faintly visible to the human eye at night). Actually, I had been informed by my instructors, there were two rays; the visible one generated by the ship's apparatus, and directed toward the ground as a beam of "carrier" impulses; and the true repellor ray, the complement of the other in one sense, induced by the action of the "carrier" and reacting in a concentrating upward direction from the mass of the earth, becoming successively electronic, atomic and finally molecular, in its nature, according to various ratios of distance between earth mass and "carrier" source, until, in the last analysis, the ship itself actually is supported on an upward rushing column of air, much like a ball continuously supported on a fountain jet. The raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum. The ship was operating two disintegrator rays, though only in a casual, intermittent fashion. But whenever they flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them. When later I inspected the scars left by these rays I found them some five feet deep and thirty feet wide, the exposed surfaces being lava-like in texture, but of a pale, iridescent, greenish hue. No systematic use of the rays was made by the ship, however, until it reached a point over the center of the valley--the center of the community's activities. There it came to a sudden stop by shooting its repellor beams sharply forward and easing them back gradually to the vertical, holding the ship floating and motionless. Then the work of destruction began systematically. Back and forth traveled the destroying rays, ploughing parallel furrows from hillside to hillside. We gasped in dismay, Wilma and I, as time after time we saw it plough through sections where we knew camps or plants were located. "This is awful," she moaned, a terrified question in her eyes. "How could they know the location so exactly, Tony? Did you see? They were never in doubt. They stalled at a predetermined spot--and--and it was exactly the right spot." We did not talk of what might happen if the rays were turned in our direction. We both knew. We would simply disintegrate in a split second into mere scattered electronic vibrations. Strangely enough, it was this self-reliant girl of the 25th Century, who clung to me, a relatively primitive man of the 20th, less familiar than she with the thought of this terrifying possibility, for moral support. We knew that many of our companions must have been whisked into absolute non-existence before our eyes in these few moments. The whole thing paralyzed us into mental and physical immobility for I do not know how long. It couldn't have been long, however, for the rays had not ploughed more than thirty of their twenty-foot furrows or so across the valley, when I regained control of myself, and brought Wilma to herself by shaking her roughly. "How far will this rocket gun shoot, Wilma?" I demanded, drawing my pistol. "It depends on your rocket, Tony. It will take even the longest range rocket, but you could shoot more accurately from a longer tube. But why? You couldn't penetrate the shell of that ship with rocket force, even if you could reach it." I fumbled clumsily with my rocket pouch, for I was excited. I had an idea I wanted to try; a "hunch" I called it, forgetting that Wilma could not understand my ancient slang. But finally, with her help, I selected the longest range explosive rocket in my pouch, and fitted it to my pistol. "It won't carry seven thousand feet, Tony," Wilma objected. But I took aim carefully. It was another thought that I had in my mind. The supporting repellor ray, I had been told, became molecular in character at what was called a logarithmic level of five (below that it was a purely electronic "flow" or pulsation between the source of the "carrier" and the average mass of the earth). Below that level if I could project my explosive bullet into this stream where it began to carry material substance upward, might it not rise with the air column, gathering speed and hitting the ship with enough impact to carry it through the shell? It was worth trying anyhow. Wilma became greatly excited, too, when she grasped the nature of my inspiration. Feverishly I looked around for some formation of branches against which I could rest the pistol, for I had to aim most carefully. At last I found one. Patiently I sighted on the hulk of the ship far above us, aiming at the far side of it, at such an angle as would, so far as I could estimate, bring my bullet path through the forward repellor beam. At last the sights wavered across the point I sought and I pressed the button gently. For a moment we gazed breathlessly. Suddenly the ship swung bow down, as on a pivot, and swayed like a pendulum. Wilma screamed in her excitement. "Oh, Tony, you hit it! You hit it! Do it again; bring it down!" We had only one more rocket of extreme range between us, and we dropped it three times in our excitement in inserting it in my gun. Then, forcing myself to be calm by sheer will power, while Wilma stuffed her little fist into her mouth to keep from shrieking, I sighted carefully again and fired. In a flash, Wilma had grasped the hope that this discovery of mine might lead to the end of the Han domination. The elapsed time of the rocket's invisible flight seemed an age. Then we saw the ship falling. It seemed to plunge lazily, but actually it fell with terrific acceleration, turning end over end, its disintegrator rays, out of control, describing vast, wild arcs, and once cutting a gash through the forest less than two hundred feet from where we stood. The crash with which the heavy craft hit the ground reverberated from the hills--the momentum of eighteen or twenty thousand tons, in a sheer drop of seven thousand feet. A mangled mass of metal, it buried itself in the ground, with poetic justice, in the middle of the smoking, semi-molten field of destruction it had been so deliberately ploughing. The silence, the vacuity of the landscape, was oppressive, as the last echoes died away. Then far down the hillside, a single figure leaped exultantly above the foliage screen. And in the distance another, and another. In a moment the sky was punctured by signal rockets. One after another the little red puffs became drifting clouds. "Scatter! Scatter!" Wilma exclaimed. "In half an hour there'll be an entire Han fleet here from Nu-yok, and another from Bah-flo. They'll get this instantly on their recordographs and location finders. They'll blast the whole valley and the country for miles beyond. Come, Tony. There's no time for the gang to rally. See the signals. We've got to jump. Oh, I'm so proud of you!" Over the ridge we went, in long leaps toward the east, the country of the Delawares. From time to time signal rockets puffed in the sky. Most of them were the "red warnings," the "scatter" signals. But from certain of the others, which Wilma identified as Wyoming rockets, she gathered that whoever was in command (we did not know whether the Boss was alive or not) was ordering an ultimate rally toward the south, and so we changed our course. It was a great pity, I thought, that the clan had not been equipped throughout its membership with ultrophones, but Wilma explained to me, that not enough of these had been built for distribution as yet, although general distribution had been contemplated within a couple of months. We traveled far before nightfall overtook us, trying only to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the valley. When gathering dusk made jumping too dangerous, we sought a comfortable spot beneath the trees, and consumed part of our emergency rations. It was the first time I had tasted the stuff--a highly nutritive synthetic substance called "concentro," which was, however, a bit bitter and unpalatable. But as only a mouthful or so was needed, it did not matter. Neither of us had a cloak, but we were both thoroughly tired and happy, so we curled up together for warmth. I remember Wilma making some sleepy remark about our mating, as she cuddled up, as though the matter were all settled, and my surprise at my own instant acceptance of the idea, for I had not consciously thought of her that way before. But we both fell asleep at once. In the morning we found little time for love making. The practical problem facing us was too great. Wilma felt that the Wyoming plan must be to rally in the Susquanna territory, but she had her doubts about the wisdom of this plan. In my elation at my success in bringing down the Han ship, and my newly found interest in my charming companion, who was, from my viewpoint of another century, at once more highly civilized and yet more primitive than myself, I had forgotten the ominous fact that the Han ship I had destroyed must have known the exact location of the Wyoming Works. This meant, to Wilma's logical mind, either that the Hans had perfected new instruments as yet unknown to us, or that somewhere, among the Wyomings or some other nearby gang, there were traitors so degraded as to commit that unthinkable act of trafficking in information with the Hans. In either contingency, she argued, other Han raids would follow, and since the Susquannas had a highly developed organization and more than usually productive plants, the next raid might be expected to strike them. But at any rate it was clearly our business to get in touch with the other fugitives as quickly as possible, so in spite of muscles that were sore from the excessive leaping of the day before, we continued on our way. We traveled for only a couple of hours when we saw a multi-colored rocket in the sky, some ten miles ahead of us. "Bear to the left, Tony," Wilma said, "and listen for the whistle." "Why?" I asked. "Haven't they given you the rocket code yet?" she replied. "That's what the green, followed by yellow and purple means; to concentrate five miles east of the rocket position. You know the rocket position itself might draw a play of disintegrator beams." It did not take us long to reach the neighborhood of the indicated rallying, though we were now traveling beneath the trees, with but an occasional leap to a top branch to see if any more rocket smoke was floating above. And soon we heard a distant whistle. We found about half the Gang already there, in a spot where the trees met high above a little stream. The Big Boss and Raid Bosses were busy reorganizing the remnants. We reported to Boss Hart at once. He was silent, but interested, when he heard our story. "You two stick close to me," he said, adding grimly, "I'm going back to the valley at once with a hundred picked men, and I'll need you." CHAPTER V Setting the Trap Inside of fifteen minutes we were on our way. A certain amount of caution was sacrificed for the sake of speed, and the men leaped away either across the forest top, or over open spaces of ground, but concentration was forbidden. The Big Boss named the spot on the hillside as the rallying point. "We'll have to take a chance on being seen, so long as we don't group," he declared, "at least until within five miles of the rallying spot. From then on I want every man to disappear from sight and to travel under cover. And keep your ultrophones open, and tuned on ten-four-seven-six." Wilma and I had received our battle equipment from the Gear boss. It consisted of a long-gun, a hand-gun, with a special case of ammunition constructed of inertron, which made the load weigh but a few ounces, and a short sword. This gear we strapped over each other's shoulders, on top of our jumping belts. In addition, we each received an ultrophone, and a light inertron blanket rolled into a cylinder about six inches long by two or three in diameter. This fabric was exceedingly thin and light, but it had considerable warmth, because of the mixture of inertron in its composition. [Illustration: The Han raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum.... Whenever the disintegrator rays flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them.] "This looks like business," Wilma remarked to me with sparkling eyes. (And I might mention a curious thing here. The word "business" had survived from the 20th Century American vocabulary, but not with any meaning of "industry" or "trade," for such things being purely community activities were spoken of as "work" and "clearing." Business simply meant fighting, and that was all.) "Did you bring all this equipment from the valley?" I asked the Gear Boss. "No," he said. "There was no time to gather anything. All this stuff we cleared from the Susquannas a few hours ago. I was with the Boss on the way down, and he had me jump on ahead and arrange it. But you two had better be moving. He's beckoning you now." Hart was about to call us on our phones when we looked up. As soon as we did so, he leaped away, waving us to follow closely. He was a powerful man, and he darted ahead in long, swift, low leaps up the banks of the stream, which followed a fairly straight course at this point. By extending ourselves, however, Wilma and I were able to catch up to him. As we gradually synchronized our leaps with his, he outlined to us, between the grunts that accompanied each leap, his plan of action. "We have to start the big business--unh--sooner or later," he said. "And if--unh--the Hans have found any way of locating our positions--unh--it's time to start now, although the Council of Bosses--unh--had intended waiting a few years until enough rocket ships have been--unh--built. But no matter what the sacrifice--unh--we can't afford to let them get us on the run--unh--. We'll set a trap for the yellow devils in the--unh--valley if they come back for their wreckage--unh--and if they don't, we'll go rocketing for some of their liners--unh--on the Nu-yok, Clee-lan, Si-ka-ga course. We can use--unh--that idea of yours of shooting up the repellor--unh--beams. Want you to give us a demonstration." With further admonition to follow him closely, he increased his pace, and Wilma and I were taxed to our utmost to keep up with him. It was only in ascending the slopes that my tougher muscles overbalanced his greater skill, and I was able to set the pace for him, as I had for Wilma. We slept in greater comfort that night, under our inertron blankets, and were off with the dawn, leaping cautiously to the top of the ridge overlooking the valley which Wilma and I had left. The Boss scanned the sky with his ultroscope, patiently taking some fifteen minutes to the task, and then swung his phone into use, calling the roll and giving the men their instructions. His first order was for us all to slip our ear and chest discs into permanent position. These ultrophones were quite different from the one used by Wilma's companion scout the day I saved her from the vicious attack of the bandit Gang. That one was contained entirely in a small pocket case. These, with which we were now equipped, consisted of a pair of ear discs, each a separate and self-contained receiving set. They slipped into little pockets over our ears in the fabric helmets we wore, and shut out virtually all extraneous sounds. The chest discs were likewise self-contained sending sets, strapped to the chest a few inches below the neck and actuated by the vibrations from the vocal cords through the body tissues. The total range of these sets was about eighteen miles. Reception was remarkably clear, quite free from the static that so marked the 20th Century radios, and of a strength in direct proportion to the distance of the speaker. The Boss' set was triple powered, so that his orders would cut in on any local conversations, which were indulged in, however, with great restraint, and only for the purpose of maintaining contacts. I marveled at the efficiency of this modern method of battle communication in contrast to the clumsy signaling devices of more ancient times; and also at other military contrasts in which the 20th and 25th Century methods were the reverse of each other in efficiency. These modern Americans, for instance, knew little of hand to hand fighting, and nothing, naturally, of trench warfare. Of barrages they were quite ignorant, although they possessed weapons of terrific power. And until my recent flash of inspiration, no one among them, apparently, had ever thought of the scheme of shooting a rocket into a repellor beam and letting the beam itself hurl it upward into the most vital part of the Han ship. Hart patiently placed his men, first giving his instructions to the campmasters, and then remaining silent, while they placed the individuals. In the end, the hundred men were ringed about the valley, on the hillsides and tops, each in a position from which he had a good view of the wreckage of the Han ship. But not a man had come in view, so far as I could see, in the whole process. The Boss explained to me that it was his idea that he, Wilma and I should investigate the wreck. If Han ships should appear in the sky, we would leap for the hillsides. I suggested to him to have the men set up their long-guns trained on an imaginary circle surrounding the wreck. He busied himself with this after the three of us leaped down to the Han ship, serving as a target himself, while he called on the men individually to aim their pieces and lock them in position. In the meantime Wilma and I climbed into the wreckage, but did not find much. Practically all of the instruments and machinery had been twisted out of all recognizable shape, or utterly destroyed by the ship's disintegrator rays which apparently had continued to operate in the midst of its warped remains for some moments after the crash. It was unpleasant work searching the mangled bodies of the crew. But it had to be done. The Han clothing, I observed, was quite different from that of the Americans, and in many respects more like the garb to which I had been accustomed in the earlier part of my life. It was made of synthetic fabrics like silks, loose and comfortable trousers of knee length, and sleeveless shirts. No protection, except that against drafts, was needed, Wilma explained to me, for the Han cities were entirely enclosed, with splendid arrangements for ventilation and heating. These arrangements of course were equally adequate in their airships. The Hans, indeed, had quite a distaste for unshaded daylight, since their lighting apparatus diffused a controlled amount of violet rays, making the unmodified sunlight unnecessary for health, and undesirable for comfort. Since the Hans did not have the secret of inertron, none of them wore anti-gravity belts. Yet in spite of the fact that they had to bear their own full weights at all times, they were physically far inferior to the Americans, for they lived lives of degenerative physical inertia, having machinery of every description for the performance of all labor, and convenient conveyances for any movement of more than a few steps. Even from the twisted wreckage of this ship I could see that seats, chairs and couches played an extremely important part in their scheme of existence. But none of the bodies were overweight. They seemed to have been the bodies of men in good health, but muscularly much underdeveloped. Wilma explained to me that they had mastered the science of gland control, and of course dietetics, to the point where men and women among them not uncommonly reached the age of a hundred years with arteries and general health in splendid condition. I did not have time to study the ship and its contents as carefully as I would have liked, however. Time pressed, and it was our business to discover some clue to the deadly accuracy with which the ship had spotted the Wyoming Works. The Boss had hardly finished his arrangements for the ring barrage, when one of the scouts on an eminence to the north, announced the approach of seven Han ships, spread out in a great semi-circle. Hart leaped for the hillside, calling to us to do likewise, but Wilma and I had raised the flaps of our helmets and switched off our "speakers" for conversation between ourselves, and by the time we discovered what had happened, the ships were clearly visible, so fast were they approaching. "Jump!" we heard the Boss order, "Deering to the north. Rogers to the east." But Wilma looked at me meaningly and pointed to where the twisted plates of the ship, projecting from the ground, offered a shelter. "Too late, Boss," she said. "They'd see us. Besides I think there's something here we ought to look at. It's probably their magnetic graph." "You're signing your death warrant," Hart warned. "We'll risk it," said Wilma and I together. "Good for you," replied the Boss. "Take command then, Rogers, for the present. Do you all know his voice, boys?" A chorus of assent rang in our ears, and I began to do some fast thinking as the girl and I ducked into the twisted mass of metal. "Wilma, hunt for that record," I said, knowing that by the simple process of talking I could keep the entire command continuously informed as to the situation. "On the hillsides, keep your guns trained on the circles and stand by. On the hilltops, how many of you are there? Speak in rotation from Bald Knob around to the east, north, west." In turn the men called their names. There were twenty of them. I assigned them by name to cover the various Han ships, numbering the latter from left to right. "Train your rockets on their repellor rays about three-quarters of the way up, between ships and ground. Aim is more important than elevation. Follow those rays with your aim continuously. Shoot when I tell you, not before. Deering has the record. The Hans probably have not seen us, or at least think there are but two of us in the valley, since they're settling without opening up disintegrators. Any opinions?" My ear discs remained silent. "Deering and I remain here until they land and debark. Stand by and keep alert." Rapidly and easily the largest of the Han ships settled to the earth. Three scouted sharply to the south, rising to a higher level. The others floated motionless about a thousand feet above. Peeping through a small fissure between two plates, I saw the vast hulk of the ship come to rest full on the line of our prospective ring barrage. A door clanged open a couple of feet from the ground, and one by one the crew emerged. CHAPTER VI The "Wyoming Massacre" "They're coming out of the ship." I spoke quietly, with my hand over my mouth, for fear they might hear me. "One--two--three--four, five--six--seven--eight--nine. That seems to be all. Who knows how many men a ship like that is likely to carry?" "About ten, if there are no passengers," replied one of my men, probably one of those on the hillside. "How are they armed?" I asked. "Just knives," came the reply. "They never permit hand-rays on the ships. Afraid of accidents. Have a ruling against it." "Leave them to us then," I said, for I had a hastily formed plan in my mind. "You, on the hillsides, take the ships above. Abandon the ring target. Divide up in training on those repellor rays. You, on the hilltops, all train on the repellors of the ships to the south. Shoot at the word, but not before. "Wilma, crawl over to your left where you can make a straight leap for the door in that ship. These men are all walking around the wreck in a bunch. When they're on the far side, I'll give the word and you leap through that door in one bound. I'll follow. Maybe we won't be seen. We'll overpower the guard inside, but don't shoot. We may escape being seen by both this crew and ships above. They can't see over this wreck." It was so easy that it seemed too good to be true. The Hans who had emerged from the ship walked round the wreckage lazily, talking in guttural tones, keenly interested in the wreck, but quite unsuspicious. At last they were on the far side. In a moment they would be picking their way into the wreck. "Wilma, leap!" I almost whispered the order. The distance between Wilma's hiding place and the door in the side of the Han ship was not more than fifteen feet. She was already crouched with her feet braced against a metal beam. Taking the lift of that wonderful inertron belt into her calculation, she dove headforemost, like a green projectile, through the door. I followed in a split second, more clumsily, but no less speedily, bruising my shoulder painfully, as I ricocheted from the edge of the opening and brought up sliding against the unconscious girl; for she evidently had hit her head against the partition within the ship into which she had crashed. We had made some noise within the ship. Shuffling footsteps were approaching down a well lit gangway. "Any signs we have been observed?" I asked my men on the hillsides. "Not yet," I heard the Boss reply. "Ships overhead still standing. No beams have been broken out. Men on ground absorbed in wreck. Most of them have crawled into it out of sight." "Good," I said quickly. "Deering hit her head. Knocked out. One or more members of the crew approaching. We're not discovered yet. I'll take care of them. Stand a bit longer, but be ready." I think my last words must have been heard by the man who was approaching, for he stopped suddenly. I crouched at the far side of the compartment, motionless. I would not draw my sword if there were only one of them. He would be a weakling, I figured, and I should easily overcome him with my bare hands. Apparently reassured at the absence of any further sound, a man came around a sort of bulkhead--and I leaped. I swung my legs up in front of me as I did so, catching him full in the stomach and knocked him cold. I ran forward along the keel gangway, searching for the control room. I found it well up in the nose of the ship. And it was deserted. What could I do to jam the controls of the ships that would not register on the recording instruments of the other ships? I gazed at the mass of controls. Levers and wheels galore. In the center of the compartment, on a massively braced universal joint mounting, was what I took for the repellor generator. A dial on it glowed and a faint hum came from within its shielding metallic case. But I had no time to study it. Above all else, I was afraid that some automatic telephone apparatus existed in the room, through which I might be heard on the other ships. The risk of trying to jam the controls was too great. I abandoned the idea and withdrew softly. I would have to take a chance that there was no other member of the crew aboard. I ran back to the entrance compartment. Wilma still lay where she had slumped down. I heard the voices of the Hans approaching. It was time to act. The next few seconds would tell whether the ships in the air would try or be able to melt us into nothingness. I spoke. "Are you boys all ready?" I asked, creeping to a position opposite the door and drawing my hand-gun. Again there was a chorus of assent. "Then on the count of three, shoot up those repellor rays--all of them--and for God's sake, don't miss." And I counted. I think my "three" was a bit weak. I know it took all the courage I had to utter it. For an agonizing instant nothing happened, except that the landing party from the ship strolled into my range of vision. Then startled, they turned their eyes upward. For an instant they stood frozen with horror at whatever they saw. One hurled his knife at me. It grazed my cheek. Then a couple of them made a break for the doorway. The rest followed. But I fired pointblank with my hand-gun, pressing the button as fast as I could and aiming at their feet to make sure my explosive rockets would make contact and do their work. The detonations of my rockets were deafening. The spot on which the Hans stood flashed into a blinding glare. Then there was nothing there except their torn and mutilated corpses. They had been fairly bunched, and I got them all. I ran to the door, expecting any instant to be hurled into infinity by the sweep of a disintegrator ray. Some eighth of a mile away I saw one of the ships crash to earth. A disintegrator ray came into my line of vision, wavered uncertainly for a moment and then began to sweep directly toward the ship in which I stood. But it never reached it. Suddenly, like a light switched off, it shot to one side, and a moment later another vast hulk crashed to earth. I looked out, then stepped out on the ground. The only Han ships in the sky were two of the scouts to the south which were hanging perpendicularly, and sagging slowly down. The others must have crashed down while I was deafened by the sound of the explosion of my own rockets. Somebody hit the other repellor ray of one of the two remaining ships and it fell out of sight beyond a hilltop. The other, farther away, drifted down diagonally, its disintegrator ray playing viciously over the ground below it. I shouted with exultation and relief. "Take back the command, Boss!" I yelled. His commands, sending out jumpers in pursuit of the descending ship, rang in my ears, but I paid no attention to them. I leaped back into the compartment of the Han ship and knelt beside my Wilma. Her padded helmet had absorbed much of the blow, I thought; otherwise, her skull might have been fractured. "Oh, my head!" she groaned, coming to as I lifted her gently in my arms and strode out in the open with her. "We must have won, dearest, did we?" "We most certainly did," I reassured her. "All but one crashed and that one is drifting down toward the south; we've captured this one we're in intact. There was only one member of the crew aboard when we dove in." [Illustration: As the American leaped, he swung his legs up in front of him, catching the Han full in the stomach.] Less than an hour afterward the Big Boss ordered the outfit to tune in ultrophones on three-twenty-three to pick up a translated broadcast of the Han intelligence office in Nu-yok from the Susquanna station. It was in the form of a public warning and news item, and read as follows: "This is Public Intelligence Office, Nu-yok, broadcasting warning to navigators of private ships, and news of public interest. The squadron of seven ships, which left Nu-yok this morning to investigate the recent destruction of the GK-984 in the Wyoming Valley, has been destroyed by a series of mysterious explosions similar to those which wrecked the GK-984. "The phones, viewplates, and all other signaling devices of five of the seven ships ceased operating suddenly at approximately the same moment, about seven-four-nine." (According to the Han system of reckoning time, seven and forty-nine one hundredths after midnight.) "After violent disturbances the location finders went out of operation. Electroactivity registers applied to the territory of the Wyoming Valley remain dead. "The Intelligence Office has no indication of the kind of disaster which overtook the squadron except certain evidences of explosive phenomena similar to those in the case of the GK-984, which recently went dead while beaming the valley in a systematic effort to wipe out the works and camps of the tribesmen. The Office considers, as obvious, the deduction that the tribesmen have developed a new, and as yet undetermined, technique of attack on airships, and has recommended to the Heaven-Born that immediate and unlimited authority be given the Navigation Intelligence Division to make an investigation of this technique and develop a defense against it. "In the meantime it urges that private navigators avoid this territory in particular, and in general hold as closely as possible to the official inter-city routes, which now are being patrolled by the entire force of the Military Office, which is beaming the routes generously to a width of ten miles. The Military Office reports that it is at present considering no retaliatory raids against the tribesmen. With the Navigation Intelligence Division, it holds that unless further evidence of the nature of the disaster is developed in the near future, the public interest will be better served, and at smaller cost of life, by a scientific research than by attempts at retaliation, which may bring destruction on all ships engaging therein. So unless further evidence actually is developed, or the Heaven-Born orders to the contrary, the Military will hold to a defensive policy. "Unofficial intimations from Lo-Tan are to the effect that the Heaven-Council has the matter under consideration. "The Navigation Intelligence Office permits the broadcast of the following condensation of its detailed observations: "The squadron proceeded to a position above the Wyoming Valley where the wreck of the GK-984 was known to be, from the record of its location finder before it went dead recently. There the bottom projectoscope relays of all ships registered the wreck of the GK-984. Teleprojectoscope views of the wreck and the bowl of the valley showed no evidence of the presence of tribesmen. Neither ship registers nor base registers showed any indication of electroactivity except from the squadron itself. On orders from the Base Squadron Commander, the LD-248, LK-745 and LG-25 scouted southward at 3,000 feet. The GK-43, GK-981 and GK-220 stood above at 2,500 feet, and the GK-18 landed to permit personal inspection of the wreck by the science committee. The party debarked, leaving one man on board in the control cabin. He set all projectoscopes at universal focus except RB-3," (this meant the third projectoscope from the bow of the ship, on the right-hand side of the lower deck) "with which he followed the landing group as it walked around the wreck. "The first abnormal phenomenon recorded by any of the instruments at Base was that relayed automatically from projectoscope RB-4 of the GK-18, which as the party disappeared from view in back of the wreck, recorded two green missiles of roughly cylindrical shape, projected from the wreckage into the landing compartment of the ship. At such close range these were not clearly defined, owing to the universal focus at which the projectoscope was set. The Base Captain of GK-18 at once ordered the man in the control room to investigate, and saw him leave the control room in compliance with this order. An instant later confused sounds reached the control-room electrophone, such as might be made by a man falling heavily, and footsteps reapproached the control room, a figure entering and leaving the control room hurriedly. The Base Captain now believes, and the stills of the photorecord support his belief, that this was not the crew member who had been left in the control room. Before the Base Captain could speak to him he left the room, nor was any response given to the attention signal the Captain flashed throughout the ship. "At this point projectoscope RB-3 of the ship now out of focus control, dimly showed the landing party walking back toward the ship. RB-4 showed it more clearly. Then on both these instruments, a number of blinding explosives in rapid succession were seen and the electrophone relays registered terrific concussions; the ship's electronic apparatus and projectoscopes apparatus went dead. "Reports of the other ships' Base Observers and Executives, backed by the photorecords, show the explosions as taking place in the midst of the landing party as it returned, evidently unsuspicious, to the ship. Then in rapid succession they indicate that terrific explosions occurred inside and outside the three ships standing above close to their rep-ray generators, and all signals from these ships thereupon went dead. "Of the three ships scouting to the south, the LD-248 suffered an identical fate, at the same moment. Its records add little to the knowledge of the disaster. But with the LK-745 and the LG-25 it was different. "The relay instruments of the LK-745 indicated the destruction by an explosion of the rear rep-ray generator, and that the ship hung stern down for a short space, swinging like a pendulum. The forward viewplates and indicators did not cease functioning, but their records are chaotic, except for one projectoscope still, which shows the bowl of the valley, and the GK-981 falling, but no visible evidence of tribesmen. The control-room viewplate is also a chaotic record of the ship's crew tumbling and falling to the rear wall. Then the forward rep-ray generator exploded, and all signals went dead. "The fate of the LG-25 was somewhat similar, except that this ship hung nose down, and drifted on the wind southward as it slowly descended out of control. "As its control room was shattered, verbal report from its Action Captain was precluded. The record of the interior rear viewplate shows members of the crew climbing toward the rear rep-ray generator in an attempt to establish manual control of it, and increase the lift. The projectoscope relays, swinging in wide arcs, recorded little of value except at the ends of their swings. One of these, from a machine which happened to be set in telescopic focus, shows several views of great value in picturing the falls of the other ships, and all of the rear projectoscope records enable the reconstruction in detail of the pendulum and torsional movements of the ship, and its sag toward the earth. But none of the views showing the forest below contain any indication of tribesmen's presence. A final explosion put this ship out of commission at a height of 1,000 feet, and at a point four miles S. by E. of the center of the valley." The message ended with a repetition of the warning to other airmen to avoid the valley. CHAPTER VII Incredible Treason After receiving this report, and reassurances of support from the Big Bosses of the neighboring Gangs, Hart determined to reestablish the Wyoming Valley community. A careful survey of the territory showed that it was only the northern sections and slopes that had been "beamed" by the first Han ship. The synthetic-fabrics plant had been partially wiped out, though the lower levels underground had not been reached by the dis ray. The forest screen above it, however, had been annihilated, and it was determined to abandon it, after removing all usable machinery and evidences of the processes that might be of interest to the Han scientists, should they return to the valley in the future. The ammunition plant, and the rocket-ship plant, which had just been about to start operation at the time of the raid, were intact, as were the other important plants. Hart brought the Camboss up from the Susquanna Works, and laid out new camp locations, scattering them farther to the south, and avoiding ground which had been seared by the Han beams and the immediate locations of the Han wrecks. During this period, a sharp check was kept upon Han messages, for the phone plant had been one of the first to be put in operation, and when it became evident that the Hans did not intend any immediate reprisals, the entire membership of the community was summoned back, and normal life was resumed. Wilma and I had been married the day after the destruction of the ships, and spent this intervening period in a delightful honeymoon, camping high in the mountains. On our return, we had a camp of our own, of course. We were assigned to location 1017. And as might be expected, we had a great deal of banter over which one of us was Camp Boss. The title stood after my name on the Big Boss' records, and those of the Big Camboss, of course, but Wilma airily held that this meant nothing at all--and generally succeeded in making me admit it whenever she chose. I found myself a full-fledged member of the Gang now, for I had elected to search no farther for a permanent alliance, much as I would have liked to familiarize myself with this 25th Century life in other sections of the country. The Wyomings had a high morale, and had prospered under the rule of Big Boss Hart for many years. But many of the gangs, I found, were badly organized, lacked strong hands in authority, and were rife with intrigue. On the whole, I thought I would be wise to stay with a group which had already proved its friendliness, and in which I seemed to have prospects of advancement. Under these modern social and economic conditions, the kind of individual freedom to which I had been accustomed in the 20th Century was impossible. I would have been as much of a nonentity in every phase of human relationship by attempting to avoid alliances, as any man of the 20th Century would have been politically, who aligned himself with no political party. This entire modern life, it appeared to me, judging from my ancient viewpoint, was organized along what I called "political" lines. And in this connection, it amused me to notice how universal had become the use of the word "boss." The leader, the person in charge or authority over anything, was a "boss." There was as little formality in his relations with his followers as there was in the case of the 20th Century political boss, and the same high respect paid him by his followers as well as the same high consideration by him of their interests. He was just as much of an autocrat, and just as much dependent upon the general popularity of his actions for the ability to maintain his autocracy. The sub-boss who could not command the loyalty of his followers was as quickly deposed, either by them or by his superiors, as the ancient ward leader of the 20th Century who lost control of his votes. As society was organized in the 20th Century, I do not believe the system could have worked in anything but politics. I tremble to think what would have happened, had the attempt been made to handle the A. E. F. this way during the First World War, instead of by that rigid military discipline and complete assumption of the individual as a mere standardized cog in the machine. But owing to the centuries of desperate suffering the people had endured at the hands of the Hans, there developed a spirit of self-sacrifice and consideration for the common good that made the scheme applicable and efficient in all forms of human co-operation. I have a little heresy about all this, however. My associates regard the thought with as much horror as many worthy people of the 20th Century felt in regard to any heretical suggestion that the original outline of government as laid down in the First Constitution did not apply as well to 20th Century conditions as to those of the early 19th. In later years, I felt that there was a certain softening of moral fiber among the people, since the Hans had been finally destroyed with all their works; and Americans have developed a new luxury economy. I have seen signs of the reawakening of greed, of selfishness. The eternal cycle seems to be at work. I fear that slowly, though surely, private wealth is reappearing, codes of inflexibility are developing; they will be followed by corruption, degradation; and in the end some cataclysmic event will end this era and usher in a new one. All this, however, is wandering afar from my story, which concerns our early battles against the Hans, and not our more modern problems of self-control. Our victory over the seven Han ships had set the country ablaze. The secret had been carefully communicated to the other gangs, and the country was agog from one end to the other. There was feverish activity in the ammunition plants, and the hunting of stray Han ships became an enthusiastic sport. The results were disastrous to our hereditary enemies. From the Pacific Coast came the report of a great transpacific liner of 75,000 tons "lift" being brought to earth from a position of invisibility above the clouds. A dozen Sacramentos had caught the hazy outlines of its rep rays approaching them, head-on, in the twilight, like ghostly pillars reaching into the sky. They had fired rockets into it with ease, whereas they would have had difficulty in hitting it if it had been moving at right angles to their position. They got one rep ray. The other was not strong enough to hold it up. It floated to earth, nose down, and since it was unarmed and unarmored, they had no difficulty in shooting it to pieces and massacring its crew and passengers. It seemed barbarous to me. But then I did not have centuries of bitter persecution in my blood. From the Jersey Beaches we received news of the destruction of a Nu-yok-A-lan-a liner. The Sand-snipers, practically invisible in their sand-colored clothing, and half buried along the beaches, lay in wait for days, risking the play of dis beams along the route, and finally registering four hits within a week. The Hans discontinued their service along this route, and as evidence that they were badly shaken by our success, sent no raiders down the Beaches. It was a few weeks later that Big Boss Hart sent for me. "Tony," he said, "There are two things I want to talk to you about. One of them will become public property in a few days, I think. We aren't going to get any more Han ships by shooting up their repellor rays unless we use much larger rockets. They are wise to us now. They're putting armor of great thickness in the hulls of their ships below the rep-ray machines. Near Bah-flo this morning a party of Eries shot one without success. The explosions staggered her, but did not penetrate. As near as we can gather from their reports, their laboratories have developed a new alloy of great tensile strength and elasticity which nevertheless lets the rep rays through like a sieve. Our reports indicate that the Eries' rockets bounced off harmlessly. Most of the party was wiped out as the dis rays went into action on them. "This is going to mean real business for all of the gangs before long. The Big Bosses have just held a national ultrophone council. It was decided that America must organize on a national basis. The first move is to develop sectional organization by Zones. I have been made Superboss of the Mid-Atlantic Zone. "We're in for it now. The Hans are sure to launch reprisal expeditions. If we're to save the race we must keep them away from our camps and plants. I'm thinking of developing a permanent field force, along the lines of the regular armies of the 20th Century you told me about. Its business will be twofold: to carry the warfare as much as possible to the Hans, and to serve as a decoy, to keep their attention from our plants. I'm going to need your help in this. "The other thing I wanted to talk to you about is this: Amazing and impossible as it seems, there is a group, or perhaps an entire gang, somewhere among us, that is betraying us to the Hans. It may be the Bad Bloods, or it may be one of those gangs who live near one of the Han cities. You know, a hundred and fifteen or twenty years ago there were certain of these people's ancestors who actually degraded themselves by mating with the Hans, sometimes even serving them as slaves, in the days before they brought all their service machinery to perfection. "There is such a gang, called the Nagras, up near Bah-flo, and another in Mid-Jersey that men call the Pineys. But I hardly suspect the Pineys. There is little intelligence among them. They wouldn't have the information to give the Hans, nor would they be capable of imparting it. They're absolute savages." "Just what evidence is there that anybody has been clearing information to the Hans?" I asked. "Well," he replied, "first of all there was that raid upon us. That first Han ship knew the location of our plants exactly. You remember it floated directly into position above the valley and began a systematic beaming. Then, the Hans quite obviously have learned that we are picking up their electrophone waves, for they've gone back to their old, but extremely accurate, system of directional control. But we've been getting them for the past week by installing automatic re-broadcast units along the scar paths. This is what the Americans called those strips of country directly under the regular ship routes of the Hans, who as a matter of precaution frequently blasted them with their dis beams to prevent the growth of foliage which might give shelter to the Americans. But they've been beaming those paths so hard, it looks as though they even had information of this strategy. And in addition, they've been using code. Finally, we've picked up three of their messages in which they discuss, with some nervousness, the existence of our 'mysterious' ultrophone." "But they still have no knowledge of the nature and control of ultronic activity?" I asked. "No," said the Big Boss thoughtfully, "they don't seem to have a bit of information about it." "Then it's quite clear," I ventured, "that whoever is 'clearing' us to them is doing it piecemeal. It sounds like a bit of occasional barter, rather than an out-and-out alliance. They're holding back as much information as possible for future bartering, perhaps." "Yes," Hart said, "and it isn't information the Hans are giving in return, but some form of goods, or privilege. The trick would be to locate the goods. I guess I'll have to make a personal trip around among the Big Bosses." CHAPTER VIII The Han City This conversation set me thinking. All of the Han electrophone inter-communication had been an open record to the Americans for a good many years, and the Hans were just finding it out. For centuries they had not regarded us as any sort of a menace. Unquestionably it had never occurred to them to secrete their own records. Somewhere in Nu-yok or Bah-flo, or possibly in Lo-Tan itself, the record of this traitorous transaction would be more or less openly filed. If we could only get at it! I wondered if a raid might not be possible. Bill Hearn and I talked it over with our Han-affairs Boss and his experts. There ensued several days of research, in which the Han records of the entire decade were scanned and analyzed. In the end they picked out a mass of detail, and fitted it together into a very definite picture of the great central filing office of the Hans in Nu-yok, where the entire mass of official records was kept, constantly available for instant projectoscoping to any of the city's offices, and of the system by which the information was filed. The attempt began to look feasible, though Hart instantly turned the idea down when I first presented it to him. It was unthinkable, he said. Sheer suicide. But in the end I persuaded him. "I will need," I said, "Blash, who is thoroughly familiar with the Han library system; Bert Gaunt, who for years has specialized on their military offices; Bill Barker, the ray specialist, and the best swooper pilot we have." _Swoopers_ are one-man and two-man ships, developed by the Americans, with skeleton backbones of inertron (during the war painted green for invisibility against the green forests below) and "bellies" of clear ultron. "That will be Mort Gibbons," said Hart. "We've only got three swoopers left, Tony, but I'll risk one of them if you and the others will voluntarily risk your existences. But mind, I won't urge or order one of you to go. I'll spread the word to every Plant Boss at once to give you anything and everything you need in the way of equipment." When I told Wilma of the plan, I expected her to raise violent and tearful objections, but she didn't. She was made of far sterner stuff than the women of the 20th Century. Not that she couldn't weep as copiously or be just as whimsical on occasion; but she wouldn't weep for the same reasons. She just gave me an unfathomable look, in which there seemed to be a bit of pride, and asked eagerly for the details. I confess I was somewhat disappointed that she could so courageously risk my loss, even though I was amazed at her fortitude. But later I was to learn how little I knew her then. We were ready to slide off at dawn the next morning. I had kissed Wilma good-bye at our camp, and after a final conference over our plans, we boarded our craft and gently glided away over the tree tops on a course, which, after crossing three routes of the Han ships, would take us out over the Atlantic, off the Jersey coast, whence we would come up on Nu-yok from the ocean. Twice we had to nose down and lie motionless on the ground near a route while Han ships passed. Those were tense moments. Had the green back of our ship been observed, we would have been disintegrated in a second. But it wasn't. Once over the water, however, we climbed in a great spiral, ten miles in diameter, until our altimeter registered ten miles. Here Gibbons shut off his rocket motor, and we floated, far above the level of the Atlantic liners, whose course was well to the north of us anyhow, and waited for nightfall. Then Gibbons turned from his control long enough to grin at me. "I have a surprise for you, Tony," he said, throwing back the lid of what I had supposed was a big supply case. And with a sigh of relief, Wilma stepped out of the case. "If you 'go into zero' (a common expression of the day for being annihilated by the disintegrator ray), you don't think I'm going to let you go alone, do you, Tony? I couldn't believe my ears last night when you spoke of going without me, until I realized that you are still five hundred years behind the times in lots of ways. Don't you know, dear heart, that you offered me the greatest insult a husband could give a wife? You didn't, of course." The others, it seemed, had all been in on the secret, and now they would have kidded me unmercifully, except that Wilma's eyes blazed dangerously. At nightfall, we maneuvered to a position directly above the city. This took some time and calculation on the part of Bill Barker, who explained to me that he had to determine our point by ultronic bearings. The slightest resort to an electronic instrument, he feared, might be detected by our enemies' locators. In fact, we did not dare bring our swooper any lower than five miles for fear that its capacity might be reflected in their instruments. Finally, however, he succeeded in locating above the central tower of the city. "If my calculations are as much as ten feet off," he remarked with confidence, "I'll eat the tower. Now the rest is up to you, Mort. See what you can do to hold her steady. No--here, watch this indicator--the red beam, not the green one. See--if you keep it exactly centered on the needle, you're O.K. The width of the beam represents seventeen feet. The tower platform is fifty feet square, so we've got a good margin to work on." For several moments we watched as Gibbons bent over his levers, constantly adjusting them with deft touches of his fingers. After a bit of wavering, the beam remained centered on the needle. "Now," I said, "let's drop." I opened the trap and looked down, but quickly shut it again when I felt the air rushing out of the ship into the rarefied atmosphere in a torrent. Gibbons literally yelled a protest from his instrument board. "I forgot," I mumbled. "Silly of me. Of course, we'll have to drop out of compartment." The compartment, to which I referred, was similar to those in some of the 20th Century submarines. We all entered it. There was barely room for us to stand, shoulder to shoulder. With some struggles, we got into our special air helmets and adjusted the pressure. At our signal, Gibbons exhausted the air in the compartment, pumping it into the body of the ship, and as the little signal light flashed, Wilma threw open the hatch. Setting the ultron-wire reel, I climbed through, and began to slide down gently. We all had our belts on, of course, adjusted to a weight balance of but a few ounces. And the five-mile reel of ultron wire that was to be our guide, was of gossamer fineness, though, anyway, I believe it would have lifted the full weight of the five of us, so strong and tough was this invisible metal. As an extra precaution, since the wire was of the purest metal, and therefore totally invisible, even in daylight, we all had our belts hooked on small rings that slid down the wire. I went down with the end of the wire. Wilma followed a few feet above me, then Barker, Gaunt and Blash. Gibbons, of course, stayed behind to hold the ship in position and control the paying out of the line. We all had our ultrophones in place inside our air helmets, and so could converse with one another and with Gibbons. But at Wilma's suggestion, although we would have liked to let the Big Boss listen in, we kept them adjusted to short-range work, for fear that those who had been clearing with the Hans, and against whom we were on a raid for evidence, might also pick up our conversation. We had no fear that the Hans would hear us. In fact, we had the added advantage that, even after we landed, we could converse freely without danger of their hearing our voices through our air helmets. For a while I could see nothing below but utter darkness. Then I realized, from the feel of the air as much as from anything, that we were sinking through a cloud layer. We passed through two more cloud layers before anything was visible to us. Then there came under my gaze, about two miles below, one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen; the soft, yet brilliant, radiance of the great Han city of Nu-yok. Every foot of its structural members seemed to glow with a wonderful incandescence, tower piled up on tower, and all built on the vast base-mass of the city, which, so I had been told, sheered upward from the surface of the rivers to a height of 728 levels. The city, I noticed with some surprise, did not cover anything like the same area as the New York of the 20th Century. It occupied, as a matter of fact, only the lower half of Manhattan Island, with one section straddling the East River, and spreading out sufficiently over what once had been Brooklyn, to provide berths for the great liners and other air craft. Straight beneath my feet was a tiny dark patch. It seemed the only spot in the entire city that was not aflame with radiance. This was the central tower, in the top floors of which were housed the vast library of record files and the main projectoscope plant. "You can shoot the wire now," I ultrophoned Gibbons, and let go the little weighted knob. It dropped like a plummet, and we followed with considerable speed, but braking our descent with gloved hands sufficiently to see whether the knob, on which a faint light glowed as a signal for ourselves, might be observed by any Han guard or night prowler. Apparently it was not, and we again shot down with accelerated speed. We landed on the roof of the tower without any mishap, and fortunately for our plan, in darkness. Since there was nothing above it on which it would have been worth while to shed illumination, or from which there was any need to observe it, the Hans had neglected to light the tower roof, or indeed to occupy it at all. This was the reason we had selected it as our landing place. As soon as Gibbons had our word, he extinguished the knob light, and the knob, as well as the wire, became totally invisible. At our ultrophoned word, he would light it again. "No gun play now," I warned. "Swords only, and then only if absolutely necessary." Closely bunched, and treading as lightly as only inertron-belted people could, we made our way cautiously through a door and down an inclined plane to the floor below, where Gaunt and Blash assured us the military offices were located. Twice Barker cautioned us to stop as we were about to pass in front of mirror-like "windows" in the passage wall, and flattening ourselves to the floor, we crawled past them. "Projectoscopes," he said. "Probably on automatic record only, at this time of night. Still, we don't want to leave any records for them to study after we're gone." "Were you ever here before?" I asked. "No," he replied, "but I haven't been studying their electrophone communications for seven years without being able to recognize these machines when I run across them." CHAPTER IX The Fight in the Tower So far we had not laid eyes on a Han. The tower seemed deserted. Blash and Gaunt, however, assured me that there would be at least one man on "duty" in the military offices, though he would probably be asleep, and two or three in the library proper and the projectoscope plant. "We've got to put them out of commission," I said. "Did you bring the 'dope' cans, Wilma?" "Yes," she said, "two for each. Here," and she distributed them. We were now two levels below the roof, and at the point where we were to separate. I did not want to let Wilma out of my sight, but it was necessary. According to our plan, Barker was to make his way to the projectoscope plant, Blash and I to the library, and Wilma and Gaunt to the military office. Blash and I traversed a long corridor, and paused at the great arched doorway of the library. Cautiously we peered in. Seated at three great switchboards were library operatives. Occasionally one of them would reach lazily for a lever, or sleepily push a button, as little numbered lights winked on and off. They were answering calls for electrograph and viewplate records on all sorts of subjects from all sections of the city. I apprised my companions of the situation. "Better wait a bit," Blash added. "The calls will lessen shortly." Wilma reported an officer in the military office sound asleep. "Give him the can, then," I said. Barker was to do nothing more than keep watch in the projectoscope plant, and a few moments later he reported himself well concealed, with a splendid view of the floor. "I think we can take a chance now," Blash said to me, and at my nod, he opened the lid of his dope can. Of course, the fumes did not affect us, through our helmets. They were absolutely without odor or visibility, and in a few seconds the librarians were unconscious. We stepped into the room. There ensued considerable cautious observation and experiment on the part of Gaunt, working from the military office, and Blash in the library; while Wilma and I, with drawn swords and sharply attuned microphones, stood guard, and occasionally patrolled nearby corridors. "I hear something approaching," Wilma said after a bit, with excitement in her voice. "It's a soft, gliding sound." "That's an elevator somewhere," Barker cut in from the projectoscope floor. "Can you locate it? I can't hear it." "It's to the east of me," she replied. "And to my west," said I, faintly catching it. "It's between us, Wilma, and nearer you than me. Be careful. Have you got any information yet, Blash and Gaunt?" "Getting it now," one of them replied. "Give us two minutes more." "Keep at it then," I said. "We'll guard." The soft, gliding sound ceased. "I think it's very close to me," Wilma almost whispered. "Come closer, Tony. I have a feeling something is going to happen. I've never known my nerves to get taut like this without reason." In some alarm, I launched myself down the corridor in a great leap toward the intersection whence I knew I could see her. In the middle of my leap my ultrophone registered her gasp of alarm. The next instant I glided to a stop at the intersection to see Wilma backing toward the door of the military office, her sword red with blood, and an inert form on the corridor floor. Two other Hans were circling to either side of her with wicked-looking knives, while a third evidently a high officer, judging by the resplendence of his garb tugged desperately to get an electrophone instrument out of a bulky pocket. If he ever gave the alarm, there was no telling what might happen to us. I was at least seventy feet away, but I crouched low and sprang with every bit of strength in my legs. It would be more correct to say that I dived, for I reached the fellow head on, with no attempt to draw my legs beneath me. Some instinct must have warned him, for he turned suddenly as I hurtled close to him. But by this time I had sunk close to the floor, and had stiffened myself rigidly, lest a dragging knee or foot might just prevent my reaching him. I brought my blade upward and over. It was a vicious slash that laid him open, bisecting him from groin to chin, and his dead body toppled down on me, as I slid to a tangled stop. The other two startled, turned. Wilma leaped at one and struck him down with a side slash. I looked up at this instant, and the dazed fear on his face at the length of her leap registered vividly. The Hans knew nothing of our inertron belts, it seemed, and these leaps and dives of ours filled them with terror. As I rose to my feet, a gory mess, Wilma, with a poise and speed which I found time to admire even in this crisis, again leaped. This time she dove head first as I had done and, with a beautifully executed thrust, ran the last Han through the throat. Uncertainly, she scrambled to her feet, staggered queerly, and then sank gently prone on the corridor. She had fainted. At this juncture, Blash and Gaunt reported with elation that they had the record we wanted. "Back to the roof, everybody!" I ordered, as I picked Wilma up in my arms. With her inertron belt, she felt as light as a feather. Gaunt joined me at once from the military office, and at the intersection of the corridor, we came upon Blash waiting for us. Barker, however, was not in evidence. "Where are you, Barker?" I called. "Go ahead," he replied. "I'll be with you on the roof at once." We came out in the open without any further mishap, and I instructed Gibbons in the ship to light the knob on the end of the ultron wire. It flashed dully a few feet away from us. Just how he had maneuvered the ship to keep our end of the line in position, without its swinging in a tremendous arc, I have never been able to understand. Had not the night been an unusually still one, he could not have checked the initial pendulum-like movements. As it was, there was considerable air current at certain of the levels, and in different directions too. But Gibbons was an expert of rare ability and sensitivity in the handling of a rocket ship, and he managed, with the aid of his delicate instruments, to sense the drifts almost before they affected the fine ultron wire, and to neutralize them with little shifts in the position of the ship. Blash and Gaunt fastened their rings to the wire, and I hooked my own and Wilma's on, too. But on looking around, I found Barker was still missing. "Barker, come!" I called. "We're waiting." "Coming!" he replied, and indeed, at that instant, his figure appeared up the ramp. He chuckled as he fastened his ring to the wire, and said something about a little surprise he had left for the Hans. "Don't reel in the wire more than a few hundred feet," I instructed Gibbons. "It will take too long to wind it in. We'll float up, and when we're aboard, we can drop it." In order to float up, we had to dispense with a pound or two of weight apiece. We hurled our swords from us, and kicked off our shoes as Gibbons reeled up the line a bit, and then letting go of the wire, began to hum upward on our rings with increasing velocity. The rush of air brought Wilma to, and I hastily explained to her that we had been successful. Receding far below us now, I could see our dully shining knob swinging to and fro in an ever widening arc, as it crossed and recrossed the black square of the tower roof. As an extra precaution, I ordered Gibbons to shut off the light, and to show one from the belly of the ship, for so great was our speed now, that I began to fear we would have difficulty in checking ourselves. We were literally falling upward, and with terrific acceleration. Fortunately, we had several minutes in which to solve this difficulty, which none of us, strangely enough, had foreseen. It was Gibbons who found the answer. "You'll be all right if all of you grab the wire tight when I give the word," he said. "First I'll start reeling it in at full speed. You won't get much of a jar, and then I'll decrease its speed again gradually, and its weight will hold you back. Are you ready? One--two--three!" We all grabbed tightly with our gloved hands as he gave the word. We must have been rising a good bit faster than he figured, however, for it wrenched our arms considerably, and the maneuver set up a sickening pendulum motion. For a while all we could do was swing there in an arc that may have been a quarter of a mile across, about three and a half miles above the city, and still more than a mile from our ship. Gibbons skilfully took up the slack as our momentum pulled up the line. Then at last we had ourselves under control again, and continued our upward journey, checking our speed somewhat with our gloves. There was not one of us who did not breathe a big sigh of relief when we scrambled through the hatch safely into the ship again, cast off the ultron line and slammed the trap shut. Little realizing that we had a still more terrible experience to go through, we discussed the information Blash and Gaunt had between them extracted from the Han records, and the advisability of ultrophoning Hart at once. CHAPTER X The Walls of Hell The traitors were, it seemed, a degenerate gang of Americans, located a few miles north of Nu-yok on the wooded banks of the Hudson, the Sinsings. They had exchanged scraps of information to the Hans in return for several old repellor-ray machines, and the privilege of tuning in on the Han electronic power broadcast for their operation, provided their ships agreed to subject themselves to the orders of the Han traffic office, while aloft. The rest wanted to ultrophone their news at once, since there was always danger that we might never get back to the gang with it. I objected, however. The Sinsings would be likely to pick up our message. Even if we used the directional projector, they might have scouts out to the west and south in the big inter-gang stretches of country. They would flee to Nu-yok and escape the punishment they merited. It seemed to be vitally important that they should not, for the sake of example to other weak groups among the American gangs, as well as to prevent a crisis in which they might clear more vital information to the enemy. "Out to sea again," I ordered Gibbons. "They'll be less likely to look for us in that direction." "Easy, Boss, easy," he replied. "Wait until we get up a mile or two more. They must have discovered evidences of our raid by now, and their dis-ray wall may go in operation any moment." Even as he spoke, the ship lurched downward and to one side. "There it is!" he shouted. "Hang on, everybody. We're going to nose straight up!" And he flipped the rocket-motor control wide open. Looking through one of the rear ports, I could see a nebulous, luminous ring, and on all sides the atmosphere took on a faint iridescence. We were almost over the destructive range of the disintegrator-ray wall, a hollow cylinder of annihilation shooting upward from a solid ring of generators surrounding the city. It was the main defense system of the Hans, which had never been used except in periodic tests. They may or may not have suspected that an American rocket ship was within the cylinder; probably they had turned on their generators more as a precaution to prevent any reaching a position above the city. But even at our present great height, we were in great danger. It was a question how much we might have been harmed by the rays themselves, for their effective range was not much more than seven or eight miles. The greater danger lay in the terrific downward rush of air within the cylinder to replace that which was being burned into nothingness by the continual play of the disintegrators. The air fell into the cylinder with the force of a gale. It would be rushing toward the wall from the outside with terrific force also, but, naturally, the effect was intensified on the interior. Our ship vibrated and trembled. We had only one chance of escape--to fight our way well above the current. To drift down with it meant ultimately, and inevitably, to be sucked into the destruction wall at some lower level. But very gradually and jerkily our upward movement, as shown on the indicators, began to increase, and after an hour of desperate struggle we were free of the maelstrom and into the rarefied upper levels. The terror beneath us was now invisible through several layers of cloud formations. Gibbons brought the ship back to an even keel, and drove her eastward into one of the most brilliantly gorgeous sunrises I have ever seen. We described a great circle to the south and west, in a long easy dive, for he had cut out his rocket motors to save them as much as possible. We had drawn terrifically on their fuel reserves in our battle with the elements. For the moment, the atmosphere below cleared, and we could see the Jersey coast far beneath, like a great map. "We're not through yet," remarked Gibbons suddenly, pointing at his periscope, and adjusting it to telescopic focus. "A Han ship, and a 'drop ship' at that--and he's seen us. If he whips that beam of his on us, we're done." I gazed, fascinated, at the viewplate. What I saw was a cigar-shaped ship not dissimilar to our own in design, and from the proportional size of its ports, of about the same size as our swoopers. We learned later that they carried crews, for the most part of not more than three or four men. They had streamline hulls and tails that embodied universal-jointed double fish-tail rudders. In operation they rose to great heights on their powerful repellor rays, then gathered speed either by a straight nose dive, or an inclined dive in which they sometimes used the repellor ray slanted at a sharp angle. He was already above us, though several miles to the north. He could, of course, try to get on our tail and "spear" us with his beam as he dropped at us from a great height. Suddenly his beam blazed forth in a blinding flash, whipping downward slowly to our right. He went through a peculiar corkscrew-like evolution, evidently maneuvering to bring his beam to bear on us with a spiral motion. Gibbons instantly sent our ship into a series of evolutions that must have looked like those of a frightened hen. Alternately, he used the forward and the reverse rocket blasts, and in varying degree. We fluttered, we shot suddenly to right and left, and dropped like a plummet in uncertain movements. But all the time the Han scout dropped toward us, determinedly whipping the air around us with his beam. Once it sliced across beneath us, not more than a hundred feet, and we dropped with a jar into the pocket formed by the destruction of the air. He had dropped to within a mile of us, and was coming with the speed of a projectile, when the end came. Gibbons always swore it was sheer luck. Maybe it was, but I like pilots who are lucky that way. In the midst of a dizzy, fluttering maneuver of our own, with the Han ship enlarging to our gaze with terrifying rapidity, and its beam slowly slicing toward us in what looked like certain destruction within the second, I saw Gibbons' fingers flick at the lever of his rocket gun and a split second later the Han ship flew apart like a clay pigeon. We staggered, and fluttered crazily for several moments while Gibbons struggled to bring our ship into balance, and a section of about four square feet in the side of the ship near the stern slowly crumbled like rusted metal. His beam actually had touched us, but our explosive rocket had got him a thousandth of a second sooner. Part of our rudder had been annihilated, and our motor damaged. But we were able to swoop gently back across Jersey, fortunately crossing the ship lanes without sighting any more Han craft, and finally settling to rest in the little glade beneath the trees, near Hart's camp. CHAPTER XI The New Boss We had ultrophoned our arrival and the Big Boss himself, surrounded by the Council, was on hand to welcome us and learn our news. In turn we were informed that during the night a band of raiding Bad Bloods, disguised under the insignia of the Altoonas, a gang some distance to the west of us, had destroyed several of our camps before our people had rallied and driven them off. Their purpose, evidently, had been to embroil us with the Altoonas, but fortunately, one of our exchanges recognized the Bad Blood leader, who had been slain. The Big Boss had mobilized the full raiding force of the Gang, and was on the point of heading an expedition for the extermination of the Bad Bloods. I looked around the grim circle of the sub-bosses, and realized the fate of America, at this moment, lay in their hands. Their temper demanded the immediate expenditure of our full effort in revenging ourselves for this raid. But the strategic exigencies, to my mind, quite clearly demanded the instant and absolute extermination of the Sinsings. It might be only a matter of hours, for all we knew, before these degraded people would barter clues to the American ultronic secrets to the Hans. "How large a force have we?" I asked Hart. "Every man and maid who can be spared," he replied. "That gives us seven hundred married and unmarried men, and three hundred girls, more than the entire Bad Blood Gang. Every one is equipped with belts, ultrophones, rocket guns and swords, and all fighting mad." I meditated how I might put the matter to these determined men, and was vaguely conscious that they were awaiting my words. Finally I began to speak. I do not remember to this day just what I said. I talked calmly, with due regard for their passion, but with deep conviction. I went over the information we had collected, point by point, building my case logically, and painting a lurid picture of the danger impending in that half-alliance between the Sinsings and the Hans of Nu-yok. I became impassioned, culminating, I believe, with a vow to proceed single-handed against the hereditary enemies of our race, "if the Wyomings were blindly set on placing a gang feud ahead of honor and duty and the hopes of all America." As I concluded, a great calm came over me, as of one detached. I had felt much the same way during several crises in the First World War. I gazed from face to face, striving to read their expressions, and in a mood to make good my threat without any further heroics, if the decision was against me. But it was Hart who sensed the temper of the Council more quickly than I did, and looked beyond it into the future. He arose from the tree trunk on which he had been sitting. "That settles it," he said, looking around the ring. "I have felt this thing coming on for some time now. I'm sure the Council agrees with me that there is among us a man more capable than I, to boss the Wyoming Gang, despite his handicap of having had all too short a time in which to familiarize himself with our modern ways and facilities. Whatever I can do to support his effective leadership, at any cost, I pledge myself to do." As he concluded, he advanced to where I stood, and taking from his head the green-crested helmet that constituted his badge of office, to my surprise he placed it in my mechanically extended hand. The roar of approval that went up from the Council members left me dazed. Somebody ultrophoned the news to the rest of the Gang, and even though the earflaps of my helmet were turned up, I could hear the cheers with which my invisible followers greeted me, from near and distant hillsides, camps and plants. My first move was to make sure that the Phone Boss, in communicating this news to the members of the Gang, had not re-broadcast my talk nor mentioned my plan of shifting the attack from the Bad Bloods to the Sinsings. I was relieved by his assurance that he had not, for it would have wrecked the whole plan. Everything depended upon our ability to surprise the Sinsings. So I pledged the Council and my companions to secrecy, and allowed it to be believed that we were about to take to the air and the trees against the Bad Bloods. That outfit must have been badly scared, the way they were "burning" the ether with ultrophone alibis and propaganda for the benefit of the more distant gangs. It was their old game, and the only method by which they had avoided extermination long ago from their immediate neighbors--these appeals to the spirit of American brotherhood, addressed to gangs too far away to have had the sort of experience with them that had fallen to our lot. I chuckled. Here was another good reason for the shift in my plans. Were we actually to undertake the exterminations of the Bad Bloods at once, it would have been a hard job to convince some of the gangs that we had not been precipitate and unjustified. Jealousies and prejudices existed. There were gangs which would give the benefit of the doubt to the Bad Bloods, rather than to ourselves, and the issue was now hopelessly beclouded with the clever lies that were being broadcast in an unceasing stream. But the extermination of the Sinsings would be another thing. In the first place, there would be no warning of our action until it was all over, I hoped. In the second place, we would have indisputable proof, in the form of their rep-ray ships and other paraphernalia, of their traffic with the Hans; and the state of American prejudice, at the time of which I write held trafficking with the Hans a far more heinous thing than even a vicious gang feud. I called an executive session of the Council at once. I wanted to inventory our military resources. I created a new office on the spot, that of "Control Boss," and appointed Ned Garlin to the post, turning over his former responsibility as Plants Boss to his assistant. I needed someone, I felt, to tie in the records of the various functional activities of the campaign, and take over from me the task of keeping the records of them up to the minute. I received reports from the bosses of the ultrophone unit, and those of food, transportation, fighting gear, chemistry, electronic activity and electrophone intelligence, ultroscopes, air patrol and contact guard. My ideas for the campaign, of course, were somewhat tinged with my 20th Century experience, and I found myself faced with the task of working out a staff organization that was a composite of the best and most easily applied principles of business and military efficiency, as I knew them from the viewpoint of immediate practicality. What I wanted was an organization that would be specialized, functionally, not as that indicated above, but from the angles of: intelligence as to the Sinsings' activities; intelligence as to Han activities; perfection of communication with my own units; co-operation of field command; and perfect mobilization of emergency supplies and resources. It took several hours of hard work with the Council to map out the plan. First we assigned functional experts and equipment to each "Division" in accordance with its needs. Then these in turn were reassigned by the new Division Bosses to the Field Commands as needed, or as Independent or Headquarters Units. The two intelligence divisions were named the White and the Yellow, indicating that one specialized on the American enemy and the other on the Mongolians. The division in charge of our own communications, the assignment of ultrophone frequencies and strengths, and the maintenance of operators and equipment, I called "Communications." I named Bill Hearn to the post of Field Boss, in charge of the main or undetached fighting units, and to the Resources Division, I assigned all responsibility for what few aircraft we had; and all transportation and supply problems, I assigned to "Resources." The functional bosses stayed with this division. We finally completed our organization with the assignment of liaison representatives among the various divisions as needed. Thus I had a "Headquarters Staff" composed of the Division Bosses who reported directly to Ned Garlin as Control Boss, or to Wilma as my personal assistant. And each of the Division Bosses had a small staff of his own. In the final summing up of our personnel and resources, I found we had roughly a thousand "troops," of whom some three hundred and fifty were, in what I called the Service Divisions, the rest being in Bill Hearn's Field Division. This latter number, however, was cut down somewhat by the assignment of numerous small units to detached service. Altogether, the actual available fighting force, I figured, would number about five hundred, by the time we actually went into action. We had only six small swoopers, but I had an ingenious plan in my mind, as the result of our little raid on Nu-yok, that would make this sufficient, since the reserves of inertron blocks were larger than I expected to find them. The Resources Division, by packing its supply cases a bit tight, or by slipping in extra blocks of inertron, was able to reduce each to a weight of a few ounces. These easily could be floated and towed by the swoopers in any quantity. Hitched to ultron lines, it would be a virtual impossibility for them to break loose. The entire personnel, of course, was supplied with jumpers, and if each man and girl was careful to adjust balances properly, the entire number could also be towed along through the air, grasping wires of ultron, swinging below the swoopers, or stringing out behind them. There would be nothing tiring about this, because the strain would be no greater than that of carrying a one or two pound weight in the hand, except for air friction at high speeds. But to make doubly sure that we should lose none of our personnel, I gave strict orders that the belts and tow lines should be equipped with rings and hooks. So great was the efficiency of the fundamental organization and discipline of the Gang, that we got under way at nightfall. One by one the swoopers eased into the air, each followed by its long train or "kite-tail" of humanity and supply cases hanging lightly from its tow line. For convenience, the tow lines were made of an alloy of ultron which, unlike the metal itself, is visible. At first these "tails" hung downward, but as the ships swung into formation and headed eastward toward the Bad Blood territory, gathering speed, they began to string out behind. And swinging low from each ship on heavily weighted lines, ultroscope, ultrophone, and straight-vision observers keenly scanned the countryside, while intelligence men in the swoopers above bent over their instrument boards and viewplates. Leaving Control Boss Ned Garlin temporarily in charge of affairs, Wilma and I dropped a weighted line from our ship, and slid down about half way to the under lookouts, that is to say, about a thousand feet. The sensation of floating swiftly through the air like this, in the absolute security of one's confidence in the inertron belt, was one of never-ending delight to me. We reascended into the swooper as the expedition approached the territory of the Bad Bloods, and directed the preparations for the bombardment. It was part of my plan to appear to carry out the attack as originally planned. About fifteen miles from their camps our ships came to a halt and maintained their positions for a while with the idling blasts of their rocket motors, to give the ultroscope operators a chance to make a thorough examination of the territory below us, for it was very important that this next step in our program should be carried out with all secrecy. At length they reported the ground below us entirely clear of any appearance of human occupation, and a gun unit of long-range specialists was lowered with a dozen rocket guns, equipped with special automatic devices that the Resources Division had developed at my request, a few hours before our departure. These were aiming and timing devices. After calculating the range, elevation and rocket charges carefully, the guns were left, concealed in a ravine, and the men were hauled up into the ship again. At the predetermined hour, those unmanned rocket guns would begin automatically to bombard the Bad Bloods' hillsides, shifting their aim and elevation slightly with each shot, as did many of our artillery pieces in the First World War. In the meantime, we turned south about twenty miles, and grounded, waiting for the bombardment to begin before we attempted to sneak across the Han ship lane. I was relying for security on the distraction that the bombardment might furnish the Han observers. It was tense work waiting, but the affair went through as planned, our squadron drifting across the route high enough to enable the ships' tails of troops and supply cases to clear the ground. In crossing the second ship route, out along the Beaches of Jersey, we were not so successful in escaping observation. A Han ship came speeding along at a very low elevation. We caught it on our electronic location and direction finders, and also located it with our ultroscopes, but it came so fast and so low that I thought it best to remain where we had grounded the second time, and lie quiet, rather than get under way and cross in front of it. The point was this. While the Hans had no such devices as our ultroscopes, with which we could see in the dark (within certain limitations of course), and their electronic instruments would be virtually useless in uncovering our presence, since all but natural electronic activities were carefully eliminated from our apparatus, except electrophone receivers (which are not easily spotted), the Hans did have some very highly sensitive sound devices which operated with great efficiency in calm weather, so far as sounds emanating from the air were concerned. But the "ground roar" greatly confused their use of these instruments in the location of specific sounds floating up from the surface of the earth. This ship must have caught some slight noise of ours, however, in its sensitive instruments, for we heard its electronic devices go into play, and picked up the routine report of the noise to its Base Ship Commander. But from the nature of the conversation, I judged they had not identified it, and were, in fact, more curious about the detonations they were picking up now from the Bad Blood lands some sixty miles or so to the west. Immediately after this ship had shot by, we took the air again, and following much the same route that I had taken the previous night, climbed in a long semi-circle out over the ocean, swung toward the north and finally the west. We set our course, however, for the Sinsings' land north of Nu-yok, instead of for the city itself. CHAPTER XII The Finger of Doom As we crossed the Hudson River, a few miles north of the city, we dropped several units of the Yellow Intelligence Division, with full instrumental equipment. Their apparatus cases were nicely balanced at only a few ounces weight each, and the men used their chute capes to ease their drops. We recrossed the river a little distance above and began dropping White Intelligence units and a few long and short range gun units. Then we held our position until we began to get reports. Gradually we ringed the territory of the Sinsings, our observation units working busily and patiently at their locators and scopes, both aloft and aground, until Garlin finally turned to me with the remark: "The map circle is complete now, Boss. We've got clear locations all the way around them." "Let me see it," I replied, and studied the illuminated viewplate map, with its little overlapping circles of light that indicated spots proved clear of the enemy by ultroscopic observation. I nodded to Bill Hearn. "Go ahead now, Hearn," I said, "and place your barrage men." He spoke into his ultrophone, and three of the ships began to glide in a wide ring around the enemy territory. Every few seconds, at the word from his Unit Boss, a gunner would drop off the wire, and slipping the clasp of his chute cape, drift down into the darkness below. Bill formed two lines, parallel to and facing the river, and enclosing the entire territory of the enemy between them. Above and below, straddling the river, were two defensive lines. These latter were merely to hold their positions. The others were to close in toward each other, pushing a high-explosive barrage five miles ahead of them. When the two barrages met, both lines were to switch to short-vision-range barrage and continue to close in on any of the enemy who might have drifted through the previous curtain of fire. In the meantime Bill kept his reserves, a picked corps of a hundred men (the same that had accompanied Hart and myself in our fight with the Han squadron) in the air, divided about equally among the "kite-tails" of four ships. A final roll call, by units, companies, divisions and functions, established the fact that all our forces were in position. No Han activity was reported, and no Han broadcasts indicated any suspicion of our expedition. Nor was there any indication that the Sinsings had any knowledge of the fate in store for them. The idling of rep-ray generators was reported from the center of their camp, obviously those of the ships the Hans had given them--the price of their treason to their race. Again I gave the word, and Hearn passed on the order to his subordinates. Far below us, and several miles to the right and left, the two barrage lines made their appearance. From the great height to which we had risen, they appeared like lines of brilliant, winking lights, and the detonations were muffled by the distances into a sort of rumbling, distant thunder. Hearn and his assistants were very busy: measuring, calculating, and snapping out ultrophone orders to unit commanders that resulted in the straightening of lines and the closing of gaps in the barrage. The White Division Boss reported the utmost confusion in the Sinsing organization. They were, as might be expected, an inefficient, loosely disciplined gang, and repeated broadcasts for help to neighboring gangs. Ignoring the fact that the Mongolians had not used explosives for many generations, they nevertheless jumped at the conclusion that they were being raided by the Hans. Their frantic broadcasts persisted in this thought, despite the nervous electrophonic inquiries of the Hans themselves, to whom the sound of the battle was evidently audible, and who were trying to locate the trouble. At this point, the swooper I had sent south toward the city went into action as a diversion, to keep the Hans at home. Its "kite-tail" loaded with long-range gunners, using the most highly explosive rockets we had, hung invisible in the darkness of the sky and bombarded the city from a distance of about five miles. With an entire city to shoot at, and the object of creating as much commotion therein as possible, regardless of actual damage, the gunners had no difficulty in hitting the mark. I could see the glow of the city and the stabbing flashes of exploding rockets. In the end, the Hans, uncertain as to what was going on, fell back on a defensive policy, and shot their "hell cylinder," or wall of upturned disintegrator rays into operation. That, of course, ended our bombardment of them. The rays were a perfect defense, disintegrating our rockets as they were reached. If they had not sent out ships before turning on the rays, and if they had none within sufficient radius already in the air, all would be well. I queried Garlin on this, but he assured me Yellow Intelligence reported no indications of Han ships nearer than 800 miles. This would probably give us a free hand for a while, since most of their instruments recorded only imperfectly or not at all, through the death wall. Requisitioning one of the viewplates of the headquarters ship, and the services of an expert operator, I instructed him to focus on our lines below. I wanted a close-up of the men in action. He began to manipulate his controls and chaotic shadows moved rapidly across the plate, fading in and out of focus, until he reached an adjustment that gave me a picture of the forest floor, apparently 100 feet wide, with the intervening branches and foliage of the trees appearing like shadows that melted into reality a few feet above the ground. I watched one man setting up his long-gun with skillful speed. His lips pursed slightly as though he were whistling, as he adjusted the tall tripod on which the long tube was balanced. Swiftly he twirled the knobs controlling the aim and elevation of his piece. Then, lifting a belt of ammunition from the big box, which itself looked heavy enough to break down the spindly tripod, he inserted the end of it in the lock of his tube and touched the proper combination of buttons. Then he stepped aside, and occupied himself with peering carefully through the trees ahead. Not even a tremor shook the tube, but I knew that at intervals of something less than a second, it was discharging small projectiles which, traveling under their own continuously reduced power, were arching into the air, to fall precisely five miles ahead and explode with the force of eight-inch shells, such as we used in the First World War. Another gunner, fifty feet to the right of him, waved a hand and called out something to him. Then, picking up his own tube and tripod, he gauged the distance between the trees ahead of him, and the height of their lowest branches, and bending forward a bit, flexed his muscles and leaped lightly, some twenty-five feet. Another leap took him another twenty feet or so, where he began to set up his piece. I ordered my observer then to switch to the barrage itself. He got a close focus on it, but this showed little except a continuous series of blinding flashes, which, from the viewplate, lit up the entire interior of the ship. An eight-hundred-foot focus proved better. I had thought that some of our French and American artillery of the 20th Century had achieved the ultimate in mathematical precision of fire, but I had never seen anything to equal the accuracy of that line of terrific explosions as it moved steadily forward, mowing down trees as a scythe cuts grass (or used to 500 years ago), literally churning up the earth and the splintered, blasted remains of the forest giants, to a depth of from ten to twenty feet. By now the two curtains of fire were nearing each other, lines of vibrant, shimmering, continuous, brilliant destruction, inevitably squeezing the panic-stricken Sinsings between them. Even as I watched, a group of them, who had been making a futile effort to get their three rep-ray machines into the air, abandoned their efforts, and rushed forth into the milling mob. I queried the Control Boss sharply on the futility of this attempt of theirs, and learned that the Hans, apparently in doubt as to what was going on, had continued to "play safe," and broken off their power broadcast, after ordering all their own ships east of the Alleghenies to the ground, for fear these ships they had traded to the Sinsings might be used against them. Again I turned to my viewplate, which was still focussed on the central section of the Sinsing works. The confusion of the traitors was entirely that of fear, for our barrage had not yet reached them. Some of them set up their long-guns and fired at random over the barrage line, then gave it up. They realized that they had no target to shoot at, no way of knowing whether our gunners were a few hundred feet or several miles beyond it. Their ultrophone men, of whom they did not have many, stood around in tense attitudes, their helmet phones strapped around their ears, nervously fingering the tuning controls at their belts. Unquestionably they must have located some of our frequencies, and overheard many of our reports and orders. But they were confused and disorganized. If they had an Ultrophone Boss they evidently were not reporting to him in an organized way. They were beginning to draw back now before our advancing fire. With intermittent desperation, they began to shoot over our barrage again, and the explosions of their rockets flashed at widely scattered points beyond. A few took distance "pot shots." Oddly enough it was our own forces that suffered the first casualties in the battle. Some of these distance shots by chance registered hits, while our men were under strict orders not to exceed their barrage distances. Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance. The two barrage lines were not more than five hundred feet apart when the Sinsings resorted to tactics we had not foreseen. We noticed first that they began to lighten themselves by throwing away extra equipment. A few of them in their excitement threw away too much, and shot suddenly into the air. Then a scattering few floated up gently, followed by increasing numbers, while still others, preserving a weight balance, jumped toward the closing barrages and leaped high, hoping to clear them. Some succeeded. We saw others blown about like leaves in a windstorm, to crumple and drift slowly down, or else to fall into the barrage, their belts blown from their bodies. However, it was not part of our plan to allow a single one of them to escape and find his way to the Hans. I quickly passed the word to Bill Hearn to have the alternate men in his line raise their barrages and heard him bark out a mathematical formula to the Unit Bosses. We backed off our ships as the explosions climbed into the air in stagger formation until they reached a height of three miles. I don't believe any of the Sinsings who tried to float away to freedom succeeded. But we did know later, that a few who leaped the barrage got away and ultimately reached Nu-yok. It was those who managed to jump the barrage who gave us the most trouble. With half of our long-guns turned aloft, I foresaw we would not have enough to establish successive ground barrages and so ordered the barrage back two miles, from which positions our "curtains" began to close in again, this time, however, gauged to explode, not on contact, but thirty feet in the air. This left little chance for the Sinsings to leap either over or under it. Gradually, the two barrages approached each other until they finally met, and in the grey dawn the battle ended. Our own casualties amounted to forty-seven men in the ground forces, eighteen of whom had been slain in hand to hand fighting with the few of the enemy who managed to reach our lines, and sixty-two in the crew and "kite-tail" force of swooper No. 4, which had been located by one of the enemy's ultroscopes and brought down with long-gun fire. Since nearly every member of the Sinsing Gang had, so far as we knew, been killed, we considered the raid a great success. It had, however, a far greater significance than this. To all of us who took part in the expedition, the effectiveness of our barrage tactics definitely established a confidence in our ability to overcome the Hans. As I pointed out to Wilma: "It has been my belief all along, dear, that the American explosive rocket is a far more efficient weapon than the disintegrator ray of the Hans, once we can train all our gangs to use it systematically and in co-ordinated fashion. As a weapon in the hands of a single individual, shooting at a mark in direct line of vision, the rocket-gun is inferior in destructive power to the dis ray, except as its range may be a little greater. The trouble is that to date it has been used only as we used our rifles and shot guns in the 20th Century. The possibilities of its use as artillery, in laying barrages that advance along the ground, or climb into the air, are tremendous. "The dis ray inevitably reveals its source of emanation. The rocket gun does not. The dis ray can reach its target only in a straight line. The rocket may be made to travel in an arc, over intervening obstacles, to an unseen target. "Nor must we forget that our ultronists now are promising us a perfect shield against the dis ray in inertron." "I tremble though, Tony dear, when I think of the horrors that are ahead of us. The Hans are clever. They will develop defenses against our new tactics. And they are sure to mass against us not only the full force of their power in America, but the united forces of the World Empire. They are a cowardly race in one sense, but clever as the very Devils in Hell, and inheritors of a calm, ruthless, vicious persistency." "Nevertheless," I prophesied, "the Finger of Doom points squarely at them today, and unless you and I are killed in the struggle, we shall live to see America blast the Yellow Blight from the face of the Earth." THE END. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ August 1928. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of Project Gutenberg's Armageddon--2419 A.D., by Philip Francis Nowlan Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What does Reiko see in the photograph that her ex-husband takes of her after she has seen the tape?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Her face is blurry" ]	17,505	narrativeqa	en	null	677af5490eddd9e1d2ecd66ab0d1e038d1f7e7c5e985accf	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How many ethical arguments does Socrates propose?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Go ahead and memorize the context. Here is the context: The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Two" ]	6,592	narrativeqa	en	null	8a46cc12564386606f3162cd88cae3ec0f868009efce1d33	This etext was prepared by Sue Asscher <asschers@aia.net.au> CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? To this Crito is unable or unwilling to reply. Socrates proceeds:--Suppose the Laws of Athens to come and remonstrate with him: they will ask 'Why does he seek to overturn them?' and if he replies, 'they have injured him,' will not the Laws answer, 'Yes, but was that the agreement? Has he any objection to make to them which would justify him in overturning them? Was he not brought into the world and educated by their help, and are they not his parents? He might have left Athens and gone where he pleased, but he has lived there for seventy years more constantly than any other citizen.' Thus he has clearly shown that he acknowledged the agreement, which he cannot now break without dishonour to himself and danger to his friends. Even in the course of the trial he might have proposed exile as the penalty, but then he declared that he preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his footsteps? In any well-ordered state the Laws will consider him as an enemy. Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he may be welcomed at first, and the unseemly narrative of his escape will be regarded by the inhabitants as an amusing tale. But if he offends them he will have to learn another sort of lesson. Will he continue to give lectures in virtue? That would hardly be decent. And how will his children be the gainers if he takes them into Thessaly, and deprives them of Athenian citizenship? Or if he leaves them behind, does he expect that they will be better taken care of by his friends because he is in Thessaly? Will not true friends care for them equally whether he is alive or dead? Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life and children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks agreements, and returns evil for evil, they will be angry with him while he lives; and their brethren the Laws of the world below will receive him as an enemy. Such is the mystic voice which is always murmuring in his ears. That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made against him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated in later ages. The crimes of Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides, who had been his pupils, were still recent in the memory of the now restored democracy. The fact that he had been neutral in the death-struggle of Athens was not likely to conciliate popular good-will. Plato, writing probably in the next generation, undertakes the defence of his friend and master in this particular, not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and the world at large. Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of Crito and the proposal of escape is uncertain: Plato could easily have invented far more than that (Phaedr.); and in the selection of Crito, the aged friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to Socrates, we seem to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether any one who has been subjected by the laws of his country to an unjust judgment is right in attempting to escape, is a thesis about which casuists might disagree. Shelley (Prose Works) is of opinion that Socrates 'did well to die,' but not for the 'sophistical' reasons which Plato has put into his mouth. And there would be no difficulty in arguing that Socrates should have lived and preferred to a glorious death the good which he might still be able to perform. 'A rhetorician would have had much to say upon that point.' It may be observed however that Plato never intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only to exhibit the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil in order to avoid the greatest, and to show his master maintaining in death the opinions which he had professed in his life. Not 'the world,' but the 'one wise man,' is still the paradox of Socrates in his last hours. He must be guided by reason, although her conclusions may be fatal to him. The remarkable sentiment that the wicked can do neither good nor evil is true, if taken in the sense, which he means, of moral evil; in his own words, 'they cannot make a man wise or foolish.' This little dialogue is a perfect piece of dialectic, in which granting the 'common principle,' there is no escaping from the conclusion. It is anticipated at the beginning by the dream of Socrates and the parody of Homer. The personification of the Laws, and of their brethren the Laws in the world below, is one of the noblest and boldest figures of speech which occur in Plato. CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Crito. SCENE: The Prison of Socrates. SOCRATES: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early. CRITO: Yes, certainly. SOCRATES: What is the exact time? CRITO: The dawn is breaking. SOCRATES: I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in. CRITO: He knows me because I often come, Socrates; moreover. I have done him a kindness. SOCRATES: And are you only just arrived? CRITO: No, I came some time ago. SOCRATES: Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me? CRITO: I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest as you are--indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity. SOCRATES: Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at the approach of death. CRITO: And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from repining. SOCRATES: That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour. CRITO: I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me. SOCRATES: What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die? CRITO: No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life. SOCRATES: Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a delay of a day. CRITO: Why do you think so? SOCRATES: I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship? CRITO: Yes; that is what the authorities say. SOCRATES: But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep. CRITO: And what was the nature of the vision? SOCRATES: There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates, 'The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go.' (Homer, Il.) CRITO: What a singular dream, Socrates! SOCRATES: There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think. CRITO: Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this--that I should be thought to value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused. SOCRATES: But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many? Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these things truly as they occurred. CRITO: But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their good opinion. SOCRATES: I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil; for then they would also be able to do the greatest good-- and what a fine thing this would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance. CRITO: Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only one. CRITO: Fear not--there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great cost; and as for the informers they are far from being exorbitant in their demands--a little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service, and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do not say, as you did in the court (compare Apol.), that you will have a difficulty in knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies, who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier, which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently; and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors (compare Apol.). What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your old argument about the opinions of men?--we were saying that some of them are to be regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of talking--mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help, Crito:--whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded. Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow--at least, there is no human probability of this, and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was right in maintaining this? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: The good are to be regarded, and not the bad? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are evil? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, or of one man only--his physician or trainer, whoever he may be? CRITO: Of one man only. SOCRATES: And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only, and not of the many? CRITO: Clearly so. SOCRATES: And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put together? CRITO: True. SOCRATES: And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil? CRITO: Certainly he will. SOCRATES: And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the disobedient person? CRITO: Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil. SOCRATES: Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;--there is such a principle? CRITO: Certainly there is, Socrates. SOCRATES: Take a parallel instance:--if, acting under the advice of those who have no understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is--the body? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed, which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle, whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: More honourable than the body? CRITO: Far more. SOCRATES: Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable.--'Well,' some one will say, 'but the many can kill us.' CRITO: Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer. SOCRATES: And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another proposition--that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued? CRITO: Yes, that also remains unshaken. SOCRATES: And a good life is equivalent to a just and honorable one--that holds also? CRITO: Yes, it does. SOCRATES: From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of educating one's children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death--and with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation. CRITO: I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed? SOCRATES: Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can, and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment. And now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me. CRITO: I will. SOCRATES: Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonorable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then we must do no wrong? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure no one at all? (E.g. compare Rep.) CRITO: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Again, Crito, may we do evil? CRITO: Surely not, Socrates. SOCRATES: And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many--is that just or not? CRITO: Not just. SOCRATES: For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him? CRITO: Very true. SOCRATES: Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step. CRITO: You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind. SOCRATES: Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a question:--Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the right? CRITO: He ought to do what he thinks right. SOCRATES: But if this is true, what is the application? In leaving the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just--what do you say? CRITO: I cannot tell, Socrates, for I do not know. SOCRATES: Then consider the matter in this way:--Imagine that I am about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the government come and interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you about? are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us--the laws, and the whole state, as far as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?' What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply, 'Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' Suppose I say that? CRITO: Very good, Socrates. SOCRATES: 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would answer; 'or were you to abide by the sentence of the state?' And if I were to express my astonishment at their words, the law would probably add: 'Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes--you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,--What complaint have you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us who after birth regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to train you in music and gymnastic?' Right, I should reply. 'Well then, since you were brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands?--you would not say this? And because we think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return, and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the laws speak truly, or do they not? CRITO: I think that they do. SOCRATES: Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city, may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we maintain, thrice wrong: first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;--that is what we offer, and he does neither. 'These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above all other men have acknowledged the agreement. 'There is clear proof,' they will say, 'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be supposed to love (compare Phaedr.). For you never went out of the city either to see the games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our state; we were your especial favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you; and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But you pretended that you preferred death to exile (compare Apol.), and that you were not unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true or not?' How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent? CRITO: We cannot help it, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then will they not say: 'You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt, the blind, the maimed, were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city. 'For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself, if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away from well-governed states to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will live, but how?--as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?--eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner. And where will be your fine sentiments about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to live for the sake of your children--you want to bring them up and educate them--will you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them; for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for anything, they will--to be sure they will. 'Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito.' This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say. CRITO: I have nothing to say, Socrates. SOCRATES: Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he leads. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why was Mortimer Trefinnis once estranged from his siblings?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "because of the division of proceeds from selling the family business." ]	10,015	narrativeqa	en	null	af8f267654c2ca703d2044593d63c658c8716e66306dd65a	Produced by David Brannan. HTML version by Al Haines. The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early spring of that year we found ourselves together in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish peninsula. It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim humour of my patient. From the windows of our little whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end. With a northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection. Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale from the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out from that evil place. On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with an occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he spent much of his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and he had, I remember, conceived the idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived from the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of books upon philology and was settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a problem at our very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more mysterious than any of those which had driven us from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were violently interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of a series of events which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain some recollection of what was called at the time "The Cornish Horror," though a most imperfect account of the matter reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details of this inconceivable affair to the public. I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and as such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a considerable fund of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman's scanty resources by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to such an arrangement, though he had little in common with his lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression of actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our short visit we found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs. These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion upon the moors. "Mr. Holmes," said the vicar in an agitated voice, "the most extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night. It is the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a special Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all England you are the one man we need." I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained than the clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of his dark eyes showed that they shared a common emotion. "Shall I speak or you?" he asked of the vicar. "Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it may be, and the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps you had better do the speaking," said Holmes. I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise which Holmes's simple deduction had brought to their faces. "Perhaps I had best say a few words first," said the vicar, "and then you can judge if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis, or whether we should not hasten at once to the scene of this mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here spent last evening in the company of his two brothers, Owen and George, and of his sister Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is near the old stone cross upon the moor. He left them shortly after ten o'clock, playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent health and spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he walked in that direction before breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who explained that he had just been sent for on a most urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally went with him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his sister were seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards still spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their sockets. The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses stricken clean out of them. All three of them, the dead woman and the two demented men, retained upon their faces an expression of the utmost horror--a convulsion of terror which was dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of the presence of anyone in the house, except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that she had slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen or disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of what the horror can be which has frightened a woman to death and two strong men out of their senses. There is the situation, Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can help us to clear it up you will have done a great work." I had hoped that in some way I could coax my companion back into the quiet which had been the object of our journey; but one glance at his intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was now the expectation. He sat for some little time in silence, absorbed in the strange drama which had broken in upon our peace. "I will look into this matter," he said at last. "On the face of it, it would appear to be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you been there yourself, Mr. Roundhay?" "No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the account to the vicarage, and I at once hurried over with him to consult you." "How far is it to the house where this singular tragedy occurred?" "About a mile inland." "Then we shall walk over together. But before we start I must ask you a few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis." The other had been silent all this time, but I had observed that his more controlled excitement was even greater than the obtrusive emotion of the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his anxious gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands clasped convulsively together. His pale lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful experience which had befallen his family, and his dark eyes seemed to reflect something of the horror of the scene. "Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes," said he eagerly. "It is a bad thing to speak of, but I will answer you the truth." "Tell me about last night." "Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has said, and my elder brother George proposed a game of whist afterwards. We sat down about nine o'clock. It was a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I left them all round the table, as merry as could be." "Who let you out?" "Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I shut the hall door behind me. The window of the room in which they sat was closed, but the blind was not drawn down. There was no change in door or window this morning, or any reason to think that any stranger had been to the house. Yet there they sat, driven clean mad with terror, and Brenda lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over the arm of the chair. I'll never get the sight of that room out of my mind so long as I live." "The facts, as you state them, are certainly most remarkable," said Holmes. "I take it that you have no theory yourself which can in any way account for them?" "It's devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!" cried Mortimer Tregennis. "It is not of this world. Something has come into that room which has dashed the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance could do that?" "I fear," said Holmes, "that if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr. Tregennis, I take it you were divided in some way from your family, since they lived together and you had rooms apart?" "That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past and done with. We were a family of tin-miners at Redruth, but we sold our venture to a company, and so retired with enough to keep us. I won't deny that there was some feeling about the division of the money and it stood between us for a time, but it was all forgiven and forgotten, and we were the best of friends together." "Looking back at the evening which you spent together, does anything stand out in your memory as throwing any possible light upon the tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can help me." "There is nothing at all, sir." "Your people were in their usual spirits?" "Never better." "Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any apprehension of coming danger?" "Nothing of the kind." "You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?" Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a moment. "There is one thing occurs to me," said he at last. "As we sat at the table my back was to the window, and my brother George, he being my partner at cards, was facing it. I saw him once look hard over my shoulder, so I turned round and looked also. The blind was up and the window shut, but I could just make out the bushes on the lawn, and it seemed to me for a moment that I saw something moving among them. I couldn't even say if it was man or animal, but I just thought there was something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told me that he had the same feeling. That is all that I can say." "Did you not investigate?" "No; the matter passed as unimportant." "You left them, then, without any premonition of evil?" "None at all." "I am not clear how you came to hear the news so early this morning." "I am an early riser and generally take a walk before breakfast. This morning I had hardly started when the doctor in his carriage overtook me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy down with an urgent message. I sprang in beside him and we drove on. When we got there we looked into that dreadful room. The candles and the fire must have burned out hours before, and they had been sitting there in the dark until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been dead at least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She just lay across the arm of the chair with that look on her face. George and Owen were singing snatches of songs and gibbering like two great apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I couldn't stand it, and the doctor was as white as a sheet. Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of faint, and we nearly had him on our hands as well." "Remarkable--most remarkable!" said Holmes, rising and taking his hat. "I think, perhaps, we had better go down to Tredannick Wartha without further delay. I confess that I have seldom known a case which at first sight presented a more singular problem." Our proceedings of that first morning did little to advance the investigation. It was marked, however, at the outset by an incident which left the most sinister impression upon my mind. The approach to the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a narrow, winding, country lane. While we made our way along it we heard the rattle of a carriage coming towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it drove by us I caught a glimpse through the closed window of a horribly contorted, grinning face glaring out at us. Those staring eyes and gnashing teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision. "My brothers!" cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. "They are taking them to Helston." We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon its way. Then we turned our steps towards this ill-omened house in which they had met their strange fate. It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa than a cottage, with a considerable garden which was already, in that Cornish air, well filled with spring flowers. Towards this garden the window of the sitting-room fronted, and from it, according to Mortimer Tregennis, must have come that thing of evil which had by sheer horror in a single instant blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly and thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the path before we entered the porch. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over the watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged both our feet and the garden path. Inside the house we were met by the elderly Cornish housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl, looked after the wants of the family. She readily answered all Holmes's questions. She had heard nothing in the night. Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and she had never known them more cheerful and prosperous. She had fainted with horror upon entering the room in the morning and seeing that dreadful company round the table. She had, when she recovered, thrown open the window to let the morning air in, and had run down to the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for the doctor. The lady was on her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It took four strong men to get the brothers into the asylum carriage. She would not herself stay in the house another day and was starting that very afternoon to rejoin her family at St. Ives. We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had been a very beautiful girl, though now verging upon middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there still lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had been her last human emotion. From her bedroom we descended to the sitting-room, where this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table were the four guttered and burned-out candles, with the cards scattered over its surface. The chairs had been moved back against the walls, but all else was as it had been the night before. Holmes paced with light, swift steps about the room; he sat in the various chairs, drawing them up and reconstructing their positions. He tested how much of the garden was visible; he examined the floor, the ceiling, and the fireplace; but never once did I see that sudden brightening of his eyes and tightening of his lips which would have told me that he saw some gleam of light in this utter darkness. "Why a fire?" he asked once. "Had they always a fire in this small room on a spring evening?" Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp. For that reason, after his arrival, the fire was lit. "What are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. "I think, Watson, that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have so often and so justly condemned," said he. "With your permission, gentlemen, we will now return to our cottage, for I am not aware that any new factor is likely to come to our notice here. I will turn the facts over in my mind, Mr. Tregennis, and should anything occur to me I will certainly communicate with you and the vicar. In the meantime I wish you both good-morning." It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that Holmes broke his complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his armchair, his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down, his forehead contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he laid down his pipe and sprang to his feet. "It won't do, Watson!" said he with a laugh. "Let us walk along the cliffs together and search for flint arrows. We are more likely to find them than clues to this problem. To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson--all else will come. "Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson," he continued as we skirted the cliffs together. "Let us get a firm grip of the very little which we DO know, so that when fresh facts arise we may be ready to fit them into their places. I take it, in the first place, that neither of us is prepared to admit diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out of our minds. Very good. There remain three persons who have been grievously stricken by some conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm ground. Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left the room. That is a very important point. The presumption is that it was within a few minutes afterwards. The cards still lay upon the table. It was already past their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not changed their position or pushed back their chairs. I repeat, then, that the occurrence was immediately after his departure, and not later than eleven o'clock last night. "Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the movements of Mortimer Tregennis after he left the room. In this there is no difficulty, and they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my methods as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot than might otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path took it admirably. Last night was also wet, you will remember, and it was not difficult--having obtained a sample print--to pick out his track among others and to follow his movements. He appears to have walked away swiftly in the direction of the vicarage. "If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and yet some outside person affected the card-players, how can we reconstruct that person, and how was such an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs. Porter may be eliminated. She is evidently harmless. Is there any evidence that someone crept up to the garden window and in some manner produced so terrific an effect that he drove those who saw it out of their senses? The only suggestion in this direction comes from Mortimer Tregennis himself, who says that his brother spoke about some movement in the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the night was rainy, cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm these people would be compelled to place his very face against the glass before he could be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border outside this window, but no indication of a footmark. It is difficult to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so terrible an impression upon the company, nor have we found any possible motive for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You perceive our difficulties, Watson?" "They are only too clear," I answered with conviction. "And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that they are not insurmountable," said Holmes. "I fancy that among your extensive archives, Watson, you may find some which were nearly as obscure. Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until more accurate data are available, and devote the rest of our morning to the pursuit of neolithic man." I may have commented upon my friend's power of mental detachment, but never have I wondered at it more than upon that spring morning in Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed upon celts, arrowheads, and shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery were waiting for his solution. It was not until we had returned in the afternoon to our cottage that we found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our minds back to the matter in hand. Neither of us needed to be told who that visitor was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the beard--golden at the fringes and white near the lips, save for the nicotine stain from his perpetual cigar--all these were as well known in London as in Africa, and could only be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr. Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer. We had heard of his presence in the district and had once or twice caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths. He made no advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamed of doing so to him, as it was well known that it was his love of seclusion which caused him to spend the greater part of the intervals between his journeys in a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he lived an absolutely lonely life, attending to his own simple wants and paying little apparent heed to the affairs of his neighbours. It was a surprise to me, therefore, to hear him asking Holmes in an eager voice whether he had made any advance in his reconstruction of this mysterious episode. "The county police are utterly at fault," said he, "but perhaps your wider experience has suggested some conceivable explanation. My only claim to being taken into your confidence is that during my many residences here I have come to know this family of Tregennis very well--indeed, upon my Cornish mother's side I could call them cousins--and their strange fate has naturally been a great shock to me. I may tell you that I had got as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, but the news reached me this morning, and I came straight back again to help in the inquiry." Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Did you lose your boat through it?" "I will take the next." "Dear me! that is friendship indeed." "I tell you they were relatives." "Quite so--cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboard the ship?" "Some of it, but the main part at the hotel." "I see. But surely this event could not have found its way into the Plymouth morning papers." "No, sir; I had a telegram." "Might I ask from whom?" A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer. "You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes." "It is my business." With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure. "I have no objection to telling you," he said. "It was Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me." "Thank you," said Holmes. "I may say in answer to your original question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject of this case, but that I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It would be premature to say more." "Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?" "No, I can hardly answer that." "Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." The famous doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable ill-humour, and within five minutes Holmes had followed him. I saw him no more until the evening, when he returned with a slow step and haggard face which assured me that he had made no great progress with his investigation. He glanced at a telegram which awaited him and threw it into the grate. "From the Plymouth hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name of it from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale's account was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last night there, and that he has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on to Africa, while he returned to be present at this investigation. What do you make of that, Watson?" "He is deeply interested." "Deeply interested--yes. There is a thread here which we had not yet grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson, for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand. When it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us." Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened up an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my window in the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking up, saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at our door, and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our garden path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet him. Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but at last in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him. "We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-ridden!" he cried. "Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his hands!" He danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it were not for his ashy face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his terrible news. "Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the same symptoms as the rest of his family." Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant. "Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?" "Yes, I can." "Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are entirely at your disposal. Hurry--hurry, before things get disarranged." The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor or the police, so that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me describe exactly the scene as we saw it upon that misty March morning. It has left an impression which can never be effaced from my mind. The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness. The servant who had first entered had thrown up the window, or it would have been even more intolerable. This might partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning back in his chair, his thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead, and his lean dark face turned towards the window and twisted into the same distortion of terror which had marked the features of his dead sister. His limbs were convulsed and his fingers contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm of fear. He was fully clothed, though there were signs that his dressing had been done in a hurry. We had already learned that his bed had been slept in, and that the tragic end had come to him in the early morning. One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes's phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the moment that he entered the fatal apartment. In an instant he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast around and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give him some fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with loud ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry. The lamp, which was an ordinary standard, he examined with minute care, making certain measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized with his lens the talc shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped off some ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of them into an envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally, just as the doctor and the official police put in an appearance, he beckoned to the vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn. "I am glad to say that my investigation has not been entirely barren," he remarked. "I cannot remain to discuss the matter with the police, but I should be exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you would give the inspector my compliments and direct his attention to the bedroom window and to the sitting-room lamp. Each is suggestive, and together they are almost conclusive. If the police would desire further information I shall be happy to see any of them at the cottage. And now, Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better employed elsewhere." It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an amateur, or that they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of investigation; but it is certain that we heard nothing from them for the next two days. During this time Holmes spent some of his time smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in country walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours without remark as to where he had been. One experiment served to show me the line of his investigation. He had bought a lamp which was the duplicate of the one which had burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy. This he filled with the same oil as that used at the vicarage, and he carefully timed the period which it would take to be exhausted. Another experiment which he made was of a more unpleasant nature, and one which I am not likely ever to forget. "You will remember, Watson," he remarked one afternoon, "that there is a single common point of resemblance in the varying reports which have reached us. This concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the room in each case upon those who had first entered it. You will recollect that Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the episode of his last visit to his brother's house, remarked that the doctor on entering the room fell into a chair? You had forgotten? Well I can answer for it that it was so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted upon entering the room and had afterwards opened the window. In the second case--that of Mortimer Tregennis himself--you cannot have forgotten the horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived, though the servant had thrown open the window. That servant, I found upon inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You will admit, Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In each case there is evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there is combustion going on in the room--in the one case a fire, in the other a lamp. The fire was needed, but the lamp was lit--as a comparison of the oil consumed will show--long after it was broad daylight. Why? Surely because there is some connection between three things--the burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness or death of those unfortunate people. That is clear, is it not?" "It would appear so." "At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis. We will suppose, then, that something was burned in each case which produced an atmosphere causing strange toxic effects. Very good. In the first instance--that of the Tregennis family--this substance was placed in the fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally carry fumes to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect the effects of the poison to be less than in the second case, where there was less escape for the vapour. The result seems to indicate that it was so, since in the first case only the woman, who had presumably the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others exhibiting that temporary or permanent lunacy which is evidently the first effect of the drug. In the second case the result was complete. The facts, therefore, seem to bear out the theory of a poison which worked by combustion. "With this train of reasoning in my head I naturally looked about in Mortimer Tregennis's room to find some remains of this substance. The obvious place to look was the talc shelf or smoke-guard of the lamp. There, sure enough, I perceived a number of flaky ashes, and round the edges a fringe of brownish powder, which had not yet been consumed. Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in an envelope." "Why half, Holmes?" "It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the official police force. I leave them all the evidence which I found. The poison still remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it. Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought I knew my Watson. This chair I will place opposite yours, so that we may be the same distance from the poison and face to face. The door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position to watch the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our powder--or what remains of it--from the envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp. So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await developments." They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my chair before I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very first whiff of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes, and my mind told me that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon my appalled senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold, whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing horror took possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my eyes were protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my tongue like leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that something must surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself. At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror--the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in. Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension at each other to mark the last traces of that terrific experience which we had undergone. "Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry." "You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you." He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude to those about him. "It would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson," said he. "A candid observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined that the effect could be so sudden and so severe." He dashed into the cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held at full arm's length, he threw it among a bank of brambles. "We must give the room a little time to clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?" "None whatever." "But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come into the arbour here and let us discuss it together. That villainous stuff seems still to linger round my throat. I think we must admit that all the evidence points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been the criminal in the first tragedy, though he was the victim in the second one. We must remember, in the first place, that there is some story of a family quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that quarrel may have been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot tell. When I think of Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the small shrewd, beady eyes behind the spectacles, he is not a man whom I should judge to be of a particularly forgiving disposition. Well, in the next place, you will remember that this idea of someone moving in the garden, which took our attention for a moment from the real cause of the tragedy, emanated from him. He had a motive in misleading us. Finally, if he did not throw the substance into the fire at the moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The affair happened immediately after his departure. Had anyone else come in, the family would certainly have risen from the table. Besides, in peaceful Cornwall, visitors did not arrive after ten o'clock at night. We may take it, then, that all the evidence points to Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit." "Then his own death was suicide!" "Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not impossible supposition. The man who had the guilt upon his soul of having brought such a fate upon his own family might well be driven by remorse to inflict it upon himself. There are, however, some cogent reasons against it. Fortunately, there is one man in England who knows all about it, and I have made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts this afternoon from his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his time. Perhaps you would kindly step this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducing a chemical experiment indoors which has left our little room hardly fit for the reception of so distinguished a visitor." I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now the majestic figure of the great African explorer appeared upon the path. He turned in some surprise towards the rustic arbour in which we sat. "You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about an hour ago, and I have come, though I really do not know why I should obey your summons." "Perhaps we can clear the point up before we separate," said Holmes. "Meanwhile, I am much obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence. You will excuse this informal reception in the open air, but my friend Watson and I have nearly furnished an additional chapter to what the papers call the Cornish Horror, and we prefer a clear atmosphere for the present. Perhaps, since the matters which we have to discuss will affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it is as well that we should talk where there can be no eavesdropping." The explorer took his cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at my companion. "I am at a loss to know, sir," he said, "what you can have to speak about which affects me personally in a very intimate fashion." "The killing of Mortimer Tregennis," said Holmes. For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale's fierce face turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate veins started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward with clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and with a violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps, more suggestive of danger than his hot-headed outburst. "I have lived so long among savages and beyond the law," said he, "that I have got into the way of being a law to myself. You would do well, Mr. Holmes, not to forget it, for I have no desire to do you an injury." "Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale. Surely the clearest proof of it is that, knowing what I know, I have sent for you and not for the police." Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the first time in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance of power in Holmes's manner which could not be withstood. Our visitor stammered for a moment, his great hands opening and shutting in his agitation. "What do you mean?" he asked at last. "If this is bluff upon your part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a bad man for your experiment. Let us have no more beating about the bush. What DO you mean?" "I will tell you," said Holmes, "and the reason why I tell you is that I hope frankness may beget frankness. What my next step may be will depend entirely upon the nature of your own defence." "My defence?" "Yes, sir." "My defence against what?" "Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis." Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Upon my word, you are getting on," said he. "Do all your successes depend upon this prodigious power of bluff?" "The bluff," said Holmes sternly, "is upon your side, Dr. Leon Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a proof I will tell you some of the facts upon which my conclusions are based. Of your return from Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go on to Africa, I will say nothing save that it first informed me that you were one of the factors which had to be taken into account in reconstructing this drama--" "I came back--" "I have heard your reasons and regard them as unconvincing and inadequate. We will pass that. You came down here to ask me whom I suspected. I refused to answer you. You then went to the vicarage, waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your cottage." "How do you know that?" "I followed you." "I saw no one." "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. You spent a restless night at your cottage, and you formed certain plans, which in the early morning you proceeded to put into execution. Leaving your door just as day was breaking, you filled your pocket with some reddish gravel that was lying heaped beside your gate." Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes in amazement. "You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from the vicarage. You were wearing, I may remark, the same pair of ribbed tennis shoes which are at the present moment upon your feet. At the vicarage you passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming out under the window of the lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight, but the household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the gravel from your pocket, and you threw it up at the window above you." Sterndale sprang to his feet. "I believe that you are the devil himself!" he cried. Holmes smiled at the compliment. "It took two, or possibly three, handfuls before the lodger came to the window. You beckoned him to come down. He dressed hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room. You entered by the window. There was an interview--a short one--during which you walked up and down the room. Then you passed out and closed the window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a cigar and watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of Tregennis, you withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do you justify such conduct, and what were the motives for your actions? If you prevaricate or trifle with me, I give you my assurance that the matter will pass out of my hands forever." Our visitor's face had turned ashen gray as he listened to the words of his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with his face sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it on the rustic table before us. "That is why I have done it," said he. It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful woman. Holmes stooped over it. "Brenda Tregennis," said he. "Yes, Brenda Tregennis," repeated our visitor. "For years I have loved her. For years she has loved me. There is the secret of that Cornish seclusion which people have marvelled at. It has brought me close to the one thing on earth that was dear to me. I could not marry her, for I have a wife who has left me for years and yet whom, by the deplorable laws of England, I could not divorce. For years Brenda waited. For years I waited. And this is what we have waited for." A terrible sob shook his great frame, and he clutched his throat under his brindled beard. Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke on: "The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He would tell you that she was an angel upon earth. That was why he telegraphed to me and I returned. What was my baggage or Africa to me when I learned that such a fate had come upon my darling? There you have the missing clue to my action, Mr. Holmes." "Proceed," said my friend. Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet and laid it upon the table. On the outside was written "Radix pedis diaboli" with a red poison label beneath it. He pushed it towards me. "I understand that you are a doctor, sir. Have you ever heard of this preparation?" "Devil's-foot root! No, I have never heard of it." "It is no reflection upon your professional knowledge," said he, "for I believe that, save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is no other specimen in Europe. It has not yet found its way either into the pharmacopoeia or into the literature of toxicology. The root is shaped like a foot, half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful name given by a botanical missionary. It is used as an ordeal poison by the medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa and is kept as a secret among them. This particular specimen I obtained under very extraordinary circumstances in the Ubangi country." He opened the paper as he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like powder. "Well, sir?" asked Holmes sternly. "I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually occurred, for you already know so much that it is clearly to my interest that you should know all. I have already explained the relationship in which I stood to the Tregennis family. For the sake of the sister I was friendly with the brothers. There was a family quarrel about money which estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to be made up, and I afterwards met him as I did the others. He was a sly, subtle, scheming man, and several things arose which gave me a suspicion of him, but I had no cause for any positive quarrel. "One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage and I showed him some of my African curiosities. Among other things I exhibited this powder, and I told him of its strange properties, how it stimulates those brain centres which control the emotion of fear, and how either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy native who is subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him also how powerless European science would be to detect it. How he took it I cannot say, for I never left the room, but there is no doubt that it was then, while I was opening cabinets and stooping to boxes, that he managed to abstract some of the devil's-foot root. I well remember how he plied me with questions as to the amount and the time that was needed for its effect, but I little dreamed that he could have a personal reason for asking. "I thought no more of the matter until the vicar's telegram reached me at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I would be at sea before the news could reach me, and that I should be lost for years in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I could not listen to the details without feeling assured that my poison had been used. I came round to see you on the chance that some other explanation had suggested itself to you. But there could be none. I was convinced that Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer; that for the sake of money, and with the idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his family were all insane he would be the sole guardian of their joint property, he had used the devil's-foot powder upon them, driven two of them out of their senses, and killed his sister Brenda, the one human being whom I have ever loved or who has ever loved me. There was his crime; what was to be his punishment? "Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I knew that the facts were true, but could I help to make a jury of countrymen believe so fantastic a story? I might or I might not. But I could not afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I have said to you once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside the law, and that I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it was even now. I determined that the fate which he had given to others should be shared by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon him with my own hand. In all England there can be no man who sets less value upon his own life than I do at the present moment. "Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. I did, as you say, after a restless night, set off early from my cottage. I foresaw the difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some gravel from the pile which you have mentioned, and I used it to throw up to his window. He came down and admitted me through the window of the sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair, paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder above it, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my heart was flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent darling had not felt before him. There is my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would have done as much yourself. At any rate, I am in your hands. You can take what steps you like. As I have already said, there is no man living who can fear death less than I do." Holmes sat for some little time in silence. "What were your plans?" he asked at last. "I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My work there is but half finished." "Go and do the other half," said Holmes. "I, at least, am not prepared to prevent you." Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and walked from the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his pouch. "Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcome change," said he. "I think you must agree, Watson, that it is not a case in which we are called upon to interfere. Our investigation has been independent, and our action shall be so also. You would not denounce the man?" "Certainly not," I answered. "I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not offend your intelligence by explaining what is obvious. The gravel upon the window-sill was, of course, the starting-point of my research. It was unlike anything in the vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr. Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp shining in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield were successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and go back with a clear conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots which are surely to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic speech." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Adventure of the Devil's Foot, by Arthur Conan Doyle Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What year is it when Anthony Rogers finally disembarks from the coal mine?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "2419." ]	27,514	narrativeqa	en	null	b92c3f3f94368153267f267845b8140ccac30015795b574d	Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net ARMAGEDDON--2419 A.D. _By Philip Francis Nowlan_ _Here, once more, is a real scientifiction story plus. It is a story which will make the heart of many readers leap with joy._ _We have rarely printed a story in this magazine that for scientific interest, as well as suspense, could hold its own with this particular story. We prophesy that this story will become more valuable as the years go by. It certainly holds a number of interesting prophecies, of which no doubt, many will come true. For wealth of science, it will be hard to beat for some time to come. It is one of those rare stories that will bear reading and re-reading many times._ _This story has impressed us so favorably, that we hope the author may be induced to write a sequel to it soon._ Foreword Elsewhere I have set down, for whatever interest they have in this, the 25th Century, my personal recollections of the 20th Century. Now it occurs to me that my memoirs of the 25th Century may have an equal interest 500 years from now--particularly in view of that unique perspective from which I have seen the 25th Century, entering it as I did, in one leap across a gap of 492 years. This statement requires elucidation. There are still many in the world who are not familiar with my unique experience. Five centuries from now there may be many more, especially if civilization is fated to endure any worse convulsions than those which have occurred between 1975 A.D. and the present time. I should state therefore, that I, Anthony Rogers, am, so far as I know, the only man alive whose normal span of eighty-one years of life has been spread over a period of 573 years. To be precise, I lived the first twenty-nine years of my life between 1898 and 1927; the other fifty-two since 2419. The gap between these two, a period of nearly five hundred years, I spent in a state of suspended animation, free from the ravages of katabolic processes, and without any apparent effect on my physical or mental faculties. When I began my long sleep, man had just begun his real conquest of the air in a sudden series of transoceanic flights in airplanes driven by internal combustion motors. He had barely begun to speculate on the possibilities of harnessing sub-atomic forces, and had made no further practical penetration into the field of ethereal pulsations than the primitive radio and television of that day. The United States of America was the most powerful nation in the world, its political, financial, industrial and scientific influence being supreme; and in the arts also it was rapidly climbing into leadership. I awoke to find the America I knew a total wreck--to find Americans a hunted race in their own land, hiding in the dense forests that covered the shattered and leveled ruins of their once magnificent cities, desperately preserving, and struggling to develop in their secret retreats, the remnants of their culture and science--and the undying flame of their sturdy independence. World domination was in the hands of Mongolians and the center of world power lay in inland China, with Americans one of the few races of mankind unsubdued--and it must be admitted in fairness to the truth, not worth the trouble of subduing in the eyes of the Han Airlords who ruled North America as titular tributaries of the Most Magnificent. For they needed not the forests in which the Americans lived, nor the resources of the vast territories these forests covered. With the perfection to which they had reduced the synthetic production of necessities and luxuries, their remarkable development of scientific processes and mechanical accomplishment of work, they had no economic need for the forests, and no economic desire for the enslaved labor of an unruly race. They had all they needed for their magnificently luxurious and degraded scheme of civilization, within the walls of the fifteen cities of sparkling glass they had flung skyward on the sites of ancient American centers, into the bowels of the earth underneath them, and with relatively small surrounding areas of agriculture. Complete domination of the air rendered communication between these centers a matter of ease and safety. Occasional destructive raids on the waste lands were considered all that was necessary to keep the "wild" Americans on the run within the shelter of their forests, and prevent their becoming a menace to the Han civilization. But nearly three hundred years of easily maintained security, the last century of which had been nearly sterile in scientific, social and economic progress, had softened and devitalized the Hans. It had likewise developed, beneath the protecting foliage of the forest, the growth of a vigorous new American civilization, remarkable in the mobility and flexibility of its organization, in its conquest of almost insuperable obstacles, in the development and guarding of its industrial and scientific resources, all in anticipation of that "Day of Hope" to which it had been looking forward for generations, when it would be strong enough to burst from the green chrysalis of the forests, soar into the upper air lanes and destroy the yellow incubus. At the time I awoke, the "Day of Hope" was almost at hand. I shall not attempt to set forth a detailed history of the Second War of Independence, for that has been recorded already by better historians than I am. Instead I shall confine myself largely to the part I was fortunate enough to play in this struggle and in the events leading up to it. [Illustration: Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance.] It all resulted from my interest in radioactive gases. During the latter part of 1927 my company, the American Radioactive Gas Corporation, had been keeping me busy investigating reports of unusual phenomena observed in certain abandoned coal mines near the Wyoming Valley, in Pennsylvania. With two assistants and a complete equipment of scientific instruments, I began the exploration of a deserted working in a mountainous district, where several weeks before, a number of mining engineers had reported traces of carnotite[1] and what they believed to be radioactive gases. Their report was not without foundation, it was apparent from the outset, for in our examination of the upper levels of the mine, our instruments indicated a vigorous radioactivity. [1] A hydrovanadate of uranium, and other metals; used as a source of radium compounds. On the morning of December 15th, we descended to one of the lowest levels. To our surprise, we found no water there. Obviously it had drained off through some break in the strata. We noticed too that the rock in the side walls of the shaft was soft, evidently due to the radioactivity, and pieces crumbled under foot rather easily. We made our way cautiously down the shaft, when suddenly the rotted timbers above us gave way. I jumped ahead, barely escaping the avalanche of coal and soft rock, but my companions, who were several paces behind me, were buried under it, and undoubtedly met instant death. I was trapped. Return was impossible. With my electric torch I explored the shaft to its end, but could find no other way out. The air became increasingly difficult to breathe, probably from the rapid accumulation of the radioactive gas. In a little while my senses reeled and I lost consciousness. When I awoke, there was a cool and refreshing circulation of air in the shaft. I had no thought that I had been unconscious more than a few hours, although it seems that the radioactive gas had kept me in a state of suspended animation for something like 500 years. My awakening, I figured out later, had been due to some shifting of the strata which reopened the shaft and cleared the atmosphere in the working. This must have been the case, for I was able to struggle back up the shaft over a pile of debris, and stagger up the long incline to the mouth of the mine, where an entirely different world, overgrown with a vast forest and no visible sign of human habitation, met my eyes. I shall pass over the days of mental agony that followed in my attempt to grasp the meaning of it all. There were times when I felt that I was on the verge of insanity. I roamed the unfamiliar forest like a lost soul. Had it not been for the necessity of improvising traps and crude clubs with which to slay my food, I believe I should have gone mad. Suffice it to say, however, that I survived this psychic crisis. I shall begin my narrative proper with my first contact with Americans of the year 2419 A.D. CHAPTER I Floating Men My first glimpse of a human being of the 25th Century was obtained through a portion of woodland where the trees were thinly scattered, with a dense forest beyond. I had been wandering along aimlessly, and hopelessly, musing over my strange fate, when I noticed a figure that cautiously backed out of the dense growth across the glade. I was about to call out joyfully, but there was something furtive about the figure that prevented me. The boy's attention (for it seemed to be a lad of fifteen or sixteen) was centered tensely on the heavy growth of trees from which he had just emerged. He was clad in rather tight-fitting garments entirely of green, and wore a helmet-like cap of the same color. High around his waist he wore a broad, thick belt, which bulked up in the back across the shoulders, into something of the proportions of a knapsack. As I was taking in these details, there came a vivid flash and heavy detonation, like that of a hand grenade, not far to the left of him. He threw up an arm and staggered a bit in a queer, gliding way; then he recovered himself and slipped cautiously away from the place of the explosion, crouching slightly, and still facing the denser part of the forest. Every few steps he would raise his arm, and point into the forest with something he held in his hand. Wherever he pointed there was a terrific explosion, deeper in among the trees. It came to me then that he was shooting with some form of pistol, though there was neither flash nor detonation from the muzzle of the weapon itself. After firing several times, he seemed to come to a sudden resolution, and turning in my general direction, leaped--to my amazement sailing through the air between the sparsely scattered trees in such a jump as I had never in my life seen before. That leap must have carried him a full fifty feet, although at the height of his arc, he was not more than ten or twelve feet from the ground. When he alighted, his foot caught in a projecting root, and he sprawled gently forward. I say "gently" for he did not crash down as I expected him to do. The only thing I could compare it with was a slow-motion cinema, although I had never seen one in which horizontal motions were registered at normal speed and only the vertical movements were slowed down. Due to my surprise, I suppose my brain did not function with its normal quickness, for I gazed at the prone figure for several seconds before I saw the blood that oozed out from under the tight green cap. Regaining my power of action, I dragged him out of sight back of the big tree. For a few moments I busied myself in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The wound was not a deep one. My companion was more dazed than hurt. But what of the pursuers? I took the weapon from his grasp and examined it hurriedly. It was not unlike the automatic pistol to which I was accustomed, except that it apparently fired with a button instead of a trigger. I inserted several fresh rounds of ammunition into its magazine from my companion's belt, as rapidly as I could, for I soon heard, near us, the suppressed conversation of his pursuers. There followed a series of explosions round about us, but none very close. They evidently had not spotted our hiding place, and were firing at random. I waited tensely, balancing the gun in my hand, to accustom myself to its weight and probable throw. Then I saw a movement in the green foliage of a tree not far away, and the head and face of a man appeared. Like my companion, he was clad entirely in green, which made his figure difficult to distinguish. But his face could be seen clearly. It was an evil face, and had murder in it. That decided me. I raised the gun and fired. My aim was bad, for there was no kick in the gun, as I had expected, and I hit the trunk of the tree several feet below him. It blew him from his perch like a crumpled bit of paper, and he _floated_ down to the ground, like some limp, dead thing, gently lowered by an invisible hand. The tree, its trunk blown apart by the explosion, crashed down. There followed another series of explosions around us. These guns we were using made no sound in the firing, and my opponents were evidently as much at sea as to my position as I was to theirs. So I made no attempt to reply to their fire, contenting myself with keeping a sharp lookout in their general direction. And patience had its reward. Very soon I saw a cautious movement in the top of another tree. Exposing myself as little as possible, I aimed carefully at the tree trunk and fired again. A shriek followed the explosion. I heard the tree crash down; then a groan. There was silence for a while. Then I heard a faint sound of boughs swishing. I shot three times in its direction, pressing the button as rapidly as I could. Branches crashed down where my shells had exploded, but there was no body. Then I saw one of them. He was starting one of those amazing leaps from the bough of one tree to another, about forty feet away. I threw up my gun impulsively and fired. By now I had gotten the feel of the weapon, and my aim was good. I hit him. The "bullet" must have penetrated his body and exploded. For one moment I saw him flying through the air. Then the explosion, and he had vanished. He never finished his leap. It was annihilation. How many more of them there were I don't know. But this must have been too much for them. They used a final round of shells on us, all of which exploded harmlessly, and shortly after I heard them swishing and crashing away from us through the tree tops. Not one of them descended to earth. Now I had time to give some attention to my companion. She was, I found, a girl, and not a boy. Despite her bulky appearance, due to the peculiar belt strapped around her body high up under the arms, she was very slender, and very pretty. There was a stream not far away, from which I brought water and bathed her face and wound. Apparently the mystery of these long leaps, the monkey-like ability to jump from bough to bough, and of the bodies that floated gently down instead of falling, lay in the belt. The thing was some sort of anti-gravity belt that almost balanced the weight of the wearer, thereby tremendously multiplying the propulsive power of the leg muscles, and the lifting power of the arms. When the girl came to, she regarded me as curiously as I did her, and promptly began to quiz me. Her accent and intonation puzzled me a lot, but nevertheless we were able to understand each other fairly well, except for certain words and phrases. I explained what had happened while she lay unconscious, and she thanked me simply for saving her life. "You are a strange exchange," she said, eying my clothing quizzically. Evidently she found it mirth provoking by contrast with her own neatly efficient garb. "Don't you understand what I mean by 'exchange?' I mean ah--let me see--a stranger, somebody from some other gang. What gang do you belong to?" (She pronounced it "gan," with only a suspicion of a nasal sound.) I laughed. "I'm not a gangster," I said. But she evidently did not understand this word. "I don't belong to any gang," I explained, "and never did. Does everybody belong to a gang nowadays?" "Naturally," she said, frowning. "If you don't belong to a gang, where and how do you live? Why have you not found and joined a gang? How do you eat? Where do you get your clothing?" "I've been eating wild game for the past two weeks," I explained, "and this clothing I--er--ah--." I paused, wondering how I could explain that it must be many hundred years old. In the end I saw I would have to tell my story as well as I could, piecing it together with my assumptions as to what had happened. She listened patiently; incredulously at first, but with more confidence as I went on. When I had finished, she sat thinking for a long time. "That's hard to believe," she said, "but I believe it." She looked me over with frank interest. "Were you married when you slipped into unconsciousness down in that mine?" she asked me suddenly. I assured her I had never married. "Well, that simplifies matters," she continued. "You see, if you were technically classed as a family man, I could take you back only as an invited exchange and I, being unmarried, and no relation of yours, couldn't do the inviting." CHAPTER II The Forest Gangs She gave me a brief outline of the very peculiar social and economic system under which her people lived. At least it seemed very peculiar from my 20th Century viewpoint. I learned with amazement that exactly 492 years had passed over my head as I lay unconscious in the mine. Wilma, for that was her name, did not profess to be a historian, and so could give me only a sketchy outline of the wars that had been fought, and the manner in which such radical changes had come about. It seemed that another war had followed the First World War, in which nearly all the European nations had banded together to break the financial and industrial power of America. They succeeded in their purpose, though they were beaten, for the war was a terrific one, and left America, like themselves, gasping, bleeding and disorganized, with only the hollow shell of a victory. This opportunity had been seized by the Russian Soviets, who had made a coalition with the Chinese, to sweep over all Europe and reduce it to a state of chaos. America, industrially geared to world production and the world trade, collapsed economically, and there ensued a long period of stagnation and desperate attempts at economic reconstruction. But it was impossible to stave off war with the Mongolians, who by now had subjugated the Russians, and were aiming at a world empire. In about 2109, it seems, the conflict was finally precipitated. The Mongolians, with overwhelming fleets of great airships, and a science that far outstripped that of crippled America, swept in over the Pacific and Atlantic Coasts, and down from Canada, annihilating American aircraft, armies and cities with their terrific _disintegrator_ rays. These rays were projected from a machine not unlike a searchlight in appearance, the reflector of which, however, was not material substance, but a complicated balance of interacting electronic forces. This resulted in a terribly destructive beam. Under its influence, material substance melted into "nothingness"; i. e., into electronic vibrations. It destroyed all then known substances, from air to the most dense metals and stone. They settled down to the establishment of what became known as the Han dynasty in America, as a sort of province in their World Empire. Those were terrible days for the Americans. They were hunted like wild beasts. Only those survived who finally found refuge in mountains, canyons and forests. Government was at an end among them. Anarchy prevailed for several generations. Most would have been eager to submit to the Hans, even if it meant slavery. But the Hans did not want them, for they themselves had marvelous machinery and scientific process by which all difficult labor was accomplished. Ultimately they stopped their active search for, and annihilation of, the widely scattered groups of now savage Americans. So long as they remained hidden in their forests, and did not venture near the great cities the Hans had built, little attention was paid to them. Then began the building of the new American civilization. Families and individuals gathered together in clans or "gangs" for mutual protection. For nearly a century they lived a nomadic and primitive life, moving from place to place, in desperate fear of the casual and occasional Han air raids, and the terrible disintegrator ray. As the frequency of these raids decreased, they began to stay permanently in given localities, organizing upon lines which in many respects were similar to those of the military households of the Norman feudal barons, except that instead of gathering together in castles, their defense tactics necessitated a certain scattering of living quarters for families and individuals. They lived virtually in the open air, in the forests, in green tents, resorting to camouflage tactics that would conceal their presence from air observers. They dug underground factories and laboratories, that they might better be shielded from the electrical detectors of the Hans. They tapped the radio communication lines of the Hans, with crude instruments at first; better ones later on. They bent every effort toward the redevelopment of science. For many generations they labored as unseen, unknown scholars of the Hans, picking up their knowledge piecemeal, as fast as they were able to. During the earlier part of this period, there were many deadly wars fought between the various gangs, and occasional courageous but childishly futile attacks upon the Hans, followed by terribly punitive raids. But as knowledge progressed, the sense of American brotherhood redeveloped. Reciprocal arrangements were made among the gangs over constantly increasing areas. Trade developed to a certain extent, as between one gang and another. But the interchange of knowledge became more important than that of goods, as skill in the handling of synthetic processes developed. Within the gang, an economy was developed that was a compromise between individual liberty and a military socialism. The right of private property was limited practically to personal possessions, but private privileges were many, and sacredly regarded. Stimulation to achievement lay chiefly in the winning of various kinds of leadership and prerogatives, and only in a very limited degree in the hope of owning anything that might be classified as "wealth," and nothing that might be classified as "resources." Resources of every description, for military safety and efficiency, belonged as a matter of public interest to the community as a whole. In the meantime, through these many generations, the Hans had developed a luxury economy, and with it the perfection of gilded vice and degradation. The Americans were regarded as "wild men of the woods." And since they neither needed nor wanted the woods or the wild men, they treated them as beasts, and were conscious of no human brotherhood with them. As time went on, and synthetic processes of producing foods and materials were further developed, less and less ground was needed by the Hans for the purposes of agriculture, and finally, even the working of mines was abandoned when it became cheaper to build up metal from electronic vibrations than to dig them out of the ground. The Han race, devitalized by its vices and luxuries, with machinery and scientific processes to satisfy its every want, with virtually no necessity of labor, began to assume a defensive attitude toward the Americans. And quite naturally, the Americans regarded the Hans with a deep, grim hatred. Conscious of individual superiority as men, knowing that latterly they were outstripping the Hans in science and civilization, they longed desperately for the day when they should be powerful enough to rise and annihilate the Yellow Blight that lay over the continent. At the time of my awakening, the gangs were rather loosely organized, but were considering the establishment of a special military force, whose special business it would be to harry the Hans and bring down their air ships whenever possible without causing general alarm among the Mongolians. This force was destined to become the nucleus of the national force, when the Day of Retribution arrived. But that, however, did not happen for ten years, and is another story. [Illustration: On the left of the illustration is a Han girl, and on the right is an American girl, who, like all of her race, is equipped with an inertron belt and a rocket gun.] Wilma told me she was a member of the Wyoming Gang, which claimed the entire Wyoming Valley as its territory, under the leadership of Boss Hart. Her mother and father were dead, and she was unmarried, so she was not a "family member." She lived in a little group of tents known as Camp 17, under a woman Camp Boss, with seven other girls. Her duties alternated between military or police scouting and factory work. For the two-week period which would end the next day, she had been on "air patrol." This did not mean, as I first imagined, that she was flying, but rather that she was on the lookout for Han ships over this outlying section of the Wyoming territory, and had spent most of her time perched in the tree tops scanning the skies. Had she seen one she would have fired a "drop flare" several miles off to one side, which would ignite when it was floating vertically toward the earth, so that the direction or point from which it had been fired might not be guessed by the airship and bring a blasting play of the disintegrator ray in her vicinity. Other members of the air patrol would send up rockets on seeing hers, until finally a scout equipped with an ultrophone, which, unlike the ancient radio, operated on the ultronic ethereal vibrations, would pass the warning simultaneously to the headquarters of the Wyoming Gang and other communities within a radius of several hundred miles, not to mention the few American rocket ships that might be in the air, and which instantly would duck to cover either through forest clearings or by flattening down to earth in green fields where their coloring would probably protect them from observation. The favorite American method of propulsion was known as "_rocketing_." The _rocket_ is what I would describe, from my 20th Century comprehension of the matter, as an extremely powerful gas blast, atomically produced through the stimulation of chemical action. Scientists of today regard it as a childishly simple reaction, but by that very virtue, most economical and efficient. But tomorrow, she explained, she would go back to work in the cloth plant, where she would take charge of one of the synthetic processes by which those wonderful substitutes for woven fabrics of wool, cotton and silk are produced. At the end of another two weeks, she would be back on military duty again, perhaps at the same work, or maybe as a "contact guard," on duty where the territory of the Wyomings merged with that of the Delawares, or the "Susquannas" (Susquehannas) or one of the half dozen other "gangs" in that section of the country which I knew as Pennsylvania and New York States. Wilma cleared up for me the mystery of those flying leaps which she and her assailants had made, and explained in the following manner, how the inertron belt balances weight: "_Jumpers_" were in common use at the time I "awoke," though they were costly, for at that time _inertron_ had not been produced in very great quantity. They were very useful in the forest. They were belts, strapped high under the arms, containing an amount of inertron adjusted to the wearer's weight and purposes. In effect they made a man weigh as little as he desired; two pounds if he liked. "_Floaters_" are a later development of "_jumpers_"--rocket motors encased in _inertron_ blocks and strapped to the back in such a way that the wearer floats, when drifting, facing slightly downward. With his motor in operation, he moves like a diver, headforemost, controlling his direction by twisting his body and by movements of his outstretched arms and hands. Ballast weights locked in the front of the belt adjust weight and lift. Some men prefer a few ounces of weight in floating, using a slight motor thrust to overcome this. Others prefer a buoyance balance of a few ounces. The inadvertent dropping of weight is not a serious matter. The motor thrust always can be used to descend. But as an extra precaution, in case the motor should fail, for any reason, there are built into every belt a number of detachable sections, one or more of which can be discarded to balance off any loss in weight. "But who were your assailants," I asked, "and why were you attacked?" Her assailants, she told me, were members of an outlaw gang, referred to as "Bad Bloods," a group which for several generations had been under the domination of conscienceless leaders who tried to advance the interests of their clan by tactics which their neighbors had come to regard as unfair, and who in consequence had been virtually boycotted. Their purpose had been to slay her near the Delaware frontier, making it appear that the crime had been committed by Delaware scouts and thus embroil the Delawares and Wyomings in acts of reprisal against each other, or at least cause suspicions. Fortunately they had not succeeded in surprising her, and she had been successful in dodging them for some two hours before the shooting began, at the moment when I arrived on the scene. "But we must not stay here talking," Wilma concluded. "I have to take you in, and besides I must report this attack right away. I think we had better slip over to the other side of the mountain. Whoever is on that post will have a phone, and I can make a direct report. But you'll have to have a belt. Mine alone won't help much against our combined weights, and there's little to be gained by jumping heavy. It's almost as bad as walking." After a little search, we found one of the men I had killed, who had floated down among the trees some distance away and whose belt was not badly damaged. In detaching it from his body, it nearly got away from me and shot up in the air. Wilma caught it, however, and though it reinforced the lift of her own belt so that she had to hook her knee around a branch to hold herself down, she saved it. I climbed the tree and, with my weight added to hers, we floated down easily. CHAPTER III Life in the 25th Century We were delayed in starting for quite a while since I had to acquire a few crude ideas about the technique of using these belts. I had been sitting down, for instance, with the belt strapped about me, enjoying an ease similar to that of a comfortable armchair; when I stood up with a natural exertion of muscular effort, I shot ten feet into the air, with a wild instinctive thrashing of arms and legs that amused Wilma greatly. But after some practice, I began to get the trick of gauging muscular effort to a minimum of vertical and a maximum of horizontal. The correct form, I found, was in a measure comparable to that of skating. I found, also, that in forest work particularly the arms and hands could be used to great advantage in swinging along from branch to branch, so prolonging leaps almost indefinitely at times. In going up the side of the mountain, I found that my 20th Century muscles did have an advantage, in spite of lack of skill with the belt, and since the slopes were very sharp, and most of our leaps were upward, I could have distanced Wilma easily. But when we crossed the ridge and descended, she outstripped me with her superior technique. Choosing the steepest slopes, she would crouch in the top of a tree, and propel herself outward, literally diving until, with the loss of horizontal momentum, she would assume a more upright position and float downward. In this manner she would sometimes cover as much as a quarter of a mile in a single leap, while I leaped and scrambled clumsily behind, thoroughly enjoying the novel sensation. Half way down the mountain, we saw another green-clad figure leap out above the tree tops toward us. The three of us perched on an outcropping of rock from which a view for many miles around could be had, while Wilma hastily explained her adventure and my presence to her fellow guard; whose name was Alan. I learned later that this was the modern form of Helen. "You want to report by phone then, don't you?" Alan took a compact packet about six inches square from a holster attached to her belt and handed it to Wilma. So far as I could see, it had no special receiver for the ear. Wilma merely threw back a lid, as though she were opening a book, and began to talk. The voice that came back from the machine was as audible as her own. She was queried closely as to the attack upon her, and at considerable length as to myself, and I could tell from the tone of that voice that its owner was not prepared to take me at my face value as readily as Wilma had. For that matter, neither was the other girl. I could realize it from the suspicious glances she threw my way, when she thought my attention was elsewhere, and the manner in which her hand hovered constantly near her gun holster. Wilma was ordered to bring me in at once, and informed that another scout would take her place on the other side of the mountain. So she closed down the lid of the phone and handed it back to Alan, who seemed relieved to see us departing over the tree tops in the direction of the camps. We had covered perhaps ten miles, in what still seemed to me a surprisingly easy fashion, when Wilma explained, that from here on we would have to keep to the ground. We were nearing the camps, she said, and there was always the possibility that some small Han scoutship, invisible high in the sky, might catch sight of us through a projectoscope and thus find the general location of the camps. Wilma took me to the Scout office, which proved to be a small building of irregular shape, conforming to the trees around it, and substantially constructed of green sheet-like material. I was received by the assistant Scout Boss, who reported my arrival at once to the historical office, and to officials he called the Psycho Boss and the History Boss, who came in a few minutes later. The attitude of all three men was at first polite but skeptical, and Wilma's ardent advocacy seemed to amuse them secretly. For the next two hours I talked, explained and answered questions. I had to explain, in detail, the manner of my life in the 20th Century and my understanding of customs, habits, business, science and the history of that period, and about developments in the centuries that had elapsed. Had I been in a classroom, I would have come through the examination with a very poor mark, for I was unable to give any answer to fully half of their questions. But before long I realized that the majority of these questions were designed as traps. Objects, of whose purpose I knew nothing, were casually handed to me, and I was watched keenly as I handled them. In the end I could see both amazement and belief begin to show in the faces of my inquisitors, and at last the Historical and Psycho Bosses agreed openly that they could find no flaw in my story or reactions, and that unbelievable as it seemed, my story must be accepted as genuine. They took me at once to Big Boss Hart. He was a portly man with a "poker face." He would probably have been the successful politician even in the 20th Century. They gave him a brief outline of my story and a report of their examination of me. He made no comment other than to nod his acceptance of it. Then he turned to me. "How does it feel?" he asked. "Do we look funny to you?" "A bit strange," I admitted. "But I'm beginning to lose that dazed feeling, though I can see I have an awful lot to learn." "Maybe we can learn some things from you, too," he said. "So you fought in the First World War. Do you know, we have very little left in the way of records of the details of that war, that is, the precise conditions under which it was fought, and the tactics employed. We forgot many things during the Han terror, and--well, I think you might have a lot of ideas worth thinking over for our raid masters. By the way, now that you're here, and can't go back to your own century, so to speak, what do you want to do? You're welcome to become one of us. Or perhaps you'd just like to visit with us for a while, and then look around among the other gangs. Maybe you'd like some of the others better. Don't make up your mind now. We'll put you down as an exchange for a while. Let's see. You and Bill Hearn ought to get along well together. He's Camp Boss of Number 34 when he isn't acting as Raid Boss or Scout Boss. There's a vacancy in his camp. Stay with him and think things over as long as you want to. As soon as you make up your mind to anything, let me know." We all shook hands, for that was one custom that had not died out in five hundred years, and I set out with Bill Hearn. Bill, like all the others, was clad in green. He was a big man. That is, he was about my own height, five feet eleven. This was considerably above the average now, for the race had lost something in stature, it seemed, through the vicissitudes of five centuries. Most of the women were a bit below five feet, and the men only a trifle above this height. For a period of two weeks Bill was to confine himself to camp duties, so I had a good chance to familiarize myself with the community life. It was not easy. There were so many marvels to absorb. I never ceased to wonder at the strange combination of rustic social life and feverish industrial activity. At least, it was strange to me. For in my experience, industrial development meant crowded cities, tenements, paved streets, profusion of vehicles, noise, hurrying men and women with strained or dull faces, vast structures and ornate public works. Here, however, was rustic simplicity, apparently isolated families and groups, living in the heart of the forest, with a quarter of a mile or more between households, a total absence of crowds, no means of conveyance other than the belts called jumpers, almost constantly worn by everybody, and an occasional rocket ship, used only for longer journeys, and underground plants or factories that were to my mind more like laboratories and engine rooms; many of them were excavations as deep as mines, with well finished, lighted and comfortable interiors. These people were adepts at camouflage against air observation. Not only would their activity have been unsuspected by an airship passing over the center of the community, but even by an enemy who might happen to drop through the screen of the upper branches to the floor of the forest. The camps, or household structures, were all irregular in shape and of colors that blended with the great trees among which they were hidden. There were 724 dwellings or "camps" among the Wyomings, located within an area of about fifteen square miles. The total population was 8,688, every man, woman and child, whether member or "exchange," being listed. The plants were widely scattered through the territory also. Nowhere was anything like congestion permitted. So far as possible, families and individuals were assigned to living quarters, not too far from the plants or offices in which their work lay. All able-bodied men and women alternated in two-week periods between military and industrial service, except those who were needed for household work. Since working conditions in the plants and offices were ideal, and everybody thus had plenty of healthy outdoor activity in addition, the population was sturdy and active. Laziness was regarded as nearly the greatest of social offenses. Hard work and general merit were variously rewarded with extra privileges, advancement to positions of authority, and with various items of personal equipment for convenience and luxury. In leisure moments, I got great enjoyment from sitting outside the dwelling in which I was quartered with Bill Hearn and ten other men, watching the occasional passers-by, as with leisurely, but swift movements, they swung up and down the forest trail, rising from the ground in long almost-horizontal leaps, occasionally swinging from one convenient branch overhead to another before "sliding" back to the ground farther on. Normal traveling pace, where these trails were straight enough, was about twenty miles an hour. Such things as automobiles and railroad trains (the memory of them not more than a month old in my mind) seemed inexpressibly silly and futile compared with such convenience as these belts or jumpers offered. Bill suggested that I wander around for several days, from plant to plant, to observe and study what I could. The entire community had been apprised of my coming, my rating as an "exchange" reaching every building and post in the community, by means of ultronic broadcast. Everywhere I was welcomed in an interested and helpful spirit. I visited the plants where ultronic vibrations were isolated from the ether and through slow processes built up into sub-electronic, electronic and atomic forms into the two great synthetic elements, ultron and inertron. I learned something, superficially at least, of the processes of combined chemical and mechanical action through which were produced the various forms of synthetic cloth. I watched the manufacture of the machines which were used at locations of construction to produce the various forms of building materials. But I was particularly interested in the munitions plants and the rocket-ship shops. Ultron is a solid of great molecular density and moderate elasticity, which has the property of being 100 percent conductive to those pulsations known as light, electricity and heat. Since it is completely permeable to light vibrations, it is therefore _absolutely invisible and non-reflective_. Its magnetic response is almost, but not quite, 100 percent also. It is therefore very heavy under normal conditions but extremely responsive to the _repellor_ or anti-gravity rays, such as the Hans use as "_legs_" for their airships. Inertron is the second great triumph of American research and experimentation with ultronic forces. It was developed just a few years before my awakening in the abandoned mine. It is a synthetic element, built up, through a complicated heterodyning of ultronic pulsations, from "infra-balanced" sub-ionic forms. It is completely inert to both electric and magnetic forces in all the orders above the _ultronic_; that is to say, the _sub-electronic_, the _electronic_, the _atomic_ and the _molecular_. In consequence it has a number of amazing and valuable properties. One of these is _the total lack of weight_. Another is a total lack of heat. It has no molecular vibration whatever. It reflects 100 percent of the heat and light impinging upon it. It does not feel cold to the touch, of course, since it will not absorb the heat of the hand. It is a solid, very dense in molecular structure despite its lack of weight, of great strength and considerable elasticity. It is a perfect shield against the disintegrator rays. [Illustration: Setting his rocket gun for a long-distance shot.] Rocket guns are very simple contrivances so far as the mechanism of launching the bullet is concerned. They are simple light tubes, closed at the rear end, with a trigger-actuated pin for piercing the thin skin at the base of the cartridge. This piercing of the skin starts the chemical and atomic reaction. The entire cartridge leaves the tube under its own power, at a very easy initial velocity, just enough to insure accuracy of aim; so the tube does not have to be of heavy construction. The bullet increases in velocity as it goes. It may be solid or explosive. It may explode on contact or on time, or a combination of these two. Bill and I talked mostly of weapons, military tactics and strategy. Strangely enough he had no idea whatever of the possibilities of the barrage, though the tremendous effect of a "curtain of fire" with such high-explosive projectiles as these modern rocket guns used was obvious to me. But the barrage idea, it seemed, has been lost track of completely in the air wars that followed the First World War, and in the peculiar guerilla tactics developed by Americans in the later period of operations from the ground against Han airships, and in the gang wars which, until a few generations ago I learned, had been almost continuous. "I wonder," said Bill one day, "if we couldn't work up some form of barrage to spring on the Bad Bloods. The Big Boss told me today that he's been in communication with the other gangs, and all are agreed that the Bad Bloods might as well be wiped out for good. That attempt on Wilma Deering's life and their evident desire to make trouble among the gangs, has stirred up every community east of the Alleghenies. The Boss says that none of the others will object if we go after them. So I imagine that before long we will. Now show me again how you worked that business in the Argonne forest. The conditions ought to be pretty much the same." I went over it with him in detail, and gradually we worked out a modified plan that would be better adapted to our more powerful weapons, and the use of jumpers. "It will be easy," Bill exulted. "I'll slide down and talk it over with the Boss tomorrow." During the first two weeks of my stay with the Wyomings, Wilma Deering and I saw a great deal of each other. I naturally felt a little closer friendship for her, in view of the fact that she was the first human being I saw after waking from my long sleep; her appreciation of my saving her life, though I could not have done otherwise than I did in that matter, and most of all my own appreciation of the fact that she had not found it as difficult as the others to believe my story, operated in the same direction. I could easily imagine my story must have sounded incredible. It was natural enough too, that she should feel an unusual interest in me. In the first place, I was her personal discovery. In the second, she was a girl of studious and reflective turn of mind. She never got tired of my stories and descriptions of the 20th Century. The others of the community, however, seemed to find our friendship a bit amusing. It seemed that Wilma had a reputation for being cold toward the opposite sex, and so others, not being able to appreciate some of her fine qualities as I did, misinterpreted her attitude, much to their own delight. Wilma and I, however, ignored this as much as we could. CHAPTER IV A Han Air Raid There was a girl in Wilma's camp named Gerdi Mann, with whom Bill Hearn was desperately in love, and the four of us used to go around a lot together. Gerdi was a distinct type. Whereas Wilma had the usual dark brown hair and hazel eyes that marked nearly every member of the community, Gerdi had red hair, blue eyes and very fair skin. She has been dead many years now, but I remember her vividly because she was a throwback in physical appearance to a certain 20th Century type which I have found very rare among modern Americans; also because the four of us were engaged one day in a discussion of this very point, when I obtained my first experience of a Han air raid. We were sitting high on the side of a hill overlooking the valley that teemed with human activity, invisible beneath its blanket of foliage. The other three, who knew of the Irish but vaguely and indefinitely, as a race on the other side of the globe, which, like ourselves, had succeeded in maintaining a precarious and fugitive existence in rebellion against the Mongolian domination of the earth, were listening with interest to my theory that Gerdi's ancestors of several hundred years ago must have been Irish. I explained that Gerdi was an Irish type, evidently a throwback, and that her surname might well have been McMann, or McMahan, and still more anciently "mac Mathghamhain." They were interested too in my surmise that "Gerdi" was the same name as that which had been "Gerty" or "Gertrude" in the 20th Century. In the middle of our discussion, we were startled by an alarm rocket that burst high in the air, far to the north, spreading a pall of red smoke that drifted like a cloud. It was followed by others at scattered points in the northern sky. "A Han raid!" Bill exclaimed in amazement. "The first in seven years!" "Maybe it's just one of their ships off its course," I ventured. "No," said Wilma in some agitation. "That would be green rockets. Red means only one thing, Tony. They're sweeping the countryside with their dis beams. Can you see anything, Bill?" "We had better get under cover," Gerdi said nervously. "The four of us are bunched here in the open. For all we know they may be twelve miles up, out of sight, yet looking at us with a projecto'." Bill had been sweeping the horizon hastily with his glass, but apparently saw nothing. "We had better scatter, at that," he said finally. "It's orders, you know. See!" He pointed to the valley. Here and there a tiny human figure shot for a moment above the foliage of the treetops. "That's bad," Wilma commented, as she counted the jumpers. "No less than fifteen people visible, and all clearly radiating from a central point. Do they want to give away our location?" The standard orders covering air raids were that the population was to scatter individually. There should be no grouping, or even pairing, in view of the destructiveness of the disintegrator rays. Experience of generations had proved that if this were done, and everybody remained hidden beneath the tree screens, the Hans would have to sweep mile after mile of territory, foot by foot, to catch more than a small percentage of the community. Gerdi, however, refused to leave Bill, and Wilma developed an equal obstinacy against quitting my side. I was inexperienced at this sort of thing, she explained, quite ignoring the fact that she was too; she was only thirteen or fourteen years old at the time of the last air raid. However, since I could not argue her out of it, we leaped together about a quarter of a mile to the right, while Bill and Gerdi disappeared down the hillside among the trees. Wilma and I both wanted a point of vantage from which we might overlook the valley and the sky to the north, and we found it near the top of the ridge, where, protected from visibility by thick branches, we could look out between the tree trunks, and get a good view of the valley. No more rockets went up. Except for a few of those warning red clouds, drifting lazily in a blue sky, there was no visible indication of man's past or present existence anywhere in the sky or on the ground. Then Wilma gripped my arm and pointed. I saw it; away off in the distance; looking like a phantom dirigible airship, in its coat of low-visibility paint, a bare spectre. "Seven thousand feet up," Wilma whispered, crouching close to me. "Watch." The ship was about the same shape as the great dirigibles of the 20th Century that I had seen, but without the suspended control car, engines, propellors, rudders or elevating planes. As it loomed rapidly nearer, I saw that it was wider and somewhat flatter than I had supposed. Now I could see the repellor rays that held the ship aloft, like searchlight beams faintly visible in the bright daylight (and still faintly visible to the human eye at night). Actually, I had been informed by my instructors, there were two rays; the visible one generated by the ship's apparatus, and directed toward the ground as a beam of "carrier" impulses; and the true repellor ray, the complement of the other in one sense, induced by the action of the "carrier" and reacting in a concentrating upward direction from the mass of the earth, becoming successively electronic, atomic and finally molecular, in its nature, according to various ratios of distance between earth mass and "carrier" source, until, in the last analysis, the ship itself actually is supported on an upward rushing column of air, much like a ball continuously supported on a fountain jet. The raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum. The ship was operating two disintegrator rays, though only in a casual, intermittent fashion. But whenever they flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them. When later I inspected the scars left by these rays I found them some five feet deep and thirty feet wide, the exposed surfaces being lava-like in texture, but of a pale, iridescent, greenish hue. No systematic use of the rays was made by the ship, however, until it reached a point over the center of the valley--the center of the community's activities. There it came to a sudden stop by shooting its repellor beams sharply forward and easing them back gradually to the vertical, holding the ship floating and motionless. Then the work of destruction began systematically. Back and forth traveled the destroying rays, ploughing parallel furrows from hillside to hillside. We gasped in dismay, Wilma and I, as time after time we saw it plough through sections where we knew camps or plants were located. "This is awful," she moaned, a terrified question in her eyes. "How could they know the location so exactly, Tony? Did you see? They were never in doubt. They stalled at a predetermined spot--and--and it was exactly the right spot." We did not talk of what might happen if the rays were turned in our direction. We both knew. We would simply disintegrate in a split second into mere scattered electronic vibrations. Strangely enough, it was this self-reliant girl of the 25th Century, who clung to me, a relatively primitive man of the 20th, less familiar than she with the thought of this terrifying possibility, for moral support. We knew that many of our companions must have been whisked into absolute non-existence before our eyes in these few moments. The whole thing paralyzed us into mental and physical immobility for I do not know how long. It couldn't have been long, however, for the rays had not ploughed more than thirty of their twenty-foot furrows or so across the valley, when I regained control of myself, and brought Wilma to herself by shaking her roughly. "How far will this rocket gun shoot, Wilma?" I demanded, drawing my pistol. "It depends on your rocket, Tony. It will take even the longest range rocket, but you could shoot more accurately from a longer tube. But why? You couldn't penetrate the shell of that ship with rocket force, even if you could reach it." I fumbled clumsily with my rocket pouch, for I was excited. I had an idea I wanted to try; a "hunch" I called it, forgetting that Wilma could not understand my ancient slang. But finally, with her help, I selected the longest range explosive rocket in my pouch, and fitted it to my pistol. "It won't carry seven thousand feet, Tony," Wilma objected. But I took aim carefully. It was another thought that I had in my mind. The supporting repellor ray, I had been told, became molecular in character at what was called a logarithmic level of five (below that it was a purely electronic "flow" or pulsation between the source of the "carrier" and the average mass of the earth). Below that level if I could project my explosive bullet into this stream where it began to carry material substance upward, might it not rise with the air column, gathering speed and hitting the ship with enough impact to carry it through the shell? It was worth trying anyhow. Wilma became greatly excited, too, when she grasped the nature of my inspiration. Feverishly I looked around for some formation of branches against which I could rest the pistol, for I had to aim most carefully. At last I found one. Patiently I sighted on the hulk of the ship far above us, aiming at the far side of it, at such an angle as would, so far as I could estimate, bring my bullet path through the forward repellor beam. At last the sights wavered across the point I sought and I pressed the button gently. For a moment we gazed breathlessly. Suddenly the ship swung bow down, as on a pivot, and swayed like a pendulum. Wilma screamed in her excitement. "Oh, Tony, you hit it! You hit it! Do it again; bring it down!" We had only one more rocket of extreme range between us, and we dropped it three times in our excitement in inserting it in my gun. Then, forcing myself to be calm by sheer will power, while Wilma stuffed her little fist into her mouth to keep from shrieking, I sighted carefully again and fired. In a flash, Wilma had grasped the hope that this discovery of mine might lead to the end of the Han domination. The elapsed time of the rocket's invisible flight seemed an age. Then we saw the ship falling. It seemed to plunge lazily, but actually it fell with terrific acceleration, turning end over end, its disintegrator rays, out of control, describing vast, wild arcs, and once cutting a gash through the forest less than two hundred feet from where we stood. The crash with which the heavy craft hit the ground reverberated from the hills--the momentum of eighteen or twenty thousand tons, in a sheer drop of seven thousand feet. A mangled mass of metal, it buried itself in the ground, with poetic justice, in the middle of the smoking, semi-molten field of destruction it had been so deliberately ploughing. The silence, the vacuity of the landscape, was oppressive, as the last echoes died away. Then far down the hillside, a single figure leaped exultantly above the foliage screen. And in the distance another, and another. In a moment the sky was punctured by signal rockets. One after another the little red puffs became drifting clouds. "Scatter! Scatter!" Wilma exclaimed. "In half an hour there'll be an entire Han fleet here from Nu-yok, and another from Bah-flo. They'll get this instantly on their recordographs and location finders. They'll blast the whole valley and the country for miles beyond. Come, Tony. There's no time for the gang to rally. See the signals. We've got to jump. Oh, I'm so proud of you!" Over the ridge we went, in long leaps toward the east, the country of the Delawares. From time to time signal rockets puffed in the sky. Most of them were the "red warnings," the "scatter" signals. But from certain of the others, which Wilma identified as Wyoming rockets, she gathered that whoever was in command (we did not know whether the Boss was alive or not) was ordering an ultimate rally toward the south, and so we changed our course. It was a great pity, I thought, that the clan had not been equipped throughout its membership with ultrophones, but Wilma explained to me, that not enough of these had been built for distribution as yet, although general distribution had been contemplated within a couple of months. We traveled far before nightfall overtook us, trying only to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the valley. When gathering dusk made jumping too dangerous, we sought a comfortable spot beneath the trees, and consumed part of our emergency rations. It was the first time I had tasted the stuff--a highly nutritive synthetic substance called "concentro," which was, however, a bit bitter and unpalatable. But as only a mouthful or so was needed, it did not matter. Neither of us had a cloak, but we were both thoroughly tired and happy, so we curled up together for warmth. I remember Wilma making some sleepy remark about our mating, as she cuddled up, as though the matter were all settled, and my surprise at my own instant acceptance of the idea, for I had not consciously thought of her that way before. But we both fell asleep at once. In the morning we found little time for love making. The practical problem facing us was too great. Wilma felt that the Wyoming plan must be to rally in the Susquanna territory, but she had her doubts about the wisdom of this plan. In my elation at my success in bringing down the Han ship, and my newly found interest in my charming companion, who was, from my viewpoint of another century, at once more highly civilized and yet more primitive than myself, I had forgotten the ominous fact that the Han ship I had destroyed must have known the exact location of the Wyoming Works. This meant, to Wilma's logical mind, either that the Hans had perfected new instruments as yet unknown to us, or that somewhere, among the Wyomings or some other nearby gang, there were traitors so degraded as to commit that unthinkable act of trafficking in information with the Hans. In either contingency, she argued, other Han raids would follow, and since the Susquannas had a highly developed organization and more than usually productive plants, the next raid might be expected to strike them. But at any rate it was clearly our business to get in touch with the other fugitives as quickly as possible, so in spite of muscles that were sore from the excessive leaping of the day before, we continued on our way. We traveled for only a couple of hours when we saw a multi-colored rocket in the sky, some ten miles ahead of us. "Bear to the left, Tony," Wilma said, "and listen for the whistle." "Why?" I asked. "Haven't they given you the rocket code yet?" she replied. "That's what the green, followed by yellow and purple means; to concentrate five miles east of the rocket position. You know the rocket position itself might draw a play of disintegrator beams." It did not take us long to reach the neighborhood of the indicated rallying, though we were now traveling beneath the trees, with but an occasional leap to a top branch to see if any more rocket smoke was floating above. And soon we heard a distant whistle. We found about half the Gang already there, in a spot where the trees met high above a little stream. The Big Boss and Raid Bosses were busy reorganizing the remnants. We reported to Boss Hart at once. He was silent, but interested, when he heard our story. "You two stick close to me," he said, adding grimly, "I'm going back to the valley at once with a hundred picked men, and I'll need you." CHAPTER V Setting the Trap Inside of fifteen minutes we were on our way. A certain amount of caution was sacrificed for the sake of speed, and the men leaped away either across the forest top, or over open spaces of ground, but concentration was forbidden. The Big Boss named the spot on the hillside as the rallying point. "We'll have to take a chance on being seen, so long as we don't group," he declared, "at least until within five miles of the rallying spot. From then on I want every man to disappear from sight and to travel under cover. And keep your ultrophones open, and tuned on ten-four-seven-six." Wilma and I had received our battle equipment from the Gear boss. It consisted of a long-gun, a hand-gun, with a special case of ammunition constructed of inertron, which made the load weigh but a few ounces, and a short sword. This gear we strapped over each other's shoulders, on top of our jumping belts. In addition, we each received an ultrophone, and a light inertron blanket rolled into a cylinder about six inches long by two or three in diameter. This fabric was exceedingly thin and light, but it had considerable warmth, because of the mixture of inertron in its composition. [Illustration: The Han raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum.... Whenever the disintegrator rays flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them.] "This looks like business," Wilma remarked to me with sparkling eyes. (And I might mention a curious thing here. The word "business" had survived from the 20th Century American vocabulary, but not with any meaning of "industry" or "trade," for such things being purely community activities were spoken of as "work" and "clearing." Business simply meant fighting, and that was all.) "Did you bring all this equipment from the valley?" I asked the Gear Boss. "No," he said. "There was no time to gather anything. All this stuff we cleared from the Susquannas a few hours ago. I was with the Boss on the way down, and he had me jump on ahead and arrange it. But you two had better be moving. He's beckoning you now." Hart was about to call us on our phones when we looked up. As soon as we did so, he leaped away, waving us to follow closely. He was a powerful man, and he darted ahead in long, swift, low leaps up the banks of the stream, which followed a fairly straight course at this point. By extending ourselves, however, Wilma and I were able to catch up to him. As we gradually synchronized our leaps with his, he outlined to us, between the grunts that accompanied each leap, his plan of action. "We have to start the big business--unh--sooner or later," he said. "And if--unh--the Hans have found any way of locating our positions--unh--it's time to start now, although the Council of Bosses--unh--had intended waiting a few years until enough rocket ships have been--unh--built. But no matter what the sacrifice--unh--we can't afford to let them get us on the run--unh--. We'll set a trap for the yellow devils in the--unh--valley if they come back for their wreckage--unh--and if they don't, we'll go rocketing for some of their liners--unh--on the Nu-yok, Clee-lan, Si-ka-ga course. We can use--unh--that idea of yours of shooting up the repellor--unh--beams. Want you to give us a demonstration." With further admonition to follow him closely, he increased his pace, and Wilma and I were taxed to our utmost to keep up with him. It was only in ascending the slopes that my tougher muscles overbalanced his greater skill, and I was able to set the pace for him, as I had for Wilma. We slept in greater comfort that night, under our inertron blankets, and were off with the dawn, leaping cautiously to the top of the ridge overlooking the valley which Wilma and I had left. The Boss scanned the sky with his ultroscope, patiently taking some fifteen minutes to the task, and then swung his phone into use, calling the roll and giving the men their instructions. His first order was for us all to slip our ear and chest discs into permanent position. These ultrophones were quite different from the one used by Wilma's companion scout the day I saved her from the vicious attack of the bandit Gang. That one was contained entirely in a small pocket case. These, with which we were now equipped, consisted of a pair of ear discs, each a separate and self-contained receiving set. They slipped into little pockets over our ears in the fabric helmets we wore, and shut out virtually all extraneous sounds. The chest discs were likewise self-contained sending sets, strapped to the chest a few inches below the neck and actuated by the vibrations from the vocal cords through the body tissues. The total range of these sets was about eighteen miles. Reception was remarkably clear, quite free from the static that so marked the 20th Century radios, and of a strength in direct proportion to the distance of the speaker. The Boss' set was triple powered, so that his orders would cut in on any local conversations, which were indulged in, however, with great restraint, and only for the purpose of maintaining contacts. I marveled at the efficiency of this modern method of battle communication in contrast to the clumsy signaling devices of more ancient times; and also at other military contrasts in which the 20th and 25th Century methods were the reverse of each other in efficiency. These modern Americans, for instance, knew little of hand to hand fighting, and nothing, naturally, of trench warfare. Of barrages they were quite ignorant, although they possessed weapons of terrific power. And until my recent flash of inspiration, no one among them, apparently, had ever thought of the scheme of shooting a rocket into a repellor beam and letting the beam itself hurl it upward into the most vital part of the Han ship. Hart patiently placed his men, first giving his instructions to the campmasters, and then remaining silent, while they placed the individuals. In the end, the hundred men were ringed about the valley, on the hillsides and tops, each in a position from which he had a good view of the wreckage of the Han ship. But not a man had come in view, so far as I could see, in the whole process. The Boss explained to me that it was his idea that he, Wilma and I should investigate the wreck. If Han ships should appear in the sky, we would leap for the hillsides. I suggested to him to have the men set up their long-guns trained on an imaginary circle surrounding the wreck. He busied himself with this after the three of us leaped down to the Han ship, serving as a target himself, while he called on the men individually to aim their pieces and lock them in position. In the meantime Wilma and I climbed into the wreckage, but did not find much. Practically all of the instruments and machinery had been twisted out of all recognizable shape, or utterly destroyed by the ship's disintegrator rays which apparently had continued to operate in the midst of its warped remains for some moments after the crash. It was unpleasant work searching the mangled bodies of the crew. But it had to be done. The Han clothing, I observed, was quite different from that of the Americans, and in many respects more like the garb to which I had been accustomed in the earlier part of my life. It was made of synthetic fabrics like silks, loose and comfortable trousers of knee length, and sleeveless shirts. No protection, except that against drafts, was needed, Wilma explained to me, for the Han cities were entirely enclosed, with splendid arrangements for ventilation and heating. These arrangements of course were equally adequate in their airships. The Hans, indeed, had quite a distaste for unshaded daylight, since their lighting apparatus diffused a controlled amount of violet rays, making the unmodified sunlight unnecessary for health, and undesirable for comfort. Since the Hans did not have the secret of inertron, none of them wore anti-gravity belts. Yet in spite of the fact that they had to bear their own full weights at all times, they were physically far inferior to the Americans, for they lived lives of degenerative physical inertia, having machinery of every description for the performance of all labor, and convenient conveyances for any movement of more than a few steps. Even from the twisted wreckage of this ship I could see that seats, chairs and couches played an extremely important part in their scheme of existence. But none of the bodies were overweight. They seemed to have been the bodies of men in good health, but muscularly much underdeveloped. Wilma explained to me that they had mastered the science of gland control, and of course dietetics, to the point where men and women among them not uncommonly reached the age of a hundred years with arteries and general health in splendid condition. I did not have time to study the ship and its contents as carefully as I would have liked, however. Time pressed, and it was our business to discover some clue to the deadly accuracy with which the ship had spotted the Wyoming Works. The Boss had hardly finished his arrangements for the ring barrage, when one of the scouts on an eminence to the north, announced the approach of seven Han ships, spread out in a great semi-circle. Hart leaped for the hillside, calling to us to do likewise, but Wilma and I had raised the flaps of our helmets and switched off our "speakers" for conversation between ourselves, and by the time we discovered what had happened, the ships were clearly visible, so fast were they approaching. "Jump!" we heard the Boss order, "Deering to the north. Rogers to the east." But Wilma looked at me meaningly and pointed to where the twisted plates of the ship, projecting from the ground, offered a shelter. "Too late, Boss," she said. "They'd see us. Besides I think there's something here we ought to look at. It's probably their magnetic graph." "You're signing your death warrant," Hart warned. "We'll risk it," said Wilma and I together. "Good for you," replied the Boss. "Take command then, Rogers, for the present. Do you all know his voice, boys?" A chorus of assent rang in our ears, and I began to do some fast thinking as the girl and I ducked into the twisted mass of metal. "Wilma, hunt for that record," I said, knowing that by the simple process of talking I could keep the entire command continuously informed as to the situation. "On the hillsides, keep your guns trained on the circles and stand by. On the hilltops, how many of you are there? Speak in rotation from Bald Knob around to the east, north, west." In turn the men called their names. There were twenty of them. I assigned them by name to cover the various Han ships, numbering the latter from left to right. "Train your rockets on their repellor rays about three-quarters of the way up, between ships and ground. Aim is more important than elevation. Follow those rays with your aim continuously. Shoot when I tell you, not before. Deering has the record. The Hans probably have not seen us, or at least think there are but two of us in the valley, since they're settling without opening up disintegrators. Any opinions?" My ear discs remained silent. "Deering and I remain here until they land and debark. Stand by and keep alert." Rapidly and easily the largest of the Han ships settled to the earth. Three scouted sharply to the south, rising to a higher level. The others floated motionless about a thousand feet above. Peeping through a small fissure between two plates, I saw the vast hulk of the ship come to rest full on the line of our prospective ring barrage. A door clanged open a couple of feet from the ground, and one by one the crew emerged. CHAPTER VI The "Wyoming Massacre" "They're coming out of the ship." I spoke quietly, with my hand over my mouth, for fear they might hear me. "One--two--three--four, five--six--seven--eight--nine. That seems to be all. Who knows how many men a ship like that is likely to carry?" "About ten, if there are no passengers," replied one of my men, probably one of those on the hillside. "How are they armed?" I asked. "Just knives," came the reply. "They never permit hand-rays on the ships. Afraid of accidents. Have a ruling against it." "Leave them to us then," I said, for I had a hastily formed plan in my mind. "You, on the hillsides, take the ships above. Abandon the ring target. Divide up in training on those repellor rays. You, on the hilltops, all train on the repellors of the ships to the south. Shoot at the word, but not before. "Wilma, crawl over to your left where you can make a straight leap for the door in that ship. These men are all walking around the wreck in a bunch. When they're on the far side, I'll give the word and you leap through that door in one bound. I'll follow. Maybe we won't be seen. We'll overpower the guard inside, but don't shoot. We may escape being seen by both this crew and ships above. They can't see over this wreck." It was so easy that it seemed too good to be true. The Hans who had emerged from the ship walked round the wreckage lazily, talking in guttural tones, keenly interested in the wreck, but quite unsuspicious. At last they were on the far side. In a moment they would be picking their way into the wreck. "Wilma, leap!" I almost whispered the order. The distance between Wilma's hiding place and the door in the side of the Han ship was not more than fifteen feet. She was already crouched with her feet braced against a metal beam. Taking the lift of that wonderful inertron belt into her calculation, she dove headforemost, like a green projectile, through the door. I followed in a split second, more clumsily, but no less speedily, bruising my shoulder painfully, as I ricocheted from the edge of the opening and brought up sliding against the unconscious girl; for she evidently had hit her head against the partition within the ship into which she had crashed. We had made some noise within the ship. Shuffling footsteps were approaching down a well lit gangway. "Any signs we have been observed?" I asked my men on the hillsides. "Not yet," I heard the Boss reply. "Ships overhead still standing. No beams have been broken out. Men on ground absorbed in wreck. Most of them have crawled into it out of sight." "Good," I said quickly. "Deering hit her head. Knocked out. One or more members of the crew approaching. We're not discovered yet. I'll take care of them. Stand a bit longer, but be ready." I think my last words must have been heard by the man who was approaching, for he stopped suddenly. I crouched at the far side of the compartment, motionless. I would not draw my sword if there were only one of them. He would be a weakling, I figured, and I should easily overcome him with my bare hands. Apparently reassured at the absence of any further sound, a man came around a sort of bulkhead--and I leaped. I swung my legs up in front of me as I did so, catching him full in the stomach and knocked him cold. I ran forward along the keel gangway, searching for the control room. I found it well up in the nose of the ship. And it was deserted. What could I do to jam the controls of the ships that would not register on the recording instruments of the other ships? I gazed at the mass of controls. Levers and wheels galore. In the center of the compartment, on a massively braced universal joint mounting, was what I took for the repellor generator. A dial on it glowed and a faint hum came from within its shielding metallic case. But I had no time to study it. Above all else, I was afraid that some automatic telephone apparatus existed in the room, through which I might be heard on the other ships. The risk of trying to jam the controls was too great. I abandoned the idea and withdrew softly. I would have to take a chance that there was no other member of the crew aboard. I ran back to the entrance compartment. Wilma still lay where she had slumped down. I heard the voices of the Hans approaching. It was time to act. The next few seconds would tell whether the ships in the air would try or be able to melt us into nothingness. I spoke. "Are you boys all ready?" I asked, creeping to a position opposite the door and drawing my hand-gun. Again there was a chorus of assent. "Then on the count of three, shoot up those repellor rays--all of them--and for God's sake, don't miss." And I counted. I think my "three" was a bit weak. I know it took all the courage I had to utter it. For an agonizing instant nothing happened, except that the landing party from the ship strolled into my range of vision. Then startled, they turned their eyes upward. For an instant they stood frozen with horror at whatever they saw. One hurled his knife at me. It grazed my cheek. Then a couple of them made a break for the doorway. The rest followed. But I fired pointblank with my hand-gun, pressing the button as fast as I could and aiming at their feet to make sure my explosive rockets would make contact and do their work. The detonations of my rockets were deafening. The spot on which the Hans stood flashed into a blinding glare. Then there was nothing there except their torn and mutilated corpses. They had been fairly bunched, and I got them all. I ran to the door, expecting any instant to be hurled into infinity by the sweep of a disintegrator ray. Some eighth of a mile away I saw one of the ships crash to earth. A disintegrator ray came into my line of vision, wavered uncertainly for a moment and then began to sweep directly toward the ship in which I stood. But it never reached it. Suddenly, like a light switched off, it shot to one side, and a moment later another vast hulk crashed to earth. I looked out, then stepped out on the ground. The only Han ships in the sky were two of the scouts to the south which were hanging perpendicularly, and sagging slowly down. The others must have crashed down while I was deafened by the sound of the explosion of my own rockets. Somebody hit the other repellor ray of one of the two remaining ships and it fell out of sight beyond a hilltop. The other, farther away, drifted down diagonally, its disintegrator ray playing viciously over the ground below it. I shouted with exultation and relief. "Take back the command, Boss!" I yelled. His commands, sending out jumpers in pursuit of the descending ship, rang in my ears, but I paid no attention to them. I leaped back into the compartment of the Han ship and knelt beside my Wilma. Her padded helmet had absorbed much of the blow, I thought; otherwise, her skull might have been fractured. "Oh, my head!" she groaned, coming to as I lifted her gently in my arms and strode out in the open with her. "We must have won, dearest, did we?" "We most certainly did," I reassured her. "All but one crashed and that one is drifting down toward the south; we've captured this one we're in intact. There was only one member of the crew aboard when we dove in." [Illustration: As the American leaped, he swung his legs up in front of him, catching the Han full in the stomach.] Less than an hour afterward the Big Boss ordered the outfit to tune in ultrophones on three-twenty-three to pick up a translated broadcast of the Han intelligence office in Nu-yok from the Susquanna station. It was in the form of a public warning and news item, and read as follows: "This is Public Intelligence Office, Nu-yok, broadcasting warning to navigators of private ships, and news of public interest. The squadron of seven ships, which left Nu-yok this morning to investigate the recent destruction of the GK-984 in the Wyoming Valley, has been destroyed by a series of mysterious explosions similar to those which wrecked the GK-984. "The phones, viewplates, and all other signaling devices of five of the seven ships ceased operating suddenly at approximately the same moment, about seven-four-nine." (According to the Han system of reckoning time, seven and forty-nine one hundredths after midnight.) "After violent disturbances the location finders went out of operation. Electroactivity registers applied to the territory of the Wyoming Valley remain dead. "The Intelligence Office has no indication of the kind of disaster which overtook the squadron except certain evidences of explosive phenomena similar to those in the case of the GK-984, which recently went dead while beaming the valley in a systematic effort to wipe out the works and camps of the tribesmen. The Office considers, as obvious, the deduction that the tribesmen have developed a new, and as yet undetermined, technique of attack on airships, and has recommended to the Heaven-Born that immediate and unlimited authority be given the Navigation Intelligence Division to make an investigation of this technique and develop a defense against it. "In the meantime it urges that private navigators avoid this territory in particular, and in general hold as closely as possible to the official inter-city routes, which now are being patrolled by the entire force of the Military Office, which is beaming the routes generously to a width of ten miles. The Military Office reports that it is at present considering no retaliatory raids against the tribesmen. With the Navigation Intelligence Division, it holds that unless further evidence of the nature of the disaster is developed in the near future, the public interest will be better served, and at smaller cost of life, by a scientific research than by attempts at retaliation, which may bring destruction on all ships engaging therein. So unless further evidence actually is developed, or the Heaven-Born orders to the contrary, the Military will hold to a defensive policy. "Unofficial intimations from Lo-Tan are to the effect that the Heaven-Council has the matter under consideration. "The Navigation Intelligence Office permits the broadcast of the following condensation of its detailed observations: "The squadron proceeded to a position above the Wyoming Valley where the wreck of the GK-984 was known to be, from the record of its location finder before it went dead recently. There the bottom projectoscope relays of all ships registered the wreck of the GK-984. Teleprojectoscope views of the wreck and the bowl of the valley showed no evidence of the presence of tribesmen. Neither ship registers nor base registers showed any indication of electroactivity except from the squadron itself. On orders from the Base Squadron Commander, the LD-248, LK-745 and LG-25 scouted southward at 3,000 feet. The GK-43, GK-981 and GK-220 stood above at 2,500 feet, and the GK-18 landed to permit personal inspection of the wreck by the science committee. The party debarked, leaving one man on board in the control cabin. He set all projectoscopes at universal focus except RB-3," (this meant the third projectoscope from the bow of the ship, on the right-hand side of the lower deck) "with which he followed the landing group as it walked around the wreck. "The first abnormal phenomenon recorded by any of the instruments at Base was that relayed automatically from projectoscope RB-4 of the GK-18, which as the party disappeared from view in back of the wreck, recorded two green missiles of roughly cylindrical shape, projected from the wreckage into the landing compartment of the ship. At such close range these were not clearly defined, owing to the universal focus at which the projectoscope was set. The Base Captain of GK-18 at once ordered the man in the control room to investigate, and saw him leave the control room in compliance with this order. An instant later confused sounds reached the control-room electrophone, such as might be made by a man falling heavily, and footsteps reapproached the control room, a figure entering and leaving the control room hurriedly. The Base Captain now believes, and the stills of the photorecord support his belief, that this was not the crew member who had been left in the control room. Before the Base Captain could speak to him he left the room, nor was any response given to the attention signal the Captain flashed throughout the ship. "At this point projectoscope RB-3 of the ship now out of focus control, dimly showed the landing party walking back toward the ship. RB-4 showed it more clearly. Then on both these instruments, a number of blinding explosives in rapid succession were seen and the electrophone relays registered terrific concussions; the ship's electronic apparatus and projectoscopes apparatus went dead. "Reports of the other ships' Base Observers and Executives, backed by the photorecords, show the explosions as taking place in the midst of the landing party as it returned, evidently unsuspicious, to the ship. Then in rapid succession they indicate that terrific explosions occurred inside and outside the three ships standing above close to their rep-ray generators, and all signals from these ships thereupon went dead. "Of the three ships scouting to the south, the LD-248 suffered an identical fate, at the same moment. Its records add little to the knowledge of the disaster. But with the LK-745 and the LG-25 it was different. "The relay instruments of the LK-745 indicated the destruction by an explosion of the rear rep-ray generator, and that the ship hung stern down for a short space, swinging like a pendulum. The forward viewplates and indicators did not cease functioning, but their records are chaotic, except for one projectoscope still, which shows the bowl of the valley, and the GK-981 falling, but no visible evidence of tribesmen. The control-room viewplate is also a chaotic record of the ship's crew tumbling and falling to the rear wall. Then the forward rep-ray generator exploded, and all signals went dead. "The fate of the LG-25 was somewhat similar, except that this ship hung nose down, and drifted on the wind southward as it slowly descended out of control. "As its control room was shattered, verbal report from its Action Captain was precluded. The record of the interior rear viewplate shows members of the crew climbing toward the rear rep-ray generator in an attempt to establish manual control of it, and increase the lift. The projectoscope relays, swinging in wide arcs, recorded little of value except at the ends of their swings. One of these, from a machine which happened to be set in telescopic focus, shows several views of great value in picturing the falls of the other ships, and all of the rear projectoscope records enable the reconstruction in detail of the pendulum and torsional movements of the ship, and its sag toward the earth. But none of the views showing the forest below contain any indication of tribesmen's presence. A final explosion put this ship out of commission at a height of 1,000 feet, and at a point four miles S. by E. of the center of the valley." The message ended with a repetition of the warning to other airmen to avoid the valley. CHAPTER VII Incredible Treason After receiving this report, and reassurances of support from the Big Bosses of the neighboring Gangs, Hart determined to reestablish the Wyoming Valley community. A careful survey of the territory showed that it was only the northern sections and slopes that had been "beamed" by the first Han ship. The synthetic-fabrics plant had been partially wiped out, though the lower levels underground had not been reached by the dis ray. The forest screen above it, however, had been annihilated, and it was determined to abandon it, after removing all usable machinery and evidences of the processes that might be of interest to the Han scientists, should they return to the valley in the future. The ammunition plant, and the rocket-ship plant, which had just been about to start operation at the time of the raid, were intact, as were the other important plants. Hart brought the Camboss up from the Susquanna Works, and laid out new camp locations, scattering them farther to the south, and avoiding ground which had been seared by the Han beams and the immediate locations of the Han wrecks. During this period, a sharp check was kept upon Han messages, for the phone plant had been one of the first to be put in operation, and when it became evident that the Hans did not intend any immediate reprisals, the entire membership of the community was summoned back, and normal life was resumed. Wilma and I had been married the day after the destruction of the ships, and spent this intervening period in a delightful honeymoon, camping high in the mountains. On our return, we had a camp of our own, of course. We were assigned to location 1017. And as might be expected, we had a great deal of banter over which one of us was Camp Boss. The title stood after my name on the Big Boss' records, and those of the Big Camboss, of course, but Wilma airily held that this meant nothing at all--and generally succeeded in making me admit it whenever she chose. I found myself a full-fledged member of the Gang now, for I had elected to search no farther for a permanent alliance, much as I would have liked to familiarize myself with this 25th Century life in other sections of the country. The Wyomings had a high morale, and had prospered under the rule of Big Boss Hart for many years. But many of the gangs, I found, were badly organized, lacked strong hands in authority, and were rife with intrigue. On the whole, I thought I would be wise to stay with a group which had already proved its friendliness, and in which I seemed to have prospects of advancement. Under these modern social and economic conditions, the kind of individual freedom to which I had been accustomed in the 20th Century was impossible. I would have been as much of a nonentity in every phase of human relationship by attempting to avoid alliances, as any man of the 20th Century would have been politically, who aligned himself with no political party. This entire modern life, it appeared to me, judging from my ancient viewpoint, was organized along what I called "political" lines. And in this connection, it amused me to notice how universal had become the use of the word "boss." The leader, the person in charge or authority over anything, was a "boss." There was as little formality in his relations with his followers as there was in the case of the 20th Century political boss, and the same high respect paid him by his followers as well as the same high consideration by him of their interests. He was just as much of an autocrat, and just as much dependent upon the general popularity of his actions for the ability to maintain his autocracy. The sub-boss who could not command the loyalty of his followers was as quickly deposed, either by them or by his superiors, as the ancient ward leader of the 20th Century who lost control of his votes. As society was organized in the 20th Century, I do not believe the system could have worked in anything but politics. I tremble to think what would have happened, had the attempt been made to handle the A. E. F. this way during the First World War, instead of by that rigid military discipline and complete assumption of the individual as a mere standardized cog in the machine. But owing to the centuries of desperate suffering the people had endured at the hands of the Hans, there developed a spirit of self-sacrifice and consideration for the common good that made the scheme applicable and efficient in all forms of human co-operation. I have a little heresy about all this, however. My associates regard the thought with as much horror as many worthy people of the 20th Century felt in regard to any heretical suggestion that the original outline of government as laid down in the First Constitution did not apply as well to 20th Century conditions as to those of the early 19th. In later years, I felt that there was a certain softening of moral fiber among the people, since the Hans had been finally destroyed with all their works; and Americans have developed a new luxury economy. I have seen signs of the reawakening of greed, of selfishness. The eternal cycle seems to be at work. I fear that slowly, though surely, private wealth is reappearing, codes of inflexibility are developing; they will be followed by corruption, degradation; and in the end some cataclysmic event will end this era and usher in a new one. All this, however, is wandering afar from my story, which concerns our early battles against the Hans, and not our more modern problems of self-control. Our victory over the seven Han ships had set the country ablaze. The secret had been carefully communicated to the other gangs, and the country was agog from one end to the other. There was feverish activity in the ammunition plants, and the hunting of stray Han ships became an enthusiastic sport. The results were disastrous to our hereditary enemies. From the Pacific Coast came the report of a great transpacific liner of 75,000 tons "lift" being brought to earth from a position of invisibility above the clouds. A dozen Sacramentos had caught the hazy outlines of its rep rays approaching them, head-on, in the twilight, like ghostly pillars reaching into the sky. They had fired rockets into it with ease, whereas they would have had difficulty in hitting it if it had been moving at right angles to their position. They got one rep ray. The other was not strong enough to hold it up. It floated to earth, nose down, and since it was unarmed and unarmored, they had no difficulty in shooting it to pieces and massacring its crew and passengers. It seemed barbarous to me. But then I did not have centuries of bitter persecution in my blood. From the Jersey Beaches we received news of the destruction of a Nu-yok-A-lan-a liner. The Sand-snipers, practically invisible in their sand-colored clothing, and half buried along the beaches, lay in wait for days, risking the play of dis beams along the route, and finally registering four hits within a week. The Hans discontinued their service along this route, and as evidence that they were badly shaken by our success, sent no raiders down the Beaches. It was a few weeks later that Big Boss Hart sent for me. "Tony," he said, "There are two things I want to talk to you about. One of them will become public property in a few days, I think. We aren't going to get any more Han ships by shooting up their repellor rays unless we use much larger rockets. They are wise to us now. They're putting armor of great thickness in the hulls of their ships below the rep-ray machines. Near Bah-flo this morning a party of Eries shot one without success. The explosions staggered her, but did not penetrate. As near as we can gather from their reports, their laboratories have developed a new alloy of great tensile strength and elasticity which nevertheless lets the rep rays through like a sieve. Our reports indicate that the Eries' rockets bounced off harmlessly. Most of the party was wiped out as the dis rays went into action on them. "This is going to mean real business for all of the gangs before long. The Big Bosses have just held a national ultrophone council. It was decided that America must organize on a national basis. The first move is to develop sectional organization by Zones. I have been made Superboss of the Mid-Atlantic Zone. "We're in for it now. The Hans are sure to launch reprisal expeditions. If we're to save the race we must keep them away from our camps and plants. I'm thinking of developing a permanent field force, along the lines of the regular armies of the 20th Century you told me about. Its business will be twofold: to carry the warfare as much as possible to the Hans, and to serve as a decoy, to keep their attention from our plants. I'm going to need your help in this. "The other thing I wanted to talk to you about is this: Amazing and impossible as it seems, there is a group, or perhaps an entire gang, somewhere among us, that is betraying us to the Hans. It may be the Bad Bloods, or it may be one of those gangs who live near one of the Han cities. You know, a hundred and fifteen or twenty years ago there were certain of these people's ancestors who actually degraded themselves by mating with the Hans, sometimes even serving them as slaves, in the days before they brought all their service machinery to perfection. "There is such a gang, called the Nagras, up near Bah-flo, and another in Mid-Jersey that men call the Pineys. But I hardly suspect the Pineys. There is little intelligence among them. They wouldn't have the information to give the Hans, nor would they be capable of imparting it. They're absolute savages." "Just what evidence is there that anybody has been clearing information to the Hans?" I asked. "Well," he replied, "first of all there was that raid upon us. That first Han ship knew the location of our plants exactly. You remember it floated directly into position above the valley and began a systematic beaming. Then, the Hans quite obviously have learned that we are picking up their electrophone waves, for they've gone back to their old, but extremely accurate, system of directional control. But we've been getting them for the past week by installing automatic re-broadcast units along the scar paths. This is what the Americans called those strips of country directly under the regular ship routes of the Hans, who as a matter of precaution frequently blasted them with their dis beams to prevent the growth of foliage which might give shelter to the Americans. But they've been beaming those paths so hard, it looks as though they even had information of this strategy. And in addition, they've been using code. Finally, we've picked up three of their messages in which they discuss, with some nervousness, the existence of our 'mysterious' ultrophone." "But they still have no knowledge of the nature and control of ultronic activity?" I asked. "No," said the Big Boss thoughtfully, "they don't seem to have a bit of information about it." "Then it's quite clear," I ventured, "that whoever is 'clearing' us to them is doing it piecemeal. It sounds like a bit of occasional barter, rather than an out-and-out alliance. They're holding back as much information as possible for future bartering, perhaps." "Yes," Hart said, "and it isn't information the Hans are giving in return, but some form of goods, or privilege. The trick would be to locate the goods. I guess I'll have to make a personal trip around among the Big Bosses." CHAPTER VIII The Han City This conversation set me thinking. All of the Han electrophone inter-communication had been an open record to the Americans for a good many years, and the Hans were just finding it out. For centuries they had not regarded us as any sort of a menace. Unquestionably it had never occurred to them to secrete their own records. Somewhere in Nu-yok or Bah-flo, or possibly in Lo-Tan itself, the record of this traitorous transaction would be more or less openly filed. If we could only get at it! I wondered if a raid might not be possible. Bill Hearn and I talked it over with our Han-affairs Boss and his experts. There ensued several days of research, in which the Han records of the entire decade were scanned and analyzed. In the end they picked out a mass of detail, and fitted it together into a very definite picture of the great central filing office of the Hans in Nu-yok, where the entire mass of official records was kept, constantly available for instant projectoscoping to any of the city's offices, and of the system by which the information was filed. The attempt began to look feasible, though Hart instantly turned the idea down when I first presented it to him. It was unthinkable, he said. Sheer suicide. But in the end I persuaded him. "I will need," I said, "Blash, who is thoroughly familiar with the Han library system; Bert Gaunt, who for years has specialized on their military offices; Bill Barker, the ray specialist, and the best swooper pilot we have." _Swoopers_ are one-man and two-man ships, developed by the Americans, with skeleton backbones of inertron (during the war painted green for invisibility against the green forests below) and "bellies" of clear ultron. "That will be Mort Gibbons," said Hart. "We've only got three swoopers left, Tony, but I'll risk one of them if you and the others will voluntarily risk your existences. But mind, I won't urge or order one of you to go. I'll spread the word to every Plant Boss at once to give you anything and everything you need in the way of equipment." When I told Wilma of the plan, I expected her to raise violent and tearful objections, but she didn't. She was made of far sterner stuff than the women of the 20th Century. Not that she couldn't weep as copiously or be just as whimsical on occasion; but she wouldn't weep for the same reasons. She just gave me an unfathomable look, in which there seemed to be a bit of pride, and asked eagerly for the details. I confess I was somewhat disappointed that she could so courageously risk my loss, even though I was amazed at her fortitude. But later I was to learn how little I knew her then. We were ready to slide off at dawn the next morning. I had kissed Wilma good-bye at our camp, and after a final conference over our plans, we boarded our craft and gently glided away over the tree tops on a course, which, after crossing three routes of the Han ships, would take us out over the Atlantic, off the Jersey coast, whence we would come up on Nu-yok from the ocean. Twice we had to nose down and lie motionless on the ground near a route while Han ships passed. Those were tense moments. Had the green back of our ship been observed, we would have been disintegrated in a second. But it wasn't. Once over the water, however, we climbed in a great spiral, ten miles in diameter, until our altimeter registered ten miles. Here Gibbons shut off his rocket motor, and we floated, far above the level of the Atlantic liners, whose course was well to the north of us anyhow, and waited for nightfall. Then Gibbons turned from his control long enough to grin at me. "I have a surprise for you, Tony," he said, throwing back the lid of what I had supposed was a big supply case. And with a sigh of relief, Wilma stepped out of the case. "If you 'go into zero' (a common expression of the day for being annihilated by the disintegrator ray), you don't think I'm going to let you go alone, do you, Tony? I couldn't believe my ears last night when you spoke of going without me, until I realized that you are still five hundred years behind the times in lots of ways. Don't you know, dear heart, that you offered me the greatest insult a husband could give a wife? You didn't, of course." The others, it seemed, had all been in on the secret, and now they would have kidded me unmercifully, except that Wilma's eyes blazed dangerously. At nightfall, we maneuvered to a position directly above the city. This took some time and calculation on the part of Bill Barker, who explained to me that he had to determine our point by ultronic bearings. The slightest resort to an electronic instrument, he feared, might be detected by our enemies' locators. In fact, we did not dare bring our swooper any lower than five miles for fear that its capacity might be reflected in their instruments. Finally, however, he succeeded in locating above the central tower of the city. "If my calculations are as much as ten feet off," he remarked with confidence, "I'll eat the tower. Now the rest is up to you, Mort. See what you can do to hold her steady. No--here, watch this indicator--the red beam, not the green one. See--if you keep it exactly centered on the needle, you're O.K. The width of the beam represents seventeen feet. The tower platform is fifty feet square, so we've got a good margin to work on." For several moments we watched as Gibbons bent over his levers, constantly adjusting them with deft touches of his fingers. After a bit of wavering, the beam remained centered on the needle. "Now," I said, "let's drop." I opened the trap and looked down, but quickly shut it again when I felt the air rushing out of the ship into the rarefied atmosphere in a torrent. Gibbons literally yelled a protest from his instrument board. "I forgot," I mumbled. "Silly of me. Of course, we'll have to drop out of compartment." The compartment, to which I referred, was similar to those in some of the 20th Century submarines. We all entered it. There was barely room for us to stand, shoulder to shoulder. With some struggles, we got into our special air helmets and adjusted the pressure. At our signal, Gibbons exhausted the air in the compartment, pumping it into the body of the ship, and as the little signal light flashed, Wilma threw open the hatch. Setting the ultron-wire reel, I climbed through, and began to slide down gently. We all had our belts on, of course, adjusted to a weight balance of but a few ounces. And the five-mile reel of ultron wire that was to be our guide, was of gossamer fineness, though, anyway, I believe it would have lifted the full weight of the five of us, so strong and tough was this invisible metal. As an extra precaution, since the wire was of the purest metal, and therefore totally invisible, even in daylight, we all had our belts hooked on small rings that slid down the wire. I went down with the end of the wire. Wilma followed a few feet above me, then Barker, Gaunt and Blash. Gibbons, of course, stayed behind to hold the ship in position and control the paying out of the line. We all had our ultrophones in place inside our air helmets, and so could converse with one another and with Gibbons. But at Wilma's suggestion, although we would have liked to let the Big Boss listen in, we kept them adjusted to short-range work, for fear that those who had been clearing with the Hans, and against whom we were on a raid for evidence, might also pick up our conversation. We had no fear that the Hans would hear us. In fact, we had the added advantage that, even after we landed, we could converse freely without danger of their hearing our voices through our air helmets. For a while I could see nothing below but utter darkness. Then I realized, from the feel of the air as much as from anything, that we were sinking through a cloud layer. We passed through two more cloud layers before anything was visible to us. Then there came under my gaze, about two miles below, one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen; the soft, yet brilliant, radiance of the great Han city of Nu-yok. Every foot of its structural members seemed to glow with a wonderful incandescence, tower piled up on tower, and all built on the vast base-mass of the city, which, so I had been told, sheered upward from the surface of the rivers to a height of 728 levels. The city, I noticed with some surprise, did not cover anything like the same area as the New York of the 20th Century. It occupied, as a matter of fact, only the lower half of Manhattan Island, with one section straddling the East River, and spreading out sufficiently over what once had been Brooklyn, to provide berths for the great liners and other air craft. Straight beneath my feet was a tiny dark patch. It seemed the only spot in the entire city that was not aflame with radiance. This was the central tower, in the top floors of which were housed the vast library of record files and the main projectoscope plant. "You can shoot the wire now," I ultrophoned Gibbons, and let go the little weighted knob. It dropped like a plummet, and we followed with considerable speed, but braking our descent with gloved hands sufficiently to see whether the knob, on which a faint light glowed as a signal for ourselves, might be observed by any Han guard or night prowler. Apparently it was not, and we again shot down with accelerated speed. We landed on the roof of the tower without any mishap, and fortunately for our plan, in darkness. Since there was nothing above it on which it would have been worth while to shed illumination, or from which there was any need to observe it, the Hans had neglected to light the tower roof, or indeed to occupy it at all. This was the reason we had selected it as our landing place. As soon as Gibbons had our word, he extinguished the knob light, and the knob, as well as the wire, became totally invisible. At our ultrophoned word, he would light it again. "No gun play now," I warned. "Swords only, and then only if absolutely necessary." Closely bunched, and treading as lightly as only inertron-belted people could, we made our way cautiously through a door and down an inclined plane to the floor below, where Gaunt and Blash assured us the military offices were located. Twice Barker cautioned us to stop as we were about to pass in front of mirror-like "windows" in the passage wall, and flattening ourselves to the floor, we crawled past them. "Projectoscopes," he said. "Probably on automatic record only, at this time of night. Still, we don't want to leave any records for them to study after we're gone." "Were you ever here before?" I asked. "No," he replied, "but I haven't been studying their electrophone communications for seven years without being able to recognize these machines when I run across them." CHAPTER IX The Fight in the Tower So far we had not laid eyes on a Han. The tower seemed deserted. Blash and Gaunt, however, assured me that there would be at least one man on "duty" in the military offices, though he would probably be asleep, and two or three in the library proper and the projectoscope plant. "We've got to put them out of commission," I said. "Did you bring the 'dope' cans, Wilma?" "Yes," she said, "two for each. Here," and she distributed them. We were now two levels below the roof, and at the point where we were to separate. I did not want to let Wilma out of my sight, but it was necessary. According to our plan, Barker was to make his way to the projectoscope plant, Blash and I to the library, and Wilma and Gaunt to the military office. Blash and I traversed a long corridor, and paused at the great arched doorway of the library. Cautiously we peered in. Seated at three great switchboards were library operatives. Occasionally one of them would reach lazily for a lever, or sleepily push a button, as little numbered lights winked on and off. They were answering calls for electrograph and viewplate records on all sorts of subjects from all sections of the city. I apprised my companions of the situation. "Better wait a bit," Blash added. "The calls will lessen shortly." Wilma reported an officer in the military office sound asleep. "Give him the can, then," I said. Barker was to do nothing more than keep watch in the projectoscope plant, and a few moments later he reported himself well concealed, with a splendid view of the floor. "I think we can take a chance now," Blash said to me, and at my nod, he opened the lid of his dope can. Of course, the fumes did not affect us, through our helmets. They were absolutely without odor or visibility, and in a few seconds the librarians were unconscious. We stepped into the room. There ensued considerable cautious observation and experiment on the part of Gaunt, working from the military office, and Blash in the library; while Wilma and I, with drawn swords and sharply attuned microphones, stood guard, and occasionally patrolled nearby corridors. "I hear something approaching," Wilma said after a bit, with excitement in her voice. "It's a soft, gliding sound." "That's an elevator somewhere," Barker cut in from the projectoscope floor. "Can you locate it? I can't hear it." "It's to the east of me," she replied. "And to my west," said I, faintly catching it. "It's between us, Wilma, and nearer you than me. Be careful. Have you got any information yet, Blash and Gaunt?" "Getting it now," one of them replied. "Give us two minutes more." "Keep at it then," I said. "We'll guard." The soft, gliding sound ceased. "I think it's very close to me," Wilma almost whispered. "Come closer, Tony. I have a feeling something is going to happen. I've never known my nerves to get taut like this without reason." In some alarm, I launched myself down the corridor in a great leap toward the intersection whence I knew I could see her. In the middle of my leap my ultrophone registered her gasp of alarm. The next instant I glided to a stop at the intersection to see Wilma backing toward the door of the military office, her sword red with blood, and an inert form on the corridor floor. Two other Hans were circling to either side of her with wicked-looking knives, while a third evidently a high officer, judging by the resplendence of his garb tugged desperately to get an electrophone instrument out of a bulky pocket. If he ever gave the alarm, there was no telling what might happen to us. I was at least seventy feet away, but I crouched low and sprang with every bit of strength in my legs. It would be more correct to say that I dived, for I reached the fellow head on, with no attempt to draw my legs beneath me. Some instinct must have warned him, for he turned suddenly as I hurtled close to him. But by this time I had sunk close to the floor, and had stiffened myself rigidly, lest a dragging knee or foot might just prevent my reaching him. I brought my blade upward and over. It was a vicious slash that laid him open, bisecting him from groin to chin, and his dead body toppled down on me, as I slid to a tangled stop. The other two startled, turned. Wilma leaped at one and struck him down with a side slash. I looked up at this instant, and the dazed fear on his face at the length of her leap registered vividly. The Hans knew nothing of our inertron belts, it seemed, and these leaps and dives of ours filled them with terror. As I rose to my feet, a gory mess, Wilma, with a poise and speed which I found time to admire even in this crisis, again leaped. This time she dove head first as I had done and, with a beautifully executed thrust, ran the last Han through the throat. Uncertainly, she scrambled to her feet, staggered queerly, and then sank gently prone on the corridor. She had fainted. At this juncture, Blash and Gaunt reported with elation that they had the record we wanted. "Back to the roof, everybody!" I ordered, as I picked Wilma up in my arms. With her inertron belt, she felt as light as a feather. Gaunt joined me at once from the military office, and at the intersection of the corridor, we came upon Blash waiting for us. Barker, however, was not in evidence. "Where are you, Barker?" I called. "Go ahead," he replied. "I'll be with you on the roof at once." We came out in the open without any further mishap, and I instructed Gibbons in the ship to light the knob on the end of the ultron wire. It flashed dully a few feet away from us. Just how he had maneuvered the ship to keep our end of the line in position, without its swinging in a tremendous arc, I have never been able to understand. Had not the night been an unusually still one, he could not have checked the initial pendulum-like movements. As it was, there was considerable air current at certain of the levels, and in different directions too. But Gibbons was an expert of rare ability and sensitivity in the handling of a rocket ship, and he managed, with the aid of his delicate instruments, to sense the drifts almost before they affected the fine ultron wire, and to neutralize them with little shifts in the position of the ship. Blash and Gaunt fastened their rings to the wire, and I hooked my own and Wilma's on, too. But on looking around, I found Barker was still missing. "Barker, come!" I called. "We're waiting." "Coming!" he replied, and indeed, at that instant, his figure appeared up the ramp. He chuckled as he fastened his ring to the wire, and said something about a little surprise he had left for the Hans. "Don't reel in the wire more than a few hundred feet," I instructed Gibbons. "It will take too long to wind it in. We'll float up, and when we're aboard, we can drop it." In order to float up, we had to dispense with a pound or two of weight apiece. We hurled our swords from us, and kicked off our shoes as Gibbons reeled up the line a bit, and then letting go of the wire, began to hum upward on our rings with increasing velocity. The rush of air brought Wilma to, and I hastily explained to her that we had been successful. Receding far below us now, I could see our dully shining knob swinging to and fro in an ever widening arc, as it crossed and recrossed the black square of the tower roof. As an extra precaution, I ordered Gibbons to shut off the light, and to show one from the belly of the ship, for so great was our speed now, that I began to fear we would have difficulty in checking ourselves. We were literally falling upward, and with terrific acceleration. Fortunately, we had several minutes in which to solve this difficulty, which none of us, strangely enough, had foreseen. It was Gibbons who found the answer. "You'll be all right if all of you grab the wire tight when I give the word," he said. "First I'll start reeling it in at full speed. You won't get much of a jar, and then I'll decrease its speed again gradually, and its weight will hold you back. Are you ready? One--two--three!" We all grabbed tightly with our gloved hands as he gave the word. We must have been rising a good bit faster than he figured, however, for it wrenched our arms considerably, and the maneuver set up a sickening pendulum motion. For a while all we could do was swing there in an arc that may have been a quarter of a mile across, about three and a half miles above the city, and still more than a mile from our ship. Gibbons skilfully took up the slack as our momentum pulled up the line. Then at last we had ourselves under control again, and continued our upward journey, checking our speed somewhat with our gloves. There was not one of us who did not breathe a big sigh of relief when we scrambled through the hatch safely into the ship again, cast off the ultron line and slammed the trap shut. Little realizing that we had a still more terrible experience to go through, we discussed the information Blash and Gaunt had between them extracted from the Han records, and the advisability of ultrophoning Hart at once. CHAPTER X The Walls of Hell The traitors were, it seemed, a degenerate gang of Americans, located a few miles north of Nu-yok on the wooded banks of the Hudson, the Sinsings. They had exchanged scraps of information to the Hans in return for several old repellor-ray machines, and the privilege of tuning in on the Han electronic power broadcast for their operation, provided their ships agreed to subject themselves to the orders of the Han traffic office, while aloft. The rest wanted to ultrophone their news at once, since there was always danger that we might never get back to the gang with it. I objected, however. The Sinsings would be likely to pick up our message. Even if we used the directional projector, they might have scouts out to the west and south in the big inter-gang stretches of country. They would flee to Nu-yok and escape the punishment they merited. It seemed to be vitally important that they should not, for the sake of example to other weak groups among the American gangs, as well as to prevent a crisis in which they might clear more vital information to the enemy. "Out to sea again," I ordered Gibbons. "They'll be less likely to look for us in that direction." "Easy, Boss, easy," he replied. "Wait until we get up a mile or two more. They must have discovered evidences of our raid by now, and their dis-ray wall may go in operation any moment." Even as he spoke, the ship lurched downward and to one side. "There it is!" he shouted. "Hang on, everybody. We're going to nose straight up!" And he flipped the rocket-motor control wide open. Looking through one of the rear ports, I could see a nebulous, luminous ring, and on all sides the atmosphere took on a faint iridescence. We were almost over the destructive range of the disintegrator-ray wall, a hollow cylinder of annihilation shooting upward from a solid ring of generators surrounding the city. It was the main defense system of the Hans, which had never been used except in periodic tests. They may or may not have suspected that an American rocket ship was within the cylinder; probably they had turned on their generators more as a precaution to prevent any reaching a position above the city. But even at our present great height, we were in great danger. It was a question how much we might have been harmed by the rays themselves, for their effective range was not much more than seven or eight miles. The greater danger lay in the terrific downward rush of air within the cylinder to replace that which was being burned into nothingness by the continual play of the disintegrators. The air fell into the cylinder with the force of a gale. It would be rushing toward the wall from the outside with terrific force also, but, naturally, the effect was intensified on the interior. Our ship vibrated and trembled. We had only one chance of escape--to fight our way well above the current. To drift down with it meant ultimately, and inevitably, to be sucked into the destruction wall at some lower level. But very gradually and jerkily our upward movement, as shown on the indicators, began to increase, and after an hour of desperate struggle we were free of the maelstrom and into the rarefied upper levels. The terror beneath us was now invisible through several layers of cloud formations. Gibbons brought the ship back to an even keel, and drove her eastward into one of the most brilliantly gorgeous sunrises I have ever seen. We described a great circle to the south and west, in a long easy dive, for he had cut out his rocket motors to save them as much as possible. We had drawn terrifically on their fuel reserves in our battle with the elements. For the moment, the atmosphere below cleared, and we could see the Jersey coast far beneath, like a great map. "We're not through yet," remarked Gibbons suddenly, pointing at his periscope, and adjusting it to telescopic focus. "A Han ship, and a 'drop ship' at that--and he's seen us. If he whips that beam of his on us, we're done." I gazed, fascinated, at the viewplate. What I saw was a cigar-shaped ship not dissimilar to our own in design, and from the proportional size of its ports, of about the same size as our swoopers. We learned later that they carried crews, for the most part of not more than three or four men. They had streamline hulls and tails that embodied universal-jointed double fish-tail rudders. In operation they rose to great heights on their powerful repellor rays, then gathered speed either by a straight nose dive, or an inclined dive in which they sometimes used the repellor ray slanted at a sharp angle. He was already above us, though several miles to the north. He could, of course, try to get on our tail and "spear" us with his beam as he dropped at us from a great height. Suddenly his beam blazed forth in a blinding flash, whipping downward slowly to our right. He went through a peculiar corkscrew-like evolution, evidently maneuvering to bring his beam to bear on us with a spiral motion. Gibbons instantly sent our ship into a series of evolutions that must have looked like those of a frightened hen. Alternately, he used the forward and the reverse rocket blasts, and in varying degree. We fluttered, we shot suddenly to right and left, and dropped like a plummet in uncertain movements. But all the time the Han scout dropped toward us, determinedly whipping the air around us with his beam. Once it sliced across beneath us, not more than a hundred feet, and we dropped with a jar into the pocket formed by the destruction of the air. He had dropped to within a mile of us, and was coming with the speed of a projectile, when the end came. Gibbons always swore it was sheer luck. Maybe it was, but I like pilots who are lucky that way. In the midst of a dizzy, fluttering maneuver of our own, with the Han ship enlarging to our gaze with terrifying rapidity, and its beam slowly slicing toward us in what looked like certain destruction within the second, I saw Gibbons' fingers flick at the lever of his rocket gun and a split second later the Han ship flew apart like a clay pigeon. We staggered, and fluttered crazily for several moments while Gibbons struggled to bring our ship into balance, and a section of about four square feet in the side of the ship near the stern slowly crumbled like rusted metal. His beam actually had touched us, but our explosive rocket had got him a thousandth of a second sooner. Part of our rudder had been annihilated, and our motor damaged. But we were able to swoop gently back across Jersey, fortunately crossing the ship lanes without sighting any more Han craft, and finally settling to rest in the little glade beneath the trees, near Hart's camp. CHAPTER XI The New Boss We had ultrophoned our arrival and the Big Boss himself, surrounded by the Council, was on hand to welcome us and learn our news. In turn we were informed that during the night a band of raiding Bad Bloods, disguised under the insignia of the Altoonas, a gang some distance to the west of us, had destroyed several of our camps before our people had rallied and driven them off. Their purpose, evidently, had been to embroil us with the Altoonas, but fortunately, one of our exchanges recognized the Bad Blood leader, who had been slain. The Big Boss had mobilized the full raiding force of the Gang, and was on the point of heading an expedition for the extermination of the Bad Bloods. I looked around the grim circle of the sub-bosses, and realized the fate of America, at this moment, lay in their hands. Their temper demanded the immediate expenditure of our full effort in revenging ourselves for this raid. But the strategic exigencies, to my mind, quite clearly demanded the instant and absolute extermination of the Sinsings. It might be only a matter of hours, for all we knew, before these degraded people would barter clues to the American ultronic secrets to the Hans. "How large a force have we?" I asked Hart. "Every man and maid who can be spared," he replied. "That gives us seven hundred married and unmarried men, and three hundred girls, more than the entire Bad Blood Gang. Every one is equipped with belts, ultrophones, rocket guns and swords, and all fighting mad." I meditated how I might put the matter to these determined men, and was vaguely conscious that they were awaiting my words. Finally I began to speak. I do not remember to this day just what I said. I talked calmly, with due regard for their passion, but with deep conviction. I went over the information we had collected, point by point, building my case logically, and painting a lurid picture of the danger impending in that half-alliance between the Sinsings and the Hans of Nu-yok. I became impassioned, culminating, I believe, with a vow to proceed single-handed against the hereditary enemies of our race, "if the Wyomings were blindly set on placing a gang feud ahead of honor and duty and the hopes of all America." As I concluded, a great calm came over me, as of one detached. I had felt much the same way during several crises in the First World War. I gazed from face to face, striving to read their expressions, and in a mood to make good my threat without any further heroics, if the decision was against me. But it was Hart who sensed the temper of the Council more quickly than I did, and looked beyond it into the future. He arose from the tree trunk on which he had been sitting. "That settles it," he said, looking around the ring. "I have felt this thing coming on for some time now. I'm sure the Council agrees with me that there is among us a man more capable than I, to boss the Wyoming Gang, despite his handicap of having had all too short a time in which to familiarize himself with our modern ways and facilities. Whatever I can do to support his effective leadership, at any cost, I pledge myself to do." As he concluded, he advanced to where I stood, and taking from his head the green-crested helmet that constituted his badge of office, to my surprise he placed it in my mechanically extended hand. The roar of approval that went up from the Council members left me dazed. Somebody ultrophoned the news to the rest of the Gang, and even though the earflaps of my helmet were turned up, I could hear the cheers with which my invisible followers greeted me, from near and distant hillsides, camps and plants. My first move was to make sure that the Phone Boss, in communicating this news to the members of the Gang, had not re-broadcast my talk nor mentioned my plan of shifting the attack from the Bad Bloods to the Sinsings. I was relieved by his assurance that he had not, for it would have wrecked the whole plan. Everything depended upon our ability to surprise the Sinsings. So I pledged the Council and my companions to secrecy, and allowed it to be believed that we were about to take to the air and the trees against the Bad Bloods. That outfit must have been badly scared, the way they were "burning" the ether with ultrophone alibis and propaganda for the benefit of the more distant gangs. It was their old game, and the only method by which they had avoided extermination long ago from their immediate neighbors--these appeals to the spirit of American brotherhood, addressed to gangs too far away to have had the sort of experience with them that had fallen to our lot. I chuckled. Here was another good reason for the shift in my plans. Were we actually to undertake the exterminations of the Bad Bloods at once, it would have been a hard job to convince some of the gangs that we had not been precipitate and unjustified. Jealousies and prejudices existed. There were gangs which would give the benefit of the doubt to the Bad Bloods, rather than to ourselves, and the issue was now hopelessly beclouded with the clever lies that were being broadcast in an unceasing stream. But the extermination of the Sinsings would be another thing. In the first place, there would be no warning of our action until it was all over, I hoped. In the second place, we would have indisputable proof, in the form of their rep-ray ships and other paraphernalia, of their traffic with the Hans; and the state of American prejudice, at the time of which I write held trafficking with the Hans a far more heinous thing than even a vicious gang feud. I called an executive session of the Council at once. I wanted to inventory our military resources. I created a new office on the spot, that of "Control Boss," and appointed Ned Garlin to the post, turning over his former responsibility as Plants Boss to his assistant. I needed someone, I felt, to tie in the records of the various functional activities of the campaign, and take over from me the task of keeping the records of them up to the minute. I received reports from the bosses of the ultrophone unit, and those of food, transportation, fighting gear, chemistry, electronic activity and electrophone intelligence, ultroscopes, air patrol and contact guard. My ideas for the campaign, of course, were somewhat tinged with my 20th Century experience, and I found myself faced with the task of working out a staff organization that was a composite of the best and most easily applied principles of business and military efficiency, as I knew them from the viewpoint of immediate practicality. What I wanted was an organization that would be specialized, functionally, not as that indicated above, but from the angles of: intelligence as to the Sinsings' activities; intelligence as to Han activities; perfection of communication with my own units; co-operation of field command; and perfect mobilization of emergency supplies and resources. It took several hours of hard work with the Council to map out the plan. First we assigned functional experts and equipment to each "Division" in accordance with its needs. Then these in turn were reassigned by the new Division Bosses to the Field Commands as needed, or as Independent or Headquarters Units. The two intelligence divisions were named the White and the Yellow, indicating that one specialized on the American enemy and the other on the Mongolians. The division in charge of our own communications, the assignment of ultrophone frequencies and strengths, and the maintenance of operators and equipment, I called "Communications." I named Bill Hearn to the post of Field Boss, in charge of the main or undetached fighting units, and to the Resources Division, I assigned all responsibility for what few aircraft we had; and all transportation and supply problems, I assigned to "Resources." The functional bosses stayed with this division. We finally completed our organization with the assignment of liaison representatives among the various divisions as needed. Thus I had a "Headquarters Staff" composed of the Division Bosses who reported directly to Ned Garlin as Control Boss, or to Wilma as my personal assistant. And each of the Division Bosses had a small staff of his own. In the final summing up of our personnel and resources, I found we had roughly a thousand "troops," of whom some three hundred and fifty were, in what I called the Service Divisions, the rest being in Bill Hearn's Field Division. This latter number, however, was cut down somewhat by the assignment of numerous small units to detached service. Altogether, the actual available fighting force, I figured, would number about five hundred, by the time we actually went into action. We had only six small swoopers, but I had an ingenious plan in my mind, as the result of our little raid on Nu-yok, that would make this sufficient, since the reserves of inertron blocks were larger than I expected to find them. The Resources Division, by packing its supply cases a bit tight, or by slipping in extra blocks of inertron, was able to reduce each to a weight of a few ounces. These easily could be floated and towed by the swoopers in any quantity. Hitched to ultron lines, it would be a virtual impossibility for them to break loose. The entire personnel, of course, was supplied with jumpers, and if each man and girl was careful to adjust balances properly, the entire number could also be towed along through the air, grasping wires of ultron, swinging below the swoopers, or stringing out behind them. There would be nothing tiring about this, because the strain would be no greater than that of carrying a one or two pound weight in the hand, except for air friction at high speeds. But to make doubly sure that we should lose none of our personnel, I gave strict orders that the belts and tow lines should be equipped with rings and hooks. So great was the efficiency of the fundamental organization and discipline of the Gang, that we got under way at nightfall. One by one the swoopers eased into the air, each followed by its long train or "kite-tail" of humanity and supply cases hanging lightly from its tow line. For convenience, the tow lines were made of an alloy of ultron which, unlike the metal itself, is visible. At first these "tails" hung downward, but as the ships swung into formation and headed eastward toward the Bad Blood territory, gathering speed, they began to string out behind. And swinging low from each ship on heavily weighted lines, ultroscope, ultrophone, and straight-vision observers keenly scanned the countryside, while intelligence men in the swoopers above bent over their instrument boards and viewplates. Leaving Control Boss Ned Garlin temporarily in charge of affairs, Wilma and I dropped a weighted line from our ship, and slid down about half way to the under lookouts, that is to say, about a thousand feet. The sensation of floating swiftly through the air like this, in the absolute security of one's confidence in the inertron belt, was one of never-ending delight to me. We reascended into the swooper as the expedition approached the territory of the Bad Bloods, and directed the preparations for the bombardment. It was part of my plan to appear to carry out the attack as originally planned. About fifteen miles from their camps our ships came to a halt and maintained their positions for a while with the idling blasts of their rocket motors, to give the ultroscope operators a chance to make a thorough examination of the territory below us, for it was very important that this next step in our program should be carried out with all secrecy. At length they reported the ground below us entirely clear of any appearance of human occupation, and a gun unit of long-range specialists was lowered with a dozen rocket guns, equipped with special automatic devices that the Resources Division had developed at my request, a few hours before our departure. These were aiming and timing devices. After calculating the range, elevation and rocket charges carefully, the guns were left, concealed in a ravine, and the men were hauled up into the ship again. At the predetermined hour, those unmanned rocket guns would begin automatically to bombard the Bad Bloods' hillsides, shifting their aim and elevation slightly with each shot, as did many of our artillery pieces in the First World War. In the meantime, we turned south about twenty miles, and grounded, waiting for the bombardment to begin before we attempted to sneak across the Han ship lane. I was relying for security on the distraction that the bombardment might furnish the Han observers. It was tense work waiting, but the affair went through as planned, our squadron drifting across the route high enough to enable the ships' tails of troops and supply cases to clear the ground. In crossing the second ship route, out along the Beaches of Jersey, we were not so successful in escaping observation. A Han ship came speeding along at a very low elevation. We caught it on our electronic location and direction finders, and also located it with our ultroscopes, but it came so fast and so low that I thought it best to remain where we had grounded the second time, and lie quiet, rather than get under way and cross in front of it. The point was this. While the Hans had no such devices as our ultroscopes, with which we could see in the dark (within certain limitations of course), and their electronic instruments would be virtually useless in uncovering our presence, since all but natural electronic activities were carefully eliminated from our apparatus, except electrophone receivers (which are not easily spotted), the Hans did have some very highly sensitive sound devices which operated with great efficiency in calm weather, so far as sounds emanating from the air were concerned. But the "ground roar" greatly confused their use of these instruments in the location of specific sounds floating up from the surface of the earth. This ship must have caught some slight noise of ours, however, in its sensitive instruments, for we heard its electronic devices go into play, and picked up the routine report of the noise to its Base Ship Commander. But from the nature of the conversation, I judged they had not identified it, and were, in fact, more curious about the detonations they were picking up now from the Bad Blood lands some sixty miles or so to the west. Immediately after this ship had shot by, we took the air again, and following much the same route that I had taken the previous night, climbed in a long semi-circle out over the ocean, swung toward the north and finally the west. We set our course, however, for the Sinsings' land north of Nu-yok, instead of for the city itself. CHAPTER XII The Finger of Doom As we crossed the Hudson River, a few miles north of the city, we dropped several units of the Yellow Intelligence Division, with full instrumental equipment. Their apparatus cases were nicely balanced at only a few ounces weight each, and the men used their chute capes to ease their drops. We recrossed the river a little distance above and began dropping White Intelligence units and a few long and short range gun units. Then we held our position until we began to get reports. Gradually we ringed the territory of the Sinsings, our observation units working busily and patiently at their locators and scopes, both aloft and aground, until Garlin finally turned to me with the remark: "The map circle is complete now, Boss. We've got clear locations all the way around them." "Let me see it," I replied, and studied the illuminated viewplate map, with its little overlapping circles of light that indicated spots proved clear of the enemy by ultroscopic observation. I nodded to Bill Hearn. "Go ahead now, Hearn," I said, "and place your barrage men." He spoke into his ultrophone, and three of the ships began to glide in a wide ring around the enemy territory. Every few seconds, at the word from his Unit Boss, a gunner would drop off the wire, and slipping the clasp of his chute cape, drift down into the darkness below. Bill formed two lines, parallel to and facing the river, and enclosing the entire territory of the enemy between them. Above and below, straddling the river, were two defensive lines. These latter were merely to hold their positions. The others were to close in toward each other, pushing a high-explosive barrage five miles ahead of them. When the two barrages met, both lines were to switch to short-vision-range barrage and continue to close in on any of the enemy who might have drifted through the previous curtain of fire. In the meantime Bill kept his reserves, a picked corps of a hundred men (the same that had accompanied Hart and myself in our fight with the Han squadron) in the air, divided about equally among the "kite-tails" of four ships. A final roll call, by units, companies, divisions and functions, established the fact that all our forces were in position. No Han activity was reported, and no Han broadcasts indicated any suspicion of our expedition. Nor was there any indication that the Sinsings had any knowledge of the fate in store for them. The idling of rep-ray generators was reported from the center of their camp, obviously those of the ships the Hans had given them--the price of their treason to their race. Again I gave the word, and Hearn passed on the order to his subordinates. Far below us, and several miles to the right and left, the two barrage lines made their appearance. From the great height to which we had risen, they appeared like lines of brilliant, winking lights, and the detonations were muffled by the distances into a sort of rumbling, distant thunder. Hearn and his assistants were very busy: measuring, calculating, and snapping out ultrophone orders to unit commanders that resulted in the straightening of lines and the closing of gaps in the barrage. The White Division Boss reported the utmost confusion in the Sinsing organization. They were, as might be expected, an inefficient, loosely disciplined gang, and repeated broadcasts for help to neighboring gangs. Ignoring the fact that the Mongolians had not used explosives for many generations, they nevertheless jumped at the conclusion that they were being raided by the Hans. Their frantic broadcasts persisted in this thought, despite the nervous electrophonic inquiries of the Hans themselves, to whom the sound of the battle was evidently audible, and who were trying to locate the trouble. At this point, the swooper I had sent south toward the city went into action as a diversion, to keep the Hans at home. Its "kite-tail" loaded with long-range gunners, using the most highly explosive rockets we had, hung invisible in the darkness of the sky and bombarded the city from a distance of about five miles. With an entire city to shoot at, and the object of creating as much commotion therein as possible, regardless of actual damage, the gunners had no difficulty in hitting the mark. I could see the glow of the city and the stabbing flashes of exploding rockets. In the end, the Hans, uncertain as to what was going on, fell back on a defensive policy, and shot their "hell cylinder," or wall of upturned disintegrator rays into operation. That, of course, ended our bombardment of them. The rays were a perfect defense, disintegrating our rockets as they were reached. If they had not sent out ships before turning on the rays, and if they had none within sufficient radius already in the air, all would be well. I queried Garlin on this, but he assured me Yellow Intelligence reported no indications of Han ships nearer than 800 miles. This would probably give us a free hand for a while, since most of their instruments recorded only imperfectly or not at all, through the death wall. Requisitioning one of the viewplates of the headquarters ship, and the services of an expert operator, I instructed him to focus on our lines below. I wanted a close-up of the men in action. He began to manipulate his controls and chaotic shadows moved rapidly across the plate, fading in and out of focus, until he reached an adjustment that gave me a picture of the forest floor, apparently 100 feet wide, with the intervening branches and foliage of the trees appearing like shadows that melted into reality a few feet above the ground. I watched one man setting up his long-gun with skillful speed. His lips pursed slightly as though he were whistling, as he adjusted the tall tripod on which the long tube was balanced. Swiftly he twirled the knobs controlling the aim and elevation of his piece. Then, lifting a belt of ammunition from the big box, which itself looked heavy enough to break down the spindly tripod, he inserted the end of it in the lock of his tube and touched the proper combination of buttons. Then he stepped aside, and occupied himself with peering carefully through the trees ahead. Not even a tremor shook the tube, but I knew that at intervals of something less than a second, it was discharging small projectiles which, traveling under their own continuously reduced power, were arching into the air, to fall precisely five miles ahead and explode with the force of eight-inch shells, such as we used in the First World War. Another gunner, fifty feet to the right of him, waved a hand and called out something to him. Then, picking up his own tube and tripod, he gauged the distance between the trees ahead of him, and the height of their lowest branches, and bending forward a bit, flexed his muscles and leaped lightly, some twenty-five feet. Another leap took him another twenty feet or so, where he began to set up his piece. I ordered my observer then to switch to the barrage itself. He got a close focus on it, but this showed little except a continuous series of blinding flashes, which, from the viewplate, lit up the entire interior of the ship. An eight-hundred-foot focus proved better. I had thought that some of our French and American artillery of the 20th Century had achieved the ultimate in mathematical precision of fire, but I had never seen anything to equal the accuracy of that line of terrific explosions as it moved steadily forward, mowing down trees as a scythe cuts grass (or used to 500 years ago), literally churning up the earth and the splintered, blasted remains of the forest giants, to a depth of from ten to twenty feet. By now the two curtains of fire were nearing each other, lines of vibrant, shimmering, continuous, brilliant destruction, inevitably squeezing the panic-stricken Sinsings between them. Even as I watched, a group of them, who had been making a futile effort to get their three rep-ray machines into the air, abandoned their efforts, and rushed forth into the milling mob. I queried the Control Boss sharply on the futility of this attempt of theirs, and learned that the Hans, apparently in doubt as to what was going on, had continued to "play safe," and broken off their power broadcast, after ordering all their own ships east of the Alleghenies to the ground, for fear these ships they had traded to the Sinsings might be used against them. Again I turned to my viewplate, which was still focussed on the central section of the Sinsing works. The confusion of the traitors was entirely that of fear, for our barrage had not yet reached them. Some of them set up their long-guns and fired at random over the barrage line, then gave it up. They realized that they had no target to shoot at, no way of knowing whether our gunners were a few hundred feet or several miles beyond it. Their ultrophone men, of whom they did not have many, stood around in tense attitudes, their helmet phones strapped around their ears, nervously fingering the tuning controls at their belts. Unquestionably they must have located some of our frequencies, and overheard many of our reports and orders. But they were confused and disorganized. If they had an Ultrophone Boss they evidently were not reporting to him in an organized way. They were beginning to draw back now before our advancing fire. With intermittent desperation, they began to shoot over our barrage again, and the explosions of their rockets flashed at widely scattered points beyond. A few took distance "pot shots." Oddly enough it was our own forces that suffered the first casualties in the battle. Some of these distance shots by chance registered hits, while our men were under strict orders not to exceed their barrage distances. Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance. The two barrage lines were not more than five hundred feet apart when the Sinsings resorted to tactics we had not foreseen. We noticed first that they began to lighten themselves by throwing away extra equipment. A few of them in their excitement threw away too much, and shot suddenly into the air. Then a scattering few floated up gently, followed by increasing numbers, while still others, preserving a weight balance, jumped toward the closing barrages and leaped high, hoping to clear them. Some succeeded. We saw others blown about like leaves in a windstorm, to crumple and drift slowly down, or else to fall into the barrage, their belts blown from their bodies. However, it was not part of our plan to allow a single one of them to escape and find his way to the Hans. I quickly passed the word to Bill Hearn to have the alternate men in his line raise their barrages and heard him bark out a mathematical formula to the Unit Bosses. We backed off our ships as the explosions climbed into the air in stagger formation until they reached a height of three miles. I don't believe any of the Sinsings who tried to float away to freedom succeeded. But we did know later, that a few who leaped the barrage got away and ultimately reached Nu-yok. It was those who managed to jump the barrage who gave us the most trouble. With half of our long-guns turned aloft, I foresaw we would not have enough to establish successive ground barrages and so ordered the barrage back two miles, from which positions our "curtains" began to close in again, this time, however, gauged to explode, not on contact, but thirty feet in the air. This left little chance for the Sinsings to leap either over or under it. Gradually, the two barrages approached each other until they finally met, and in the grey dawn the battle ended. Our own casualties amounted to forty-seven men in the ground forces, eighteen of whom had been slain in hand to hand fighting with the few of the enemy who managed to reach our lines, and sixty-two in the crew and "kite-tail" force of swooper No. 4, which had been located by one of the enemy's ultroscopes and brought down with long-gun fire. Since nearly every member of the Sinsing Gang had, so far as we knew, been killed, we considered the raid a great success. It had, however, a far greater significance than this. To all of us who took part in the expedition, the effectiveness of our barrage tactics definitely established a confidence in our ability to overcome the Hans. As I pointed out to Wilma: "It has been my belief all along, dear, that the American explosive rocket is a far more efficient weapon than the disintegrator ray of the Hans, once we can train all our gangs to use it systematically and in co-ordinated fashion. As a weapon in the hands of a single individual, shooting at a mark in direct line of vision, the rocket-gun is inferior in destructive power to the dis ray, except as its range may be a little greater. The trouble is that to date it has been used only as we used our rifles and shot guns in the 20th Century. The possibilities of its use as artillery, in laying barrages that advance along the ground, or climb into the air, are tremendous. "The dis ray inevitably reveals its source of emanation. The rocket gun does not. The dis ray can reach its target only in a straight line. The rocket may be made to travel in an arc, over intervening obstacles, to an unseen target. "Nor must we forget that our ultronists now are promising us a perfect shield against the dis ray in inertron." "I tremble though, Tony dear, when I think of the horrors that are ahead of us. The Hans are clever. They will develop defenses against our new tactics. And they are sure to mass against us not only the full force of their power in America, but the united forces of the World Empire. They are a cowardly race in one sense, but clever as the very Devils in Hell, and inheritors of a calm, ruthless, vicious persistency." "Nevertheless," I prophesied, "the Finger of Doom points squarely at them today, and unless you and I are killed in the struggle, we shall live to see America blast the Yellow Blight from the face of the Earth." THE END. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ August 1928. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of Project Gutenberg's Armageddon--2419 A.D., by Philip Francis Nowlan Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why did Bill run to Texas?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and create your cheat sheet. Here is the context: DAYS OF HEAVEN by Terry Malick REVISED: 6/2/76 SETTING The story is set in Texas just before the First World War. CAST OF CHARACTERS BILL: A young man from Chicago following the harvest. ABBY: The beautiful young woman he loves. CHUCK: The owner of a vast wheat ranch ("bonanza") in the Texas Panhandle. URSULA: Abby's younger sister, a reckless child of14. BENSON: The bonanza foreman, an enemy of the newcomers. MISS CARTER: Chief domestic at the Belvedere, Chuck's home. McLEAN: Chuck's accountant. GEORGE: A young pilot who interests Ursula. A PREACHER, A DOCTOR, AN ORGANIST, VARIOUS HARVEST HANDS, LAWMEN, VAUDEVILLIANS, etc. "Troops of nomads swept over the country at harvest time like a visitation of locusts, reckless young fellows, handsome, profane, licentious, given to drink, powerful but inconstant workmen, quarrelsome and difficult to manage at all times. They came in the season when work was plenty and wages high. They dressed well, in their own peculiar fashion, and made much of their freedom to come and go." "HAMLIN GARLAND, Boy Life on the Prairie (1899)" DAYS OF HEAVEN by Terry Malick REVISED: 6/2/76 SETTING The story is set in Texas just before the First World War. CAST OF CHARACTERS BILL: A young man from Chicago following the harvest. ABBY: The beautiful young woman he loves. CHUCK: The owner of a vast wheat ranch ("bonanza") in the Texas Panhandle. URSULA: Abby's younger sister, a reckless child of14. BENSON: The bonanza foreman, an enemy of the newcomers. MISS CARTER: Chief domestic at the Belvedere, Chuck's home. McLEAN: Chuck's accountant. GEORGE: A young pilot who interests Ursula. A PREACHER, A DOCTOR, AN ORGANIST, VARIOUS HARVEST HANDS, LAWMEN, VAUDEVILLIANS, etc. "Troops of nomads swept Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "he murdered someone" ]	31,692	narrativeqa	en	null	949abce7e7abc634fc08ff28f996a235ddd6041358bee155	<html> <head> <LINK rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="style.css" title="style1"> <b> </b><META http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <script> <b><!-- </b>if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href <b>// --> </b></script> </HEAD> <title>DAYS OF HEAVEN by Terry Malick REVISED: 6/2/76</title> </head> <body> </p><p><p ID="act">DAYS OF HEAVEN" </p><p><p ID="act">by Terry Malick </p><p><p ID="act">REVISED: 6/2/76 </p><p><p ID="act">SETTING The story is set in Texas just before the First World War. </p><p><p ID="act">CAST OF CHARACTERS BILL: A young man from Chicago following the harvest. ABBY: The beautiful young woman he loves. CHUCK: The owner of a vast wheat ranch ("bonanza") in the Texas Panhandle. URSULA: Abby's younger sister, a reckless child of14. BENSON: The bonanza foreman, an enemy of the newcomers. MISS CARTER: Chief domestic at the Belvedere, Chuck's home. McLEAN: Chuck's accountant. GEORGE: A young pilot who interests Ursula. A PREACHER, A DOCTOR, AN ORGANIST, VARIOUS HARVEST HANDS, LAWMEN, VAUDEVILLIANS, etc. </p><p><p ID="act">"Troops of nomads swept over the country at harvest time like a visitation of locusts, reckless young fellows, handsome, profane, licentious, given to drink, powerful but inconstant workmen, quarrelsome and difficult to manage at all times. They came in the season when work was plenty and wages high. They dressed well, in their own peculiar fashion, and made much of their freedom to come and go." </p><p><p ID="act">"They told of the city, and sinister and poisonous jungles all cities seemed in their stories. They were scarred with battles. They came from the far-away and unknown, and passed on to the north, mysterious as the flight of locusts, leaving the people of Sun Prairie quite as ignorant of their real names and characters as upon the first day of their coming." Hamlin Garland, Boy Life on the Prairie (1899) </b></I> </p><p><p ID="act">DAYS OF HEAVEN </p><p><p ID="slug">1 INT. CHICAGO MILL - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">WORKERS in a dark Chicago mill pound molten iron out in flaming sheets. The year is 1916. </p><p><p ID="slug">2 EXT. MILL </p><p><p ID="act">BILL, a handsome young man from the slums, and his brother STEVE sit outside on their lunch break talking with an older man named BLACKIE. By the look of his flashy clothes Blackie is not a worker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">Listen, if I ever seen a tit, this here's a tit. You understand? Candy. My kid sister could do this one. Pure fucking candy'd melt in your hand. Don't take brains. Just a set of rocks. I told you this already. </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Blackie, you told me it was going to snow in the winter, I'd go out and bet against it. You know? <P ID="spkdir">(to Bill) <P ID="dia">There is nothing, nothing in the world, dumber than a dumb guinea. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">Okay, all right, fine. Why should I be doing favors for a guy that isn't doing me any favors? I must be losing my grip. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I got to give it to you, though. Couple of guys look like you just rolled in on a wagonload of chickens. You ever get laid? </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Sure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">Without a lot of talk, I mean? 'Cause I'm beginning to understand these guys, go down the hotel, pick something up for a couple of bucks. It's clean, and you know what you're in for. </p><p><p ID="slug">3 EXT. ALLEY </p><p><p ID="act">Sam the Collector's GANG swaggers around in the alley behind a textile plant. ONE of them has filed his teeth down to points and stuck diamonds in between them. ANOTHER wears big suspenders. Sam and Bill appear to know one another. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Hey, Billy, you made a mistake. You made somebody mad. Nothing personal, okay? It's just gotta be done. You made a mistake. Happens in the best of families. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I paid you everything I have. Search me. The rest he gets next week. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Listen, what happens if I don't do this? I gotta leave town? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I could do something, you know. You guys wanta do something to me, I know who to tell about it. You guys ought to think about that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">You maybe already did something. Maybe that's why you're here, on account of you already done something. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I haven't done anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Then you're all right, Billy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAZOR TEETH <P ID="dia">You got nothing to worry about. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Cut it out, Billy, all right? You know what can happen to a guy that doesn't wanta do what people tell him? You know. So don't give us a lot of trouble. You're liable to get everybody all pissed off. </p><p><p ID="act">Sam, a busy man, checks his watch. </p><p><p ID="slug">4 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill puts his hand on the ground. Sam drops a keg of roofing nails on it and, his work done, leaves with his gang. Bill sobs with pain. </p><p><p ID="slug">5 EXT. LOT BEYOND MILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Steve drag a safe by a rope through a vacant lot beyond the mill. Blackie walks behind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">You know what I'm doing with my end? Buy a boat. Get that? I had a boat. I had a nice apartment, I had a boat. Margie don't like that. We got to have a house. "I can't afford no house," I said. She says, "Sell the boat." I didn't want to sell my boat. I didn't want to buy the house. I sell the boat, I buy the house. Nine years we had the house, eight of them she's after me, we should get another boat. I give up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Same as always, I do all the work, you gripe about it. Suddenly FOUR POLICEMEN surprise them from ambush. Bill lets go of the rope and starts to run. Steve does not give up immediately, however, and they shoot him down. Bill picks up Steve's gun and fires back. Three of the Policemen go chasing after Blackie, whom they soon bring to heel. The FOURTH stays behind taking potshots at Bill while he attends to Steve. </p><p><p ID="slug">6 TIGHT ON STEVE </p><p><p ID="act">Steve, badly wounded, is about to die. </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Run. Get out of here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(weeping) <P ID="dia">I love you so much. Why didn't you run. Don't die. Steve dies. Bullets kick up dust around him. He takes off running. One of the bullets has caught him in the shoulder. </p><p><p ID="slug">7 INT. SEWER </p><p><p ID="act">ABBY, a beautiful woman in her late twenties, attends to Bill's wounds in a big vaulted sewer. Her sister URSULA, a reckless girl of14, stands watch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(weeping) <P ID="dia">They shot the shit out of him. My brother. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Hold still, or I can't do anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I love you, Abby. You're so good to me. Remember how much fun we had, on the roof... </p><p><p ID="slug">8 EXT. ROOF - MATTE SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby flirt on the root of a tenement, happily in love. The city stretches out behind them. </p><p><p ID="slug">9 INT. BED - QUICK CUT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby lies shivering with fever. Bill spoons hot soup into her mouth. Ursula rolls paper flowers for extra change. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="spkdir">(continuing) <P ID="dia">... even when you were sick and I was in the mill. </p><p><p ID="slug">10 INT. MILL - QUICK CUT (VARIOUS ANGLES OF OTHER WORKERS) </p><p><p ID="act">Bill works in the glow of a blast furnace. He does not seem quite in place with the rest of the workers. A pencil moustache lends a desired gentlemanliness to his appearance. He looks fallen on hard times, without ever having known any better--like Chaplin, an immigrant lost in the heartless city, with dim hopes for a better way of life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">I won't let you go back in the mill. People die in there. I'm a man, and I can look out for you. </p><p><p ID="slug">11 EXT. SIDING OUTSIDE MILL </p><p><p ID="act">Along a railroad spur outside the mill, Abby and Ursula glean bits of coal that have fallen from the tenders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">We're going west. Things gotta be better out there. </p><p><p ID="slug">12 EXT. TENEMENT </p><p><p ID="act">A POLICEMAN, looking for Bill, roughs Abby up behind the tenement where they live. Suddenly Bill runs out from a doorway and slams him over the head with a clay pitcher full of water. </p><p><P ID="speaker">POLICEMAN <P ID="dia">What'd you do? </p><p><p ID="act">Bill shrugs, then hits him again, knocking him unconscious, when he reaches for a gun. Abby calls Ursula and they take off running, Bill stopping only to collect some of their laundry off a clothesline. </p><p><p ID="slug">13 EXT. FREIGHT YARDS </p><p><p ID="act">They hop a freight train. </p><p><p ID="slug">14 CREDITS (OVER EXISTING PHOTOS) </p><p><p ID="act">The CREDITS run over black and white photos of the Chicago they are leaving behind. Pigs roam the gutters. Street urchins smoke cigar butts under a stairway. A blind man hawks stale bread. Dirty children play around a dripping hydrant. Laundry hangs out to dry on tenement fire escapes. Police look for a thief under a bridge. Irish gangs stare at the camera, curious how they will look. The CREDITS end. </p><p><p ID="slug">15 EXT. MOVING TRAIN </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Bill sit atop a train racing through the wheat country of the Texas Panhandle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I like the sunshine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Everybody does. They laugh. She is dressed in men's clothes, her hair tucked up under a cap. They are sharing a bottle of wine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I never wanted to fall in love with you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nobody asked you to. </p><p><p ID="act">He draws her toward him. She pulls away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter? A while ago you said I was irresistible. I still am. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That was then. </p><p><p ID="act">She pushes her nose up against his chest and sniffs around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You playing mousie again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I love how nice and hard your shoulders are. And your hair is light. You're not a soft, greasy guy that puts bay rum on every night. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I love it when you've been drinking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're not greasy, Bill. You have any idea what that means? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Kind of. </p><p><p ID="act">They share the boxcar with a crowd of other HARVEST HANDS. Ursula is among them, also dressed like a man. Bill gestures out at the landscape. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Look at all that space. Oweee! We should've done this a long time ago. It's just us and the road now, Abby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We're all still together, though. That's all I care about. </p><p><p ID="slug">16 EXT. JERKWATER </p><p><p ID="act">The train slows down to take on water. The hands jump off. Each carries his "bindle"-- a blanket and a few personal effects wrapped in canvas. TOUGHS with ax handles are on hand to greet them. The harvesters speak a Babel of tongues, from German to Uzbek to Swedish. Only English is rare. Some retain odd bits of their national costumes, they are pathetic figures, lonely and dignified and so far from home. Others, in split shoes and sockless feet, are tramps. Most are honest workers, though, here to escape the summer heat in the factories of the East. They dress inappropriately for farm work, in the latest fashions. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Elbow room! Oweee! Give me a chance and I'm going to dance! </p><p><p ID="act">Bill struts around with a Napoleonic air, in a white Panama hat and gaiters, taking in the vista. Under his arm he carries a sword cane with a pearl handle. It pleases him, in this small way, to set himself apart from the rest of toiling humanity. He wants it known that he was born to greater things. </p><p><p ID="slug">17 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill comes upon a BIG MAN whose face is covered with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Good, very good. Where you from, mister? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG MAN <P ID="dia">Cleveland. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Like to see the other guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Bill helps him to his feet and dusts him off. A TOUGH walks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">TOUGH <P ID="dia">You doing this shit? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Then keep it moving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Oh yeah? Who're you? The Tough hits Bill across the head with his ax handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">TOUGH <P ID="dia">Name is Morrison. Bill looks around to see whether Abby has seen this. She hasn't. He walks dizzily off down the tracks. </p><p><p ID="slug">18 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">He takes Abby by the arm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What happened to your ear? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nothing. She is a sultry beauty--emancipated, full of bright hopes and a zest for life. Her costume does not fool the men. Wherever she goes they ogle her insolently. <b>EXT. WAGONS </b>The FOREMEN of the surrounding farms wait by their wagons to carry the workers off. A flag pole is planted by each wagon. Those who do not speak English negotiate their wages on a blackboard. BENSON, a leathery man of fifty, bellows through a megaphone. In the background a NEWCOMER to the harvest talks with a VETERAN. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Shockers! Four more and I'm leaving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How much you paying? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Man can make three dollars a day, he wants to work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who're you kidding? Bill mills around. They have no choice but to accept his offer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Sackers! Abby steps up. Benson takes her for a young man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">You ever sacked before? </p><p><p ID="act">She nods. </p><p><p ID="act">Transcriber's Note: the following seven lines of dialogue between the NEWCOMER and the VETERAN runs concurrent with the previous six lines of dialogue between Benson and Bill and Abby. In the original script they are typed in two columns running side-by-side down the page. </p><p><p ID="act">*** </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How's the pussy up there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">VETERAN <P ID="dia">Not good. Where you from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Detroit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VETERAN <P ID="dia">How's the pussy up there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Good. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">The guys tough out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">VETERAN (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Not so tough. How about up there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Tough. <b>* </b></p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">When's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Last year. He waves her on. Abby nods at Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're making a mistake, you pass this kid up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Get on. He snaps his fingers at her. Bill climbs up ahead of the women. Anger makes him extremely polite. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You don't need to say it like that. Benson ignores this remark but dislikes Bill from the first. </p><p><p ID="slug">20 EXT. PLAINS </p><p><p ID="act">Benson's wagons roll across the plains toward the Razumihin, a "bonanza" or wheat ranch of spectacular dimensions, its name spelled out in whitewashed rocks on the side of a hill. </p><p><p ID="slug">21 EXT. BONANZA GATES (NEAR SIGN) </p><p><p ID="act">The wagons pass under a large arch, set in the middle of nowhere, like the gates to a vanished kingdom. Goats peer down from on top. Bill looks at Abby and raises his eyebrows. </p><p><p ID="slug">22 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">At the center of the bonanza, amid a tawny sea of grain, stands a gay Victorian house, three stories tall. Where most farm houses stand more sensibly on low ground, protected from the elements, "The Belvedere" occupies the highest ridge around, commanding the view and esteem of all. Filigrees of gingerbread adorn the eaves. Cottonwood saplings, six feet high, have recently been planted in the front. Peacocks fuss about the yard. There is a lawn swing and a flagpole, used like a ship's mast for signaling distant parts of the bonanza. A wind generator supplies electric power. A white picket fence surrounds the house, though its purpose is unclear; where the prairie leaves off and the yard begins is impossible to tell. Bison drift over the hills like boats on the ocean. Bill shouts at the nearest one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Yo, Beevo! </p><p><p ID="slug">23 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">CHUCK ARTUNOV, the owner--a man of great reserve and dignity, still a bachelor--stands on the front porch of the Belvedere high above, observing the new arrivals. </p><p><p ID="slug">24 EXT. DORMITORY </p><p><p ID="act">Benson drops the hands off at the dormitory, a hundred yards below, a plain clapboard building with a ceiling of exposed joists. Ursula sees Chuck watching them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Whose place is that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">The owner's. Don't none of you go up around his place. First one that does is fired. I'm warning you right now. </p><p><p ID="act">In the warm July weather most of the hands forsake the dorm to spread their bedrolls around a strawpile or in the hayloft of the nearby barn. </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Bill slip off to share a cigarette. Ursula tags behind. </p><p><p ID="slug">25 EXT. ROCK </p><p><p ID="act">Bill lifts a big rock. Abby applauds. Ursula kneels down behind him. Abby pushes him over backwards. </p><p><p ID="slug">26 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula gasps as Abby tumbles off the roof of the barn and falls through the air screaming: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Urs! She lands in a straw pile. </p><p><p ID="slug">27 TIGHT ON ABBY AND BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill takes Abby by the hands, spins her around until she is thoroughly dizzy, then grasps her across the chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Ready? She giggles her consent. He crushes her in a bear hug until she is just on the verge of passing out, then lets her go. She sinks to the grass, in a daze of sweet intoxication. </p><p><p ID="slug">28 EXT. LANTERN - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill looks deeply into Abby's eyes by the light of a lantern that night. They have made a shallow cut on their thumbs and press them together mixing their blood like children. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're all I've got, Abby. No, really, everything I ever had is a complete piece of garbage except you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know. They laugh. He bends to kiss her. She pulls away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Sometimes I think you don't like men. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">As individuals? Very seldom. She kisses him lovingly. </p><p><p ID="slug">29 EXT. WHEAT FIELDS - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">The sun peers over the horizon. The wheat makes a sound like a waterfall. It stretches for as far as the eye can see. A PREACHER has come out, in a cassock and surplice, to offer prayers of thanksgiving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PREACHER <P ID="dia">"... that your days may be multiplied, and the days of your children, in the land which the Lord swore unto your fathers to give them, as the days of' heaven upon the earth." The harvesters spit and rub their hands as they wait for the dew to burn off. They have slept in their coats. The dawn has a raw edge, even in summer. </p><p><p ID="slug">30 TIGHT ON WHEAT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks to see if the wheat is ready to harvest. He shakes the heads; they make a sound like paper. He snaps off a handful, rolls them between his palms, blows away the chaff and pinches the kernels that remain to make sure they have grown properly hard. Tiny sounds are magnified in the early morning stillness: grasshoppers snapping through the air, a cough, a distant hawk. He pops the kernels into his mouth, chews them up, and rolls the wad around in his mouth. Satisfied, he spits it out and gives a nod. The Preacher begins a prayer of thanksgiving. Two ACOLYTES flank him, one with a smoking censer, the other with a crucifix. All repeat the "Amen." Benson makes a tugging signal with his arm. A Case tractor--forty tons of iron, steam-driven, as big and as powerful as a locomotive--blasts its whistle. This is the moment they have been waiting all year for. </p><p><p ID="slug">31 OTHER FIELDS - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">A SIGNALMAN with two hand flags passes the message on from the crest of a nearby hill. In the far-flung fields of the bonanza other tractors answer as other crews set to work. Abby and Bill join in, Bill reaping the wheat with a mowing machine called a binder, Abby propping the bound sheaves together to make bunches or "shocks." A cloud of chaff rises over the field, melting the sun down to a cold red bulb. Abby is well turned out, in a boater and string tie, as though she were planning any moment to leave for a picnic. Bill, too, dresses with an eye to flashy fashion: Tight dark trousers, a silk handkerchief stuck in the back pocket with a copy of the Police Gazette, low-top calfskin boots with high heels and pointed toes, a shirt with ruffled cuffs, and a big signet ring. While at work he wears a white smock over all this to keep the chaff off. It gives him the air more of a researcher than a worker. The harvesters itch madly as the chaff gets into their clothes. The shocks, full of briars, cut their hands; smut and rust make the cuts sting like fire. Nobody talks. From time to time they raise a chant. Ursula, plucking chickens by the cookhouse--a shack on wheels-- steals a key chain from an unwatched coat. Benson follows the reapers around the field in a buggy. He keeps their hours, chides loafers, checks the horses, etc. The harvesters are city people. Few of them are trained to farming. Most--Abby and Bill are no exception--have contempt for it and anybody dull enough to practice it. Tight control is therefore exercised to see that the machines are not damaged. Where the others loaf whenever Benson's back is turned, Bill works like a demon, as a point of pride. </p><p><p ID="slug">32 CHUCK AND BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Lightning shivers through the clouds along the horizon. Chuck looks concerned. Benson consults a windsock. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Should miss us. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">They must be having trouble over there, though. Abby, passing by, lifts her hat to wipe her face. As she does her hair falls out of the crown. Women are rare in the harvest fields. One so beautiful is unprecedented. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I didn't know we had any women on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="spkdir">(surprised) <P ID="dia">I thought she was a boy. Should I get rid of her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><p ID="slug">33 MONTAGE </p><p><p ID="act">A COOK stands on the horizon waving a white flag at the end of a fishing pole. Ursula bounds through the wheat blowing a horn. Benson consults the large clock strapped to the back of his buggy, then fires a smoke pistol in the air. Their faces black with chaff, the hands fall out in silence. They shuffle across the field toward the cookhouse, keeping their feet close to the ground to avoid being spiked by the stubble. </p><p><p ID="slug">34 EXT. COOKHOUSE - STUBBLE FIELD IN B.G. </p><p><p ID="act">The COOKS, Orientals in homburgs, serve from planks thrown across sawhorses. The hands cuff and push each other around as they wash up. The water, brought up fresh in wagons from the wells, makes them gasp. An ice wagon and a fire truck are parked nearby. Most sit on the ground to eat, under awnings or beach umbrellas dotted around the field like toadstools. The Belvedere is visible miles away on the horizon. Bill is carrying Abby's lunch to her when a loutish DUTCH MAN makes a crack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DUTCHMAN <P ID="dia">Your sister keep you warm at night? Bill throws a plate of stew at him and they are quickly in a fight. No fists are used, just food. The others pull them apart. Bill storms away, flicking mashed potatoes off his shirt. </p><p><p ID="slug">35 EXT. GRAIN WAGON - STUBBLE FIELD IN B.G. </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby sit by themselves in the shade of a grain wagon. Demoralized, Abby soaks her hands in a pail of bran water. Bill inspects them anxiously. They are swollen and cracked from the morning's work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I ran a stubble under my nail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Didn't you ever learn how to take care of yourself? I told you to keep the gloves on. What can I do if you don't listen? Bill presses her wrists against his cheek, ashamed that he can do nothing to shield her from such indignities. In the b.g. a MAN with a fungo bat hits flies to SOME MEN with baseball gloves. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You can't keep on like this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What else can we do? She nods at the others. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Anyway, if they can, I can too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That bunch? Don't compare yourself to them. She flexes her fingers. They seem lame. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You drop off this weak. I can make enough for us both. It was a crime to bring you out here. Somebody like you. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Right now, what I'm doing, I'm just dragging you down. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Maybe you should go back to Chicago. We've got enough for a ticket, and I can send you what I make. He seems a little surprised when she does not reject this idea out of hand. Perhaps he fears that if she ever did go back, he might never see her again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter? She begins to cry. He takes her in his arms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know how you feel, honey. Things won't always be this way. I promise. </p><p><p ID="slug">36 ABBY AND BILL - CHUCK'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">The men knock out their pipes as Benson's whistle summons them back to their stations. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Tick tockl Tick tock! Nothing moving but the clock! Bill pulls Abby to her feet. He sees the Dutchman he fought with and shoots him the finger. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You better be careful. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Of him? He's just a. sack of shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Stop it! He's liable to see you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I want him to. He's the one better be careful. </p><p><p ID="slug">37 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks on. Something about her captivates hint, not so much her beauty--which only makes her seem beyond his reach--as the way she takes it utterly for granted. </p><p><p ID="slug">38 MONTAGE (DISSOLVES) </p><p><p ID="act">The work goes on through the afternoon. The pace is stern and incessant, and for a reason: a storm could rise at any moment and sweep the crops flat, or a dry wind shrivel them up. A series of dissolves gives the sense of many days passing. Iany moment and sweep the crops flat, or a dry wind shrivel them up.Animals--snakes and gophers, rabbits and foxes--dart through the field into the deep of the wheat, not realizing their sanctuary is growing ever smaller as the reapers make their rounds. The moment will come when they will every one be killed with rakes and flails. The wheat changes colors in the wind, like velvet. As the sun drops toward the horizon a dew sets, making the straw hard to cut. Benson fires his pistol. A vine of smoke sinks lazily through the sky. As the workers move off, the fields grow vast and inhospitable. Oil wells can be seen here and there amid the grain. </p><p><p ID="slug">39 EXT. ABBY'S ROW </p><p><p ID="act">Bill helps Abby finish up a row. Thousands of shocks stretch out in the distance. Benson comes up behind her, making a spray of the stalks that she missed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">You must've passed over a dozen bushels here. I'm docking you three dollars. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? That's not fair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Then leave. You're fired. Abby is speechless. Bill squeezes the small rubber ball which he carries around to improve his grip and swallows his pride. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Wait a minute. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">You want to stay? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Then shut up and get back to work. Benson leaves. Abby covers Bill's embarrassment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I guess he meant it. She turns her back to him and goes about picking up the sheaf Benson threw down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He did. Ask him. If you can't sing or dance, what do you do in this world? You might as well forget it. Ising or dance, what do you do this world? You might as wellu rorget it. </p><p><p ID="slug">40 EXT. STOCK POND - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Their day's work done, the men swim naked in a stock pond. Their faces are black, their bodies white as a baby's. A retriever plunges through the water fetching sticks. </p><p><p ID="slug">41 EXT. ROAD - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Some bowl with their hats on in a dusty road and argue in Italian. </p><p><p ID="slug">42 EXT. BELVEDERE - DOCTOR'S WAGON - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">A physician's wagon stands in front of the Belvedere. Bill hunts nervously through it for medicine to soothe Abby's hands. Not knowing quite what to look for, he sniffs whatever catches his eye. Suddenly the front door opens and Chuck steps out with a DOCTOR, a stooped old man in a black frock coat. Bill, surprised, crouches behind the wheel. As they draw closer their conversation becomes faintly audible. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How long you give it? DOCTOR (o.s.) Could be next month. Could be a year. Hard to say. Anyway, I'm sorry. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Got to happen sometime. They shake hands </p><p><p ID="slug">43 NEW ANGLE - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">The Doctor snaps his whip at the horses. Bill grabs holdI The Doctor snaps his whip at the horses. Bill grabs hold of the back of the wagon and lets it drag him away from the Belvedere.the Belvedere. - </p><p><p ID="slug">44 EXT. BARN - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula and Abby case the barn for dinner. Abby points at a pair of peacocks strutting by, nods to Ursula and puts a finger over her lips. Ursula, with a giggle, followsone while Abby stalks the other. </p><p><p ID="slug">45 EXT. RAPESEED FIELD - SERIES OF ANGLES - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">The peacock, a resplendent white, leads Abby through a bright yellow rapeseed field. It keeps just out of reach, as though it were enticing her on. as though it were enticing her on.'U All at once she looks up with a start. Chuck is standing in front of her, dressed in his habitual black. The Belvedere rises behind him like a castle in a fairy tale. She remembers Benson's warning that this is forbidden ground. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(afraid) <P ID="dia">I forgot where I was. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Don't worry. Where you from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Chicago. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">We hardly ever see a woman on the harvest. There is a small rip in the side of her shirt, which the camera observes with Chuck. She pulls her sweater over it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You like the work? <P ID="spkdir">(she shrugs) <P ID="dia">Where do you go from here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Wyoming and places. I've never been up that way. You think I'll like it? He shrugs. Shy at first, she begins to open up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That dog belongs to you that was running around here? That little pointer? <P ID="spkdir">(he nods) <P ID="dia">What's his name </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Buster. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He seems like a good dog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I think so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He came over and tried to eat my bread from lunch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Maybe I should keep him penned up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(smiling) <P ID="dia">You asking me? </p><p><p ID="slug">46 EXT. SPIT - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds Ursula roasting a peacock on a spit. She has arranged some of its tail feathers in her hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're getting prettier every day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Aren't you sweet! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Depends how people are with me. Where's Abby? I found her something. He holds out a jar of salve. Ursula shrugs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">She mention anything to you about going back? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What? Ursula has no idea what he is talking about. </p><p><p ID="slug">47 EXT. STRAW STACK - MAGIC HOURMost of the workers are fast asleep around the strawplU </p><p><p ID="act">Most of the workers are fast asleep around the strawpile, their bodies radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. A few stay up late to shoot dice in the back of a wagon. </p><p><p ID="slug">48 EXT. SEPARATE STACK - MAGIC HOUR </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Bill have laid their bedrolls out by a stack away from the others. A fire burns nearby. Abby look at the stars. Bill shines his shoes. The straw is fragrant as thyme. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I've had it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're tired, that's all. I'm going to find you another blanket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No, it's not that. I'm not tired. I just can't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't you want to be with me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know I do. It's just that, well, I'm not a bum, Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know. I told you though, this is only for a while. Then we're going to New York.Then we're New York. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">And after that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Then we're there. Then we get fixed up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You mean spend one night in a flophouse and start looking for work. They are silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You should go back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">And leave you? I couldn't do that. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Someday, when I'm dying, I'd like somebody to ask me if I still see life the same way as before--and I'd like them to write down what I say. It might be interesting.I Suddenly they look around. The chief domestic at the Belvedere, a churlish lady named MISS CARTER, stands above them with a salver of fruit and roast fowl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(suspicious) <P ID="dia">What's going on? Who sent it? She nods up toward the Belvedere and sets it down.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What for? She withdraws with a shrug. She does not appear to relish this duty. Bill watches her walk back to the buggy she came down in. Benson waits beside it.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(to Abby) <P ID="dia">She's the kind wouldn't tell you if your coat was on fire.U </p><p><p ID="slug">49 NEW ANGLE - MAGIC HOURI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby, with the look of a child that has wandered into aI magic world, digs in. Bill looks on, suspicious of the_ motives behind this generosity. </p><p><p ID="slug">50 EXT. FIELD WITH OIL WELL - URSULA'S THEME - MAGIC HOUR </p><p><p ID="act">A bank of clouds moves across the moon. Ursula roams the fields, keen with unsatisfied intelligence. The stubble hisses as a hot wind blows up from the South, driving bits of grain into her face like sleet. From time to time she does a cartwheel. Equipment cools in the fields. Little jets of steam escape the boilers of the tractors.Ursula stops in front of a donkey well. It nods up and down in ceaseless agreement, pumping up riches from deep in the earth. </p><p><p ID="slug">51 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW - MAGIC HOUR </p><p><p ID="act">The camera moves through the bedroom window to find Chuck asleep on his pillow. The wind taps the curtain into the room. </p><p><p ID="slug">52 EXT. FATHER IN CHAIR - QUICK CUT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck dreams of a Biblical figure with a long plaited room.U52EXT. Chuck dreams of a Biblical figure with a long plaited beard, in a frock coat and Astrakhan hat, sitting in a_ chair on the open prairie, guarding his land with a brace of guns. This man will later be identified as his FATHER. </p><p><p ID="slug">53 EXT. FIELDS - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The next day Benson yells through a megaphone from atop a stool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Hold your horses!I The huge tractors start up with a bang. Despite Benson's warning a team of Percherons breaks free. Threshing, the separating of the wheat from the chaff, has begun. </p><p><p ID="slug">54 EXT. SEPARATOR - SERIES OF ANGLESI </p><p><p ID="act">Sixty foot belts connect the tractors to the separating machines, huge rattletrap devices that shell the wheat out at deafening volume. Benson tosses bundles down the hissing maw, squirts oil into the gears, tightens belts, chews out a MAN who's sliced a hand on the driveshaft, etc. Bill works on the straw pile at the back of the machine, in a soft rain of chaff, spreading it out with a pitchfork. Ursula helps stoke the tractor with coal and water. When nothing is required of her she sneaks off to burrow in the straw. Gingerbread on the eaves of the tractors gives them a Victorian appearance. Tall flags mark their position in the field. Abby moves quickly, without a moment's rest, sewing up the sacks of grain as they are measured out at the bottom of the separator. A clowning WORKER comes up and smells herU like a flower. </p><p><p ID="slug">55 EXT. GRAIN ELEVATORSU </p><p><p ID="act">Fully laden wagons set off toward distant grain elevators.U </p><p><p ID="slug">56 EXT. COUCH ON RIDGE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and McLEAN, his accountant, sit on a ridge away from the chaff, in the shade of a beach umbrella. Chuck keeps track of operations through a telescope. Our last view of Abby, we realize, was from his POV. A plush Empire couch has been drawn up for his to rest in. At a table beside it, McLean computes the yield. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">This must be wrong. No, dammit, nineteen bushels an acre. Chuck sails his hat out in the stubble with a whoop. McLean leans over his adding machine, cackling like a thief. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">Say it goes at fifty-five cents a bushel, that means a profit of four dollars and seventy-five cents per acre. Multiply by twenty thousand and you're talking over six figures.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Big year. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">Your biggest ever. This could make you the richest man in thePanhandle. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You ought to get out while you're this far ahead. You'll never do better. I mean it. You have nothing to gain by staying.U nothing to gain by staying. I </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I want to expand. I want to run this land clear to the Oklahoma border. Next spring I will. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">And gamble everything?U <P ID="spkdir">(he nods)I <P ID="dia">You're crazy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I been out here all my life. Selling this place would be like cutting my heart out. This is the only home I ever had. ThisI is where I belong. Besides, I don't want to live in town. I couldn't take my dogs.I </p><p><p ID="slug">57 CHUCK'S POV - TELESCOPE MATTE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck takes another look at Abby through the telescope. <b>25 </b></p><p><p ID="slug">58 EXT. BUGGY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill drinks from the water barrel at the back of Benson'sU buggy, his eyes fixed on Chuck's distan </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Big place here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">The President's going to pay a visit next time he comes West.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Got a smoke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">No.I Bill puts his hat back on. He keeps wet cottonwood leaves in the crown to cool himself off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why's that guy dragging an expensive piece of furniture out here? Reason I ask is he's going to ruin thefinish and have to strip it.I Benson hesitates, uncertain whether he might be divulging a confidence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">He's not well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter with him?I Benson immediately regrets having spoken so freely. He checks his watch to suggest Bill should get back to work. This uneasiness confirms Bill's sense that Chuck is gravely ill. </p><p><p ID="slug">59 EXT. SEPARATOR - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby is sewing up her last sacks by the separator that evening when Chuck walks up, still in the flush of McLean's good news. The others have finished and left to wash up. He sits down and helps her. Shy and upright, he does not know quite how to behave with a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Probably be all done tomorrow. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You still plan on going North? She nods and draws her last stitch. Chuck musters his courage. It must be now or never. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Reason I ask is maybe you'd like to stay on. Be easier than now. There's hardly any work after harvest. The pay is just as good, though. Better in fact. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why're you offering me this? My honest face? Chuck takes a moment to compose his reply. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I've watched you work. Think about it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Maybe I will. She backs off toward Bill, who is waiting in the distance. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Who's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(hesitant) <P ID="dia">My brother. Chuck nods. </p><p><p ID="slug">60 NEW ANGLE - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">She joins Bill. He gives her a melon, wanting to pick up her spirits. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This is all I could find. You feeling better? <P ID="spkdir">(she shrugs) <P ID="dia">What'd he want? They look at each other. </p><p><p ID="slug">61 EXT. RIVER - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">As Bill and Abby bathe in the river that evening, he tells her what he seems to have learned about Chuck's state of health. Down the way Ursula sits under a tree playing a guitar. Otherwise they are alone. They all wear bathing suits, Bill a shirt as well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILLU <P ID="dia">It must be something wrong with his lungs. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">He doesn't have any family, either.his lungs.I <P ID="spkdir">(pause)I </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">So what? Bill shrugs. Does he have to draw her a picture? A shy, virginal light has descended over the world. Cranes peer at them from the tamarack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Tell him you'll stay. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What for? Bill is wondering what might happen if Chuck got interested enough to marry her. Isn't he soon to die, leaving a vast inheritance that will otherwise go to waste? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know I love you, don't you? ABBY Yes. Abby guesses what is going through his mind, and it shocks her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Oh, Bill! He takes her into his arms, full of emotion.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What else can we really do? I know how you feel, but we keepon this way, in five years we'll be washed up. He catches a stick drifting by and throws it further down stream. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You ever think about all those ladies parading up and downU Michigan Avenue? Bunch of whores! You're better than anyI of them. You ever think how they got where they are? He wants to breathe hope into her. He thinks of himself as responding to what she needs and secretly wants. When she does not answer he gives up with a sigh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Let's forget it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know what you mean, though. He takes her hand, with fresh hope of convincing her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We weren't meant to end up like this. At least you weren't. You could be something. I've heard you sing. You have a lot of fine qualities that need to come out. Ursula, too. What.U kind of people is she meeting up with, riding the rods? The girl's never had a clean shot-- never will. She oughta be in school. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(nodding) <P ID="dia">You wouldn't say this if you really loved me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">But I do. You know I do. This just shows how much. We're shitI out of luck, Abby. People need luck. What're you crying about? Oh, don't tell me. I already know. All on account of your unhappy life and all that stuff. Well, we gotta do something about it, honey. We can't expect anybody else to. Abby runs into the woods.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Always the lady! Well, you don't know how things work in this country. This is why every hunkie I ever met is going nowhere. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Why do you want to make me feel worse than I already do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (CONT'D) <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You people get hold of the guy that's passing out dough, giveI him my name, would you? I'd appreciate it. </p><p><p ID="slug">62 TIGHT ON BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill skims rocks off the water to calm himself down. HeI feels that somehow he did not get to say what he wanted to.U </p><p><p ID="slug">63 EXT. WOODS BY RIVER </p><p><p ID="act">Abby is dressing in the cool woven shade of the woods when Ursula, her face caked with a mask of river mud, jumps from the bushes with a shriek, scaring the wits out of her sister. </p><p><p ID="slug">64 EXT. BELVEDERE - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">On their way home they pass the Belvedere. A single light burns on the second floor. Abby picks cornflowers to put in her hair. Bill runs his hand down her back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why're you touching me that way? He shrugs. Muffled by the walls of the house, above the cries of the peafowl, they can faintly hear Chuck singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He's singing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He can't be too sick if he's singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He might be singing to God. They look at each other and smile. It does not appear that she has held what he said by the river against him. Bill stands for a moment and looks up at the Belvedere before passing on. </p><p><p ID="slug">65 EXT. SEPARATOR, LAST SHEAVES, RATS </p><p><p ID="act">Work goes on the next day. As they near the last sheaves of unthreshed grain, hundreds of rats burst out of hiding. The harvesters go after them with shovels and stones. The dogs chase down the ones that escape. </p><p><p ID="slug">66 BENSON AND CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Benson and Chuck smile at each other. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">We should be done around four. They improvise a chat about past harvests. Years of shared hardship have drawn them close. Chuck trails off in the middle of a reminiscence. Something else weighing on his mind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(shyly) <P ID="dia">You put her on the slowest machine? Benson nods.U </p><p><p ID="slug">67 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">The threshing is done. A bundle is pitched into the separator backwards, snapping it abruptly to a stop. The drive belt whips along the ground like a mad snake. </p><p><p ID="slug">68 EXT. PAYROLL TABLEI </p><p><p ID="act">All hands line up at the payroll table. McLean gives out their wages in twists of newspaper. Chuck and Benson shake their hands. </p><p><p ID="slug">69 TIGHT ON BILL AND SORROWFUL MAN </p><p><p ID="act">A SORROWFUL MAN shows Bill a picture of a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SORROWFUL MAN <P ID="dia">And I let somebody like that get away from me. Redhead. Lost her to a guy named Ed. Just let it happen. Should've gone out there outside the city limits and shot him. I just about did, too. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">If you're knocking yourself out like this, I hope it's for a woman. And I hope she's good looking. You understand? </p><p><p ID="slug">70 TIGHT ON ABBY AND URSULAI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby snatches a cigarette out of Ursula's mouth, takes a drag and throws it away. When Ursula goes to pick it up, she stamps it out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't spend a cent of that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Why don't you leave me alone?U </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm not going to sit around and watch you throw your life away. Nobody's going to look at you twice if you've got nothing to your name. Ursula dislikes meddlesome adults. She takes out a pouch of tobacco to roll another cigarette. Abby swats it out of her hand and chases her off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want me to cut a switch? </p><p><p ID="slug">71 SERIES OF ANGLES - FESTIVITIES - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">There are feats of strength and prowess as workers from the many fields of the bonanza join to celebrate the harvest home: boxing, wrestling, barrel jumping, rooster bouts, bear hugs, "Crack the Whip" and nut fights. Two tractors, joined by a heavy chain, vie to see which can outpull the other. Chuck lifts the back wheel of the separator off the ground; Benson replies by holding an anvil at arm's length; they tease each other about showing off. A GYMNAST does flips. They all seem happy as kids on holiday. </p><p><p ID="slug">72 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Ursula share a cigarette. Ursula tries on his sunglasses. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">We going to stay? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">If she wants to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You'd rather go?_ Bill, after a moment's thought, shrugs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">She's the one has to say. You put aspirin in this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">No. She hands back his sunglasses. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Keep them. </p><p><p ID="slug">73 EXT. MUD PIT - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Two TEAMS of harvesters have a tug of war. The losers are dragged through a pit of mud. Cradling handfuls of slime, they chase the winners off into the dusk. </p><p><p ID="slug">74 BILL AND ABBY - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds Abby sitting off by herself, wanting no part of the festivities. This is the first time since their arrival in Texas we have seen her wearing a dress. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Sunny Jim, look at this. My first ice cream in six months. And the lady even asks do I want sprinkles on top, thank you. Big, deep dish of ice cream. You couldn't pay me to leave this place, Got you one, too. You should've heard the line I had to give her, though. Oowee! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Good, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Great. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Now you're trying to coax me. You never used to act like this. Bill throws down the bowls of ice cream. In the distance, some MEN compete at throwing a sledge hammer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">For as long as I can remember, people been giving me a hard time about one thing or another. Don't you start in, too! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want to turn me into a whore? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We don't have to decide anything final now. Just if we're going to stay. You never have to touch him if you don't feel like it. Minute you get fed up, we take off. Worst that can happen is we had it soft for a while. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Something's made you mean. She walks off, uncertain what Bill really wants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Or else we can forget it. I'm not going to spend the whole afternoon on this, though. That I'm not going to do. </p><p><p ID="slug">75 ISOLATED ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck watches from a distance, fearful that tonight may be the last he will ever see of her.U </p><p><p ID="slug">76 TGHT ON ABBY, EFFIGY, MARS, ETC.I </p><p><p ID="act">The harvesters shape and dress the final sheaf as a woman. The LAST of them to finish that day carries the effigy at the end of the pole to the Belvedere. His mates follow behind, jeering and throwing dirt clods at him.U Aby watches. We sense that anything she sees mightI figure in her decision.U Mars hangs low and red in the western sky._ </p><p><p ID="slug">77 URSULA AND DRUNK </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula is looking at her figure in a pocket mirror whenU a DRUNK appears behind her.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">DRUNK <P ID="dia">See what happens to you? Little shit. Get out there and make that big money and don't spend time dicking around. </p><p><p ID="slug">78 EXT. PIT OF COALS - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">A feast is laid on. ONE PERSON rolls a flaming wheel down a hill. ANOTHER sets off a string of firecrackers. GERMANS pelt each other with spareribs. Ursula spears hogsheads out of a pit of hot coals. The YOUNGER MEN tease her. She is too much of a tomboy to interest any of thm seriously. The effigy sits off in a chair by itself. <b>1 </b></p><p><p ID="slug">79 TIGHT ON ABBY AND CHUCK - DUSKChuck awaits Abby's answer.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There's a problem. I have to keep my baby sister with me. Someday_ my baby sister with me. Someday I'm going to save up enough, see, and send her to school. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">My brother, too. I can't leave him.I Abby fears she has asked too much. Chuck hesitates, but only to suggest he still has the prudence he long since has abandoned. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">There's work for them, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><p ID="slug">80 EXT. BONFIRE - DUSK. </p><p><p ID="act">A bonfire burns like a huge eye in the vat of the prairie night. The band strikes up a reel. Chuck and Abby lead the dancing off, as though to celebrate their agreement. Their giant shadows dance with them. Soon the other harvesters join in. </p><p><p ID="slug">81 TIGHT ON BILL - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches Abby dance--it almost seems in farewell to their innocence. After a moment he turns off into the night.I </p><p><p ID="slug">82 MONTAGE - NIGHT_ </p><p><p ID="act">The effigy is held over the flame at the end of a pole until it catches fire. The harvesters prance around in the dark, trading it from hand to hand. The MUSICIANS, drunk and happy, bow their hearts out. </p><p><p ID="slug">83 TIGHT ON BILL - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">While the others pursue their merriment, Bill walks the fields by himself, trembling with grief and indecision. Dawn is breaking. The eastern sky glows like a forge. Suddenly he comes upon a wolf. He catches his breath. The wolf stares back at him for a moment, then turns and pads off into the stubble. </p><p><p ID="slug">84 EXT. RAILROAD TRACKS - DAWNEEXT. RAILROAD TRACKS - DAWNU </p><p><p ID="act">Early the next morning the HARVESTERS wander by the hundreds down to the railroad tracks to catch a train for the North, where the crops are just now coming into maturity. A subtle feeling of sadness pervades the group. Bill gives his sword cane away to a MAN who seems to have admired it. The MAN offers him money, but he declines it. </p><p><p ID="slug">85 EXT. TRAIN - URSULA AND JOHN - LATER </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula says goodbye to her favorite, a redhead named JOHN. She is hoarse, as always. </p><p><P ID="speaker">JOHN <P ID="dia">Why don't you come with us? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">They won't let me. So when am I going to see you again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">JOHN <P ID="dia">Maybe in Cheyenne. She nods okay. They both know they will never see each other again. On a sudden impulse she gives him a love note. </p><p><P ID="speaker">JOHN <P ID="dia">What's this? She takes it back immediately, but he snatches it away from her and, after a brief, giggling scuffle, hops aboard the train, now picking up speed. Ursula runs along behind, cursing and throwing rocks at him. </p><p><p ID="slug">86 TIGHT ON BILL AND ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby look on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I told her, "none of my business Urs, I just hope you're not rolling around with some redhead is all." She looks me over. "Why?" she says, "What've you guys got that redheads don't?" I pity that kid. Ursula runs up and throws herself tearfully into Abby's arms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter? What'd he do? Bill starts off after the train. </p><p><p ID="slug">87 EXT.-"SHEEP POWER" </p><p><p ID="act">Abby tends a washing machine driven by a sheep on a treadmill. Chuck watches from the front steps of the Belvedere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm just about done with this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">So what's next? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Next? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There's nothing else you want done? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Not that I can think of. Not right now. Miss Carter, the housekeeper, steps out on the porch and pours a bucket of milk into a cream separator. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How about the cream? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">She takes care of that. He nods at Miss Carter, who conspicuously lets the screen door clap shut as she goes back inside. She misses no opportunity to express her disdain for these newcomers. She and Benson are the only employees seen at the Belvedere. Several dozen others have stayed on after the harvest but they keep to their quarters down at the dorm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You mean I'm done for today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(uncomfortably) <P ID="dia">Something else might come up. In truth, Chuck does not want to see Abby degraded by menial labor, considering her more a guest than an employee. They look at each other. Abby does not know quite what to make of him </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Well, I'm going back to the dorm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCKU <P ID="dia">Is everything okay down there? In the way of accommodations, I mean.U She nods and waves goodbye.I </p><p><p ID="slug">88 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Down by the barn Bill teaches Chuck how to shoot dice. Chuck feigns interest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I like to gamble, and I like to win. I make no bones about it. Got to where the guys on Throop Street wouldn't even lag pennies with me on account of I was such a winner. I'm starting out level with you, you understand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Have you ever been in trouble with the law? Bill looks around. Abby would think it impolitic of him to speak so openly with Chuck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILLI <P ID="dia">Nothing they could make stick. My problem has always been not having the education. I bullshitted my way into school. They gave me a test. It was ridiculous. I got in fights. Ended up paying for a window. They threw me out. Don't blame them either. Still, I wanted to make something of myself. I mean, guys look at you across a desk, you know what they're thinking. So I went in the mill. Couldn't wait to get in there. Begin at seven, got to have a smile on your face. Didn't work out, though. No matter what you do, sometimes things just don't go right. It gets to you after a while. It gives you that feeling, "Oh hell, what's the use?" <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">My dad told me, forget what the people around you are doing. You got enough to worry about without considering what somebody else does. Otherwise you get fouled up. He used to say (tapping his temple) "All you got is this." Only one day you wake up, find you're not the smartest guy in the world, never going to come up with the big score. I really believed when I was growing up that somehow I would. I worked like a bastard in that mill. I felt all right about it, though. I felt that somewhere along the line somebody would see I had that special gleam. "Hey, you, come over here." So then I'd go. They are silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCKI <P ID="dia">You seem close to your sister._ </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Yeah. We've been together since we were kids. You like her, don't you? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">She likes you, too. Chuck looks down, feeling transparent in the pleasure he takes at this news. </p><p><p ID="slug">89 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">The camera moves back to reveal Abby listening in from the other side of the barn. Her eyes are full of tears. How can Bill prize her so lightly? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Don't get the wrong idea, though. </p><p><p ID="slug">90 ISOLATED ON BILL - LATERI </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sits on the ground reading his Police Gazette. Abby walks up and without a word of explanation, slaps him. He jumps up and protests but quickly tapers off. She turns on her heel and leaves.U Bill sits down feeling misunderstood and abused. Does she think all this pleases him? <b>1 </b></p><p><p ID="slug">91 EXT. FAIRY RINGS (PRAIRIE) </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, out for a stroll with Abby and Ursula, shows them a fairy ring--a colony of mushrooms growing in a circle thirty feet across. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I heard you farmers were big and dumb. You aren't so big. Where do they learn how to? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">They're so darling! Can you eat them? Chuck nods. Abby snaps the mushrooms off flush at the ground. The music underscores this moment. She smiles at Chuck as she eats the dark earthy flesh. </p><p><p ID="slug">92 EXT. POST </p><p><p ID="act">They pitch rocks at a post and exchange intimacies. Abby has grown more lively. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know sometimes I think there might have been a mixup at the hospital where I. was born and that I could actually be the interesting daughter of some big financier. Nobody would actually know.I <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Are you in love with me, Chuck, or why are you always so nervous? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(Stumbling) <P ID="dia">Maybe I am. I must be. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why? On account of something I've done? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Because you're so beautiful. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What a nice thing to say. Look, I hit it. Did you see? She goes right on with their game, as though she attached no great importance to his momentous declaration. </p><p><p ID="slug">93 TIGHT ON CHUCK AND ABBY - LATERI </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck takes Abby's hand for the first time. Abby, startled, gives him a gentle smile, then lets go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What about my shoes? Aren't they pretty?U94EXT. SWING </p><p><p ID="slug">94 EXT. SWING </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sits in a swing and plays a clarinet. The music flows out across the fields like a night breeze from the city. Abby, passing by, glowers at him, as though to ask if things are going along to his satisfaction. </p><p><p ID="slug">95 ASTRONOMICAL SIGHTS (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">Jupiter, the Crab Nebula, the canals of Mars, etc. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">It turns out that people might have built them. Does that surprise you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.)U <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><p ID="slug">96 EXT. RIDGE - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">They are on a ridge opposite the Belvedere looking at the heavens through Chuck's telescope. Abby tingles with a sense of wonder. Chuck has opened a whole new world to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know so much! Would you bring my sister up here and tell her some of this stuff? </p><p><p ID="slug">97 EXT. FATHER'S GRAVE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Nearby the grave of Chuck's father stands in helpless witness to Abby's deception. A cottonwood tree rises against the cold blue sky, still as a statue. </p><p><p ID="slug">98 TIGHT ON BOOK - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">A hand turns the pages of a book from Chuck's childhood. The text and VOICE reading it are in Russian, the picture of Russian wood folk and animals. </p><p><p ID="slug">99 EXT. VIRGIN PRAIRIE - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck's father rushes around marking off his property with stakes. </p><p><p ID="slug">100 EXT. UNFINISHED SOD HOUSE - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, ten years old, scours up the blade of a scythe. Family effects -- a big green stove, a bird cage, a table stacked with melons and a mirror--stand waiting in front of their half-finished sod house. We see no sign of Chuck's mother. </p><p><p ID="slug">101 EXT. PLOWED FIELD - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">A plow folds back the earth. The roots of the prairie grass twang like harp strings. The plowing done, his father sows the seed. Poverty requires that for a harrow he drag a tree branch in back of his ox. Over his shoulder he carries a rifle. Chuck blows a horn to chase the blackbirds off the seed. A scarecrow is rigged to his back, to make him more intimidating. </p><p><p ID="slug">102 CHUCK AND FATHER - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck's father has caught smallpox. His face is covered with sores. Chuck wants to embrace him, but the father wards him off with a long stick as he passes on some last instructions in Russian. </p><p><p ID="slug">103 EXT. RIVER - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">The father stands on a ledge above the river, filling his pockets with rocks to weight him down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (V.0.) <P ID="dia">My father caught smallpox when I was eleven. I fished him out of the river and buried him myself. </p><p><p ID="slug">104 EXT. SAND BAR - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck drags his father's drowned body across a sand bar with a rope. </p><p><p ID="slug">105 EXT. FATHER'S GRAVE - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck heaps the last bit of earth on his father's grave. The stove stands as a marker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">So who raised you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Nobody. Did it myself. </p><p><p ID="slug">106 CHUCK AS BOY - WITH COYOTE, INDIANS - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Famished, Chuck eats from the carcass of a coyote. Some INDIANS watch him from a ridge. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">From the time you were a kid? How? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Worked hard, didn't fool around. I never saw a city. Never had time. All I ever did is work. He digs a post hole with a shovel twice his size. </p><p><p ID="slug">107 PAN OVER HILLS-DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">The camera pans across Chuck's vast domain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">I gave my life to that land. But what do I really have now? It'll still be here when I'm gone. It won't remember me. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'd give it all up for you. I could make you happy, too, I think-if only you'd trust me. The camera settles on Ursula, playing with a dog on a seesaw Chuck has built her, then begins to move again, to a long shot of Chuck and Abby on the ridge by the telescope. Chuck is proposing. </p><p><p ID="slug">108 EXT. DORM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby has told him of the proposal. Bill broods over an unlit cigarette. Is this a great blessing or a great misfortune which has befallen them? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He's asked me to marry him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I never really thought he would. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I thought you wanted me to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Before I did. You cold? Abby is shivering. Bill takes off his jacket and slips it over her shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you thinking? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We've never done anything like this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who'd know but you and me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nobody. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's it, Ab. That's all that matters, isn't it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You talk like it was all right. It would be a crime. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">But to give him what he wants more than anything? Two, threeI months of sunshine? He'll never get to enjoy his money anyway. What're you talking about? We'd be showing him the first good times of his life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Maybe you're right. At each hint of consent from Abby, Bill feels he must press on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know what they're going to stick on his tombstone? "Born like a fool, worked like a mule." Two lines. Abby cannot say the proposal is devoid of principle. The idea of easing Chuck's imminent death gives them just the shade of a good motive. This would be a trade. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What makes you think we're just talking about a couple of months?U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Listen, the man's got one foot on a banana peel and the other on a roller skate. What can I say? We'll be gone before theI President shows up. He straightens his coat and smooths back his hair, to make her smile, without success. BILL Hey, I know how you feel. II Hey, I know how you feel. I feel just as bad. Like I was sticking an icepick in my heart. Makes me sick just to think about it! heart. Makes me sick just to </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I held out a long time. I could've taken the first guy with a gold watch, but I held out. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told myself that when I found somebody, I'd stick by him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know. We're in quicksand, though. We stand around, it's going to suck us down like everybody else. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Somewhere along the line you have to make a sacrifice. Lots of people want to sit back and take a piece without doing nothing. He waits to see how she will respond. Half of him wants her to turn him down flat. Abby is bewildered. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Have I ever complained? Have I said anything that would make you think... </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You don't have to. I hate it when I see you stooped over and them looking at your ass like you were a whore. I personally feel ashamed! I want to take a .45 and let somebody have it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">We got to look on the bright side of this, Ab. Year from today we got a Chinese butler and no shit from anybody. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Some people need more'n they have, some have more'n they need. It's just a matter of getting us all together. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't even know if I believe what I'm saying, though. I feel like we're on the edge of a big cliff. Abby looks at the ground for a moment, then nods. </p><p><p ID="slug">109 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck lies in bed, daydreaning. </p><p><p ID="slug">110 TIGHT ON ABBY AND URSULA </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula decorates Abby's hair with flowers and tells her how pretty she looks. </p><p><p ID="slug">111 EXT. RIVER BANK </p><p><p ID="act">The wedding takes place along the river. The Preacher has come back with his ACOLYTES. A chest of drawers serves as the altar. Benson is the best man--a joyless one. Ursula bounces around in a beautiful gown, looking for the first time like a young woman. The BAND practically outnumbers the guests: ELDERS from the local Mennonites, the MAYORS of a few surrounding towns decked out in sashes and medals, etc. </p><p><p ID="slug">112 TIGHT ON ABBY AND BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill kisses the bride on the cheek. Each believes she is going through with this for the other's sake. They whisper back and forth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know what this means, don't you? <P ID="spkdir">(he nods) <P ID="dia">We won't ever let each other down, will we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I love you more than ever. I always will. I couldn't do this unless I loved you. </p><p><p ID="slug">113 SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">The Acolytes ring an angelus bell. Chuck slips a sapphire on her finger. The Preacher, with outstretched arms, reminds them all that they are witness to a great event. </p><p><p ID="slug">114 SKY - ABBY'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Abby, frightened, looks off at the rolling sky, wondering how all thislooks in the sight of heaven. </p><p><p ID="slug">115 INT. BEDROOM - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">From her pillow, Abby watches Chuck shyly enter the bedroom He comes over and sits down beside her </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're wonderful. She is silent for a moment. The wind moans in the rafter </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No. But I wish I were. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Listen. It sounds like the ocean. They smile at each other. </p><p><p ID="slug">116 EXT. BELVEDERE - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches the lights go out in the Belvedere. A lump rises to his throat. How exactly did this happen? He sets his jaw, vowing not to give way to weakness or jealousy. This is the price they have to pay for a lasting happiness. </p><p><p ID="slug">117 TIGHT ON ABBY, CHUCK, ETC. </p><p><p ID="act">The next morning the newlyweds set off on their honeymoon. Chuck tells Bill to move his things from the dorm into the Belvedere. Abby, a basket of cucumbers under her arm, waves goodbye, angling her wrist so that Bill and Ursula can see the diamond bracelet Chuck has given her. </p><p><p ID="slug">118 EXT. PRAIRIEI </p><p><p ID="act">They steer out across the prairie in a1912 Overland auto. Ursula runs after them, slaps the back fender and hops around on one foot, pretending the other was run over. Abby laughs. She knows this stunt. When they are gone Ursula turns fiercely on Bill.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I hate you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What for? Don't be any more of a pain in the neck than you gotta be, okay? She swings at him with her fist. He pushes her away._ </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You think I like this? I'm doing it for her! </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You scum. Bill slaps her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Still think so? She throws a rock at him and runs off. He catches her, repenting of his meanness. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know you can't understand this, but there's nothing I want except good things for Abby and you. Go ahead and hit me back. She hesitates a second, then slaps him as hard as she can. Blood glistens on his lip. He does not say a word in protest. She looks at the wound, horrified, then throws her arms tight around him. </p><p><p ID="slug">119 EXT. PIERI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Chuck disembark from a paddleboat steamer at a pier along the river. Chuck looks excited. </p><p><p ID="slug">120 EXT. YELLOWSTONE POOL </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and Abby have gone to Yellowstone Park for their honeymoon. Abby wades in a pool, wreathed by mists from the underworld. She carries a parasol to protect her from the sun. The trees in the vicinity are bare of leaves. </p><p><p ID="slug">121 EXT. ANTLERS - FREEZE FRAME </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck kneels with a box camera to photograph a large pair of antlers lying on the ground. </p><p><p ID="slug">122 SERIES OF STILLS (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">This photo becomes the first in a series from their Yellowstone trip: fishermen displaying sensational catches by a river, buggies vying with early autos on rutted roads, the giant Beaupre who stood eight feet tall, etc. Each of the pictures bears a caption. Together they make a little story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">We saw grizzly bears and a boar. The bears scared me the most. They eat garbage. <P ID="spkdir">(whispering) <P ID="dia">I was so lonesome. I missed you. </p><p><p ID="slug">123 TIGHT ON BILL AND ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby kiss, renewing old ties.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There was a mountain partly made of glass, too, but we didn't get to see it. And a petrified tree. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We'll go back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Can we? Because there's a whole lot I didn't get to see. Bill straightens up. Chuck sits down on Abby's other side. </p><p><p ID="slug">124 EXT. DINNER TABLE UNDER NETI </p><p><p ID="act">They are having dinner on the lawn in front of the Belvedere. A fine mesh net is spread above them like a tent to keep the insects out. Ursula sits on Bill's lap. He puts a hand up the back of her shirt and they play as though she were a ventriloquist's dummy. </p><p><p ID="slug">125 TIGHT ON RABBIT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill displays a rabbit which he trained in their absence to perform a card trick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">I have you now, Ed. Only thing that can beat me is the ace of spades. (His name's Ed..) Her name's Abigail. Hungarian name. <P ID="spkdir">(mumbling) <P ID="dia">Andrew drew Ann. Ann drew Andrew. From the whole of a spread deck it picks the ace of spades. </p><p><p ID="slug">126 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Chuck applaud. Ursula cranks up the victrola and puts on a record. Bill strokes the rabbit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know why I like him? He minds his business and isn't full of baloney. Chuck turns to Abby and, for nearly the first time, smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He's funny. Bill holds a plate up for Abby to see. Limoges china. Abby rolls her eyes and spits out a cherry pit. They eat like pigs, with no respect for bourgeois manners. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You have any talents, Chuck? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No, but I admire people who do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That's not so. He can do a duck. Show them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Stand back. Get the women and children someplace safe. Chuck, feeling it would be wrong not to enter the spirit of the occasion, does his imitation. The likeness is astonishing. Abby wipes a bit of food off his chin with her napkin. Bill drums on the table with his spoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You saw how modest he was? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How'd you get along so long without a woman? Chuck shrugs. Ursula makes a gesture as though to say by masturbating. Chuck does not see it. Billy laughs. Abby slaps her. The rabbit jumps out of the way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't you ever behave that way at table! <P ID="spkdir">(to Chuck) <P ID="dia">She's adopted. I had nothing to do with her upbringing. I'd trade her off for a yellow dog. <P ID="spkdir">(to Ursula) <P ID="dia">Now eat. You want to starve to death? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">That's what you'd like. Abby, overcome with impatience, throws her food to the dogs. Ursula catches a grasshopper and holds it out to Chuck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You give me a quarter to eat this hopper? Chuck does not reply. She pops it into her mouth anyway, enjoying his look of shock. Bill throws down his fork. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">All right, okay, nobody's hungry anymore. What's the worst thing you ever did, Chuck? Besides missing church and that kind of stuff. Chuck thinks about this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Once I turned a man out in the middle of winter, without a cent of pay. For all I know he froze. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">If you went that far, he must've deserved it. What else? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He didn't. I fired him out of resentment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Well, you're the boss, right? That's how it works. Got to make decisions on the spot. Anyway, this guy-what's his name?--if I know his kind, which I do, he's probably doing okay for himself, got a hand in somebody else's pocket for a change. Is that all? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">All I can think of right now. How about yourself? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(to Abby) <P ID="dia">He wants to know. I'm not going to count setting Blackie's on fire either. He had it coming. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (con't) <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Once I punched a guy while he was asleep. Chuck looks surprised. Bill glances at Abby, worried that he might have said too much. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I was just kidding. Actually a guy I know did, though. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Maybe he did it to you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Yeah. I think so. Chuck gets up to ring for Miss Carter. Bill looks him up and down. Chuck, though older, is physically more imposing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Can I have the rabbit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Get serious. I can win money with him. She licks his ear. He laughs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I want that bunny. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You still believe in Santa Claus. Bill closes his eyes as he feels the soft fur of the rabbit. Ursula looks around to make sure Chuck is gone, then wings a roll at Bill. It bounces off his forehead. He retaliates with a pat of butter. </p><p><p ID="slug">127 BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Benson watches from another hill. He finds his displacement by these newcomers a humiliating injustice. </p><p><p ID="slug">128 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck returns to the table and draws Bill aside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Almost forgot. Here's your pay. Bill takes the envelope Chuck holds out. Then, in a spasm of conscience, he gives it back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">hat's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I got no right to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why? Bill is momentarily at a loss for words. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I haven't worked hard enough to deserve it. I been goofing off.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Don't be silly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Give it to charity or something. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Don't worry. I always know to look out for myself, because ifI I don't, who will? See what I'm driving at? Chuck sees a sense of honor at work in Bill here, and though he considers the gesture misguided and a little grand, admires him for it. </p><p><p ID="slug">129 EXT. BASESU </p><p><p ID="act">They play a game with big lace pillows for bases. The rules are unintelligible. </p><p><p ID="slug">130 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill is expert at throwing knives. As the others watch, he goes into a big windup and pins a playing card to the side of the house.U Everyone seems happy and congenial. They have reached some kind of plateau. Chuck's ignorance of the ruse does not cause the others to treat him with less respect. They seem themselves almost to have forgotten it. </p><p><p ID="slug">131 BILL AND ABBY'S POV - LATERU </p><p><p ID="act">Benson collects the bases, a job he doubtless feels is beneath him. The Doctor's wagon, unmistakable even at such a great distance, thunders away from the Belvedere. </p><p><p ID="slug">132 TIGHT ON BILL AND ABBYU </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby, waiting for Chuck to join them for a swim,U look questioningly at each other.S </p><p><p ID="slug">133 EXT. RIVER </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula, in her bathing suit, jumps from a ledge above the river. She holds a big umbrella over her to see if it will act as a parachute. Bill and Chuck have a water fight. Abby wades in the shallows with a parasol. </p><p><p ID="slug">134 TIGHT ON ABBY AND URSULA - LATER </p><p><p ID="act">Abby is teaching Ursula how to kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Too like a mule. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="spkdir">(trying again) <P ID="dia">What about that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It's got to be--how should I say?-- more relaxed. They laugh and kiss again. </p><p><p ID="slug">135 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Farther up the slope Bill and Chuck wring out their bathing suits. Bill, thinking of the Doctor's visit, puts a hand on Chuck's shoulder. This time Chuck does not stiffen or ease it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You okay? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Sure. Why? Bill shrugs, beaming with admiration for this man who does not burden others with his secrets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I appreciate everything you've done for Abby. I really do. You've given her all the things she always deserved. I got to admit you have. Chuck looks off, embarrassed but oddly pleased. Bill snatches up a handful of weeds and smells them. <b>. </b></p><p><p ID="slug">136 CRANE SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">Returning home they portray the movements of the sun, earth and moon relative to each other. Abby is the sun and keeps up a steady pace across the prairie. Chuck, the earth, circles her at a trot, giving instructions. Bill, with the most strenuous role of all--the moon-- runs around Chuck while he circles Abby. </p><p><p ID="slug">137 EXT. PRAIRIE - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">They play golf on the infinite fairway of the prairie. Bill and Abby make a team against Chuck and Ursula. Nightingales call out like mermaids from the sea. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You liking it here? <P ID="spkdir">(she nods) <P ID="dia">Feel good? <P ID="spkdir">(she nods) <P ID="dia">Feels good to feel good. He smiles, satisfied that he has done well by her, and lets a new ball slip down his pant leg to replace the one he played. </p><p><p ID="slug">138 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula, meanwhile, grinds Abby's ball into the dirt with the heel of her boot. She winks at Chuck. Chuck smiles back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's your mother like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Her? Like somebody that just got hit on the head. She used to pray for me. Rosary, the stations, everything. "Hey, Ma," I tell her, "I ain't crippled." They don't know, though. They say you're in trouble. They don't know. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">My dad, the same way. Thought the world owed him a living. He drowned in Lake Michigan. </p><p><p ID="slug">139 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">They walk home. Bill stays behind to work on his strokes. Ursula sends the dogs after the balls. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You shag them, not those dogs. They might choke or run off with them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Who made you the boss? Shag them yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Listen, some day all this is going to be mine. Or half is. Somebody like that, you want to get on his good side, not give him a lot of gas. You want to do what he says. He steps off a few paces of his future kingdom and draws a deep breath. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This reminds me of where I came from. I left when I was six. That's when I met your sister. He looks at the land with a new sense of reverence. He snatches up a handful of grass and rolls it between his palms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can't wait to go back to Chicago, bring them down for a visit. Blackie and them. There's a lot of satisfaction in showing up people who thought you'd never amount to anything. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'd really like to see this place run right. I got a lot of ideas I'd like to try out. </p><p><p ID="slug">140 BILL'S POV AND TIGHT ON BILL </p><p><p ID="act">In the distance he sees Chuck put his arm on Abby's waist and whisper something in her ear. This intimacy rubs him the wrong way. He gives his clubs to Ursula and starts after them. </p><p><p ID="slug">141 INT. KITCHEN </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds them in the kitchen. Chuck goes into the other room to look for something. Abby lifts the cigarette out of Bill's mouth, takes a drag and does a French inhale. Bill kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nobody's all bad, are they? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I met a few I was wrong on, then. Suddenly they hear Chuck's footsteps. They pull back just in time, Abby returning the cigarette to him behind her back. They chat as though nothing had happened. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I have a headache. I probably should've worn a hat. Abby rolls her eyes at this improvisation. No sooner does Chuck turn his back than Bill's hand darts out to touch her breast. He snatches it away a moment before Chuck turns back. Together they walk into the living room. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You ever see anybody out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Not after harvest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How often do you get into town? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Once or twice a year. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're kidding. He must be kidding. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why do I need to? Bill catches Abby's eyes. He frowns at the idea of being cooped up with this Mormon all winter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Relaxation. Look at the girls. Opportunity to see how other folks live. Chuck looks at him blankly. None of these reasons seems to carry much weight for him. Bill turns to Abby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Somebody is nuts. I don't know whether it's him or me, but somebody is definitely nuts. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why don't I fix tea? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Maybe I should help you. He follows her back into the kitchen, where he starts to kiss her. She pushes him away and turns to making the tea. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're worse than an Airedale. <P ID="spkdir">(raising her voice) <P ID="dia">You want jasmine or mint? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Mint. Bill lifts up the back of her dress and looks under it, testing the breadth of his license. She slaps it back down. He lifts it again, standing on his right to. She glowers at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't do that. <P ID="spkdir">(calling to Chuck) <P ID="dia">How much sugar? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why not? I'm just seeing what kind of material it's made of. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">One spoonful. Bill walks around absentmindedly, inspecting Chuck's things, stealing whatever catches his fancy. A book, a paperweight, a bell--things he does not really want and has no use for. His conscience is clear, however; the sacrifices they are making excuse these little sins. As Chuck walks in, Bill has pocketed a candlestick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Where's the candlestick? Chuck shrugs. Bill gives Abby a cold look and goes outside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He's a strange one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(nodding) <P ID="dia">Once he named his shoes like they were pets. It was a joke, I guess. </p><p><p ID="slug">142 EXT. WELL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill drops the candlestick down the well, stands for a moment, then punches the bucket with his fist. He looks up. Benson has seen him. </p><p><p ID="slug">143 EXT. SAPLINGS AGAINST WINDOW - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Outside the saplings thrash in the wind. </p><p><p ID="slug">144 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby wakes up with a gasp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I had a dream. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What about? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Was something after you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I forgot it already. </p><p><p ID="slug">145 AERIAL SHOT (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">The camera falls through the clouds as though in a lost fragment of Abby's dreams. </p><p><p ID="slug">146 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Benson sulks by the barn. Chuck approaches him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You come down here a lot, don't you? Always when you're mad. You never change. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">It might not be my place to say this, sir, but I don't think they're honest people. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He gets on your nerves, doesn't he? He always has. <P ID="spkdir">(cutting in) <P ID="dia">Now don't say something you're going to regret. <b>. </b></p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Why should I regret it? I think they're a pair of scam artists, sir. Let me tell you what I've seen, and you judge for yourself. Chuck, who of course has seen the same things and more, raises a hand to silence him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Maybe you'd be happier taking over the north end till spring. I don't say this in anger. We've been together a long time, and I've always felt about you like, well, close. It just might work out better is all. Less friction. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Don't believe me, then. You shouldn't. But why not check it out, sir? Hire a detective in Chicago. It won't cost much. What's there to lose? Chuck's brow darkens as Benson goes on. For a moment we glimpse the anger that would be unleashed if ever he woke up. Somewhere he already knows the truth but refuses to acknowledge it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're talking about my wife. And so Chuck, too, becomes an accomplice in the scheme. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Maybe I better pack my things. Benson turns and walks off. Chuck watches him go, ashamed at himself. What has this man done but a friend's duty? </p><p><p ID="slug">147 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby sits at the dresser in the master bedroom. Bill walks in through the door and tries Chuck's hat on for size. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you doing in here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Just walked in through the door, like any other white man. On the bureau he finds a pistol. He aims it out the window. All this will soon be theirs! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Smith and Wesson. You ought to see one of these plow into a watermelon. She holds a hairbrush out for him to see. He looks it over and gives it back without comment. He finds a stain on the tabletop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Somebody's been staining this fake inlay with a water glass. Actually I don't blame them. He walks around trying out more of Chuck's appurtenances. Abby, caught up, models a shawl before an imaginary mirror. She blows a kiss at herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't say I did that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">The bed should be over next to the window. Where the view is. Bill is already making plans for life after Chuck's demise. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Maybe we build on a balcony. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">First the birds go. The peacocks are crowing outside. They burst out laughing. Bill checks the mussed bedsheets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That doesn't concern you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why not? <P ID="spkdir">(no reply) <P ID="dia">Look, I know you've got urges. It wouldn't be right if you didn't. Abby stands up, angry. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You think I enjoy it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Lower your voice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You act like it's harder on you than me! I never want to talk about this again. Bill, consoled, holds an eyelet blouse against the light. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I bet he enjoys looking at you in this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I thought you liked it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He likes it, too, is what I'm saying. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Well, it's the style. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I see. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What do you want me to wear in this heat? A blanket? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's your problem. Abby puts on her wedding bracelet and admires it. Bill softens at the sight of her beauty, properly adorned. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I told you someday we'd be living in style. When this whole thing is over I'm going to buy you a necklace with diamonds as big as that. He holds out the tip of his little finger. They laugh, as though they suddenly felt the absurdity of all this make-believe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're cute. Maybe a shade too cute. She touches his face sympathetically, as though to say that she knows the pain this was causing him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">This is terrible for us both. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Abby? They jump as Chuck calls up from downstairs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Down in a minute. She kisses Bill. </p><p><p ID="slug">148 EXT. BACK DOOR OF BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sneaks out the back door of' the Belvedere, only to find Benson drinking at the well. They look at each other in silence for a moment. Benson's horse stands beside him, a suitcase fixed to the saddle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">I know what you're doing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">That boy's like a son to me. Don't you forget it. I know what you're doing. Benson gets on his horse, turns and rides off. Miss Carter waves goodbye from the side of the house. She and Bill exchange a look. </p><p><p ID="slug">149 EXT. FRONT PORCH </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds the others around front. Abby lolls in the hammock writing in her diary and eating a peach. Ursula plays the guitar. Little by little the newcomers have done the house over from the austere structure that it was. Living room furniture has been moved out onto the front lawn and there arranged as though by a child. Goats sleep on the divan. Archery targets hang from the side of the house. The porch is covered with a striped awning, bird cages and twirls of bunting. Everywhere an atmosphere of drunken ease prevails. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nice fall day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Wish I'd said that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(to Abby) <P ID="dia">Watcha doing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Eating a green peach. 'Spect to die any minute. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Listen, I had a great idea. Let's spend Christmas in Chicago. Break up the old routine. Rhino's never been to a baseball game or a horse race. I know guys one month off the boat that have. Don't even speak the English language, but they eat it right up. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You're just a young guy, Rhino; you oughta be running around raising hell. No offense to the little woman. He bows apologetically to Abby. She pinches a dead leaf off a plant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Abby says that in the poor section people eat cats. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did you, sis? Well, there's always something doing. I can't begin to tell you. State and Madison? Mmmm. Lights everywhere. You'd love it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">It can be rough, though. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Rough? Listen, you can't walk down the street without somebody reaching in your pocket! You've got to keep your coat like this and poke them away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Bill got shot once. The bullet's still in him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Doctor said he took it out, but I never saw it. Hurt like a bastard. You got no idea how it hurt. Suddenly he worries this might discourage Chuck from going. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">They won't mess with you, though. Big fella like you. I can see it now. He offers a taste of the talk Chuck is like to provoke on the street corners. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">"Hey, hey, hey. Who's this here, fresh out of the African Jungle, moving down the sidewalk with a whowhowho, taking ten feet at a step and making all the virgins run for cover? Why, it's Big Rhino, the King of Beasts. He walks, he talks, he sucks up chalk." Bill steps back and sees, as though for the first time, how imposing Chuck really is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You are big, aren't you? Sunny Jim! You must've had a real moose for an old lady. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Take it easy. But Chuck holds none of this against him. He knows it comes from respect. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">So what do you say? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What a sorry outfit! Bunch of old ladies. You better stay behind. Your mammas'd probably get upset. But when the time comes, I'm out of here. Hit the road, Toad! Ursula passes the sandwiches around until there is just one left, Miss Carter's. While the others are talking, she scoops up a handful of dirt and pours it into the middle. Bill, lighting a cigarette, notices Chuck's hand on Abby's. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Ever seen a match burn twice? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No. Bill blows out the match and touches Chuck's hand with the hot ember, causing him to yank it away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's old. Chuck starts to cough. Bill looks at Abby, then whips the handkerchief out of his pocket and puts it over his nose, as though to keep from getting Chuck's germs. Miss Carter's face goes blank as she bites into her sandwich. She jumps up and rushes back into the house. Chuck frowns. Bill glares at Ursula, then turns to Chuck and, referring to the dead prairie grass which runs through the front yard right up to the house, continues: </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You ever thought of putting in some fescue here? Some fescue grass? Of course, it might not take in this soil. Chuck stands up and winds a stole, a long religious scarf, around his neck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You ready? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I still have a little of this sore throat. Where you going, though? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">To kill a hog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the necktie for? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Or does it just come in handy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Keeps the stain of guilt off. Chuck nods goodbye and walks off, taking a stool with him. Bill sighs with admiration. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I try and try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What a splendid person! I've never met anybody like him! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Splendid people make you nervous. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">They do! I breathe a sigh of relief when they step outside the room. Bill puts on his boater and opens a copy of the Police Gazette. They are silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">A guy ate a brick on a bet. Must of busted it up first with a hammer. Guy in New York City. Where else? <P ID="spkdir">(Jumping up) <P ID="dia">Anybody want to bet me I can't stick this knife in that post? Nobody takes him up on this. Abby leafs through the Sears catalogue, her mind dancing with visions of splendor. </p><p><p ID="slug">150 TIGHT ON CATALOGUE </p><p><p ID="act">Pictured. in the catalogue are bath oils and corsets and feathered hats. A grasshopper is perched on the page among them, its eyes blank and dumb. </p><p><p ID="slug">151 TIGHT ON ROSE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches her run her finger slowly around the closed heart of a rose. Suddenly they both look at each other. They have heard the squeals, faint but unmistakable, of a hog being led to slaughter. </p><p><p ID="slug">152 TIGHT ON STOOL - QUICK CUT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck has tied the hog's feet to the inverted legs of the stool. </p><p><p ID="slug">153 OTHER QUICK CUTS </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula, off by herself, skips rope. A flag on the pole by the front gate snaps in the breeze. From the branch of a lone tree the hog dangles by its hocks into the mouth of a barrel. </p><p><p ID="slug">154 EXT. BELVEDERE - ABBY'S POV FROM SECOND FLOOR WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">Miss Carter storms down the hill with her bags. Fed up, she is leaving the bonanza. Chuck tries in vain to appease her. She keeps walking, out the front gate and into the prairie on a straight course for the railroad tracks. Chuck will now be alone at the Belvedere with the newcomers and no other point of reference. </p><p><p ID="slug">155 EXT. CLOTHES LINE </p><p><p ID="act">Later that afternoon, Bill catches sight of Abby's underthings rustling on the clothes line. </p><p><p ID="slug">156 INT. STAIRS </p><p><p ID="act">That evening he watches her from behind as she climbs the stairs to join Chuck at their bedroom door. She nods goodnight, sensing the jealousy that is growing in him. </p><p><p ID="slug">157 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks impatiently through a drawer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I can't find anything around here. Last week it was my gloves; this week my talc. What's going on? He stands and watches Abby get ready for bed. She fills him with a deep adoration. He feels that in the tulip of her mouth at last he has found heaven. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're beautiful. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You don't think my skin's too fair? He comes up behind her and touches her long hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're smart, too, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know what the Magna Carta is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Can I help you brush it out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Not right now. She is cold to discourage false expectations in him--and because she feels that she at least owes Bill this. Chuck, however, assumes the fault must be his own. His naivete about women, and the world in general, protects the conspirators--and protects him, too, for he glimpses enough of the truth not to want to know any more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What makes you so distant with me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Distant? I don't mean to be. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You know what I'm talking about, though. You aren't that way with your brother. </p><p><p ID="slug">158 INT.ATTIC </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, eavesdropping in the attic above them, surveys Chuck's dusty heirlooms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">It must be something I'm doing. I wish you'd tell me what, though. </p><p><p ID="slug">159 INT. BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">These gentle endearments, so rarely heard from Bill, stir her deeply. She throws herself in his arms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Oh, Chuck I Please forgive me. Does it mean anything that I'm sorry? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(pleased) <P ID="dia">But I don't blame you. Did I make it sound that way? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You should. You have a right to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">It's just that sometimes I feel I don't know you well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You don't. It's true. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I think you love me better than before, though. She rubs her cheek against his hands. Daily she feels warmer toward him. How much of this is love, how much respect or devotion, even she cannot say. </p><p><p ID="slug">160 TIGHT ON BILL - LATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The night throbs with crickets. Bill cracks open the bedroom door. Chuck lies asleep in a shaft of moonlight next to Abby. He hesitates a moment, but a strange compulsion drives him on. He has never done anything so dangerous, or had so little idea why. </p><p><p ID="slug">161 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby wakes up to find him staring her in the face. He kisses her. Chuck stirs. Abby signals they should go outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">162 EXT. BELVEDERE - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They sneak out of the Belvedere. The night is warm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're no good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Mmmm. But I love you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I can't stand it any more. This is just so cruel. We're both no good. I've got to get drunk with you, Bill. You know what I mean? Drunk. Bill wags a bottle. The dogs, awakened, bay from the kennel. They wait a moment to see if a light will go on in the house, then dart off toward the fields. A plaster lawn dwarf seems to watch them go. </p><p><p ID="slug">163 EXT. FIELDS - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They run through the fields, hand in hand, laughing and flirting. The moon makes Abby's nightgown a ghostly white. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We can never do this again, though. Okay? It really is too dangerous. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This one night. He toes a sodden old shoe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Hey, I found a shoe. </p><p><p ID="slug">164 SHOE, COYOTES, SCARECROW - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The shoe gleams in the moonlight. Coyotes yelp from the hilltops. A scarecrow spreads its arms against the sky. The waving fields of wheat have given way to vast reaches of cleanly shaven stubble, stained with purple morning glories. Odd, large stakes are planted among them. </p><p><p ID="slug">165 NEW ANGLE - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You want me to spin you around? She nods okay. He takes her by the hands and spins her around the way he used to--until they go reeling off, too dizzy to stand. </p><p><p ID="slug">166 EXT. RIVER BANK - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They lie by the river looking at the great dome of stars. Bill wants to believe things are the same between them as before. So does Abby--but she knows better. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Suppose we woke up tomorrow and it was a thousand years ago. I mean, with all we know? Electricity, the telephone, radio, that kind of stuff. They'd never figure out how we came up with it all. Maybe they'd kill us. She looks at him, and they laugh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You sleepy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">This is the first time we slept together in a while, Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You like it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Of course. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Kiss me, then. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It's so sweet to be able to kiss you when I want to. </p><p><p ID="slug">167 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Before the marriage his lovemaking was gentle and soft. Now it has a brutal air, as though he were asserting his right to her for the last time. </p><p><p ID="slug">168 TIGHT ON ABBY - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">Dawn is breaking. Abby jumps to her feet, alarmed. They have slept too long. </p><p><p ID="slug">169 EXT. BELVEDERE - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">They have run back to the Belvedere. It seems they are safe until Chuck appears on the porch, yawning and stretching. Bill drops to the ground while Abby goes ahead. Abby appears at one side of the house while Bill steals around the other. Luckily, they have come up from the back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Abby! I've been looking all over for you. Where have you been? While she distracts Chuck, Bill slips back in the house. It has been a close call. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Watching the ducks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Didn't you sleep well? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><p ID="slug">170 TIGHT ON ABBY (DISSOLVE TO PAGE, THEN TO URSULA) </p><p><p ID="act">Abby looks sympathetically at Chuck. Her face dissolves into a page of her diary and from there to Ursula, balancing an egg on her fingertip. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Chuck saw Ursula balance an egg. He begged her to repeat this trick, but she wouldn't. </p><p><p ID="slug">171 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck tries to reduplicate Ursula's feat. Abby, amused, reaches out and touches his face. We wonder if, despite herself, she might be falling in love with him. </p><p><p ID="slug">172 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches the Doctor walk out the front door and down the steps to his wagon. Chuck follows, smiling. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">The Doctor came. Chuck looked pleased for a change. </p><p><p ID="slug">173 EXT. PRAIRIE - BILL'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">The Doctor's wagon rolls off across the prairie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Tomorrow the President passes through. Plans have changed, and he can't stop. </p><p><p ID="slug">174 EXT. RAILROAD TRACKS - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">They have come down to the railroad tracks to watch the President pass through. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">We should have brought a flag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Does she have time to ride back and get it? Abby and Bill hold hands. Chuck by now is accustomed to such displays. They seem, however, to make Abby increasingly uncomfortable. </p><p><p ID="slug">175 MOVING TRAIN - THEIR POVS </p><p><p ID="act">The train bursts past at twenty yards, its great light rolling like a lunatic eye. Bill's heart pounds with excitement. Chuck holds Abby by the waist. Ursula waves a handkerchief... They cannot make out anything specific in the windows, but there is the sense of people going more important places, getting on with the serious business of their lives - while out here they stagnate. Dimly visible, on the back platform of the caboose, a MAN in a frock coat salutes them with his cane. The train has quickly vanished into the declining sun. Everything is quiet again. Ursula rushes up the grade to collect some pennies she laid on the tracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Did you see him wave? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He was shorter than I expected. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How do you know it was him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I saw! He had a hat on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You didn't understand my question. They walk back to the buggy. Ursula holds up a dead snake she found on the tracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You know what I'm going to do with this? Take it home and put it in vinegar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That was the President, shortie. Wake up. Bill watches Chuck help Abby into the buggy. She is laughing about something or other. His hand lingers for a moment on hers. She does not brush it aside, as once she might have, but to Bill's dismay, presses it against her breast. Chuck seems to have breathed a hope into her that he, Bill, was never able to. </p><p><p ID="slug">176 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Ursula race across the fields trying to fly a kite. Ursula rides a tiny Shetland pony. Just as the wind lifts the kite away, they run into Bill. He sits by himself observing a spear of grass. Abby drops off. Ursula rides off over the hill with the kite, leaving her alone with Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You look deep in thought. She touches his cheek. He brushes her hand away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There's nothing wrong? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you so mad about then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who said I was mad? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Can't I be alone once in a while without everybody getting all worked up? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're the only person getting worked up. Some buffalo appear on the crest of the next hill. Abby looks at them. They do not seem quite part of this world but mythical, like minotaurs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Chuck says they're good for the grass. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Stop giving me that look. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You can't keep your hands off him these days. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I haven't touched him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How about the other night? I saw you, Abby. The other night by the tracks? If only you wouldn't lie! Really, there's some things about you I'm never going to understand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I forgot. Anyway it doesn't matter. What are you doing, always trying to trap me? Bill paces around, disgusted with himself and the whole situation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can't stand it any more. It's just too degrading. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You and him. Why do I have to spell it out? I thought it would be all over in a month or two. Guy might go another five years. We've got to clear out, Abby. They stare at each other in silence for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why stop now? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">We've come this far. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You heard me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why stay? Go ahead and tell me! I'm standing here. Bill trembles with shock and anger. The buffalo cast aware glances at them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want us to lose everything? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm telling you I can't stand it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're weak then. What about all I've been through? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">And what about him? It would be the worst thing we could do. Worse than anything so far. It would break his heart. Bill is silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're getting to like him, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It would kill him. Leaving now would be just cruel. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Would it? So what's it matter to somebody in his shape? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">In fact you're just leaving us one way out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? Murdering him? Ursula comes riding over the hill, without the kite. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You watch and see. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I had to let it go. One of them started following me, and I threw a rock at him. I had a bunch stored in my pocket. They take off running after her. </p><p><p ID="slug">177 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">As they approach the Belvedere, Bill sees Chuck standing on the front steps. Suddenly angry, he draws Abby to him and in plain view kisses her on the lips. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He can see you! Bill nods; he knows. Abby runs ahead, angry and alarmed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't you believe in being honest? </p><p><p ID="slug">178 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby bounds up the steps. Chuck has bent his mind to understand all this as mere sibling love, but here is the greatest test so far. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Aren't you going to kiss me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Today's my birthday. Chuck gives her a kiss, glad to put aside his suspicions. </p><p><p ID="slug">179 TIGHT ON POINTERS, QUAIL AND PHEASANTS </p><p><p ID="act">Tails level, their noses thrust high in the air, a pair of pointers prance through the high uplands grass, following a scent like sailors taking in a rope. Pheasants and quail tremble in their coveys, their eyes big with fear. </p><p><p ID="slug">180 EXT. UPLANDS </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck has taken Bill out bird-hunting. They wear heavy canvas leggings and carry shotguns. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did you ever tell Abby the buffalo help keep up the grass? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I think so. Why? Bill shrugs. Chuck welcomes this opportunity to speak of his wife. He considers Bill a good friend, in fact the only person with whom he can talk about delicate matters. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I want to get her something nice for Christmas. Bill, who means to kill Chuck the first chance he gets, forgets this intention for a moment to give him advice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(thoughtfully) <P ID="dia">She likes to draw. Maybe some paints. Nothing too expensive-- she might want to exchange it. Maybe a coat. She likes to show off sometimes. She's sweet that way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I wish I knew how to make her happy. Nothing I do really seems to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's how they are. They like to make you work for it. I couldn't ever figure out why. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Sometimes you can't go wrong, though. You know that one Abby showed you a picture of? Elizabeth? I took her cherry. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I know. You told me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Actually, I didn't, but I could have. The point I'm making is you've got to understand how they operate. Get them thinking you can take it or leave it, you're usually okay. Suddenly the dogs stop rigid, on point. At Chuck's hiss they sink into the grass. Bill looks at Chuck's exposed back. Nobody would know. It could be made to seem like a hunting accident. He cocks the hammer of his shotgun. His heart pounds wildly. Chuck talks in a low voice to the dogs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">All right, put them up, girl. The dogs rise and inch toward the birds, as slowly as the minute hand of a clock. All at once the quail explode out of hiding. Bill jumps at the noise. Chuck fires twice. Two birds fall. The retriever notes where. Chuck turns around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why aren't you shooting? I left you those two on the left. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">They caught me off guard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You have to keep your gun up. Chuck walks ahead. The music builds a mood of tension. Bill takes a practice shot into the ground. Bill looks around. There is nobody in sight. He turns the sights on Chuck's back. It would be simple enough. Though only twenty feet away, he closes the gap, to make sure he does not miss. Chuck whistles the scattered birds back to their covey. "Pheo! Pheo!" Soon, faint and far away, comes a reply-the sweet, pathetic whistle of the quail lost in a forest of grass. The mother bird utters a low "all is well." One by one, near and far, the note is taken up, and they begin to return. Bill holds his breath. His finger moves inside the trigger guard. He only has to squeeze a fraction of an inch. Three more birds shoot out of the grass. Chuck fires. At first we think Bill has, but he cannot stoop this low. He does not have the heart. Disgusted, he throws his gun on the ground. Both barrels go off. Chuck snaps around, startled and concerned. Bill is shaking like a leaf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? What are you so upset about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">They surprised me again. Chuck sends a retriever after the fallen birds, then--in an unprecedented gesture-he puts his arm over Bill's shoulder to comfort him, like an older brother. </p><p><p ID="slug">181 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">They return home, the day's kill slung over the back of a Shetland pony. </p><p><p ID="slug">182 EXT. BACK YARD </p><p><p ID="act">They sit on stools in the back yard plucking the birds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You like to box? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I never have. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Just wondering. I got a pair of gloves I brought with me. Bill feels oddly better, as though Chuck had backed down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Abby bought me this at Yellowstone. Chuck shows Bill his knife. Bill reads a name off the handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's what she calls you? 'Chickie?' He gets up, his nostrils flaring with anger. Chuck thinks this indignance is on his behalf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Doesn't bother me. Should it? Bill throws down the pheasant he was plucking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't let her fool you, too. She warms up to whoever says please and thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? Bill, still angry at himself, considers telling him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You really want to know? He would like Chuck to know the truth but does not want theresponsibility for revealing it. He must find out by accident. Luckily they are interrupted as Ursula runs up, pointing over her shoulder. A pair of three-wing airplanes sputters into view low overhead. One seems to be having engine trouble. </p><p><p ID="slug">183 EXT. FIELD NEAR BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">The planes set down in a nearby field. "Toto's Flying Circus" is emblazoned on the wings. </p><p><p ID="slug">184 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Five PEOPLE clamber out, members of a seedy vaudeville troupe. They swagger around, filthy with oil from the backwash of the props, looking more like convicts than entertainers. Their LEADER is an excitable Levantine. <b>LEADER </b>How long it take to fix? Very mooch time! Now look where you hab stuck us. Salaupe! You forget who I aim! Bill, Abby and Ursula approach the aircraft with the greatest caution, like the Indians at Cortez's ships. </p><p><p ID="slug">185 EXT. SCREEN - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A JUGGLER and a SNAKE CHARMER perform first separately, then jointly as a slap act. A DOUBLE TALKER weaves sentences of absolute nonsense. After a moment a black and white image appears over his face and he drops out of sight. The troupe is putting on a show to earn its supper. ONE of them stands behind the viewers -- Abby and Bill, Chuck and Ursula -- cranking a carbide projector by hand. A silent movie appears on the screen, full of extraordinary pratfalls, disappearances and other tricks of the early cinema. Chuck has never seen anything remotely like this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How'd they do that? Where'd he go? There must be a wire. Etc. He steps forward to inspect the screen, actually just a sheet hung along a clothesline, to see whether the image is coming from behind. Bill and Abby sit rapt as children, nostalgic for Chicago. </p><p><p ID="slug">186 EXT. DINNER TABLE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula serves dinner. She is excited by the visitors' city ways. They are bored with her, all except the youngest, GEORGE, a young pilot in a white scarf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">We never hear a thing out here. It's like being on a boat in the middle of a lake. You see things going on, but way far away, with no voices. <b>GEORGE </b>Maybe time to clear out. George puts his hand on hers. She snatches it away. <b>GEORGE </b>What's the matter? Aren't I your type or something? The Doubletalker pokes his fork into a pudding. A balloon, concealed beneath the surface, explodes to general delight. Down the table Abby and Bill chat with the Leader. <b>LEADER </b>You do not understand, sir. I am saddled with asses, yaays? I, who once played the Albert Hall </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You. hear that? He called me 'sir.' In their gaiety he carelessly puts a hand on Abby's leg. </p><p><p ID="slug">187 TIGHT ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks on from the shadows, no longer just puzzled but angry. He has watched them behave this way a dozen times before, but tonight, with other people around, he must see it more directly. </p><p><p ID="slug">188 EXT. STRAW STACK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">George tells Ursula a joke. She dissolves in giggles before he can finish, as though amazed at his power to dispense illusion. </p><p><p ID="slug">189 INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, alone in the darkened living room, calms himself down by breathing through a rubber mask into a respirator. Joyful noises reach him from outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">190 CHUCK'S POV - NEXT MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">The next morning Chuck looks down out his bedroom window. The troupe is packing to leave. Still troubled, he walks to the bed and and stands over Abby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's going on, Abby? She does not respond. He yanks the sheet off. She is wearing a nightgown. She looks up and frowns. This is the first time she has ever seen him this way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You know what I mean. Between you and Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I have no idea..... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">Something's not right, and I want to know what. Abby jumps out of bed and assumes the offensive. She has no other choice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Say it out loud. What're you worried about? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Incest? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">It just doesn't look right. I don't know how brothers and sisters carry on where you come from, but... </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">Did you ever have a brother. Then who are you to judge? Maybe if you had, you'd understand. Anyway, times have changed while you've been stuck out in this weed patch. We're ********************line missing************** She puts on a robe and walks out. Her last argument has worked best. Chuck never imagined he was in step with the times. </p><p><p ID="slug">191 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby slips out the front door. She looks around to make sure that Chuck is not watching her, then heads off to find Bill. The vaudevillians gorge themselves on last night's leftovers, steal flowers from the flower beds, etc. ONE sits off by himself, playing a French horn. </p><p><p ID="slug">192 EXT. DORM </p><p><p ID="act">She finds Bill by the dorm throwing a switchblade in the ground, a toothbrush in his mouth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I have to talk to you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Look what I traded off those clowns. For a bushel of corn! She draws him by the arm behind a wall. She is trembling with fear. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Chuck is suspicious. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Chickie you mean? So what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Really. This is the first time he's ever been like this. I'm scared. All this flatters Chuck in a way Bill does not like. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What for? Why're you so worried what he thinks? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He could kill us. I want to live a long time, okay? I just got started and I like it. Bill shrugs, as though to say he can handle whatever Chuck can dish out and a little more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You might take a little responsibility here. You got us into all this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did I? Well, it never would've come up if you hadn't led him on. Led Chickie on! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Is that the best you can do? Knowing you it probably is. You've made a mess of our lives, okay. Don't pretend it was my fault. Bill combs his hair to calm himself down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why's this guy still hanging on like a goddamn snapping turtle? Because of you. Boy, this was a great idea. Right up there with Lincoln going down to the theater, see what's on! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Keep your voice down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't give me that. When a guy's getting screwed, he's got a right to holler. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're such a fool! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I heard what you said. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Then why'd you ask? Oh, how did I ever get mixed up with you? Abby, in terror of Chuck's finding out, cannot understand why Bill seems to care so little. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You've gone sweet on him. You have, haven't you? Abby hesitates. Bill throws his knife away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I admire him. He's a good man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Broad shoulders. I know. Very high morals. Why can't he talk faster? It's like waiting for a hen to lay an egg. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You wouldn't understand, though. He's not like you. You don't know how people feel. You only think of yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's going on between us, Abby? Think about that. If you figure it out, tell me, will you? I'd appreciate it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Lord, but you do come on! You talking like this, used to play around right under his nose. Somebody I met in a bar, remember? Or maybe you walked in, thought it was a church. Well, I've had it.I'm clearing out. You understand? They look at each other for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Go ahead. This is not what he expected to hear. But now his pride requires that he face the truth and not back down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Okay. He looks at her for a moment. He cannot be dealt with this way. He turns and walks off. </p><p><p ID="slug">193 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula flirts with George. He slips a hand inside her blouse. She bats it away. </p><p><p ID="slug">194 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">Bill stands on the ground below the master bedroom. Chuck leans out the window above him. Peacocks roost on the balcony, beneath the telescope. The vaudevillians are loading up their planes. Abby watches from the porch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm going away for a while. They're giving me a lift. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What for? He shrugs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm wearing one of your shirts. Let me take it off for you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Never mind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I got my own. Just wasn't any clean today. Bill takes off the shirt, drapes it over a post and walks off, hurt and angry, but with a sad dignity. Chuck is not entirely sorry to see him go, nor is Abby; she knows that he is getting out just in time. One more episode like last night's and the fuse would hit the powder. </p><p><p ID="slug">195 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill gives Ursula his money. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We get split up for any reason, you spend that on school. </p><p><p ID="slug">196 EXT. PRAIRIE </p><p><p ID="act">The vaudevillians are ready to take off. Bill boards the plane which George is piloting, wondering if today's break with Abby is real or just in anger, a necessary gesture. With him he carries his only possessions, a bindle and his trick rabbit. Abby, Chuck and Ursula look on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's eating him? Abby shrugs and walks down to Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Why aren't we going with him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What for? To sleep in boxcars? </p><p><p ID="slug">197 AIRPLANES </p><p><p ID="act">The planes set their wheels in the furrows, rev their engines and wobble off into the sky. Ursula waves goodbye to George. </p><p><p ID="slug">198 EXT. PLAINS UNDER SNOW - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Winter has come. Snow falls across the breadth of the plains, on the river and the dark sleeping fields. </p><p><p ID="slug">199 EXT. SLEIGH (OR ICE BOAT) - SNOW </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and Abby skim over the snow in a gaily painted sleigh (or ice boat). She is wrapped up snug in a buffalo robe, her feet on a hot brick. Pigs forage along the fences. </p><p><p ID="slug">200 INT. CAVE </p><p><p ID="act">They inspect a cave with a kerosene lantern. Blocks of ice, covered with burlap and sawdust, cool shelves of preserves. Abby drops a stone into a dark pit. Two seconds pass before it hits the bottom. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Probably that's the first noise down there for thousands of years. She speaks as though she had done it a favor. He puts his hand on hers. She presses it against her chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You ever wish you could turn your heart off for a second and see what happened? </p><p><p ID="slug">201 OTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Views of backlit gems, stalactites, salamanders in their cold dark pools, hidden springs and other mysteries of nature. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Maybe nothing would. They round a corner and come upon an underground waterfall. It flows out of darkness back into darkness. </p><p><p ID="slug">202 INT. FORGE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, meanwhile, stands in a line of panting, sweating IMMIGRANTS. On their shoulders they carry the huge barrel of a cannon. With a grunt they drive it into the fiery mouth of a forge. </p><p><p ID="slug">203 EXT. CITY STREET </p><p><p ID="act">Bill stands on the corner of a big city street, stamping his feet against the cold. He tries to catch a pigeon with some bread crumbs under a box propped up by a stick, but just as he pulls the string to drop the trap it darts out of the way. </p><p><p ID="slug">204 BILL AND YOUNG GIRL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill has an improvised conversation with a YOUNG GIRL who has run away from home. He asks her where she comes from, whom she belongs to, etc. She tells him of her hopes, then passes on. Bill gives her all the money in his pocket. </p><p><p ID="slug">205 MONTAGE </p><p><p ID="act">Enthralled, Abby surveys the wonders of Babylon and Nineveh in a book about the Near East. Ursula sits with a world globe, taking a geography lesson from a traveling TUTOR. No doubt this was Abby's idea. Abby copies from a small plaster model of a Roman bust. She wants painfully to improve herself. </p><p><p ID="slug">206 EXT. FROZEN LAKE -NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Chuck skate around a bonfire on a frozen prairie lake, carrying torches to guide them through the dark. </p><p><p ID="slug">207 INT. CHICAGO FLOPHOUSE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sits in a cold flophouse trying to write a letter. After a moment he wads it up and throws it away. </p><p><p ID="slug">208 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby, Ursula and Chuck are on a walk outside the Belvedere. The snow is gone. Abby's hands are stuffed in a chinchilla muff. All at once they hear a distant noise like the whoops of an Indian war party. It seems mysteriously to come from every hilltop. Abby turns to Chuck with a puzzled look. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Prairie chickens. That means winter's broken. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Really? Where are they? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You hardly ever see them. They stand and listen to the birds. There is a sense of the earth stirring back to life. Abby breathes in with a wild joy and hugs Chuck tightly by the waist. </p><p><p ID="slug">209 EXT. TENEMENT HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill is talking with a FRIEND in the hallway of a tenement. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can't seem to get my mind on anything. I thought, when I came off that place, boy, they'd better get all the women out of town that day, you know? Somewhere safe. But you know what I do? I sleep, nothing but sleep. A PANHANDLER approaches them with a hard-luck story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FRIEND <P ID="dia">Okay, here's a quarter, but give me some entertainment, okay? Not this old song and dance. While the Panhandler performs, Bill looks around. Two POLICEMEN have appeared in the entryway talking with the LANDLADY. Bill edges out the back door and down the steps, as though they might be after him. He walks briskly down the alley without looking back. </p><p><p ID="slug">210 TIGHT ON CHUCK (DISSOLVE TO DIARY) </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck holds a handful of seed under his nose. His heart stirs at the dark, mellow smell. Into this dissolves an image of Abby writing in her diary. </p><p><p ID="slug">211 EXT. FIELD </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck swings a barometer round and round, checking the weather. Two Case tractors pitch across a field like boats on a rolling sea. Long plumes of smoke wind off behind them. Each tows a fourteen-gang plow. A third tractor follows, putting in the seed. Ursula chases a flock of blackbirds off with a big rattle. Every acre of ground for as far as the eye can see is under cultivation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">They put in the wheat the other day. This will be the biggest year ever. There was a scare when a locust turned up. Luckily it wasn't the bad kind. </p><p><p ID="slug">212 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">The plows have turned up a hibernating locust. Chuck stands by the tractor, inspecting it under a magnifying glass. The creature nestles like a fossil in the black earth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">They sleep in the ground for seventeen years, then crawl up around the end of May and spend a week flying around before they die. Chuck kicks up the dirt around the plow, looking for others. Benson, back from exile, looks concerned. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Nothing to worry about. Just shows the land is good. </p><p><p ID="slug">213 SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Various wonders of the prairie: a charred tree, a huge mastodon bone, a flowering bush, a pelican, the rusted hulk of an ancient machine, etc. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How strange this new world is! You walk out in the morning sometimes to find a lake rippling where the day before solid land was. </p><p><p ID="slug">214 EXT. STONE BOAT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck has laid out the outline of a 50-foot boat in whitewashed stones. He walks around the imaginary deck showing Abby where the cabins will be. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Chuck wants to build a boat and take us off to Java, which he's never seen. </p><p><p ID="slug">215 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula goes out to the fields with an organist named JOEY whom Chuck has hired to play for the crops. He and Ursula seem to hit it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Last month he brought in a kid to play the organ. He claims it helps the crops grow. Personally I doubt it. </p><p><p ID="slug">216 EXT. MIDDLE OF FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">They have brought an organ out into the middle of the fields. Ursula pumps up the bellows. Joey sits in front of the keyboard and shoots his cuffs. His fingers strike the keys. </p><p><p ID="slug">217 CLOUDS, CLOSEUPS OF PLANTS - TIME LAPSE PHOTOGRAPHY (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">Clouds build in huge toadstools. Thunder rolls across the plains. A rain begins to fall. The music seems to work a magic on the crops, to draw them forth. The seeds germinate in the darkness of the soil. Water finds its way down. Roots, tiny hairs at first, spread and grow. </p><p><p ID="slug">218 DOLLS, TIGHT ANGLES ON THEIR FACES </p><p><p ID="act">Rude dolls fixed at the ends of pointed sticks--agricultural fetishes that Chuck's father brought with him from the Old World--stand around the field to join in aiding the crops. </p><p><p ID="slug">219 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Flags and bunting adorn the porch for Independence Day. Ursula sets off some fireworks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Time has flown, and once again harvest is near. </p><p><p ID="slug">220 EXT. GREEN FIELDS(TRIFFIDS) </p><p><p ID="act">The bald earth has, as though by a mystery, become a sheet of grain, its green already fading to gold. The music dies away, replaced by the whirr of summer crickets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">It will be a year that we have been here. The camera holds and holds on the fields until in their vacant depths, we begin to sense the presence of a deep malevolence, still biding its time but growing every minute. Seagulls--like strange emissaries from another world--glide back and forth over the fields in search of grasshoppers. </p><p><p ID="slug">221 INT. LANTERN - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula takes curling irons from the chimney of a lantern where she has set them to heat, and applies them to Abby hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Suppose I never fall in love, Abby? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't be silly. Everybody does. What do you think all those songs are about? You need to be careful, though, and not throw it away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Throw what away? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know, your chances. It's too hard to explain to a little squirrel like you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">That sounded just like Bill. Don't you miss him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Sometimes. From her tone, however, we sense that she finds it easier with him gone. </p><p><p ID="slug">222 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby whispers something to Chuck in bed that evening. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You ever said that to anybody else? She giggles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're lying, aren't you? Well, go right on lying. The camera moves to the window, beneath the eave. Outside, peacocks strut back and forth. </p><p><p ID="slug">223 EXT. MUDDY ROAD </p><p><p ID="act">Bill rides an Indian motorcycle along a muddy road back to the bonanza. His rabbit is strapped to the back. He stops for a moment to look at the new fields. </p><p><p ID="slug">224 EXT. BELVEDERE - BILL'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Abby sings to herself as she beats out a carpet. Bill appears on the ridge behind her. Hope leaves him like a ghost. She looks happily settled into a new life with Chuck. All at once she turns around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Bill! She rushes up and embraces him, but her warmth just seems a tease to Bill. She is different. She looks different. The tutors and tailors Chuck has brought in over the winter have given her more polish. Her hair is nicely coiffed. Where she used to dress in cotton shirtwaists, she wears crinolines now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How's everybody been? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Including me? Okay. Gee, you look good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Thanks. And Chuck? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Still the same. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Actually I didn't mean it that way. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I came back to help out with the harvest. He feels humiliated at not having a stronger excuse. But he loves her. He aches with love. He hoped their last fight was just another storm in the romance. Evidently it was more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I thought about you a lot. Wrote you a letter, but it was no good, so I tore it up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How'd you come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Train. He looks her up and down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nice dress. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm glad you like it. He admires her garden. His familiar cockiness vanishes as little by little he sees the old feeling is not there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This is new, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">The daffodils were already here, but I put in the rest. You really do like them? At a shriek from Ursula, Bill turns around. She runs into his arms, and covers him with kisses. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I've missed you! I thought about you every day. You should've written. Did Abby show you what she got? Abby scowls at Ursula. With no choice but to show him, she opens the top button of her blouse and draws out a diamond necklace. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(apologetically) <P ID="dia">For Christmas. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Plus a music box. He spoils her. Why don't they spoil me, too? <P ID="spkdir">(whispering) <P ID="dia">You oughta be glad you didn't have to spend the winter. You would've gone crazy. </p><p><p ID="slug">225 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">The winter's peace is gone. Abby is sick with fear. Now that she loves Chuck, too, she can never again be honest with Bill. The truth of her feelings would crush him. Moreover, there's no telling how he might react. He could ruin everything, even get them killed. </p><p><p ID="slug">226 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks on from behind the bedroom window. </p><p><p ID="slug">227 EXT. DINNER TABLE </p><p><p ID="act">They dine in awkward silence. Benson has joined them. Abby, for all her winter's polish, still eats with the back of her knife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">How was Chicago? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Great. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How's everybody doing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Okay. They are silent for a moment. Bill senses that nobody except Ursula is really glad to see him back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How's Blackie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Still hasn't wised up. Know what I mean? He asked how you were doing, though. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told him. Ran into Sam, too. He'd been in a fight. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Oh yeah? Bill can see that her interest is only polite. He knows that he should turn around and leave, but he cannot. The sight of him with his confidence gone is painful to behold. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">His nose was like this. He pushes his nose to one side. Ursula and Abby laugh. </p><p><p ID="slug">228 EXT. STOCK POND </p><p><p ID="act">Bill plants willow slips in the soft earth by the stock pond. Ursula orders a dog around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Look at this dog mind me. Sit! You've got to say it like hitting a nail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Has she asked you anything about me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">No. Ursula flirts with him, running the shoots along his back. She waits to see what he will do. He gets up and after a short chase catches her. He holds her at arm's length for a moment, then kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What'd you do that for? Bill wonders himself. To get revenge on Abby? He touches her breast. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why not? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Cause there's nothing there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can be the judge of that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Then ask first. He kisses her neck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nobody has to know but us chickens. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What do I have to say to convince you? You tell me, I'll say it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What makes you think I would? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nothing. She giggles and kisses him back. But guilt has caught up with him. He cannot go ahead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What's the matter? No reply. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Maybe it would be wrong. <P ID="spkdir">(disappointed) <P ID="dia">You still love her, don't you? Bill hums a rock off toward the horizon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I should've gone in the church, like my father was after me to. </p><p><p ID="slug">229 BILL'S POV - OUTSIDE THE BELVEDERE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and Abby sit in their cozy living room playing Parcheesi. The sound of their voices is muffled. The camera draws back to reveal Bill outside the window, watching. She is comfortable with Chuck now. Apparently, he has lost his place in her heart. He wants to rush in and drag her away. </p><p><p ID="slug">230 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Later that night he stands under the bedroom window and wonders at the meaning of the shadows that flicker across the ceiling. After a moment he withdraws into the darkness. </p><p><p ID="slug">231 EXT. SMALL PRAIRIE TOWN (DUCK LAKE) </p><p><p ID="act">Bill has brought Abby into a nearby town to make some purchases. Dressed in a chauffeur's gown and goggles, he sits against the fender of the Overland watching her move from store to store. Ursula is with her. The TOWNSPEOPLE all speak German. Their peasant costumes are freely mixed with Western dress. The signs are old German script. Two MEN carry a huge bulb through the street, to put atop a church. </p><p><p ID="slug">232 OVERLAND AUTO </p><p><p ID="act">Abby walks up with Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Listen, I'm going to stay and go back with the laundry wagon. Abby looks at Bill, then nods okay. Ursula runs off. Bill opens the door, and she gets in. </p><p><p ID="slug">233 EXT. ROAD OUTSIDE TOWN (DUCK LAKE) </p><p><p ID="act">They are stopped on the road a hundred yards outside the town. Abby smokes as Bill checks the radiator. Something in his behavior leads us to suspect he may have staged this stop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How you been doing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Me? Fine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We don't talk so much these days. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know. She knows what he wants. She cannot give it anymore. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I said a lot of stupid things before I went off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(politely) <P ID="dia">I forgot about it already. Bill, trying his best to make peace with her, cannot help seeing that she would like to keep things as they are--and not because she harbors any grudge. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You've forgiven me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There was nothing to forgive. He holds a bottle of liquor out to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you worried about? She takes a swig. He laughs. She laughs back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">So how'm I doing with you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Fine. He takes her hand and holds it like a trapped bird. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's happened? She shrugs, disengaging her hand to brush aside her hair. She is painfully aware of his suffering but doesn't have the heart to tell him how it all is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I probably ought to leave. I will. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Already? You just got here. She hasn't really contradicted him. He leans forward as though to kiss her. She lets him. She wishes that she could give herself to him, but she doesn't know what is right. Then, a sudden impulse of panic, she gets up and backs away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Where you going? He reaches out to catch her. She breaks away and starts to run. He walks quickly after her, cutting off any escape toward the town. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why'd you have to come back? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm not going to hurt you. I only want to talk with you. She stops and hides her face in her hands. He gently pulls them away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I didn't come back to make trouble for you. I guess we were fooling each other to think it could last. I mean, What was I offering youanyhow? A ride to the bottom. Looking at you now, in the right clothes and everything, I see how crazy I was and--well, I understand. It's okay. I sort of cut my own throat, actually. Her eyes close and her legs give in. Bill lets her go and backs off a step in surprise. She sinks to the ground, as though in a trance. </p><p><p ID="slug">234 TIGHT ON BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, taken by surprise, goes up and kneels down beside her. He looks to see that she is okay. He picks a fox-tail out of her hair. Her dress has worked up toward her knees. He pulls it back down. He wants to caress her face but hesitates. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How'd we let it happen, Abby? We were so happy once. Why didn't we starve? I love you so much. What have1 done? You're so beautiful. What have I done? He touches his lips for a fraction of a second to hers, notices another car approaching down the road. He picks her up like a doll and carries her back to the Overland. </p><p><p ID="slug">235 EXT. BELVEDERE - CHUCK'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">They have arrived back at the Belvedere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm sorry. She touches his face in a surge of sympathy. What has she done to him? He kisses her neck and leads her toward the front door. </p><p><p ID="slug">236 CRANE TO CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">The camera rises to the uppermost story of the Belvedere. Chuck has seen them. Hot tears leap to his eyes. Before Bill left for the winter he often observed such intimacies between them. Now it all looks different. </p><p><p ID="slug">237 CHUCK'S POVS (HIGH ANGLES) </p><p><p ID="act">He looks around at his estate--his barn, his auto, his great house and his granary. None of them is any consolation now. Far a moment it seems to him as though he lived here in some time long past. </p><p><p ID="slug">238 INT. BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby notices Chuck watching her outside the bedroom door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want something from me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Will you hand me that magazine? He gives her the magazine she wants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's the matter? He seems for a moment to consider telling her, then shrugs and goes downstairs. </p><p><p ID="slug">239 INT. LIVING ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">He stumbles into a bird cage but hardly notices. The jostled birds raise a fuss. </p><p><p ID="slug">240 EXT. FRONT PORCH </p><p><p ID="act">He runs into Bill on the front porch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I've been looking for you. I have to take off again, real soon here, and... Chuck puts a hand on Bill's shoulder, stopping him. They look at each other for a moment, then he passes on. Bill seems puzzled. </p><p><p ID="slug">241 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck walks out into the deep of his fields. The wheat, a warm dry gold, is almost ready to take in. He sits down and rests his head against a furrow, powerless to think. The wind makes a song in the infinitude of sweet clicking heads. He puts his hands over his heart and breathes in gasps, with the dumb honesty of a wounded animal. He could not himself quite say what it is that he knows. </p><p><p ID="slug">242 EXT. BONANZA - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Late that afternoon disaster strikes as a swarm of locusts sweeps down on the bonanza. We do not see where they come from. They seem to appear out of nowhere, unnoticed. Ursula works in the kitchen, Bill by the barn. Chuck lies asleep in the field, Abby upstairs in bed. </p><p><p ID="slug">243 ANIMALS ON BONANZA </p><p><p ID="act">The animals sense it first. The buffalo move off in a mass. The horses become uncontrollable. One runs around the barn in a panic. Bill watches it, puzzled. Two peacocks have a fight. A dog in the treadmill races in vain to escape, driving the machine to a feverish pitch. The shadow of a giant cloud licks over the hills. </p><p><p ID="slug">244 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Everything seems normal in the fields. Then, as you listen, a strange new sound begins to rise from them, a wild sea-like singing. As the camera moves over the fields and down into the wheat it swells in a crescendo until... </p><p><p ID="slug">245 TIGHT ON LOCUSTS </p><p><p ID="act">Suddenly we see them up close, devouring the stalks in a fever, the noise of their jaws magnified a thousand times. They slip into the Belvedere, under the sash and wainscoting, turning up first in places it would seem they could never get into: a jewelry case, the back of a radio, the works of a music box, a bottle with a miniature ship inside, etc. </p><p><p ID="slug">246 EXTREME CLOSEUPS </p><p><p ID="act">Their eyes are dumb and implacable. They seem to have a whole hidden life of their own. </p><p><p ID="slug">247 INT. KITCHEN </p><p><p ID="act">Little by little they gather in numbers. Ursula first sees one on the drainboard. She swats it with a newspaper. Others sprout up. One by one she picks them up with a tongs and drops them into the stove. This method is too slow. She begins to use her fingers. She moves with a quick, nervous energy, even as she understands this is futile. At last claustro-phobia seizes her. She spins around with a shriek, lashing out at everything in sight. </p><p><p ID="slug">248 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">In the bedroom overhead, Abby wakes up from one nightmare into another. She jumps out of bed and goes to the window. The locusts pelt against the pane like shot. She throws the bolt. Suddenly a crack shoots through the glass. She jumps back and watches in horror as a sliver of the pane falls in. They are free to enter. </p><p><p ID="slug">249 SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Suddenly they are everywhere: on the clothesline, in the pantry, in hats and shoes and the seams of clothing. Not a nook or cranny is safe from penetration. </p><p><p ID="slug">250 TIGHT ON CHUCK - SLOW MOTION </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, asleep in the deep of the wheat, bolts up in slow motion. His hair is seething with them. </p><p><p ID="slug">251 EXT. BONANZA - FURTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Panic hits the bonanza. Workers tie string around their pant cuffs to keep the insects from crawling up their legs, then rush out to the fields with gongs, rattles, pot lids, scarecrows on sticks, drums and horns and other noisemakers to scare them off. Some pray. Others run around like madmen, stamping and yelling, ignored by the gathering host. A couple get into a fistfight. A storm flag is run up the flagpole. A tractor blasts out an S.O.S. The peacocks huddle under the stoop. </p><p><p ID="slug">252 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck gives Benson his orders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Offer fifty cents a bushel for them. Get out the reapers. See what you can harvest. </p><p><p ID="slug">253 HIGH DOWN ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">The locusts snap through the air. Bill, swatting at them with a shovel, stops to gag. One has flown into his mouth. </p><p><p ID="slug">254 TIGHT ON GEARS </p><p><p ID="act">They jam up the gears of the machinery with the crush of their bodies. </p><p><p ID="slug">255 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby throws a sheet over herself, but they get in under it. She thrashes around madly, then with a cry goes limp. </p><p><p ID="slug">256 CHUCK AND BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Benson reports back to Chuck. A team of horses races by, nearly bowling them over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">We can't get the machines out. They're jamming up the gears. There's a good chance they'll pass on south, though. Unless... unless a wind comes up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What happens then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">They'll set down and walk in. </p><p><p ID="slug">257 SIGNS OF DAMAGE </p><p><p ID="act">The locusts devour not just the crops but every organic thing: pitchfork handles, linens on the clothesline, leather traces, flowers in the window boxes, etc. Soon a large area of wheat is eaten down to stubble. Bill looks away from a tree for a second. When he turns back it has been stripped to a wintry bareness. </p><p><p ID="slug">258 EXT. WIND GENERATOR, OTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">The vanes of the wind generator begin gently to stir. Little by little the wind picks up. A dust devil spins across the yard. The grass lists by the well. A power line moans. </p><p><p ID="slug">259 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">As the sun dips below the horizon, the locusts pour in like a living river, walking along the ground like a procession of Army ants. The roar of their wings is deafening. The air hisses and pops with their electric frenzy. </p><p><p ID="slug">260 STOCK AND MATTE SHOTS - SUNSET </p><p><p ID="act">And these are but the advance elements of a main force which looms like a silver cloud on the horizon. </p><p><p ID="slug">261 EXT. BONFIRE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">WORKERS dump bushels of the insects into a bonfire. A MAN with an abacus keeps track of what each is owed. </p><p><p ID="slug">262 SAME FIELDS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The wind has picked up. Chuck, Bill and Abby have come out to the fields with a dozen WORKERS to investigate the extent of the damage. The insects buzz around blindly in the light of their lanterns, which they carry Japanese-fashion at the ends of cane poles. </p><p><p ID="slug">263 TIGHT ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck inspects the grain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">There's nothing we can do but wait. They're either going to take it all or they're not. He covers his face with his hands. The others shy back at this display of grief, startling in one so formal. Their jostled lanterns cast a dance of lights. Bill, moved to real sympathy, takes him by the shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Come on. They might still lift. Hey, I've seen a wind like this lay down and die. Don't give up now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(ignoring him) <P ID="dia">We could at least make sure they don't get the people on south. He breaks open the mantle of his lantern, still unsure what he should do. Some of the flaming kerosene splashes onto the crops nearby, setting them ablaze. Bill drops his rattle and swats the fire out with his coat. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you doing? Watch it! What're you, crazy? There's still a chance, don't you see? Chuck goes to his horse. Bill grabs him by the sleeve. Does he really mean to set the fields on fire? Chuck pushes him aside. Bill, frantic, turns to the others for support. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Stop him, or it's all going up. They, however, are too uncertain of their ground to intervene. Chuck turns on Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What does it matter to you? Chuck slings fire out of the broken lantern onto the crops next to Bill -- a sudden, hostile gesture that catches them all by surprise. Independent of his will, the truth is forcing its way up, like a great blind fish from the bottom of the sea. He slings the fire out again. A patch lands on Bill's pantleg. Bill slaps it out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's got into you? They stare at each other. Bill backs off like a cat, sensing Chuck knows the truth, but at a loss to understand how he could. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why do you care? I gave my life for this land. Chuck walks towards him. Suddenly Bill turns and takes off running. Chuck swings at him with the lantern. Bill escapes behind the building wall of flame that springs up between them. The whirr of the locusts stops for a moment--they seem at times to have a collective mind--then, just as mysteriously, resumes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Stop, Chuck! Chuck leaps on his horse. She tries to drag him off but is thrown aside and almost trampled underfoot. Now the others join in, trying to knock away the lantern or catch his stirrup. He eludes them and rides off after Bill, leaving a slash of flame behind him in the grain. They tear off their coats to swat it out, in vain--already it stretches a hundred yards. </p><p><p ID="slug">264 BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill runs through the night, still carrying his lantern. Chuck bears down on him. Abby chases along behind him, screaming for him to stop. Bill realizes the lantern is giving his position away He blows it out and vanishes from sight. All we can see is the thundering horseman, sowing fire. </p><p><p ID="slug">265 CRANE SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">With a rough idea where Bill is, Chuck begins to lay a ring of fire around him, fifty yards in diameter. </p><p><p ID="slug">266 BILL AND ABBY INSIDE RING </p><p><p ID="act">Abby spots Bill against the flames. She rushes up, gasping. They have been caught inside the ring. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you doing? This is a bad place to talk He throws his coat over Abby's head, picks her up by the waist and crashes through the flame. They have to shout to make themselves understood. The locusts roar like a cyclone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did you see that? He was trying to burn me. What's got into him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He knows. He must. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">A whole year's work. All wasted! These bugs, once they make up their minds... Bill stalls. The fire races toward them through the wheat. They appear as silhouettes against it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I need to get out of here. I think you probably should, too. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Hell of a life. Damned if you do and damned if you don't. He leaves. Abby wonders if she ought to run after him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Bill! But this moment's hesitation has been too long. Already he is swallowed up in the night, her voice swept away in the roar of the flame and the locusts, who seem to wail louder now, and with a great mournfulness--like keening Arab women--as if they knew the fate shortly to envelop them. Abby turns back. She, too, has reason to fear Chuck and must escape. </p><p><p ID="slug">267 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Benson rallies the workers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">There's still a chance they're going to fly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VOICES <P ID="dia">Get the tractor out! The pump wagon! Blankets! They rush off to find equipment to fight the fire. </p><p><p ID="slug">268 ISOLATED ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck rides through the dark like a lone Horseman of the Apocalypse, setting his fields on fire. </p><p><p ID="slug">269 EXT. PLAINS ON FIRE - SERIES OF ANGLES - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Tractors attempt to plow a firebreak. Mad silhouettes run back and forth, slapping at the blaze with wet gunny sacks fixed to the ends of sticks. Two dormitories burn out of control. Ursula throws open the barn and lets the horses out. They have raised thunder kicking at their stalls. The light above the barn door pulses erratically. </p><p><p ID="slug">270 EXPLOSIONS - NIGHT (MINIATURES) </p><p><p ID="act">Oil wells explode along the horizon. Huge balls of flames roll into the heavens. </p><p><p ID="slug">271 EXT. BURNING PLAINS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Panic spreads among the workers as the holocaust threatens to engulf them. They throw down their tools and run for their lives. </p><p><p ID="slug">272 ANIMALS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Animals flee in all directions: birds and deer and rabbits, pigs, buffalo and the horses from the barn. The locusts mill around crazily on the wheat stalks, backlit against the flame. </p><p><p ID="slug">273 BILL - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, fleeing on his motorbike with his rabbit, holds up for a moment to watch the fire--a Biblical inferno of spectacular sweep. </p><p><p ID="slug">274 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW--TRACKING SHOT (CHUCK'S POV)--NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A single light burns in the Belvedere. </p><p><p ID="slug">275 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Heaving with sobs, Abby throws her things into a bindle. She has lost Chuck forever. Their life is destroyed. She glances out the window. She still has time to get away, but she must hurry. She bolts for the door. Sud- denly Chuck steps from the shadows, blocking her exit. His face, black with soot, looks gruesome in the gas1ight. The locusts have chewed up his clothes. Abby is like a frightened deer. Did he see her packing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You look as though you'd seen a ghost. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Where you going? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Off with him? The wind cuts gaps in the death wail of the locusts. From time to time we hear the thump of an exploding well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He's not your brother, is he? How much does he know? She edges toward the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why do you say that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Come here a minute. Who are you? <P ID="spkdir">(no reply) <P ID="dia">Where'd you come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I told you. He shakes her. She quivers like a child in his grasp. She no longer has the audacity to lie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How long have you known? He drops his eyes. Shamefully long -- and his anger is partly just at this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What'd you want? He punches in the shade of a lamp, extinguishing it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Tell me. He shoves over the chest of drawers. She does not move. He tears down the drapes, already in shreds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">This? Show me what you wanted! I would have given it all to you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Please, Chuck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Please what? You're not going to tell me you're sorry, I hope.. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">But I am. Outside the window fires rage along half the horizon. He sits down. He wants to sob, but cannot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're so wonderful. How could you do this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm just no good. You picked me from the gutter, and this is how -- I never deserved you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">The things you told me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I love you, though. You have to believe me. It may sound false after... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">Down at the cave. Don't you remember? I believed them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">All right. I'm going away. You'll never have to see me again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Away? He gets up, suddenly alarmed, walks to the mantel and opens a chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you doing? Chuck drapes his neck with the stole he used in slaughtering the hog. Her face goes empty. He gets his razor strop from the shaving basin. She shrinks back in the corner. He looks at her for a moment, then leaves the room. </p><p><p ID="slug">276 INT. STAIRCASE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby pursues him down the stairs. He throws her aside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Where are you doing? Chuck! What are you doing? I won't let you! Come back! Again he throws her aside, and again she keeps after him, desperate to prevent any harm coming to Bill. Finally he picks her up and drags her outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">277 EXT. PORCH - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">He lashes her with a rope to a column of the porch. She struggles vainly to free herself. Does he intend to use the razor on her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No, Chuck! Please, darling! It wasn't his fault. It was mine. Let him go. I love you, Chuck. Do anything, only please... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I'm sick of hearing lies. He stuffs a handkerchief in her mouth and leaves. </p><p><p ID="slug">278 TIGHT ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck wanders through the night with a lantern, calling his mare. </p><p><p ID="slug">279 EXT. BURNT-OUT FIELDS - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">Dawn breaks. Chuck rides over the burnt-out fields looking for Bill. The feet of his lank white mare are wrapped to the fetlock in wet burlap, to protect them from the smouldering grass. It prances warily along, without making a sound, wreathed in a mist of blue smoke. With him he carries a stool. The camera pans up to the smoke which is carrying his fortune off. </p><p><p ID="slug">280 CHUCK'S POVS </p><p><p ID="act">Burnt, blind deer stand and look at him in utter terror, as though they understood his intentions. The roasted corpses of sharptail grouse, coyotes and badgers lie scattered here and there. Piles of dung burn on after the grass is out. A peacock from the Belvedere wanders around, angry and perplexed. </p><p><p ID="slug">281 BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill is repairing his motorbike by a rock in the middle of the scorched landscape. The tires are soft as licorice from the heat. Suddenly, he looks up. Chuck has found him. He jumps behind the handlebars and fishtails off. Chuck breaks into a gallop, rides him down, knocks him to the ground with the stool, dismounts and stamps in the spokes of the front wheel to make sure he goes no further. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who do you think you are? Now you've ruined it. What's got into you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Where you headed? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why do I have to tell you? I can come and go when I like. This is still a free country, last I heard. Bill stops when he sees the stool. Chuck calmly strops the razor on his stirrup flap. There are no secrets now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What can I say? Too late for apologies. You've got a right to hate me. Chuck puts the razor away and advances on Bill with the stool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I want to leave. You won't ever see me again. I already got what I deserve. There is nothing Bill can say to appease him. This will be a fight to the death. Chuck lashes out with the stool. Bill ducks too late. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Watch it! Chuck comes at him again. Bill throws a punch, but Chuck blocks it and knocks him down again with the stool. Bill reels back and cracks his head on the bicycle frame. This time he stays down. Satisfied the struggle is over, Chuck goes back to get some rope. </p><p><p ID="slug">282 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck shuts his eyes to mumble a prayer of absolution--in Russian. Bill in a panic, snaps a spoke out of the broken wheel and lays it against his sleeve. Chuck moves in for the kill. Bill gets to his feet. He wants to run but fear makes his knees like water. Suddenly, they are face to face. Chuck swings at Bill with the stool but misses. Bill lifts the spoke above him and drives it deep into Chuck's heart. Chuck gasps. Bill seems just as shocked. Chuck sits down to determine the gravity of his injury. Blood jets rhythmically out the end of the spoke, as though from a straw. Bill circles him, unbelieving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Should I pull it out? Chuck puts his finger over the end of the spoke. Blood seeps out the side of his mouth, like sap from a broken stem. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I better get somebody. He tries to catch the reins of Chuck's horse, but it shies out of reach, its conscience repelled. He looks back at Chuck in anguish. What has he done? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You were my friend. </p><p><p ID="slug">283 TIGHT ON BILL AND HIS POVS </p><p><p ID="act">The Belvedere is visible on the horizon. Bill hesitates a moment, then heads back on foot to find Abby. He gives Chuck a wide berth. Then, on a ridge in the distance, he spots Benson. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Get a doctor! Fast! How much did he see? Bill does not stay to find out but takes off running, though not without first collecting his rabbit. Benson, meanwhile, bounds down the hill to Chuck's side. His left sleeve has been burned away. The flesh beneath is the color of a raw steak. </p><p><p ID="slug">284 CHUCK'S POVS </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck sees the smoke from his fields, the burnt deer, a circling hawk. </p><p><p ID="slug">285 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">He breathes in gulps. His eyes are blank, like a child's marbles. He takes Benson's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(weakly) <P ID="dia">Wasn't his fault. Tell her...forgive them. The locusts can be heard no more. The prairie makes a sound like the ocean. Chuck turns his back and dies. </p><p><p ID="slug">286 TIGHT ON BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Benson weeps. Whether or not he understood Chuck's last wishes, he seems unlikely to abide by them. </p><p><p ID="slug">287 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds Abby bound to the house like the figurehead of a ship. He cuts her loose. The ropes fall at her feet. She is free. They look at each other for a moment. Then, in a rush of compassion for them all, she throws her arms around him. Bill wonders if she is taking him back. Might their differences all have been a terrible misunderstanding? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We have to hurry. Chuck's out looking right now. Oh, Bill, what have we done? He took his razor. We need to hurry. He might be coming back any minute. Bill mentions nothing of his encounter. She grabs her bindle, Bill a handful of silverware and an umbrella. After a moment's hesitation, he puts them back. </p><p><p ID="slug">288 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">They run down to the barn, where the cars are stored. The saplings in the front yard have been stripped even of their bark. Abby stops to look back at the Belvedere one last time. Chuck does not want her anymore. How could she expect him to? Bill grabs her by the hand and tugs her along. </p><p><p ID="slug">289 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Abby throws open the doors of the barn. Bill cranks up the engine of the Overland. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Will the cops be looking for us, too? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Probably. Abby stands in the door. She is reluctant to leave, though she knows they must. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Get in. She notices that Bill's lip is cut, his shirt soaked with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What happened to you? Where's this from? Bill looks down. He forgot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Had an accident. She looks at him for a moment, not quite trusting this explanation. The engine catches with a noise like start- led poultry. Bill gets behind the wheel. Just as they are pulling out of the garage, Ursula runs up, black as coal from battling the fire all night. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Where you going? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(breathless) <P ID="dia">We got in a jam. You'll be safer here. Say we're headed for town. Take care of the rabbit, too. He's yours now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Just do what I say. Why're you always arguing about everything? Wait here till we get in touch. Bill gives Ursula his wallet and a kiss. Abby gives her a hug. </p><p><p ID="slug">290 EXT. BURNT GRASS </p><p><p ID="act">They roar off through the burnt grass of the prairie. Abby waves goodbye. </p><p><p ID="slug">291 THEIR POV (MOVING) </p><p><p ID="act">As they crest a ridge, Benson appears in front of them, waving a hand to flag them down. Bill puts his foot on the gas. Benson sees they are not going to stop and fires at then with a pistol. Bill grabs a shotgun from a scab- bard under the dash and fires back. Nobody is hurt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's the matter with him? Bill shrugs. Inside he feels a great relief. They are free at last. At last he has her back. </p><p><p ID="slug">292 EXT. BONANZA GATES </p><p><p ID="act">They veer off across the prairie, towards the Razumihin gates. The music comes up full. </p><p><p ID="slug">293 EXT. SHACK ON RIVER </p><p><p ID="act">They have come to a lone shack on the river, a drinking house for passing boatmen. They negotiate (in pantomime) with the PROPRIETOR for a tiny steam boat moored at the end of the pier. When the car is not enough, Abby throws in her necklace. </p><p><p ID="slug">294 ABOARD THE BOAT </p><p><p ID="act">They board the boat and turn down stream. There is a phonograph on board. </p><p><p ID="slug">295 TIGHT ON NECKLACE </p><p><p ID="act">The necklace sparkles on the hood of the car--a hint they are leaving behind evidence that could betray them. </p><p><p ID="slug">296 EXT. BOAT ON RIVER - AND MOVING POVS </p><p><p ID="act">They glide along in the hush of evening. The reeds are full of deer. Cranes, imprudently tame, dance on the sand bars. Bill looks around in wonder. He knows these may be his last days on earth. Abby throws a sounding line. A COUPLE from a local farm seeks privacy in the willows. Other BOATMEN glide past in silence. A CHILD plays a fiddle on the deck of a scow. HUNTERS creep along the shore in search of waterfowl. </p><p><p ID="slug">297 EXT. CAMP - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sleeps under a tarp. Abby looks out across the water and bursts into sobs. She has wronged Chuck and thrown her life away. </p><p><p ID="slug">298 THEIR POVS (MOVING) - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They shine a lamp into the murky depths and spear pickerel with a hammered-out fork. Strange rocks loom up and give way to wide moonlit fields. They have the sense of entering places where nobody has been since the making of the world. </p><p><p ID="slug">299 EXT. FARMHOUSE </p><p><p ID="act">Four LAWMEN, in pursuit, interrogate some FARMERS. Have they seen the two people standing by Chuck in his wedding portrait? Benson holds the bulky frame. There is a funereal border of black crepe at the corners. </p><p><p ID="slug">300 EXT. ABOARD THE BOAT - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">They drift idly on the flood. The phonograph is playing in the stern. Abby is back in trousers. Bill points to a white house on the shore, an image of comfort and peace. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I used to want a set-up like that. Something like that, I thought, and you'd really have it made. Now I don't care. I just wish we could always live this way. He sees that her mind is somewhere else. He wants to tell her the truth about Chuck, for intimacy's sake, but it would just put more of a cloud over everything. It might even cause her to hate him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Maybe you want to write him a letter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I hadn't thought of that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You really do love him, don't you? She does not reply. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You want to go back? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(shaking her head) <P ID="dia">Too late for that. I could never face him again. They look at each other for a moment. He touches her face, to show that he does not hold it against her. She touches him back. They only have each other now. They must save what moments they can. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Guess it's you and me again. </p><p><p ID="slug">301 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">On a sudden whim, Abby takes off her wedding bracelet and holds it over the water. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Watch this. Bill is caught off guard. Before he can make a move she throws it far out into the river. They laugh, without knowing why, at this extravagance. </p><p><p ID="slug">302 EXT. SHORE .. TRACKING SHOTS </p><p><p ID="act">They gather May apples and black haws. The music from the phonograph comes up full. They dig clams from a sand bar in a playful way. We are reminded of their first days on the harvest. </p><p><p ID="slug">303 XT. UNDERGROWTH </p><p><p ID="act">They make love in the undergrowth. Abby, afterwards, lies in a naked daze. The damp greens of the wilderness envelop her. </p><p><p ID="slug">304 THEIR POV - ON CITY ON RIVER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Rounding a bend in the river that night, they come upon the lights of a great city. They have doused the running lamp. Except for a faint groaning of the trees along the shore, the river is silent, conveying the sounds of the city to them from across a great distance -- bells, joy- ful voices, horns, the chirping of brakes, etc. </p><p><p ID="slug">305 EXT. CITY STREETS AND THEIR POVS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They sneak down an alley. There are signs of life behind a few windows, but the city pursues its gaiety elsewhere. Suddenly, they come upon a POLICEMAN making his rounds. They let him pass, then cut through a vacant lot back to the boat. </p><p><p ID="slug">306 EXT. RIVER FRONT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The next morning finds them camped in a thicket on the river front below a factory. Bill wakes up, mysteriously happy. Their blankets are heavy with dew. Overhead, finches tilt from branch to branch. A light wind rushes through the leaves. Whatever his trou- bles, they seem very small to him in the great. scheme of things. He looks at Abby, mouthing silent words in her sleep. He puts on a white scarf and starts down to the boat. The slope is strewn with sodden cartons, burnt bricks and burst mattresses, an avalanche of urban excreta. </p><p><p ID="slug">307 HIS POV </p><p><p ID="act">Abruptly he stops. Two POLICE OFFICERS are combing over the boat. They have not seen him. He edges back. Suddenly, there is yelling on the hill above them. Bill looks up. Benson is calling him to the attention of a car-load of POLICEMEN pulling up beside him. The Officers at the boat now spot him, too, and open fire. Bill darts like a rabbit into the thicket. </p><p><p ID="slug">308 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Abby bolts awake. Bill jumps down beside her, breathless, and begins looking frantically for the shells to his shotgun. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's going on? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Keep down. Can't explain now. They're here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Who? What're you talking about? Stop a minute. He covers her with his body as bullets zoom through the undergrowth. His face is close to hers. She bursts into tears. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't get shot. Look for me under that next bridge down. After dark. He empties out the contents of his pockets -- a watch, a couple of dollars in change, a ring -- and slaps them down in front of her. The Police fan out along the ridge above them. He jams a flare pistol into his belt and kisses her goodbye--after a moment's hesitation -- on the cheek. She tries in vain to hold him back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I wish I could tell you how much I love you. </p><p><p ID="slug">309 EXT. MUD FLAT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill runs from the thicket down to the water. The Police have bunched on the other side. It seems he might be able to escape. Keeping low, he splashes across a mud flat. Suddenly he runs into a trot line that a fisherman has left out overnight. The hooks bite into his thigh and shoulder, yanking a string of startled, thrashing catfish out of the water. He keeps running in a panic, not realizing the line is staked to the shore. All at once, he jackknifes in the air. The stake twangs loose. The Police now spot him and begin firing. </p><p><p ID="slug">310 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Abby runs out of hiding, thinking at first that the Police must be looking for her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why're you shooting? You'll kill him! Have you gone crazy? Stop! Oh, Bill, not you! Not you! </p><p><p ID="slug">311 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill stumbles along, trying to rip the hooks from his flesh, but the fish--fighting their way back to the water--only drive them in deeper. Ahead two MOUNTED POLICE surge into the river, blocking his retreat. He empties his shotgun at them and throws it away. They hold up, astonished. He dashes across a sand bar for the deep of the river and comparative safety. Black mud clings to his feet, drawing him down like a fly in molasses. Benson goes running out into the river ahead of the Police. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Leave him alone. I want him. Leave him alone. <P ID="spkdir">(firing) <P ID="dia">There you go! There you go! He shoots Bill down. Bill turns and looks at him in sur- prise. Benson shoots him again, point blank. </p><p><p ID="slug">312 UNDERWATER SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill's blood fades off quickly in the gliding water of the river. The line of frightened catfish dances out behind him like a garland. </p><p><p ID="slug">313 OTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">A dog trots off in alarm. Benson wades into shore, tears streaming down his face, his chest heaving with emotion. Abby falls to the ground in a convulsion of grief. A short way down the river PEOPLE come and go along the bridge where they were to meet. </p><p><p ID="slug">314 ISOLATED ON ROLLER PIANO </p><p><p ID="act">A roller piano sits in a corner by itself, playing a fox- trot. The camera moves back. </p><p><p ID="slug">315 INT. ARBORETUM - ATTIC </p><p><p ID="act">YOUNG DANCERS are learning the foxtrot in the attic of the Arboretum, a tacky Western version of an Eastern finishing school. The steps are painted on the floor as white footprints. Abby is apparently enrolling Ursula here. The headmistress, MADAME MURPHY, boasts of the school's achievements. Ursula looks trapped. Abby checks her watch. She must go. </p><p><p ID="slug">316 EXT. BRICK STREET </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Ursula walk down an empty street. Abby wears a mourning band on her sleeve. She is under the false im- pression that Ursula likes her new home. An INDIAN PORTER carts her bags along behind them in a wheelbarrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">They'll teach you poise, too, so you can walk in any room you please. Pretty soon you'll know all kind of things. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I never read a whole book till I was fifteen. It was by Caesar. They laugh at her careful pronunciation of "Caesar." </p><p><p ID="slug">317 EXT. TRAIN STATION </p><p><p ID="act">Abby's train is about to leave. The CONDUCTOR walks by blowing a whistle. A five-piece BAND plays Sousa airs. They are practically the only civilians on the platform. The rest are SOLDIERS bound for Europe, where America has just entered the War, on fire with excitement and a sense of high adventure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I like your hat. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It doesn't seem like a bird came down and landed on my head? Abby takes the hat off and gives it to Ursula, who lately has begun to take more trouble with her appearance, comb- ing her hair free of its usual snarls. They laugh at their reflection in a window of the train. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I hardly ever wear it. Be sure and write every week. Signals nod. A lamp winks. There are leave-takings up and down the platform as the train slides away. Abby hops on board. A SOLDIER next to her sheds bitter tears. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You write me, too! They wave goodbye. </p><p><p ID="slug">318 EXT. ARBORETUM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Late that evening Ursula lowers herself out a third-floor window of the Arboretum with a rope made of bedsheets. </p><p><p ID="slug">319 TIGHT ON GIRLS AT WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">The other GIRLS stand in their nightgowns and wave good- bye, amazed at her boldness. She slips off into the night. </p><p><p ID="slug">320 EXT. BACKSTAGE DOOR - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula looks in a backstage door. She can see, through the wings, a MAN dancing on stage. There is a feeling of mad excitement about the place. The person she is looking for is not here, however. </p><p><p ID="slug">321 EXT. ALLEY - URSULA'S THEME - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">She runs down an alley. A man steps out of the shadows-- George, the pilot. She throws herself in his arms. This is our first sight of him since he left the bonanza. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You're here! Oh, hug me! They kiss madly, with mystery. The moonlit, midsummer night thrums </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Aren't we happy? Oh, George, has anybody ever been this happy? He rocks her back and forth in his arms. They laugh, thinking what lucky exceptions they are to the world's misery. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Hurry. They'll be looking for me. </p><p><p ID="slug">322 EXT. AIRPLANE - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">George bundles Ursula, giggling, into a biplane. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">This doesn't even belong to you. Suppose they catch us? </p><p><p ID="slug">323 EXT. PASTURE -- DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">From a pasture outside town the plane rises into the vast dawn sky. </p><p><p ID="slug">324 INT. TEXTILE FACTORY </p><p><p ID="act">Abby changes bobbins on a huge loom. A pall of lint and anonymous toil hangs over the factory. Down the way a handsome MALE WORKER smiles at her. She smiles back, interested. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It seems an age we've been apart, and truly is for those who love each other so. Whenever shall we meet?' </p><p><p ID="slug">325 TIGHT ON MACHINERY </p><p><p ID="act">The shuttle rockets back and forth. Off camera we hear Abby reading what seems part of a letter to Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Soon, I hope, for by and by we'll all be gone, Urs. Does it really seem as though we might?' </p><p><p ID="slug">326 UNDERWATER SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">We look from the bottom of a river up toward the light. In the foreground, dangling from the tip of a submerged limb, is the bracelet Abby threw away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">'The other day I tried to think how I'd look laid out in a solemn white gown. Closing my eyes I could almost hear you tiptoe inlook down in my face, so deep asleep, so still. </p><p><p ID="slug">327 EXT. FIELDS - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">The PEOPLE of the Razumihin rebuild the land -- raising fences and sinking a well, plowing down the stubble and putting in the seed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">'I went to Lincoln Park Zoo the other day. It was great as usual. I enclose a check.' </p><p><p ID="act">An ANONYMOUS YOUNG MAN, standing on a carpet of new-sprung wheat, looks up with a start. From the distance comes a ghostly noise--the call of the prairie chickens at their spring rites. He listens for just a moment, then returns to work. </p><p><p ID="act">THE END</p> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who does Socrates compare going against the law to?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Go ahead and memorize the context. Here is the context: The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Your parents" ]	6,594	narrativeqa	en	null	e39f9c371b47fb74a202d1f30bc46e806791d0ee81b1b2d4	This etext was prepared by Sue Asscher <asschers@aia.net.au> CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? To this Crito is unable or unwilling to reply. Socrates proceeds:--Suppose the Laws of Athens to come and remonstrate with him: they will ask 'Why does he seek to overturn them?' and if he replies, 'they have injured him,' will not the Laws answer, 'Yes, but was that the agreement? Has he any objection to make to them which would justify him in overturning them? Was he not brought into the world and educated by their help, and are they not his parents? He might have left Athens and gone where he pleased, but he has lived there for seventy years more constantly than any other citizen.' Thus he has clearly shown that he acknowledged the agreement, which he cannot now break without dishonour to himself and danger to his friends. Even in the course of the trial he might have proposed exile as the penalty, but then he declared that he preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his footsteps? In any well-ordered state the Laws will consider him as an enemy. Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he may be welcomed at first, and the unseemly narrative of his escape will be regarded by the inhabitants as an amusing tale. But if he offends them he will have to learn another sort of lesson. Will he continue to give lectures in virtue? That would hardly be decent. And how will his children be the gainers if he takes them into Thessaly, and deprives them of Athenian citizenship? Or if he leaves them behind, does he expect that they will be better taken care of by his friends because he is in Thessaly? Will not true friends care for them equally whether he is alive or dead? Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life and children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks agreements, and returns evil for evil, they will be angry with him while he lives; and their brethren the Laws of the world below will receive him as an enemy. Such is the mystic voice which is always murmuring in his ears. That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made against him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated in later ages. The crimes of Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides, who had been his pupils, were still recent in the memory of the now restored democracy. The fact that he had been neutral in the death-struggle of Athens was not likely to conciliate popular good-will. Plato, writing probably in the next generation, undertakes the defence of his friend and master in this particular, not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and the world at large. Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of Crito and the proposal of escape is uncertain: Plato could easily have invented far more than that (Phaedr.); and in the selection of Crito, the aged friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to Socrates, we seem to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether any one who has been subjected by the laws of his country to an unjust judgment is right in attempting to escape, is a thesis about which casuists might disagree. Shelley (Prose Works) is of opinion that Socrates 'did well to die,' but not for the 'sophistical' reasons which Plato has put into his mouth. And there would be no difficulty in arguing that Socrates should have lived and preferred to a glorious death the good which he might still be able to perform. 'A rhetorician would have had much to say upon that point.' It may be observed however that Plato never intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only to exhibit the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil in order to avoid the greatest, and to show his master maintaining in death the opinions which he had professed in his life. Not 'the world,' but the 'one wise man,' is still the paradox of Socrates in his last hours. He must be guided by reason, although her conclusions may be fatal to him. The remarkable sentiment that the wicked can do neither good nor evil is true, if taken in the sense, which he means, of moral evil; in his own words, 'they cannot make a man wise or foolish.' This little dialogue is a perfect piece of dialectic, in which granting the 'common principle,' there is no escaping from the conclusion. It is anticipated at the beginning by the dream of Socrates and the parody of Homer. The personification of the Laws, and of their brethren the Laws in the world below, is one of the noblest and boldest figures of speech which occur in Plato. CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Crito. SCENE: The Prison of Socrates. SOCRATES: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early. CRITO: Yes, certainly. SOCRATES: What is the exact time? CRITO: The dawn is breaking. SOCRATES: I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in. CRITO: He knows me because I often come, Socrates; moreover. I have done him a kindness. SOCRATES: And are you only just arrived? CRITO: No, I came some time ago. SOCRATES: Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me? CRITO: I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest as you are--indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity. SOCRATES: Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at the approach of death. CRITO: And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from repining. SOCRATES: That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour. CRITO: I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me. SOCRATES: What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die? CRITO: No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life. SOCRATES: Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a delay of a day. CRITO: Why do you think so? SOCRATES: I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship? CRITO: Yes; that is what the authorities say. SOCRATES: But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep. CRITO: And what was the nature of the vision? SOCRATES: There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates, 'The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go.' (Homer, Il.) CRITO: What a singular dream, Socrates! SOCRATES: There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think. CRITO: Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this--that I should be thought to value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused. SOCRATES: But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many? Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these things truly as they occurred. CRITO: But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their good opinion. SOCRATES: I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil; for then they would also be able to do the greatest good-- and what a fine thing this would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance. CRITO: Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only one. CRITO: Fear not--there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great cost; and as for the informers they are far from being exorbitant in their demands--a little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service, and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do not say, as you did in the court (compare Apol.), that you will have a difficulty in knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies, who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier, which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently; and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors (compare Apol.). What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your old argument about the opinions of men?--we were saying that some of them are to be regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of talking--mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help, Crito:--whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded. Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow--at least, there is no human probability of this, and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was right in maintaining this? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: The good are to be regarded, and not the bad? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are evil? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, or of one man only--his physician or trainer, whoever he may be? CRITO: Of one man only. SOCRATES: And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only, and not of the many? CRITO: Clearly so. SOCRATES: And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put together? CRITO: True. SOCRATES: And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil? CRITO: Certainly he will. SOCRATES: And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the disobedient person? CRITO: Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil. SOCRATES: Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;--there is such a principle? CRITO: Certainly there is, Socrates. SOCRATES: Take a parallel instance:--if, acting under the advice of those who have no understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is--the body? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed, which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle, whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: More honourable than the body? CRITO: Far more. SOCRATES: Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable.--'Well,' some one will say, 'but the many can kill us.' CRITO: Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer. SOCRATES: And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another proposition--that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued? CRITO: Yes, that also remains unshaken. SOCRATES: And a good life is equivalent to a just and honorable one--that holds also? CRITO: Yes, it does. SOCRATES: From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of educating one's children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death--and with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation. CRITO: I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed? SOCRATES: Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can, and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment. And now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me. CRITO: I will. SOCRATES: Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonorable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then we must do no wrong? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure no one at all? (E.g. compare Rep.) CRITO: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Again, Crito, may we do evil? CRITO: Surely not, Socrates. SOCRATES: And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many--is that just or not? CRITO: Not just. SOCRATES: For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him? CRITO: Very true. SOCRATES: Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step. CRITO: You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind. SOCRATES: Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a question:--Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the right? CRITO: He ought to do what he thinks right. SOCRATES: But if this is true, what is the application? In leaving the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just--what do you say? CRITO: I cannot tell, Socrates, for I do not know. SOCRATES: Then consider the matter in this way:--Imagine that I am about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the government come and interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you about? are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us--the laws, and the whole state, as far as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?' What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply, 'Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' Suppose I say that? CRITO: Very good, Socrates. SOCRATES: 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would answer; 'or were you to abide by the sentence of the state?' And if I were to express my astonishment at their words, the law would probably add: 'Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes--you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,--What complaint have you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us who after birth regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to train you in music and gymnastic?' Right, I should reply. 'Well then, since you were brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands?--you would not say this? And because we think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return, and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the laws speak truly, or do they not? CRITO: I think that they do. SOCRATES: Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city, may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we maintain, thrice wrong: first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;--that is what we offer, and he does neither. 'These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above all other men have acknowledged the agreement. 'There is clear proof,' they will say, 'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be supposed to love (compare Phaedr.). For you never went out of the city either to see the games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our state; we were your especial favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you; and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But you pretended that you preferred death to exile (compare Apol.), and that you were not unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true or not?' How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent? CRITO: We cannot help it, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then will they not say: 'You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt, the blind, the maimed, were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city. 'For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself, if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away from well-governed states to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will live, but how?--as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?--eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner. And where will be your fine sentiments about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to live for the sake of your children--you want to bring them up and educate them--will you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them; for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for anything, they will--to be sure they will. 'Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito.' This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say. CRITO: I have nothing to say, Socrates. SOCRATES: Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he leads. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What relation to Ruth Anvoy is Lady Coxon?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Lady Coxon is Ruth's aunt." ]	22,695	narrativeqa	en	null	60cacef36b194be88d2a8a4fa816324ffcb672f336197584	Transcribed from the 1915 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org [Picture: Book cover] THE COXON FUND BY HENRY JAMES [Picture: Decorative graphic] * * * * * LONDON: MARTIN SECKER NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI * * * * * This edition first published 1915 The text follows that of the Definitive Edition * * * * * I “THEY’VE got him for life!” I said to myself that evening on my way back to the station; but later on, alone in the compartment (from Wimbledon to Waterloo, before the glory of the District Railway) I amended this declaration in the light of the sense that my friends would probably after all not enjoy a monopoly of Mr. Saltram. I won’t pretend to have taken his vast measure on that first occasion, but I think I had achieved a glimpse of what the privilege of his acquaintance might mean for many persons in the way of charges accepted. He had been a great experience, and it was this perhaps that had put me into the frame of foreseeing how we should all, sooner or later, have the honour of dealing with him as a whole. Whatever impression I then received of the amount of this total, I had a full enough vision of the patience of the Mulvilles. He was to stay all the winter: Adelaide dropped it in a tone that drew the sting from the inevitable emphasis. These excellent people might indeed have been content to give the circle of hospitality a diameter of six months; but if they didn’t say he was to stay all summer as well it was only because this was more than they ventured to hope. I remember that at dinner that evening he wore slippers, new and predominantly purple, of some queer carpet-stuff; but the Mulvilles were still in the stage of supposing that he might be snatched from them by higher bidders. At a later time they grew, poor dears, to fear no snatching; but theirs was a fidelity which needed no help from competition to make them proud. Wonderful indeed as, when all was said, you inevitably pronounced Frank Saltram, it was not to be overlooked that the Kent Mulvilles were in their way still more extraordinary: as striking an instance as could easily be encountered of the familiar truth that remarkable men find remarkable conveniences. They had sent for me from Wimbledon to come out and dine, and there had been an implication in Adelaide’s note—judged by her notes alone she might have been thought silly—that it was a case in which something momentous was to be determined or done. I had never known them not be in a “state” about somebody, and I dare say I tried to be droll on this point in accepting their invitation. On finding myself in the presence of their latest discovery I had not at first felt irreverence droop—and, thank heaven, I have never been absolutely deprived of that alternative in Mr. Saltram’s company. I saw, however—I hasten to declare it—that compared to this specimen their other phoenixes had been birds of inconsiderable feather, and I afterwards took credit to myself for not having even in primal bewilderments made a mistake about the essence of the man. He had an incomparable gift; I never was blind to it—it dazzles me still. It dazzles me perhaps even more in remembrance than in fact, for I’m not unaware that for so rare a subject the imagination goes to some expense, inserting a jewel here and there or giving a twist to a plume. How the art of portraiture would rejoice in this figure if the art of portraiture had only the canvas! Nature, in truth, had largely rounded it, and if memory, hovering about it, sometimes holds her breath, this is because the voice that comes back was really golden. Though the great man was an inmate and didn’t dress, he kept dinner on this occasion waiting, and the first words he uttered on coming into the room were an elated announcement to Mulville that he had found out something. Not catching the allusion and gaping doubtless a little at his face, I privately asked Adelaide what he had found out. I shall never forget the look she gave me as she replied: “Everything!” She really believed it. At that moment, at any rate, he had found out that the mercy of the Mulvilles was infinite. He had previously of course discovered, as I had myself for that matter, that their dinners were soignés. Let me not indeed, in saying this, neglect to declare that I shall falsify my counterfeit if I seem to hint that there was in his nature any ounce of calculation. He took whatever came, but he never plotted for it, and no man who was so much of an absorbent can ever have been so little of a parasite. He had a system of the universe, but he had no system of sponging—that was quite hand-to-mouth. He had fine gross easy senses, but it was not his good-natured appetite that wrought confusion. If he had loved us for our dinners we could have paid with our dinners, and it would have been a great economy of finer matter. I make free in these connexions with the plural possessive because if I was never able to do what the Mulvilles did, and people with still bigger houses and simpler charities, I met, first and last, every demand of reflexion, of emotion—particularly perhaps those of gratitude and of resentment. No one, I think, paid the tribute of giving him up so often, and if it’s rendering honour to borrow wisdom I’ve a right to talk of my sacrifices. He yielded lessons as the sea yields fish—I lived for a while on this diet. Sometimes it almost appeared to me that his massive monstrous failure—if failure after all it was—had been designed for my private recreation. He fairly pampered my curiosity; but the history of that experience would take me too far. This is not the large canvas I just now spoke of, and I wouldn’t have approached him with my present hand had it been a question of all the features. Frank Saltram’s features, for artistic purposes, are verily the anecdotes that are to be gathered. Their name is legion, and this is only one, of which the interest is that it concerns even more closely several other persons. Such episodes, as one looks back, are the little dramas that made up the innumerable facets of the big drama—which is yet to be reported. II IT is furthermore remarkable that though the two stories are distinct—my own, as it were, and this other—they equally began, in a manner, the first night of my acquaintance with Frank Saltram, the night I came back from Wimbledon so agitated with a new sense of life that, in London, for the very thrill of it, I could only walk home. Walking and swinging my stick, I overtook, at Buckingham Gate, George Gravener, and George Gravener’s story may be said to have begun with my making him, as our paths lay together, come home with me for a talk. I duly remember, let me parenthesise, that it was still more that of another person, and also that several years were to elapse before it was to extend to a second chapter. I had much to say to him, none the less, about my visit to the Mulvilles, whom he more indifferently knew, and I was at any rate so amusing that for long afterwards he never encountered me without asking for news of the old man of the sea. I hadn’t said Mr. Saltram was old, and it was to be seen that he was of an age to outweather George Gravener. I had at that time a lodging in Ebury Street, and Gravener was staying at his brother’s empty house in Eaton Square. At Cambridge, five years before, even in our devastating set, his intellectual power had seemed to me almost awful. Some one had once asked me privately, with blanched cheeks, what it was then that after all such a mind as that left standing. “It leaves itself!” I could recollect devoutly replying. I could smile at present for this remembrance, since before we got to Ebury Street I was struck with the fact that, save in the sense of being well set up on his legs, George Gravener had actually ceased to tower. The universe he laid low had somehow bloomed again—the usual eminences were visible. I wondered whether he had lost his humour, or only, dreadful thought, had never had any—not even when I had fancied him most Aristophanesque. What was the need of appealing to laughter, however, I could enviously enquire, where you might appeal so confidently to measurement? Mr. Saltram’s queer figure, his thick nose and hanging lip, were fresh to me: in the light of my old friend’s fine cold symmetry they presented mere success in amusing as the refuge of conscious ugliness. Already, at hungry twenty-six, Gravener looked as blank and parliamentary as if he were fifty and popular. In my scrap of a residence—he had a worldling’s eye for its futile conveniences, but never a comrade’s joke—I sounded Frank Saltram in his ears; a circumstance I mention in order to note that even then I was surprised at his impatience of my enlivenment. As he had never before heard of the personage it took indeed the form of impatience of the preposterous Mulvilles, his relation to whom, like mine, had had its origin in an early, a childish intimacy with the young Adelaide, the fruit of multiplied ties in the previous generation. When she married Kent Mulville, who was older than Gravener and I and much more amiable, I gained a friend, but Gravener practically lost one. We reacted in different ways from the form taken by what he called their deplorable social action—the form (the term was also his) of nasty second-rate gush. I may have held in my ‘for intérieur’ that the good people at Wimbledon were beautiful fools, but when he sniffed at them I couldn’t help taking the opposite line, for I already felt that even should we happen to agree it would always be for reasons that differed. It came home to me that he was admirably British as, without so much as a sociable sneer at my bookbinder, he turned away from the serried rows of my little French library. “Of course I’ve never seen the fellow, but it’s clear enough he’s a humbug.” “Clear ‘enough’ is just what it isn’t,” I replied; “if it only were!” That ejaculation on my part must have been the beginning of what was to be later a long ache for final frivolous rest. Gravener was profound enough to remark after a moment that in the first place he couldn’t be anything but a Dissenter, and when I answered that the very note of his fascination was his extraordinary speculative breadth my friend retorted that there was no cad like your cultivated cad, and that I might depend upon discovering—since I had had the levity not already to have enquired—that my shining light proceeded, a generation back, from a Methodist cheesemonger. I confess I was struck with his insistence, and I said, after reflexion: “It may be—I admit it may be; but why on earth are you so sure?”—asking the question mainly to lay him the trap of saying that it was because the poor man didn’t dress for dinner. He took an instant to circumvent my trap and come blandly out the other side. “Because the Kent Mulvilles have invented him. They’ve an infallible hand for frauds. All their geese are swans. They were born to be duped, they like it, they cry for it, they don’t know anything from anything, and they disgust one—luckily perhaps!—with Christian charity.” His vehemence was doubtless an accident, but it might have been a strange foreknowledge. I forget what protest I dropped; it was at any rate something that led him to go on after a moment: “I only ask one thing—it’s perfectly simple. Is a man, in a given case, a real gentleman?” “A real gentleman, my dear fellow—that’s so soon said!” “Not so soon when he isn’t! If they’ve got hold of one this time he must be a great rascal!” “I might feel injured,” I answered, “if I didn’t reflect that they don’t rave about me.” “Don’t be too sure! I’ll grant that he’s a gentleman,” Gravener presently added, “if you’ll admit that he’s a scamp.” “I don’t know which to admire most, your logic or your benevolence.” My friend coloured at this, but he didn’t change the subject. “Where did they pick him up?” “I think they were struck with something he had published.” “I can fancy the dreary thing!” “I believe they found out he had all sorts of worries and difficulties.” “That of course wasn’t to be endured, so they jumped at the privilege of paying his debts!” I professed that I knew nothing about his debts, and I reminded my visitor that though the dear Mulvilles were angels they were neither idiots nor millionaires. What they mainly aimed at was reuniting Mr. Saltram to his wife. “I was expecting to hear he has basely abandoned her,” Gravener went on, at this, “and I’m too glad you don’t disappoint me.” I tried to recall exactly what Mrs. Mulville had told me. “He didn’t leave her—no. It’s she who has left him.” “Left him to us?” Gravener asked. “The monster—many thanks! I decline to take him.” “You’ll hear more about him in spite of yourself. I can’t, no, I really can’t resist the impression that he’s a big man.” I was already mastering—to my shame perhaps be it said—just the tone my old friend least liked. “It’s doubtless only a trifle,” he returned, “but you haven’t happened to mention what his reputation’s to rest on.” “Why on what I began by boring you with—his extraordinary mind.” “As exhibited in his writings?” “Possibly in his writings, but certainly in his talk, which is far and away the richest I ever listened to.” “And what’s it all about?” “My dear fellow, don’t ask me! About everything!” I pursued, reminding myself of poor Adelaide. “About his ideas of things,” I then more charitably added. “You must have heard him to know what I mean—it’s unlike anything that ever was heard.” I coloured, I admit, I overcharged a little, for such a picture was an anticipation of Saltram’s later development and still more of my fuller acquaintance with him. However, I really expressed, a little lyrically perhaps, my actual imagination of him when I proceeded to declare that, in a cloud of tradition, of legend, he might very well go down to posterity as the greatest of all great talkers. Before we parted George Gravener had wondered why such a row should be made about a chatterbox the more and why he should be pampered and pensioned. The greater the wind-bag the greater the calamity. Out of proportion to everything else on earth had come to be this wagging of the tongue. We were drenched with talk—our wretched age was dying of it. I differed from him here sincerely, only going so far as to concede, and gladly, that we were drenched with sound. It was not however the mere speakers who were killing us—it was the mere stammerers. Fine talk was as rare as it was refreshing—the gift of the gods themselves, the one starry spangle on the ragged cloak of humanity. How many men were there who rose to this privilege, of how many masters of conversation could he boast the acquaintance? Dying of talk?—why we were dying of the lack of it! Bad writing wasn’t talk, as many people seemed to think, and even good wasn’t always to be compared to it. From the best talk indeed the best writing had something to learn. I fancifully added that we too should peradventure be gilded by the legend, should be pointed at for having listened, for having actually heard. Gravener, who had glanced at his watch and discovered it was midnight, found to all this a retort beautifully characteristic of him. “There’s one little fact to be borne in mind in the presence equally of the best talk and of the worst.” He looked, in saying this, as if he meant great things, and I was sure he could only mean once more that neither of them mattered if a man wasn’t a real gentleman. Perhaps it was what he did mean; he deprived me however of the exultation of being right by putting the truth in a slightly different way. “The only thing that really counts for one’s estimate of a person is his conduct.” He had his watch still in his palm, and I reproached him with unfair play in having ascertained beforehand that it was now the hour at which I always gave in. My pleasantry so far failed to mollify him that he promptly added that to the rule he had just enunciated there was absolutely no exception. “None whatever?” “None whatever.” “Trust me then to try to be good at any price!” I laughed as I went with him to the door. “I declare I will be, if I have to be horrible!” III IF that first night was one of the liveliest, or at any rate was the freshest, of my exaltations, there was another, four years later, that was one of my great discomposures. Repetition, I well knew by this time, was the secret of Saltram’s power to alienate, and of course one would never have seen him at his finest if one hadn’t seen him in his remorses. They set in mainly at this season and were magnificent, elemental, orchestral. I was quite aware that one of these atmospheric disturbances was now due; but none the less, in our arduous attempt to set him on his feet as a lecturer, it was impossible not to feel that two failures were a large order, as we said, for a short course of five. This was the second time, and it was past nine o’clock; the audience, a muster unprecedented and really encouraging, had fortunately the attitude of blandness that might have been looked for in persons whom the promise of (if I’m not mistaken) An Analysis of Primary Ideas had drawn to the neighbourhood of Upper Baker Street. There was in those days in that region a petty lecture-hall to be secured on terms as moderate as the funds left at our disposal by the irrepressible question of the maintenance of five small Saltrams—I include the mother—and one large one. By the time the Saltrams, of different sizes, were all maintained we had pretty well poured out the oil that might have lubricated the machinery for enabling the most original of men to appear to maintain them. It was I, the other time, who had been forced into the breach, standing up there for an odious lamplit moment to explain to half a dozen thin benches, where earnest brows were virtuously void of anything so cynical as a suspicion, that we couldn’t so much as put a finger on Mr. Saltram. There was nothing to plead but that our scouts had been out from the early hours and that we were afraid that on one of his walks abroad—he took one, for meditation, whenever he was to address such a company—some accident had disabled or delayed him. The meditative walks were a fiction, for he never, that any one could discover, prepared anything but a magnificent prospectus; hence his circulars and programmes, of which I possess an almost complete collection, are the solemn ghosts of generations never born. I put the case, as it seemed to me, at the best; but I admit I had been angry, and Kent Mulville was shocked at my want of public optimism. This time therefore I left the excuses to his more practised patience, only relieving myself in response to a direct appeal from a young lady next whom, in the hall, I found myself sitting. My position was an accident, but if it had been calculated the reason would scarce have eluded an observer of the fact that no one else in the room had an approach to an appearance. Our philosopher’s “tail” was deplorably limp. This visitor was the only person who looked at her ease, who had come a little in the spirit of adventure. She seemed to carry amusement in her handsome young head, and her presence spoke, a little mystifyingly, of a sudden extension of Saltram’s sphere of influence. He was doing better than we hoped, and he had chosen such an occasion, of all occasions, to succumb to heaven knew which of his fond infirmities. The young lady produced an impression of auburn hair and black velvet, and had on her other hand a companion of obscurer type, presumably a waiting-maid. She herself might perhaps have been a foreign countess, and before she addressed me I had beguiled our sorry interval by finding in her a vague recall of the opening of some novel of Madame Sand. It didn’t make her more fathomable to pass in a few minutes from this to the certitude that she was American; it simply engendered depressing reflexions as to the possible check to contributions from Boston. She asked me if, as a person apparently more initiated, I would recommend further waiting, and I answered that if she considered I was on my honour I would privately deprecate it. Perhaps she didn’t; at any rate our talk took a turn that prolonged it till she became aware we were left almost alone. I presently ascertained she knew Mrs. Saltram, and this explained in a manner the miracle. The brotherhood of the friends of the husband was as nothing to the brotherhood, or perhaps I should say the sisterhood, of the friends of the wife. Like the Kent Mulvilles I belonged to both fraternities, and even better than they I think I had sounded the abyss of Mrs. Saltram’s wrongs. She bored me to extinction, and I knew but too well how she had bored her husband; but there were those who stood by her, the most efficient of whom were indeed the handful of poor Saltram’s backers. They did her liberal justice, whereas her mere patrons and partisans had nothing but hatred for our philosopher. I’m bound to say it was we, however—we of both camps, as it were—who had always done most for her. I thought my young lady looked rich—I scarcely knew why; and I hoped she had put her hand in her pocket. I soon made her out, however, not at all a fine fanatic—she was but a generous, irresponsible enquirer. She had come to England to see her aunt, and it was at her aunt’s she had met the dreary lady we had all so much on our mind. I saw she’d help to pass the time when she observed that it was a pity this lady wasn’t intrinsically more interesting. That was refreshing, for it was an article of faith in Mrs. Saltram’s circle—at least among those who scorned to know her horrid husband—that she was attractive on her merits. She was in truth a most ordinary person, as Saltram himself would have been if he hadn’t been a prodigy. The question of vulgarity had no application to him, but it was a measure his wife kept challenging you to apply. I hasten to add that the consequences of your doing so were no sufficient reason for his having left her to starve. “He doesn’t seem to have much force of character,” said my young lady; at which I laughed out so loud that my departing friends looked back at me over their shoulders as if I were making a joke of their discomfiture. My joke probably cost Saltram a subscription or two, but it helped me on with my interlocutress. “She says he drinks like a fish,” she sociably continued, “and yet she allows that his mind’s wonderfully clear.” It was amusing to converse with a pretty girl who could talk of the clearness of Saltram’s mind. I expected next to hear she had been assured he was awfully clever. I tried to tell her—I had it almost on my conscience—what was the proper way to regard him; an effort attended perhaps more than ever on this occasion with the usual effect of my feeling that I wasn’t after all very sure of it. She had come to-night out of high curiosity—she had wanted to learn this proper way for herself. She had read some of his papers and hadn’t understood them; but it was at home, at her aunt’s, that her curiosity had been kindled—kindled mainly by his wife’s remarkable stories of his want of virtue. “I suppose they ought to have kept me away,” my companion dropped, “and I suppose they’d have done so if I hadn’t somehow got an idea that he’s fascinating. In fact Mrs. Saltram herself says he is.” “So you came to see where the fascination resides? Well, you’ve seen!” My young lady raised fine eyebrows. “Do you mean in his bad faith?” “In the extraordinary effects of it; his possession, that is, of some quality or other that condemns us in advance to forgive him the humiliation, as I may call it, to which he has subjected us.” “The humiliation?” “Why mine, for instance, as one of his guarantors, before you as the purchaser of a ticket.” She let her charming gay eyes rest on me. “You don’t look humiliated a bit, and if you did I should let you off, disappointed as I am; for the mysterious quality you speak of is just the quality I came to see.” “Oh, you can’t ‘see’ it!” I cried. “How then do you get at it?” “You don’t! You mustn’t suppose he’s good-looking,” I added. “Why his wife says he’s lovely!” My hilarity may have struck her as excessive, but I confess it broke out afresh. Had she acted only in obedience to this singular plea, so characteristic, on Mrs. Saltram’s part, of what was irritating in the narrowness of that lady’s point of view? “Mrs. Saltram,” I explained, “undervalues him where he’s strongest, so that, to make up for it perhaps, she overpraises him where he’s weak. He’s not, assuredly, superficially attractive; he’s middle-aged, fat, featureless save for his great eyes.” “Yes, his great eyes,” said my young lady attentively. She had evidently heard all about his great eyes—the beaux yeux for which alone we had really done it all. “They’re tragic and splendid—lights on a dangerous coast. But he moves badly and dresses worse, and altogether he’s anything but smart.” My companion, who appeared to reflect on this, after a moment appealed. “Do you call him a real gentleman?” I started slightly at the question, for I had a sense of recognising it: George Gravener, years before, that first flushed night, had put me face to face with it. It had embarrassed me then, but it didn’t embarrass me now, for I had lived with it and overcome it and disposed of it. “A real gentleman? Emphatically not!” My promptitude surprised her a little, but I quickly felt how little it was to Gravener I was now talking. “Do you say that because he’s—what do you call it in England?—of humble extraction?” “Not a bit. His father was a country school-master and his mother the widow of a sexton, but that has nothing to do with it. I say it simply because I know him well.” “But isn’t it an awful drawback?” “Awful—quite awful.” “I mean isn’t it positively fatal?” “Fatal to what? Not to his magnificent vitality.” Again she had a meditative moment. “And is his magnificent vitality the cause of his vices?” “Your questions are formidable, but I’m glad you put them. I was thinking of his noble intellect. His vices, as you say, have been much exaggerated: they consist mainly after all in one comprehensive defect.” “A want of will?” “A want of dignity.” “He doesn’t recognise his obligations?” “On the contrary, he recognises them with effusion, especially in public: he smiles and bows and beckons across the street to them. But when they pass over he turns away, and he speedily loses them in the crowd. The recognition’s purely spiritual—it isn’t in the least social. So he leaves all his belongings to other people to take care of. He accepts favours, loans, sacrifices—all with nothing more deterrent than an agony of shame. Fortunately we’re a little faithful band, and we do what we can.” I held my tongue about the natural children, engendered, to the number of three, in the wantonness of his youth. I only remarked that he did make efforts—often tremendous ones. “But the efforts,” I said, “never come to much: the only things that come to much are the abandonments, the surrenders.” “And how much do they come to?” “You’re right to put it as if we had a big bill to pay, but, as I’ve told you before, your questions are rather terrible. They come, these mere exercises of genius, to a great sum total of poetry, of philosophy, a mighty mass of speculation, notation, quotation. The genius is there, you see, to meet the surrender; but there’s no genius to support the defence.” “But what is there, after all, at his age, to show?” “In the way of achievement recognised and reputation established?” I asked. “To ‘show’ if you will, there isn’t much, since his writing, mostly, isn’t as fine, isn’t certainly as showy, as his talk. Moreover two-thirds of his work are merely colossal projects and announcements. ‘Showing’ Frank Saltram is often a poor business,” I went on: “we endeavoured, you’ll have observed, to show him to-night! However, if he had lectured he’d have lectured divinely. It would just have been his talk.” “And what would his talk just have been?” I was conscious of some ineffectiveness, as well perhaps as of a little impatience, as I replied: “The exhibition of a splendid intellect.” My young lady looked not quite satisfied at this, but as I wasn’t prepared for another question I hastily pursued: “The sight of a great suspended swinging crystal—huge lucid lustrous, a block of light—flashing back every impression of life and every possibility of thought!” This gave her something to turn over till we had passed out to the dusky porch of the hall, in front of which the lamps of a quiet brougham were almost the only thing Saltram’s treachery hadn’t extinguished. I went with her to the door of her carriage, out of which she leaned a moment after she had thanked me and taken her seat. Her smile even in the darkness was pretty. “I do want to see that crystal!” “You’ve only to come to the next lecture.” “I go abroad in a day or two with my aunt.” “Wait over till next week,” I suggested. “It’s quite worth it.” She became grave. “Not unless he really comes!” At which the brougham started off, carrying her away too fast, fortunately for my manners, to allow me to exclaim “Ingratitude!” IV MRS. SALTRAM made a great affair of her right to be informed where her husband had been the second evening he failed to meet his audience. She came to me to ascertain, but I couldn’t satisfy her, for in spite of my ingenuity I remained in ignorance. It wasn’t till much later that I found this had not been the case with Kent Mulville, whose hope for the best never twirled the thumbs of him more placidly than when he happened to know the worst. He had known it on the occasion I speak of—that is immediately after. He was impenetrable then, but ultimately confessed. What he confessed was more than I shall now venture to make public. It was of course familiar to me that Saltram was incapable of keeping the engagements which, after their separation, he had entered into with regard to his wife, a deeply wronged, justly resentful, quite irreproachable and insufferable person. She often appeared at my chambers to talk over his lapses; for if, as she declared, she had washed her hands of him, she had carefully preserved the water of this ablution, which she handed about for analysis. She had arts of her own of exciting one’s impatience, the most infallible of which was perhaps her assumption that we were kind to her because we liked her. In reality her personal fall had been a sort of social rise—since I had seen the moment when, in our little conscientious circle, her desolation almost made her the fashion. Her voice was grating and her children ugly; moreover she hated the good Mulvilles, whom I more and more loved. They were the people who by doing most for her husband had in the long run done most for herself; and the warm confidence with which he had laid his length upon them was a pressure gentle compared with her stiffer persuadability. I’m bound to say he didn’t criticise his benefactors, though practically he got tired of them; she, however, had the highest standards about eleemosynary forms. She offered the odd spectacle of a spirit puffed up by dependence, and indeed it had introduced her to some excellent society. She pitied me for not knowing certain people who aided her and whom she doubtless patronised in turn for their luck in not knowing me. I dare say I should have got on with her better if she had had a ray of imagination—if it had occasionally seemed to occur to her to regard Saltram’s expressions of his nature in any other manner than as separate subjects of woe. They were all flowers of his character, pearls strung on an endless thread; but she had a stubborn little way of challenging them one after the other, as if she never suspected that he had a character, such as it was, or that deficiencies might be organic; the irritating effect of a mind incapable of a generalisation. One might doubtless have overdone the idea that there was a general licence for such a man; but if this had happened it would have been through one’s feeling that there could be none for such a woman. I recognised her superiority when I asked her about the aunt of the disappointed young lady: it sounded like a sentence from an English-French or other phrase-book. She triumphed in what she told me and she may have triumphed still more in what she withheld. My friend of the other evening, Miss Anvoy, had but lately come to England; Lady Coxon, the aunt, had been established here for years in consequence of her marriage with the late Sir Gregory of that name. She had a house in the Regent’s Park, a Bath-chair and a fernery; and above all she had sympathy. Mrs. Saltram had made her acquaintance through mutual friends. This vagueness caused me to feel how much I was out of it and how large an independent circle Mrs. Saltram had at her command. I should have been glad to know more about the disappointed young lady, but I felt I should know most by not depriving her of her advantage, as she might have mysterious means of depriving me of my knowledge. For the present, moreover, this experience was stayed, Lady Coxon having in fact gone abroad accompanied by her niece. The niece, besides being immensely clever, was an heiress, Mrs. Saltram said; the only daughter and the light of the eyes of some great American merchant, a man, over there, of endless indulgences and dollars. She had pretty clothes and pretty manners, and she had, what was prettier still, the great thing of all. The great thing of all for Mrs. Saltram was always sympathy, and she spoke as if during the absence of these ladies she mightn’t know where to turn for it. A few months later indeed, when they had come back, her tone perceptibly changed: she alluded to them, on my leading her up to it, rather as to persons in her debt for favours received. What had happened I didn’t know, but I saw it would take only a little more or a little less to make her speak of them as thankless subjects of social countenance—people for whom she had vainly tried to do something. I confess I saw how it wouldn’t be in a mere week or two that I should rid myself of the image of Ruth Anvoy, in whose very name, when I learnt it, I found something secretly to like. I should probably neither see her nor hear of her again: the knight’s widow (he had been mayor of Clockborough) would pass away and the heiress would return to her inheritance. I gathered with surprise that she had not communicated to his wife the story of her attempt to hear Mr..Saltram, and I founded this reticence on the easy supposition that Mrs. Saltram had fatigued by overpressure the spring of the sympathy of which she boasted. The girl at any rate would forget the small adventure, be distracted, take a husband; besides which she would lack occasion to repeat her experiment. We clung to the idea of the brilliant course, delivered without an accident, that, as a lecturer, would still make the paying public aware of our great man, but the fact remained that in the case of an inspiration so unequal there was treachery, there was fallacy at least, in the very conception of a series. In our scrutiny of ways and means we were inevitably subject to the old convention of the synopsis, the syllabus, partly of course not to lose the advantage of his grand free hand in drawing up such things; but for myself I laughed at our playbills even while I stickled for them. It was indeed amusing work to be scrupulous for Frank Saltram, who also at moments laughed about it, so far as the comfort of a sigh so unstudied as to be cheerful might pass for such a sound. He admitted with a candour all his own that he was in truth only to be depended on in the Mulvilles’ drawing-room. “Yes,” he suggestively allowed, “it’s there, I think, that I’m at my best; quite late, when it gets toward eleven—and if I’ve not been too much worried.” We all knew what too much worry meant; it meant too enslaved for the hour to the superstition of sobriety. On the Saturdays I used to bring my portmanteau, so as not to have to think of eleven o’clock trains. I had a bold theory that as regards this temple of talk and its altars of cushioned chintz, its pictures and its flowers, its large fireside and clear lamplight, we might really arrive at something if the Mulvilles would but charge for admission. Here it was, however, that they shamelessly broke down; as there’s a flaw in every perfection this was the inexpugnable refuge of their egotism. They declined to make their saloon a market, so that Saltram’s golden words continued the sole coin that rang there. It can have happened to no man, however, to be paid a greater price than such an enchanted hush as surrounded him on his greatest nights. The most profane, on these occasions, felt a presence; all minor eloquence grew dumb. Adelaide Mulville, for the pride of her hospitality, anxiously watched the door or stealthily poked the fire. I used to call it the music-room, for we had anticipated Bayreuth. The very gates of the kingdom of light seemed to open and the horizon of thought to flash with the beauty of a sunrise at sea. In the consideration of ways and means, the sittings of our little board, we were always conscious of the creak of Mrs. Saltram’s shoes. She hovered, she interrupted, she almost presided, the state of affairs being mostly such as to supply her with every incentive for enquiring what was to be done next. It was the pressing pursuit of this knowledge that, in concatenations of omnibuses and usually in very wet weather, led her so often to my door. She thought us spiritless creatures with editors and publishers; but she carried matters to no great effect when she personally pushed into back-shops. She wanted all moneys to be paid to herself: they were otherwise liable to such strange adventures. They trickled away into the desert—they were mainly at best, alas, a slender stream. The editors and the publishers were the last people to take this remarkable thinker at the valuation that has now pretty well come to be established. The former were half-distraught between the desire to “cut” him and the difficulty of finding a crevice for their shears; and when a volume on this or that portentous subject was proposed to the latter they suggested alternative titles which, as reported to our friend, brought into his face the noble blank melancholy that sometimes made it handsome. The title of an unwritten book didn’t after all much matter, but some masterpiece of Saltram’s may have died in his bosom of the shudder with which it was then convulsed. The ideal solution, failing the fee at Kent Mulville’s door, would have been some system of subscription to projected treatises with their non-appearance provided for—provided for, I mean, by the indulgence of subscribers. The author’s real misfortune was that subscribers were so wretchedly literal. When they tastelessly enquired why publication hadn’t ensued I was tempted to ask who in the world had ever been so published. Nature herself had brought him out in voluminous form, and the money was simply a deposit on borrowing the work. V I WAS doubtless often a nuisance to my friends in those years; but there were sacrifices I declined to make, and I never passed the hat to George Gravener. I never forgot our little discussion in Ebury Street, and I think it stuck in my throat to have to treat him to the avowal I had found so easy to Mss Anvoy. It had cost me nothing to confide to this charming girl, but it would have cost me much to confide to the friend of my youth, that the character of the “real gentleman” wasn’t an attribute of the man I took such pains for. Was this because I had already generalised to the point of perceiving that women are really the unfastidious sex? I knew at any rate that Gravener, already quite in view but still hungry and frugal, had naturally enough more ambition than charity. He had sharp aims for stray sovereigns, being in view most from the tall steeple of Clockborough. His immediate ambition was to occupy à lui seul the field of vision of that smokily-seeing city, and all his movements and postures were calculated for the favouring angle. The movement of the hand as to the pocket had thus to alternate gracefully with the posture of the hand on the heart. He talked to Clockborough in short only less beguilingly than Frank Saltram talked to his electors; with the difference to our credit, however, that we had already voted and that our candidate had no antagonist but himself. He had more than once been at Wimbledon—it was Mrs. Mulville’s work not mine—and by the time the claret was served had seen the god descend. He took more pains to swing his censer than I had expected, but on our way back to town he forestalled any little triumph I might have been so artless as to express by the observation that such a man was—a hundred times!—a man to use and never a man to be used by. I remember that this neat remark humiliated me almost as much as if virtually, in the fever of broken slumbers, I hadn’t often made it myself. The difference was that on Gravener’s part a force attached to it that could never attach to it on mine. He was able to use people—he had the machinery; and the irony of Saltram’s being made showy at Clockborough came out to me when he said, as if he had no memory of our original talk and the idea were quite fresh to him: “I hate his type, you know, but I’ll be hanged if I don’t put some of those things in. I can find a place for them: we might even find a place for the fellow himself.” I myself should have had some fear—not, I need scarcely say, for the “things” themselves, but for some other things very near them; in fine for the rest of my eloquence. Later on I could see that the oracle of Wimbledon was not in this case so appropriate as he would have been had the polities of the gods only coincided more exactly with those of the party. There was a distinct moment when, without saying anything more definite to me, Gravener entertained the idea of annexing Mr. Saltram. Such a project was delusive, for the discovery of analogies between his body of doctrine and that pressed from headquarters upon Clockborough—the bottling, in a word, of the air of those lungs for convenient public uncorking in corn-exchanges—was an experiment for which no one had the leisure. The only thing would have been to carry him massively about, paid, caged, clipped; to turn him on for a particular occasion in a particular channel. Frank Saltram’s channel, however, was essentially not calculable, and there was no knowing what disastrous floods might have ensued. For what there would have been to do The Empire, the great newspaper, was there to look to; but it was no new misfortune that there were delicate situations in which The Empire broke down. In fine there was an instinctive apprehension that a clever young journalist commissioned to report on Mr. Saltram might never come back from the errand. No one knew better than George Gravener that that was a time when prompt returns counted double. If he therefore found our friend an exasperating waste of orthodoxy it was because of his being, as he said, poor Gravener, up in the clouds, not because he was down in the dust. The man would have been, just as he was, a real enough gentleman if he could have helped to put in a real gentleman. Gravener’s great objection to the actual member was that he was not one. Lady Coxon had a fine old house, a house with “grounds,” at Clockborough, which she had let; but after she returned from abroad I learned from Mrs. Saltram that the lease had fallen in and that she had gone down to resume possession. I could see the faded red livery, the big square shoulders, the high-walled garden of this decent abode. As the rumble of dissolution grew louder the suitor would have pressed his suit, and I found myself hoping the politics of the late Mayor’s widow wouldn’t be such as to admonish her to ask him to dinner; perhaps indeed I went so far as to pray, they would naturally form a bar to any contact. I tried to focus the many-buttoned page, in the daily airing, as he perhaps even pushed the Bath-chair over somebody’s toes. I was destined to hear, none the less, through Mrs. Saltram—who, I afterwards learned, was in correspondence with Lady Coxon’s housekeeper—that Gravener was known to have spoken of the habitation I had in my eye as the pleasantest thing at Clockborough. On his part, I was sure, this was the voice not of envy but of experience. The vivid scene was now peopled, and I could see him in the old-time garden with Miss Anvoy, who would be certain, and very justly, to think him good-looking. It would be too much to describe myself as troubled by this play of surmise; but I occur to remember the relief, singular enough, of feeling it suddenly brushed away by an annoyance really much greater; an annoyance the result of its happening to come over me about that time with a rush that I was simply ashamed of Frank Saltram. There were limits after all, and my mark at last had been reached. I had had my disgusts, if I may allow myself to-day such an expression; but this was a supreme revolt. Certain things cleared up in my mind, certain values stood out. It was all very well to have an unfortunate temperament; there was nothing so unfortunate as to have, for practical purposes, nothing else. I avoided George Gravener at this moment and reflected that at such a time I should do so most effectually by leaving England. I wanted to forget Frank Saltram—that was all. I didn’t want to do anything in the world to him but that. Indignation had withered on the stalk, and I felt that one could pity him as much as one ought only by never thinking of him again. It wasn’t for anything he had done to me; it was for what he had done to the Mulvilles. Adelaide cried about it for a week, and her husband, profiting by the example so signally given him of the fatal effect of a want of character, left the letter, the drop too much, unanswered. The letter, an incredible one, addressed by Saltram to Wimbledon during a stay with the Pudneys at Ramsgate, was the central feature of the incident, which, however, had many features, each more painful than whichever other we compared it with. The Pudneys had behaved shockingly, but that was no excuse. Base ingratitude, gross indecency—one had one’s choice only of such formulas as that the more they fitted the less they gave one rest. These are dead aches now, and I am under no obligation, thank heaven, to be definite about the business. There are things which if I had had to tell them—well, would have stopped me off here altogether. I went abroad for the general election, and if I don’t know how much, on the Continent, I forgot, I at least know how much I missed, him. At a distance, in a foreign land, ignoring, abjuring, unlearning him, I discovered what he had done for me. I owed him, oh unmistakeably, certain noble conceptions; I had lighted my little taper at his smoky lamp, and lo it continued to twinkle. But the light it gave me just showed me how much more I wanted. I was pursued of course by letters from Mrs. Saltram which I didn’t scruple not to read, though quite aware her embarrassments couldn’t but be now of the gravest. I sacrificed to propriety by simply putting them away, and this is how, one day as my absence drew to an end, my eye, while I rummaged in my desk for another paper, was caught by a name on a leaf that had detached itself from the packet. The allusion was to Miss Anvoy, who, it appeared, was engaged to be married to Mr. George Gravener; and the news was two months old. A direct question of Mrs. Saltram’s had thus remained unanswered—she had enquired of me in a postscript what sort of man this aspirant to such a hand might be. The great other fact about him just then was that he had been triumphantly returned for Clockborough in the interest of the party that had swept the country—so that I might easily have referred Mrs. Saltram to the journals of the day. Yet when I at last wrote her that I was coming home and would discharge my accumulated burden by seeing her, I but remarked in regard to her question that she must really put it to Miss Anvoy. VI I HAD almost avoided the general election, but some of its consequences, on my return, had smartly to be faced. The season, in London, began to breathe again and to flap its folded wings. Confidence, under the new Ministry, was understood to be reviving, and one of the symptoms, in a social body, was a recovery of appetite. People once more fed together, and it happened that, one Saturday night, at somebody’s house, I fed with George Gravener. When the ladies left the room I moved up to where he sat and begged to congratulate him. “On my election?” he asked after a moment; so that I could feign, jocosely, not to have heard of that triumph and to be alluding to the rumour of a victory still more personal. I dare say I coloured however, for his political success had momentarily passed out of my mind. What was present to it was that he was to marry that beautiful girl; and yet his question made me conscious of some discomposure—I hadn’t intended to put this before everything. He himself indeed ought gracefully to have done so, and I remember thinking the whole man was in this assumption that in expressing my sense of what he had won I had fixed my thoughts on his “seat.” We straightened the matter out, and he was so much lighter in hand than I had lately seen him that his spirits might well have been fed from a twofold source. He was so good as to say that he hoped I should soon make the acquaintance of Miss Anvoy, who, with her aunt, was presently coming up to town. Lady Coxon, in the country, had been seriously unwell, and this had delayed their arrival. I told him I had heard the marriage would be a splendid one; on which, brightened and humanised by his luck, he laughed and said “Do you mean for her?” When I had again explained what I meant he went on: “Oh she’s an American, but you’d scarcely know it; unless, perhaps,” he added, “by her being used to more money than most girls in England, even the daughters of rich men. That wouldn’t in the least do for a fellow like me, you know, if it wasn’t for the great liberality of her father. He really has been most kind, and everything’s quite satisfactory.” He added that his eldest brother had taken a tremendous fancy to her and that during a recent visit at Coldfield she had nearly won over Lady Maddock. I gathered from something he dropped later on that the free-handed gentleman beyond the seas had not made a settlement, but had given a handsome present and was apparently to be looked to, across the water, for other favours. People are simplified alike by great contentments and great yearnings, and, whether or no it was Gravener’s directness that begot my own, I seem to recall that in some turn taken by our talk he almost imposed it on me as an act of decorum to ask if Miss Anvoy had also by chance expectations from her aunt. My enquiry drew out that Lady Coxon, who was the oddest of women, would have in any contingency to act under her late husband’s will, which was odder still, saddling her with a mass of queer obligations complicated with queer loopholes. There were several dreary people, Coxon cousins, old maids, to whom she would have more or less to minister. Gravener laughed, without saying no, when I suggested that the young lady might come in through a loophole; then suddenly, as if he suspected my turning a lantern on him, he declared quite dryly: “That’s all rot—one’s moved by other springs!” A fortnight later, at Lady Coxon’s own house, I understood well enough the springs one was moved by. Gravener had spoken of me there as an old friend, and I received a gracious invitation to dine. The Knight’s widow was again indisposed—she had succumbed at the eleventh hour; so that I found Miss Anvoy bravely playing hostess without even Gravener’s help, since, to make matters worse, he had just sent up word that the House, the insatiable House, with which he supposed he had contracted for easier terms, positively declined to release him. I was struck with the courage, the grace and gaiety of the young lady left thus to handle the fauna and flora of the Regent’s Park. I did what I could to help her to classify them, after I had recovered from the confusion of seeing her slightly disconcerted at perceiving in the guest introduced by her intended the gentleman with whom she had had that talk about Frank Saltram. I had at this moment my first glimpse of the fact that she was a person who could carry a responsibility; but I leave the reader to judge of my sense of the aggravation, for either of us, of such a burden, when I heard the servant announce Mrs. Saltram. From what immediately passed between the two ladies I gathered that the latter had been sent for post-haste to fill the gap created by the absence of the mistress of the house. “Good!” I remember crying, “she’ll be put by me;” and my apprehension was promptly justified. Mrs. Saltram taken in to dinner, and taken in as a consequence of an appeal to her amiability, was Mrs. Saltram with a vengeance. I asked myself what Miss Anvoy meant by doing such things, but the only answer I arrived at was that Gravener was verily fortunate. She hadn’t happened to tell him of her visit to Upper Baker Street, but she’d certainly tell him to-morrow; not indeed that this would make him like any better her having had the innocence to invite such a person as Mrs. Saltram on such an occasion. It could only strike me that I had never seen a young woman put such ignorance into her cleverness, such freedom into her modesty; this, I think, was when, after dinner, she said to me frankly, with almost jubilant mirth: “Oh you don’t admire Mrs. Saltram?” Why should I? This was truly a young person without guile. I had briefly to consider before I could reply that my objection to the lady named was the objection often uttered about people met at the social board—I knew all her stories. Then as Miss Anvoy remained momentarily vague I added: “Those about her husband.” “Oh yes, but there are some new ones.” “None for me. Ah novelty would be pleasant!” “Doesn’t it appear that of late he has been particularly horrid?” “His fluctuations don’t matter”, I returned, “for at night all cats are grey. You saw the shade of this one the night we waited for him together. What will you have? He has no dignity.” Miss Anvoy, who had been introducing with her American distinctness, looked encouragingly round at some of the combinations she had risked. “It’s too bad I can’t see him.” “You mean Gravener won’t let you?” “I haven’t asked him. He lets me do everything.” “But you know he knows him and wonders what some of us see in him.” “We haven’t happened to talk of him,” the girl said. “Get him to take you some day out to see the Mulvilles.” “I thought Mr. Saltram had thrown the Mulvilles over.” “Utterly. But that won’t prevent his being planted there again, to bloom like a rose, within a month or two.” Miss Anvoy thought a moment. Then, “I should like to see them,” she said with her fostering smile. “They’re tremendously worth it. You mustn’t miss them.” “I’ll make George take me,” she went on as Mrs. Saltram came up to interrupt us. She sniffed at this unfortunate as kindly as she had smiled at me and, addressing the question to her, continued: “But the chance of a lecture—one of the wonderful lectures? Isn’t there another course announced?” “Another? There are about thirty!” I exclaimed, turning away and feeling Mrs. Saltram’s little eyes in my back. A few days after this I heard that Gravener’s marriage was near at hand—was settled for Whitsuntide; but as no invitation had reached me I had my doubts, and there presently came to me in fact the report of a postponement. Something was the matter; what was the matter was supposed to be that Lady Coxon was now critically ill. I had called on her after my dinner in the Regent’s Park, but I had neither seen her nor seen Miss Anvoy. I forget to-day the exact order in which, at this period, sundry incidents occurred and the particular stage at which it suddenly struck me, making me catch my breath a little, that the progression, the acceleration, was for all the world that of fine drama. This was probably rather late in the day, and the exact order doesn’t signify. What had already occurred was some accident determining a more patient wait. George Gravener, whom I met again, in fact told me as much, but without signs of perturbation. Lady Coxon had to be constantly attended to, and there were other good reasons as well. Lady Coxon had to be so constantly attended to that on the occasion of a second attempt in the Regent’s Park I equally failed to obtain a sight of her niece. I judged it discreet in all the conditions not to make a third; but this didn’t matter, for it was through Adelaide Mulville that the side-wind of the comedy, though I was at first unwitting, began to reach me. I went to Wimbledon at times because Saltram was there, and I went at others because he wasn’t. The Pudneys, who had taken him to Birmingham, had already got rid of him, and we had a horrible consciousness of his wandering roofless, in dishonour, about the smoky Midlands, almost as the injured Lear wandered on the storm-lashed heath. His room, upstairs, had been lately done up (I could hear the crackle of the new chintz) and the difference only made his smirches and bruises, his splendid tainted genius, the more tragic. If he wasn’t barefoot in the mire he was sure to be unconventionally shod. These were the things Adelaide and I, who were old enough friends to stare at each other in silence, talked about when we didn’t speak. When we spoke it was only about the brilliant girl George Gravener was to marry and whom he had brought out the other Sunday. I could see that this presentation had been happy, for Mrs. Mulville commemorated it after her sole fashion of showing confidence in a new relation. “She likes me—she likes me”: her native humility exulted in that measure of success. We all knew for ourselves how she liked those who liked her, and as regards Ruth Anvoy she was more easily won over than Lady Maddock. VII ONE of the consequences, for the Mulvilles, of the sacrifices they made for Frank Saltram was that they had to give up their carriage. Adelaide drove gently into London in a one-horse greenish thing, an early Victorian landau, hired, near at hand, imaginatively, from a broken-down jobmaster whose wife was in consumption—a vehicle that made people turn round all the more when her pensioner sat beside her in a soft white hat and a shawl, one of the dear woman’s own. This was his position and I dare say his costume when on an afternoon in July she went to return Miss Anvoy’s visit. The wheel of fate had now revolved, and amid silences deep and exhaustive, compunctions and condonations alike unutterable, Saltram was reinstated. Was it in pride or in penance that Mrs. Mulville had begun immediately to drive him about? If he was ashamed of his ingratitude she might have been ashamed of her forgiveness; but she was incorrigibly capable of liking him to be conspicuous in the landau while she was in shops or with her acquaintance. However, if he was in the pillory for twenty minutes in the Regent’s Park—I mean at Lady Coxon’s door while his companion paid her call—it wasn’t to the further humiliation of any one concerned that she presently came out for him in person, not even to show either of them what a fool she was that she drew him in to be introduced to the bright young American. Her account of the introduction I had in its order, but before that, very late in the season, under Gravener’s auspices, I met Miss Anvoy at tea at the House of Commons. The member for Clockborough had gathered a group of pretty ladies, and the Mulvilles were not of the party. On the great terrace, as I strolled off with her a little, the guest of honour immediately exclaimed to me: “I’ve seen him, you know—I’ve seen him!” She told me about Saltram’s call. “And how did you find him?” “Oh so strange!” “You didn’t like him?” “I can’t tell till I see him again.” “You want to do that?” She had a pause. “Immensely.” We went no further; I fancied she had become aware Gravener was looking at us. She turned back toward the knot of the others, and I said: “Dislike him as much as you will—I see you’re bitten.” “Bitten?” I thought she coloured a little. “Oh it doesn’t matter!” I laughed; “one doesn’t die of it.” “I hope I shan’t die of anything before I’ve seen more of Mrs. Mulville.” I rejoiced with her over plain Adelaide, whom she pronounced the loveliest woman she had met in England; but before we separated I remarked to her that it was an act of mere humanity to warn her that if she should see more of Frank Saltram—which would be likely to follow on any increase of acquaintance with Mrs. Mulville—she might find herself flattening her nose against the clear hard pane of an eternal question—that of the relative, that of the opposed, importances of virtue and brains. She replied that this was surely a subject on which one took everything for granted; whereupon I admitted that I had perhaps expressed myself ill. What I referred to was what I had referred to the night we met in Upper Baker Street—the relative importance (relative to virtue) of other gifts. She asked me if I called virtue a gift—a thing handed to us in a parcel on our first birthday; and I declared that this very enquiry proved to me the problem had already caught her by the skirt. She would have help however, the same help I myself had once had, in resisting its tendency to make one cross. “What help do you mean?” “That of the member for Clockborough.” She stared, smiled, then returned: “Why my idea has been to help him!” She had helped him—I had his own word for it that at Clockborough her bedevilment of the voters had really put him in. She would do so doubtless again and again, though I heard the very next month that this fine faculty had undergone a temporary eclipse. News of the catastrophe first came to me from Mrs. Saltram, and it was afterwards confirmed at Wimbledon: poor Miss Anvoy was in trouble—great disasters in America had suddenly summoned her home. Her father, in New York, had suffered reverses, lost so much money that it was really vexatious as showing how much he had had. It was Adelaide who told me she had gone off alone at less than a week’s notice. “Alone? Gravener has permitted that?” “What will you have? The House of Commons!” I’m afraid I cursed the House of Commons: I was so much interested. Of course he’d follow her as soon as he was free to make her his wife; only she mightn’t now be able to bring him anything like the marriage-portion of which he had begun by having the virtual promise. Mrs. Mulville let me know what was already said: she was charming, this American girl, but really these American fathers—! What was a man to do? Mr. Saltram, according to Mrs. Mulville, was of opinion that a man was never to suffer his relation to money to become a spiritual relation—he was to keep it exclusively material. “Moi pas comprendre!” I commented on this; in rejoinder to which Adelaide, with her beautiful sympathy, explained that she supposed he simply meant that the thing was to use it, don’t you know? but not to think too much about it. “To take it, but not to thank you for it?” I still more profanely enquired. For a quarter of an hour afterwards she wouldn’t look at me, but this didn’t prevent my asking her what had been the result, that afternoon—in the Regent’s Park, of her taking our friend to see Miss Anvoy. “Oh so charming!” she answered, brightening. “He said he recognised in her a nature he could absolutely trust.” “Yes, but I’m speaking of the effect on herself.” Mrs. Mulville had to remount the stream. “It was everything one could wish.” Something in her tone made me laugh. “Do you mean she gave him—a dole?” “Well, since you ask me!” “Right there on the spot?” Again poor Adelaide faltered. “It was to me of course she gave it.” I stared; somehow I couldn’t see the scene. “Do you mean a sum of money?” “It was very handsome.” Now at last she met my eyes, though I could see it was with an effort. “Thirty pounds.” “Straight out of her pocket?” “Out of the drawer of a table at which she had been writing. She just slipped the folded notes into my hand. He wasn’t looking; it was while he was going back to the carriage.” “Oh,” said Adelaide reassuringly, “I take care of it for him!” The dear practical soul thought my agitation, for I confess I was agitated, referred to the employment of the money. Her disclosure made me for a moment muse violently, and I dare say that during that moment I wondered if anything else in the world makes people so gross as unselfishness. I uttered, I suppose, some vague synthetic cry, for she went on as if she had had a glimpse of my inward amaze at such passages. “I assure you, my dear friend, he was in one of his happy hours.” But I wasn’t thinking of that. “Truly indeed these Americans!” I said. “With her father in the very act, as it were, of swindling her betrothed!” Mrs. Mulville stared. “Oh I suppose Mr. Anvoy has scarcely gone bankrupt—or whatever he has done—on purpose. Very likely they won’t be able to keep it up, but there it was, and it was a very beautiful impulse.” “You say Saltram was very fine?” “Beyond everything. He surprised even me.” “And I know what you’ve enjoyed.” After a moment I added: “Had he peradventure caught a glimpse of the money in the table-drawer?” At this my companion honestly flushed. “How can you be so cruel when you know how little he calculates?” “Forgive me, I do know it. But you tell me things that act on my nerves. I’m sure he hadn’t caught a glimpse of anything but some splendid idea.” Mrs. Mulville brightly concurred. “And perhaps even of her beautiful listening face.” “Perhaps even! And what was it all about?” “His talk? It was apropos of her engagement, which I had told him about: the idea of marriage, the philosophy, the poetry, the sublimity of it.” It was impossible wholly to restrain one’s mirth at this, and some rude ripple that I emitted again caused my companion to admonish me. “It sounds a little stale, but you know his freshness.” “Of illustration? Indeed I do!” “And how he has always been right on that great question.” “On what great question, dear lady, hasn’t he been right?” “Of what other great men can you equally say it?—and that he has never, but never, had a deflexion?” Mrs. Mulville exultantly demanded. I tried to think of some other great man, but I had to give it up. “Didn’t Miss Anvoy express her satisfaction in any less diffident way than by her charming present?” I was reduced to asking instead. “Oh yes, she overflowed to me on the steps while he was getting into the carriage.” These words somehow brushed up a picture of Saltram’s big shawled back as he hoisted himself into the green landau. “She said she wasn’t disappointed,” Adelaide pursued. I turned it over. “Did he wear his shawl?” “His shawl?” She hadn’t even noticed. “I mean yours.” “He looked very nice, and you know he’s really clean. Miss Anvoy used such a remarkable expression—she said his mind’s like a crystal!” I pricked up my ears. “A crystal?” “Suspended in the moral world—swinging and shining and flashing there. She’s monstrously clever, you know.” I thought again. “Monstrously!” VIII GEORGE GRAVENER didn’t follow her, for late in September, after the House had risen, I met him in a railway-carriage. He was coming up from Scotland and I had just quitted some relations who lived near Durham. The current of travel back to London wasn’t yet strong; at any rate on entering the compartment I found he had had it for some time to himself. We fared in company, and though he had a blue-book in his lap and the open jaws of his bag threatened me with the white teeth of confused papers, we inevitably, we even at last sociably conversed. I saw things weren’t well with him, but I asked no question till something dropped by himself made, as it had made on another occasion, an absence of curiosity invidious. He mentioned that he was worried about his good old friend Lady Coxon, who, with her niece likely to be detained some time in America, lay seriously ill at Clockborough, much on his mind and on his hands. “Ah Miss Anvoy’s in America?” “Her father has got into horrid straits—has lost no end of money.” I waited, after expressing due concern, but I eventually said: “I hope that raises no objection to your marriage.” “None whatever; moreover it’s my trade to meet objections. But it may create tiresome delays, of which there have been too many, from various causes, already. Lady Coxon got very bad, then she got much better. Then Mr. Anvoy suddenly began to totter, and now he seems quite on his back. I’m afraid he’s really in for some big reverse. Lady Coxon’s worse again, awfully upset by the news from America, and she sends me word that she _must_ have Ruth. How can I supply her with Ruth? I haven’t got Ruth myself!” “Surely you haven’t lost her?” I returned. “She’s everything to her wretched father. She writes me every post—telling me to smooth her aunt’s pillow. I’ve other things to smooth; but the old lady, save for her servants, is really alone. She won’t receive her Coxon relations—she’s angry at so much of her money going to them. Besides, she’s hopelessly mad,” said Gravener very frankly. I don’t remember whether it was this, or what it was, that made me ask if she hadn’t such an appreciation of Mrs. Saltram as might render that active person of some use. He gave me a cold glance, wanting to know what had put Mrs. Saltram into my head, and I replied that she was unfortunately never out of it. I happened to remember the wonderful accounts she had given me of the kindness Lady Coxon had shown her. Gravener declared this to be false; Lady Coxon, who didn’t care for her, hadn’t seen her three times. The only foundation for it was that Miss Anvoy, who used, poor girl, to chuck money about in a manner she must now regret, had for an hour seen in the miserable woman—you could never know what she’d see in people—an interesting pretext for the liberality with which her nature overflowed. But even Miss Anvoy was now quite tired of her. Gravener told me more about the crash in New York and the annoyance it had been to him, and we also glanced here and there in other directions; but by the time we got to Doncaster the principal thing he had let me see was that he was keeping something back. We stopped at that station, and, at the carriage-door, some one made a movement to get in. Gravener uttered a sound of impatience, and I felt sure that but for this I should have had the secret. Then the intruder, for some reason, spared us his company; we started afresh, and my hope of a disclosure returned. My companion held his tongue, however, and I pretended to go to sleep; in fact I really dozed for discouragement. When I reopened my eyes he was looking at me with an injured air. He tossed away with some vivacity the remnant of a cigarette and then said: “If you’re not too sleepy I want to put you a case.” I answered that I’d make every effort to attend, and welcomed the note of interest when he went on: “As I told you a while ago, Lady Coxon, poor dear, is demented.” His tone had much behind it—was full of promise. I asked if her ladyship’s misfortune were a trait of her malady or only of her character, and he pronounced it a product of both. The case he wanted to put to me was a matter on which it concerned him to have the impression—the judgement, he might also say—of another person. “I mean of the average intelligent man, but you see I take what I can get.” There would be the technical, the strictly legal view; then there would be the way the question would strike a man of the world. He had lighted another cigarette while he talked, and I saw he was glad to have it to handle when he brought out at last, with a laugh slightly artificial: “In fact it’s a subject on which Miss Anvoy and I are pulling different ways.” “And you want me to decide between you? I decide in advance for Miss Anvoy.” “In advance—that’s quite right. That’s how I decided when I proposed to her. But my story will interest you only so far as your mind isn’t made up.” Gravener puffed his cigarette a minute and then continued: “Are you familiar with the idea of the Endowment of Research?” “Of Research?” I was at sea a moment. “I give you Lady Coxon’s phrase. She has it on the brain.” “She wishes to endow—?” “Some earnest and ‘loyal’ seeker,” Gravener said. “It was a sketchy design of her late husband’s, and he handed it on to her; setting apart in his will a sum of money of which she was to enjoy the interest for life, but of which, should she eventually see her opportunity—the matter was left largely to her discretion—she would best honour his memory by determining the exemplary public use. This sum of money, no less than thirteen thousand pounds, was to be called The Coxon Fund; and poor Sir Gregory evidently proposed to himself that The Coxon Fund should cover his name with glory—be universally desired and admired. He left his wife a full declaration of his views, so far at least as that term may be applied to views vitiated by a vagueness really infantine. A little learning’s a dangerous thing, and a good citizen who happens to have been an ass is worse for a community than bad sewerage. He’s worst of all when he’s dead, because then he can’t be stopped. However, such as they were, the poor man’s aspirations are now in his wife’s bosom, or fermenting rather in her foolish brain: it lies with her to carry them out. But of course she must first catch her hare.” “Her earnest loyal seeker?” “The flower that blushes unseen for want of such a pecuniary independence as may aid the light that’s in it to shine upon the human race. The individual, in a word, who, having the rest of the machinery, the spiritual, the intellectual, is most hampered in his search.” “His search for what?” “For Moral Truth. That’s what Sir Gregory calls it.” I burst out laughing. “Delightful munificent Sir Gregory! It’s a charming idea.” “So Miss Anvoy thinks.” “Has she a candidate for the Fund?” “Not that I know of—and she’s perfectly reasonable about it. But Lady Coxon has put the matter before her, and we’ve naturally had a lot of talk.” “Talk that, as you’ve so interestingly intimated, has landed you in a disagreement.” “She considers there’s something in it,” Gravener said. “And you consider there’s nothing?” “It seems to me a piece of solemn twaddle—which can’t fail to be attended with consequences certainly grotesque and possibly immoral. To begin with, fancy constituting an endowment without establishing a tribunal—a bench of competent people, of judges.” “The sole tribunal is Lady Coxon?” “And any one she chooses to invite.” “But she has invited you,” I noted. “I’m not competent—I hate the thing. Besides, she hasn’t,” my friend went on. “The real history of the matter, I take it, is that the inspiration was originally Lady Coxon’s own, that she infected him with it, and that the flattering option left her is simply his tribute to her beautiful, her aboriginal enthusiasm. She came to England forty years ago, a thin transcendental Bostonian, and even her odd happy frumpy Clockborough marriage never really materialised her. She feels indeed that she has become very British—as if that, as a process, as a ‘Werden,’ as anything but an original sign of grace, were conceivable; but it’s precisely what makes her cling to the notion of the ‘Fund’—cling to it as to a link with the ideal.” “How can she cling if she’s dying?” “Do you mean how can she act in the matter?” Gravener asked. “That’s precisely the question. She can’t! As she has never yet caught her hare, never spied out her lucky impostor—how should she, with the life she has led?—her husband’s intention has come very near lapsing. His idea, to do him justice, was that it _should_ lapse if exactly the right person, the perfect mixture of genius and chill penury, should fail to turn up. Ah the poor dear woman’s very particular—she says there must be no mistake.” I found all this quite thrilling—I took it in with avidity. “And if she dies without doing anything, what becomes of the money?” I demanded. “It goes back to his family, if she hasn’t made some other disposition of it.” “She may do that then—she may divert it?” “Her hands are not tied. She has a grand discretion. The proof is that three months ago she offered to make the proceeds over to her niece.” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use?” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use—on the occasion of her prospective marriage. She was discouraged—the earnest seeker required so earnest a search. She was afraid of making a mistake; every one she could think of seemed either not earnest enough or not poor enough. On the receipt of the first bad news about Mr. Anvoy’s affairs she proposed to Ruth to make the sacrifice for her. As the situation in New York got worse she repeated her proposal.” “Which Miss Anvoy declined?” “Except as a formal trust.” “You mean except as committing herself legally to place the money?” “On the head of the deserving object, the great man frustrated,” said Gravener. “She only consents to act in the spirit of Sir Gregory’s scheme.” “And you blame her for that?” I asked with some intensity. My tone couldn’t have been harsh, but he coloured a little and there was a queer light in his eye. “My dear fellow, if I ‘blamed’ the young lady I’m engaged to I shouldn’t immediately say it even to so old a friend as you.” I saw that some deep discomfort, some restless desire to be sided with, reassuringly, approvingly mirrored, had been at the bottom of his drifting so far, and I was genuinely touched by his confidence. It was inconsistent with his habits; but being troubled about a woman was not, for him, a habit: that itself was an inconsistency. George Gravener could stand straight enough before any other combination of forces. It amused me to think that the combination he had succumbed to had an American accent, a transcendental aunt and an insolvent father; but all my old loyalty to him mustered to meet this unexpected hint that I could help him. I saw that I could from the insincere tone in which he pursued: “I’ve criticised her of course, I’ve contended with her, and it has been great fun.” Yet it clearly couldn’t have been such great fun as to make it improper for me presently to ask if Miss Anvoy had nothing at all settled on herself. To this he replied that she had only a trifle from her mother—a mere four hundred a year, which was exactly why it would be convenient to him that she shouldn’t decline, in the face of this total change in her prospects, an accession of income which would distinctly help them to marry. When I enquired if there were no other way in which so rich and so affectionate an aunt could cause the weight of her benevolence to be felt, he answered that Lady Coxon was affectionate indeed, but was scarcely to be called rich. She could let her project of the Fund lapse for her niece’s benefit, but she couldn’t do anything else. She had been accustomed to regard her as tremendously provided for, and she was up to her eyes in promises to anxious Coxons. She was a woman of an inordinate conscience, and her conscience was now a distress to her, hovering round her bed in irreconcilable forms of resentful husbands, portionless nieces and undiscoverable philosophers. We were by this time getting into the whirr of fleeting platforms, the multiplication of lights. “I think you’ll find,” I said with a laugh, “that your predicament will disappear in the very fact that the philosopher _is_ undiscoverable.” He began to gather up his papers. “Who can set a limit to the ingenuity of an extravagant woman?” “Yes, after all, who indeed?” I echoed as I recalled the extravagance commemorated in Adelaide’s anecdote of Miss Anvoy and the thirty pounds. IX THE thing I had been most sensible of in that talk with George Gravener was the way Saltram’s name kept out of it. It seemed to me at the time that we were quite pointedly silent about him; but afterwards it appeared more probable there had been on my companion’s part no conscious avoidance. Later on I was sure of this, and for the best of reasons—the simple reason of my perceiving more completely that, for evil as well as for good, he said nothing to Gravener’s imagination. That honest man didn’t fear him—he was too much disgusted with him. No more did I, doubtless, and for very much the same reason. I treated my friend’s story as an absolute confidence; but when before Christmas, by Mrs. Saltram, I was informed of Lady Coxon’s death without having had news of Miss Anvoy’s return, I found myself taking for granted we should hear no more of these nuptials, in which, as obscurely unnatural, I now saw I had never _too_ disconcertedly believed. I began to ask myself how people who suited each other so little could please each other so much. The charm was some material charm, some afffinity, exquisite doubtless, yet superficial some surrender to youth and beauty and passion, to force and grace and fortune, happy accidents and easy contacts. They might dote on each other’s persons, but how could they know each other’s souls? How could they have the same prejudices, how could they have the same horizon? Such questions, I confess, seemed quenched but not answered when, one day in February, going out to Wimbledon, I found our young lady in the house. A passion that had brought her back across the wintry ocean was as much of a passion as was needed. No impulse equally strong indeed had drawn George Gravener to America; a circumstance on which, however, I reflected only long enough to remind myself that it was none of my business. Ruth Anvoy was distinctly different, and I felt that the difference was not simply that of her marks of mourning. Mrs. Mulville told me soon enough what it was: it was the difference between a handsome girl with large expectations and a handsome girl with only four hundred a year. This explanation indeed didn’t wholly content me, not even when I learned that her mourning had a double cause—learned that poor Mr. Anvoy, giving way altogether, buried under the ruins of his fortune and leaving next to nothing, had died a few weeks before. “So she has come out to marry George Gravener?” I commented. “Wouldn’t it have been prettier of him to have saved her the trouble?” “Hasn’t the House just met?” Adelaide replied. “And for Mr. Gravener the House—!” Then she added: “I gather that her having come is exactly a sign that the marriage is a little shaky. If it were quite all right a self-respecting girl like Ruth would have waited for him over there.” I noted that they were already Ruth and Adelaide, but what I said was: “Do you mean she’ll have had to return to _make_ it so?” “No, I mean that she must have come out for some reason independent of it.” Adelaide could only surmise, however, as yet, and there was more, as we found, to be revealed. Mrs. Mulville, on hearing of her arrival, had brought the young lady out in the green landau for the Sunday. The Coxons were in possession of the house in Regent’s Park, and Miss Anvoy was in dreary lodgings. George Gravener had been with her when Adelaide called, but had assented graciously enough to the little visit at Wimbledon. The carriage, with Mr. Saltram in it but not mentioned, had been sent off on some errand from which it was to return and pick the ladies up. Gravener had left them together, and at the end of an hour, on the Saturday afternoon, the party of three had driven out to Wimbledon. This was the girl’s second glimpse of our great man, and I was interested in asking Mrs. Mulville if the impression made by the first appeared to have been confirmed. On her replying after consideration, that of course with time and opportunity it couldn’t fail to be, but that she was disappointed, I was sufficiently struck with her use of this last word to question her further. “Do you mean you’re disappointed because you judge Miss Anvoy to be?” “Yes; I hoped for a greater effect last evening. We had two or three people, but he scarcely opened his mouth.” “He’ll be all the better to-night,” I opined after a moment. Then I pursued: “What particular importance do you attach to the idea of her being impressed?” Adelaide turned her mild pale eyes on me as for rebuke of my levity. “Why the importance of her being as happy as _we_ are!” I’m afraid that at this my levity grew. “Oh that’s a happiness almost too great to wish a person!” I saw she hadn’t yet in her mind what I had in mine, and at any rate the visitor’s actual bliss was limited to a walk in the garden with Kent Mulville. Later in the afternoon I also took one, and I saw nothing of Miss Anvoy till dinner, at which we failed of the company of Saltram, who had caused it to be reported that he was indisposed and lying down. This made us, most of us—for there were other friends present—convey to each other in silence some of the unutterable things that in those years our eyes had inevitably acquired the art of expressing. If a fine little American enquirer hadn’t been there we would have expressed them otherwise, and Adelaide would have pretended not to hear. I had seen her, before the very fact, abstract herself nobly; and I knew that more than once, to keep it from the servants, managing, dissimulating cleverly, she had helped her husband to carry him bodily to his room. Just recently he had been so wise and so deep and so high that I had begun to get nervous—to wonder if by chance there were something behind it, if he were kept straight for instance by the knowledge that the hated Pudneys would have more to tell us if they chose. He was lying low, but unfortunately it was common wisdom with us in this connexion that the biggest splashes took place in the quietest pools. We should have had a merry life indeed if all the splashes had sprinkled us as refreshingly as the waters we were even then to feel about our ears. Kent Mulville had been up to his room, but had come back with a face that told as few tales as I had seen it succeed in telling on the evening I waited in the lecture-room with Miss Anvoy. I said to myself that our friend had gone out, but it was a comfort that the presence of a comparative stranger deprived us of the dreary duty of suggesting to each other, in respect of his errand, edifying possibilities in which we didn’t ourselves believe. At ten o’clock he came into the drawing-room with his waistcoat much awry but his eyes sending out great signals. It was precisely with his entrance that I ceased to be vividly conscious of him. I saw that the crystal, as I had called it, had begun to swing, and I had need of my immediate attention for Miss Anvoy. Even when I was told afterwards that he had, as we might have said to-day, broken the record, the manner in which that attention had been rewarded relieved me of a sense of loss. I had of course a perfect general consciousness that something great was going on: it was a little like having been etherised to hear Herr Joachim play. The old music was in the air; I felt the strong pulse of thought, the sink and swell, the flight, the poise, the plunge; but I knew something about one of the listeners that nobody else knew, and Saltram’s monologue could reach me only through that medium. To this hour I’m of no use when, as a witness, I’m appealed to—for they still absurdly contend about it—as to whether or no on that historic night he was drunk; and my position is slightly ridiculous, for I’ve never cared to tell them what it really was I was taken up with. What I got out of it is the only morsel of the total experience that is quite my own. The others were shared, but this is incommunicable. I feel that now, I’m bound to say, even in thus roughly evoking the occasion, and it takes something from my pride of clearness. However, I shall perhaps be as clear as is absolutely needful if I remark that our young lady was too much given up to her own intensity of observation to be sensible of mine. It was plainly not the question of her marriage that had brought her back. I greatly enjoyed this discovery and was sure that had that question alone been involved she would have stirred no step. In this case doubtless Gravener would, in spite of the House of Commons, have found means to rejoin her. It afterwards made me uncomfortable for her that, alone in the lodging Mrs. Mulville had put before me as dreary, she should have in any degree the air of waiting for her fate; so that I was presently relieved at hearing of her having gone to stay at Coldfield. If she was in England at all while the engagement stood the only proper place for her was under Lady Maddock’s wing. Now that she was unfortunate and relatively poor, perhaps her prospective sister-in-law would be wholly won over. There would be much to say, if I had space, about the way her behaviour, as I caught gleams of it, ministered to the image that had taken birth in my mind, to my private amusement, while that other night I listened to George Gravener in the railway-carriage. I watched her in the light of this queer possibility—a formidable thing certainly to meet—and I was aware that it coloured, extravagantly perhaps, my interpretation of her very looks and tones. At Wimbledon for instance it had appeared to me she was literally afraid of Saltram, in dread of a coercion that she had begun already to feel. I had come up to town with her the next day and had been convinced that, though deeply interested, she was immensely on her guard. She would show as little as possible before she should be ready to show everything. What this final exhibition might be on the part of a girl perceptibly so able to think things out I found it great sport to forecast. It would have been exciting to be approached by her, appealed to by her for advice; but I prayed to heaven I mightn’t find myself in such a predicament. If there was really a present rigour in the situation of which Gravener had sketched for me the elements, she would have to get out of her difficulty by herself. It wasn’t I who had launched her and it wasn’t I who could help her. I didn’t fail to ask myself why, since I couldn’t help her, I should think so much about her. It was in part my suspense that was responsible for this; I waited impatiently to see whether she wouldn’t have told Mrs. Mulville a portion at least of what I had learned from Gravener. But I saw Mrs. Mulville was still reduced to wonder what she had come out again for if she hadn’t come as a conciliatory bride. That she had come in some other character was the only thing that fitted all the appearances. Having for family reasons to spend some time that spring in the west of England, I was in a manner out of earshot of the great oceanic rumble—I mean of the continuous hum of Saltram’s thought—and my uneasiness tended to keep me quiet. There was something I wanted so little to have to say that my prudence surmounted my curiosity. I only wondered if Ruth Anvoy talked over the idea of The Coxon Fund with Lady Maddock, and also somewhat why I didn’t hear from Wimbledon. I had a reproachful note about something or other from Mrs. Saltram, but it contained no mention of Lady Coxon’s niece, on whom her eyes had been much less fixed since the recent untoward events. X POOR Adelaide’s silence was fully explained later—practically explained when in June, returning to London, I was honoured by this admirable woman with an early visit. As soon as she arrived I guessed everything, and as soon as she told me that darling Ruth had been in her house nearly a month I had my question ready. “What in the name of maidenly modesty is she staying in England for?” “Because she loves me so!” cried Adelaide gaily. But she hadn’t come to see me only to tell me Miss Anvoy loved her: that was quite sufficiently established, and what was much more to the point was that Mr. Gravener had now raised an objection to it. He had protested at least against her being at Wimbledon, where in the innocence of his heart he had originally brought her himself; he called on her to put an end to their engagement in the only proper, the only happy manner. “And why in the world doesn’t she do do?” I asked. Adelaide had a pause. “She says you know.” Then on my also hesitating she added: “A condition he makes.” “The Coxon Fund?” I panted. “He has mentioned to her his having told you about it.” “Ah but so little! Do you mean she has accepted the trust?” “In the most splendid spirit—as a duty about which there can be no two opinions.” To which my friend added: “Of course she’s thinking of Mr. Saltram.” I gave a quick cry at this, which, in its violence, made my visitor turn pale. “How very awful!” “Awful?” “Why, to have anything to do with such an idea one’s self.” “I’m sure _you_ needn’t!” and Mrs. Mulville tossed her head. “He isn’t good enough!” I went on; to which she opposed a sound almost as contentious as my own had been. This made me, with genuine immediate horror, exclaim: “You haven’t influenced her, I hope!” and my emphasis brought back the blood with a rush to poor Adelaide’s face. She declared while she blushed—for I had frightened her again—that she had never influenced anybody and that the girl had only seen and heard and judged for herself. _He_ had influenced her, if I would, as he did every one who had a soul: that word, as we knew, even expressed feebly the power of the things he said to haunt the mind. How could she, Adelaide, help it if Miss Anvoy’s mind was haunted? I demanded with a groan what right a pretty girl engaged to a rising M.P. had to _have_ a mind; but the only explanation my bewildered friend could give me was that she was so clever. She regarded Mr. Saltram naturally as a tremendous force for good. She was intelligent enough to understand him and generous enough to admire. “She’s many things enough, but is she, among them, rich enough?” I demanded. “Rich enough, I mean, to sacrifice such a lot of good money?” “That’s for herself to judge. Besides, it’s not her own money; she doesn’t in the least consider it so.” “And Gravener does, if not _his_ own; and that’s the whole difficulty?” “The difficulty that brought her back, yes: she had absolutely to see her poor aunt’s solicitor. It’s clear that by Lady Coxon’s will she may have the money, but it’s still clearer to her conscience that the original condition, definite, intensely implied on her uncle’s part, is attached to the use of it. She can only take one view of it. It’s for the Endowment or it’s for nothing.” “The Endowment,” I permitted myself to observe, “is a conception superficially sublime, but fundamentally ridiculous.” “Are you repeating Mr. Gravener’s words?” Adelaide asked. “Possibly, though I’ve not seen him for months. It’s simply the way it strikes me too. It’s an old wife’s tale. Gravener made some reference to the legal aspect, but such an absurdly loose arrangement has _no_ legal aspect.” “Ruth doesn’t insist on that,” said Mrs. Mulville; “and it’s, for her, exactly this technical weakness that constitutes the force of the moral obligation.” “Are you repeating _her_ words?” I enquired. I forget what else Adelaide said, but she said she was magnificent. I thought of George Gravener confronted with such magnificence as that, and I asked what could have made two such persons ever suppose they understood each other. Mrs. Mulville assured me the girl loved him as such a woman could love and that she suffered as such a woman could suffer. Nevertheless she wanted to see _me_. At this I sprang up with a groan. “Oh I’m so sorry!—when?” Small though her sense of humour, I think Adelaide laughed at my sequence. We discussed the day, the nearest it would be convenient I should come out; but before she went I asked my visitor how long she had been acquainted with these prodigies. “For several weeks, but I was pledged to secrecy.” “And that’s why you didn’t write?” “I couldn’t very well tell you she was with me without telling you that no time had even yet been fixed for her marriage. And I couldn’t very well tell you as much as that without telling you what I knew of the reason of it. It was not till a day or two ago,” Mrs. Mulville went on, “that she asked me to ask you if you wouldn’t come and see her. Then at last she spoke of your knowing about the idea of the Endowment.” I turned this over. “Why on earth does she want to see me?” “To talk with you, naturally, about Mr. Saltram.” “As a subject for the prize?” This was hugely obvious, and I presently returned: “I think I’ll sail to-morrow for Australia.” “Well then—sail!” said Mrs. Mulville, getting up. But I frivolously, continued. “On Thursday at five, we said?” The appointment was made definite and I enquired how, all this time, the unconscious candidate had carried himself. “In perfection, really, by the happiest of chances: he has positively been a dear. And then, as to what we revere him for, in the most wonderful form. His very highest—pure celestial light. You _won’t_ do him an ill turn?” Adelaide pleaded at the door. “What danger can equal for him the danger to which he’s exposed from himself?” I asked. “Look out sharp, if he has lately been too prim. He’ll presently take a day off, treat us to some exhibition that will make an Endowment a scandal.” “A scandal?” Mrs. Mulville dolorously echoed. “Is Miss Anvoy prepared for that?” My visitor, for a moment, screwed her parasol into my carpet. “He grows bigger every day.” “So do you!” I laughed as she went off. That girl at Wimbledon, on the Thursday afternoon, more than justified my apprehensions. I recognised fully now the cause of the agitation she had produced in me from the first—the faint foreknowledge that there was something very stiff I should have to do for her. I felt more than ever committed to my fate as, standing before her in the big drawing-room where they had tactfully left us to ourselves, I tried with a smile to string together the pearls of lucidity which, from her chair, she successively tossed me. Pale and bright, in her monotonous mourning, she was an image of intelligent purpose, of the passion of duty; but I asked myself whether any girl had ever had so charming an instinct as that which permitted her to laugh out, as for the joy of her difficulty, into the priggish old room. This remarkable young woman could be earnest without being solemn, and at moments when I ought doubtless to have cursed her obstinacy I found myself watching the unstudied play of her eyebrows or the recurrence of a singularly intense whiteness produced by the parting of her lips. These aberrations, I hasten to add, didn’t prevent my learning soon enough why she had wished to see me. Her reason for this was as distinct as her beauty: it was to make me explain what I had meant, on the occasion of our first meeting, by Mr. Saltram’s want of dignity. It wasn’t that she couldn’t imagine, but she desired it there from my lips. What she really desired of course was to know whether there was worse about him than what she had found out for herself. She hadn’t been a month so much in the house with him without discovering that he wasn’t a man of monumental bronze. He was like a jelly minus its mould, he had to be embanked; and that was precisely the source of her interest in him and the ground of her project. She put her project boldly before me: there it stood in its preposterous beauty. She was as willing to take the humorous view of it as I could be: the only difference was that for her the humorous view of a thing wasn’t necessarily prohibitive, wasn’t paralysing. Moreover she professed that she couldn’t discuss with me the primary question—the moral obligation: that was in her own breast. There were things she couldn’t go into—injunctions, impressions she had received. They were a part of the closest intimacy of her intercourse with her aunt, they were absolutely clear to her; and on questions of delicacy, the interpretation of a fidelity, of a promise, one had always in the last resort to make up one’s mind for one’s self. It was the idea of the application to the particular case, such a splendid one at last, that troubled her, and she admitted that it stirred very deep things. She didn’t pretend that such a responsibility was a simple matter; if it _had_ been she wouldn’t have attempted to saddle me with any portion of it. The Mulvilles were sympathy itself, but were they absolutely candid? Could they indeed be, in their position—would it even have been to be desired? Yes, she had sent for me to ask no less than that of me—whether there was anything dreadful kept back. She made no allusion whatever to George Gravener—I thought her silence the only good taste and her gaiety perhaps a part of the very anxiety of that discretion, the effect of a determination that people shouldn’t know from herself that her relations with the man she was to marry were strained. All the weight, however, that she left me to throw was a sufficient implication of the weight _he_ had thrown in vain. Oh she knew the question of character was immense, and that one couldn’t entertain any plan for making merit comfortable without running the gauntlet of that terrible procession of interrogation-points which, like a young ladies’ school out for a walk, hooked their uniform noses at the tail of governess Conduct. But were we absolutely to hold that there was never, never, never an exception, never, never, never an occasion for liberal acceptance, for clever charity, for suspended pedantry—for letting one side, in short, outbalance another? When Miss Anvoy threw off this appeal I could have embraced her for so delightfully emphasising her unlikeness to Mrs. Saltram. “Why not have the courage of one’s forgiveness,” she asked, “as well as the enthusiasm of one’s adhesion?” “Seeing how wonderfully you’ve threshed the whole thing out,” I evasively replied, “gives me an extraordinary notion of the point your enthusiasm has reached.” She considered this remark an instant with her eyes on mine, and I divined that it struck her I might possibly intend it as a reference to some personal subjection to our fat philosopher, to some aberration of sensibility, some perversion of taste. At least I couldn’t interpret otherwise the sudden flash that came into her face. Such a manifestation, as the result of any word of mine, embarrassed me; but while I was thinking how to reassure her the flush passed away in a smile of exquisite good nature. “Oh you see one forgets so wonderfully how one dislikes him!” she said; and if her tone simply extinguished his strange figure with the brush of its compassion, it also rings in my ear to-day as the purest of all our praises. But with what quick response of fine pity such a relegation of the man himself made me privately sigh “Ah poor Saltram!” She instantly, with this, took the measure of all I didn’t believe, and it enabled her to go on: “What can one do when a person has given such a lift to one’s interest in life?” “Yes, what can one do?” If I struck her as a little vague it was because I was thinking of another person. I indulged in another inarticulate murmur—“Poor George Gravener!” What had become of the lift _he_ had given that interest? Later on I made up my mind that she was sore and stricken at the appearance he presented of wanting the miserable money. This was the hidden reason of her alienation. The probable sincerity, in spite of the illiberality, of his scruples about the particular use of it under discussion didn’t efface the ugliness of his demand that they should buy a good house with it. Then, as for _his_ alienation, he didn’t, pardonably enough, grasp the lift Frank Saltram had given her interest in life. If a mere spectator could ask that last question, with what rage in his heart the man himself might! He wasn’t, like her, I was to see, too proud to show me why he was disappointed. XI I WAS unable this time to stay to dinner: such at any rate was the plea on which I took leave. I desired in truth to get away from my young lady, for that obviously helped me not to pretend to satisfy her. How _could_ I satisfy her? I asked myself—how could I tell her how much had been kept back? I didn’t even know and I certainly didn’t desire to know. My own policy had ever been to learn the least about poor Saltram’s weaknesses—not to learn the most. A great deal that I had in fact learned had been forced upon me by his wife. There was something even irritating in Miss Anvoy’s crude conscientiousness, and I wondered why, after all, she couldn’t have let him alone and been content to entrust George Gravener with the purchase of the good house. I was sure he would have driven a bargain, got something excellent and cheap. I laughed louder even than she, I temporised, I failed her; I told her I must think over her case. I professed a horror of responsibilities and twitted her with her own extravagant passion for them. It wasn’t really that I was afraid of the scandal, the moral discredit for the Fund; what troubled me most was a feeling of a different order. Of course, as the beneficiary of the Fund was to enjoy a simple life-interest, as it was hoped that new beneficiaries would arise and come up to new standards, it wouldn’t be a trifle that the first of these worthies shouldn’t have been a striking example of the domestic virtues. The Fund would start badly, as it were, and the laurel would, in some respects at least, scarcely be greener from the brows of the original wearer. That idea, however, was at that hour, as I have hinted, not the source of solicitude it ought perhaps to have been, for I felt less the irregularity of Saltram’s getting the money than that of this exalted young woman’s giving it up. I wanted her to have it for herself, and I told her so before I went away. She looked graver at this than she had looked at all, saying she hoped such a preference wouldn’t make me dishonest. It made me, to begin with, very restless—made me, instead of going straight to the station, fidget a little about that many-coloured Common which gives Wimbledon horizons. There was a worry for me to work off, or rather keep at a distance, for I declined even to admit to myself that I had, in Miss Anvoy’s phrase, been saddled with it. What could have been clearer indeed than the attitude of recognising perfectly what a world of trouble The Coxon Fund would in future save us, and of yet liking better to face a continuance of that trouble than see, and in fact contribute to, a deviation from attainable bliss in the life of two other persons in whom I was deeply interested? Suddenly, at the end of twenty minutes, there was projected across this clearness the image of a massive middle-aged man seated on a bench under a tree, with sad far-wandering eyes and plump white hands folded on the head of a stick—a stick I recognised, a stout gold-headed staff that I had given him in devoted days. I stopped short as he turned his face to me, and it happened that for some reason or other I took in as I had perhaps never done before the beauty of his rich blank gaze. It was charged with experience as the sky is charged with light, and I felt on the instant as if we had been overspanned and conjoined by the great arch of a bridge or the great dome of a temple. Doubtless I was rendered peculiarly sensitive to it by something in the way I had been giving him up and sinking him. While I met it I stood there smitten, and I felt myself responding to it with a sort of guilty grimace. This brought back his attention in a smile which expressed for me a cheerful weary patience, a bruised noble gentleness. I had told Miss Anvoy that he had no dignity, but what did he seem to me, all unbuttoned and fatigued as he waited for me to come up, if he didn’t seem unconcerned with small things, didn’t seem in short majestic? There was majesty in his mere unconsciousness of our little conferences and puzzlements over his maintenance and his reward. After I had sat by him a few minutes I passed my arm over his big soft shoulder—wherever you touched him you found equally little firmness—and said in a tone of which the suppliance fell oddly on my own ear: “Come back to town with me, old friend—come back and spend the evening.” I wanted to hold him, I wanted to keep him, and at Waterloo, an hour later, I telegraphed possessively to the Mulvilles. When he objected, as regards staying all night, that he had no things, I asked him if he hadn’t everything of mine. I had abstained from ordering dinner, and it was too late for preliminaries at a club; so we were reduced to tea and fried fish at my rooms—reduced also to the transcendent. Something had come up which made me want him to feel at peace with me—and which, precisely, was all the dear man himself wanted on any occasion. I had too often had to press upon him considerations irrelevant, but it gives me pleasure now to think that on that particular evening I didn’t even mention Mrs. Saltram and the children. Late into the night we smoked and talked; old shames and old rigours fell away from us; I only let him see that I was conscious of what I owed him. He was as mild as contrition and as copious as faith; he was never so fine as on a shy return, and even better at forgiving than at being forgiven. I dare say it was a smaller matter than that famous night at Wimbledon, the night of the problematical sobriety and of Miss Anvoy’s initiation; but I was as much in it on this occasion as I had been out of it then. At about 1.30 he was sublime. He never, in whatever situation, rose till all other risings were over, and his breakfasts, at Wimbledon, had always been the principal reason mentioned by departing cooks. The coast was therefore clear for me to receive her when, early the next morning, to my surprise, it was announced to me his wife had called. I hesitated, after she had come up, about telling her Saltram was in the house, but she herself settled the question, kept me reticent by drawing forth a sealed letter which, looking at me very hard in the eyes, she placed, with a pregnant absence of comment, in my hand. For a single moment there glimmered before me the fond hope that Mrs. Saltram had tendered me, as it were, her resignation and desired to embody the act in an unsparing form. To bring this about I would have feigned any humiliation; but after my eyes had caught the superscription I heard myself say with a flatness that betrayed a sense of something very different from relief: “Oh the Pudneys!” I knew their envelopes though they didn’t know mine. They always used the kind sold at post-offices with the stamp affixed, and as this letter hadn’t been posted they had wasted a penny on me. I had seen their horrid missives to the Mulvilles, but hadn’t been in direct correspondence with them. “They enclosed it to me, to be delivered. They doubtless explain to you that they hadn’t your address.” I turned the thing over without opening it. “Why in the world should they write to me?” “Because they’ve something to tell you. The worst,” Mrs. Saltram dryly added. It was another chapter, I felt, of the history of their lamentable quarrel with her husband, the episode in which, vindictively, disingenuously as they themselves had behaved, one had to admit that he had put himself more grossly in the wrong than at any moment of his life. He had begun by insulting the matchless Mulvilles for these more specious protectors, and then, according to his wont at the end of a few months, had dug a still deeper ditch for his aberration than the chasm left yawning behind. The chasm at Wimbledon was now blessedly closed; but the Pudneys, across their persistent gulf, kept up the nastiest fire. I never doubted they had a strong case, and I had been from the first for not defending him—reasoning that if they weren’t contradicted they’d perhaps subside. This was above all what I wanted, and I so far prevailed that I did arrest the correspondence in time to save our little circle an infliction heavier than it perhaps would have borne. I knew, that is I divined, that their allegations had gone as yet only as far as their courage, conscious as they were in their own virtue of an exposed place in which Saltram could have planted a blow. It was a question with them whether a man who had himself so much to cover up would dare his blow; so that these vessels of rancour were in a manner afraid of each other. I judged that on the day the Pudneys should cease for some reason or other to be afraid they would treat us to some revelation more disconcerting than any of its predecessors. As I held Mrs. Saltram’s letter in my hand it was distinctly communicated to me that the day had come—they had ceased to be afraid. “I don’t want to know the worst,” I presently declared. “You’ll have to open the letter. It also contains an enclosure.” I felt it—it was fat and uncanny. “Wheels within wheels!” I exclaimed. “There’s something for me too to deliver.” “So they tell me—to Miss Anvoy.” I stared; I felt a certain thrill. “Why don’t they send it to her directly?” Mrs. Saltram hung fire. “Because she’s staying with Mr. and Mrs. Mulville.” “And why should that prevent?” Again my visitor faltered, and I began to reflect on the grotesque, the unconscious perversity of her action. I was the only person save George Gravener and the Mulvilles who was aware of Sir Gregory Coxon’s and of Miss Anvoy’s strange bounty. Where could there have been a more signal illustration of the clumsiness of human affairs than her having complacently selected this moment to fly in the face of it? “There’s the chance of their seeing her letters. They know Mr. Pudney’s hand.” Still I didn’t understand; then it flashed upon me. “You mean they might intercept it? How can you imply anything so base?” I indignantly demanded. “It’s not I—it’s Mr. Pudney!” cried Mrs. Saltram with a flush. “It’s his own idea.” “Then why couldn’t he send the letter to you to be delivered?” Mrs. Saltram’s embarrassment increased; she gave me another hard look. “You must make that out for yourself.” I made it out quickly enough. “It’s a denunciation?” “A real lady doesn’t betray her husband!” this virtuous woman exclaimed. I burst out laughing, and I fear my laugh may have had an effect of impertinence. “Especially to Miss Anvoy, who’s so easily shocked? Why do such things concern _her_?” I asked, much at a loss. “Because she’s there, exposed to all his craft. Mr. and Mrs. Pudney have been watching this: they feel she may be taken in.” “Thank you for all the rest of us! What difference can it make when she has lost her power to contribute?” Again Mrs. Saltram considered; then very nobly: “There are other things in the world than money.” This hadn’t occurred to her so long as the young lady had any; but she now added, with a glance at my letter, that Mr. and Mrs. Pudney doubtless explained their motives. “It’s all in kindness,” she continued as she got up. “Kindness to Miss Anvoy? You took, on the whole, another view of kindness before her reverses.” My companion smiled with some acidity “Perhaps you’re no safer than the Mulvilles!” I didn’t want her to think that, nor that she should report to the Pudneys that they had not been happy in their agent; and I well remember that this was the moment at which I began, with considerable emotion, to promise myself to enjoin upon Miss Anvoy never to open any letter that should come to her in one of those penny envelopes. My emotion, and I fear I must add my confusion, quickly deepened; I presently should have been as glad to frighten Mrs. Saltram as to think I might by some diplomacy restore the Pudneys to a quieter vigilance. “It’s best you should take _my_ view of my safety,” I at any rate soon responded. When I saw she didn’t know what I meant by this I added: “You may turn out to have done, in bringing me this letter, a thing you’ll profoundly regret.” My tone had a significance which, I could see, did make her uneasy, and there was a moment, after I had made two or three more remarks of studiously bewildering effect, at which her eyes followed so hungrily the little flourish of the letter with which I emphasised them that I instinctively slipped Mr. Pudney’s communication into my pocket. She looked, in her embarrassed annoyance, capable of grabbing it to send it back to him. I felt, after she had gone, as if I had almost given her my word I wouldn’t deliver the enclosure. The passionate movement, at any rate, with which, in solitude, I transferred the whole thing, unopened, from my pocket to a drawer which I double-locked would have amounted, for an initiated observer, to some such pledge. XII MRS. SALTRAM left me drawing my breath more quickly and indeed almost in pain—as if I had just perilously grazed the loss of something precious. I didn’t quite know what it was—it had a shocking resemblance to my honour. The emotion was the livelier surely in that my pulses even yet vibrated to the pleasure with which, the night before, I had rallied to the rare analyst, the great intellectual adventurer and pathfinder. What had dropped from me like a cumbersome garment as Saltram appeared before me in the afternoon on the heath was the disposition to haggle over his value. Hang it, one had to choose, one had to put that value somewhere; so I would put it really high and have done with it. Mrs. Mulville drove in for him at a discreet hour—the earliest she could suppose him to have got up; and I learned that Miss Anvoy would also have come had she not been expecting a visit from Mr. Gravener. I was perfectly mindful that I was under bonds to see this young lady, and also that I had a letter to hand to her; but I took my time, I waited from day to day. I left Mrs. Saltram to deal as her apprehensions should prompt with the Pudneys. I knew at last what I meant—I had ceased to wince at my responsibility. I gave this supreme impression of Saltram time to fade if it would; but it didn’t fade, and, individually, it hasn’t faded even now. During the month that I thus invited myself to stiffen again, Adelaide Mulville, perplexed by my absence, wrote to me to ask why I _was_ so stiff. At that season of the year I was usually oftener “with” them. She also wrote that she feared a real estrangement had set in between Mr. Gravener and her sweet young friend—a state of things but half satisfactory to her so long as the advantage resulting to Mr. Saltram failed to disengage itself from the merely nebulous state. She intimated that her sweet young friend was, if anything, a trifle too reserved; she also intimated that there might now be an opening for another clever young man. There never was the slightest opening, I may here parenthesise, and of course the question can’t come up to-day. These are old frustrations now. Ruth Anvoy hasn’t married, I hear, and neither have I. During the month, toward the end, I wrote to George Gravener to ask if, on a special errand, I might come to see him, and his answer was to knock the very next day at my door. I saw he had immediately connected my enquiry with the talk we had had in the railway-carriage, and his promptitude showed that the ashes of his eagerness weren’t yet cold. I told him there was something I felt I ought in candour to let him know—I recognised the obligation his friendly confidence had laid on me. “You mean Miss Anvoy has talked to you? She has told me so herself,” he said. “It wasn’t to tell you so that I wanted to see you,” I replied; “for it seemed to me that such a communication would rest wholly with herself. If however she did speak to you of our conversation she probably told you I was discouraging.” “Discouraging?” “On the subject of a present application of The Coxon Fund.” “To the case of Mr. Saltram? My dear fellow, I don’t know what you call discouraging!” Gravener cried. “Well I thought I was, and I thought she thought I was.” “I believe she did, but such a thing’s measured by the effect. She’s not ‘discouraged,’” he said. “That’s her own affair. The reason I asked you to see me was that it appeared to me I ought to tell you frankly that—decidedly!—I can’t undertake to produce that effect. In fact I don’t want to!” “It’s very good of you, damn you!” my visitor laughed, red and really grave. Then he said: “You’d like to see that scoundrel publicly glorified—perched on the pedestal of a great complimentary pension?” I braced myself. “Taking one form of public recognition with another it seems to me on the whole I should be able to bear it. When I see the compliments that _are_ paid right and left I ask myself why this one shouldn’t take its course. This therefore is what you’re entitled to have looked to me to mention to you. I’ve some evidence that perhaps would be really dissuasive, but I propose to invite Mss Anvoy to remain in ignorance of it.” “And to invite me to do the same?” “Oh you don’t require it—you’ve evidence enough. I speak of a sealed letter that I’ve been requested to deliver to her.” “And you don’t mean to?” “There’s only one consideration that would make me,” I said. Gravener’s clear handsome eyes plunged into mine a minute, but evidently without fishing up a clue to this motive—a failure by which I was almost wounded. “What does the letter contain?” “It’s sealed, as I tell you, and I don’t know what it contains.” “Why is it sent through you?” “Rather than you?” I wondered how to put the thing. “The only explanation I can think of is that the person sending it may have imagined your relations with Miss Anvoy to be at an end—may have been told this is the case by Mrs. Saltram.” “My relations with Miss Anvoy are not at an end,” poor Gravener stammered. Again for an instant I thought. “The offer I propose to make you gives me the right to address you a question remarkably direct. Are you still engaged to Miss Anvoy?” “No, I’m not,” he slowly brought out. “But we’re perfectly good friends.” “Such good friends that you’ll again become prospective husband and wife if the obstacle in your path be removed?” “Removed?” he anxiously repeated. “If I send Miss Anvoy the letter I speak of she may give up her idea.” “Then for God’s sake send it!” “I’ll do so if you’re ready to assure me that her sacrifice would now presumably bring about your marriage.” “I’d marry her the next day!” my visitor cried. “Yes, but would she marry _you_? What I ask of you of course is nothing less than your word of honour as to your conviction of this. If you give it me,” I said, “I’ll engage to hand her the letter before night.” Gravener took up his hat; turning it mechanically round he stood looking a moment hard at its unruffled perfection. Then very angrily honestly and gallantly, “Hand it to the devil!” he broke out; with which he clapped the hat on his head and left me. “Will you read it or not?” I said to Ruth Anvoy, at Wimbledon, when I had told her the story of Mrs. Saltram’s visit. She debated for a time probably of the briefest, but long enough to make me nervous. “Have you brought it with you?” “No indeed. It’s at home, locked up.” There was another great silence, and then she said “Go back and destroy it.” I went back, but I didn’t destroy it till after Saltram’s death, when I burnt it unread. The Pudneys approached her again pressingly, but, prompt as they were, The Coxon Fund had already become an operative benefit and a general amaze: Mr. Saltram, while we gathered about, as it were, to watch the manna descend, had begun to draw the magnificent income. He drew it as he had always drawn everything, with a grand abstracted gesture. Its magnificence, alas, as all the world now knows, quite quenched him; it was the beginning of his decline. It was also naturally a new grievance for his wife, who began to believe in him as soon as he was blighted, and who at this hour accuses us of having bribed him, on the whim of a meddlesome American, to renounce his glorious office, to become, as she says, like everybody else. The very day he found himself able to publish he wholly ceased to produce. This deprived us, as may easily be imagined, of much of our occupation, and especially deprived the Mulvilles, whose want of self-support I never measured till they lost their great inmate. They’ve no one to live on now. Adelaide’s most frequent reference to their destitution is embodied in the remark that dear far-away Ruth’s intentions were doubtless good. She and Kent are even yet looking for another prop, but no one presents a true sphere of usefulness. They complain that people are self-sufficing. With Saltram the fine type of the child of adoption was scattered, the grander, the elder style. They’ve got their carriage back, but what’s an empty carriage? In short I think we were all happier as well as poorer before; even including George Gravener, who by the deaths of his brother and his nephew has lately become Lord Maddock. His wife, whose fortune clears the property, is criminally dull; he hates being in the Upper House, and hasn’t yet had high office. But what are these accidents, which I should perhaps apologise for mentioning, in the light of the great eventual boon promised the patient by the rate at which The Coxon Fund must be rolling up? Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What is Reiko's job?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Reiko is a reporter." ]	17,490	narrativeqa	en	null	d22828536f4d6bee11bd1f15f636bddd18fa8f246ef1be6c	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why does Socrates ultimately decide it is unjust to escape?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Go ahead and memorize the context. Here is the context: The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Because it violates his belief in the laws of society." ]	6,595	narrativeqa	en	null	585ce1f974c0a35526da31a0cdc1541728ffc2df6a73b4f3	This etext was prepared by Sue Asscher <asschers@aia.net.au> CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? To this Crito is unable or unwilling to reply. Socrates proceeds:--Suppose the Laws of Athens to come and remonstrate with him: they will ask 'Why does he seek to overturn them?' and if he replies, 'they have injured him,' will not the Laws answer, 'Yes, but was that the agreement? Has he any objection to make to them which would justify him in overturning them? Was he not brought into the world and educated by their help, and are they not his parents? He might have left Athens and gone where he pleased, but he has lived there for seventy years more constantly than any other citizen.' Thus he has clearly shown that he acknowledged the agreement, which he cannot now break without dishonour to himself and danger to his friends. Even in the course of the trial he might have proposed exile as the penalty, but then he declared that he preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his footsteps? In any well-ordered state the Laws will consider him as an enemy. Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he may be welcomed at first, and the unseemly narrative of his escape will be regarded by the inhabitants as an amusing tale. But if he offends them he will have to learn another sort of lesson. Will he continue to give lectures in virtue? That would hardly be decent. And how will his children be the gainers if he takes them into Thessaly, and deprives them of Athenian citizenship? Or if he leaves them behind, does he expect that they will be better taken care of by his friends because he is in Thessaly? Will not true friends care for them equally whether he is alive or dead? Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life and children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks agreements, and returns evil for evil, they will be angry with him while he lives; and their brethren the Laws of the world below will receive him as an enemy. Such is the mystic voice which is always murmuring in his ears. That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made against him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated in later ages. The crimes of Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides, who had been his pupils, were still recent in the memory of the now restored democracy. The fact that he had been neutral in the death-struggle of Athens was not likely to conciliate popular good-will. Plato, writing probably in the next generation, undertakes the defence of his friend and master in this particular, not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and the world at large. Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of Crito and the proposal of escape is uncertain: Plato could easily have invented far more than that (Phaedr.); and in the selection of Crito, the aged friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to Socrates, we seem to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether any one who has been subjected by the laws of his country to an unjust judgment is right in attempting to escape, is a thesis about which casuists might disagree. Shelley (Prose Works) is of opinion that Socrates 'did well to die,' but not for the 'sophistical' reasons which Plato has put into his mouth. And there would be no difficulty in arguing that Socrates should have lived and preferred to a glorious death the good which he might still be able to perform. 'A rhetorician would have had much to say upon that point.' It may be observed however that Plato never intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only to exhibit the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil in order to avoid the greatest, and to show his master maintaining in death the opinions which he had professed in his life. Not 'the world,' but the 'one wise man,' is still the paradox of Socrates in his last hours. He must be guided by reason, although her conclusions may be fatal to him. The remarkable sentiment that the wicked can do neither good nor evil is true, if taken in the sense, which he means, of moral evil; in his own words, 'they cannot make a man wise or foolish.' This little dialogue is a perfect piece of dialectic, in which granting the 'common principle,' there is no escaping from the conclusion. It is anticipated at the beginning by the dream of Socrates and the parody of Homer. The personification of the Laws, and of their brethren the Laws in the world below, is one of the noblest and boldest figures of speech which occur in Plato. CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Crito. SCENE: The Prison of Socrates. SOCRATES: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early. CRITO: Yes, certainly. SOCRATES: What is the exact time? CRITO: The dawn is breaking. SOCRATES: I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in. CRITO: He knows me because I often come, Socrates; moreover. I have done him a kindness. SOCRATES: And are you only just arrived? CRITO: No, I came some time ago. SOCRATES: Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me? CRITO: I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest as you are--indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity. SOCRATES: Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at the approach of death. CRITO: And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from repining. SOCRATES: That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour. CRITO: I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me. SOCRATES: What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die? CRITO: No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life. SOCRATES: Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a delay of a day. CRITO: Why do you think so? SOCRATES: I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship? CRITO: Yes; that is what the authorities say. SOCRATES: But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep. CRITO: And what was the nature of the vision? SOCRATES: There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates, 'The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go.' (Homer, Il.) CRITO: What a singular dream, Socrates! SOCRATES: There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think. CRITO: Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this--that I should be thought to value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused. SOCRATES: But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many? Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these things truly as they occurred. CRITO: But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their good opinion. SOCRATES: I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil; for then they would also be able to do the greatest good-- and what a fine thing this would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance. CRITO: Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only one. CRITO: Fear not--there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great cost; and as for the informers they are far from being exorbitant in their demands--a little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service, and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do not say, as you did in the court (compare Apol.), that you will have a difficulty in knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies, who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier, which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently; and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors (compare Apol.). What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your old argument about the opinions of men?--we were saying that some of them are to be regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of talking--mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help, Crito:--whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded. Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow--at least, there is no human probability of this, and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was right in maintaining this? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: The good are to be regarded, and not the bad? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are evil? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, or of one man only--his physician or trainer, whoever he may be? CRITO: Of one man only. SOCRATES: And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only, and not of the many? CRITO: Clearly so. SOCRATES: And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put together? CRITO: True. SOCRATES: And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil? CRITO: Certainly he will. SOCRATES: And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the disobedient person? CRITO: Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil. SOCRATES: Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;--there is such a principle? CRITO: Certainly there is, Socrates. SOCRATES: Take a parallel instance:--if, acting under the advice of those who have no understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is--the body? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed, which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle, whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: More honourable than the body? CRITO: Far more. SOCRATES: Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable.--'Well,' some one will say, 'but the many can kill us.' CRITO: Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer. SOCRATES: And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another proposition--that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued? CRITO: Yes, that also remains unshaken. SOCRATES: And a good life is equivalent to a just and honorable one--that holds also? CRITO: Yes, it does. SOCRATES: From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of educating one's children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death--and with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation. CRITO: I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed? SOCRATES: Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can, and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment. And now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me. CRITO: I will. SOCRATES: Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonorable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then we must do no wrong? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure no one at all? (E.g. compare Rep.) CRITO: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Again, Crito, may we do evil? CRITO: Surely not, Socrates. SOCRATES: And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many--is that just or not? CRITO: Not just. SOCRATES: For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him? CRITO: Very true. SOCRATES: Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step. CRITO: You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind. SOCRATES: Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a question:--Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the right? CRITO: He ought to do what he thinks right. SOCRATES: But if this is true, what is the application? In leaving the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just--what do you say? CRITO: I cannot tell, Socrates, for I do not know. SOCRATES: Then consider the matter in this way:--Imagine that I am about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the government come and interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you about? are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us--the laws, and the whole state, as far as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?' What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply, 'Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' Suppose I say that? CRITO: Very good, Socrates. SOCRATES: 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would answer; 'or were you to abide by the sentence of the state?' And if I were to express my astonishment at their words, the law would probably add: 'Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes--you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,--What complaint have you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us who after birth regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to train you in music and gymnastic?' Right, I should reply. 'Well then, since you were brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands?--you would not say this? And because we think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return, and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the laws speak truly, or do they not? CRITO: I think that they do. SOCRATES: Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city, may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we maintain, thrice wrong: first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;--that is what we offer, and he does neither. 'These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above all other men have acknowledged the agreement. 'There is clear proof,' they will say, 'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be supposed to love (compare Phaedr.). For you never went out of the city either to see the games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our state; we were your especial favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you; and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But you pretended that you preferred death to exile (compare Apol.), and that you were not unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true or not?' How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent? CRITO: We cannot help it, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then will they not say: 'You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt, the blind, the maimed, were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city. 'For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself, if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away from well-governed states to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will live, but how?--as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?--eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner. And where will be your fine sentiments about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to live for the sake of your children--you want to bring them up and educate them--will you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them; for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for anything, they will--to be sure they will. 'Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito.' This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say. CRITO: I have nothing to say, Socrates. SOCRATES: Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he leads. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How is Drexl killed?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The story is a movie script, specifically the script for the movie "True Romance" (1993) directed by Tony Scott and written by Quentin Tarantino. The story revolves around Clarence Worley, a young man who falls in love with Alabama Whitman, a call girl, and gets involved in a series of events that lead to a violent confrontation with a group of gangsters. The story also features a number of subplots, including Clarence's relationship with his father, his friendship with Dick Ritchie, and the involvement of a number of other characters, including Vincenzo Coccotti, a Sicilian gangster, and Lee Donowitz, a movie producer. The story is known for its non-linear narrative, witty dialogue, and graphic violence. It features a number of memorable characters, including Clarence, Alabama, Dick, and Vincenzo, and explores themes of love, loyalty, and redemption. The script is written in a style that is characteristic of Tarantino's work, with a focus on dialogue and a non-linear narrative structure. It features a number of homages to other movies and TV shows, including "The Godfather" and "The Sopranos." The story takes place in a number of locations, including Detroit, Los Angeles, and the Beverly Wilshire hotel. It features a number of action sequences, including a shootout at the Beverly Wilshire hotel, and a number of dramatic moments, including Clarence's confrontation with Vincenzo. The script is notable for its use of violence and profanity, and has been praised for its originality and style. It has been compared to other Tarantino movies, including "Pulp Fiction" and "Reservoir Dogs." The story is also notable for its use of music, including a number of songs by Elvis Presley. The script features a number of references to Elvis, including a scene in which Clarence and Alabama sing a duet of "Can't Help Falling in Love." The story has been praised for its originality and style, and has been compared to other Tarantino movies. It has also been criticized for its graphic violence and profanity. The script is written in a style that is characteristic of Tarantino's work, with a focus on dialogue and a non-linear narrative structure. It features a number of homages to other movies and TV shows, including "The Godfather" and "The Sopranos." The story takes place in a number of locations, including Detroit, Los Angeles, and the Beverly Wilshire hotel. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "he is shot" ]	29,630	narrativeqa	en	null	880269c856197f51942d2649c32e0c37955409d7fdb3f369	<b><HTML> <HEAD> <TITLE>TRUE ROMANCE</TITLE> </b><LINK rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"> <META http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <style type="text/css"> BODY { background-color: "#FFFFFF"; font-family: Courier New, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size:10.0pt } DIV { position:absolute; left:5px; top:20px; width:734px; height:500px; } #loc { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.2in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in;text-transform:uppercase } #slug { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal; margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.2in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in; text-transform:uppercase; <b> </b><b>} </b> #act { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.8in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in } #speaker { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:2.8in;text-transform:uppercase } #spkdir { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:2.7in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:2.2in } #dia { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:2.6in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:1.6in } #pg { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.75in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:6.5in } #right { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:0.75in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:5.0in } </style> <div id="Layer1"> <b></HEAD> </b> <b><BODY> </b></p><p><p ID="act">True Romance </p><p><p ID="act">by Quentin Tarantino </p><p><p ID="act">When you are tired of relationships, try a romance. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BAR - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A smoky cocktail bar downtown Detroit. </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE WORLEY, a young hipster hepcat, is trying to pick up an older lady named LUCY. She isn't bothered by him, in fact, she's alittle charmed. But, you can tell, that she isn't going to leave her barstool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In "Jailhouse Rock" he's everything rockabilly's about. I mean he is rockabilly: mean, surly, nasty, rude. In that movie he couldn't give a fuck about anything except rockin' and rollin', livin' fast, dyin' young, and leaving a good-looking corpse. I love that scene where after he's made it big he's throwing a big cocktail party, and all these highbrows are there, and he's singing, "Baby You're So Square... Baby, I Don't Care". Now, they got him dressed like a dick. He's wearing these stupid-lookin' pants, this horrible sweater. Elvis ain't no sweater boy. I even think they got him wearin' penny loafers. Despite all that shit, all the highbrows at the party, big house, the stupid clothes, he's still a rude-lookin' motherfucker. I'd watch that hillbilly and I'd want to be him so bad. Elvis looked good. I'm no fag, but Elvis was good-lookin'. He was fuckin' prettier than most women. I always said if I ever had to fuck a guy... I mean had too 'cause my life depended on it... I'd fuck Elvis. </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy takes a drag from her cigarette. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">I'd fuck Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">When he was alive. I wouldn't fuck him now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I don't blame you. <P ID="spkdir">(they laugh) <P ID="dia">So we'd both fuck Elvis. It's nice to meet people with common interests, isn't it? </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy laughs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, enough about the King, how 'bout you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">How 'bout me what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How 'bout you go to the movies with me tonight? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">What are we gonna see? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A Donny Chiba triple feature. "The Streetfighter", "Return of the Streetfighter", and "Sister Streetfighter". </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">Who's Sonny Chiba? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He is, bar none, the greatest actor working in martial arts movies ever. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="spkdir">(not believing this) <P ID="dia">You wanna take me to a kung fu movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(holding up three fingers) <P ID="dia">Three kung fu movies. </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy takes a drag from her cigarette. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">I don't think so, not my cup of tea. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DINGY HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The sounds of the city flow in through an open window: car horns, gun shots and violence. Paint is peeling off the walls and the once green carpet is stained black. </p><p><p ID="act">On the bed nearby is a huge open suitcase filled with clear plastic bags of cocaine. Shotguns and pistols have been dropped carelessly around the suitcase. On the far end of the room, against the wall, is a TV. "Bewitched" is playing. </p><p><p ID="act">At the opposite end of the room, by the front, is a table. DREXL SPIVEY and FLOYD DIXON sit around. Cocaine is on the table as well as little plastic bags and a weigher. Floyd is black, Drexl is a white boy, though you wouldn't know it listen to him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, get outta my face with that bullshit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw man, I don't be eatin' that shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">That's bullshit. </p><p><p ID="act">BIG DON WATTS, a stout, mean-looking black man who's older than Drexl and Floyd. Walks through the door carrying hamburgers and french fries in two greasy brown-paper bags. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw man, that's some serious shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, you lie like a big dog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">What the fuck are you talkin' about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Floyd say he don't be eatin' pussy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Shit, any nigger say he don't eat pussy is lyin' his ass off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">I heard that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Hold on a second, Big D. You sayin' you eat pussy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Nigger, I eat everything. I eat pussy. I eat the butt. I eat every motherfuckin' thang. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Preach on, Big D. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Look here. If I ever did eat some pussy - I would never eat any pussy - but, if I did eat some pussy, I sure as hell wouldn't tell no goddamn body. I'd be ashamed as a motherfucker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Shit! Nigger you smoke enough sherm your dumb ass'll do a lot a crazy ass things. So you won't eat pussy? Motherfucker, you be up there suckin' niggers' dicks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Heard that. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D bump fists. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yeah, that's right, laugh. It's so funny, oh it's so funny. <P ID="spkdir">(he takes a hit off of a joint) <P ID="dia">There used to be a time when sisters didn't know shit about gettin' their pussy licked. Then the sixties came an' they started fuckin' around with white boys. And white boys are freaks for that shit - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">- Because it's good! </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Then, after a while sisters use to gettin' their little pussy eat. And because you white boys had to make pigs out of yourselves, you fucked it up for every nigger in the world everywhere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Drexl. On behalf of me and all the brothers who aren't here, I'd like to express our gratitude - </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D bust up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Go on pussy-eaters... laugh. You look like you be eatin' pussy. You got pussy-eatin' mugs. Now if a nigger wants to get his dick sucked he's got to do a bunch of fucked-up shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">So you do eat pussy! </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw naw! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">You don't like it, but you eat that shit. <P ID="spkdir">(to Drexl) <P ID="dia">He eats it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Damn skippy. He like it, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(mock English accent) <P ID="dia">Me thinketh he doth protest too much. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Well fuck you guys then! You guys are fucked up! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Why you trippin'? We jus' fuckin' with ya. But I wanna ask you a question. You with some fine bitch, I mean a brick shithouse bitch - you're with Jayne Kennedy. You're with Jayne Kennedy and you say "Bitch, suck my dick!" and then Jayne Kennedy says, "First things first, nigger, I ain't suckin' shit till you bring your ass over here and lick my bush!" Now, what do you say? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I tell Jayne Kennedy, "Suck my dick or I'll beat your ass!" </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Nigger, get real. You touch Jayne Kennedy she'll have you ass in Wayne County so fast - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, back off, you ain't beatin' shit. Now what would you do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I'd say fuck it! </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D get up from the table disgusted and walk away, leaving Floyd sitting all alone. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D sits on the bed, his back turned to Floyd, watching "Bewitched". </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="spkdir">(yelling after them) <P ID="dia">Ain't no man have to eat pussy! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(not even looking) <P ID="dia">Take that shit somewhere else. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(marching back) <P ID="dia">You tell Jayne Kennedy to fuck it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">If it came down to who eats who, damn skippy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">With that terrible mug of yours if Jayne Kennedy told you to eat her pussy, kiss her ass, lick her feet, chow on her shit, and suck her dog's dick, nigger, you'd aim to please. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(glued on TV) <P ID="dia">I'm hip. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">In fact, I'm gonna show you what I mean with a little demonstration. Big D, toss me that shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Without turning away from "Bewitched" he picks up the shotgun and tosses it to Drexl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Floyd) <P ID="dia">All right, check this out. <P ID="spkdir">(referring to shotgun) <P ID="dia">Now, pretend this is Jayne Kennedy. And you're you. </p><p><p ID="act">Then, in a blink, he points the shotgun at Floyd and blows him away. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D leaps off the bed and spins toward Drexl. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl, waiting for him, fires from across the room. </p><p><p ID="act">The blast hits the big man in the right arm and shoulder, spinning him around. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl makes a beeline for his victim and fires again. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D is hit with a blast, full in the back. He slams into the wall and drops. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl collects the suitcase full of cocaine and leaves. As he gets to the front door he surveys the carnage, spits and walks out. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. CLIFF'S MOVING CAR - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">A big white Chevy Nova is driving down the road with a sunrise sky as a backdrop. The song "Little Bitty Tear" is heard a capella. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLIFF'S MOVING CAR - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff Worley is driving his car home from work, singing this song gently to the sunrise. He's a forty-five-years-old ex-cop, at present a security guard. In between singing he takes sips from a cup of take-out coffee. He's dressed in a security guard uniform. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER PARK - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's Nova pulls in as he continues crooning. He pulls up to his trailer to see something that stops him short. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's POV Through windshield </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and a nice-looking YOUNG WOMAN are watching for him in front of his trailer. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - CLIFF </p><p><p ID="act">Upon seeing Clarence, a little bitty tear rolls down Cliff's cheek. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLIFF'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Young Woman walk over to the car. Clarence sticks his face through the driver's side window. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Good Morning, Daddy. Long time no see. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">All three enter the trailer home. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Excuse the place, I haven't been entertaining company as of late. Sorry if I'm acting a little dense, but you're the last person in the world I expected to see this morning. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Young Girl walk into the living room. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, well, tha's OK, Daddy, I tend to have that effect on people. I'm dyin' on thirst, you got anything to drink? </p><p><p ID="act">He moves past Cliff and heads straight for his refridgerator. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I think there's a Seven-Up in there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(rumaging around the fridge) <P ID="dia">Anything stronger? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Oh, probably not. Beer? You can drink beer, can't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I can, but I don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(closing the fridge) <P ID="dia">That's about all I ever eat. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff looks at the Girl. She smiles sweetly at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="spkdir">(to Girl) <P ID="dia">I'm sorry... I'm his father. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG GIRL <P ID="spkdir">(sticking her hand out) <P ID="dia">That's OK, I'm his wife. <P ID="spkdir">(shaking his hand vigorously) <P ID="dia">Alabama Worley, pleased to meetcha. </p><p><p ID="act">She is really pumping his arm, just like a used-car salesman. However, that's where the similarities end; Alabama's totally sincere. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence steps back into the living room, holding a bunch of little ceramic fruit magnets in his hand. He throws his other arm around Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh yeah, we got married. <P ID="spkdir">(referring to the magnets) <P ID="dia">You still have these. <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">This isn't a complete set; when I was five I swallowed the pomegranate one. I never shit it out, so I guess it's still there. Loverdoll, why don't you be a sport and go get us some beer. I want some beer. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Do you want some beer? Well, if you want some it's here. </p><p><p ID="act">He hands her some money and his car keys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Go to the liquor store - <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Where is there a liquor store around here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Uh, yeah... there's a party store down 54th. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Get a six-pack of something imported. It's hard to tell you what to get 'cause different places have different things. If they got Fosters, get that, if not, ask the guy at the thing what the strongest imported beer he has. Look, since you're making a beer run, would you mind too terribly if you did a foot run as well. I'm fuckin' starvin' to death. Are you hungry too? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm pretty hungry. When I went to the store I was gonna get some Ding-Dongs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, fuck that shit, we'll get some real food. What would taste good. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">What do you think would taste good? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I'm really not very - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know what would taste good? Chicken. I haven't had chicken in a while. Chicken would really hit the spot about now. Chicken and beer, definitly, absolutely, without a doubt. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Where's a good chicken place around here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I really don't know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't know the chicken places around where you live? <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Ask the guy at the place where a chicken place is. </p><p><p ID="act">He gives her some more money. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This should cover it, Auggie-Doggie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Okee-dokee, Doggie-Daddy. </p><p><p ID="act">She opens the door and starts out. Clarence turns to his dad as the door shuts. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Isn't she the sweetest goddamned girl you ever saw in your whole life? Is she a four alarm fire, or what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">She seems very nice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Daddy. Nice isn't the word. Nice is an insult. She's a peach. That's the only word for it, she's a peach. She even tastes like a peach. You can tell I'm in love with her. You can tell by my face, can't ya? It's a dead giveaway. It's written all over it. Ya know what? She loves me back. Take a seat, Pop, we gotta talk - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Clarence, just shut up, you're giving me a headache! I can't believe how much like your mother you are. You're your fuckin' mother through and through. I haven't heard from ya in three years. Then ya show up all of a sudden at eight o'clock in the morning. You walk in like a goddamn bulldozer... don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see you... just slow it down. Now, when did you get married? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Daddy, I'm in big fuckin' trouble and I really need your help. </p><p><p ID="act">BLACK TITLE CARD: "HOLLYWOOD" </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. OUTSIDE OF CASTING DIRECTOR'S OFFICER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">FOUR YOUNG ACTORS are sitting on a couch with sheets of paper in their hands silently mouthing lines. One of the actors is DICK RITCHIE. The casting director, MARY LOUISE RAVENCROFT, steps into the waiting room, clip board in hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Dick Ritchie? </p><p><p ID="act">Dick pops up from the pack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'm me... I mean, that's me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Step inside. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CASTING DIRECTOR'S OFFICE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">She sits behind a large desk. Her name-plate rests on the desktop. Several posters advertising "The Return of T.J. Hooker" hang on the wall. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick sits in a chair, holding his sheets in his hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Well, the part you're reading for is one of the bad guys. There's Brian and Marty. Peter Breck's already been cast as Brian. And you're reading for the part of Marty. Now in this scene you're both in a car and Bill Shatner's hanging on the hood. And what you're trying to do is get him off. <P ID="spkdir">(she picks a up a copy of the script) <P ID="dia">Whenever you're ready. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(reading and miming driving) <P ID="dia">Where'd you come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="spkdir">(reading from the script lifelessly) <P ID="dia">I don't know. He just appeared as magic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(reading from script) <P ID="dia">Well, don't just sit there, shoot him. </p><p><p ID="act">She puts her script down, and smiles at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">That was very good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">If we decided on making him a New York type, could you do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Sure. No problem. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Could we try it now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Absolutely. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick picks up the script and begins, but this time with a Brooklyn accent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Where'd he come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="spkdir">(monotone, as before) <P ID="dia">I don't know. He just appeared as magic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, don't just sit there, shoot him. </p><p><p ID="act">Ravencroft puts her script down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Well, Mr. Ritchie, I'm impressed. You're a very fine actor. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick smiles. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's completely aghast. He just stares, unable to come to grips with what Clarence has told him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, I don't know this is pretty heavy-duty, so if you wanna explode, feel free. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You're always making jokes. That's what you do, isn't it? Make jokes. Making jokes is the one thing you're good at, isn't it? But if you make a joke about this - <P ID="spkdir">(raising his voice) <P ID="dia">- I'm gonna go completely out of my fuckin' head! </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff pauses and collects himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What do you want from me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Stop acting like an infant. You're here because you want me to help you in some way. What do you need from me? You need money? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you still have friends on the force? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yes, I still have friends on the force. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Could you find out if they know anythin'? I don't know they know shit about us. But I don't wanna think, I wanna know. You could find out for sure what's goin' on. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Daddy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What makes you think I could do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You were a cop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What makes you think I would do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm your son. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You got it all worked out, don't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, goddamnit, I never asked you for a goddamn thing! I've tried to make your parental obligation as easy as possible. After Mom divorced you, did I ask you for anything? When I wouldn't see ya for six months to a year at a time, did you ever get your shit about it? No, it was always "OK", "No problem", "You're a busy guy, I understand". The whole time you were a drunk, did I ever point my finger at you and talk shit? No! Everybody else did. I never did. You see, I know that you're just a bad parent. You're not really very good at it. But I know you love me. I'm basically a pretty resourceful guy. If I didn't really need it I wouldn't ask. And if you say no, don't worry about it. I'm gone. No problems. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks in through the door carrying a shopping bag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">The forager's back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank God. I could eat a horse if you slap enough catsup on it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I didn't get any chicken. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's nine o'clock in the morning. Nothing's open. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - BEDROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's on the telephone in his bedroom, pacing as he talks. The living room od the trailer can be seen from his doorway, where Clarence and Alabama are horsing around. They giggle and cut up throughout the scene. As Cliff talks, all the noise and hubbub of a police station comes through over the line. He's talking to DETECTIVE WILSON, an old friend of his from the force. </p><p><p ID="act">We see both inside the conversation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">It's about that pimp that was shot a couple of days ago, Drexl Spivey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">What about him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Well, Ted, to tell you the truth, I found out through the grapevine that it might be, and I only said might be, the Drexl Spivey that was responsible for that restaurant break-in on Riverdale. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">Are you still working security for Foster & Langley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah, and the restaurant's on my route. And you know, I stuck my nose in for the company to try to put a stop to some of these break-ins. Now, while I have no proof, the name Drexl Spivey kept comin' up Who's case is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">McTeague. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I don't know him. Is he a nice guy? You think he'll help me out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">I don't see why not. When you gonna come round and see my new place? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You and Robin moved? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">Shit, are you behind. Me and Robin got a divorce six months ago. Got myself a new place - mirrors all over the bedroom, ceiling fans above the bed. Guy'd have to look as ugly as King Kong not to get laid in this place. I'm serious, a guy'd have to look like a gorilla. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER HOME - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Cliff stand by Clarence's 1965 red Mustang. Alabama's amusing herself by doing cartwheels and handstands in the background. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">They have nothing. In fact, they think it's drug related. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do tell. Why drug related? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Apparently, Drexl had a big toe stuck in shit like that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No shit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah. Drexl had an association with a fella named Blue Lou Boyle. Name mean anything to you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">If you don't hang around in this circle, no reason it should. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who is he? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Gangster. Drug Dealer. Somebody you don't want on your ass. Look, Clarence, the more I hear about this Drexl fucker, the more I think you did the right thing. That guy wasn't just some wild flake. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's what I've been tellin' ya. The guy was like a mad dog. So the cops aren't looking for me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Naw, until they hear something better they'll assume Drexl and Blue Lou had a falling out. So, once you leave twon, I wouldn't worry about it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sticks his hand out to shake. Cliff takes it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot, Daddy. You really came through for me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I got some money I can give you - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Keep it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Well, son, I want you to know I hope everything works out with you and Alabama. I like her. I think you make a cute couple. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We do make a cute couple, don't we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah, well, just stay outta trouble. Remeber, you got a wife to think about. Quit fuckin' around. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I love you son. </p><p><p ID="act">They hug each other, </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes a pice of paper out and puts it into Cliff's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This is Dick's number in Hollywood. We don't know where we'll be, but you can get a hold of me through him. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns toward Alabama and yells to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Bama, we're outta here. Kiss Pops goodbye, </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama runs across from where she was and throws her arms around Cliff and gives him a big smackeroo on the lips. Cliff's a little startled. Alabama's bubbling like a Fresca. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye, Daddy! Hope to see you again real soon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(mock anger) <P ID="dia">What kind of daughterly smackeroo was that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, hush up. </p><p><p ID="act">The two get into the Mustang. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">We'll send you a postcard as soon as we get to Hollywood. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence starts the engine. The convertible roof opens as they talk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Bama, you take care of that one for me. Keep him out of trouble. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Don't worry, Daddy, I'm keepin' this fella on a short leash. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, slowly, starts driving away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">As the sun sets slowly in the west we bid a fond farewell to all the friends we've made... and, with a touch of melancholy, we look forward to the time when we will all be together again. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence peels out, shooting a shower of gravel up in the air. </p><p><p ID="act">As the Mustang disappears Cliff runs his tongue over his lips. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF </p><p><p ID="act">The-son-of-a-bitch was right... she does taste like a peach. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's apartment is standard issue for a young actor. Things are pretty neat and clean. A nice stereo unit sits on the shelf. A framed picture of a ballet dancer's feet hangs on the wall. </p><p><p ID="act">The phone rings, Dick answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick here. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOTEL SUITE - LAS VEGAS - SUNSET </p><p><p ID="act">Top floor, Las Vegas, Nevada hotel room with a huge picture window overlooking the neon-filled strip and the flaming red and orange sunset sky. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence paces up and down with the telephone in his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(big bopper voice) <P ID="dia">Heeeellllloooo baaaabbbbbyyyy!!! </p><p><p ID="act">Note: We intercut both sides of the conversation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(unsure) <P ID="dia">Clarence? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You got it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's great to hear from you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, you're gonna be seein' me shortly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You comin' to L.A.? When? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What's up? Why're leavin' Detroit? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sits down on the hotel room bed. Alabama, wearing only a long T-shirt with a big picture of Bullwinkle on it, crawls behind him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, there's a story behind all that. I'll tell you when I see you. By the way, I won't be alone. I'm bringing my wife with me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Get the fuck outta here! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm a married man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Get the fuck outta here! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Believe it or not, I actually tricked a girl into falling in love with me. I'm not quite sure how I did it. I'd hate to have to do it again. But I did it. Wanna say hi to my better half? </p><p><p ID="act">Before Dick can respond Clarence puts Alabama on the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick. I'm Alabama Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hello, Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I can't wait to meet you. Clarence told me all about you. He said you were his best friend. So, I guess that makes you my best friend, too. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence start dictating to her what to say. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him we gotta go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence says we gotta be hittin' it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him we'll be hittin' his area some time tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">He said don't go nowhere. We'll be there some time tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Wait a minute - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him not to eat anything. We're gonna scarf when we get there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Don't eat anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Alabama, could you tell Clar - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ask him if he got the letter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Did you get the letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">What letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The letter I sent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">The letter he sent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence sent a letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Has he gotten his mail today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Gotten your mail yet? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, my room-mate leaves it on the TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Has he looked through it yet? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Ya looked through it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Not yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Nope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him to look through it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Get it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Let me speak to Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">He wants to speak with you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No time. Gotta go. Just tell him to read the letter, the letter explains all. Tell him I love him. And tell him, as of tomorrow, all his money problems are over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">He can't. We gotta go, but he wants you to read the letter. The letter explains it all. He wants you to know he loves you. And he wants you to know that as of tomorrow, all of your money problems are over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Money problems? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now tell him goodbye. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye-bye. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now hang up. </p><p><p ID="act">She hangs up the phone. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick hears the click on the other end. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hello, hello, Clarence? Clarence's wife?... I mean Alabama... hello? </p><p><p ID="act">Extremely confused, Dick jangs up the phone. He goes over to the TV and picks up the day's mail. He goes through it. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Southern California Gas Company. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Group W. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Fossenkemp Photography. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Columbia Record and Tape Club. </p><p><p ID="act">LETTER: It's obviously from Clarence. Addressed to Dick. Dick opens it. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">A lower-middle-class trailer park named Astro World, which has a neon sign in front of it in the shape of a planet. </p><p><p ID="act">A big, white Chevy Nova pulls into the park. It parks by a trailer that's slightly less kept up than the others. Cliff gets out of the Chevy. He's drinking out of a fast-food soda cup as he opens the door to his trailer. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">He steps inside the doorway and then, before he knows it, a gun is pressed to his temple and a big hand grabs his shoulder. </p><p><P ID="speaker">GUN CARRIER (DARIO) <P ID="dia">Welcome home, alchy. We're havin' a party. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff is roughly shoved into his living room. Waiting for him are four men, standing: VIRGIL, FRANKIE (young Wise-guy) LENNY (an old Wise-guy), and Tooth-pick Vic (a fireplug pitbull type). </p><p><p ID="act">Sitting in Cliff's recliner is VINCENZO COCCOTTI, the Frank Nitti to Detroid mob leader Blue Lou Boyle. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff is knocked to his knees. He looks up and sees the sitting Coccotti. Dario and Lenny pick him up and roughly drop him in a chair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(to Frankie) <P ID="dia">Tell Tooth-pick Vic to go outside and do you-know-what. </p><p><p ID="act">In Italian Frankie tells Tooth-pick Vic what Coccotti said. He nods and exits. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's chair is moved closer to Coccotti's. Dario stands on one side of Cliff. Frankie and Lenny ransack the trailer. Virgil has a bottle of Chivas Regal in his hand, but he has yet to touch a drop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Do you know who I am, Mr. Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I give up. Who are you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm the Anti-Christ. You get me in a vendetta kind of mood, you will tell the angels in heaven that you had never seen pure evil so singularly personified as you did in the face of the man who killed you. My name is Vincenzo Coccotti. I work as a counsel for Mr. Blue Lou Boyle, the man your son stole from. I hear you were once a cop so I assume you've heard od us before. Am I correct? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I've heard of Blue Lou Boyle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm glad. Hopefully that will clear up the how-full-of-shit-I-am question you've been asking yourself. Now, we're gonna have a little Q and A, and, at the risk of sounding redundant, please make your answers genuine. <P ID="spkdir">(taking out a pack of Chesterfields) <P ID="dia">Want a Chesterfield? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(as he lights up) <P ID="dia">I have a son of my own. About you boy's age. I can imagine how painful this must be for you. But Clarence and that bitch-whore girlfriend of his brought this all on themselves. And I implore you not to go down the road with 'em. You can always take comfort in the fact that you never had a choice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Look, I'd help ya if I could, but I haven't seen Clarence - </p><p><p ID="act">Before Cliff can finish his sentence, Coccotti slams him hard in the nose with his fist. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Smarts, don't it? Gettin' slammed in the nose fucks you all up. You got that pain shootin' through your brain. Your eyes fill up with water. It ain't any kind of fun. But what I have to offer you. That's as good as it's ever gonna get, and it won't ever get that good again. We talked to your neighbors. They saw a Mustang, a red Mustang, Clarence's red Mustang, parked in front of your trailer yesterday. Mr. Worley, have you seen your son? </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's defeated. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I've seen him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Now I can't be sure of how much of what he told you. So in the chance you're in the dark about some of this, let me shed some light. That whore your boy hangs around with, her pimp is an associate of mine, and I don't just mean pimpin', in other affairs he works for me in a courier capacity. Well, apparently, that dirty little whore found out when we're gonna do some business, 'cause your son, the cowboy and his flame, came in the room blastin' and didn't stop till they were pretty sure everybody was dead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What are you talkin' about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm talkin' about a massacre. They snatched my narcotics and hightailed it outta there. Wouldda gotten away with it, but your son, fuckhead that he is, left his driver's license in a dead guy's hand. A whore hiding in the commode filled in all the blanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I don't believe you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">That's of minor importance. But what's of major fuckin' importance is that I believe you. Where did they go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">On their honeymoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm gettin' angry askin' the same question a second time. Where did they go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">They didn't tell me. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Now, wait a minute and listen. I haven't seen Clarence in three years. Yesterday he shows up here with a girl, sayin' he got married. He told me he needed some quick cash for a honeymoon, so he asked if he could borrow five hundred dollars. I wanted to help him out so I wrote out a check. We went to breakfast and that's the last I saw of him. So help me God. They never thought to tell me where they were goin'. And I never thought to ask. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him for a long moment. He then gives Virgil a look. Virgil, quick as greased lightning, grabs Cliff's hand and turns it palm up. He then whips out a butterfly knife and slices Cliff's palm open and pours Chivas Regal on the wound. Cliff screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti puffs on a Chesterfield. </p><p><p ID="act">Tooth-pic Vic returns to the trailer, and reports in Italian that there's nothing in the car. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil walks into the kitchen and gets a dishtowel. Cliff holds his bleeding palm in agony. Virgil hands him the dishtowel. Cliff uses it to wrap up his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Sicilians are great liars. The best in the world. I'm a Sicilian. And my old man was the world heavyweight champion of Sicilian liars. And from growin' up with him I learned the pantomime. Now there are seventeen different things a guy can do when he lies to give him away. A guy has seventeen pantomimes. A woman's got twenty, but a guy's got seventeen. And if you know 'em like ya know your own face, they beat lie detectors to hell. What we got here is a little game of show and tell. You don't wanna show me nothin'. But you're tellin' me everything. Now I know you know where they are. So tell me, before I do some damage you won't walk away from. </p><p><p ID="act">The awful pain in Cliff's hand is being replaced by the awful pain in his heart. He looks deep into Coccotti's eyes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Could I have one of those Chesterfields now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Sure. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti leans over and hands him a smoke. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Got a match? </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Oh, don't bother. I got one. <P ID="spkdir">(he lights the cigarette) <P ID="dia">So you're a Sicilian, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(intensly) <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You know I read a lot. Especially things that have to do with history. I find that shit fascinating. In fact, I don't know if you know this or not, Sicilians were spawned by niggers. </p><p><p ID="act">All the men stop what they were doing and look at Cliff, except for Tooth-pic Vic who doesn't speak English and so isn't insulted. Coccotti can't believe what he's hearing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Come again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">It's a fact. Sicilians have nigger blood pumpin' through their hearts. If you don't believe me, look it up. You see, hundreds and hundreds of years ago the Moors conquered Sicily. And Moors are niggers. Way back then, Sicilians were like the wops in northern Italy. Blond hair, blue eyes. But, once the Moors moved in there, they changed the whole country. They did so much fuckin' with the Sicilian women, they changed the blood-line for ever, from blond hair and blue eyes to black hair and dark skin. I find it absolutely amazing to think that to this day, hundreds of years later, Sicilians still carry that nigger gene. I'm just quotin' history. It's a fact. It's written. Your ancestors were niggers. Your great, great, great, great, great-grandmother was fucked by a nigger, and had a half-nigger kid. That is a fact. Now tell me, am I lyin'? </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him for a moment then jumps up, whips out an automatic, grabs hold of Cliff's hair, puts the barrel to his temple, and pumps three bullets through Cliff's head. </p><p><p ID="act">He pushes the body violently aside. Coccotti pauses. Unable to express his feelings and frustrated by the blood in his hands, he simply drops his weapon, and turns to his men. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I haven't killed anybody since 1974. Goddamn his soul to burn for eternity in fuckin' hell for makin' me spill blood on my hands! Go to this comedian's son's apartment and come back with somethin' that tells me where that asshole went so I can wipe this egg off of my face and fix this fucked-up family for good. </p><p><p ID="act">Tooth-pick Vic taps Frankie's shoulder and, in Italianm asks him what that was all about. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny, who has been going through Cliff's refridgerator, has found a beer. When he closes the refridgerator door he finds a note held on by a ceramic banana magnet that says: "Clarence in L.A.: Dick Ritchie (number and address)". </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Boss, get ready to get happy. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "CLARENCE AND ALABAMA HIT L.A." </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT- MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's asleep in a recliner. He's wearing his clothes from the night before. His room-mate FLOYD is lying on the sofa watching TV. </p><p><p ID="act">The sound of our hands knocking on his door wakes Dick up. He shakes the bats out of his belfry, opens the door, and finds the cutest couple in Los Angeles standing in his doorway. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama immediately start singing "Hello My Baby" like the frog in the old Chuck Jones cartoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE/ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Hello my baby, Hello my honey, Hello my ragtime gal - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hi guys. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama throws her arms around Dick, and gives him a quick kiss. After she breaks, Clarence does the same. Clarence and Alabama walk right past Dick and into his apartment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Wow. Neat place. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. PINK'S HOT-DOG STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The Pink's employees work like skilled Benihana chefs as they assemble the ultimate masterpiece hot-dog. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. PINK'S HOT-DOG STAND - PATIO - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, and Dick are sitting at an outdoor table chowing down on chili dogs. Alabama is in the middle of a story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">... when my mom went into labor, my dad panicked. He never had a kid before, and crashed the car. Now, picture this: their car's demolished, crowd is starting to gather, my mom is yelling, going into contractions, and my dad, who was losing it before, is now completely screaming yellow zonkers. Then, out of nowhere, as if from thin air, this big giant bus appears, and the bus-driver says, "Get her in here.". He forgot all about his route and just drove straight to the hospital. So, because he was such a nice guy, they wanted to name the baby after him, as a sign of gratitude. Well, his name was Waldo, and no matter how grateful they were, even if I'da been a boy, they would't call me Waldo. So they asked Waldo where he was from. And, so there you go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">And here we are. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">That's a pretty amazing story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, she's a pretty amazing girl. What are women like out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Just like in Detroit, only skinnier. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You goin' out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, for the past couple of years I've been goin' out with girls from my acting class. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Good for you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What's so fuckin' good about it? Actresses are the most fucked-in-the-head bunch of women in the world. It's like they gotta pass a test of emotional instability before they can get their SAG card. Oh, guess what? I had a really good reading for "T.J. Hooker" the other day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You're gonna be on "T.J. Hooker"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Knock wood. </p><p><p ID="act">He knocks the table and then looks at it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">... formica. I did real well. I think she liked me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did you meet Captain Kirk? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You don't meet him in the audition. That comes later. Hope, hope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(finishing her hot-dog) <P ID="dia">That was so good I am gonna have another. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You can't have just one. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama leaves to get another hot-dog. Clarence never takes his eyes off her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">How much of that letter was on the up and up? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Every word of it. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick sees where Clarence's attention is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You're really in love, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">For the very first time in my life. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Do you know what that's like? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is so intense Dick doesn't know how to answer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(regretfully) <P ID="dia">No, I don't <P ID="spkdir">(he looks at Alabama) <P ID="dia">How did you two meet? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence leans back thoughtfully and takes a sip from his Hebrew cream soda. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you remember The Lyric? </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Sonny Chiba, as "Streetfighter" Terry Surki, drives into a group of guys, fists and feet flying and whips ass on the silver screen. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sits, legs over the back of the chair in front of him, nibbling on popcorn, eyes big as sourcers, and a big smile on his face. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A cab pulls up to the outside of The Lyric. The marquee carries the names of the triple feature: "The Streetfighter", "Return of the Streetfighter" and "Sister Streetfighter". Alabama steps out of the taxi cab and walks up to the box office. </p><p><p ID="act">A box office girl reading comic looks at her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">One please. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BOX OFFICE GIRL <P ID="dia">Ninety-nine cents. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Which one is on now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BOX OFFICE GIRL <P ID="dia">"Return of the Streetfighter". It's been on about forty-five minutes. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - LOBBY - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks into the lobby and goes over to the concession stand. A young usher takes care of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Can I have a medium popcorn? A super-large Mr. Pibb, and a box of Goobers. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's still assholes and elbows on the screen with Sonny Chiba taking on all-comers. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks through the doors with her bounty of food. She makes a quick scan of the theater. Not many people are there. She makes a beeline for the front whick happens to be Clarence's area of choice. She picks the row of seats just behind Clarence and starts asking her way down it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns and sees this beautiful girl all alone moving towards him. He turns his attention back to the screen, trying not to be so obvious. </p><p><p ID="act">When Alabama gets right behind Clarence, her foot thunks a discarded wine bottle, causing her to trip and spill her popcorn over Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, look what happened. Oh god, I'm so sorry. Are you OK? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. I'm fine. It didn't hurt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm the clumsiest person in the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(picking popcorn out of his hair) <P ID="dia">It's OK. Don't worry about it. Accidents happen. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(picking popcorn out of his hair) <P ID="dia">What a wonderful philosophy. Thanks for being such a sweetheart. You could have been a real dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama sits back in her seat to watch the movie. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence tries to wipe her out of his mind, which isn't easy, and get back into the movie. </p><p><p ID="act">They both watch the screen for a moment. Then, Alabama leans forward and taps Clarence on the shoulder. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Excuse me... I hate to bother you again. Would you mind too terribly filling me in on what I missed? </p><p><p ID="act">Jumping on this opportunity. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Not at all. I, this guy here, he's Sonny Chiba. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">The oriental. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The oriental in black. He's an assasin. Now, at the beginning he was hired to kill this guy the cops had. So he got himself arrested. They take him into the police station. And he starts kickin' all the cops' asses. Now, while keepin' them at bay, he finds the guy he was supposed to kill. Does a number on him. Kicks the cops' asses some more. Kicks the bars out of the window. And jumps out into a getaway car that was waiting for him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Want some Goobers? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I thought Sonny was the good guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He ain't so much good guy as he's just a bad motherfucker. Sonny don't be bullshittin'. He fucks dudes up for life. Hold on, a fight scene's coming up. </p><p><p ID="act">They both watch, eyes wide, as Sonny Chiba kicks asses. </p><p><p ID="right">TIME CUT: </p><p><p ID="act">On the screen, Sonny Chiba's all jacked up. Dead bodies lie all around him. THE END (in Japanese) flashes on the screen. </p><p><p ID="act">The theater light go up. Alabama's now sitting in the next seat to Clarence. They're both applauding. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Great movie. Action-packed! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Does Sonny kick ass or does Sonny kick ass? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sonny kicks ass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You shoulda saw the first original uncut version of the "Streetfighter". It was the only movie up to that time rated X for violence. But we just saw the R. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">If that was the R, I'd love to see the X. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">My name is Clarence, and what is yours? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Alabama Whitman. Pleased to meet ya. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is that your real name? Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">That's my real name, really. I got proof. See. </p><p><p ID="act">She shows Clarence her driver's license. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, cut my legs off and call me Shorty. That's a pretty original moniker there, Alabama. Sounds like a Pam Grier movie. <P ID="spkdir">(announcer voice) <P ID="dia">She's a sixteen-calibre kitten, equally equipped for killin' an' lovin'! She carried a sawed-off shotgun in her purse, a black belt around her waist, and the white-hot fire of hate in her eyes! Alabama Whitman is Pam Grier! Pray for forgiveness, Rated R... for Ruthless Revenge! </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are outside the theater. With the marquee lit up in the background they both perform unskilled martial arts moves. Clarence and Alabama break up laughing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Where's your car? I'll walk you to it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I took a cab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You took a cab to see three kung fu movies? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sure. Why not? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nothing. It's just you're a girl after my own heart. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What time is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">'Bout twelve. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I suppose you gotta get up early, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No. Not particularly. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Well, it's just when I see a really good movie I really like to go out and get some pie, and talk about it. It's sort of tradition. Do you like to eat pie after you've seen a good movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I love to get pie after a movie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Would you like to get some pie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'd love some pie. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DENNY'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are sitting in a booth at an all-night Denny's. It's about 12:40 a.m. Clarence is having a piece of chocolate cream pie and a coke. Alabama's nibbling on a peace of heated apple pie and sipping on a large Tab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, enough about the King. How about you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How 'bout me what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell me about yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">There's nothing to tell. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">C'mon. What're ya tryin' to be? The Phantom Lady? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What do you want to know? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, for starters, what do you do? Where're ya from? What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite movie star? What kinda music do you like? What are your turn-ons and turn-offs? Do you have a fella? What's the story behind you takin' a cab to the most dangerous part of town alone? And, in a theater full of empty seats, why did you sit by me? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama takes a bite of pie, puts down her fork, and looks at Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Ask me them again. One by one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What do you do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't remember. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Where are you from. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Might be from Tallahassee. But I'm not sure yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's your favorite color? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't remember. But off the top of my head, I'd say black. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's your favorite movie star? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Burt Reynolds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Would you like a bite of my pie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yes, I would. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence scoops up a piece on his fork and Alabama bites it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Very much. Now, where were we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What kinda music do you like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Phil Spector. Girl group stuff. You know, like "He's a Rebel". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What are your turn-ons? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Mickey Rourke, somebody who can appreciate the finer things in life, like Elvis's voice, good kung fu, and a tasty piece of pie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Turn-offs? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm sure there must be something, but I don't really remember. The only thing that comes to mind are Persians. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you have a fella? </p><p><p ID="act">She looks at Clarence and smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm not sure yet. Ask me again later. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's the story behind you takin' a cab to the most dangerous part of town alone? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Apparently, I was hit on the head with something really heavy, giving me a form of amnesia. When I came to, I didn't know who I was, where I was, or where I came from. Luckily, I had my driver's license or I wouldn't even know my name. I hoped it would tell me where I lived but it had a Tallahassee address on it, and I stopped somebody on the street and they told me I was in Detroit. So that was no help. But I did have some money on me, so I hopped in a cab until I saw somethin' that looked familiar. For some reason, and don't ask me why, that theater looked familiar. So I told him to stop and I got out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">And in a theater full of empty seats, why did you sit by me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Because you looked like a nice guy, and I was a little scared. And I sure couldda used a nice guy about that time, so I spilled my popcorn on you. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at her closely. He picks up his soda and sucks on the straw until it makes that slurping sound. He puts it aside and stares into her soul. </p><p><p ID="act">A smile cracks on her face and develops into a big wide grin. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Aren't you just dazzled by my imagination, lover boy? <P ID="spkdir">(eats her last piece of pie) <P ID="dia">Where to next? </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. COMIC BOOK STORE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's about 1:30 a.m. Clarence has taken Alabama to where he works. It's a comic book store called Heroes For Sale. Alabama thinks this place is super-cool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Wow. What a swell place to work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, I got the key, so I come here at night, hang out, read comic books, play music. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How long have you worked here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Almost four years. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">That's a long time. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm hip. But you know, I'm comfortable here. It's easy work. I know what I'm doing. Everybody who works here is my buddy. I'm friendly with most of the customers. I just hang around and talk about comic books all day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Do you get paid a lot? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's where trouble comes into paradise. But the boss let's you borrow some money if you need it. Wanna see what "Spiderman" number one looks like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You bet. How much is that worth? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence gets a box off the shelf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Four hundred bucks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I didn't even know they had stores that just sold comic books. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, we sell other things too. Cool stuff. "Man from U.N.C.L.E." Lunch boxes. "Green Hornet" board games. Shit like that. But comic books are main business. There's a lot of collectors around here. </p><p><p ID="act">She holds up a little GI Joe sized action figure of a black policeman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's a "Rookies" doll. George Sanford Brown. We gotta lotta dolls. They're real cool. Did you know they came out with dolls for all the actors in "The Black Hole"? I always found it funny somewhere there's a kid playin' with a little figure of Earnest Borgnine. </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls a plastic-cased "Spiderman" comic form the box. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Spiderman", number one. The one that started it all. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence shows the comic book to Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">God, Spiderman looks different. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He was just born, remember? This is the first one. You know that guy, Dr. Gene Scott? He said that the story of Spiderman is the story of Christ, just disguised. Well, I thought about that even before I heard him say it. Hold on, let me show you my favorite comic book cover of all time. </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls out another comic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos". One of the coolest series known to man. They're completely worthless. You can get number one for about four bucks. But that's one of the cool things about them, they're so cheap. <P ID="spkdir">(he opens one up) <P ID="dia">Just look at that artwork, will ya. Great stories. Great Characters. Look at this one. </p><p><p ID="act">We see the "Sgt. Fury" panels. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nick's gotten a ring from his sweetheart and he wears it around his neck on a chain. OK, later in the story he gets into a fight with a Nazi bastard on a ship. He knocks the guy overboard, but the Kraut grabs ahold of his chain and the ring goes overboard too. So, Nick dives into the ocean to get it. Isn't that cool? </p><p><p ID="act">She's looking into Clarence's eyes. He turns and meets her gaze. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Alabama, I'd like you to have this. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence hands her the "Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos" comic book that he loves so much. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's bedroom is a pop culture explosion. Movie posters, pictures of Elvis, anything you can imagine. The two walk through the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What a cool room! </p><p><p ID="act">She runs and does a jumping somersault into his bed. </p><p><p ID="act">Later. Alabama's sitting Indian-style going through Clarence's photo album. Clarence is behind her planting little kisses on her neck and shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oooooh, you look so cute in your little cowboy outfit. How old were you then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Five. </p><p><p ID="act">She turns the page. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, you look so cute as little Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I finally knew what I wanted when I grew up. </p><p><p ID="act">LATER - LIVING ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama slow dance in the middle of his room to Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know when you sat behind me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">At the movies? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Uh-huh, I was tryin' to think of somethin' to say to you, then I thought, she doesn't want me bothering her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What would make you think that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I dunno. I guess I'm just stupid. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You're not stupid. Just wrong. </p><p><p ID="act">They move to the music. Alabama softly, quietly sings some of the words to the song. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I love Janis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, a lot of people have misconceptions of how she died. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">She OD'd, didn't she? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, she OD'd. But wasn't on her last legs or anythin'. She didn't take too much. It shouldn't have killed her. There was somethin' wrong with what she took. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You mean she got a bad batch? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's what happened. In fact, when she died, it was considered to be the happiest time of her life. She'd been fucked over so much by men she didn't trust them. She was havin' this relationship with this guy and he asked her to marry him. Now, other people had asked to marry her before, but she couldn't be sure whether they really loved her or were just after her money. So, she said no. And the guy says, "Look, I really love you, and I wanna prove it. So have your lawyers draw up a paper that says no matter what happens, I can never get any of your money, and I'll sign it." So she did, and he asked her, and she said yes. And once they were engaged he told her a secret about himself that she never knew: he was a millionaire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">So he really loved her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">It's the next day, around 1 p.m. Clarence wakes up in his bed, alone. He looks around, and no Alabama. Then he hears crying in the distance. He puts on a robe and investigates. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's wearing one of Clarence's old shirts. She's curled up in a chair crying. Clarence approaches her. She tries to compose herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's wrong, sweetheart? Did I do something? What did I do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You didn't do nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did you hurt yourself? <P ID="spkdir">(he takes her foot) <P ID="dia">Whatd'ya do? Step on a thumbtack? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence, I've got something to tell you. I didn't just happen to be at the theater. I was paid to be there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What are you, a theater checker? You check up on the box office girls. Make sure they're not rippin' the place off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm not a theater checker. I'm a call girl. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You're a whore? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm a call girl. There's a difference, ya know. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't know. Maybe there's not. That place you took me to last night, that comic book place. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Heroes For Sale"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yeah, that one. Somebody who works there arranged to have me meet you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't know. I didn't talk with them. The plan was for me to bump into you, pick you up, spend the night, and skip out after you fell asleep. I was gonna write you a note and say that this was my last day in America. That I was leaving on a plane this morning up to Ukraine to marry a rich millionaire, and thank you for making my last day in America my best day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That dazzling imagination. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's over on the TV. All it says is: "Dear Clarence." I couldn't write anymore. I didn't not want to ever see you again. In fact, it's stupid not to ever see you again. Las night... I don't know... I felt... I hadn't had that much fun since Girl Scouts. So I just said, "Alabama, come clean, Let him know what's what, and if he tells you to go fuck yourself then go back to Drexl and fuck yourself." </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who and what is a Drexl? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">My pimp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You have a pimp? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A real live pimp? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he black? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">He thinks he is. He says his mother was Apache, but I suspect he's lying. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he nice? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Well, I wouldn't go so far as to call him nice, but he's treated me pretty decent. But I've only been there about four days. He got a little rough with Arlene the other day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What did he do to Arlene? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Slapped her around a little. Punched her in the stomch. It was pretty scary. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This motherfucker sounds charming! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is on his feet, furious. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Goddamn it, Alabama, you gotta get the fuck outta there! How much longer before he's slappin' you around? Punchin' you in the stomach? How the fuck did you get hooked up with a douche-bag like this in the first place? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">At the bus station. He said I'd be a perfect call girl. And that he knew an agency in California that, on his recommendation, would handle me. They have a very exclusive clientele: movie stars, big businessmen, total white-collar. And all the girls in the agency get a grand a night. At least five hundred. They drive Porsches, live in condos, have stockbrokers, carry beepers, you know, like Nancy Allen in "Dressed to Kill". And when I was ready he'd call 'em, give me a plane ticket, and send me on my way. He says he makes a nice finder's fee for finding them hot prospects. But no one's gonna pay a grand a night for a girl who doesn't know whether to shit or wind her watch. So what I'm doin' for Drexl now is just sorta learnin' the ropes. It seemed like a lotta fun, but I don't really like it much, till last night. You were only my third trick, but you didn't feel like a trick. Since it was a secret, I just pretended I was on a date. An, um, I guess I want a second date. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank you. I wanna see you again too. And again, and again, and again. Bama, I know we haven't known each other long, but my parents went together all throughout high school, and they still got a divorce. So, fuck it, you wanna marry me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Will you be my wife? </p><p><p ID="act">When Alabama gives her answer, her voice cracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(a little surprised) <P ID="dia">You will? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You better not be fucking teasing me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You better not be fuckin' teasin' me. </p><p><p ID="act">They seal it with a kiss. </p><p><p ID="act">LATER - THAT NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Alabama's wedding ring. </p><p><p ID="act">The newlyweds are snuggling up together onthe couch watching TV. The movie they're watching is "The Incredible One-Armed Boxer vs. the Master of the Flying Guillotine". Alabama watches the screen, but every so often she looks down to admre the ring on her hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did ya ever see "The Chinese Professionals"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't believe so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, that's the one that explains how Jimmy Wang Yu became the Incredible One-Armed Boxer. </p><p><p ID="act">We hear, off screen, the TV Announcer say: </p><p><P ID="speaker">TV ANNOUNCER <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">We'll return to Jimmy Wang Yu in... "The Incredible One-Armed Boxer vs. the Master of the Flying Guillotine", tonight's eight o'clock movie, after these important messages... </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at the TV. He feels the warmth of Alabama's hand holding his. We see commercials playing. </p><p><p ID="act">He turns in her direction. She's absent-mindedly looking at her wedding ring. </p><p><p ID="act">He smiles and turns back to the TV. </p><p><p ID="act">More commercials. </p><p><p ID="act">Dolly close on Clarence's face </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, right after he proposed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You better not be fucking teasing me. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">In a cute, all-night wedding chapel. Clarence dressed in a rented tuxedo and Alabama in a rented white wedding gown. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama, dressed in tux and gown, doing a lover's waltz on a ballroom dance floor. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama in a taxi cab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Hello, Mrs. Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How do you do, Mr. Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Top o' the morning, Mrs. Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bottom of the ninth . Mr. Worley. Oh, by the by, Mr. Worley, have you seen your lovely wife today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh, you're speaking of my charming wife Mrs. Alabama Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Of course. Are there others, Mr. Worley? </p><p><p ID="act">Moving on top of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Not for me. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts kissing her and moving her down on the seat. She resists. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(playfully) <P ID="dia">No no no no no no no no no... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(playfully) <P ID="dia">Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes... </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">A big mean-looking black man in pimp's clothes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">Bitch, you better git yo ass back on the street an' git me my money. </p><p><p ID="act">Pimp on street corner with his arm around Alabama, giving her a sales pitch to a potential customer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">I'm tellin' you, my man, this bitch is fine. This girl's a freak! You can fuck 'er in the ass, fuck 'er in the mouth. Rough stuff, too. She's a freak for it. Jus' try not to fuck 'er up for life. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Pimp beating Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">You holdin' out on me, girl? Bitch, you never learn! </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama passionately kissing the uninterested pimp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">Hang it up, momma. I got no time for this bullshit. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">TV showing kung fu film. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's face. There's definitely something different about his eyes. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence springs off the couch and goes into his bedroom. Alabama's startled by his sudden movement. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(yelling after him) <P ID="dia">Where you goin', honey? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I just gotta get somethin'. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence splashes water on his face, trying to wash away the images that keep polluting his mind. Then, he hears a familiar voice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FAMILIAR VOICE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">Well? Can you live with it? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns and sees that the voice belongs to Elvis Presley. Clarence isn't surprised to see him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Can you live with it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Live with what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">With that son-of-a-bitch walkin' around breathin' the same air as you? And gettin' away with it every day. Are you haunted? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">You wanna get unhaunted? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Then shoot 'em. Shoot 'em in the face. And feed that boy to the dogs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I can't believe what you're tellin' me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I ain't tellin' ya nothin'. I'm just sayin' what I'd do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You'd really do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">He don't got no right to live. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, Elvis, he is hauntin' me. He doesn't deserve to live. And I do want to kill him. But I don't wanna go to jail for the rest of my life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I don't blame you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">If I thought I could get away with it - </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Killin' 'em's the hard part. Gettin' away with it's the easy part. Whaddaya think the cops do when a pimp's killed? Burn the midnight oil tryin' to find who done it? They couldn't give a flyin' fuck if all the pimps in the whole wide world took two in the back of the fuckin' head. If you don't get caught at the scene with the smokin' gun in your hand, you got away with it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Clarence, I like ya. Always have, always will. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - A snub-nosed .38, which Clarence loads and sticks down his heavy athletic sock. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CALRENCE'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence returns. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sweetheart, write down your former address. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Write down Drexl's address. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Why? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">So I can go over there and pick up your things. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(really scared) <P ID="dia">No, Clarence. Just forget it, babe. I just wanna disappear from there. </p><p><p ID="act">He kneels down before her and holds her hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, sweetheart, he scares you. But I'm not scared of that motherfucker. He can't touch you now. You're completely out of his reach. He poses absolutely no threat to us. So, if he doesn't matter, which he doesn't, it would be stupid to lose your things, now wouldn't it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You don't know him - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't know me. Not when it comes to shit like this. I have to do this. I need for you to know you can count on me to protect you. Now write down the address. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "CASS QUARTER, HEART OF DETROIT" </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. DOWNTOWN DETROIT STREET - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's pretty late at night. Clarence steps out of his red Mustang. He's right smack dab in the middle of a bad place to be in daytime. He checks the pulse on his neck; it's beating like a race horse. To pump himself up he does a quick Elvis Presley gyration. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(in Elvis voice) <P ID="dia">Yeah... Yeah... </p><p><p ID="act">He makes a beeline for the front door of a large, dark apartment building. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DARK BUILDING - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">He's inside. His heart's really racing now. He has the TV guide that Alabama wrote the address on in his hand. He climbs a flight of stairs and makes his way down a dark hallway to apartment 22, the residence of Drexl Spivey. Clarence knock on the door. </p><p><p ID="act">A Young Black Man, about twenty years old, answers the door. He has really big biceps and is wearing a black and white fishnet football jersey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG BLACK MAN <P ID="dia">You want somethin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Drexl? </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG BLACK MAN <P ID="dia">Naw, man, I'm Marty. Watcha want? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I gotta talk to Drexl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Well, what the fuck you wanna tell him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It's about Alabama. </p><p><p ID="act">A figure jumps in the doorway wearing a yellow Farah Fawcett T-shirt. It's our friend, Drexl Spivey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Where the fuck is that bitch? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">She's with me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Who the fuck are you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm her husband. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Well. That makes us practically related. Bring your ass on in. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DREXL'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Marty about-face and walk into the room, continuing a conversation they were having and leaving Clarence standing in the doorway. This is not the confrontation Clarence expected. He trails in behind Drexl and Marty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">What was I sayin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Rock whores. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">You ain't seen nothin' like these rock whores. They ass be young man. They got that fine young pussy. Bitches want the rock they be a freak for you. They give you hips, lips, and fingertips. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl looks over his shoulder at Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You know what I'm talkin' about. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl gestures to one of the three stoned Hookers lounging about the apartment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">These bitches over here ain't shit. You stomp them bitches to death to get the kind of pussy I'm talkin' about. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl sits down at a couch with a card table in front of it, scattered with take-out boxes of Chinese food. A black exploitation movie is playing on TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Looky here, you want the bitches to really fly high, make your rocks with Cherry Seven-Up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Pussy love pink rocks. </p><p><p ID="act">This is not how Clarence expected to confront Drexl, but this is exactly what he expected Drexl to be like. He positions himself in front of the food table, demanding Drexl's attention. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(eating with chopsticks, to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Grab a seat there, boy. Want some dinner? Grab yourself an egg roll. We got everything here from a diddle-eyed-Joe to a damned-if-I-know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No thanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">No thanks? What does that mean? Means you ate before you came down here? All full. Is that it? Naw, I don't think so. I think you're too scared to be eatin'. Now, see we're sittin' down here, ready to negotiate, and you've already given up your shit. I'm still a mystery to you. But I know exactly where your ass is comin' from. See, if I asked you if you wanted some dinner and you grabbed an egg roll and started to chow down, I'd say to myself, "This motherfucker's carryin' on like he ain't got a care in the world. Who know? Maybe he don't. Maybe this fool's such a bad motherfucker, he don't got to worry about nothin', he just sit down, eat my Chinese, watch my TV." See? You ain't even sat down yet. On that TV there, since you been in the room, is a woman with her titties hangin' out, and you ain't even bothered to look. You just been starin' at me. Now, I know I'm pretty, but I ain't as pretty as a couple of titties. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes out an envelope and throws it on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not eatin' 'cause I'm not hungry. I'm not sittin' 'cause I'm not stayin'. I'm not lookin' at the movie 'cause I saw it seven years ago. It's "The Mack" with Max Julian, Carol Speed, and Richard Pryor, written by Bobby Poole, directed by Michael Campus, and released by Cinerama Releasing Company in 1984. I'm not scared of you. I just don't like you. In that envelope is some payoff money. Alabama's moving on to some greener pastures. We're not negotiatin'. I don't like to barter. I don't like to dicker. I never have fun in Tijuana. That price is non-negotiable. What's in that envelope is for my peace of mind. My peace of mind is worth that much. Not one penny more, not one penny more. </p><p><p ID="act">You could hear a pin drop. Once Clarence starts talking Marty goes on full alert. Drexl stops eating and the Whores stop breathing. All eyes are on Drexl. Drexl drops his chopsticks and opens the envelope. It's empty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">It's empty. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence flashes a wide Cheshire cat grin that says, "That's right, asshole." </p><p><p ID="act">Silence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Oooooooooh weeeeeeee! This child is terrible. Marty, you know what we got here? Motherfuckin' Charles Bronson. Is that who you supposed to be? Mr. Majestyk? Looky here, Charlie, none of this shit is necessary. I ain't got no hold on Alabama. I just tryin' to lend the girl a helpin' hand - </p><p><p ID="act">Before Drexl finishes his sentence he picks up the card table and throws it at Clarence, catching him of guard. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty comes up behind Clarence and throws his arm around his neck, putting him in a tight choke hold. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, with his free arm, hits Marty hard with his elbow in the solar plexus. We'll never know if that blow had any effect because at just that moment Drexl takes a flying leap and tackles the two guys. </p><p><p ID="act">All of them go crashing into the stereo unit and a couple of shelves that hold records, all of which collapse to the floor in a shower of LPs. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty, who's on the bottom of the pile, hasn't let go of Clarence. </p><p><p ID="act">Since Drexl's on top, he starts slamming fists into Clarence's face. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who's sandwiched between these two guys, can't do a whole lot about it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Ya wanna fuck with me? <P ID="spkdir">(hits Clarence) <P ID="dia">Ya wanna fuck with me? <P ID="spkdir">(hits Clarence) <P ID="dia">I'll show ya who you're fuckin' wit! </p><p><p ID="act">He hits Clarence hard in the face with both fists. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who has no leverage whatsoever, grabs hold of Drexl's face and digs his nails in. He sticks his thumb in Drexl's mouth, grabs a piece of cheek, and starts twisting. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty, who's in an even worse position, can do nothing but tighten his grip aroud Clarence's neck, until Clarence feels like his eyes are going to pop out of his head. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl's face is getting torn up, but he's also biting down hard on Clarence's thumb. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence raises his head and brings it down fast, crunching Marty's face, and busting his nose. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty loosens his grip around Clarence's neck. Clarence wiggles free and gets up on his knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Clarence are now on an even but awkward footing. The two are going at each other like a pair of alley cats, not aiming their punches, keeping them coming fast and furious. They're not doing much damage to each other because of their positions, it's almost like a hockey fight. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty sneaks up behind Clarence and smashes him in the head with a stack of LPs. This disorients Clarence. Marty grabs him from behind and pulls him to his feet. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl socks him in the face: one, two three! Then he kicks him hard in the balls. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty lets go and Clarence hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. He curls up into a fetal position and holds his balls, tears coming out of his eyes. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl's face is torn up from Clarence's nails. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty has blood streaming down his face frim his nose and on to his shirt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">You OK? That stupid dumb-ass didn't break your nose, did he? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Naw. It don't feel too good but it's alright. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl kicks Clarence, who's still on the ground hurting. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You see what you get when you fuck wit me, white boy? You're gonna walk in my goddamn house, my house! Gonna come in here and tell me! Talkin' smack, in my house, in front of my employees. Shit! Your ass must be crazy. <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">I don't think that white boy's got good sense. Hey, Marty. <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">He must of thought it was white boy day. It ain't white boy day, is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">Naw, man, it ain't white boy day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Shit, man, you done fucked up again. Next time you bogart your way into a nigger's crib, an' get all his face, make sure you do it on white boy day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(hurting) <P ID="dia">Wannabee nigger... </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Fuck you! My mother was Apache. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl kicks him again. Clarence curls up. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl bends down and looks for Clarence's wallet in his jacket. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence still can't do much. The kick to his balls still has him down. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl finds it and pulls it out. He flips it open to driver's license. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Well, well, well, looky what we got here. Clarence Worley. Sounds almost like a nigger name. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Hey, dummy. </p><p><p ID="act">He puts his foot on Clarence's chest. Clarence's POV as he looks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Before you bought your dumb ass through the door, I didn't know shit. I just chalked it up to au revoir Alabama. But, because you think you're some macho motherfucker, I know who she's with. You. I know who you are, Clarence Worley. And, I know where you live, 4900 116th street, apartment 48. And I'll make a million-dollar bet, Alabama's at the same address. Marty, take the car and go get 'er. Bring her dumb ass back here. </p><p><p ID="act">He hands Marty the driver's license. Maty goes to get the car keys and a jacket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">I'll keep lover boy here entertained. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You know the first thing I'll do when she gets here. I think I'll make her suck my dick, and I'll come all in her face. I mean it ain't nuttin' new. She's done it before. But I want you as a audience. <P ID="spkdir">(hollering to Marty) <P ID="dia">Marty, what the fuck are you doin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I'm tryin' to find my jacket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Look in the hamper. Linda's been dumpin' everybody's stray clothes there lately. </p><p><p ID="act">While Drexl has his attention turned to Marty, Clarence reaches into his sock and pulls out the .38. he stick the barrel between Drexl's legs. Drexl, who's standing over Clarence, looks down just in time to see Clarence pull the trigger and blow his balls to bits. Tiny spots of blood speckle Clarence's face. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl shrieks in horror and pain, and falls to the ground. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">What's happening? </p><p><p ID="act">Marty steps into the room. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence doesn't hesitate, he shoots Marty four times in the chest. </p><p><p ID="act">Two of three Hookers have run out of the front door, screaming. The other Hooker is curled up in the corner. She's too stoned to run, but stoned enough to be terrified. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl, still alive, is laying on the ground howling, holding what's left of his balls and his dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence points the gun at the remaining Hooker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Get a bag and put Alabama's thing in it! </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't move. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You wanna get shot? I ain't got all fuckin' day, so move it! </p><p><p ID="act">The Hooker, tears of fear ruining her mascara, grabs a suitcase from under the bed, and, on her hands and knees, pushes it along the floor to Clarence. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes it by the handle and wobbles over to Drexl, who's curled up like a pillbug. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Clarence's forgotten driver's license in Marty's bloody hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts his foot on Drexl's chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Drexl) <P ID="dia">Open you eyes, laughing boy. </p><p><p ID="act">He doesn't. Clarence gives him a kick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Open your eyes! </p><p><p ID="act">He does. It's now Drexl's POV from the floor. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You thought it was pretty funny, didn't you? </p><p><p ID="act">He fires. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - The bullet comes out of the gun and heads right toward us. When it reaches us, the screen goes awash in red. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The front swings open and Clarence walks in. Alabama jumps off the couch and runs toward Clarence, before she reaches him he blurts out: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I killed him. </p><p><p ID="act">She stops short. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I've got some food in the car, I'll be right back. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence leaves. Except for the TV playing, the room is quiet. Alabama sits on the couch. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks back into the room with a whole bounty of take-out food. He heaps it on to the coffee table and starts to chow down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Help yourself. I got enough. I am fuckin' starvin'. I think I ordered one of everythin'. </p><p><p ID="act">He stops and looks at here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I am so hungry. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts eating french fries and hamburgers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(in a daze) <P ID="dia">Was it him or you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. But to be honest, I put myself in that position. When I drove up there I said to myself, "If I can kill 'em and get away with it, I'll do it." I could. So I did. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Is this a joke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No joke. This is probably the best hamburger I've ever had. I'm serious, I've never had a hamburger taste this good. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama starts to cry. Clarence continues eating, ignoring her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Come on, Bama, eat something. You'll feel better. </p><p><p ID="act">She continues crying. He continues eating and ignoring her. Finally he spins on her, yelling: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Why are you crying? He's not worth one of your tears. Would you rather it had been me? Do you love him? <P ID="spkdir">(no answer) <P ID="dia">Do you love him? <P ID="spkdir">(no answer) <P ID="dia">Do you love him? </p><p><p ID="act">She looks at Clarence, having a hard time getting a word out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think what you did was... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think what you did... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">... was so romantic. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is completely taken back. They meet in a long, passionate lovers' kiss. Their kiss breaks and slowly the world comes back to normal. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I gotta get outta these clothes. </p><p><p ID="act">He picks up the suitcase and drops it on the table in front of them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(comically) <P ID="dia">Clean clothes. There is a god, </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence flips open the suitcase. Alabama's and her husband's jaws drop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence. Those aren't my clothes. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We see the Hollywood Holiday Inn sign. Pan to the parking lot where Clarence's empty red Mustang is parked. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CALRENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Dick's jaw drops. His hand reaches out of shot. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - The reason for all the jaw dropping... the suitcase is full of cocaine! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence smiles, holding a bottle of wine. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's watching the cable TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Holy Mary, Mother of God. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">This is great, we got cable. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Bama, you got your blade? </p><p><p ID="act">Keeping her eyes on the TV, she pulls out from her purse a Swiss army knife with a tiny dinosaur on it and tosses it to Clarence. Clarence takes off the corkscrew and opens the wine. </p><p><p ID="act">He pours some wine into a couple of hotel plastic cups, a big glass for Dick, a little one for himself. He hands it to Dick. Dick takes it and drinks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">This shit can't be real. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It'll get ya high. </p><p><p ID="act">He tosses the knife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you want some wine, sweetheart? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Nope. I'm not really a wine gal. </p><p><p ID="act">Using the knife, Dick snorts some of the cocaine. He jumps back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's fuckin' real! <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">It's fuckin' real! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I certainly hope so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You've got a helluva lotta coke there, man! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you have any idea how much fuckin' coke you got? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I don't know! A fuckin' lot! </p><p><p ID="act">He downs his wine. Clarence fills his glass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">This is Drexl's coke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Drexl's dead. This is Clarence's coke and Clarence can do whatever he wants with it. And what Clarence wants to do is sell it. Then me and Bama are gonna leave on a jet plane and spend the rest of our lives spendin'. So, you got my letter, have you lined up any buyers? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, Clarence, I'm not Joe Cocaine. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick gulps half of his wine. Clarence fills up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But you're an actor. I hear these Hollywood guys have it delivered to the set. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, they do. And maybe when I start being a successful actor I'll know those guys. But most of the people I know are like me. They ain't got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Now, if you want to sell a little bit at a time - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No way! The whole enchilada in one shot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you have any idea how difficult that's gonna be? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm offering a half a million dollars worth of white for two hundred thousand. How difficult can that be? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's difficult because you're sellin' it to a particular group. Big shots. Fat cats. Guys who can use that kind of quantity. Guys who can afford two hundred thousand. Basically, guys I don't know. You don't know. And, more important, they don't know you. I did talk with one guy who could possibly help you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he big league? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">He's nothing. He's in my acting class. But he works as an assistant to a very powerful movie producer named Lee Donowitz. I thought Donowitz could be interested in a deal like this. He could use it. He could afford it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What'd'ya tell 'em? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hardly anything. I wasn't sure from your letter what was bullshit, and what wasn't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's this acting class guy's name? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Elliot what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Elliot Blitzer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK, call 'im up and arrange a meeting, so we can get through all the getting to know you stuff. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Where? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">The zoo. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">The zoo. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What are you waiting for? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Would you just shut up a minute and let me think? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's to think about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Shut up! First you come waltzing into my life after two years. You're married. You killed a guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Two guys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Two guys. Now you want me to help you with some big drug deal. Fuck, Clarence, you killed somebody and you're blowin' it off like it don't mean shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't expect me to be all broken up over poor Drexl. I think he was a fuckin', freeloadin', parasitic scumbag, and he got exactly what he deserved. I got no pity for a mad dog like that. I think I should get a merit badge or somethin'. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick rests his head in his hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, buddy, I realize I'm layin' some pretty heavy shit on ya, but I need you to rise to the occasion. So, drink some more wine. Get used to the idea, and get your friend to the phone. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - A black panther, the four-legged kind, paces back and forth. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, Dick and Elliot Blitzer are walking through the zoo. One look at Elliot and you can see what type of actor he is, a real GQ, blow-dry boy. As they walk and talk, Clarence is eating a box of animal crackers and Alabama is blowing soap bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">So you guys got five hundred thousand dollars worth of cola that you're unloading - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Want an animal cracker? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah, OK. </p><p><p ID="act">He takes one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Leave the gorillas. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">- that you're unloading for two hundred thousand dollars - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Unloading? That's a helluva way to describe the bargain of a lifetime. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(trying to chill him out) <P ID="dia">Clarence... </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Where did you get it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I grow it on my window-sill. The lights really great there and I'm up high enough so you can't see it from the street. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(forcing a laugh) <P ID="dia">Ha ha ha. No really, where does it come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Coco leaves. You see, they take the leaves and mash it down until it's kind of a paste - </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(turning to Dick) <P ID="dia">Look, Dick, I don't - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">No problem, Elliot. I'm just fuckin' wit ya, that's all. Actually, I'll tell you but you gotta keep it quiet. Understand, if Dick didn't assure me you're good people I'd just tell ya, none of your fuckin' business. But, as a sign of good faith, here it goes: I gotta friend in the department. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What department? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What do you think, eightball? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">The police department? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Duh. What else would I be talking about? Now stop askin' stupid doorknob questions. Well, a year and a half ago, this friend of mine got access to the evidence room for an hour. He snagged this coke. But, he's a good cop with a wife and a kid, so he sat on it for a year and a half until he found a guy he could trust. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">He trusts you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We were in Four H together. We've known each other since childhood. So, I'm handling the sales part. He's my silent partner and he knows if I get fucked up, I won't drop dime on him. I didn't tell you nothin' and you didn't hear nothin'. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Sure. I didn't hear anything. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is more than satisfied. Clarence makes a comical face at Dick when Elliot's not looking. Dick is wearing I-don't-believe-this-guy expresion. Alabama is forever blowing bubbles. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - SNACK BAR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We're in the snack bar area of the zoo. Alabama, Dick, and Elliot are sitting around a plastic outdoor table. Clarence is pacing around the table as he talks. Alabama is still blowing bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">Do I look like a beautiful blond with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice-cream? </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot hasn't the slightest idea what that is supposed to mean. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do I look like a beautiful blond with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice-cream? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(with conviction) <P ID="dia">No. No, you don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Then why are you telling me all this bullshit just so you can fuck me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Let me handle this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Get it straight, Lee isn't into taking risks. He deals with a couple of guys, and he's been dealing with them for years. They're reliable. They're dependable. And, they're safe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Riddle me this, Batman. If you're all so much in love with each other, what the fuck are you doing here? I'm sure you got better things to do with your time than walk around in circles starin' up a panther's ass. Your guy's interested because with that much shit at his fingertips he can play Joe fuckin' Hollywood till the wheels come off. He can sell it, he can snort it, he can play Santa Claus with it. At the price he's payin', he'll be everybody's best friend. And, you know, that's what we're talkin' about here. I'm not puttin' him down. Hey, let him run wild. Have a ball, it's his money. But, don't expect me to hang around forever waitin' for you guys to grow some guts. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot has been silenced. He nods his head in agreement. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. PORSCHE - MOVING - MULHOLLAND DRIVE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Movie producer, Lee Donowitz, is driving his Porsche through the winding Hollywood hills, just enjoying being rich and powerful. His cellular car phone rings, he answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Hello. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Elliot, it's Sunday. Why am I talkin' to you on Sunday? I don't see enough of you during the week I gotta talk to you on Sunday? Why is it you always call me when I'm on the windiest street in L.A.? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is on the zoo payphone. Clarence is next to him. Dick is next to Clarence. Alabama is next to Dick, blowing bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(on phone) <P ID="dia">I'm with that party you wanted me to get together with. Do you know what I'm talking about, Lee? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Store-fronts whiz by in the background. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Why the hell are you calling my phone to talk about that? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Well, he'd here right now, and he insists on talking to you. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">In the 7th street tunnel. Lee's voice echoes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Are you outta your fuckin' mind? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You said if I didn't get you on the - </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes the receiverout of Elliot's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(into phone) <P ID="dia">Hello, Lee, it's Clarence. At last we meet. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil's knocking on Dick's door. Floyd (Dick's room-mate) answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Hello, is Dick Ritchie here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw, he ain't home right now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Do you live here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yeah, I live here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Sorta room-mates? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Exactly room-mates. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Maybe you can help me. Actually, who I'm looking for is a friend of ours from Detroit. Clarence Worley? I heard he was in town. Might be travelling with a pretty girl named Alabama. Have you seen him? Are they stayin' here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw, they ain't stayin' here. But, I know who you're talkin' about. They're stayin' at the Hollywood Holiday Inn. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">How do you know? You been there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">No, I ain't been there. But I heard him say. Hollywood Holiday Inn. Kinda easy to remember. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You're right. It is. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - PAYPHONE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is still on the phone with Lee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Lee, the reason I'm talkin' with you is I want to open "Doctor Zhivago" in L.A. And I want you to distribute it. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Stopped in the traffic on Sunset Boulevard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I don't know, Clarence, "Doctor Zhivago" is a pretty big movie. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The biggest. The biggest movie you've ever dealt with, Lee. We're talkin' a lot of film. A man'd have ta be an idiot not to be a little cautious about a movie like that. And Lee, you're no idiot. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">He's still on Sunset Boulevard, the traffic's moving better now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I'm not sayin' I'm not interested. But being a distributer's not what I'm all about. I'm a film producer, I'm on this world to make good movies. Nothing more. Now, having my big toe dipped into the distribution end helps me on many levels. </p><p><p ID="act">Traffic breaks and Lee speeds along. The background whizzes past him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(continuing) <P ID="dia">But the bottom line is: I'm not Paramount. I have a select group of distributers I deal with. I buy their little movies. Accomplish what I wanna accomplish, end of story. Easy, business-like, very little risk. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now that's bullshit, Lee. Every time you buy one of those little movies it's a risk. I'm not sellin' you something that's gonna play two weeks, six weeks, then go straight to cable. This is "Doctor Zhivago". This'll be packin' 'em in for a year and a half. Two years! That's two years you don't have to work with anybody's movie but mine. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Speeding down a benchside road. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Well, then, what's the hurry? Is it true the rights to "Doctor Zhivago" are in arbitration? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I wanna be able to announce this deal at Cannes. If I had time for a courtship, Lee, I would. I'd take ya out, I'd hold your hand, I'd kiss you on the cheek at the door. But, I'm not in that position. I need to know if we're in bed together, or not. If you want my movie, Lee, you're just gonna have to come to terms with your Fear and Desire. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. Clarence hands the phone to Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">He wants to talk ya. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(into phone) <P ID="dia">Mr. Donowitz? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told you, through Dick. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">He's in my acting class. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">About a year. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Yeah, he's good. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">They grew up together. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Sure thing. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot hangs up the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">He says Wednesday at three o'clock at the Beverly Wilshire. He wants everybody there. <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Clarence) <P ID="dia">He'll talk to you. If after talkin' to you he's convinced you're OK, he'll do business. If not, he'll say fuck it and walk out the door. He also wants a sample bag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No problems on both counts. </p><p><p ID="act">He offers Elliot the animal crackers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Have a cookie. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot takes one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Thanks. </p><p><p ID="act">He puts it in the mouth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That wasn't a gorilla, was it? </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The red Mustang with Clarence and Alabama pulls up to the hotel. Alabama hops out. Clarence stays in. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You did it, Quickdraw. I'm so proud of you. You were like a ninja. Did I do my part OK? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Babalouey, you were perfect, I could hardly keep from busting up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I felt so stupid just blowing those bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You were chillin', kind of creepy even. You totally fucked with his head. I'm gonna go grab dinner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm gonna hop in the tub and get all wet, and slippery, and soapy. Then I'm gonna lie in the waterbed, not even both to dry off, and watch X-rated movies till you get your ass back to my lovin' arms. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We now return to "Bullit" already in progress. </p><p><p ID="act">He slams the Mustang in reverse and peels out of the hotel. Alabama walks her little walk from the parking lot to the pool area. Somebody whistles at her, she turns to them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><p ID="act">She gets to her door, takes out the key, and opens the door. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CALRENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">She steps in only to find Virgil sitting on a chair placed in front of the door with a sawed-off shotgun aimed right at her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="spkdir">(calmly) <P ID="dia">Step inside and shut the door. </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't move, she's frozen. Virgil leans forward. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="spkdir">(calmly) <P ID="dia">Lady. I'm gonna shoot you in the face. </p><p><p ID="act">She does exactly as he says. Virgil rises, still aiming the sawed-off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Step away from the door, move into the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">She does. He puts the shotgun down on the chair, then steps closer to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, Alabama, where's our coke, where's Clarence, and when's he coming back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think you got the wrong room, my name is Sadie. I don't have any Coke, but there's a Pepsi machine downstairs. I don't know any Clarence, but maybe my husband does. You might have heard of him, he plays football. Al Lylezado. He'll be home any minute, you can ask him. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil can't help but smile. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You're cute. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil jumps up and does a mid-air kung fu kick which catches Alabama square in the face, lifting her off the ground and dropping her flat on her back. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, in his car, driving to get something to eat, singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(singing) <P ID="dia">"Land of stardust, land of glamour, Vistavision and Cinema, Everything about it is a must, To get to Hollywood, or bust..." </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's laying flat. She actually blacks out for a moment, but the salty taste of the blood in her mouth wakes her up. She opens her eyes and sees Virgil standing there, smiling. She closes them, hoping it's a dream. They open again to the same sight. She has never felt more helpless in her life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Hurts, don't it? It better. Took me a long time to kick like that. I'm third-degree blackbelt, you know? At home I got trophies. Tournaments I was in. Kicked all kinds of ass. I got great technique. You ain't hurt that bad. Get on your feet, Fruitloop. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama wobbily complies. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Where's our coke? Where's Clarence? And when he's comin' back? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama looks in Virgil's eyes and realizes that without a doubt she's going to die, because this man is going to kill her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Go take a flying fuck and a rolling donut. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil doesn't waste a second. He gives her a sidekick straight to the stomach. The air is sucked out of her lungs. She falls to her knees. She's on all fours gasping for air that's just not there. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil whips out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He lights one up with a Zippo lighter. He takes a long, deep drag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Whatsamatta? Can't breathe? Get used to it. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HAMBURGER STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks through the door of some mom and pop fast-food restaurant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Woah! Smells like hamburgers in here! What's the biggest, fattest hamburger you guys got? </p><p><p ID="act">The Iranian Guy at the counter says: </p><p><P ID="speaker">IRANIAN GUY <P ID="dia">That would be Steve's double chili cheeseburger. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I want two of them bad boys. Two large orders of chili fries. Two large Diet Cokes. <P ID="spkdir">(looking at a menu at the wall) <P ID="dia">And I'll tell you what, why don't you give me a combination burrito as well. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama is violently thrown into a corner of the room. She braces herself against the wall. She is very punchy. Virgil steps in front of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You think your boyfriend would go through this kind of shit for you? Dream on, cunt. You're nothin' but a fuckin' fool. And your pretty face is gonna turn awful goddamn ugly in about two seconds. Now, where's my fuckin' coke? </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't answer. He delivers a spinning roundhouse kick on the head. Her head slams into the left side of the wall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Where's Clarence?! </p><p><p ID="act">Nothing. He gives her another kick to the head, this time from the other side. Her legs start to give way. He catches her and throws her back. He slaps her lightly in the face to revive her, she looks at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">When's Clarence getting back? </p><p><p ID="act">She can barely raise her arm, but she somehow manages, and she gives him the middle finger. Virgil can't help but smile. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You gotta lot of heart, kid. </p><p><p ID="act">He gives her a spinning roadhouse kick to the head that sends her to the floor. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HAMBURGER STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Burgers sizzling on a griddle, Chili and cheese is put on them. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is waiting for his order. He notices a CUSTOMER reading a copy of "Newsweek" with Elvis on the cover. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's a great issue. </p><p><p ID="act">The Customer lowers his magazine a little bit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">Yeah, I subscribe. It's a pretty decent one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Have you read the story on Elvis? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">No. Not yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, I saw it on the stands, my first inclination was to buy it. But, I look at the price and say forget it, it's just gonna be the same old shit. I ended up breaking down and buying it a few days later. Man, I was ever wrong. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">That good, huh? </p><p><p ID="act">He takes the magazine from the Customer's hands and starts flipping to the Elvis article. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It tried to pin down what the attraction is after all these years. It covers the whole spectrum of fans, the people who love his music, the people who grew up with him, the artists he inspired - Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and the fanatics, like these guys. I don't know about you, but they give me the creeps. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia"> I can see what you mean. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like, look at her. She looks like she fell off an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Elvis wouldn't fuck her with Pat Boone's dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Customer laugh. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's pretty beat up. She has a fat lip and her face is black and blue. She's crawling around on the floor. Virgil is tearing the place apart looking for the cocaine. He's also carrying on a running commentary. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia"> Now the first guy you kill is always the hardest. I don't care if you're the Boston Strangler or Wyatt Earp. You can bet that Texas boy, Charles Whitman, the fella who shot all them guys from that tower, I'll bet you green money that that first little black dot that he took a bead on, was the bitch of the bunch. No foolin' the first one's a tough row to hoe. Now, the second one, while it ain't no Mardi Gras, it ain't half as tough row to hoe. You still feel somethin' but it's just so deluted this time around. Then you completely level off on the third one. The third one's easy. It's gotten to the point now I'll do it just to watch their expressions change. </p><p><p ID="act">He's tearing the motel room up in general. Then he flips the matress up off the bed, and the black suitcase is right there. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's crawling, unnoticed to where her purse is lying. Virgil flips open the black case and almost goes snow blind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Well, well, well, looky here. I guess I just reached journey's end. Great. One less thing I gotta worry about. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil closes the case. Alabama sifts through her purse. </p><p><p ID="act">She pulls out her Swiss army knife, opens it up. Virgil turns toward her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, Sugarpop, we've come to what I like to call the moment of truth - </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama slowly rises clutching the thrust-out knife in both hands. Mr. Karate-man smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Kid, you got a lotta heart. </p><p><p ID="act">He moves toward her. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's hands are shaking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you a free swing. Now, I only do that for people I like. </p><p><p ID="act">He moves close. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's eyes study him. He grabs the front of his shirt and rips it open. Buttons fly everywhere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Go ahead, girl, take a stab at it. <P ID="spkdir">(giggling) <P ID="dia">You don't have anything to lose. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Alabama's face. Virgil's right, she doesn't have anything to lose. Virgil's also right about his being the moment of truth. The ferocity in women that comes out at certain times, and is just here under the surface in many women all of the time, is unleashed. The absolute feeling of helplessness she felt only a moment ago has taken a one hundred and eighty degree turn into "I'll take this motherfucker with me if it's the last thing I do" seething hatred. </p><p><p ID="act">Letting out a bloodcurling yell, she raises the knfe high above her head, then drops to her knees and plunges it deep into Virgil's right foot. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - VIRGIL'S FACE </p><p><p ID="act">Talk about bloodcurling yells. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil bends down and carefully pulls the knife from his foot, tears running down his face. </p><p><p ID="act">While Virgil's bent down, Alabama smashes an Elvis Presley whiskey decanter that Clarence bought her in Oklahoma over his head. It's only made of plaster, so it doesn't kill him. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil's moving toward Alabama, limping on his bad foot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, no more Mr. Nice-guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama picks up the hotel TV and tosses it to him. He instinctively catches it and, with his arms full of television, Alabama cold-cocks him with her fist in the nose, breaking it. </p><p><p ID="act">Her eyes go straight to the door, then to the sawed-off shotgun by it. She runs to it, bends over the chair for the gun. Virgil's left foot kicks her in the back, sending her flying over the chair and smashing into the door. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil furiously throws the chair out of the way and stands over Alabama. Alabama's lying on the ground laughing. Virgil has killed a lot of people, but not one of them has ever laughed before he did it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">What's so fuckin' funny?!! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">You look so ridiculous. </p><p><p ID="act">She laughs louder. Virgil's insane. He picks her off the floor, then lifts her off the ground and throws her through the glass shower door in the bathroom. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Laugh it up, cunt. You were in hysterics a minute ago. Why ain't you laughing now? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, lying in the bathtub, grabs a small bottle of hotel shampoo and squeezes it out in her hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil reaches in the shower and grabs hold of her hair. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama rubs the shampoo in his face. He lets go of her and his hands go to his eyes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Oh Jesus! </p><p><p ID="act">She grabs hold of a hefty piece of broken glass and plunges it into his face. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Oh Mary, help me! </p><p><p ID="act">The battered and bruised and bloody Alabama emerges from the shower. She's clutching a big, bloody piece of broken glass. She's vaguely reminiscent of a Tasmanian devil. Poor Virgil can't see very well, but he sees her figure coming toward him. He lets out a wild haymaker that catches her in the jaw and knocks her into the toilet. </p><p><p ID="act">He recovers almost immediately and takes the porcelain lid off the back of the toilet tank. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil whips out a .45 automatic from his shoulder holster, just as Alabama brings the lid down on his head. He's pressed up against the wall with this toilet lid hitting him. He can't get a good shot in this tight environment, but he fires anyway, hitting the floor, the all, the toilet, and the sink. </p><p><p ID="act">The toilet lid finally shatters against Virgil's head. He falls to the ground. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama goes to the medicine cabinet and whips out a big can of Final Net hairspray. She pulls a Bic lighter out of her pocket, and, just as Virgil raises his gun at her, she flicks the Bic and sends a stream of hairspray through the flame, which results in a big ball of fire that hits Virgil right in the face. </p><p><p ID="act">He fires off two shots. One hits the wall, another hits the sink pipe, sending water spraying. </p><p><p ID="act">Upon getting his face fried Virgil screams and jumps up, knocking Alabama down, and runs out of the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil collapses on the floor of the living room. Then, he sees the sawed-off laying on the ground. He crawls toward it. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, in the bathroom, sees where he's heading. She picks up the .45 automatic and fires at him. It's empty. She's on her feet and into the room. </p><p><p ID="act">He reaches the shotgun, his hands grasp it. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama spots and picks up the bloody Swiss army knife. She takes a knife-first-running-dive at Virgil's back. She hits him. </p><p><p ID="act">He arches up, firing the sawed-off into the ceiling, dropping the gun, and sending a cloud of plaster and stucco all over the room. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama snatches the shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Arched over on his back Virgil and Alabama make eye contact. </p><p><p ID="act">The first blast hits him in the shoulder, almost tearing his arm off. The second hits him in the knee. The third plays hell with his chest. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama then runs at him, hitting him in the head with the butt of the shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Ever since he's been firing it's as if some other part of her brain has been functioning independently. She's been absent-mindedly saying the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who's been hearing gunshots, bursts through the door, gun drawn, only to see Alabama, hitting a dead guy on the head, with a shotgun. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Honey? </p><p><p ID="act">She continues. He puts his gun away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sweetheart? Cops are gonna be here any minute, </p><p><p ID="act">She continues. He takes the gun away from her, and she falls to the ground. She lies on the floor trembling, continuing with the downward swings of her arms. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence grabs the shotgun and the cocaine, and tosses Alabama over his shoulder. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Everybody is outside their rooms watching as Clarence walks through the pool area with his bundle. Sirens can be heard. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is driving like mad. Alabama's passed out in the passenger seat. She's muttering to herself. Clarence has one hand on the steering wheel and the other strokes Alabama's hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sleep baby. Don't dream. Don't worry. Just sleep. You deserve better than this. I'm so sorry. Sleep my angel. Sleep peacefully. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MOTEL 6 - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A new motel. Clarence's red Mustang is parked outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOTEL 6 - CLARENCE'S ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, with a fat lip and a black and blue face, is asleep in bed. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. NOWHERE </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is in a nondescript room speaking directly to the camera. He's in a headshot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I feel so horrible about what she went through. That fucker really beat the shit out of her. She never told him where I was. It's like I always felt that the way she felt about me was a mistake. She couldn't really care that much. I always felt in the back of my mind, I don't know, she was jokin'. But, to go through that and remain loyal, it's very easy to be unraptured with words, but to remain loyal when it's easier, even excusable, not to - that's a test of oneself. That's a true romance. I swear to God, I'll cut off my hands and gouge out my eyes before I'll every let anything happen to that lady again. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HILLS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A wonderful, gracefully flowing shot of the Hollywood Hills. Off in the distance we hear the roar of a car engine. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MULLHOLLAND DRIVE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Vaaarrroooooommmm!!! A silver Porsche is driving hells bells, taking quick corners, pushing it to the edge. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING PORSCHE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot Blitzer is the driver, standing on it. A blond, glitzy Coke Whore is sitting next to him. They're having a ball. Then they're seeing a red and blue light flashing in the rear-view window. It's the cops. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Fuck! I knew it! I fucking knew it! I should have my head examined, driving like this! <P ID="spkdir">(he pulls over) <P ID="dia">Kandi, you gotta help me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">What can I do? </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls out the sample bag of cocaine that Clarence gave him earlier. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You gotta hold this for me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">You must be high. Uh-huh. No way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(frantically) <P ID="dia">Just put it in your purse. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">I'm not gonna put that shit in my purse. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">They won't search you. I promise. You haven't done anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">No way, Jos. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Please, they'll be here any minute. Just put it in your bra. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">I'm not wearing a bra. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(pleading) <P ID="dia">Put it in your pants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You're the one who wanted to drive fast. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">Read my lips. </p><p><p ID="act">She mouths the word "no". </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">After all I've done for you, you fuckin' whore!! </p><p><p ID="act">She goes to slap him, she hits the bag of cocaine instead. It rips open. Cocaine completely covers his blue suit. At that moment Elliot turns to face a flashing beam. Tears fill his eyes. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. POLICE STATION - INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is sitting in a chair at the table. Two young, good-looking, casually dressed, Starsky and Hutch-type POLICE DETECTIVES are questioning him. They're known in the department as Nicholson and Dimes. The dark-haired one is Cody Nicholson, and the blond is Nicky Dimes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Look, sunshine, we found a sandwich bag of uncut cocaine - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Not a tiny little vial - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">But a fuckin' baggie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">No don't sit here and feed us some shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You got caught. It's all fun and fuckin' games till you get caught. But now we gotcha. OK, Mr. Elliot actor, you've just made the big time - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You're no longer an extra - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Or a bit player - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Or a supporting actor - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You're a fuckin' star! And you're gonna be playin' your little one-man show nightly for the next two fuckin' years for a captive audience - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">But there is a bright side though. If you ever have to play a part of a guy who gets fucked in the ass on a daily basis by throat-slitting niggers, you'll have so much experience to draw on - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">And just think, when you get out in a few years, you'll meet some girl, get married, and you'll be so understanding to your wife's needs, because you'll know what it's like to be a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">'Course you'll wanna fuck her in the ass. Pussy just won't feed right anymore - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">That is, of course, if you don't catch Aids from all your anal intrusions. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot starts crying. Nicholson and Dimes exchange looks and smile. Mission accomplished. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. POLICE STATION - CAPTAIN KRINKLE'S OFFICE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CAPTAIN BUFFORD KRINKLE is sitting behind his desk, where he spends about seventy-five percent of his day. He's you standard rough, gruff, no-nonsense, by-the-book-type police captain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia"> Nicholson! Dimes! Het in here! </p><p><p ID="act">The two casually dressed, sneaker-wearing cops rush in, both shouting at once. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Krinkle, this is it. We got it, man. And it's all ours. I mean talk about fallin' into somethin'. You shoulda seen it, it was beautiful. Dimes is hittin' him from the left about being fucked in the ass by niggers, I'm hittin' him form the right about not likin' pussy anymore, finally he starts cryin', and then it was all over - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia"> Krinkle, you're lookin' at the two future cops of the month. We have it, and if I say we, I don't mean me and him, I'm referring to the whole department. Haven't had a decent bust this whole month. Well, we mighta come in like a lamb, but we're goin' out like a lion - </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Both you, idiots shut up, I can't understand shit! Now, what's happened, what's going on, and what are you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Okee-dokee. It's like this, Krinkle; a patrol car stops this dork for speeding, they walk up to window and the guy's covered in coke. So they bring his ass in and me an' Nicholson go to work on him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Nicholson and I. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Nicholson and I go to work on him. Now er know somthing's rotten in Denmark, 'cause this dickhead had a big bag, and it's uncut, too, so we're sweatin' him, trying to find out where he got it. Scarin' the shit outta him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Which wasn't too hard, the guy was a real squid. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">So we got this guy scared shitless and he starts talkin'. And, Krinkle, you ain't gonna fuckin' believe it. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. RESTAURANT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Detroit. Very fancy restaurant. Four wise-guy Hoods, one older, the other three, youngsters, are seated at the table with Mr. Coccotti. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">- And so, tomorrow morning comes, and no Virgil. I check with Nick Cardella, who Virgil was supposed to leave my narcotics with, he never shows. Now, children, somebody is stickin' a red-hot poker up my asshole and what I don't know is whose hand's on the handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #1 (FRANKIE) <P ID="dia">You think Virgil started gettin' big ideas? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">It's possible. Anybody can be carried away with delusions of grandeur. But after that incident in Ann Arbor, I trust Virgil. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #2 (DARIO) <P ID="dia">What happened? </p><p><P ID="speaker">OLD WISE-GUY(LENNY) <P ID="dia"> Virgil got picked up in a warehouse shakedown. He got five years, he served three. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Anybody who clams up and does hid time, I don't care how I feel about him personally, he's OK. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">KRINKLE'S OFFICE </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">It seems a cop from some department, we don't know where, stole a half a million dollars of coke from the property cage and he's been sittin' on it for a year and a half. Now the cops got this weirdo - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Suspect's words - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">To front for him. So Elliot is workin' out the deal between them and his boss, a big movie producer named Lee Donowitz. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He produced "Coming Home in a Body Bag". </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">That Vietnam movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">That was a good fuckin' movie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Sure was. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Do you believe him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">I believe he believes him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">He's so spooked he'd turn over his momma, his daddy, his two-panny granny, and Anna and the King of Siam if he had anything on him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This rabbit'll do anything not to do time, including wearing a wire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">He'll wear a wire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">We talked him into it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Dirty cops. We'll have to bring in internal affairs on this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Look, we don't care if you bring in the state milita, the volunteer fire department, the L.A. Thunderbirds, the ghost of Steve McQueen, and the twelve Roman gladiators, so long as we get credit for the bust. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Cocaine. Dirty cops. Hollywood. This is Crocket and Tubbs all the way. And we found it, so we want the fuckin' collar. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. RESTAURANT - DAY </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #3 (MARVIN) <P ID="dia">Maybe Virgil dropped it off at Cardella's. Cardella turns Virgil's switch off, and Cardella decides to open up his own fruit stand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Excuse me, Mr. Coccotti. <P ID="spkdir">(to Marvin) <P ID="dia">Do you know Nick Cardella? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Then where the hell do you get off talkin' that kind of talk? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">I didn't mean - </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Shut your mouth. Nick Cardella was provin' what his words was worth before you were in your daddy's nutsack. What sun do you walk under you can throw a shadow on Nick Cardella? Nick Cardella's a stand-up guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Children, we're digressing. Another possibility is that rat-fuck whore and her wack-a-doo cowboy boyfriend out-aped Virgil. Knowing Virgil, I find that hard to believe. But they sent Drexl to hell, and Drexl was no faggot. So you see, children, I got a lot of questions and no answers. Find out who this wing-and-a-prayer artist is and take him off at the neck. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "THE BIG DAY" </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. IMPERIAL HIGHWAY - SUNRISE </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's red Mustang is parked on top of a hill just off of Imperial Highway. As luck would have it, somebody has abandoned a ratty old sofa on the side of the road. Clarence and Alabama sit on the sofa, sharing a Jumbo Java, and enjoying the sunrise and wonderful view of the LAX Airport runways, where planes are taking off and landing. A plane takes off, and they stop and watch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ya know, I used to fuckin' hate airports. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">With a vengeance, I hated them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I used to live by one back in Dearborn. It's real frustratin' to be surrounded by airplanes when you ain't got shit. I hated where I was, but I couldn't do anythin' about it. I didn't have enough money. It was tough enough just tryin' to pay my rent every month, an' here I was livin' next to an airport. Whenever I went outside, I saw fuckin' planes take off drownin' out my show. All day long I'm seein', hearin' people doin' what I wanted to do most, but couldn't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Leavin' Detroit. Goin' off on vacations, startin' new lives, business trips. Fun, fun, fun, fun. </p><p><p ID="act">Another plane takes off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But knowin' me and you gonna be nigger-rich gives me a whole new outlook. I love airports now. Me 'n' you can get on any one of those planes out there, and go anywhere we ant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You ain't kiddin', we got lives to start over, we should go somewhere where we can really start from scatch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I been in America all my life. I'm due for a change. I wanna see what TV in other countries is like. Besides, it's more dramatic. Where should we fly off to, my little turtledove? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Cancoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Why Cancoon? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's got a nice ring to it. It sounds like a movie. "Clarence and Alabama Go to Cancoon". Don't 'cha think? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But in my movie, baby, you get the top billing. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't you worry 'bout anything. It's all gonna work out for us. We deserve it. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick, Clarence and Alabama are just getting ready to leave for the drug deal. Floyd lays on the couch watching TV. Alabama's wearing dark glasses because of the black eye she has. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Floyd) <P ID="dia">You sure that's how you get to the Beverly Wilshire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I've partied there twice. Yeah, I'm sure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, well if we got lost, it's your ass. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Come on, Clarence, lets go. Elliot's going to meet us in the lobby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm just makin' sure we got everything. <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Alabama) <P ID="dia"> You got yours? </p><p><p ID="act">She holds up the suitcase. The phone rings. The three pile out the door. Floyd picks up the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Hello? </p><p><p ID="act">He puts his hand over the receiver. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Dick, it's for you. You here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">No. I left. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts to close the door then opens it again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'll take it. <P ID="spkdir">(he takes the receiver) <P ID="dia">Hello. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Hi, Catherine, I was just walkin' out the - <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Really? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't believe it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">She really said that? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'll be by first thing. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">No, thank you for sending me out. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Bye-bye. </p><p><p ID="act">He hangs up and looks to Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(stunned) <P ID="dia">I got the part on "T.J. Hooker". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No shit? Dick, that's great! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are jumping around. Floyd even smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(still stunned) <P ID="dia">They didn't even want a callback. They just hired me like that. Me and Peter Breck are the two heavies. We start shooting Monday. My call is for seven o'clock in the morning. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ah, Dick, let's talk about it in the car. We can't be late. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick looks at Clarence. He doesn't want to go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Um, nothing, let's go? </p><p><p ID="act">They exit. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LAX AIRPORT - HOTEL - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We see the airport and move in closer on a hotel on a landscape. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. LAX AIRPORT - HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny can be seen putting a shotgun together. He is sitting on a bed. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario enters the frame with his own shotgun. He goes over to Lenny and gives him some shells. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin walks through the frame cocking his own shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">The bathroom door opens behind Lenny and Frankie walks out twirling a couple of .45 automatics in his hands. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - COP S' HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes and FOUR DETECTIVES from internal affairs are in a room on the same floor as Donowitz. They have just put a wire on Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">OK, say something. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(talking loud into the wire) <P ID="dia">Hello! Hello! Hello! How now brown cow! </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Just talk regular. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(normal tone) <P ID="dia">"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief -" </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Are you gettin' this shit? </p><p><p ID="act">DETECTIVE BY TAPE MACHINE Clear as a bell. </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson, Dime, and the head IA Officer, Wurlitzer, huddle by Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Now, remember, we'll be monitoring just down the hall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">And if there's any sign of trouble you'll come in. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Like gang-busters. Now, remember, if you don't want to go to jail, we gotta put your boss in jail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">We have to show in court that, without a doubt, a successful man, an important figure in the Hollywood community, is also dealing cocaine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">So you gotta get him to admit on tape that he's buying this coke. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">And this fellow Clarence? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">You gotta get him name the police officer behind all this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I'll try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You do more than try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Hope you're a good actor, Elliot. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Dick and Alabama en route. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You got that playing basketball? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yeah. I got elbowed right in the eye. And if that wasn't enough, I got hurled the ball when I'm not looking. Wam! Right in my face. </p><p><p ID="act">They stop at a red light. Clarence looks at Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Red light means love, baby. </p><p><p ID="act">He and Alabama start kissing. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING CADILLAC - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin, Frankie, Lenny and Dario in a rented Caddy. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE PARKING LOT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, and Dick get out of the red Mustang. Dick takes the suitcase. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'll take that. Now, remember, both of you, let me do the talking. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes out his .38. Dick reacts. They walk and talk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What the fuck did you bring that for. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In case. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">In case of what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In case they try to kill us. I don't know, what do you want me to say? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, Dillinger, Lee Donowitz is not a pimp - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I know that Richard. I don't think I'll need it. But something this last week has taught me, it's better to have a gun and not to need it than to need a gun and not to have it. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. Clarence stops walking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Hold it, guys. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm pretty scared. What say we forget the whole thing. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick and Alabama are both surprised and relieved. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you really mean it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No, I don't really mean it. Well, I mean, this is our last chance to think about it. How 'bout you, Bama? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I thought it was what you wanted, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It is what I want. But I don't want to spend the next ten years in jail. I don't want you guys to go to jail. We don't know what could be waiting for us up there. It'll probably be just what it's supposed to be. The only thing that's waiting for us is two hundred thousand dollars. I'm just looking at the downside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Now's a helluva time to play "what if". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This is our last chance to play "what if". I want to do it. I'm just scared of getting caught. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's been fun thinking about the money but I can walk away from it, honey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That rhymes. </p><p><p ID="act">He kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, if we're not gonna do it, let's just get in the car and get the fuck outta here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, let's just get outta here. </p><p><p ID="act">The three walk back to the car. Clarence gets behind the wheel. The other two climb in. Clarence hops back out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm sorry guys, I gotta do it. As petrified as I am, I just can't walk away. I'm gonna be kicking myself in the ass for the rest of my life if I don't go in there. Lee Donowitz isn't a gangster lookin' to skin us, and he's not a cop, he's a famous movie producer lookin' to get high. And I'm just the man who can get him there. So what say we throw caution to the wind and let the chips fall where they may. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence grabs the suitcase and makes a beeline for the hotel. Dick and Alabama exchange looks and follow. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LOBBY - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot's walking around the lobby. He's very nervous, so he's singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(singing) <P ID="dia">There's a man who leads a life of danger, To everyone he meets he stays a stranger. Be careful what you say, you'll give yourself away... </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - COPS' HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson, Dimes, Wurlitzer, and the three other Detectives surround the tape machine. Coming from the machine: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT'S VOICE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">... odds are you won't live to see tomorrow, secret agent man, secret agent man.... </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson looks at Dimes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Why, all of the sudden, have I got a bad feeling? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence enters the lobby alone, he's carrying the suitcase. He spots Elliot and goes in his direction. Elliot sees Clarence approaching him. He says to himself, quietly: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Elliot, your motivation is to stay out of jail. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks up to Elliot, they shake hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Where's everybody else? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">They'll be along. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama and Dick enter the lobby, they join up with Clarence and Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">How you doin', Elliot? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I guess it's about that time. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I guess so. Follow me. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ELEVATOR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The four of them are riding in the elevator. As luck would have it, they have the car to themselves. Rinky-drink elevator Muzak is playing. They are all silent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Get on your knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Not sure he heard him right. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence hits the stop button on the elevator panel and whips out his .38. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I said get on your fuckin' knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot does it immediately. Dick and Alabama react. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Shut up, both of you, I know what I'm doin'. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Pandemonium. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He knows. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">How the fuck could he know? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He saw the wire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">How's he supposed to see the wire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He knows something's up. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts the .38 against Elliot's forehead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You must think I'm pretty stupid, don't you? </p><p><p ID="act">No answer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(petrified) <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(yelling) <P ID="dia">Don't lie to me, motherfucker. You apparently think I'm the dumbest motherfucker in the world! Don't you? Say: Clarence, you are without a doubt, the dumbest motherfucker in the whole wide world. Say it! </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">We gotta get him outta there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Whatta we gonna do? He's in an elevator. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Say it, goddamn it! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You are the dumbest person in the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Apparently I'm not as dumb as you thought I am. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">No. No you're not. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's waiting for us up there. Tell me or I'll pump two right in your face. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">He's bluffin ya, Elliot. Can't you see that? You're an actor, remember, the show must go on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This guy's gonna kill him. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Stand up. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot does. The .38 is still pressed against his forehead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like Nick Carter used to say: I I'm wrong, I'll apologize. I want you to tell me what's waiting for us up there. Something's amiss. I can feel it. If anything out of the ordinary goes down, believe this, you're gonna be the first one shot. Trust me, I am AIDS, you fuck with me, you die. Now quit making me mad and tell me why I'm so fucking nervous. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He's bluffin', I knew it. He doesn't know shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Don't blow it, Elliot. He's bluffin'. He just told you so himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You're an actor, so act, motherfucker. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot still hasn't answered. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK. </p><p><p ID="act">With the .38 up against Elliot's head Clarence puts his palm over the top of the gun to shield himself from the splatter. Alabama and Dick can't believe what he's gonna do. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot, tears running down, starts talking for the benefit of the people at the other end of the wire. He sounds like a little boy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I don't wanna be here. I wanna go home. I wish somebody would just come and get me 'cause I don't like this. This is not what I thought it would be. And I wish somebody would just take me away. Just take me away Come and get me. 'Cause I don't like this anymore. I can't take this. I'm sorry but I just can't. So, if somebody would just come to my rescue, everything would be alright. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes shake their hands, They have a "well, that's that" expression an their faces. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts down the gun and hugs Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sorry, Elliot. Nothing personal. I just hadda make sure you're all right. I'm sure. I really apologize for scaring you so bad, but believe me, I'm just as scared as you. Friends? </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot, in a state of shock, takes Clarence's hand. Dick and Alabama are relieved. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes listen open-mouthed, not believing what they're hearing. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Floyd still lying on the couch watching TV. He hasn't moved since we last saw him. </p><p><p ID="act">There is a knock from the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="spkdir">(not turning away from TV) <P ID="dia">It's open. </p><p><p ID="act">The front door flies open and the four Wise-guys rapidly enter the room. The door slams shut. All have their sawed-offs drawn and pointing at Floyd. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Are you Dick Ritchie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Do you know a Clarence Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Do you know where we can find him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">He's at the Beverly Wilshire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Where's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Well, you go down Beechwood... </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LEE'S HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The door opens and reveals an extremely muscular guy with an Uzi strapped to his shoulder standing in the doorway, his name is Monty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Hi, Elliot. Are these your friends? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You could say that. Everybody, this is Monty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">C'mon in. Lee's in the can. He'll be out in a quick. </p><p><p ID="act">They all move into the room, it is very luxurious. </p><p><p ID="act">Another incredibly muscular GUY, Boris, is sitting on the sofa, he too has an Uzi. Monty begins patting everybody down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Sorry, nothin personal. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts to search Clarence. Clarence back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No need to search me, daredevil. All you'll find is a .38 calibre. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris gets up from the couch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">What compelled you to bring that along? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The same thing that compelled you, Beastmaster, to bring rapid-fire weaponry to a business meeting. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">I'll take that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You'll have to. </p><p><p ID="act">The toilet flushes in the bathroom. The door swings open and Lee Donowitz emerges. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">They're here. Who's who? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Lee, this is my friend Dick, and these are his friends, Clarence and Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="spkdir">(pointing at Clarence) <P ID="dia">This guy's packin'. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I have to admit, walkin' through the door and seein' these "Soldier of Fortune" poster boys made me a bit nervous. But, Lee, I'm fairly confident that you came here to do business, not to be a wise-guy. So, if you want, I'll put the gun on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I don't think that'll be necessary. Let's all have a seat. Boris, why don't you be nice and get coffee for everybody. </p><p><p ID="act">They all sit around a fancy glass table except for Boris, who's getting the coffee, and Monty, who's standing behind Lee's chair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh, Mr. Donowitz - </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Lee, Clarence . Please don't insult me. Call me Lee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK, sorry, Lee. I just wanna tell you "Coming Home in a Body Bag" is one of my favorite movies. After "Apocalypse Now" I think it's the best Vietnam movie ever. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Thank you very much, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, most movies that win a lot of Oscars, I can't stand. "Sophie's Choice", "Ordinary People", "Kramer vs. Kramer", "Gandhi". All that stuff is safe, geriatric, coffee-table dog shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I hear you talkin' Clarence. We park our cars in the same garage. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like that Merchant-Ivory clap-trap. All those assholes make are unwatchable movies from unreadable books. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris starts placing clear-glass coffee cups in front of everybody and fills everybody's cup from a fancy coffee pot that he handles like an expert. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Clarence, there might be somebody somewhere that agrees with you more than I do, but I wouldn't count on it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is on a roll and he knows it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">They ain't plays, they ain't books, they certainly ain't movies, they're films. And do you know what films are? They're for people who don't like movies. "Mad Max", that's a movie. "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly", that's a movie. "Rio Bravo", that's a movie. "Rumble Fish", that's a fuckin' movie. And, "Coming Home in a Body Bag", that's a movie. It was the first movie with balls to win a lot of Oscars since the "The Deer Hunter". </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">They're all listening to this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">What's this guy doin'? Makin' a drug deal or gettin' a job on the "New Yorker"? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">My uncle Roger and uncle Cliff, both of which were in Nam, saw "Coming Home in a Body Bag" and thought it was the most accurate Vietnam film they'd ever seen. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">You know, Clarence, when a veteran of that bullshit wars says that, it makes the whole project worthwhile. Clarence, my friend, and I call you my friend because we have similar interests, let's take a look at what you have for me. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Thank God. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts the suitcase on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Lee, when you see this you're gonna shit. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys are at the desk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="spkdir">(quietly to the others) <P ID="dia">What was the Jew-boy's name? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">Donowitz, he said. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FRONT-DESK GUY <P ID="dia">How can I help you, Gentlemen? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Yeah, we're from Warner Bros. What room is Mr. Donowitz in? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Lee's looking over the cocaine and sampling it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now, that's practically uncut. You could, if you so desire, cut it a helluva lot more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Don't worry, I'll desire. Boris, could I have some more coffee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Me too, Boris. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris fills both of their cups. They both, calm as a lake, take cream and sugar. All eyes are on them. Lee uses light cream and sugar, he begins stirring this cup. Clarence uses very heavy cream and sugar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(stirring loudly) <P ID="dia">You like a little coffee with your cream and sugar? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not satisfied till the spoon stands straight up. </p><p><p ID="act">Both are cool as cucumbers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I have to hand it to you, this is not nose garbage, this is quality. Can Boris make anybody a sandwich? I got all kinds of sandwich shit from Canters in there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">No thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">No. But thanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No thanks, my stomach's a little upset. I ate somethin' at a restaurant that made me a little sick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Where'd you go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A Norms in Van Nuys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Bastards. That's why I always eat at Lawreys. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee continues looking at the merchandise. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama writes something in her napkin with a pencil. She slides the napkin over to Clarence. It says: "You're so cool" with a tiny heart drawn on the bottom of it. Clarence takes the pencil and draws an arrow through the heart. She takes the napkin and puts it in her pocket. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee looks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">OK, Clarence, the merchandise is perfect. But, whenever I'm offered a deal that's too good to be true, it's because it's a lie. Convince me you're on the level. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">If he don't bite, we ain't got shit except posession. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Convince him. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, Lee, it's like this. You're getting the bargain of a lifetime because I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. You're used to dealin' with professionals. I'm not a professional. I'm a rank amateur. I could take that, and I could cut it, and I could sell it a little bit at a time, and make a helluva lot more money. But, in order to do that, I'd have to become a drug dealer. Deal with cut-throat junkies, killers, worry about getting busted all of the time. Just meeting you here today scares the shit outta me, and you're not a junkie, a killer or a cop, you're a fucking movie-maker. I like you, and I'm still scared. I'm a punk kid who picked up a rock in the street, only to find out it's the Hope Diamond. It's worth a million dollars, but I can't get the million dollars for it. But, you can. So, I'll sell it to you for a couple a hundred thousand. You go to make a million. It's all found money to me anyway. Me and my wife are minimum wage kids, two hundred thousand is the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Elliot tells me you're fronting for a dirty cop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, Elliot wasn't supposed to tell you anythin'. <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot, bigmouth. I knew you were a squid the moment I laid eyes on you. In my book, buddy, you're a piece of shit. <P ID="spkdir">(to Lee) <P ID="dia">He's not a dirty cop, he's a good cop. He just saw his chance and he took it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Why does he trust you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We grew up together. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">If you don't know shit, why does he think you can sell it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I bullshitted him. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee starts laughing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">That's wild. This fucking guy's a madman. I love it. Monty, go in the other room and get the money. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama and Dick exchange looks. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes exchange looks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES & NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Bingo! </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys are coming up. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Alabama) <P ID="dia">What's your part in this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm his wife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(referring to Dick) <P ID="dia">How 'bout you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I know Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">And Elliot knows me. Tell me, Clarence, what department does you friend work in? </p><p><p ID="act">Dick and Alabama panic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(without missing a beat) <P ID="dia">Carson County Sheriffs. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">The internal affairs officers high five. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Monty brings in a briefcase of money and puts it down on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Wanna count your money? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Actually, they can count it. I'd like to use the little boy's room. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">They all stand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">OK, boys. Let's go get 'em. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LEE'S HOTEL ROOM - BATHROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence steps inside the bathroom and shuts the door. As soon as it's shut he starts doing the twist. He can't believe he's pulled it off. He goes to the toilet and starts taking a piss. He turns and sees Elvis sitting on the sink. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Clarence, I gotta hand it to ya. You were cooler than cool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I was dying. I thought for sure everyone could see it on my face. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">All anybody saw was Clint Eastwood drinkin' coffee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Can you develop an ulcer in two minutes? Being cool is hard on your body. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Oh, and your line to Charles Atlas in there: "I'll take that gun", "You'll have to". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That was cool, wasn't it? You know, I don't even know where that came from. I just opened my mouth and it came out. After I said it I thought, that's a cool line, I gotta remember that. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Everything's just as it was. </p><p><p ID="act">Sudenly, Nicholson, Dimes and the four Detectives break into the room with guns drawn. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES & NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Police! Freeze, you're all under arrest! </p><p><p ID="act">Everybody at the table stands up. Boris and Monty stand ready with the Uzis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You two! Put the guns on the floor and back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Fuck you! All you pigs put your guns on the floor and back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Monty, what are you talking about? So what they say. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This is your last warning! Drop those fuckin' guns! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">This is your last warning! We could kill all six of ya and ya fuckin' know it! Now get on the floor! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What the fuck am I doing here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Boris! Everybody's gonna get killed! They're cops! </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">So they're cops. Who gives a shit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">Lee, something I never told you about me. I don't like cops. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">OK, let's everybody calm down and get nice. Nobody has to die. We don't want it, and you don't want it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">We don't want it. </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys burst through the door, shotguns drawn, except for Frankie, who has two .45 automatics, one in each hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Half of the cops spin around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Freeze! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Who are you guys? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Police. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DARIO <P ID="spkdir">(to Lenny) <P ID="dia">Do we get any extra if we have to kill cops? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">BATHROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How do you think I'm doin' with Lee? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Are you kiddin'? He loves you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't think I'm kissin' his ass, do you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">You're tellin' him what he wants to hear, but that ain't the same thing as kissin' his ass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not lyin' to him. I mean it. I loved "Coming Home in a Body Bag". </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">That's why it doesn't come across as ass-kissin', because it's genuine, and he can see that. </p><p><p ID="act">Elvis fixes Clarence's collar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I like ya, Clarence. Always have. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">This is a Mexican stand-off if there ever was one. Gangsters on one end with shotguns. Bodyguards with machine guns on the other. And cops with handguns in the middle. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's ready to pass out. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's so scared she pees on herself. </p><p><p ID="act">For Elliot, this has been the worst day of his life, and he's just about had it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Officer Dimes? Officer Dimes. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes looks at Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia"> This has nothing to do with me anymore. Can I just leave and you guys just settle it by yourselves? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Elliot, shut the fuck up and stay put! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">How did you know his name? How the fuck did he know your name? Why, you fuckin' little piece of shit! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Lee, understand, I didn't want to - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Shut the fuck up! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Well, I hope you're not planning on acting any time in the next twenty years 'cause your career is over as of now! You might as weel burn your SAG card! To think I treated you as a son! And you stabbed me in the heart! </p><p><p ID="act">Lee can't control his anger any more. He grabs the coffee pot off the table and flings hot coffee into Elliot's face. Elliot screams and falls to his knees, </p><p><p ID="act">Instinctively, Nicholson shoots Lee twice. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris lets loose with his Uzi, pinting Nicholson red with bullets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="spkdir">(screaming) <P ID="dia">Cody!!! </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson flies backwards. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin fires his shotgun, hits Nicholson in the back, Nicholson's body jerks back and forth then on the floor. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence opens the bathroom door. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes hits the ground firing. </p><p><p ID="act">A shot catches Clarence in the forehead. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario fires his sawed-off. It catches Clarence in the chest, hurling him on the bathroom sink, smashing the mirror. </p><p><p ID="act">It might have been a stand-off before, but once the firing starts everybody either hits the ground or runs for cover. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes, Alabama, Dick, Lenny, an IA Officer and Wurtlitzer hit the ground. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris dives into the kitchen area. </p><p><p ID="act">Monty tips the table over. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin dives behind the sofa. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario runs out of the door and down the hall. </p><p><p ID="act">With bullets flying this way and that, some don't have time to anything. Two IA Officers are shot right away. </p><p><p ID="act">Frankie takes an Uzi hit. He goes down firing both automatics. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot gets it from both sides. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama is crawling across the floor, like a soldier in war, towards the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, still barely alive, lays on the sink, twitching. He moves and falls off. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama continues crawling. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin brings his sawed-off from behind the sofa and fires. The shotgun blast hits the glass table and Monty. Monty stands up screaming. </p><p><p ID="act">The Cops on the ground let loose, firing into Monty. </p><p><p ID="act">As Monty gets hit, his finger hits the trigger of the Uzi, spreading fire all over the apartment. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cop cars start arriving in twos in front of the hotel. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">GUNFIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama crawling. </p><p><p ID="act">The suitcase full of cocaine is by Dick. Dick grabs it and tosses it in the air. Marvin comes from behind the sofa and fires. The suitcase is hit in mid-air. White powder goes everywhere. The room is enveloped in cocaine. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick takes this cue and makes a dash out the door. </p><p><p ID="act">An IA Officer goes after him. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny makes a break for it. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer goes after him but is pinned down by Marvin. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama reaches the bathroom and finds Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sweety? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's face is awash with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I... I can't see you... I've got blood in my eyes... </p><p><p ID="act">He dies. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama tries to give him outh-to-mouth resuscitation. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - HALLWAY - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dario runs down the hall, right into a cluster of uniformed police. </p><p><p ID="act">He fires his shotgun, hitting two, just before the others chop him to ribbons. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ANOTHER HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">The hallway's empty but we hear footsteps approaching fast. Dick comes around the corner, running as if on fire. Then we see the IA Officer turn the same corner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">IA OFFICER <P ID="spkdir">(aiming gun) <P ID="dia">Freeze! </p><p><p ID="act">Dick does. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'm unarmed! </p><p><P ID="speaker">IA OFFICER <P ID="dia">Put your hands on your head, you son-of-a-bitch! </p><p><p ID="act">He does. Then, from off screen, a shotgun blast tears into the IA Officer, sending him to the wall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Oh shit. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts running again and runs out of frame, then Lenny turns around the corner and runs down the hall. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick runs into the elevator area, he hits the buttons, he's trapped, it's like a box. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny catches up. Dick raises his hands. Lenny aimes his sawed-off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, I don't know who you are, but whatever it was that I did to you, I'm sorry. </p><p><p ID="act">Two elevator doors on either side of them open. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny looks at Dick. He drops his aim and says: </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Lotsa luck. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny dives into one elevator car. Dick jumps into the other, just as the doors close. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">HOTEL ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">The Mexican stand-off has become two different groups of two pinning each other down. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer has Marvin pinned down behind the sofa and Dimes has Boris pinned down in the kitchen. </p><p><p ID="act">In the bathroom, Alabama's pounding on Clarence's bloody chest, trying to get his heart started. It's not working. She slaps him hard in the face a couple of times. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Wake up, goddamn it! </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes discards his handgun and pulls one of the sawed-off shotguns from the grip of a dead Wise-guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris peeks around the wall to fire. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes lets loose with a blast. A scream is heard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I'm shot! Stop! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Throw out your gun, asshole! </p><p><p ID="act">The Uzi's tossed out. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes goes to where Wurlitzer is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="spkdir">(to Marvin) <P ID="dia">OK, black jacket! It's two against one now! Toss the gun and lie face down on the floor or die like all you friends. </p><p><p ID="act">The shotgun's tossed out from behind the sofa. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ELEVATOR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's sitting on the ground, he can't believe any of this. The doors open on the fourth floor. He runs out into the hallway. </p><p><p ID="act">HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">He starts trying the room doors for an open one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Oh, God, if you just get me outta this I swear to God I'll never fuck up again. Please, just let me get to "T.J. Hooker" on Monday. </p><p><p ID="act">STEWARDESS'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick steps in. Three gorgeous girls are doing a killer aerobics workout to a video on TV. The music is so loud they're so into their exercises, they don't hear Dick tiptoe behind them and crawl underneath the bed. </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Boris has caught a lot of buckshots, but he'll live. He's lying on the kitchen floor. Dimes stands over him. He has the sawed-off in his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Don't even give me an excuse, motherfucker. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes pats him down for other weapons, there are none. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer puts the cuffs on Marvin and sits him down on the couch. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes looks in the bathroom and sees the dead Clarence with Alabama crying over him. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes walks over to Wurlitzer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Everything's under control here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Sorry about Nicholson. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Me too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">I'm gonna go see what's goin' on outside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You do that. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer exits. Dimes grabs the phone. </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Shotgun in hand, Lenny moves hurriedly down the lobby. </p><p><p ID="act">A Cop yells out. </p><p><p ID="act">COP You! Stop! </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny brings up his sawed-off and lets him have it. Other cops rush forward. Lenny grabs a woman standing by. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Get back or I'll blow this bitch's brains to kingdom come! </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes on the phone talking with the department. Boris is still moving on the floor. Marvin is sitting on the couch with his hands cuffed behind his back. Alabama is crying over Clarence, then she feels something in his jacket. She reaches in and pulls out his .38. She wipes her eyes. She holds the gun in her hand and remembers Clarence saying: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">She's a sixteen-calibre kitten, equally equipped for killin' an' lovin'! She carried a sawed-off shotgun in her purse, a black belt around her waist, and the white-hot fire of hate in her eyes! Alabama Whitman is Pam Grier! Pray for forgiveness, Rated R... for Ruthless Revenge! </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama steps out of the bathroom, gun in hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin turns his head toward her. She shoots him twice. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes, still on the phone, spins around in time to see her raise her gun. She fires. He's hit in the head and flung to the floor. </p><p><p ID="act">She sees Boris on the kitchen floor. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye-bye, Boris. Good luck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">You too, cutie. </p><p><p ID="act">She starts to leave and then spots the briefcase full of money. She takes it and walks out the door. </p><p><p ID="act">HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">The elevator opens and Wurlitzer steps out. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama comes around the corner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Hey, you! </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama shoots him three times in the belly. She steps into the elevator, the doors close. </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama enters the lobby and proceeds to walk out. In the background, cops are all over the place and Lenny is still yelling with the woman hostage. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">I wanna car here, takin' me to the airport, with a plane full of gas ready to take me to Kilimanjaro and... and a million bucks! <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Small bills! </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - PARKING LOT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama puts the briefcase in the trunk. She gets into the Mustang and drives away. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's driving fast down the freeway. The DJ on the radio is trying to be funny. She's muttering to herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I could have walked away. I told you that. I told you I could have walked away. This is not my fault. I did not do this. You did this one hundred percent to yourself. I'm not gonna give you the satisfaction of feeling bad. I should laugh 'cause you don't deserve any better. I could get another guy like that. I'm hot lookin'. What are you? Dead! Dumb jerk. Asshole. You're a asshole, you're a asshole, you're a asshole. You wanted it all, didn't ya? Didn't ya? Well watcha got now? You ain't got the money. You ain't got me. You ain't even got your body anymore. You got nothin'. Nada. Zip. Goose egg. Nil. Donut. </p><p><p ID="act">The song "Little Arrows" by Leapy Lee comes on the radio. Alabama breaks down and starts crying. She pulls the car over to the side. The song continues. She wipes her eyes with a napkin that she pulls out her jacket. She tosses it on the dashboard. She picks up the .38 and sticks it in her mouth. </p><p><p ID="act">She pulls back hammer. She looks up and sees her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She turns it the other way. She looks straight ahead. Her finger tightens on the trigger. She sees the napkin on the dashboard. She opens it up and reads it: "You're so cool". </p><p><p ID="act">She tosses the gun aside, opens up the trunk, and takes out the briefcase. She looks around for, and finally finds, the "Sgt. Fury" comic book Clarence bought her. </p><p><p ID="act">And with comic book in one hand, and briefcase in the other, Bama walks away from the Mustang forever. </p><p><p ID="slug">FADE OUT </p><p><p ID="act">THE END Screenplay by Quentin Tarantino Produced by Samuel Hadida Steve Perry Bill Unger Directed by Tony Scott Cast List: Christian Slater Clarence Worley Patricia Arquette Alabama Whitman Dennis Hopper Clifford Worley Michael Rapaport Dick Ritchie Bronson Pinchott Elliot Blitzer Christopher Walken Vincenzo Coccotti Saul Rubinek Lee Donowitz Samuel L. Jackson Big Don Brad Pitt Floyd Val Kilmer Elvis (Mentor) Typed with two bare fingers by Niki Wurster Removed from zip format and formatted in text format by Kale Whorton. Formatted in HTML by Dabrast Caustic </p> </div> <b> </b><b> </b> <b></b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What did Anvoy do with the letter once she received it?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "She declined to read it." ]	22,698	narrativeqa	en	null	0cb4ddf1bedade882d28e7940531bbac3ec45efb1f668635	Transcribed from the 1915 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org [Picture: Book cover] THE COXON FUND BY HENRY JAMES [Picture: Decorative graphic] * * * * * LONDON: MARTIN SECKER NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI * * * * * This edition first published 1915 The text follows that of the Definitive Edition * * * * * I “THEY’VE got him for life!” I said to myself that evening on my way back to the station; but later on, alone in the compartment (from Wimbledon to Waterloo, before the glory of the District Railway) I amended this declaration in the light of the sense that my friends would probably after all not enjoy a monopoly of Mr. Saltram. I won’t pretend to have taken his vast measure on that first occasion, but I think I had achieved a glimpse of what the privilege of his acquaintance might mean for many persons in the way of charges accepted. He had been a great experience, and it was this perhaps that had put me into the frame of foreseeing how we should all, sooner or later, have the honour of dealing with him as a whole. Whatever impression I then received of the amount of this total, I had a full enough vision of the patience of the Mulvilles. He was to stay all the winter: Adelaide dropped it in a tone that drew the sting from the inevitable emphasis. These excellent people might indeed have been content to give the circle of hospitality a diameter of six months; but if they didn’t say he was to stay all summer as well it was only because this was more than they ventured to hope. I remember that at dinner that evening he wore slippers, new and predominantly purple, of some queer carpet-stuff; but the Mulvilles were still in the stage of supposing that he might be snatched from them by higher bidders. At a later time they grew, poor dears, to fear no snatching; but theirs was a fidelity which needed no help from competition to make them proud. Wonderful indeed as, when all was said, you inevitably pronounced Frank Saltram, it was not to be overlooked that the Kent Mulvilles were in their way still more extraordinary: as striking an instance as could easily be encountered of the familiar truth that remarkable men find remarkable conveniences. They had sent for me from Wimbledon to come out and dine, and there had been an implication in Adelaide’s note—judged by her notes alone she might have been thought silly—that it was a case in which something momentous was to be determined or done. I had never known them not be in a “state” about somebody, and I dare say I tried to be droll on this point in accepting their invitation. On finding myself in the presence of their latest discovery I had not at first felt irreverence droop—and, thank heaven, I have never been absolutely deprived of that alternative in Mr. Saltram’s company. I saw, however—I hasten to declare it—that compared to this specimen their other phoenixes had been birds of inconsiderable feather, and I afterwards took credit to myself for not having even in primal bewilderments made a mistake about the essence of the man. He had an incomparable gift; I never was blind to it—it dazzles me still. It dazzles me perhaps even more in remembrance than in fact, for I’m not unaware that for so rare a subject the imagination goes to some expense, inserting a jewel here and there or giving a twist to a plume. How the art of portraiture would rejoice in this figure if the art of portraiture had only the canvas! Nature, in truth, had largely rounded it, and if memory, hovering about it, sometimes holds her breath, this is because the voice that comes back was really golden. Though the great man was an inmate and didn’t dress, he kept dinner on this occasion waiting, and the first words he uttered on coming into the room were an elated announcement to Mulville that he had found out something. Not catching the allusion and gaping doubtless a little at his face, I privately asked Adelaide what he had found out. I shall never forget the look she gave me as she replied: “Everything!” She really believed it. At that moment, at any rate, he had found out that the mercy of the Mulvilles was infinite. He had previously of course discovered, as I had myself for that matter, that their dinners were soignés. Let me not indeed, in saying this, neglect to declare that I shall falsify my counterfeit if I seem to hint that there was in his nature any ounce of calculation. He took whatever came, but he never plotted for it, and no man who was so much of an absorbent can ever have been so little of a parasite. He had a system of the universe, but he had no system of sponging—that was quite hand-to-mouth. He had fine gross easy senses, but it was not his good-natured appetite that wrought confusion. If he had loved us for our dinners we could have paid with our dinners, and it would have been a great economy of finer matter. I make free in these connexions with the plural possessive because if I was never able to do what the Mulvilles did, and people with still bigger houses and simpler charities, I met, first and last, every demand of reflexion, of emotion—particularly perhaps those of gratitude and of resentment. No one, I think, paid the tribute of giving him up so often, and if it’s rendering honour to borrow wisdom I’ve a right to talk of my sacrifices. He yielded lessons as the sea yields fish—I lived for a while on this diet. Sometimes it almost appeared to me that his massive monstrous failure—if failure after all it was—had been designed for my private recreation. He fairly pampered my curiosity; but the history of that experience would take me too far. This is not the large canvas I just now spoke of, and I wouldn’t have approached him with my present hand had it been a question of all the features. Frank Saltram’s features, for artistic purposes, are verily the anecdotes that are to be gathered. Their name is legion, and this is only one, of which the interest is that it concerns even more closely several other persons. Such episodes, as one looks back, are the little dramas that made up the innumerable facets of the big drama—which is yet to be reported. II IT is furthermore remarkable that though the two stories are distinct—my own, as it were, and this other—they equally began, in a manner, the first night of my acquaintance with Frank Saltram, the night I came back from Wimbledon so agitated with a new sense of life that, in London, for the very thrill of it, I could only walk home. Walking and swinging my stick, I overtook, at Buckingham Gate, George Gravener, and George Gravener’s story may be said to have begun with my making him, as our paths lay together, come home with me for a talk. I duly remember, let me parenthesise, that it was still more that of another person, and also that several years were to elapse before it was to extend to a second chapter. I had much to say to him, none the less, about my visit to the Mulvilles, whom he more indifferently knew, and I was at any rate so amusing that for long afterwards he never encountered me without asking for news of the old man of the sea. I hadn’t said Mr. Saltram was old, and it was to be seen that he was of an age to outweather George Gravener. I had at that time a lodging in Ebury Street, and Gravener was staying at his brother’s empty house in Eaton Square. At Cambridge, five years before, even in our devastating set, his intellectual power had seemed to me almost awful. Some one had once asked me privately, with blanched cheeks, what it was then that after all such a mind as that left standing. “It leaves itself!” I could recollect devoutly replying. I could smile at present for this remembrance, since before we got to Ebury Street I was struck with the fact that, save in the sense of being well set up on his legs, George Gravener had actually ceased to tower. The universe he laid low had somehow bloomed again—the usual eminences were visible. I wondered whether he had lost his humour, or only, dreadful thought, had never had any—not even when I had fancied him most Aristophanesque. What was the need of appealing to laughter, however, I could enviously enquire, where you might appeal so confidently to measurement? Mr. Saltram’s queer figure, his thick nose and hanging lip, were fresh to me: in the light of my old friend’s fine cold symmetry they presented mere success in amusing as the refuge of conscious ugliness. Already, at hungry twenty-six, Gravener looked as blank and parliamentary as if he were fifty and popular. In my scrap of a residence—he had a worldling’s eye for its futile conveniences, but never a comrade’s joke—I sounded Frank Saltram in his ears; a circumstance I mention in order to note that even then I was surprised at his impatience of my enlivenment. As he had never before heard of the personage it took indeed the form of impatience of the preposterous Mulvilles, his relation to whom, like mine, had had its origin in an early, a childish intimacy with the young Adelaide, the fruit of multiplied ties in the previous generation. When she married Kent Mulville, who was older than Gravener and I and much more amiable, I gained a friend, but Gravener practically lost one. We reacted in different ways from the form taken by what he called their deplorable social action—the form (the term was also his) of nasty second-rate gush. I may have held in my ‘for intérieur’ that the good people at Wimbledon were beautiful fools, but when he sniffed at them I couldn’t help taking the opposite line, for I already felt that even should we happen to agree it would always be for reasons that differed. It came home to me that he was admirably British as, without so much as a sociable sneer at my bookbinder, he turned away from the serried rows of my little French library. “Of course I’ve never seen the fellow, but it’s clear enough he’s a humbug.” “Clear ‘enough’ is just what it isn’t,” I replied; “if it only were!” That ejaculation on my part must have been the beginning of what was to be later a long ache for final frivolous rest. Gravener was profound enough to remark after a moment that in the first place he couldn’t be anything but a Dissenter, and when I answered that the very note of his fascination was his extraordinary speculative breadth my friend retorted that there was no cad like your cultivated cad, and that I might depend upon discovering—since I had had the levity not already to have enquired—that my shining light proceeded, a generation back, from a Methodist cheesemonger. I confess I was struck with his insistence, and I said, after reflexion: “It may be—I admit it may be; but why on earth are you so sure?”—asking the question mainly to lay him the trap of saying that it was because the poor man didn’t dress for dinner. He took an instant to circumvent my trap and come blandly out the other side. “Because the Kent Mulvilles have invented him. They’ve an infallible hand for frauds. All their geese are swans. They were born to be duped, they like it, they cry for it, they don’t know anything from anything, and they disgust one—luckily perhaps!—with Christian charity.” His vehemence was doubtless an accident, but it might have been a strange foreknowledge. I forget what protest I dropped; it was at any rate something that led him to go on after a moment: “I only ask one thing—it’s perfectly simple. Is a man, in a given case, a real gentleman?” “A real gentleman, my dear fellow—that’s so soon said!” “Not so soon when he isn’t! If they’ve got hold of one this time he must be a great rascal!” “I might feel injured,” I answered, “if I didn’t reflect that they don’t rave about me.” “Don’t be too sure! I’ll grant that he’s a gentleman,” Gravener presently added, “if you’ll admit that he’s a scamp.” “I don’t know which to admire most, your logic or your benevolence.” My friend coloured at this, but he didn’t change the subject. “Where did they pick him up?” “I think they were struck with something he had published.” “I can fancy the dreary thing!” “I believe they found out he had all sorts of worries and difficulties.” “That of course wasn’t to be endured, so they jumped at the privilege of paying his debts!” I professed that I knew nothing about his debts, and I reminded my visitor that though the dear Mulvilles were angels they were neither idiots nor millionaires. What they mainly aimed at was reuniting Mr. Saltram to his wife. “I was expecting to hear he has basely abandoned her,” Gravener went on, at this, “and I’m too glad you don’t disappoint me.” I tried to recall exactly what Mrs. Mulville had told me. “He didn’t leave her—no. It’s she who has left him.” “Left him to us?” Gravener asked. “The monster—many thanks! I decline to take him.” “You’ll hear more about him in spite of yourself. I can’t, no, I really can’t resist the impression that he’s a big man.” I was already mastering—to my shame perhaps be it said—just the tone my old friend least liked. “It’s doubtless only a trifle,” he returned, “but you haven’t happened to mention what his reputation’s to rest on.” “Why on what I began by boring you with—his extraordinary mind.” “As exhibited in his writings?” “Possibly in his writings, but certainly in his talk, which is far and away the richest I ever listened to.” “And what’s it all about?” “My dear fellow, don’t ask me! About everything!” I pursued, reminding myself of poor Adelaide. “About his ideas of things,” I then more charitably added. “You must have heard him to know what I mean—it’s unlike anything that ever was heard.” I coloured, I admit, I overcharged a little, for such a picture was an anticipation of Saltram’s later development and still more of my fuller acquaintance with him. However, I really expressed, a little lyrically perhaps, my actual imagination of him when I proceeded to declare that, in a cloud of tradition, of legend, he might very well go down to posterity as the greatest of all great talkers. Before we parted George Gravener had wondered why such a row should be made about a chatterbox the more and why he should be pampered and pensioned. The greater the wind-bag the greater the calamity. Out of proportion to everything else on earth had come to be this wagging of the tongue. We were drenched with talk—our wretched age was dying of it. I differed from him here sincerely, only going so far as to concede, and gladly, that we were drenched with sound. It was not however the mere speakers who were killing us—it was the mere stammerers. Fine talk was as rare as it was refreshing—the gift of the gods themselves, the one starry spangle on the ragged cloak of humanity. How many men were there who rose to this privilege, of how many masters of conversation could he boast the acquaintance? Dying of talk?—why we were dying of the lack of it! Bad writing wasn’t talk, as many people seemed to think, and even good wasn’t always to be compared to it. From the best talk indeed the best writing had something to learn. I fancifully added that we too should peradventure be gilded by the legend, should be pointed at for having listened, for having actually heard. Gravener, who had glanced at his watch and discovered it was midnight, found to all this a retort beautifully characteristic of him. “There’s one little fact to be borne in mind in the presence equally of the best talk and of the worst.” He looked, in saying this, as if he meant great things, and I was sure he could only mean once more that neither of them mattered if a man wasn’t a real gentleman. Perhaps it was what he did mean; he deprived me however of the exultation of being right by putting the truth in a slightly different way. “The only thing that really counts for one’s estimate of a person is his conduct.” He had his watch still in his palm, and I reproached him with unfair play in having ascertained beforehand that it was now the hour at which I always gave in. My pleasantry so far failed to mollify him that he promptly added that to the rule he had just enunciated there was absolutely no exception. “None whatever?” “None whatever.” “Trust me then to try to be good at any price!” I laughed as I went with him to the door. “I declare I will be, if I have to be horrible!” III IF that first night was one of the liveliest, or at any rate was the freshest, of my exaltations, there was another, four years later, that was one of my great discomposures. Repetition, I well knew by this time, was the secret of Saltram’s power to alienate, and of course one would never have seen him at his finest if one hadn’t seen him in his remorses. They set in mainly at this season and were magnificent, elemental, orchestral. I was quite aware that one of these atmospheric disturbances was now due; but none the less, in our arduous attempt to set him on his feet as a lecturer, it was impossible not to feel that two failures were a large order, as we said, for a short course of five. This was the second time, and it was past nine o’clock; the audience, a muster unprecedented and really encouraging, had fortunately the attitude of blandness that might have been looked for in persons whom the promise of (if I’m not mistaken) An Analysis of Primary Ideas had drawn to the neighbourhood of Upper Baker Street. There was in those days in that region a petty lecture-hall to be secured on terms as moderate as the funds left at our disposal by the irrepressible question of the maintenance of five small Saltrams—I include the mother—and one large one. By the time the Saltrams, of different sizes, were all maintained we had pretty well poured out the oil that might have lubricated the machinery for enabling the most original of men to appear to maintain them. It was I, the other time, who had been forced into the breach, standing up there for an odious lamplit moment to explain to half a dozen thin benches, where earnest brows were virtuously void of anything so cynical as a suspicion, that we couldn’t so much as put a finger on Mr. Saltram. There was nothing to plead but that our scouts had been out from the early hours and that we were afraid that on one of his walks abroad—he took one, for meditation, whenever he was to address such a company—some accident had disabled or delayed him. The meditative walks were a fiction, for he never, that any one could discover, prepared anything but a magnificent prospectus; hence his circulars and programmes, of which I possess an almost complete collection, are the solemn ghosts of generations never born. I put the case, as it seemed to me, at the best; but I admit I had been angry, and Kent Mulville was shocked at my want of public optimism. This time therefore I left the excuses to his more practised patience, only relieving myself in response to a direct appeal from a young lady next whom, in the hall, I found myself sitting. My position was an accident, but if it had been calculated the reason would scarce have eluded an observer of the fact that no one else in the room had an approach to an appearance. Our philosopher’s “tail” was deplorably limp. This visitor was the only person who looked at her ease, who had come a little in the spirit of adventure. She seemed to carry amusement in her handsome young head, and her presence spoke, a little mystifyingly, of a sudden extension of Saltram’s sphere of influence. He was doing better than we hoped, and he had chosen such an occasion, of all occasions, to succumb to heaven knew which of his fond infirmities. The young lady produced an impression of auburn hair and black velvet, and had on her other hand a companion of obscurer type, presumably a waiting-maid. She herself might perhaps have been a foreign countess, and before she addressed me I had beguiled our sorry interval by finding in her a vague recall of the opening of some novel of Madame Sand. It didn’t make her more fathomable to pass in a few minutes from this to the certitude that she was American; it simply engendered depressing reflexions as to the possible check to contributions from Boston. She asked me if, as a person apparently more initiated, I would recommend further waiting, and I answered that if she considered I was on my honour I would privately deprecate it. Perhaps she didn’t; at any rate our talk took a turn that prolonged it till she became aware we were left almost alone. I presently ascertained she knew Mrs. Saltram, and this explained in a manner the miracle. The brotherhood of the friends of the husband was as nothing to the brotherhood, or perhaps I should say the sisterhood, of the friends of the wife. Like the Kent Mulvilles I belonged to both fraternities, and even better than they I think I had sounded the abyss of Mrs. Saltram’s wrongs. She bored me to extinction, and I knew but too well how she had bored her husband; but there were those who stood by her, the most efficient of whom were indeed the handful of poor Saltram’s backers. They did her liberal justice, whereas her mere patrons and partisans had nothing but hatred for our philosopher. I’m bound to say it was we, however—we of both camps, as it were—who had always done most for her. I thought my young lady looked rich—I scarcely knew why; and I hoped she had put her hand in her pocket. I soon made her out, however, not at all a fine fanatic—she was but a generous, irresponsible enquirer. She had come to England to see her aunt, and it was at her aunt’s she had met the dreary lady we had all so much on our mind. I saw she’d help to pass the time when she observed that it was a pity this lady wasn’t intrinsically more interesting. That was refreshing, for it was an article of faith in Mrs. Saltram’s circle—at least among those who scorned to know her horrid husband—that she was attractive on her merits. She was in truth a most ordinary person, as Saltram himself would have been if he hadn’t been a prodigy. The question of vulgarity had no application to him, but it was a measure his wife kept challenging you to apply. I hasten to add that the consequences of your doing so were no sufficient reason for his having left her to starve. “He doesn’t seem to have much force of character,” said my young lady; at which I laughed out so loud that my departing friends looked back at me over their shoulders as if I were making a joke of their discomfiture. My joke probably cost Saltram a subscription or two, but it helped me on with my interlocutress. “She says he drinks like a fish,” she sociably continued, “and yet she allows that his mind’s wonderfully clear.” It was amusing to converse with a pretty girl who could talk of the clearness of Saltram’s mind. I expected next to hear she had been assured he was awfully clever. I tried to tell her—I had it almost on my conscience—what was the proper way to regard him; an effort attended perhaps more than ever on this occasion with the usual effect of my feeling that I wasn’t after all very sure of it. She had come to-night out of high curiosity—she had wanted to learn this proper way for herself. She had read some of his papers and hadn’t understood them; but it was at home, at her aunt’s, that her curiosity had been kindled—kindled mainly by his wife’s remarkable stories of his want of virtue. “I suppose they ought to have kept me away,” my companion dropped, “and I suppose they’d have done so if I hadn’t somehow got an idea that he’s fascinating. In fact Mrs. Saltram herself says he is.” “So you came to see where the fascination resides? Well, you’ve seen!” My young lady raised fine eyebrows. “Do you mean in his bad faith?” “In the extraordinary effects of it; his possession, that is, of some quality or other that condemns us in advance to forgive him the humiliation, as I may call it, to which he has subjected us.” “The humiliation?” “Why mine, for instance, as one of his guarantors, before you as the purchaser of a ticket.” She let her charming gay eyes rest on me. “You don’t look humiliated a bit, and if you did I should let you off, disappointed as I am; for the mysterious quality you speak of is just the quality I came to see.” “Oh, you can’t ‘see’ it!” I cried. “How then do you get at it?” “You don’t! You mustn’t suppose he’s good-looking,” I added. “Why his wife says he’s lovely!” My hilarity may have struck her as excessive, but I confess it broke out afresh. Had she acted only in obedience to this singular plea, so characteristic, on Mrs. Saltram’s part, of what was irritating in the narrowness of that lady’s point of view? “Mrs. Saltram,” I explained, “undervalues him where he’s strongest, so that, to make up for it perhaps, she overpraises him where he’s weak. He’s not, assuredly, superficially attractive; he’s middle-aged, fat, featureless save for his great eyes.” “Yes, his great eyes,” said my young lady attentively. She had evidently heard all about his great eyes—the beaux yeux for which alone we had really done it all. “They’re tragic and splendid—lights on a dangerous coast. But he moves badly and dresses worse, and altogether he’s anything but smart.” My companion, who appeared to reflect on this, after a moment appealed. “Do you call him a real gentleman?” I started slightly at the question, for I had a sense of recognising it: George Gravener, years before, that first flushed night, had put me face to face with it. It had embarrassed me then, but it didn’t embarrass me now, for I had lived with it and overcome it and disposed of it. “A real gentleman? Emphatically not!” My promptitude surprised her a little, but I quickly felt how little it was to Gravener I was now talking. “Do you say that because he’s—what do you call it in England?—of humble extraction?” “Not a bit. His father was a country school-master and his mother the widow of a sexton, but that has nothing to do with it. I say it simply because I know him well.” “But isn’t it an awful drawback?” “Awful—quite awful.” “I mean isn’t it positively fatal?” “Fatal to what? Not to his magnificent vitality.” Again she had a meditative moment. “And is his magnificent vitality the cause of his vices?” “Your questions are formidable, but I’m glad you put them. I was thinking of his noble intellect. His vices, as you say, have been much exaggerated: they consist mainly after all in one comprehensive defect.” “A want of will?” “A want of dignity.” “He doesn’t recognise his obligations?” “On the contrary, he recognises them with effusion, especially in public: he smiles and bows and beckons across the street to them. But when they pass over he turns away, and he speedily loses them in the crowd. The recognition’s purely spiritual—it isn’t in the least social. So he leaves all his belongings to other people to take care of. He accepts favours, loans, sacrifices—all with nothing more deterrent than an agony of shame. Fortunately we’re a little faithful band, and we do what we can.” I held my tongue about the natural children, engendered, to the number of three, in the wantonness of his youth. I only remarked that he did make efforts—often tremendous ones. “But the efforts,” I said, “never come to much: the only things that come to much are the abandonments, the surrenders.” “And how much do they come to?” “You’re right to put it as if we had a big bill to pay, but, as I’ve told you before, your questions are rather terrible. They come, these mere exercises of genius, to a great sum total of poetry, of philosophy, a mighty mass of speculation, notation, quotation. The genius is there, you see, to meet the surrender; but there’s no genius to support the defence.” “But what is there, after all, at his age, to show?” “In the way of achievement recognised and reputation established?” I asked. “To ‘show’ if you will, there isn’t much, since his writing, mostly, isn’t as fine, isn’t certainly as showy, as his talk. Moreover two-thirds of his work are merely colossal projects and announcements. ‘Showing’ Frank Saltram is often a poor business,” I went on: “we endeavoured, you’ll have observed, to show him to-night! However, if he had lectured he’d have lectured divinely. It would just have been his talk.” “And what would his talk just have been?” I was conscious of some ineffectiveness, as well perhaps as of a little impatience, as I replied: “The exhibition of a splendid intellect.” My young lady looked not quite satisfied at this, but as I wasn’t prepared for another question I hastily pursued: “The sight of a great suspended swinging crystal—huge lucid lustrous, a block of light—flashing back every impression of life and every possibility of thought!” This gave her something to turn over till we had passed out to the dusky porch of the hall, in front of which the lamps of a quiet brougham were almost the only thing Saltram’s treachery hadn’t extinguished. I went with her to the door of her carriage, out of which she leaned a moment after she had thanked me and taken her seat. Her smile even in the darkness was pretty. “I do want to see that crystal!” “You’ve only to come to the next lecture.” “I go abroad in a day or two with my aunt.” “Wait over till next week,” I suggested. “It’s quite worth it.” She became grave. “Not unless he really comes!” At which the brougham started off, carrying her away too fast, fortunately for my manners, to allow me to exclaim “Ingratitude!” IV MRS. SALTRAM made a great affair of her right to be informed where her husband had been the second evening he failed to meet his audience. She came to me to ascertain, but I couldn’t satisfy her, for in spite of my ingenuity I remained in ignorance. It wasn’t till much later that I found this had not been the case with Kent Mulville, whose hope for the best never twirled the thumbs of him more placidly than when he happened to know the worst. He had known it on the occasion I speak of—that is immediately after. He was impenetrable then, but ultimately confessed. What he confessed was more than I shall now venture to make public. It was of course familiar to me that Saltram was incapable of keeping the engagements which, after their separation, he had entered into with regard to his wife, a deeply wronged, justly resentful, quite irreproachable and insufferable person. She often appeared at my chambers to talk over his lapses; for if, as she declared, she had washed her hands of him, she had carefully preserved the water of this ablution, which she handed about for analysis. She had arts of her own of exciting one’s impatience, the most infallible of which was perhaps her assumption that we were kind to her because we liked her. In reality her personal fall had been a sort of social rise—since I had seen the moment when, in our little conscientious circle, her desolation almost made her the fashion. Her voice was grating and her children ugly; moreover she hated the good Mulvilles, whom I more and more loved. They were the people who by doing most for her husband had in the long run done most for herself; and the warm confidence with which he had laid his length upon them was a pressure gentle compared with her stiffer persuadability. I’m bound to say he didn’t criticise his benefactors, though practically he got tired of them; she, however, had the highest standards about eleemosynary forms. She offered the odd spectacle of a spirit puffed up by dependence, and indeed it had introduced her to some excellent society. She pitied me for not knowing certain people who aided her and whom she doubtless patronised in turn for their luck in not knowing me. I dare say I should have got on with her better if she had had a ray of imagination—if it had occasionally seemed to occur to her to regard Saltram’s expressions of his nature in any other manner than as separate subjects of woe. They were all flowers of his character, pearls strung on an endless thread; but she had a stubborn little way of challenging them one after the other, as if she never suspected that he had a character, such as it was, or that deficiencies might be organic; the irritating effect of a mind incapable of a generalisation. One might doubtless have overdone the idea that there was a general licence for such a man; but if this had happened it would have been through one’s feeling that there could be none for such a woman. I recognised her superiority when I asked her about the aunt of the disappointed young lady: it sounded like a sentence from an English-French or other phrase-book. She triumphed in what she told me and she may have triumphed still more in what she withheld. My friend of the other evening, Miss Anvoy, had but lately come to England; Lady Coxon, the aunt, had been established here for years in consequence of her marriage with the late Sir Gregory of that name. She had a house in the Regent’s Park, a Bath-chair and a fernery; and above all she had sympathy. Mrs. Saltram had made her acquaintance through mutual friends. This vagueness caused me to feel how much I was out of it and how large an independent circle Mrs. Saltram had at her command. I should have been glad to know more about the disappointed young lady, but I felt I should know most by not depriving her of her advantage, as she might have mysterious means of depriving me of my knowledge. For the present, moreover, this experience was stayed, Lady Coxon having in fact gone abroad accompanied by her niece. The niece, besides being immensely clever, was an heiress, Mrs. Saltram said; the only daughter and the light of the eyes of some great American merchant, a man, over there, of endless indulgences and dollars. She had pretty clothes and pretty manners, and she had, what was prettier still, the great thing of all. The great thing of all for Mrs. Saltram was always sympathy, and she spoke as if during the absence of these ladies she mightn’t know where to turn for it. A few months later indeed, when they had come back, her tone perceptibly changed: she alluded to them, on my leading her up to it, rather as to persons in her debt for favours received. What had happened I didn’t know, but I saw it would take only a little more or a little less to make her speak of them as thankless subjects of social countenance—people for whom she had vainly tried to do something. I confess I saw how it wouldn’t be in a mere week or two that I should rid myself of the image of Ruth Anvoy, in whose very name, when I learnt it, I found something secretly to like. I should probably neither see her nor hear of her again: the knight’s widow (he had been mayor of Clockborough) would pass away and the heiress would return to her inheritance. I gathered with surprise that she had not communicated to his wife the story of her attempt to hear Mr..Saltram, and I founded this reticence on the easy supposition that Mrs. Saltram had fatigued by overpressure the spring of the sympathy of which she boasted. The girl at any rate would forget the small adventure, be distracted, take a husband; besides which she would lack occasion to repeat her experiment. We clung to the idea of the brilliant course, delivered without an accident, that, as a lecturer, would still make the paying public aware of our great man, but the fact remained that in the case of an inspiration so unequal there was treachery, there was fallacy at least, in the very conception of a series. In our scrutiny of ways and means we were inevitably subject to the old convention of the synopsis, the syllabus, partly of course not to lose the advantage of his grand free hand in drawing up such things; but for myself I laughed at our playbills even while I stickled for them. It was indeed amusing work to be scrupulous for Frank Saltram, who also at moments laughed about it, so far as the comfort of a sigh so unstudied as to be cheerful might pass for such a sound. He admitted with a candour all his own that he was in truth only to be depended on in the Mulvilles’ drawing-room. “Yes,” he suggestively allowed, “it’s there, I think, that I’m at my best; quite late, when it gets toward eleven—and if I’ve not been too much worried.” We all knew what too much worry meant; it meant too enslaved for the hour to the superstition of sobriety. On the Saturdays I used to bring my portmanteau, so as not to have to think of eleven o’clock trains. I had a bold theory that as regards this temple of talk and its altars of cushioned chintz, its pictures and its flowers, its large fireside and clear lamplight, we might really arrive at something if the Mulvilles would but charge for admission. Here it was, however, that they shamelessly broke down; as there’s a flaw in every perfection this was the inexpugnable refuge of their egotism. They declined to make their saloon a market, so that Saltram’s golden words continued the sole coin that rang there. It can have happened to no man, however, to be paid a greater price than such an enchanted hush as surrounded him on his greatest nights. The most profane, on these occasions, felt a presence; all minor eloquence grew dumb. Adelaide Mulville, for the pride of her hospitality, anxiously watched the door or stealthily poked the fire. I used to call it the music-room, for we had anticipated Bayreuth. The very gates of the kingdom of light seemed to open and the horizon of thought to flash with the beauty of a sunrise at sea. In the consideration of ways and means, the sittings of our little board, we were always conscious of the creak of Mrs. Saltram’s shoes. She hovered, she interrupted, she almost presided, the state of affairs being mostly such as to supply her with every incentive for enquiring what was to be done next. It was the pressing pursuit of this knowledge that, in concatenations of omnibuses and usually in very wet weather, led her so often to my door. She thought us spiritless creatures with editors and publishers; but she carried matters to no great effect when she personally pushed into back-shops. She wanted all moneys to be paid to herself: they were otherwise liable to such strange adventures. They trickled away into the desert—they were mainly at best, alas, a slender stream. The editors and the publishers were the last people to take this remarkable thinker at the valuation that has now pretty well come to be established. The former were half-distraught between the desire to “cut” him and the difficulty of finding a crevice for their shears; and when a volume on this or that portentous subject was proposed to the latter they suggested alternative titles which, as reported to our friend, brought into his face the noble blank melancholy that sometimes made it handsome. The title of an unwritten book didn’t after all much matter, but some masterpiece of Saltram’s may have died in his bosom of the shudder with which it was then convulsed. The ideal solution, failing the fee at Kent Mulville’s door, would have been some system of subscription to projected treatises with their non-appearance provided for—provided for, I mean, by the indulgence of subscribers. The author’s real misfortune was that subscribers were so wretchedly literal. When they tastelessly enquired why publication hadn’t ensued I was tempted to ask who in the world had ever been so published. Nature herself had brought him out in voluminous form, and the money was simply a deposit on borrowing the work. V I WAS doubtless often a nuisance to my friends in those years; but there were sacrifices I declined to make, and I never passed the hat to George Gravener. I never forgot our little discussion in Ebury Street, and I think it stuck in my throat to have to treat him to the avowal I had found so easy to Mss Anvoy. It had cost me nothing to confide to this charming girl, but it would have cost me much to confide to the friend of my youth, that the character of the “real gentleman” wasn’t an attribute of the man I took such pains for. Was this because I had already generalised to the point of perceiving that women are really the unfastidious sex? I knew at any rate that Gravener, already quite in view but still hungry and frugal, had naturally enough more ambition than charity. He had sharp aims for stray sovereigns, being in view most from the tall steeple of Clockborough. His immediate ambition was to occupy à lui seul the field of vision of that smokily-seeing city, and all his movements and postures were calculated for the favouring angle. The movement of the hand as to the pocket had thus to alternate gracefully with the posture of the hand on the heart. He talked to Clockborough in short only less beguilingly than Frank Saltram talked to his electors; with the difference to our credit, however, that we had already voted and that our candidate had no antagonist but himself. He had more than once been at Wimbledon—it was Mrs. Mulville’s work not mine—and by the time the claret was served had seen the god descend. He took more pains to swing his censer than I had expected, but on our way back to town he forestalled any little triumph I might have been so artless as to express by the observation that such a man was—a hundred times!—a man to use and never a man to be used by. I remember that this neat remark humiliated me almost as much as if virtually, in the fever of broken slumbers, I hadn’t often made it myself. The difference was that on Gravener’s part a force attached to it that could never attach to it on mine. He was able to use people—he had the machinery; and the irony of Saltram’s being made showy at Clockborough came out to me when he said, as if he had no memory of our original talk and the idea were quite fresh to him: “I hate his type, you know, but I’ll be hanged if I don’t put some of those things in. I can find a place for them: we might even find a place for the fellow himself.” I myself should have had some fear—not, I need scarcely say, for the “things” themselves, but for some other things very near them; in fine for the rest of my eloquence. Later on I could see that the oracle of Wimbledon was not in this case so appropriate as he would have been had the polities of the gods only coincided more exactly with those of the party. There was a distinct moment when, without saying anything more definite to me, Gravener entertained the idea of annexing Mr. Saltram. Such a project was delusive, for the discovery of analogies between his body of doctrine and that pressed from headquarters upon Clockborough—the bottling, in a word, of the air of those lungs for convenient public uncorking in corn-exchanges—was an experiment for which no one had the leisure. The only thing would have been to carry him massively about, paid, caged, clipped; to turn him on for a particular occasion in a particular channel. Frank Saltram’s channel, however, was essentially not calculable, and there was no knowing what disastrous floods might have ensued. For what there would have been to do The Empire, the great newspaper, was there to look to; but it was no new misfortune that there were delicate situations in which The Empire broke down. In fine there was an instinctive apprehension that a clever young journalist commissioned to report on Mr. Saltram might never come back from the errand. No one knew better than George Gravener that that was a time when prompt returns counted double. If he therefore found our friend an exasperating waste of orthodoxy it was because of his being, as he said, poor Gravener, up in the clouds, not because he was down in the dust. The man would have been, just as he was, a real enough gentleman if he could have helped to put in a real gentleman. Gravener’s great objection to the actual member was that he was not one. Lady Coxon had a fine old house, a house with “grounds,” at Clockborough, which she had let; but after she returned from abroad I learned from Mrs. Saltram that the lease had fallen in and that she had gone down to resume possession. I could see the faded red livery, the big square shoulders, the high-walled garden of this decent abode. As the rumble of dissolution grew louder the suitor would have pressed his suit, and I found myself hoping the politics of the late Mayor’s widow wouldn’t be such as to admonish her to ask him to dinner; perhaps indeed I went so far as to pray, they would naturally form a bar to any contact. I tried to focus the many-buttoned page, in the daily airing, as he perhaps even pushed the Bath-chair over somebody’s toes. I was destined to hear, none the less, through Mrs. Saltram—who, I afterwards learned, was in correspondence with Lady Coxon’s housekeeper—that Gravener was known to have spoken of the habitation I had in my eye as the pleasantest thing at Clockborough. On his part, I was sure, this was the voice not of envy but of experience. The vivid scene was now peopled, and I could see him in the old-time garden with Miss Anvoy, who would be certain, and very justly, to think him good-looking. It would be too much to describe myself as troubled by this play of surmise; but I occur to remember the relief, singular enough, of feeling it suddenly brushed away by an annoyance really much greater; an annoyance the result of its happening to come over me about that time with a rush that I was simply ashamed of Frank Saltram. There were limits after all, and my mark at last had been reached. I had had my disgusts, if I may allow myself to-day such an expression; but this was a supreme revolt. Certain things cleared up in my mind, certain values stood out. It was all very well to have an unfortunate temperament; there was nothing so unfortunate as to have, for practical purposes, nothing else. I avoided George Gravener at this moment and reflected that at such a time I should do so most effectually by leaving England. I wanted to forget Frank Saltram—that was all. I didn’t want to do anything in the world to him but that. Indignation had withered on the stalk, and I felt that one could pity him as much as one ought only by never thinking of him again. It wasn’t for anything he had done to me; it was for what he had done to the Mulvilles. Adelaide cried about it for a week, and her husband, profiting by the example so signally given him of the fatal effect of a want of character, left the letter, the drop too much, unanswered. The letter, an incredible one, addressed by Saltram to Wimbledon during a stay with the Pudneys at Ramsgate, was the central feature of the incident, which, however, had many features, each more painful than whichever other we compared it with. The Pudneys had behaved shockingly, but that was no excuse. Base ingratitude, gross indecency—one had one’s choice only of such formulas as that the more they fitted the less they gave one rest. These are dead aches now, and I am under no obligation, thank heaven, to be definite about the business. There are things which if I had had to tell them—well, would have stopped me off here altogether. I went abroad for the general election, and if I don’t know how much, on the Continent, I forgot, I at least know how much I missed, him. At a distance, in a foreign land, ignoring, abjuring, unlearning him, I discovered what he had done for me. I owed him, oh unmistakeably, certain noble conceptions; I had lighted my little taper at his smoky lamp, and lo it continued to twinkle. But the light it gave me just showed me how much more I wanted. I was pursued of course by letters from Mrs. Saltram which I didn’t scruple not to read, though quite aware her embarrassments couldn’t but be now of the gravest. I sacrificed to propriety by simply putting them away, and this is how, one day as my absence drew to an end, my eye, while I rummaged in my desk for another paper, was caught by a name on a leaf that had detached itself from the packet. The allusion was to Miss Anvoy, who, it appeared, was engaged to be married to Mr. George Gravener; and the news was two months old. A direct question of Mrs. Saltram’s had thus remained unanswered—she had enquired of me in a postscript what sort of man this aspirant to such a hand might be. The great other fact about him just then was that he had been triumphantly returned for Clockborough in the interest of the party that had swept the country—so that I might easily have referred Mrs. Saltram to the journals of the day. Yet when I at last wrote her that I was coming home and would discharge my accumulated burden by seeing her, I but remarked in regard to her question that she must really put it to Miss Anvoy. VI I HAD almost avoided the general election, but some of its consequences, on my return, had smartly to be faced. The season, in London, began to breathe again and to flap its folded wings. Confidence, under the new Ministry, was understood to be reviving, and one of the symptoms, in a social body, was a recovery of appetite. People once more fed together, and it happened that, one Saturday night, at somebody’s house, I fed with George Gravener. When the ladies left the room I moved up to where he sat and begged to congratulate him. “On my election?” he asked after a moment; so that I could feign, jocosely, not to have heard of that triumph and to be alluding to the rumour of a victory still more personal. I dare say I coloured however, for his political success had momentarily passed out of my mind. What was present to it was that he was to marry that beautiful girl; and yet his question made me conscious of some discomposure—I hadn’t intended to put this before everything. He himself indeed ought gracefully to have done so, and I remember thinking the whole man was in this assumption that in expressing my sense of what he had won I had fixed my thoughts on his “seat.” We straightened the matter out, and he was so much lighter in hand than I had lately seen him that his spirits might well have been fed from a twofold source. He was so good as to say that he hoped I should soon make the acquaintance of Miss Anvoy, who, with her aunt, was presently coming up to town. Lady Coxon, in the country, had been seriously unwell, and this had delayed their arrival. I told him I had heard the marriage would be a splendid one; on which, brightened and humanised by his luck, he laughed and said “Do you mean for her?” When I had again explained what I meant he went on: “Oh she’s an American, but you’d scarcely know it; unless, perhaps,” he added, “by her being used to more money than most girls in England, even the daughters of rich men. That wouldn’t in the least do for a fellow like me, you know, if it wasn’t for the great liberality of her father. He really has been most kind, and everything’s quite satisfactory.” He added that his eldest brother had taken a tremendous fancy to her and that during a recent visit at Coldfield she had nearly won over Lady Maddock. I gathered from something he dropped later on that the free-handed gentleman beyond the seas had not made a settlement, but had given a handsome present and was apparently to be looked to, across the water, for other favours. People are simplified alike by great contentments and great yearnings, and, whether or no it was Gravener’s directness that begot my own, I seem to recall that in some turn taken by our talk he almost imposed it on me as an act of decorum to ask if Miss Anvoy had also by chance expectations from her aunt. My enquiry drew out that Lady Coxon, who was the oddest of women, would have in any contingency to act under her late husband’s will, which was odder still, saddling her with a mass of queer obligations complicated with queer loopholes. There were several dreary people, Coxon cousins, old maids, to whom she would have more or less to minister. Gravener laughed, without saying no, when I suggested that the young lady might come in through a loophole; then suddenly, as if he suspected my turning a lantern on him, he declared quite dryly: “That’s all rot—one’s moved by other springs!” A fortnight later, at Lady Coxon’s own house, I understood well enough the springs one was moved by. Gravener had spoken of me there as an old friend, and I received a gracious invitation to dine. The Knight’s widow was again indisposed—she had succumbed at the eleventh hour; so that I found Miss Anvoy bravely playing hostess without even Gravener’s help, since, to make matters worse, he had just sent up word that the House, the insatiable House, with which he supposed he had contracted for easier terms, positively declined to release him. I was struck with the courage, the grace and gaiety of the young lady left thus to handle the fauna and flora of the Regent’s Park. I did what I could to help her to classify them, after I had recovered from the confusion of seeing her slightly disconcerted at perceiving in the guest introduced by her intended the gentleman with whom she had had that talk about Frank Saltram. I had at this moment my first glimpse of the fact that she was a person who could carry a responsibility; but I leave the reader to judge of my sense of the aggravation, for either of us, of such a burden, when I heard the servant announce Mrs. Saltram. From what immediately passed between the two ladies I gathered that the latter had been sent for post-haste to fill the gap created by the absence of the mistress of the house. “Good!” I remember crying, “she’ll be put by me;” and my apprehension was promptly justified. Mrs. Saltram taken in to dinner, and taken in as a consequence of an appeal to her amiability, was Mrs. Saltram with a vengeance. I asked myself what Miss Anvoy meant by doing such things, but the only answer I arrived at was that Gravener was verily fortunate. She hadn’t happened to tell him of her visit to Upper Baker Street, but she’d certainly tell him to-morrow; not indeed that this would make him like any better her having had the innocence to invite such a person as Mrs. Saltram on such an occasion. It could only strike me that I had never seen a young woman put such ignorance into her cleverness, such freedom into her modesty; this, I think, was when, after dinner, she said to me frankly, with almost jubilant mirth: “Oh you don’t admire Mrs. Saltram?” Why should I? This was truly a young person without guile. I had briefly to consider before I could reply that my objection to the lady named was the objection often uttered about people met at the social board—I knew all her stories. Then as Miss Anvoy remained momentarily vague I added: “Those about her husband.” “Oh yes, but there are some new ones.” “None for me. Ah novelty would be pleasant!” “Doesn’t it appear that of late he has been particularly horrid?” “His fluctuations don’t matter”, I returned, “for at night all cats are grey. You saw the shade of this one the night we waited for him together. What will you have? He has no dignity.” Miss Anvoy, who had been introducing with her American distinctness, looked encouragingly round at some of the combinations she had risked. “It’s too bad I can’t see him.” “You mean Gravener won’t let you?” “I haven’t asked him. He lets me do everything.” “But you know he knows him and wonders what some of us see in him.” “We haven’t happened to talk of him,” the girl said. “Get him to take you some day out to see the Mulvilles.” “I thought Mr. Saltram had thrown the Mulvilles over.” “Utterly. But that won’t prevent his being planted there again, to bloom like a rose, within a month or two.” Miss Anvoy thought a moment. Then, “I should like to see them,” she said with her fostering smile. “They’re tremendously worth it. You mustn’t miss them.” “I’ll make George take me,” she went on as Mrs. Saltram came up to interrupt us. She sniffed at this unfortunate as kindly as she had smiled at me and, addressing the question to her, continued: “But the chance of a lecture—one of the wonderful lectures? Isn’t there another course announced?” “Another? There are about thirty!” I exclaimed, turning away and feeling Mrs. Saltram’s little eyes in my back. A few days after this I heard that Gravener’s marriage was near at hand—was settled for Whitsuntide; but as no invitation had reached me I had my doubts, and there presently came to me in fact the report of a postponement. Something was the matter; what was the matter was supposed to be that Lady Coxon was now critically ill. I had called on her after my dinner in the Regent’s Park, but I had neither seen her nor seen Miss Anvoy. I forget to-day the exact order in which, at this period, sundry incidents occurred and the particular stage at which it suddenly struck me, making me catch my breath a little, that the progression, the acceleration, was for all the world that of fine drama. This was probably rather late in the day, and the exact order doesn’t signify. What had already occurred was some accident determining a more patient wait. George Gravener, whom I met again, in fact told me as much, but without signs of perturbation. Lady Coxon had to be constantly attended to, and there were other good reasons as well. Lady Coxon had to be so constantly attended to that on the occasion of a second attempt in the Regent’s Park I equally failed to obtain a sight of her niece. I judged it discreet in all the conditions not to make a third; but this didn’t matter, for it was through Adelaide Mulville that the side-wind of the comedy, though I was at first unwitting, began to reach me. I went to Wimbledon at times because Saltram was there, and I went at others because he wasn’t. The Pudneys, who had taken him to Birmingham, had already got rid of him, and we had a horrible consciousness of his wandering roofless, in dishonour, about the smoky Midlands, almost as the injured Lear wandered on the storm-lashed heath. His room, upstairs, had been lately done up (I could hear the crackle of the new chintz) and the difference only made his smirches and bruises, his splendid tainted genius, the more tragic. If he wasn’t barefoot in the mire he was sure to be unconventionally shod. These were the things Adelaide and I, who were old enough friends to stare at each other in silence, talked about when we didn’t speak. When we spoke it was only about the brilliant girl George Gravener was to marry and whom he had brought out the other Sunday. I could see that this presentation had been happy, for Mrs. Mulville commemorated it after her sole fashion of showing confidence in a new relation. “She likes me—she likes me”: her native humility exulted in that measure of success. We all knew for ourselves how she liked those who liked her, and as regards Ruth Anvoy she was more easily won over than Lady Maddock. VII ONE of the consequences, for the Mulvilles, of the sacrifices they made for Frank Saltram was that they had to give up their carriage. Adelaide drove gently into London in a one-horse greenish thing, an early Victorian landau, hired, near at hand, imaginatively, from a broken-down jobmaster whose wife was in consumption—a vehicle that made people turn round all the more when her pensioner sat beside her in a soft white hat and a shawl, one of the dear woman’s own. This was his position and I dare say his costume when on an afternoon in July she went to return Miss Anvoy’s visit. The wheel of fate had now revolved, and amid silences deep and exhaustive, compunctions and condonations alike unutterable, Saltram was reinstated. Was it in pride or in penance that Mrs. Mulville had begun immediately to drive him about? If he was ashamed of his ingratitude she might have been ashamed of her forgiveness; but she was incorrigibly capable of liking him to be conspicuous in the landau while she was in shops or with her acquaintance. However, if he was in the pillory for twenty minutes in the Regent’s Park—I mean at Lady Coxon’s door while his companion paid her call—it wasn’t to the further humiliation of any one concerned that she presently came out for him in person, not even to show either of them what a fool she was that she drew him in to be introduced to the bright young American. Her account of the introduction I had in its order, but before that, very late in the season, under Gravener’s auspices, I met Miss Anvoy at tea at the House of Commons. The member for Clockborough had gathered a group of pretty ladies, and the Mulvilles were not of the party. On the great terrace, as I strolled off with her a little, the guest of honour immediately exclaimed to me: “I’ve seen him, you know—I’ve seen him!” She told me about Saltram’s call. “And how did you find him?” “Oh so strange!” “You didn’t like him?” “I can’t tell till I see him again.” “You want to do that?” She had a pause. “Immensely.” We went no further; I fancied she had become aware Gravener was looking at us. She turned back toward the knot of the others, and I said: “Dislike him as much as you will—I see you’re bitten.” “Bitten?” I thought she coloured a little. “Oh it doesn’t matter!” I laughed; “one doesn’t die of it.” “I hope I shan’t die of anything before I’ve seen more of Mrs. Mulville.” I rejoiced with her over plain Adelaide, whom she pronounced the loveliest woman she had met in England; but before we separated I remarked to her that it was an act of mere humanity to warn her that if she should see more of Frank Saltram—which would be likely to follow on any increase of acquaintance with Mrs. Mulville—she might find herself flattening her nose against the clear hard pane of an eternal question—that of the relative, that of the opposed, importances of virtue and brains. She replied that this was surely a subject on which one took everything for granted; whereupon I admitted that I had perhaps expressed myself ill. What I referred to was what I had referred to the night we met in Upper Baker Street—the relative importance (relative to virtue) of other gifts. She asked me if I called virtue a gift—a thing handed to us in a parcel on our first birthday; and I declared that this very enquiry proved to me the problem had already caught her by the skirt. She would have help however, the same help I myself had once had, in resisting its tendency to make one cross. “What help do you mean?” “That of the member for Clockborough.” She stared, smiled, then returned: “Why my idea has been to help him!” She had helped him—I had his own word for it that at Clockborough her bedevilment of the voters had really put him in. She would do so doubtless again and again, though I heard the very next month that this fine faculty had undergone a temporary eclipse. News of the catastrophe first came to me from Mrs. Saltram, and it was afterwards confirmed at Wimbledon: poor Miss Anvoy was in trouble—great disasters in America had suddenly summoned her home. Her father, in New York, had suffered reverses, lost so much money that it was really vexatious as showing how much he had had. It was Adelaide who told me she had gone off alone at less than a week’s notice. “Alone? Gravener has permitted that?” “What will you have? The House of Commons!” I’m afraid I cursed the House of Commons: I was so much interested. Of course he’d follow her as soon as he was free to make her his wife; only she mightn’t now be able to bring him anything like the marriage-portion of which he had begun by having the virtual promise. Mrs. Mulville let me know what was already said: she was charming, this American girl, but really these American fathers—! What was a man to do? Mr. Saltram, according to Mrs. Mulville, was of opinion that a man was never to suffer his relation to money to become a spiritual relation—he was to keep it exclusively material. “Moi pas comprendre!” I commented on this; in rejoinder to which Adelaide, with her beautiful sympathy, explained that she supposed he simply meant that the thing was to use it, don’t you know? but not to think too much about it. “To take it, but not to thank you for it?” I still more profanely enquired. For a quarter of an hour afterwards she wouldn’t look at me, but this didn’t prevent my asking her what had been the result, that afternoon—in the Regent’s Park, of her taking our friend to see Miss Anvoy. “Oh so charming!” she answered, brightening. “He said he recognised in her a nature he could absolutely trust.” “Yes, but I’m speaking of the effect on herself.” Mrs. Mulville had to remount the stream. “It was everything one could wish.” Something in her tone made me laugh. “Do you mean she gave him—a dole?” “Well, since you ask me!” “Right there on the spot?” Again poor Adelaide faltered. “It was to me of course she gave it.” I stared; somehow I couldn’t see the scene. “Do you mean a sum of money?” “It was very handsome.” Now at last she met my eyes, though I could see it was with an effort. “Thirty pounds.” “Straight out of her pocket?” “Out of the drawer of a table at which she had been writing. She just slipped the folded notes into my hand. He wasn’t looking; it was while he was going back to the carriage.” “Oh,” said Adelaide reassuringly, “I take care of it for him!” The dear practical soul thought my agitation, for I confess I was agitated, referred to the employment of the money. Her disclosure made me for a moment muse violently, and I dare say that during that moment I wondered if anything else in the world makes people so gross as unselfishness. I uttered, I suppose, some vague synthetic cry, for she went on as if she had had a glimpse of my inward amaze at such passages. “I assure you, my dear friend, he was in one of his happy hours.” But I wasn’t thinking of that. “Truly indeed these Americans!” I said. “With her father in the very act, as it were, of swindling her betrothed!” Mrs. Mulville stared. “Oh I suppose Mr. Anvoy has scarcely gone bankrupt—or whatever he has done—on purpose. Very likely they won’t be able to keep it up, but there it was, and it was a very beautiful impulse.” “You say Saltram was very fine?” “Beyond everything. He surprised even me.” “And I know what you’ve enjoyed.” After a moment I added: “Had he peradventure caught a glimpse of the money in the table-drawer?” At this my companion honestly flushed. “How can you be so cruel when you know how little he calculates?” “Forgive me, I do know it. But you tell me things that act on my nerves. I’m sure he hadn’t caught a glimpse of anything but some splendid idea.” Mrs. Mulville brightly concurred. “And perhaps even of her beautiful listening face.” “Perhaps even! And what was it all about?” “His talk? It was apropos of her engagement, which I had told him about: the idea of marriage, the philosophy, the poetry, the sublimity of it.” It was impossible wholly to restrain one’s mirth at this, and some rude ripple that I emitted again caused my companion to admonish me. “It sounds a little stale, but you know his freshness.” “Of illustration? Indeed I do!” “And how he has always been right on that great question.” “On what great question, dear lady, hasn’t he been right?” “Of what other great men can you equally say it?—and that he has never, but never, had a deflexion?” Mrs. Mulville exultantly demanded. I tried to think of some other great man, but I had to give it up. “Didn’t Miss Anvoy express her satisfaction in any less diffident way than by her charming present?” I was reduced to asking instead. “Oh yes, she overflowed to me on the steps while he was getting into the carriage.” These words somehow brushed up a picture of Saltram’s big shawled back as he hoisted himself into the green landau. “She said she wasn’t disappointed,” Adelaide pursued. I turned it over. “Did he wear his shawl?” “His shawl?” She hadn’t even noticed. “I mean yours.” “He looked very nice, and you know he’s really clean. Miss Anvoy used such a remarkable expression—she said his mind’s like a crystal!” I pricked up my ears. “A crystal?” “Suspended in the moral world—swinging and shining and flashing there. She’s monstrously clever, you know.” I thought again. “Monstrously!” VIII GEORGE GRAVENER didn’t follow her, for late in September, after the House had risen, I met him in a railway-carriage. He was coming up from Scotland and I had just quitted some relations who lived near Durham. The current of travel back to London wasn’t yet strong; at any rate on entering the compartment I found he had had it for some time to himself. We fared in company, and though he had a blue-book in his lap and the open jaws of his bag threatened me with the white teeth of confused papers, we inevitably, we even at last sociably conversed. I saw things weren’t well with him, but I asked no question till something dropped by himself made, as it had made on another occasion, an absence of curiosity invidious. He mentioned that he was worried about his good old friend Lady Coxon, who, with her niece likely to be detained some time in America, lay seriously ill at Clockborough, much on his mind and on his hands. “Ah Miss Anvoy’s in America?” “Her father has got into horrid straits—has lost no end of money.” I waited, after expressing due concern, but I eventually said: “I hope that raises no objection to your marriage.” “None whatever; moreover it’s my trade to meet objections. But it may create tiresome delays, of which there have been too many, from various causes, already. Lady Coxon got very bad, then she got much better. Then Mr. Anvoy suddenly began to totter, and now he seems quite on his back. I’m afraid he’s really in for some big reverse. Lady Coxon’s worse again, awfully upset by the news from America, and she sends me word that she _must_ have Ruth. How can I supply her with Ruth? I haven’t got Ruth myself!” “Surely you haven’t lost her?” I returned. “She’s everything to her wretched father. She writes me every post—telling me to smooth her aunt’s pillow. I’ve other things to smooth; but the old lady, save for her servants, is really alone. She won’t receive her Coxon relations—she’s angry at so much of her money going to them. Besides, she’s hopelessly mad,” said Gravener very frankly. I don’t remember whether it was this, or what it was, that made me ask if she hadn’t such an appreciation of Mrs. Saltram as might render that active person of some use. He gave me a cold glance, wanting to know what had put Mrs. Saltram into my head, and I replied that she was unfortunately never out of it. I happened to remember the wonderful accounts she had given me of the kindness Lady Coxon had shown her. Gravener declared this to be false; Lady Coxon, who didn’t care for her, hadn’t seen her three times. The only foundation for it was that Miss Anvoy, who used, poor girl, to chuck money about in a manner she must now regret, had for an hour seen in the miserable woman—you could never know what she’d see in people—an interesting pretext for the liberality with which her nature overflowed. But even Miss Anvoy was now quite tired of her. Gravener told me more about the crash in New York and the annoyance it had been to him, and we also glanced here and there in other directions; but by the time we got to Doncaster the principal thing he had let me see was that he was keeping something back. We stopped at that station, and, at the carriage-door, some one made a movement to get in. Gravener uttered a sound of impatience, and I felt sure that but for this I should have had the secret. Then the intruder, for some reason, spared us his company; we started afresh, and my hope of a disclosure returned. My companion held his tongue, however, and I pretended to go to sleep; in fact I really dozed for discouragement. When I reopened my eyes he was looking at me with an injured air. He tossed away with some vivacity the remnant of a cigarette and then said: “If you’re not too sleepy I want to put you a case.” I answered that I’d make every effort to attend, and welcomed the note of interest when he went on: “As I told you a while ago, Lady Coxon, poor dear, is demented.” His tone had much behind it—was full of promise. I asked if her ladyship’s misfortune were a trait of her malady or only of her character, and he pronounced it a product of both. The case he wanted to put to me was a matter on which it concerned him to have the impression—the judgement, he might also say—of another person. “I mean of the average intelligent man, but you see I take what I can get.” There would be the technical, the strictly legal view; then there would be the way the question would strike a man of the world. He had lighted another cigarette while he talked, and I saw he was glad to have it to handle when he brought out at last, with a laugh slightly artificial: “In fact it’s a subject on which Miss Anvoy and I are pulling different ways.” “And you want me to decide between you? I decide in advance for Miss Anvoy.” “In advance—that’s quite right. That’s how I decided when I proposed to her. But my story will interest you only so far as your mind isn’t made up.” Gravener puffed his cigarette a minute and then continued: “Are you familiar with the idea of the Endowment of Research?” “Of Research?” I was at sea a moment. “I give you Lady Coxon’s phrase. She has it on the brain.” “She wishes to endow—?” “Some earnest and ‘loyal’ seeker,” Gravener said. “It was a sketchy design of her late husband’s, and he handed it on to her; setting apart in his will a sum of money of which she was to enjoy the interest for life, but of which, should she eventually see her opportunity—the matter was left largely to her discretion—she would best honour his memory by determining the exemplary public use. This sum of money, no less than thirteen thousand pounds, was to be called The Coxon Fund; and poor Sir Gregory evidently proposed to himself that The Coxon Fund should cover his name with glory—be universally desired and admired. He left his wife a full declaration of his views, so far at least as that term may be applied to views vitiated by a vagueness really infantine. A little learning’s a dangerous thing, and a good citizen who happens to have been an ass is worse for a community than bad sewerage. He’s worst of all when he’s dead, because then he can’t be stopped. However, such as they were, the poor man’s aspirations are now in his wife’s bosom, or fermenting rather in her foolish brain: it lies with her to carry them out. But of course she must first catch her hare.” “Her earnest loyal seeker?” “The flower that blushes unseen for want of such a pecuniary independence as may aid the light that’s in it to shine upon the human race. The individual, in a word, who, having the rest of the machinery, the spiritual, the intellectual, is most hampered in his search.” “His search for what?” “For Moral Truth. That’s what Sir Gregory calls it.” I burst out laughing. “Delightful munificent Sir Gregory! It’s a charming idea.” “So Miss Anvoy thinks.” “Has she a candidate for the Fund?” “Not that I know of—and she’s perfectly reasonable about it. But Lady Coxon has put the matter before her, and we’ve naturally had a lot of talk.” “Talk that, as you’ve so interestingly intimated, has landed you in a disagreement.” “She considers there’s something in it,” Gravener said. “And you consider there’s nothing?” “It seems to me a piece of solemn twaddle—which can’t fail to be attended with consequences certainly grotesque and possibly immoral. To begin with, fancy constituting an endowment without establishing a tribunal—a bench of competent people, of judges.” “The sole tribunal is Lady Coxon?” “And any one she chooses to invite.” “But she has invited you,” I noted. “I’m not competent—I hate the thing. Besides, she hasn’t,” my friend went on. “The real history of the matter, I take it, is that the inspiration was originally Lady Coxon’s own, that she infected him with it, and that the flattering option left her is simply his tribute to her beautiful, her aboriginal enthusiasm. She came to England forty years ago, a thin transcendental Bostonian, and even her odd happy frumpy Clockborough marriage never really materialised her. She feels indeed that she has become very British—as if that, as a process, as a ‘Werden,’ as anything but an original sign of grace, were conceivable; but it’s precisely what makes her cling to the notion of the ‘Fund’—cling to it as to a link with the ideal.” “How can she cling if she’s dying?” “Do you mean how can she act in the matter?” Gravener asked. “That’s precisely the question. She can’t! As she has never yet caught her hare, never spied out her lucky impostor—how should she, with the life she has led?—her husband’s intention has come very near lapsing. His idea, to do him justice, was that it _should_ lapse if exactly the right person, the perfect mixture of genius and chill penury, should fail to turn up. Ah the poor dear woman’s very particular—she says there must be no mistake.” I found all this quite thrilling—I took it in with avidity. “And if she dies without doing anything, what becomes of the money?” I demanded. “It goes back to his family, if she hasn’t made some other disposition of it.” “She may do that then—she may divert it?” “Her hands are not tied. She has a grand discretion. The proof is that three months ago she offered to make the proceeds over to her niece.” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use?” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use—on the occasion of her prospective marriage. She was discouraged—the earnest seeker required so earnest a search. She was afraid of making a mistake; every one she could think of seemed either not earnest enough or not poor enough. On the receipt of the first bad news about Mr. Anvoy’s affairs she proposed to Ruth to make the sacrifice for her. As the situation in New York got worse she repeated her proposal.” “Which Miss Anvoy declined?” “Except as a formal trust.” “You mean except as committing herself legally to place the money?” “On the head of the deserving object, the great man frustrated,” said Gravener. “She only consents to act in the spirit of Sir Gregory’s scheme.” “And you blame her for that?” I asked with some intensity. My tone couldn’t have been harsh, but he coloured a little and there was a queer light in his eye. “My dear fellow, if I ‘blamed’ the young lady I’m engaged to I shouldn’t immediately say it even to so old a friend as you.” I saw that some deep discomfort, some restless desire to be sided with, reassuringly, approvingly mirrored, had been at the bottom of his drifting so far, and I was genuinely touched by his confidence. It was inconsistent with his habits; but being troubled about a woman was not, for him, a habit: that itself was an inconsistency. George Gravener could stand straight enough before any other combination of forces. It amused me to think that the combination he had succumbed to had an American accent, a transcendental aunt and an insolvent father; but all my old loyalty to him mustered to meet this unexpected hint that I could help him. I saw that I could from the insincere tone in which he pursued: “I’ve criticised her of course, I’ve contended with her, and it has been great fun.” Yet it clearly couldn’t have been such great fun as to make it improper for me presently to ask if Miss Anvoy had nothing at all settled on herself. To this he replied that she had only a trifle from her mother—a mere four hundred a year, which was exactly why it would be convenient to him that she shouldn’t decline, in the face of this total change in her prospects, an accession of income which would distinctly help them to marry. When I enquired if there were no other way in which so rich and so affectionate an aunt could cause the weight of her benevolence to be felt, he answered that Lady Coxon was affectionate indeed, but was scarcely to be called rich. She could let her project of the Fund lapse for her niece’s benefit, but she couldn’t do anything else. She had been accustomed to regard her as tremendously provided for, and she was up to her eyes in promises to anxious Coxons. She was a woman of an inordinate conscience, and her conscience was now a distress to her, hovering round her bed in irreconcilable forms of resentful husbands, portionless nieces and undiscoverable philosophers. We were by this time getting into the whirr of fleeting platforms, the multiplication of lights. “I think you’ll find,” I said with a laugh, “that your predicament will disappear in the very fact that the philosopher _is_ undiscoverable.” He began to gather up his papers. “Who can set a limit to the ingenuity of an extravagant woman?” “Yes, after all, who indeed?” I echoed as I recalled the extravagance commemorated in Adelaide’s anecdote of Miss Anvoy and the thirty pounds. IX THE thing I had been most sensible of in that talk with George Gravener was the way Saltram’s name kept out of it. It seemed to me at the time that we were quite pointedly silent about him; but afterwards it appeared more probable there had been on my companion’s part no conscious avoidance. Later on I was sure of this, and for the best of reasons—the simple reason of my perceiving more completely that, for evil as well as for good, he said nothing to Gravener’s imagination. That honest man didn’t fear him—he was too much disgusted with him. No more did I, doubtless, and for very much the same reason. I treated my friend’s story as an absolute confidence; but when before Christmas, by Mrs. Saltram, I was informed of Lady Coxon’s death without having had news of Miss Anvoy’s return, I found myself taking for granted we should hear no more of these nuptials, in which, as obscurely unnatural, I now saw I had never _too_ disconcertedly believed. I began to ask myself how people who suited each other so little could please each other so much. The charm was some material charm, some afffinity, exquisite doubtless, yet superficial some surrender to youth and beauty and passion, to force and grace and fortune, happy accidents and easy contacts. They might dote on each other’s persons, but how could they know each other’s souls? How could they have the same prejudices, how could they have the same horizon? Such questions, I confess, seemed quenched but not answered when, one day in February, going out to Wimbledon, I found our young lady in the house. A passion that had brought her back across the wintry ocean was as much of a passion as was needed. No impulse equally strong indeed had drawn George Gravener to America; a circumstance on which, however, I reflected only long enough to remind myself that it was none of my business. Ruth Anvoy was distinctly different, and I felt that the difference was not simply that of her marks of mourning. Mrs. Mulville told me soon enough what it was: it was the difference between a handsome girl with large expectations and a handsome girl with only four hundred a year. This explanation indeed didn’t wholly content me, not even when I learned that her mourning had a double cause—learned that poor Mr. Anvoy, giving way altogether, buried under the ruins of his fortune and leaving next to nothing, had died a few weeks before. “So she has come out to marry George Gravener?” I commented. “Wouldn’t it have been prettier of him to have saved her the trouble?” “Hasn’t the House just met?” Adelaide replied. “And for Mr. Gravener the House—!” Then she added: “I gather that her having come is exactly a sign that the marriage is a little shaky. If it were quite all right a self-respecting girl like Ruth would have waited for him over there.” I noted that they were already Ruth and Adelaide, but what I said was: “Do you mean she’ll have had to return to _make_ it so?” “No, I mean that she must have come out for some reason independent of it.” Adelaide could only surmise, however, as yet, and there was more, as we found, to be revealed. Mrs. Mulville, on hearing of her arrival, had brought the young lady out in the green landau for the Sunday. The Coxons were in possession of the house in Regent’s Park, and Miss Anvoy was in dreary lodgings. George Gravener had been with her when Adelaide called, but had assented graciously enough to the little visit at Wimbledon. The carriage, with Mr. Saltram in it but not mentioned, had been sent off on some errand from which it was to return and pick the ladies up. Gravener had left them together, and at the end of an hour, on the Saturday afternoon, the party of three had driven out to Wimbledon. This was the girl’s second glimpse of our great man, and I was interested in asking Mrs. Mulville if the impression made by the first appeared to have been confirmed. On her replying after consideration, that of course with time and opportunity it couldn’t fail to be, but that she was disappointed, I was sufficiently struck with her use of this last word to question her further. “Do you mean you’re disappointed because you judge Miss Anvoy to be?” “Yes; I hoped for a greater effect last evening. We had two or three people, but he scarcely opened his mouth.” “He’ll be all the better to-night,” I opined after a moment. Then I pursued: “What particular importance do you attach to the idea of her being impressed?” Adelaide turned her mild pale eyes on me as for rebuke of my levity. “Why the importance of her being as happy as _we_ are!” I’m afraid that at this my levity grew. “Oh that’s a happiness almost too great to wish a person!” I saw she hadn’t yet in her mind what I had in mine, and at any rate the visitor’s actual bliss was limited to a walk in the garden with Kent Mulville. Later in the afternoon I also took one, and I saw nothing of Miss Anvoy till dinner, at which we failed of the company of Saltram, who had caused it to be reported that he was indisposed and lying down. This made us, most of us—for there were other friends present—convey to each other in silence some of the unutterable things that in those years our eyes had inevitably acquired the art of expressing. If a fine little American enquirer hadn’t been there we would have expressed them otherwise, and Adelaide would have pretended not to hear. I had seen her, before the very fact, abstract herself nobly; and I knew that more than once, to keep it from the servants, managing, dissimulating cleverly, she had helped her husband to carry him bodily to his room. Just recently he had been so wise and so deep and so high that I had begun to get nervous—to wonder if by chance there were something behind it, if he were kept straight for instance by the knowledge that the hated Pudneys would have more to tell us if they chose. He was lying low, but unfortunately it was common wisdom with us in this connexion that the biggest splashes took place in the quietest pools. We should have had a merry life indeed if all the splashes had sprinkled us as refreshingly as the waters we were even then to feel about our ears. Kent Mulville had been up to his room, but had come back with a face that told as few tales as I had seen it succeed in telling on the evening I waited in the lecture-room with Miss Anvoy. I said to myself that our friend had gone out, but it was a comfort that the presence of a comparative stranger deprived us of the dreary duty of suggesting to each other, in respect of his errand, edifying possibilities in which we didn’t ourselves believe. At ten o’clock he came into the drawing-room with his waistcoat much awry but his eyes sending out great signals. It was precisely with his entrance that I ceased to be vividly conscious of him. I saw that the crystal, as I had called it, had begun to swing, and I had need of my immediate attention for Miss Anvoy. Even when I was told afterwards that he had, as we might have said to-day, broken the record, the manner in which that attention had been rewarded relieved me of a sense of loss. I had of course a perfect general consciousness that something great was going on: it was a little like having been etherised to hear Herr Joachim play. The old music was in the air; I felt the strong pulse of thought, the sink and swell, the flight, the poise, the plunge; but I knew something about one of the listeners that nobody else knew, and Saltram’s monologue could reach me only through that medium. To this hour I’m of no use when, as a witness, I’m appealed to—for they still absurdly contend about it—as to whether or no on that historic night he was drunk; and my position is slightly ridiculous, for I’ve never cared to tell them what it really was I was taken up with. What I got out of it is the only morsel of the total experience that is quite my own. The others were shared, but this is incommunicable. I feel that now, I’m bound to say, even in thus roughly evoking the occasion, and it takes something from my pride of clearness. However, I shall perhaps be as clear as is absolutely needful if I remark that our young lady was too much given up to her own intensity of observation to be sensible of mine. It was plainly not the question of her marriage that had brought her back. I greatly enjoyed this discovery and was sure that had that question alone been involved she would have stirred no step. In this case doubtless Gravener would, in spite of the House of Commons, have found means to rejoin her. It afterwards made me uncomfortable for her that, alone in the lodging Mrs. Mulville had put before me as dreary, she should have in any degree the air of waiting for her fate; so that I was presently relieved at hearing of her having gone to stay at Coldfield. If she was in England at all while the engagement stood the only proper place for her was under Lady Maddock’s wing. Now that she was unfortunate and relatively poor, perhaps her prospective sister-in-law would be wholly won over. There would be much to say, if I had space, about the way her behaviour, as I caught gleams of it, ministered to the image that had taken birth in my mind, to my private amusement, while that other night I listened to George Gravener in the railway-carriage. I watched her in the light of this queer possibility—a formidable thing certainly to meet—and I was aware that it coloured, extravagantly perhaps, my interpretation of her very looks and tones. At Wimbledon for instance it had appeared to me she was literally afraid of Saltram, in dread of a coercion that she had begun already to feel. I had come up to town with her the next day and had been convinced that, though deeply interested, she was immensely on her guard. She would show as little as possible before she should be ready to show everything. What this final exhibition might be on the part of a girl perceptibly so able to think things out I found it great sport to forecast. It would have been exciting to be approached by her, appealed to by her for advice; but I prayed to heaven I mightn’t find myself in such a predicament. If there was really a present rigour in the situation of which Gravener had sketched for me the elements, she would have to get out of her difficulty by herself. It wasn’t I who had launched her and it wasn’t I who could help her. I didn’t fail to ask myself why, since I couldn’t help her, I should think so much about her. It was in part my suspense that was responsible for this; I waited impatiently to see whether she wouldn’t have told Mrs. Mulville a portion at least of what I had learned from Gravener. But I saw Mrs. Mulville was still reduced to wonder what she had come out again for if she hadn’t come as a conciliatory bride. That she had come in some other character was the only thing that fitted all the appearances. Having for family reasons to spend some time that spring in the west of England, I was in a manner out of earshot of the great oceanic rumble—I mean of the continuous hum of Saltram’s thought—and my uneasiness tended to keep me quiet. There was something I wanted so little to have to say that my prudence surmounted my curiosity. I only wondered if Ruth Anvoy talked over the idea of The Coxon Fund with Lady Maddock, and also somewhat why I didn’t hear from Wimbledon. I had a reproachful note about something or other from Mrs. Saltram, but it contained no mention of Lady Coxon’s niece, on whom her eyes had been much less fixed since the recent untoward events. X POOR Adelaide’s silence was fully explained later—practically explained when in June, returning to London, I was honoured by this admirable woman with an early visit. As soon as she arrived I guessed everything, and as soon as she told me that darling Ruth had been in her house nearly a month I had my question ready. “What in the name of maidenly modesty is she staying in England for?” “Because she loves me so!” cried Adelaide gaily. But she hadn’t come to see me only to tell me Miss Anvoy loved her: that was quite sufficiently established, and what was much more to the point was that Mr. Gravener had now raised an objection to it. He had protested at least against her being at Wimbledon, where in the innocence of his heart he had originally brought her himself; he called on her to put an end to their engagement in the only proper, the only happy manner. “And why in the world doesn’t she do do?” I asked. Adelaide had a pause. “She says you know.” Then on my also hesitating she added: “A condition he makes.” “The Coxon Fund?” I panted. “He has mentioned to her his having told you about it.” “Ah but so little! Do you mean she has accepted the trust?” “In the most splendid spirit—as a duty about which there can be no two opinions.” To which my friend added: “Of course she’s thinking of Mr. Saltram.” I gave a quick cry at this, which, in its violence, made my visitor turn pale. “How very awful!” “Awful?” “Why, to have anything to do with such an idea one’s self.” “I’m sure _you_ needn’t!” and Mrs. Mulville tossed her head. “He isn’t good enough!” I went on; to which she opposed a sound almost as contentious as my own had been. This made me, with genuine immediate horror, exclaim: “You haven’t influenced her, I hope!” and my emphasis brought back the blood with a rush to poor Adelaide’s face. She declared while she blushed—for I had frightened her again—that she had never influenced anybody and that the girl had only seen and heard and judged for herself. _He_ had influenced her, if I would, as he did every one who had a soul: that word, as we knew, even expressed feebly the power of the things he said to haunt the mind. How could she, Adelaide, help it if Miss Anvoy’s mind was haunted? I demanded with a groan what right a pretty girl engaged to a rising M.P. had to _have_ a mind; but the only explanation my bewildered friend could give me was that she was so clever. She regarded Mr. Saltram naturally as a tremendous force for good. She was intelligent enough to understand him and generous enough to admire. “She’s many things enough, but is she, among them, rich enough?” I demanded. “Rich enough, I mean, to sacrifice such a lot of good money?” “That’s for herself to judge. Besides, it’s not her own money; she doesn’t in the least consider it so.” “And Gravener does, if not _his_ own; and that’s the whole difficulty?” “The difficulty that brought her back, yes: she had absolutely to see her poor aunt’s solicitor. It’s clear that by Lady Coxon’s will she may have the money, but it’s still clearer to her conscience that the original condition, definite, intensely implied on her uncle’s part, is attached to the use of it. She can only take one view of it. It’s for the Endowment or it’s for nothing.” “The Endowment,” I permitted myself to observe, “is a conception superficially sublime, but fundamentally ridiculous.” “Are you repeating Mr. Gravener’s words?” Adelaide asked. “Possibly, though I’ve not seen him for months. It’s simply the way it strikes me too. It’s an old wife’s tale. Gravener made some reference to the legal aspect, but such an absurdly loose arrangement has _no_ legal aspect.” “Ruth doesn’t insist on that,” said Mrs. Mulville; “and it’s, for her, exactly this technical weakness that constitutes the force of the moral obligation.” “Are you repeating _her_ words?” I enquired. I forget what else Adelaide said, but she said she was magnificent. I thought of George Gravener confronted with such magnificence as that, and I asked what could have made two such persons ever suppose they understood each other. Mrs. Mulville assured me the girl loved him as such a woman could love and that she suffered as such a woman could suffer. Nevertheless she wanted to see _me_. At this I sprang up with a groan. “Oh I’m so sorry!—when?” Small though her sense of humour, I think Adelaide laughed at my sequence. We discussed the day, the nearest it would be convenient I should come out; but before she went I asked my visitor how long she had been acquainted with these prodigies. “For several weeks, but I was pledged to secrecy.” “And that’s why you didn’t write?” “I couldn’t very well tell you she was with me without telling you that no time had even yet been fixed for her marriage. And I couldn’t very well tell you as much as that without telling you what I knew of the reason of it. It was not till a day or two ago,” Mrs. Mulville went on, “that she asked me to ask you if you wouldn’t come and see her. Then at last she spoke of your knowing about the idea of the Endowment.” I turned this over. “Why on earth does she want to see me?” “To talk with you, naturally, about Mr. Saltram.” “As a subject for the prize?” This was hugely obvious, and I presently returned: “I think I’ll sail to-morrow for Australia.” “Well then—sail!” said Mrs. Mulville, getting up. But I frivolously, continued. “On Thursday at five, we said?” The appointment was made definite and I enquired how, all this time, the unconscious candidate had carried himself. “In perfection, really, by the happiest of chances: he has positively been a dear. And then, as to what we revere him for, in the most wonderful form. His very highest—pure celestial light. You _won’t_ do him an ill turn?” Adelaide pleaded at the door. “What danger can equal for him the danger to which he’s exposed from himself?” I asked. “Look out sharp, if he has lately been too prim. He’ll presently take a day off, treat us to some exhibition that will make an Endowment a scandal.” “A scandal?” Mrs. Mulville dolorously echoed. “Is Miss Anvoy prepared for that?” My visitor, for a moment, screwed her parasol into my carpet. “He grows bigger every day.” “So do you!” I laughed as she went off. That girl at Wimbledon, on the Thursday afternoon, more than justified my apprehensions. I recognised fully now the cause of the agitation she had produced in me from the first—the faint foreknowledge that there was something very stiff I should have to do for her. I felt more than ever committed to my fate as, standing before her in the big drawing-room where they had tactfully left us to ourselves, I tried with a smile to string together the pearls of lucidity which, from her chair, she successively tossed me. Pale and bright, in her monotonous mourning, she was an image of intelligent purpose, of the passion of duty; but I asked myself whether any girl had ever had so charming an instinct as that which permitted her to laugh out, as for the joy of her difficulty, into the priggish old room. This remarkable young woman could be earnest without being solemn, and at moments when I ought doubtless to have cursed her obstinacy I found myself watching the unstudied play of her eyebrows or the recurrence of a singularly intense whiteness produced by the parting of her lips. These aberrations, I hasten to add, didn’t prevent my learning soon enough why she had wished to see me. Her reason for this was as distinct as her beauty: it was to make me explain what I had meant, on the occasion of our first meeting, by Mr. Saltram’s want of dignity. It wasn’t that she couldn’t imagine, but she desired it there from my lips. What she really desired of course was to know whether there was worse about him than what she had found out for herself. She hadn’t been a month so much in the house with him without discovering that he wasn’t a man of monumental bronze. He was like a jelly minus its mould, he had to be embanked; and that was precisely the source of her interest in him and the ground of her project. She put her project boldly before me: there it stood in its preposterous beauty. She was as willing to take the humorous view of it as I could be: the only difference was that for her the humorous view of a thing wasn’t necessarily prohibitive, wasn’t paralysing. Moreover she professed that she couldn’t discuss with me the primary question—the moral obligation: that was in her own breast. There were things she couldn’t go into—injunctions, impressions she had received. They were a part of the closest intimacy of her intercourse with her aunt, they were absolutely clear to her; and on questions of delicacy, the interpretation of a fidelity, of a promise, one had always in the last resort to make up one’s mind for one’s self. It was the idea of the application to the particular case, such a splendid one at last, that troubled her, and she admitted that it stirred very deep things. She didn’t pretend that such a responsibility was a simple matter; if it _had_ been she wouldn’t have attempted to saddle me with any portion of it. The Mulvilles were sympathy itself, but were they absolutely candid? Could they indeed be, in their position—would it even have been to be desired? Yes, she had sent for me to ask no less than that of me—whether there was anything dreadful kept back. She made no allusion whatever to George Gravener—I thought her silence the only good taste and her gaiety perhaps a part of the very anxiety of that discretion, the effect of a determination that people shouldn’t know from herself that her relations with the man she was to marry were strained. All the weight, however, that she left me to throw was a sufficient implication of the weight _he_ had thrown in vain. Oh she knew the question of character was immense, and that one couldn’t entertain any plan for making merit comfortable without running the gauntlet of that terrible procession of interrogation-points which, like a young ladies’ school out for a walk, hooked their uniform noses at the tail of governess Conduct. But were we absolutely to hold that there was never, never, never an exception, never, never, never an occasion for liberal acceptance, for clever charity, for suspended pedantry—for letting one side, in short, outbalance another? When Miss Anvoy threw off this appeal I could have embraced her for so delightfully emphasising her unlikeness to Mrs. Saltram. “Why not have the courage of one’s forgiveness,” she asked, “as well as the enthusiasm of one’s adhesion?” “Seeing how wonderfully you’ve threshed the whole thing out,” I evasively replied, “gives me an extraordinary notion of the point your enthusiasm has reached.” She considered this remark an instant with her eyes on mine, and I divined that it struck her I might possibly intend it as a reference to some personal subjection to our fat philosopher, to some aberration of sensibility, some perversion of taste. At least I couldn’t interpret otherwise the sudden flash that came into her face. Such a manifestation, as the result of any word of mine, embarrassed me; but while I was thinking how to reassure her the flush passed away in a smile of exquisite good nature. “Oh you see one forgets so wonderfully how one dislikes him!” she said; and if her tone simply extinguished his strange figure with the brush of its compassion, it also rings in my ear to-day as the purest of all our praises. But with what quick response of fine pity such a relegation of the man himself made me privately sigh “Ah poor Saltram!” She instantly, with this, took the measure of all I didn’t believe, and it enabled her to go on: “What can one do when a person has given such a lift to one’s interest in life?” “Yes, what can one do?” If I struck her as a little vague it was because I was thinking of another person. I indulged in another inarticulate murmur—“Poor George Gravener!” What had become of the lift _he_ had given that interest? Later on I made up my mind that she was sore and stricken at the appearance he presented of wanting the miserable money. This was the hidden reason of her alienation. The probable sincerity, in spite of the illiberality, of his scruples about the particular use of it under discussion didn’t efface the ugliness of his demand that they should buy a good house with it. Then, as for _his_ alienation, he didn’t, pardonably enough, grasp the lift Frank Saltram had given her interest in life. If a mere spectator could ask that last question, with what rage in his heart the man himself might! He wasn’t, like her, I was to see, too proud to show me why he was disappointed. XI I WAS unable this time to stay to dinner: such at any rate was the plea on which I took leave. I desired in truth to get away from my young lady, for that obviously helped me not to pretend to satisfy her. How _could_ I satisfy her? I asked myself—how could I tell her how much had been kept back? I didn’t even know and I certainly didn’t desire to know. My own policy had ever been to learn the least about poor Saltram’s weaknesses—not to learn the most. A great deal that I had in fact learned had been forced upon me by his wife. There was something even irritating in Miss Anvoy’s crude conscientiousness, and I wondered why, after all, she couldn’t have let him alone and been content to entrust George Gravener with the purchase of the good house. I was sure he would have driven a bargain, got something excellent and cheap. I laughed louder even than she, I temporised, I failed her; I told her I must think over her case. I professed a horror of responsibilities and twitted her with her own extravagant passion for them. It wasn’t really that I was afraid of the scandal, the moral discredit for the Fund; what troubled me most was a feeling of a different order. Of course, as the beneficiary of the Fund was to enjoy a simple life-interest, as it was hoped that new beneficiaries would arise and come up to new standards, it wouldn’t be a trifle that the first of these worthies shouldn’t have been a striking example of the domestic virtues. The Fund would start badly, as it were, and the laurel would, in some respects at least, scarcely be greener from the brows of the original wearer. That idea, however, was at that hour, as I have hinted, not the source of solicitude it ought perhaps to have been, for I felt less the irregularity of Saltram’s getting the money than that of this exalted young woman’s giving it up. I wanted her to have it for herself, and I told her so before I went away. She looked graver at this than she had looked at all, saying she hoped such a preference wouldn’t make me dishonest. It made me, to begin with, very restless—made me, instead of going straight to the station, fidget a little about that many-coloured Common which gives Wimbledon horizons. There was a worry for me to work off, or rather keep at a distance, for I declined even to admit to myself that I had, in Miss Anvoy’s phrase, been saddled with it. What could have been clearer indeed than the attitude of recognising perfectly what a world of trouble The Coxon Fund would in future save us, and of yet liking better to face a continuance of that trouble than see, and in fact contribute to, a deviation from attainable bliss in the life of two other persons in whom I was deeply interested? Suddenly, at the end of twenty minutes, there was projected across this clearness the image of a massive middle-aged man seated on a bench under a tree, with sad far-wandering eyes and plump white hands folded on the head of a stick—a stick I recognised, a stout gold-headed staff that I had given him in devoted days. I stopped short as he turned his face to me, and it happened that for some reason or other I took in as I had perhaps never done before the beauty of his rich blank gaze. It was charged with experience as the sky is charged with light, and I felt on the instant as if we had been overspanned and conjoined by the great arch of a bridge or the great dome of a temple. Doubtless I was rendered peculiarly sensitive to it by something in the way I had been giving him up and sinking him. While I met it I stood there smitten, and I felt myself responding to it with a sort of guilty grimace. This brought back his attention in a smile which expressed for me a cheerful weary patience, a bruised noble gentleness. I had told Miss Anvoy that he had no dignity, but what did he seem to me, all unbuttoned and fatigued as he waited for me to come up, if he didn’t seem unconcerned with small things, didn’t seem in short majestic? There was majesty in his mere unconsciousness of our little conferences and puzzlements over his maintenance and his reward. After I had sat by him a few minutes I passed my arm over his big soft shoulder—wherever you touched him you found equally little firmness—and said in a tone of which the suppliance fell oddly on my own ear: “Come back to town with me, old friend—come back and spend the evening.” I wanted to hold him, I wanted to keep him, and at Waterloo, an hour later, I telegraphed possessively to the Mulvilles. When he objected, as regards staying all night, that he had no things, I asked him if he hadn’t everything of mine. I had abstained from ordering dinner, and it was too late for preliminaries at a club; so we were reduced to tea and fried fish at my rooms—reduced also to the transcendent. Something had come up which made me want him to feel at peace with me—and which, precisely, was all the dear man himself wanted on any occasion. I had too often had to press upon him considerations irrelevant, but it gives me pleasure now to think that on that particular evening I didn’t even mention Mrs. Saltram and the children. Late into the night we smoked and talked; old shames and old rigours fell away from us; I only let him see that I was conscious of what I owed him. He was as mild as contrition and as copious as faith; he was never so fine as on a shy return, and even better at forgiving than at being forgiven. I dare say it was a smaller matter than that famous night at Wimbledon, the night of the problematical sobriety and of Miss Anvoy’s initiation; but I was as much in it on this occasion as I had been out of it then. At about 1.30 he was sublime. He never, in whatever situation, rose till all other risings were over, and his breakfasts, at Wimbledon, had always been the principal reason mentioned by departing cooks. The coast was therefore clear for me to receive her when, early the next morning, to my surprise, it was announced to me his wife had called. I hesitated, after she had come up, about telling her Saltram was in the house, but she herself settled the question, kept me reticent by drawing forth a sealed letter which, looking at me very hard in the eyes, she placed, with a pregnant absence of comment, in my hand. For a single moment there glimmered before me the fond hope that Mrs. Saltram had tendered me, as it were, her resignation and desired to embody the act in an unsparing form. To bring this about I would have feigned any humiliation; but after my eyes had caught the superscription I heard myself say with a flatness that betrayed a sense of something very different from relief: “Oh the Pudneys!” I knew their envelopes though they didn’t know mine. They always used the kind sold at post-offices with the stamp affixed, and as this letter hadn’t been posted they had wasted a penny on me. I had seen their horrid missives to the Mulvilles, but hadn’t been in direct correspondence with them. “They enclosed it to me, to be delivered. They doubtless explain to you that they hadn’t your address.” I turned the thing over without opening it. “Why in the world should they write to me?” “Because they’ve something to tell you. The worst,” Mrs. Saltram dryly added. It was another chapter, I felt, of the history of their lamentable quarrel with her husband, the episode in which, vindictively, disingenuously as they themselves had behaved, one had to admit that he had put himself more grossly in the wrong than at any moment of his life. He had begun by insulting the matchless Mulvilles for these more specious protectors, and then, according to his wont at the end of a few months, had dug a still deeper ditch for his aberration than the chasm left yawning behind. The chasm at Wimbledon was now blessedly closed; but the Pudneys, across their persistent gulf, kept up the nastiest fire. I never doubted they had a strong case, and I had been from the first for not defending him—reasoning that if they weren’t contradicted they’d perhaps subside. This was above all what I wanted, and I so far prevailed that I did arrest the correspondence in time to save our little circle an infliction heavier than it perhaps would have borne. I knew, that is I divined, that their allegations had gone as yet only as far as their courage, conscious as they were in their own virtue of an exposed place in which Saltram could have planted a blow. It was a question with them whether a man who had himself so much to cover up would dare his blow; so that these vessels of rancour were in a manner afraid of each other. I judged that on the day the Pudneys should cease for some reason or other to be afraid they would treat us to some revelation more disconcerting than any of its predecessors. As I held Mrs. Saltram’s letter in my hand it was distinctly communicated to me that the day had come—they had ceased to be afraid. “I don’t want to know the worst,” I presently declared. “You’ll have to open the letter. It also contains an enclosure.” I felt it—it was fat and uncanny. “Wheels within wheels!” I exclaimed. “There’s something for me too to deliver.” “So they tell me—to Miss Anvoy.” I stared; I felt a certain thrill. “Why don’t they send it to her directly?” Mrs. Saltram hung fire. “Because she’s staying with Mr. and Mrs. Mulville.” “And why should that prevent?” Again my visitor faltered, and I began to reflect on the grotesque, the unconscious perversity of her action. I was the only person save George Gravener and the Mulvilles who was aware of Sir Gregory Coxon’s and of Miss Anvoy’s strange bounty. Where could there have been a more signal illustration of the clumsiness of human affairs than her having complacently selected this moment to fly in the face of it? “There’s the chance of their seeing her letters. They know Mr. Pudney’s hand.” Still I didn’t understand; then it flashed upon me. “You mean they might intercept it? How can you imply anything so base?” I indignantly demanded. “It’s not I—it’s Mr. Pudney!” cried Mrs. Saltram with a flush. “It’s his own idea.” “Then why couldn’t he send the letter to you to be delivered?” Mrs. Saltram’s embarrassment increased; she gave me another hard look. “You must make that out for yourself.” I made it out quickly enough. “It’s a denunciation?” “A real lady doesn’t betray her husband!” this virtuous woman exclaimed. I burst out laughing, and I fear my laugh may have had an effect of impertinence. “Especially to Miss Anvoy, who’s so easily shocked? Why do such things concern _her_?” I asked, much at a loss. “Because she’s there, exposed to all his craft. Mr. and Mrs. Pudney have been watching this: they feel she may be taken in.” “Thank you for all the rest of us! What difference can it make when she has lost her power to contribute?” Again Mrs. Saltram considered; then very nobly: “There are other things in the world than money.” This hadn’t occurred to her so long as the young lady had any; but she now added, with a glance at my letter, that Mr. and Mrs. Pudney doubtless explained their motives. “It’s all in kindness,” she continued as she got up. “Kindness to Miss Anvoy? You took, on the whole, another view of kindness before her reverses.” My companion smiled with some acidity “Perhaps you’re no safer than the Mulvilles!” I didn’t want her to think that, nor that she should report to the Pudneys that they had not been happy in their agent; and I well remember that this was the moment at which I began, with considerable emotion, to promise myself to enjoin upon Miss Anvoy never to open any letter that should come to her in one of those penny envelopes. My emotion, and I fear I must add my confusion, quickly deepened; I presently should have been as glad to frighten Mrs. Saltram as to think I might by some diplomacy restore the Pudneys to a quieter vigilance. “It’s best you should take _my_ view of my safety,” I at any rate soon responded. When I saw she didn’t know what I meant by this I added: “You may turn out to have done, in bringing me this letter, a thing you’ll profoundly regret.” My tone had a significance which, I could see, did make her uneasy, and there was a moment, after I had made two or three more remarks of studiously bewildering effect, at which her eyes followed so hungrily the little flourish of the letter with which I emphasised them that I instinctively slipped Mr. Pudney’s communication into my pocket. She looked, in her embarrassed annoyance, capable of grabbing it to send it back to him. I felt, after she had gone, as if I had almost given her my word I wouldn’t deliver the enclosure. The passionate movement, at any rate, with which, in solitude, I transferred the whole thing, unopened, from my pocket to a drawer which I double-locked would have amounted, for an initiated observer, to some such pledge. XII MRS. SALTRAM left me drawing my breath more quickly and indeed almost in pain—as if I had just perilously grazed the loss of something precious. I didn’t quite know what it was—it had a shocking resemblance to my honour. The emotion was the livelier surely in that my pulses even yet vibrated to the pleasure with which, the night before, I had rallied to the rare analyst, the great intellectual adventurer and pathfinder. What had dropped from me like a cumbersome garment as Saltram appeared before me in the afternoon on the heath was the disposition to haggle over his value. Hang it, one had to choose, one had to put that value somewhere; so I would put it really high and have done with it. Mrs. Mulville drove in for him at a discreet hour—the earliest she could suppose him to have got up; and I learned that Miss Anvoy would also have come had she not been expecting a visit from Mr. Gravener. I was perfectly mindful that I was under bonds to see this young lady, and also that I had a letter to hand to her; but I took my time, I waited from day to day. I left Mrs. Saltram to deal as her apprehensions should prompt with the Pudneys. I knew at last what I meant—I had ceased to wince at my responsibility. I gave this supreme impression of Saltram time to fade if it would; but it didn’t fade, and, individually, it hasn’t faded even now. During the month that I thus invited myself to stiffen again, Adelaide Mulville, perplexed by my absence, wrote to me to ask why I _was_ so stiff. At that season of the year I was usually oftener “with” them. She also wrote that she feared a real estrangement had set in between Mr. Gravener and her sweet young friend—a state of things but half satisfactory to her so long as the advantage resulting to Mr. Saltram failed to disengage itself from the merely nebulous state. She intimated that her sweet young friend was, if anything, a trifle too reserved; she also intimated that there might now be an opening for another clever young man. There never was the slightest opening, I may here parenthesise, and of course the question can’t come up to-day. These are old frustrations now. Ruth Anvoy hasn’t married, I hear, and neither have I. During the month, toward the end, I wrote to George Gravener to ask if, on a special errand, I might come to see him, and his answer was to knock the very next day at my door. I saw he had immediately connected my enquiry with the talk we had had in the railway-carriage, and his promptitude showed that the ashes of his eagerness weren’t yet cold. I told him there was something I felt I ought in candour to let him know—I recognised the obligation his friendly confidence had laid on me. “You mean Miss Anvoy has talked to you? She has told me so herself,” he said. “It wasn’t to tell you so that I wanted to see you,” I replied; “for it seemed to me that such a communication would rest wholly with herself. If however she did speak to you of our conversation she probably told you I was discouraging.” “Discouraging?” “On the subject of a present application of The Coxon Fund.” “To the case of Mr. Saltram? My dear fellow, I don’t know what you call discouraging!” Gravener cried. “Well I thought I was, and I thought she thought I was.” “I believe she did, but such a thing’s measured by the effect. She’s not ‘discouraged,’” he said. “That’s her own affair. The reason I asked you to see me was that it appeared to me I ought to tell you frankly that—decidedly!—I can’t undertake to produce that effect. In fact I don’t want to!” “It’s very good of you, damn you!” my visitor laughed, red and really grave. Then he said: “You’d like to see that scoundrel publicly glorified—perched on the pedestal of a great complimentary pension?” I braced myself. “Taking one form of public recognition with another it seems to me on the whole I should be able to bear it. When I see the compliments that _are_ paid right and left I ask myself why this one shouldn’t take its course. This therefore is what you’re entitled to have looked to me to mention to you. I’ve some evidence that perhaps would be really dissuasive, but I propose to invite Mss Anvoy to remain in ignorance of it.” “And to invite me to do the same?” “Oh you don’t require it—you’ve evidence enough. I speak of a sealed letter that I’ve been requested to deliver to her.” “And you don’t mean to?” “There’s only one consideration that would make me,” I said. Gravener’s clear handsome eyes plunged into mine a minute, but evidently without fishing up a clue to this motive—a failure by which I was almost wounded. “What does the letter contain?” “It’s sealed, as I tell you, and I don’t know what it contains.” “Why is it sent through you?” “Rather than you?” I wondered how to put the thing. “The only explanation I can think of is that the person sending it may have imagined your relations with Miss Anvoy to be at an end—may have been told this is the case by Mrs. Saltram.” “My relations with Miss Anvoy are not at an end,” poor Gravener stammered. Again for an instant I thought. “The offer I propose to make you gives me the right to address you a question remarkably direct. Are you still engaged to Miss Anvoy?” “No, I’m not,” he slowly brought out. “But we’re perfectly good friends.” “Such good friends that you’ll again become prospective husband and wife if the obstacle in your path be removed?” “Removed?” he anxiously repeated. “If I send Miss Anvoy the letter I speak of she may give up her idea.” “Then for God’s sake send it!” “I’ll do so if you’re ready to assure me that her sacrifice would now presumably bring about your marriage.” “I’d marry her the next day!” my visitor cried. “Yes, but would she marry _you_? What I ask of you of course is nothing less than your word of honour as to your conviction of this. If you give it me,” I said, “I’ll engage to hand her the letter before night.” Gravener took up his hat; turning it mechanically round he stood looking a moment hard at its unruffled perfection. Then very angrily honestly and gallantly, “Hand it to the devil!” he broke out; with which he clapped the hat on his head and left me. “Will you read it or not?” I said to Ruth Anvoy, at Wimbledon, when I had told her the story of Mrs. Saltram’s visit. She debated for a time probably of the briefest, but long enough to make me nervous. “Have you brought it with you?” “No indeed. It’s at home, locked up.” There was another great silence, and then she said “Go back and destroy it.” I went back, but I didn’t destroy it till after Saltram’s death, when I burnt it unread. The Pudneys approached her again pressingly, but, prompt as they were, The Coxon Fund had already become an operative benefit and a general amaze: Mr. Saltram, while we gathered about, as it were, to watch the manna descend, had begun to draw the magnificent income. He drew it as he had always drawn everything, with a grand abstracted gesture. Its magnificence, alas, as all the world now knows, quite quenched him; it was the beginning of his decline. It was also naturally a new grievance for his wife, who began to believe in him as soon as he was blighted, and who at this hour accuses us of having bribed him, on the whim of a meddlesome American, to renounce his glorious office, to become, as she says, like everybody else. The very day he found himself able to publish he wholly ceased to produce. This deprived us, as may easily be imagined, of much of our occupation, and especially deprived the Mulvilles, whose want of self-support I never measured till they lost their great inmate. They’ve no one to live on now. Adelaide’s most frequent reference to their destitution is embodied in the remark that dear far-away Ruth’s intentions were doubtless good. She and Kent are even yet looking for another prop, but no one presents a true sphere of usefulness. They complain that people are self-sufficing. With Saltram the fine type of the child of adoption was scattered, the grander, the elder style. They’ve got their carriage back, but what’s an empty carriage? In short I think we were all happier as well as poorer before; even including George Gravener, who by the deaths of his brother and his nephew has lately become Lord Maddock. His wife, whose fortune clears the property, is criminally dull; he hates being in the Upper House, and hasn’t yet had high office. But what are these accidents, which I should perhaps apologise for mentioning, in the light of the great eventual boon promised the patient by the rate at which The Coxon Fund must be rolling up? Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What was the description of the teens faces when they died?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Twisted in fear" ]	17,497	narrativeqa	en	null	562b8f8423dfb1c0fe308445710a9018f3d4e7508ef87e52	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why does Soames get upset with Beerbohm?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Beerbohm wrote a fictional story about Soames." ]	11,196	narrativeqa	en	null	ea7825ba7cc9beff14746f8a82ec525b3b9d536b467cdaba	Produced by Judith Boss. Enoch Soames A Memory of the Eighteen-nineties By MAX BEERBOHM When a book about the literature of the eighteen-nineties was given by Mr. Holbrook Jackson to the world, I looked eagerly in the index for Soames, Enoch. It was as I feared: he was not there. But everybody else was. Many writers whom I had quite forgotten, or remembered but faintly, lived again for me, they and their work, in Mr. Holbrook Jackson's pages. The book was as thorough as it was brilliantly written. And thus the omission found by me was an all the deadlier record of poor Soames's failure to impress himself on his decade. I dare say I am the only person who noticed the omission. Soames had failed so piteously as all that! Nor is there a counterpoise in the thought that if he had had some measure of success he might have passed, like those others, out of my mind, to return only at the historian's beck. It is true that had his gifts, such as they were, been acknowledged in his lifetime, he would never have made the bargain I saw him make--that strange bargain whose results have kept him always in the foreground of my memory. But it is from those very results that the full piteousness of him glares out. Not my compassion, however, impels me to write of him. For his sake, poor fellow, I should be inclined to keep my pen out of the ink. It is ill to deride the dead. And how can I write about Enoch Soames without making him ridiculous? Or, rather, how am I to hush up the horrid fact that he WAS ridiculous? I shall not be able to do that. Yet, sooner or later, write about him I must. You will see in due course that I have no option. And I may as well get the thing done now. In the summer term of '93 a bolt from the blue flashed down on Oxford. It drove deep; it hurtlingly embedded itself in the soil. Dons and undergraduates stood around, rather pale, discussing nothing but it. Whence came it, this meteorite? From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. Its aim? To do a series of twenty-four portraits in lithograph. These were to be published from the Bodley Head, London. The matter was urgent. Already the warden of A, and the master of B, and the Regius Professor of C had meekly "sat." Dignified and doddering old men who had never consented to sit to any one could not withstand this dynamic little stranger. He did not sue; he invited: he did not invite; he commanded. He was twenty-one years old. He wore spectacles that flashed more than any other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of ideas. He knew Whistler. He knew Daudet and the Goncourts. He knew every one in Paris. He knew them all by heart. He was Paris in Oxford. It was whispered that, so soon as he had polished off his selection of dons, he was going to include a few undergraduates. It was a proud day for me when I--I was included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; and there arose between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, and been more and more valued by me, with every passing year. At the end of term he settled in, or, rather, meteoritically into, London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever-enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other August elders who dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were already famous among the few--Aubrey Beardsley by name. With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. By him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the domino-room of the Cafe Royal. There, on that October evening--there, in that exuberant vista of gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted and pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled on marble tables, I drew a deep breath and, "This indeed," said I to myself, "is life!" (Forgive me that theory. Remember the waging of even the South African War was not yet.) It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermuth. Those who knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering slowly up and down in search of vacant tables or of tables occupied by friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted to catch Rothenstein's eye. He had twice passed our table, with a hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. He had a thin, vague beard, or, rather, he had a chin on which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but in the nineties odd apparitions were more frequent, I think, than they are now. The young writers of that era--and I was sure this man was a writer--strove earnestly to be distinct in aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat of clerical kind, but of Bohemian intention, and a gray waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I decided that "dim" was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the period. The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up his mind to pause in front of it. "You don't remember me," he said in a toneless voice. Rothenstein brightly focused him. "Yes, I do," he replied after a moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive memory. "Edwin Soames." "Enoch Soames," said Enoch. "Enoch Soames," repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough to have hit on the surname. "We met in Paris a few times when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche." "And I came to your studio once." "Oh, yes; I was sorry I was out." "But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know. I hear you're in Chelsea now." "Yes." I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like a donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to me that "hungry" was perhaps the mot juste for him; but--hungry for what? He looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him to sit down and have something to drink. Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his cape with a gesture which, had not those wings been waterproof, might have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an absinthe. "Je me tiens toujours fidele," he told Rothenstein, "a la sorciere glauque." "It is bad for you," said Rothenstein, dryly. "Nothing is bad for one," answered Soames. "Dans ce monde il n'y a ni bien ni mal." "Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?" "I explained it all in the preface to 'Negations.'" "'Negations'?" "Yes, I gave you a copy of it." "Oh, yes, of course. But, did you explain, for instance, that there was no such thing as bad or good grammar?" "N-no," said Soames. "Of course in art there is the good and the evil. But in life--no." He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak, white hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained with nicotine. "In life there are illusions of good and evil, but"--his voice trailed away to a murmur in which the words "vieux jeu" and "rococo" were faintly audible. I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his throat and said, "Parlons d'autre chose." It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was young, and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was quite five or six years older than either of us. Also--he had written a book. It was wonderful to have written a book. If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what kind of book it was to be. "My poems," he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather thought of giving the book no title at all. "If a book is good in itself--" he murmured, and waved his cigarette. Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale of a book. "If," he urged, "I went into a bookseller's and said simply, 'Have you got?' or, 'Have you a copy of?' how would they know what I wanted?" "Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover," Soames answered earnestly. "And I rather want," he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, "to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece." Rothenstein admitted that this was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the country and would be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, exclaimed at the hour, paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. Soames remained at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch. "Why were you so determined not to draw him?" I asked. "Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn't exist?" "He is dim," I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein repeated that Soames was non-existent. Still, Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had read "Negations." He said he had looked into it, "but," he added crisply, "I don't profess to know anything about writing." A reservation very characteristic of the period! Painters would not then allow that any one outside their own order had a right to any opinion about painting. This law (graven on the tablets brought down by Whistler from the summit of Fuji-yama) imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were not utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practiced them, the law tottered--the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold good. Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book without warning you at any rate that his opinion was worthless. No one is a better judge of literature than Rothenstein; but it wouldn't have done to tell him so in those days, and I knew that I must form an unaided judgment of "Negations." Not to buy a book of which I had met the author face to face would have been for me in those days an impossible act of self-denial. When I returned to Oxford for the Christmas term I had duly secured "Negations." I used to keep it lying carelessly on the table in my room, and whenever a friend took it up and asked what it was about, I would say: "Oh, it's rather a remarkable book. It's by a man whom I know." Just "what it was about" I never was able to say. Head or tail was just what I hadn't made of that slim, green volume. I found in the preface no clue to the labyrinth of contents, and in that labyrinth nothing to explain the preface. Lean near to life. Lean very near-- nearer. Life is web and therein nor warp nor woof is, but web only. It is for this I am Catholick in church and in thought, yet do let swift Mood weave there what the shuttle of Mood wills. These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which followed were less easy to understand. Then came "Stark: A Conte," about a midinette who, so far as I could gather, murdered, or was about to murder, a mannequin. It was rather like a story by Catulle Mendes in which the translator had either skipped or cut out every alternate sentence. Next, a dialogue between Pan and St. Ursula, lacking, I rather thought, in "snap." Next, some aphorisms (entitled "Aphorismata" [spelled in Greek]). Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form, and the forms had evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather the substance that eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any substance at all? It did now occur to me: suppose Enoch Soames was a fool! Up cropped a rival hypothesis: suppose _I_ was! I inclined to give Soames the benefit of the doubt. I had read "L'Apres-midi d'un faune" without extracting a glimmer of meaning; yet Mallarme, of course, was a master. How was I to know that Soames wasn't another? There was a sort of music in his prose, not indeed, arresting, but perhaps, I thought, haunting, and laden, perhaps, with meanings as deep as Mallarme's own. I awaited his poems with an open mind. And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I had had a second meeting with him. This was on an evening in January. Going into the aforesaid domino-room, I had passed a table at which sat a pale man with an open book before him. He had looked from his book to me, and I looked back over my shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognized him. I returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I said with a glance to the open book, "I see I am interrupting you," and was about to pass on, but, "I prefer," Soames replied in his toneless voice, "to be interrupted," and I obeyed his gesture that I should sit down. I asked him if he often read here. "Yes; things of this kind I read here," he answered, indicating the title of his book--"The Poems of Shelley." "Anything that you really"--and I was going to say "admire?" But I cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I had done so, for he said with unwonted emphasis, "Anything second-rate." I had read little of Shelley, but, "Of course," I murmured, "he's very uneven." "I should have thought evenness was just what was wrong with him. A deadly evenness. That's why I read him here. The noise of this place breaks the rhythm. He's tolerable here." Soames took up the book and glanced through the pages. He laughed. Soames's laugh was a short, single, and mirthless sound from the throat, unaccompanied by any movement of the face or brightening of the eyes. "What a period!" he uttered, laying the book down. And, "What a country!" he added. I asked rather nervously if he didn't think Keats had more or less held his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He admitted that there were "passages in Keats," but did not specify them. Of "the older men," as he called them, he seemed to like only Milton. "Milton," he said, "wasn't sentimental." Also, "Milton had a dark insight." And again, "I can always read Milton in the reading-room." "The reading-room?" "Of the British Museum. I go there every day." "You do? I've only been there once. I'm afraid I found it rather a depressing place. It--it seemed to sap one's vitality." "It does. That's why I go there. The lower one's vitality, the more sensitive one is to great art. I live near the museum. I have rooms in Dyott Street." "And you go round to the reading-room to read Milton?" "Usually Milton." He looked at me. "It was Milton," he certificatively added, "who converted me to diabolism." "Diabolism? Oh, yes? Really?" said I, with that vague discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own religion. "You--worship the devil?" Soames shook his head. "It's not exactly worship," he qualified, sipping his absinthe. "It's more a matter of trusting and encouraging." "I see, yes. I had rather gathered from the preface to 'Negations' that you were a--a Catholic." "Je l'etais a cette epoque. In fact, I still am. I am a Catholic diabolist." But this profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see that what was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read "Negations." His pale eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt as one who is about to be examined viva voce on the very subject in which he is shakiest. I hastily asked him how soon his poems were to be published. "Next week," he told me. "And are they to be published without a title?" "No. I found a title at last. But I sha'n't tell you what it is," as though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. "I am not sure that it wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It suggests something of the quality of the poems--strange growths, natural and wild, yet exquisite," he added, "and many-hued, and full of poisons." I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort that was his laugh, and, "Baudelaire," he said, "was a bourgeois malgre lui." France had had only one poet--Villon; "and two thirds of Villon were sheer journalism." Verlaine was "an epicier malgre lui." Altogether, rather to my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. There were "passages" in Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. But, "I," he summed up, "owe nothing to France." He nodded at me. "You'll see," he predicted. I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of "Fungoids" did, unconsciously of course, owe something to the young Parisian decadents or to the young English ones who owed something to THEM. I still think so. The little book, bought by me in Oxford, lies before me as I write. Its pale-gray buckram cover and silver lettering have not worn well. Nor have its contents. Through these, with a melancholy interest, I have again been looking. They are not much. But at the time of their publication I had a vague suspicion that they MIGHT be. I suppose it is my capacity for faith, not poor Soames's work, that is weaker than it once was. TO A YOUNG WOMAN THOU ART, WHO HAST NOT BEEN! Pale tunes irresolute And traceries of old sounds Blown from a rotted flute Mingle with noise of cymbals rouged with rust, Nor not strange forms and epicene Lie bleeding in the dust, Being wounded with wounds. For this it is That in thy counterpart Of age-long mockeries THOU HAST NOT BEEN NOR ART! There seemed to me a certain inconsistency as between the first and last lines of this. I tried, with bent brows, to resolve the discord. But I did not take my failure as wholly incompatible with a meaning in Soames's mind. Might it not rather indicate the depth of his meaning? As for the craftsmanship, "rouged with rust" seemed to me a fine stroke, and "nor not" instead of "and" had a curious felicity. I wondered who the "young woman" was and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that Soames could not have made more of it than she. Yet even now, if one doesn't try to make any sense at all of the poem, and reads it just for the sound, there is a certain grace of cadence. Soames was an artist, in so far as he was anything, poor fellow! It seemed to me, when first I read "Fungoids," that, oddly enough, the diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism seemed to be a cheerful, even a wholesome influence in his life. NOCTURNE Round and round the shutter'd Square I strolled with the Devil's arm in mine. No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there And the ring of his laughter and mine. We had drunk black wine. I scream'd, "I will race you, Master!" "What matter," he shriek'd, "to-night Which of us runs the faster? There is nothing to fear to-night In the foul moon's light!" Then I look'd him in the eyes And I laugh'd full shrill at the lie he told And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise. It was true, what I'd time and again been told: He was old--old. There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza--a joyous and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly hysterical, perhaps. But I liked the third, it was so bracingly unorthodox, even according to the tenets of Soames's peculiar sect in the faith. Not much "trusting and encouraging" here! Soames triumphantly exposing the devil as a liar, and laughing "full shrill," cut a quite heartening figure, I thought, then! Now, in the light of what befell, none of his other poems depresses me so much as "Nocturne." I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to say. They seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little to say and those who had nothing. The second class was the larger, and the words of the first were cold; insomuch that Strikes a note of modernity. . . . These tripping numbers.--"The Preston Telegraph." was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames's publisher. I had hoped that when next I met the poet I could congratulate him on having made a stir, for I fancied he was not so sure of his intrinsic greatness as he seemed. I was but able to say, rather coarsely, when next I did see him, that I hoped "Fungoids" was "selling splendidly." He looked at me across his glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at a jest. "You don't suppose I CARE, do you?" he said, with something like a snarl. I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a tradesman. I said mildly that I wasn't, either, and murmured that an artist who gave truly new and great things to the world had always to wait long for recognition. He said he cared not a sou for recognition. I agreed that the act of creation was its own reward. His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded myself as a nobody. But ah! hadn't both John Lane and Aubrey Beardsley suggested that I should write an essay for the great new venture that was afoot--"The Yellow Book"? And hadn't Henry Harland, as editor, accepted my essay? And wasn't it to be in the very first number? At Oxford I was still in statu pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much indeed a graduate now--one whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to show off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he ought to contribute to "The Yellow Book." He uttered from the throat a sound of scorn for that publication. Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland paused in the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up his hands toward the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met "that absurd creature" in Paris, and this very morning had received some poems in manuscript from him. "Has he NO talent?" I asked. "He has an income. He's all right." Harland was the most joyous of men and most generous of critics, and he hated to talk of anything about which he couldn't be enthusiastic. So I dropped the subject of Soames. The news that Soames had an income did take the edge off solicitude. I learned afterward that he was the son of an unsuccessful and deceased bookseller in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of three hundred pounds from a married aunt, and had no surviving relatives of any kind. Materially, then, he was "all right." But there was still a spiritual pathos about him, sharpened for me now by the possibility that even the praises of "The Preston Telegraph" might not have been forthcoming had he not been the son of a Preston man He had a sort of weak doggedness which I could not but admire. Neither he nor his work received the slightest encouragement; but he persisted in behaving as a personage: always he kept his dingy little flag flying. Wherever congregated the jeunes feroces of the arts, in whatever Soho restaurant they had just discovered, in whatever music-hall they were most frequently, there was Soames in the midst of them, or, rather, on the fringe of them, a dim, but inevitable, figure. He never sought to propitiate his fellow-writers, never bated a jot of his arrogance about his own work or of his contempt for theirs. To the painters he was respectful, even humble; but for the poets and prosaists of "The Yellow Book" and later of "The Savoy" he had never a word but of scorn. He wasn't resented. It didn't occur to anybody that he or his Catholic diabolism mattered. When, in the autumn of '96, he brought out (at his own expense, this time) a third book, his last book, nobody said a word for or against it. I meant, but forgot, to buy it. I never saw it, and am ashamed to say I don't even remember what it was called. But I did, at the time of its publication, say to Rothenstein that I thought poor old Soames was really a rather tragic figure, and that I believed he would literally die for want of recognition. Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for a kind heart which I didn't possess; and perhaps this was so. But at the private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I beheld a pastel portrait of "Enoch Soames, Esq." It was very like him, and very like Rothenstein to have done it. Soames was standing near it, in his soft hat and his waterproof cape, all through the afternoon. Anybody who knew him would have recognized the portrait at a glance, but nobody who didn't know him would have recognized the portrait from its bystander: it "existed" so much more than he; it was bound to. Also, it had not that expression of faint happiness which on that day was discernible, yes, in Soames's countenance. Fame had breathed on him. Twice again in the course of the month I went to the New English, and on both occasions Soames himself was on view there. Looking back, I regard the close of that exhibition as having been virtually the close of his career. He had felt the breath of Fame against his cheek--so late, for such a little while; and at its withdrawal he gave in, gave up, gave out. He, who had never looked strong or well, looked ghastly now--a shadow of the shade he had once been. He still frequented the domino-room, but having lost all wish to excite curiosity, he no longer read books there. "You read only at the museum now?" I asked, with attempted cheerfulness. He said he never went there now. "No absinthe there," he muttered. It was the sort of thing that in old days he would have said for effect; but it carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the "personality" he had striven so hard to build up, was solace and necessity now. He no longer called it "la sorciere glauque." He had shed away all his French phrases. He had become a plain, unvarnished Preston man. Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even though it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I avoided Soames because he made me feel rather vulgar. John Lane had published, by this time, two little books of mine, and they had had a pleasant little success of esteem. I was a--slight, but definite--"personality." Frank Harris had engaged me to kick up my heels in "The Saturday Review," Alfred Harmsworth was letting me do likewise in "The Daily Mail." I was just what Soames wasn't. And he shamed my gloss. Had I known that he really and firmly believed in the greatness of what he as an artist had achieved, I might not have shunned him. No man who hasn't lost his vanity can be held to have altogether failed. Soames's dignity was an illusion of mine. One day, in the first week of June, 1897, that illusion went. But on the evening of that day Soames went, too. I had been out most of the morning and, as it was too late to reach home in time for luncheon, I sought the Vingtieme. This little place--Restaurant du Vingtieme Siecle, to give it its full title--had been discovered in '96 by the poets and prosaists, but had now been more or less abandoned in favor of some later find. I don't think it lived long enough to justify its name; but at that time there it still was, in Greek Street, a few doors from Soho Square, and almost opposite to that house where, in the first years of the century, a little girl, and with her a boy named De Quincey, made nightly encampment in darkness and hunger among dust and rats and old legal parchments. The Vingtieme was but a small whitewashed room, leading out into the street at one end and into a kitchen at the other. The proprietor and cook was a Frenchman, known to us as Monsieur Vingtieme; the waiters were his two daughters, Rose and Berthe; and the food, according to faith, was good. The tables were so narrow and were set so close together that there was space for twelve of them, six jutting from each wall. Only the two nearest to the door, as I went in, were occupied. On one side sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man whom I had seen from time to time in the domino-room and elsewhere. On the other side sat Soames. They made a queer contrast in that sunlit room, Soames sitting haggard in that hat and cape, which nowhere at any season had I seen him doff, and this other, this keenly vital man, at sight of whom I more than ever wondered whether he were a diamond merchant, a conjurer, or the head of a private detective agency. I was sure Soames didn't want my company; but I asked, as it would have seemed brutal not to, whether I might join him, and took the chair opposite to his. He was smoking a cigarette, with an untasted salmi of something on his plate and a half-empty bottle of Sauterne before him, and he was quite silent. I said that the preparations for the Jubilee made London impossible. (I rather liked them, really.) I professed a wish to go right away till the whole thing was over. In vain did I attune myself to his gloom. He seemed not to hear me or even to see me. I felt that his behavior made me ridiculous in the eyes of the other man. The gangway between the two rows of tables at the Vingtieme was hardly more than two feet wide (Rose and Berthe, in their ministrations, had always to edge past each other, quarreling in whispers as they did so), and any one at the table abreast of yours was virtually at yours. I thought our neighbor was amused at my failure to interest Soames, and so, as I could not explain to him that my insistence was merely charitable, I became silent. Without turning my head, I had him well within my range of vision. I hoped I looked less vulgar than he in contrast with Soames. I was sure he was not an Englishman, but what WAS his nationality? Though his jet-black hair was en brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, who waited on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native idiom and accent. I gathered that this was his first visit to the Vingtieme; but Berthe was offhand in her manner to him: he had not made a good impression. His eyes were handsome, but, like the Vingtieme's tables, too narrow and set too close together. His nose was predatory, and the points of his mustache, waxed up behind his nostrils, gave a fixity to his smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of discomfort in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat which tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest. This waistcoat wasn't wrong merely because of the heat, either. It was somehow all wrong in itself. It wouldn't have done on Christmas morning. It would have struck a jarring note at the first night of "Hernani." I was trying to account for its wrongness when Soames suddenly and strangely broke silence. "A hundred years hence!" he murmured, as in a trance. "We shall not be here," I briskly, but fatuously, added. "We shall not be here. No," he droned, "but the museum will still be just where it is. And the reading-room just where it is. And people will be able to go and read there." He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as of actual pain contorted his features. I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He did not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, "You think I haven't minded." "Minded what, Soames?" "Neglect. Failure." "FAILURE?" I said heartily. "Failure?" I repeated vaguely. "Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. Of course you haven't been--appreciated. But what, then? Any artist who--who gives--" What I wanted to say was, "Any artist who gives truly new and great things to the world has always to wait long for recognition"; but the flattery would not out: in the face of his misery--a misery so genuine and so unmasked--my lips would not say the words. And then he said them for me. I flushed. "That's what you were going to say, isn't it?" he asked. "How did you know?" "It's what you said to me three years ago, when 'Fungoids' was published." I flushed the more. I need not have flushed at all. "It's the only important thing I ever heard you say," he continued. "And I've never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a horrible truth. But--d'you remember what I answered? I said, 'I don't care a sou for recognition.' And you believed me. You've gone on believing I'm above that sort of thing. You're shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist's faith in himself and in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy. You've never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the"--his voice broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in him. "Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn't know that people are visiting his grave, visiting his birthplace, putting up tablets to him, unveiling statues of him. A dead man can't read the books that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could come back to life THEN--just for a few hours--and go to the reading-room and READ! Or, better still, if I could be projected now, at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I'd sell myself body and soul to the devil for that! Think of the pages and pages in the catalogue: 'Soames, Enoch' endlessly--endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, biographies"-- But here he was interrupted by a sudden loud crack of the chair at the next table. Our neighbor had half risen from his place. He was leaning toward us, apologetically intrusive. "Excuse--permit me," he said softly. "I have been unable not to hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon--might I, as the phrase is, cut in?" I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a full view of Soames. "Though not an Englishman," he explained, "I know my London well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm's, too--very known to me. Your point is, who am _I_?" He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, "I am the devil." I couldn't help it; I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me; but--I laughed with increasing volume. The devil's quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro; I lay back aching; I behaved deplorably. "I am a gentleman, and," he said with intense emphasis, "I thought I was in the company of GENTLEMEN." "Don't!" I gasped faintly. "Oh, don't!" "Curious, nicht wahr?" I heard him say to Soames. "There is a type of person to whom the very mention of my name is--oh, so awfully--funny! In your theaters the dullest comedien needs only to say 'The devil!' and right away they give him 'the loud laugh what speaks the vacant mind.' Is it not so?" I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames. "I am a man of business," he said, "and always I would put things through 'right now,' as they say in the States. You are a poet. Les affaires--you detest them. So be it. But with me you will deal, eh? What you have said just now gives me furiously to hope." Soames had not moved except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat crouched forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his head just above the level of his hands, staring up at the devil. "Go on," he nodded. I had no remnant of laughter in me now. "It will be the more pleasant, our little deal," the devil went on, "because you are--I mistake not?--a diabolist." "A Catholic diabolist," said Soames. The devil accepted the reservation genially. "You wish," he resumed, "to visit now--this afternoon as-ever-is--the reading-room of the British Museum, yes? But of a hundred years hence, yes? Parfaitement. Time--an illusion. Past and future--they are as ever present as the present, or at any rate only what you call 'just round the corner.' I switch you on to any date. I project you--pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room just as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find yourself standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very minute, yes? And to stay there till closing-time? Am I right?" Soames nodded. The devil looked at his watch. "Ten past two," he said. "Closing-time in summer same then as now--seven o'clock. That will give you almost five hours. At seven o'clock--pouf!--you find yourself again here, sitting at this table. I am dining to-night dans le monde--dans le higlif. That concludes my present visit to your great city. I come and fetch you here, Mr. Soames, on my way home." "Home?" I echoed. "Be it never so humble!" said the devil, lightly. "All right," said Soames. "Soames!" I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle. The devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the table, but he paused in his gesture. "A hundred years hence, as now," he smiled, "no smoking allowed in the reading-room. You would better therefore--" Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his glass of Sauterne. "Soames!" again I cried. "Can't you"--but the devil had now stretched forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on the table-cloth. Soames's chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden in his wine-glass. There was no other trace of him. For a few moments the devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at me out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant. A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and rose from my chair. "Very clever," I said condescendingly. "But--'The Time Machine' is a delightful book, don't you think? So entirely original!" "You are pleased to sneer," said the devil, who had also risen, "but it is one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a quite other thing to be a supernatural power." All the same, I had scored. Berthe had come forth at the sound of our rising. I explained to her that Mr. Soames had been called away, and that both he and I would be dining here. It was not until I was out in the open air that I began to feel giddy. I have but the haziest recollection of what I did, where I wandered, in the glaring sunshine of that endless afternoon. I remember the sound of carpenters' hammers all along Piccadilly and the bare chaotic look of the half-erected "stands." Was it in the Green Park or in Kensington Gardens or WHERE was it that I sat on a chair beneath a tree, trying to read an evening paper? There was a phrase in the leading article that went on repeating itself in my fagged mind: "Little is hidden from this August Lady full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty." I remember wildly conceiving a letter (to reach Windsor by an express messenger told to await answer): "Madam: Well knowing that your Majesty is full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty, I venture to ask your advice in the following delicate matter. Mr. Enoch Soames, whose poems you may or may not know--" Was there NO way of helping him, saving him? A bargain was a bargain, and I was the last man to aid or abet any one in wriggling out of a reasonable obligation. I wouldn't have lifted a little finger to save Faust. But poor Soames! Doomed to pay without respite an eternal price for nothing but a fruitless search and a bitter disillusioning. Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, in the waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last decade of the next century, poring over books not yet written, and seeing and seen by men not yet born. Uncannier and odder still that to-night and evermore he would be in hell. Assuredly, truth was stranger than fiction. Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with Soames, not, indeed, to stay in the reading-room, but to sally forth for a brisk sight-seeing walk around a new London. I wandered restlessly out of the park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to imagine myself an ardent tourist from the eighteenth century. Intolerable was the strain of the slow-passing and empty minutes. Long before seven o'clock I was back at the Vingtieme. I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe appeared for a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till Mr. Soames came. A hurdy-gurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the noise of a quarrel between some Frenchmen farther up the street. Whenever the tune was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever away from it to the clock over the kitchen door. Five minutes now to the hour! I remembered that clocks in restaurants are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes on the paper. I vowed I would not look away from it again. I held it upright, at its full width, close to my face, so that I had no view of anything but it. Rather a tremulous sheet? Only because of the draft, I told myself. My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not drop them--now. I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, what, then? What else had I come for? Yet I held tight that barrier of newspaper. Only the sound of Berthe's brisk footstep from the kitchen enabled me, forced me, to drop it, and to utter: "What shall we have to eat, Soames?" "Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?" asked Berthe. "He's only--tired." I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy--and whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the table exactly as when last I had seen him. It was as though he had never moved--he who had moved so unimaginably far. Once or twice in the afternoon it had for an instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey was not to be fruitless, that perhaps we had all been wrong in our estimate of the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right was horribly clear from the look of him. But, "Don't be discouraged," I falteringly said. "Perhaps it's only that you--didn't leave enough time. Two, three centuries hence, perhaps--" "Yes," his voice came; "I've thought of that." "And now--now for the more immediate future! Where are you going to hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express from Charing Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don't go on to Paris. Stop at Calais. Live in Calais. He'd never think of looking for you in Calais." "It's like my luck," he said, "to spend my last hours on earth with an ass." But I was not offended. "And a treacherous ass," he strangely added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing on it--some sort of gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently aside. "Come, Soames, pull yourself together! This isn't a mere matter of life or death. It's a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don't mean to say you're going to wait limply here till the devil comes to fetch you." "I can't do anything else. I've no choice." "Come! This is 'trusting and encouraging' with a vengeance! This is diabolism run mad!" I filled his glass with wine. "Surely, now that you've SEEN the brute--" "It's no good abusing him." "You must admit there's nothing Miltonic about him, Soames." "I don't say he's not rather different from what I expected." "He's a vulgarian, he's a swell mobs-man, he's the sort of man who hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies' jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!" "You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?" "Then why not slip quietly out of the way?" Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did not eat, and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that any dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the capture certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. I told Soames that for the honor of the human race he ought to make some show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for him. "Besides," he said, "can't you understand that I'm in his power? You saw him touch me, didn't you? There's an end of it. I've no will. I'm sealed." I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word "sealed." I began to realize that the wine had clouded his brain. No wonder! Foodless he had gone into futurity, foodless he still was. I urged him to eat, at any rate, some bread. It was maddening to think that he, who had so much to tell, might tell nothing. "How was it all," I asked, "yonder? Come, tell me your adventures!" "They'd make first-rate 'copy,' wouldn't they?" "I'm awfully sorry for you, Soames, and I make all possible allowances; but what earthly right have you to insinuate that I should make 'copy,' as you call it, out of you?" The poor fellow pressed his hands to his forehead. "I don't know," he said. "I had some reason, I know. I'll try to remember. He sat plunged in thought. "That's right. Try to remember everything. Eat a little more bread. What did the reading-room look like?" "Much as usual," he at length muttered. "Many people there?" "Usual sort of number." "What did they look like?" Soames tried to visualize them. "They all," he presently remembered, "looked very like one another." My mind took a fearsome leap. "All dressed in sanitary woolen?" "Yes, I think so. Grayish-yellowish stuff." "A sort of uniform?" He nodded. "With a number on it perhaps--a number on a large disk of metal strapped round the left arm? D. K. F. 78,910--that sort of thing?" It was even so. "And all of them, men and women alike, looking very well cared for? Very Utopian, and smelling rather strongly of carbolic, and all of them quite hairless?" I was right every time. Soames was only not sure whether the men and women were hairless or shorn. "I hadn't time to look at them very closely," he explained. "No, of course not. But--" "They stared at ME, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of attention." At last he had done that! "I think I rather scared them. They moved away whenever I came near. They followed me about, at a distance, wherever I went. The men at the round desk in the middle seemed to have a sort of panic whenever I went to make inquiries." "What did you do when you arrived?" Well, he had gone straight to the catalogue, of course,--to the S volumes,--and had stood long before SN-SOF, unable to take this volume out of the shelf because his heart was beating so. At first, he said, he wasn't disappointed; he only thought there was some new arrangement. He went to the middle desk and asked where the catalogue of twentieth-century books was kept. He gathered that there was still only one catalogue. Again he looked up his name, stared at the three little pasted slips he had known so well. Then he went and sat down for a long time. "And then," he droned, "I looked up the 'Dictionary of National Biography,' and some encyclopedias. I went back to the middle desk and asked what was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton's book was considered the best. I looked it up in the catalogue and filled in a form for it. It was brought to me. My name wasn't in the index, but--yes!" he said with a sudden change of tone, "that's what I'd forgotten. Where's that bit of paper? Give it me back." I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the floor, and handed it to him. He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. "I found myself glancing through Nupton's book," he resumed. "Not very easy reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling. All the modern books I saw were phonetic." "Then I don't want to hear any more, Soames, please." "The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for that I mightn't have noticed my own name." "Your own name? Really? Soames, I'm VERY glad." "And yours." "No!" "I thought I should find you waiting here to-night, so I took the trouble to copy out the passage. Read it." I snatched the paper. Soames's handwriting was characteristically dim. It and the noisome spelling and my excitement made me all the slower to grasp what T. K. Nupton was driving at. The document lies before me at this moment. Strange that the words I here copy out for you were copied out for me by poor Soames just eighty-two years hence! From page 234 of "Inglish Littracher 1890-1900" bi T. K. Nupton, publishd bi th Stait, 1992. Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimed Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive in th twentith senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid an immajnari karrakter kauld "Enoch Soames"--a thurd-rait poit hoo beleevz imself a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th Devvl in auder ter no wot posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot labud sattire, but not without vallu az showing hou seriusli the yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took themselvz. Nou that th littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a departmnt of publik servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav lernt ter doo their duti without thort ov th morro. "Th laibrer iz werthi ov hiz hire" an that iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch Soameses amung us to-dai! I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I commend to my reader) I was able to master them little by little. The clearer they became, the greater was my bewilderment, my distress and horror. The whole thing was a nightmare. Afar, the great grisly background of what was in store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at the table, fixing on me a gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow whom--whom evidently--but no: whatever down-grade my character might take in coming years, I should never be such a brute as to-- Again I examined the screed. "Immajnari." But here Soames was, no more imaginary, alas! than I. And "labud"--what on earth was that? (To this day I have never made out that word.) "It's all very--baffling," I at length stammered. Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. "Are you sure," I temporized, "quite sure you copied the thing out correctly?" "Quite." "Well, then, it's this wretched Nupton who must have made--must be going to make--some idiotic mistake. Look here Soames, you know me better than to suppose that I-- After all, the name Max Beerbohm is not at all an uncommon one, and there must be several Enoch Soameses running around, or, rather, Enoch Soames is a name that might occur to any one writing a story. And I don't write stories; I'm an essayist, an observer, a recorder. I admit that it's an extraordinary coincidence. But you must see--" "I see the whole thing," said Soames, quietly. And he added, with a touch of his old manner, but with more dignity than I had ever known in him, "Parlons d'autre chose." I accepted that suggestion very promptly. I returned straight to the more immediate future. I spent most of the long evening in renewed appeals to Soames to come away and seek refuge somewhere. I remember saying at last that if indeed I was destined to write about him, the supposed "stauri" had better have at least a happy ending. Soames repeated those last three words in a tone of intense scorn. "In life and in art," he said, "all that matters is an INEVITABLE ending." "But," I urged more hopefully than I felt, "an ending that can be avoided ISN'T inevitable." "You aren't an artist," he rasped. "And you're so hopelessly not an artist that, so far from being able to imagine a thing and make it seem true, you're going to make even a true thing seem as if you'd made it up. You're a miserable bungler. And it's like my luck." I protested that the miserable bungler was not I, was not going to be I, but T. K. Nupton; and we had a rather heated argument, in the thick of which it suddenly seemed to me that Soames saw he was in the wrong: he had quite physically cowered. But I wondered why--and now I guessed with a cold throb just why--he stared so past me. The bringer of that "inevitable ending" filled the doorway. I managed to turn in my chair and to say, not without a semblance of lightness, "Aha, come in!" Dread was indeed rather blunted in me by his looking so absurdly like a villain in a melodrama. The sheen of his tilted hat and of his shirt-front, the repeated twists he was giving to his mustache, and most of all the magnificence of his sneer, gave token that he was there only to be foiled. He was at our table in a stride. "I am sorry," he sneered witheringly, "to break up your pleasant party, but--" "You don't; you complete it," I assured him. "Mr. Soames and I want to have a little talk with you. Won't you sit? Mr. Soames got nothing, frankly nothing, by his journey this afternoon. We don't wish to say that the whole thing was a swindle, a common swindle. On the contrary, we believe you meant well. But of course the bargain, such as it was, is off." The devil gave no verbal answer. He merely looked at Soames and pointed with rigid forefinger to the door. Soames was wretchedly rising from his chair when, with a desperate, quick gesture, I swept together two dinner-knives that were on the table, and laid their blades across each other. The devil stepped sharp back against the table behind him, averting his face and shuddering. "You are not superstitious!" he hissed. "Not at all," I smiled. "Soames," he said as to an underling, but without turning his face, "put those knives straight!" With an inhibitive gesture to my friend, "Mr. Soames," I said emphatically to the devil, "is a Catholic diabolist"; but my poor friend did the devil's bidding, not mine; and now, with his master's eyes again fixed on him, he arose, he shuffled past me. I tried to speak. It was he that spoke. "Try," was the prayer he threw back at me as the devil pushed him roughly out through the door--"TRY to make them know that I did exist!" In another instant I, too, was through that door. I stood staring all ways, up the street, across it, down it. There was moonlight and lamplight, but there was not Soames nor that other. Dazed, I stood there. Dazed, I turned back at length into the little room, and I suppose I paid Berthe or Rose for my dinner and luncheon and for Soames's; I hope so, for I never went to the Vingtieme again. Ever since that night I have avoided Greek Street altogether. And for years I did not set foot even in Soho Square, because on that same night it was there that I paced and loitered, long and long, with some such dull sense of hope as a man has in not straying far from the place where he has lost something. "Round and round the shutter'd Square"--that line came back to me on my lonely beat, and with it the whole stanza, ringing in my brain and bearing in on me how tragically different from the happy scene imagined by him was the poet's actual experience of that prince in whom of all princes we should put not our trust! But strange how the mind of an essayist, be it never so stricken, roves and ranges! I remember pausing before a wide door-step and wondering if perchance it was on this very one that the young De Quincey lay ill and faint while poor Ann flew as fast as her feet would carry her to Oxford Street, the "stony-hearted stepmother" of them both, and came back bearing that "glass of port wine and spices" but for which he might, so he thought, actually have died. Was this the very door-step that the old De Quincey used to revisit in homage? I pondered Ann's fate, the cause of her sudden vanishing from the ken of her boy friend; and presently I blamed myself for letting the past override the present. Poor vanished Soames! And for myself, too, I began to be troubled. What had I better do? Would there be a hue and cry--"Mysterious Disappearance of an Author," and all that? He had last been seen lunching and dining in my company. Hadn't I better get a hansom and drive straight to Scotland Yard? They would think I was a lunatic. After all, I reassured myself, London was a very large place, and one very dim figure might easily drop out of it unobserved, now especially, in the blinding glare of the near Jubilee. Better say nothing at all, I thought. AND I was right. Soames's disappearance made no stir at all. He was utterly forgotten before any one, so far as I am aware, noticed that he was no longer hanging around. Now and again some poet or prosaist may have said to another, "What has become of that man Soames?" but I never heard any such question asked. As for his landlady in Dyott Street, no doubt he had paid her weekly, and what possessions he may have had in his rooms were enough to save her from fretting. The solicitor through whom he was paid his annuity may be presumed to have made inquiries, but no echo of these resounded. There was something rather ghastly to me in the general unconsciousness that Soames had existed, and more than once I caught myself wondering whether Nupton, that babe unborn, were going to be right in thinking him a figment of my brain. In that extract from Nupton's repulsive book there is one point which perhaps puzzles you. How is it that the author, though I have here mentioned him by name and have quoted the exact words he is going to write, is not going to grasp the obvious corollary that I have invented nothing? The answer can be only this: Nupton will not have read the later passages of this memoir. Such lack of thoroughness is a serious fault in any one who undertakes to do scholar's work. And I hope these words will meet the eye of some contemporary rival to Nupton and be the undoing of Nupton. I like to think that some time between 1992 and 1997 somebody will have looked up this memoir, and will have forced on the world his inevitable and startling conclusions. And I have reason for believing that this will be so. You realize that the reading-room into which Soames was projected by the devil was in all respects precisely as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997. You realize, therefore, that on that afternoon, when it comes round, there the selfsame crowd will be, and there Soames will be, punctually, he and they doing precisely what they did before. Recall now Soames's account of the sensation he made. You may say that the mere difference of his costume was enough to make him sensational in that uniformed crowd. You wouldn't say so if you had ever seen him, and I assure you that in no period would Soames be anything but dim. The fact that people are going to stare at him and follow him around and seem afraid of him, can be explained only on the hypothesis that they will somehow have been prepared for his ghostly visitation. They will have been awfully waiting to see whether he really would come. And when he does come the effect will of course be--awful. An authentic, guaranteed, proved ghost, but; only a ghost, alas! Only that. In his first visit Soames was a creature of flesh and blood, whereas the creatures among whom he was projected were but ghosts, I take it--solid, palpable, vocal, but unconscious and automatic ghosts, in a building that was itself an illusion. Next time that building and those creatures will be real. It is of Soames that there will be but the semblance. I wish I could think him destined to revisit the world actually, physically, consciously. I wish he had this one brief escape, this one small treat, to look forward to. I never forget him for long. He is where he is and forever. The more rigid moralists among you may say he has only himself to blame. For my part, I think he has been very hardly used. It is well that vanity should be chastened; and Enoch Soames's vanity was, I admit, above the average, and called for special treatment. But there was no need for vindictiveness. You say he contracted to pay the price he is paying. Yes; but I maintain that he was induced to do so by fraud. Well informed in all things, the devil must have known that my friend would gain nothing by his visit to futurity. The whole thing was a very shabby trick. The more I think of it, the more detestable the devil seems to me. Of him I have caught sight several times, here and there, since that day at the Vingtieme. Only once, however, have I seen him at close quarters. This was a couple of years ago, in Paris. I was walking one afternoon along the rue d'Antin, and I saw him advancing from the opposite direction, overdressed as ever, and swinging an ebony cane and altogether behaving as though the whole pavement belonged to him. At thought of Enoch Soames and the myriads of other sufferers eternally in this brute's dominion, a great cold wrath filled me, and I drew myself up to my full height. But--well, one is so used to nodding and smiling in the street to anybody whom one knows that the action becomes almost independent of oneself; to prevent it requires a very sharp effort and great presence of mind. I was miserably aware, as I passed the devil, that I nodded and smiled to him. And my shame was the deeper and hotter because he, if you please, stared straight at me with the utmost haughtiness. To be cut, deliberately cut, by HIM! I was, I still am, furious at having had that happen to me. [Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions in the text; e.g., "does n't" has become "doesn't" etc.] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Enoch Soames, by Max Beerbohm Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How many days do viewers of the tape have to live after they watch it?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Seven days" ]	17,501	narrativeqa	en	null	b8c1df9064532860efef843054433b6588ec8c89071c027f	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who does not see death in the end?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The Seventh Seal <b> </b> The KNIGHT, Antonius Block, lies prostrate on some spruce branches spread over the fine sand. His eyes are wide-open and bloodshot from lack of sleep. Nearby his squire JONS is snoring loudly. He has fallen asleep where he collapsed, at the edge of the forest among the wind-gnarled fir trees. His open mouth gapes towards the dawn, and unearthly sounds come from his throat. The KNIGHT has risen and waded into the shallow water, where he rinses his sunburned face and blistered lips. JONS rolls over to face the forest and the darkness. He moans in his sleep and vigorously scratches the stubbled hair on his head. A scar stretches diagonally across his scalp, as white as lightning against the grime. The KNIGHT returns to the beach and falls on his knees. With his eyes closed and brow furrowed, he says his morning prayers. His hands are clenched together and his lips form the words silently. His face is sad and bitter. He opens his eyes and stares directly into the morning sun which wallows up from the misty sea like some bloated, dying fish. The sky is gray and immobile, a dome of lead. A cloud hangs mute and dark over the western horizon. High up, barely visible, a seagull floats on motionless wings. Its cry is weird and restless. The KNIGHT'S large gray horse lifts its head and whinnies. Antonius Block turns around. Behind him stands a man in black. His face is very pale and he keeps his hands hidden in the wide folds of his cloak. <b> KNIGHT </b> Who are you? <b> DEATH </b> I am Death. <b> KNIGHT </b> Have you come for me? <b> DEATH </b> I have been walking by your side for a long time. <b> KNIGHT </b> That I know. <b> DEATH </b> Are you prepared? <b> KNIGHT </b> My body is frightened, but I am not. <b> DEATH </b> Well Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "all but Jof and the Juggler" ]	18,053	narrativeqa	en	null	08eb5808e99ec50b74a3b2779c65c533fec812a1e70f5ed3	The Seventh Seal <b> </b>The night had brought little relief from the heat, and at dawn a hot gust of wind blows across the colorless sea. The KNIGHT, Antonius Block, lies prostrate on some spruce branches spread over the fine sand. His eyes are wide-open and bloodshot from lack of sleep. Nearby his squire JONS is snoring loudly. He has fallen asleep where he collapsed, at the edge of the forest among the wind-gnarled fir trees. His open mouth gapes towards the dawn, and unearthly sounds come from his throat. At the sudden gust of wind, the horses stir, stretching their parched muzzles towards the sea. They are as thin and worn as their masters. The KNIGHT has risen and waded into the shallow water, where he rinses his sunburned face and blistered lips. JONS rolls over to face the forest and the darkness. He moans in his sleep and vigorously scratches the stubbled hair on his head. A scar stretches diagonally across his scalp, as white as lightning against the grime. The KNIGHT returns to the beach and falls on his knees. With his eyes closed and brow furrowed, he says his morning prayers. His hands are clenched together and his lips form the words silently. His face is sad and bitter. He opens his eyes and stares directly into the morning sun which wallows up from the misty sea like some bloated, dying fish. The sky is gray and immobile, a dome of lead. A cloud hangs mute and dark over the western horizon. High up, barely visible, a seagull floats on motionless wings. Its cry is weird and restless. The KNIGHT'S large gray horse lifts its head and whinnies. Antonius Block turns around. Behind him stands a man in black. His face is very pale and he keeps his hands hidden in the wide folds of his cloak. <b> KNIGHT </b> Who are you? <b> DEATH </b> I am Death. <b> KNIGHT </b> Have you come for me? <b> DEATH </b> I have been walking by your side for a long time. <b> KNIGHT </b> That I know. <b> DEATH </b> Are you prepared? <b> KNIGHT </b> My body is frightened, but I am not. <b> DEATH </b> Well, there is no shame in that. The KNIGHT has risen to his feet. He shivers. DEATH opens his cloak to place it around the KNIGHT'S shoulders. <b> KNIGHT </b> Wait a moment. <b> DEATH </b> That's what they all say. I grant no reprieves. <b> KNIGHT </b> You play chess, don't you? A gleam of interest kindles in DEATH'S eyes. <b> DEATH </b> How did you know that? <b> KNIGHT </b> I have seen it in paintings and heard it sung in ballads. <b> DEATH </b> Yes, in fact I'm quite a good chess player. <b> KNIGHT </b> But you can't be better than I am. The KNIGHT rummages in the big black bag which he keeps beside him and takes out a small chessboard. He places it carefully on the ground and begins setting up the pieces. <b> DEATH </b> Why do you want to play chess with me? <b> KNIGHT </b> I have my reasons. <b> DEATH </b> That is your privilege. <b> KNIGHT </b> The condition is that I may live as long as I hold out against you. If I win, you will release me. Is it agreed? The KNIGHT holds out his two fists to DEATH, who smiles at him suddenly. DEATH points to one of the KNIGHT'S hands; it contains a black pawn. <b> KNIGHT </b> You drew black! <b> DEATH </b> Very appropriate. Don't you think so? The KNIGHT and DEATH bend over the chessboard. After a moment of hesitation, Antonius Block opens with his king's pawn. DEATH moves, also using his king's pawn. <b> </b> The morning breeze has died down. The restless movement of the sea has ceased, the water is silent. The sun rises from the haze and its glow whitens. The sea gull floats under the dark cloud, frozen in space. The day is already scorchingly hot. The squire JONS is awakened by a kick in the rear. Opening his eyes, he grunts like a pig and yawns broadly. He scrambles to his feet, saddles his horse and picks up the heavy pack. The KNIGHT slowly rides away from the sea, into the forest near the beach and up towards the road. He pretends not to hear the morning prayers of his squire. JONS soon overtakes him. <b> JONS </b> (sings) Between a strumpet's legs to lie Is the life for which I sigh. He stops and looks at his master, but the KNIGHT hasn't heard JON'S song, or he pretends that he hasn't. To give further vent to his irritation, JONS sings even louder. <b> JONS </b> (sings) Up above is God Almighty So very far away, But your brother the Devil You will meet on every level. JONS finally gets the KNIGHT'S attention. He stops singing. The KNIGHT, his horse, JONS'S own horse and JONS himself know all the songs by heart. The long, dusty journey from the Holy Land hasn't made them any cleaner. They ride across a mossy heath which stretches towards the horizon. Beyond it, the sea lies shimmering in the white glitter of the sun. <b> JONS </b> In Frjestad everyone was talking about evil omens and other horrible things. Two horses had eaten each other in the night, and, in the churchyard, graves had been opened and the remains of corpses scattered all over the place. Yesterday afternoon there were as many as four suns in the heavens. <b> </b>The KNIGHT doesn't answer. Close by, a scrawny dog is whining, crawling towards its master, who is sleeping in a sitting position in the blazing hot sun. A black cloud of flies clusters around his head and shoulders. The miserable-looking dog whines incessantly as it lies flat on its stomach, wagging its tail. JONS dismounts and approaches the sleeping man. JONS addresses him politely. When he doesn't receive an answer, he walks up to the man in order to shake him awake. He bends over the sleeping man's shoulder, but quickly pulls back his hand. The man falls backward on the heath, his face turned towards JONS. It is a corpse, staring at JONS with empty eye sockets and white teeth. JONS remounts and overtakes his master. He takes a drink from his waterskin and hands the bag to the knight. <b> KNIGHT </b> Well, did he show you the way? <b> JONS </b> Not exactly. <b> KNIGHT </b> What did he say? <b> JONS </b> Nothing. <b> KNIGHT </b> Was he a mute? <b> JONS </b> No, sir, I wouldn't say that. As a matter of fact, he was quite eloquent. <b> KNIGHT </b> Oh? <b> JONS </b> He was eloquent, all right. The trouble is that what he had to say was most depressing. (sings) One moment you're bright and lively, The next you're crawling with worms. Fate is a terrible villain And you, my friend, its poor victim. <b> KNIGHT </b> Must you sing? <b> JONS </b> No. The KNIGHT hands his squire a piece of bread, which keeps him quiet for a while. The sun burns down on them cruelly, and beads of perspiration trickle down their faces. There is a cloud of dust around the horses' hooves. They ride past an inlet and along verdant groves. In the shade of some large trees stands a bulging wagon covered with a mottled canvas. A horse whinnies nearby and is answered by the KNIGHT'S horse. The two travelers do not stop to rest under the shade of the trees but continue riding until they disappear at the bend of the road. <b> </b> In his sleep, JOF the juggler hears the neighing of his horse and the answer from a distance. He tries to go on sleeping, but it is stifling inside the wagon. The rays of the sun filtering through the canvas cast streaks of light across the face of JOF'S wife, MIA, and their one-year-old son, MIKAEL, who are sleeping deeply and peacefully. Near them, JONAS SKAT, an older man, snores loudly. JOF crawls out of the wagon. There is still a spot of shade under the big trees. He takes a drink of water, gargles, stretches and talks to his scrawny old horse. <b> JOF </b> Good morning. Have you had breakfast? I can't eat grass, worse luck. Can't you teach me how? We're a little hard up. People aren't very interested in juggling in this part of the country. He has picked up the juggling balls and slowly begins to toss them. Then he stands on his head and cackles like a hen. Suddenly he stops and sits down with a look of utter astonishment on his face. The wind causes the trees to sway slightly. The leaves stir and there is a soft murmur. The flowers and the grass bend gracefully, and somewhere a bird raises its voice in a long warble. JOF'S face breaks into a smile and his eyes fill with tears. With a dazed expression he sits flat on his behind while the grass rustles softly, and bees and butterflies hum around his head. The unseen bird continues to sing. Suddenly the breeze stops blowing, the bird stops singing, JOF'S smile fades, the flowers and grass wilt in the heat. The old horse is still walking around grazing and swishing its tail to ward off the flies. JOF comes to life. He rushes into the wagon and shakes MIA awake. <b> JOF </b> Mia, wake up. Wake up! Mia, I've just seen something. I've got to tell you about it! <b> MIA </b> (sits up, terrified) What is it? What's happened? <b> JOF </b> Listen, I've had a vision. No, it wasn't a vision. It was real, absolutely real. <b> MIA </b> Oh, so you've had a vision again! MIA's voice is filled with gentle irony. JOF shakes his head and grabs her by the shoulders. <b> JOF </b> But I did see her! <b> MIA </b> Whom did you see? <b> JOF </b> The Virgin Mary. MIA can't help being impressed by her husband's fervor. She lowers her voice. <b> MIA </b> Did you really see her? <b> JOF </b> She was so close to me that I could have touched her. She had a golden crown on her head and wore a blue gown with flowers of gold. She was barefoot and had small brown hands with which she was holding the Child and teaching Him to walk. And then she saw me watching her and she smiled at me. My eyes filled with tears and when I wiped them away, she had disappeared. And everything became so still in the sky and on the earth. Can you understand ... <b> MIA </b> What an imagination you have. <b> JOF </b> You don't believe me! But it was real, I tell you, not the kind of reality you see every day, but a different kind. <b> MIA </b> Perhaps it was the kind of reality you told us about when you saw the Devil painting our wagon wheels red, using his tail as a brush. <b> JOF </b> (embarrassed) Why must you keep bringing that up? <b> MIA </b> And then you discovered that you had red paint under your nails. <b> JOF </b> Well, perhaps that time I made it up. (eagerly) I did it just so that you would believe in my other visions. The real ones. The ones that I didn't make up. <b> MIA </b> (severely) You have to keep your visions under control. Otherwise people will think that you're a half-wit, which you're not. At least not yet -- as far as I know. But, come to think of it, I'm not so sure about that. <b> JOF </b> (angry) I didn't ask to have visions. I can't help it if voices speak to me, if the Holy Virgin appears before me and angels and devils like my company. <b> SKAT </b> (sits up) Haven't I told you once and for all that I need my morning's sleep! I have asked you politely, pleaded with you, but nothing works. So now I'm telling you to shut up! His eyes are popping with rage. He turns over and continues snoring where he left off. MIA and JOF decide that it would be wisest to leave the wagon. They sit down on a crate. MIA has MIKAEL on her knees. He is naked and squirms vigorously. JOF sits close to his wife. Slumped over, he still looks dazed and astonished. A dry, hot wind blows from the sea. <b> MIA </b> If we would only get some rain. Everything is burned to cinders. We won't have anything to eat this winter. <b> JOF </b> (yawning) We'll get by. He says this smilingly, with a casual air. He stretches and laughs contentedly. <b> MIA </b> I want Mikael to have a better life than ours. <b> JOF </b> Mikael will grow up to be a great acrobat -- or a juggler who can do the one impossible trick. <b> MIA </b> What's that? <b> JOF </b> To make one of the balls stand absolutely still in the air. <b> MIA </b> But that's impossible. <b> JOF </b> Impossible for us -- but not for him. <b> MIA </b> You're dreaming again. She yawns. The sun, has made her a bit drowsy and she lies down on the grass. JOF does likewise and puts one arm around his wife's shoulders. <b> JOF </b> I've composed a song. I made it up during the night when I couldn't sleep. Do you want to hear it? <b> MIA </b> Sing it. I'm very curious. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> I have to sit up first. He sits with his legs crossed, makes a dramatic gesture with his arms and sings in a loud voice. <b> JOF </b> (sings) On a lily branch a dove is perched Against the summer sky, She sings a wondrous song of Christ And there's great joy on high. He interrupts his singing in order to be complimented by his wife. <b> JOF </b> Mia! Are you asleep? <b> MIA </b> It's a lovely song. <b> JOF </b> I haven't finished yet. <b> </b><b> MIA </b> I heard it, but I think I'll sleep a little longer. You can sing the rest to me afterwards. <b> JOF </b> All you do is sleep. JOF is a bit offended and glances over at his son, MIKAEL, but he is also sleeping soundly in the high grass. JONAS SKAT comes out from the wagon. He yawns; he is very tired and in a bad humor. In his hands he holds a crudely made death mask. <b> SKAT </b> Is this supposed to be a mask for an actor? If the priests didn't pay us so well, I'd say no thank you. <b> JOF </b> Are you going to play Death? <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> Just think, scaring decent folk out of their wits with this kind of nonsense. <b> JOF </b> When are we supposed to do this play? <b> SKAT </b> At the saints' feast in Elsinore. We're going to perform right on the church steps, believe it or not. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Wouldn't it be better to play something bawdy? People like it better, and, besides, it's more fun. <b> SKAT </b> Idiot. There's a rumor going around that there's a terrible pestilence in the land, and now the priests are prophesying sudden death and all sorts of spiritual agonies. MIA is awake now and lies contentedly on her back, sucking on a blade of grass and looking smilingly at her husband. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> And what part am I to play? <b> SKAT </b> You're such a damn fool, so you're going to be the Soul of Man. <b> JOF </b> That's a bad part, of course. <b> SKAT </b> Who makes the decisions around here? Who is the director of this company anyhow? SKAT, grinning, holds the mask in front of his face and recites dramatically. <b> SKAT </b> Bear this in mind, you fool. Your life hangs by a thread. Your time is short. (in his usual voice) Are the women going to like me in this getup? Will I make a hit? No! I feel as if I were dead already. He stumbles into the wagon muttering furiously. JOF sits, leaning forward. MIA lies beside him on the grass. <b> MIA </b> Jof! <b> </b><b> JOF </b> What is it? <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Sit still. Don't move. <b> JOF </b> What do you mean? <b> MIA </b> Don't say anything. <b> JOF </b> I'm as silent as a grave. <b> MIA </b> Shh! I love you. <b> </b> Waves of heat envelop the gray stone church in a strange white mist. The KNIGHT dismounts and enters. After tying up the horses, JONS slowly follows him in. When he comes onto the church porch he stops in surprise. To the right of the entrance there is a large fresco on the wall, not quite finished. Perched on a crude scaffolding is a PAINTER wearing a red cap and paint-stained clothes. He has one brush in his mouth, while with another in his hand he outlines a small, terrified human face amidst a sea of other faces. <b> JONS </b> What is this supposed to represent? <b> PAINTER </b> The Dance of Death. <b> JONS </b> And that one is Death? <b> </b><b> PAINTER </b> Yes, he dances off with all of them. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Why do you paint such nonsense? <b> PAINTER </b> I thought it would serve to remind people that they must die. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Well, it's not going to make them feel any happier. <b> PAINTER </b> Why should one always make people happy? It might not be a bad idea to scare them a little once in a while. <b> JONS </b> Then they'll close their eyes and refuse to look at your painting. <b> </b><b> PAINTER </b> Oh, they'll look. A skull is almost more interesting than a naked woman. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> If you do scare them ... <b> PAINTER </b> They'll think. <b> JONS </b> And if they think ... <b> </b><b> PAINTER </b> They'll become still more scared. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> And then they'll run right into the arms of the priests. <b> PAINTER </b> That's not my business. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> You're only painting your Dance of Death. <b> PAINTER </b> I'm only painting things as they are. Everyone else can do as he likes. <b> JONS </b> Just think how some people will curse you. <b> PAINTER </b> Maybe. But then I'll paint something amusing for them to look at. I have to make a living -- at least until the plague takes me. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> The plague. That sounds horrible. <b> PAINTER </b> You should see the boils on a diseased man's throat. You should see how his body shrivels up so that his legs look like knotted strings -- like the man I've painted over there. The PAINTER points with his brush. JONS sees a small human form writhing in the grass, its eyes turned upwards in a frenzied look of horror and pain. <b> JONS </b> That looks terrible. <b> PAINTER </b> It certainly does. He tries to rip out the boil, he bites his hands, tears his veins open with his fingernails and his screams can be heard everywhere. Does that scare you? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Scare? Me? You don't know me. What are the horrors you've painted over there? <b> PAINTER </b> The remarkable thing is that the poor creatures think the pestilence is the Lord's punishment. Mobs of people who call themselves Slaves of Sin are swarming over the country, flagellating themselves and others, all for the glory of God. <b> JONS </b> Do they really whip themselves? <b> PAINTER </b> Yes, it's a terrible sight. I crawl into a ditch and hide when they pass by. <b> JONS </b> Do you have any brandy? I've been drinking water all day and it's made me as thirsty as a camel in the desert. <b> PAINTER </b> I think I frightened you after all. JONS sits down with the PAINTER, who produces a jug of brandy. The KNIGHT is kneeling before a small altar. It is dark and quiet around him. The air is cool and musty. Pictures of saints look down on him with stony eyes. Christ's face is turned upwards, His mouth open as if in a cry of anguish. On the ceiling beam there is a representation of a hideous devil spying on a miserable human being. The KNIGHT hears a sound from the confession booth and approaches it. The face of DEATH appears behind the grille for an instant, but the KNIGHT doesn't see him. <b> KNIGHT </b> I want to talk to you as openly as I can, but my heart is empty. DEATH doesn't answer. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> The emptiness is a mirror turned towards my own face. I see myself in it, and I am filled with fear and disgust. DEATH doesn't answer. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Through my indifference to my fellow men, I have isolated myself from their company. Now I live in a world of phantoms. I am imprisoned in my dreams and fantasies. <b> DEATH </b> And yet you don't want to die. <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes, I do. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> What are you waiting for? <b> KNIGHT </b> I want knowledge. <b> DEATH </b> You want guarantees? <b> KNIGHT </b> Call it whatever you like. Is it so cruelly inconceivable to grasp God with the senses? Why should He hide himself in a mist of half-spoken promises and unseen miracles? DEATH doesn't answer. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> How can we have faith in those who believe when we can't have faith in ourselves? What is going to happen to those of us who want to believe but aren't able to? And what is to become of those who neither want to nor are capable of believing? The KNIGHT stops and waits for a reply, but no one speaks or answers him. There is complete silence. <b> KNIGHT </b> Why can't I kill God within me? Why does He live on in this painful and humiliating way even though I curse Him and want to tear Him out of my heart? Why, in spite of everything, is He a baffling reality that I can't shake off? Do you hear me? <b> DEATH </b> Yes, I hear you. <b> KNIGHT </b> I want knowledge, not faith, not suppositions, but knowledge. I want God to stretch out His hand towards me, reveal Himself and speak to me. <b> DEATH </b> But He remains silent. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> I call out to Him in the dark but no one seems to be there. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> Perhaps no one is there. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Then life is an outrageous horror. No one can live in the face of death, knowing that all is nothingness. <b> DEATH </b> Most people never reflect about either death or the futility of life. <b> KNIGHT </b> But one day they will have to stand at that last moment of life and look towards the darkness. <b> DEATH </b> When that day comes ... <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> In our fear, we make an image, and that image we call God. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> You are worrying ... <b> KNIGHT </b> Death visited me this morning. We are playing chess together. This reprieve gives me the chance to arrange an urgent matter. <b> DEATH </b> What matter is that? <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> My life has been a futile pursuit, a wandering, a great deal of talk without meaning. I feel no bitterness or self-reproach because the lives of most people are very much like this. But I will use my reprieve for one meaningful deed. <b> DEATH </b> Is that why you are playing chess with Death? <b> KNIGHT </b> He is a clever opponent, but up to now I haven't lost a single man. <b> DEATH </b> How will you outwit Death in your game? <b> KNIGHT </b> I use a combination of the bishop and the knight which he hasn't yet discovered. In the next move I'll shatter one of his flanks. <b> DEATH </b> I'll remember that. DEATH shows his face at the grill of the confession booth for a moment but disappears instantly. <b> KNIGHT </b> You've tricked and cheated me! But we'll meet again, and I'll find a way. <b> DEATH </b> (invisible) We'll meet at the inn, and there we'll continue playing. The KNIGHT raises his hand and looks at it in the sunlight which comes through the tiny window. <b> KNIGHT </b> This is my hand. I can move it, feel the blood pulsing through it. The sun is still high in the sky and I, Antonius Block, am playing chess with Death. He makes a fist of his hand and lifts it to his temple. Meanwhile, JONS and the PAINTER have got drunk and are talking animatedly together. <b> JONS </b> Me and my master have been abroad and have just come home. Do you understand, you little pictor? <b> PAINTER </b> The Crusade. <b> JONS </b> (drunk) Precisely. For ten years we sat in the Holy Land and let snakes bite us, flies sting us, wild animals eat us, heathens butcher us, the wine poison us, the women give us lice, the lice devour us, the fevers rot us, all for the Glory of God. Our crusade was such madness that only a real idealist could have thought it up. But what you said about the plague was horrible. <b> PAINTER </b> It's worse than that. <b> JONS </b> Ah, me. No matter which way you turn, you have your rump behind you. That's the truth. <b> PAINTER </b> The rump behind you, the rump behind you there's a profound truth. JONS paints a small figure which is supposed to represent himself. <b> JONS </b> This is squire Jns. He grins at Death, mocks the Lord, laughs at himself and leers at the girls. His world is a Jnsworld, believable only to himself, ridiculous to all including himself, meaningless to Heaven and of no interest to Hell. The KNIGHT walks by, calls to his squire and goes out into the bright sunshine. JONS manages to set himself down from the scaffolding. Outside the church, four soldiers and a monk are in the process of putting a woman in the stocks. Her face is pale and child-like, her head has been shaved, and her knuckles are bloody and broken. Her eyes are wide open, yet she doesn't appear to be fully conscious. JONS and the KNIGHT stop and watch in silence. The soldiers are working quickly and skillfully, but they seem frightened and dejected. The monk mumbles from a small book. One of the soldiers picks up a wooden bucket and with his hand begins to smear a bloody paste on the wall of the church and around the woman. JONS holds his nose. <b> JONS </b> That soup of yours has a hell of a stink. What is it good for? <b> SOLDIER </b> She has had carnal intercourse with the Evil One. He whispers this with a horrified face and continues to splash the sticky mess on the wall. <b> JONS </b> And now she's in the stocks. <b> SOLDIER </b> She will be burned tomorrow morning at the parish boundary. But we have to keep the Devil away from the rest of us. <b> JONS </b> (holding his nose) And you do that with this stinking mess? <b> SOLDIER </b> It's the best remedy: blood mixed with the bile of a big black dog. The Devil can't stand the smell. <b> JONS </b> Neither can I. <b> </b>JONS walks over towards the horses. The KNIGHT stands for a few, moments looking at the young girl. She is almost a child. Slowly she turns her eyes towards him. <b> KNIGHT </b> Have you seen the Devil? The MONK stops reading and raises his head. <b> MONK </b> You must not talk to her. <b> KNIGHT </b> Can that be so dangerous? <b> MONK </b> I don't know, but she is believed to have caused the pestilence with which we are affected. <b> KNIGHT </b> I understand. He nods resignedly and walks away. The young woman starts to moan as though she were having a horrible nightmare. The sound of her cries follows the two riders for a considerable distance down the road. <b> </b> The sun stands high in the sky, like a red ball of fire. The waterskin is empty and JONS looks for a well where he can fill it. They approach a group of peasant cottages at the edge of the forest. JONS ties up the horses, slings the skin over his shoulder and walks along the path towards the nearest cottage. As always, his movements are light and almost soundless. The door to the cottage is open. He stops outside, but when no one appears he enters. It is very dark inside and his foot touches a soft object. He looks down. Beside the whitewashed fireplace, a woman is lying with her face to the ground. At the sound of approaching steps, JONS quickly hides behind the door. A man comes down a ladder from the loft. He is broad and thick-set. His eyes are black and his face is pale and puffy. His clothes are well cut but dirty and in rags. He carries a cloth sack. Looking around, he goes into the inner room, bends over the bed, tucks something into the bag, slinks along the walls, looking on the shelves, finds something else which he tucks in his bag. Slowly he re-enters the outer room, bends over the dead woman and carefully slips a ring from her finger. At that moment a young woman comes through the door. She stops and stares at the stranger. <b> RAVEL </b> Why do you look so surprised? I steal from the dead. These days it's quite a lucrative enterprise. The GIRL makes a movement as if to run away. <b> RAVEL </b> You're thinking of running to the village and telling. That wouldn't serve any purpose. Each of us has to save his own skin. It's as simple as that. <b> GIRL </b> Don't touch me. <b> RAVAL </b> Don't try to scream. There's no one around to hear you, neither God nor man. Slowly he closes the door behind the GIRL. The stuffy room is now in almost total darkness. But JONS becomes clearly visible. <b> JONS </b> I recognize you, although it's a long time since we met. Your name is Raval, from the theological college at Roskilde. You are Dr. Mirabilis, Coelestis et Diabilis. RAVAL smiles uneasily and looks around. <b> JONS </b> Am I not right? The GIRL stands immobile. <b> JONS </b> You were the one who, ten years ago, convinced my master of the necessity to join a better- class crusade to the Holy Land. RAVAL looks around. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> You look uncomfortable. Do you have a stomach- ache? RAVAL smiles anxiously. <b> JONS </b> When I see you, I suddenly understand the meaning of these ten years, which previously seemed to me such a waste. Our life was too good and we were too satisfied with ourselves. The Lord wanted to punish us for our complacency. That is why He sent you to spew out your holy venom and poison the knight. <b> RAVEL </b> I acted in good faith. <b> JONS </b> But now you know better, don't you? Because now you have turned into a thief. A more fitting and rewarding occupation for scoundrels. Isn't that so? With a quick movement he knocks the knife out of RAVAL'S hand, gives him a kick so that he falls on the floor and is about to finish him off. Suddenly the GIRL screams. JONS stops and makes a gesture of generosity with his hand. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> By all means. I'm not bloodthirsty. He bends over RAVAL. <b> RAVEL </b> Don't beat me. <b> JONS </b> I don't have the heart to touch you, Doctor. But remember this: the next time we meet, I'll brand your face the way one does with thieves. (he rises) What I really came for is to get my waterskin filled. <b> GIRL </b> We have a deep well with cool, fresh water. Come, I'll show you. They walk out of the house. RAVAL lies still for a few moments, then he rises slowly and looks around. When no one is in sight, he takes his bag and steals away. JONS quenches his thirst and fills his bag with water. The GIRL helps him. <b> JONS </b> Jns is my name. I am a pleasant and talkative young man who has never had anything but kind thoughts and has only done beautiful and noble deeds. I'm kindest of all to young women. With them, there is no limit to my kindness. He embraces her and tries to kiss her, but she holds herself back. Almost immediately he loses interest, hoists the waterbag on his shoulder and pats the GIRL on the cheek. <b> JONS </b> Goodbye, my girl. I could very well have raped you, but between you and me, I'm tired of that kind of love. It runs a little dry in the end. He laughs kindly and walks away from her. When he has walked a short distance he turns; the GIRL is still there. <b> JONS </b> Now that I think of it, I will need a housekeeper. Can you prepare good food? (the GIRL nods) As far as I know, I'm still a married man, but I have high hopes that my wife is dead by now. That's why I need a housekeeper. (the GIRL doesn't answer but gets up) The devil with it! Come along and don't stand there staring. I've saved your life, so you owe me a great deal. She begins walking towards him, her head bent. He doesn't wait for her but walks towards the KNIGHT, who patiently awaits his squire. <b> </b> The Embarrassment Inn lies in the eastern section of the province. The plague has not yet reached this area on its way along the coast. The actors have placed their wagon under a tree in the yard of the inn. Dressed in colorful costumes, they perform a farce. The spectators watch the performance, commenting on it noisily. There are merchants with fat, beer-sweaty faces, apprentices and journeymen, farmhands and milkmaids. A whole flock of children perch in the trees around the wagon. <b> </b>The KNIGHT and his squire have sat down in the shadow of a wall. They drink beer and doze in the midday heat. The GIRL from the deserted village sleeps at JONS'S side. SKAT beats the drums, JOF blows the flute, MIA performs a gay and lively dance. They perspire under the hot white sun. When they have finished SKAT comes forward and bows. <b> SKAT </b> Noble ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your interest. Please remain standing for a little longer, or sit on the ground, because we are now going to perform a tragedia about an unfaithful wife, her jealous husband, and the handsome lover -- that's me. MIA and JOF have quickly changed costumes and again step out on the stage. They bow, to the public. <b> SKAT </b> Here is the husband. Here is the wife. If you'll shut up over there, you'll see something splendid. As I said, I play the lover and I haven't entered yet. That's why I'm going to hide behind the curtain for the time being. (he wipes the sweat from his forehead) It's damned hot. I think we'll have a thunderstorm. He places his leg in front of JOF as if to trip him, raises MIA's skirt, makes a face as if he could see all the wonders of the world underneath it, and disappears behind the gaudily patched curtains. SKAT is very handsome, now that he can see himself in the reflection of a tin washbowl. His hair is tightly curled, his eyebrows are beautifully bushy, glittering earrings vie for equal attention with his teeth, and his cheeks are flushed rose red. <b> </b>He sits out in back on the tailboard of the wagon, dangling his legs and whistling to himself. <b> </b>In the meantime JOF and MIA play their tragedy; it is not, however, received with great acclaim. SKAT suddenly discovers that someone is watching him as he gazes contentedly into the tin bowl. A woman stands there, stately in both height and volume. <b> </b>SKAT frowns, toys with his small dagger and occasionally throws a roguish but fiery glance at the beautiful visitor. She suddenly discovers that one of her shoes doesn't quite fit. She leans down to fix it and in doing so allows her generous bosom to burst out of its prison -- no more than honor and chastity allow, but still enough so that the actor with his experienced eye immediately sees that there are ample rewards to be had here. Now she comes a little closer, kneels down and opens a bundle containing several dainty morsels and a skin filled with red wine. JONAS SKAT manages not to fall off the wagon in his excitement. Standing on the steps of the wagon, he supports himself against a nearby tree, crosses his legs and bows. <b> </b>The woman quietly bites into a chicken leg dripping with fat. At this moment the actor is stricken by a radiant glance full of lustful appetites. When he sees this look, SKAT makes an instantaneous decision, jumps down from the wagon and kneels in front of the blushing damsel. She becomes weak and faint from his nearness, looks at him with a glassy glance and breathes heavily. SKAT doesn't neglect to press kisses on her small, chubby hands. The sun shines brightly and small birds make noises in the bushes. Now she is forced to sit back; her legs seem unwilling to support her any longer. Bewildered, she singles out another chicken leg from the large sack of food and holds it up in front of SKAT with an appealing and triumphant expression, as if it were her maidenhood being offered as a prize. SKAT hesitates momentarily, but he is still the strategist. He lets the chicken leg fall to the grass, and murmurs in the woman's rosy ear. His words seem to please her. She puts her arms around the actor's neck and pulls him to her with such fierceness that both of them lose their balance and tumble down on the soft grass. The small birds take to their wings with frightened shrieks. JOF stands in the hot sun with a flickering lantern in his hand. MIA pretends to be asleep on a bench which has been pulled forward on the stage. <b> JOF </b> Night and moonlight now prevail Here sleeps my wife so frail ... <b> VOICE FROM THE PUBLIC </b> Does she snore? <b> JOF </b> May I point out that this is a tragedy, and in tragedies one doesn't snore. <b> VOICE FROM THE PUBLIC </b> I think she should snore anyhow. This opinion causes mirth in the audience. JOF becomes slightly confused and goes out of character, but MIA keeps her head and begins snoring. <b> JOF </b> Night and moonlight now prevail. There snores -- I mean sleeps -- my wife so frail. Jealous I am, as never before, I hide myself behind this door. Faithful is she To her lover -- not me. He soon comes a-stealing To awaken her lusty feeling. I shall now kill him dead For cuckolding me in my bed. There he comes in the moonlight, His white legs shining bright. Quiet as a mouse, here I'll lie, Tell him not that he's about to die. JOF hides himself. MIA immediately ends her snoring and sits up, looking to the left. <b> MIA </b> Look, there he comes in the night My lover, my heart's delight. She becomes silent and looks wide-eyed in front of her. The mood in the yard in front of the inn has, up to now, been rather lighthearted despite the heat. <b> </b>Now a rapid change occurs. People who had been laughing and chattering fall silent. Their faces seem to pale under their sunbrowned skins, the children stop their games and stand with gaping mouths and frightened eyes. <b> </b>JOF steps out in front of the curtain. His painted face bears an expression of horror. MIA has risen with MIKAEL in her arms. Some of the women in the yard have fallen on their knees, others hide their faces, many begin to mutter half-forgotten prayers. All have turned their faces towards the white road. Now a shrill song is heard. It is frenzied, almost a scream. A crucified Christ sways above the hilltop. The cross-bearers soon come into sight. They are Dominican monks, their hoods pulled down over their faces. More and more of them follow, carrying litters with heavy coffins or clutching holy relics, their hands stretched out spasmodically. The dust wells up around their black hoods; the censers sway and emit a thick, ashen smoke which smells of rancid herbs. After the line of monks comes another procession. It is a column of men, boys, old men, women, girls, children. All of them have steel-edged scourges in their hands with which they whip themselves and each other, howling ecstatically. They twist in pain; their eyes bulge wildly; their lips are gnawed to shreds and dripping with foam. They have been seized by madness. They bite their own hands and arms, whip each other in violent, almost rhythmic outbursts. Throughout it all the shrill song howls from their bursting throats. Many sway and fall, lift themselves up again, support each other and help each other to intensify the scourging. Now the procession pauses at the crossroads in front of the inn. The monks fall on their knees, hiding their faces with clenched hands, arms pressed tightly together. Their song never stops. The Christ figure on its timbered cross is raised above the heads of the crowd. It is not Christ triumphant, but the suffering Jesus with the sores, the blood, the hammered nails and the face in convulsive pain. The Son of God, nailed on the wood of the cross, suffering scorn and shame. <b> </b>The penitents have now sunk down in the dirt of the road. They collapse where they stood like slaughtered cattle. Their screams rise with the song of the monks, through misty clouds of incense, towards the white fire of the sun. <b> </b>A large square monk rises from his knees and reveals his face, which is red- brown from the sun. His eyes glitter; his voice is thick with impotent scorn. <b> MONK </b> God has sentenced us to punishment. We shall all perish in the black death. You, standing there like gaping cattle, you who sit there in your glutted complacency, do you know that this may be your last hour? Death stands right behind you. I can see how his crown gleams in the sun. His scythe flashes as he raises it above your heads. Which one of you shall he strike first? You there, who stand staring like a goat, will your mouth be twisted into the last unfinished gasp before nightfall? And you, woman, who bloom with life and self- satisfaction, will you pale and become extinguished before the morning dawns? You back there, with your swollen nose and stupid grin, do you have another year left to dirty the earth with your refuse? Do you know, you insensible fools, that you shall die today or tomorrow, or the next day, because all of you have been sentenced? Do you hear what I say? Do you hear the word? You have been sentenced, sentenced! The MONK falls silent, looking around with a bitter face and a cold, scornful glance. Now, he clenches his hands, straddles the ground and turns his face upwards. <b> MONK </b> Lord have mercy on us in our humiliation! Don't turn your face from us in loathing and contempt, but be merciful to us for the sake of your son, Jesus Christ. He makes the sign of the cross over the crowd and then begins a new song in a strong voice. The monks rise and join in the song. As if driven by some superhuman force, the penitents begin to whip themselves again, still wailing and moaning. The procession continues. New members have joined the rear of the column; others who were unable to go on lie weeping in the dust of the road. JONS the squire drinks his beer. <b> JONS </b> This damned ranting about doom. Is that food for the minds of modern people? Do they really expect us to take them seriously? The KNIGHT grins tiredly. <b> JONS </b> Yes, now you grin at me, my lord. But allow me to point out that I've either read, heard or experienced most of the tales which we people tell each other. <b> KNIGHT </b> (yawns) Yes, yes. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Even the ghost stories about God the Father, the angels, Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost -- all these I've accepted without too much emotion. He leans down over the GIRL as she crouches at his feet and pats her on the head. The KNIGHT drinks his beer silently. <b> JONS </b> (contentedly) My little stomach is my world, my head is my eternity, and my hands, two wonderful suns. My legs are time's damned pendulums, and my dirty feet are two splendid starting points for my philosophy. Everything is worth precisely as much as a belch, the only difference being that a belch is more satisfying. The beer mug is empty. Sighing, JONS gets to his feet. The GIRL follows him like a shadow. In the yard he meets a large man with a sooty face and a dark expression. He stops JONS with a roar. <b> JONS </b> What are you screaming about? <b> PLOG </b> I am Plog, the smith, and you are the squire Jns. <b> JONS </b> That's possible. <b> PLOG </b> Have you seen my wife? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> No, I haven't. But if I had seen her and she looked like you, I'd quickly forget that I'd seen her. <b> PLOG </b> Well, in that case you haven't seen her. <b> JONS </b> Maybe she's run off. <b> PLOG </b> Do you know anything? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> I know quite a lot, but not about your wife. Go to the inn. Maybe they can help you. The smith sighs sadly and goes inside. The inn is very small and full of people eating and drinking to forget their newly aroused fears of eternity. In the open fireplace a roasting pig turns on an iron spit. The sun shines outside the casement window, its sharp rays piercing the darkness of the room, which is thick with fumes and perspiration. <b> </b><b> MERCHANT </b> Yes, it's true! The plague is spreading along the west coast. People are dying like flies. Usually business would be good at this time of year, but, damn it, I've still got my whole stock unsold. <b> WOMAN </b> They speak of the judgment day. And all these omens are terrible. Worms, chopped-off hands and other monstrosities began pouring out of an old woman, and down in the village another woman gave birth to a calf's head. <b> OLD MAN </b> The day of judgment. Imagine. <b> FARMER </b> It hasn't rained here for a month. We'll surely lose our crops. <b> MERCHANT </b> And people are acting crazy, I'd say. They flee the country and carry the plague with them wherever they go. <b> OLD MAN </b> The day of judgment. Just think, just think! <b> FARMER </b> If it's as they say, I suppose a person should look after his house and try to enjoy life as long as he can. <b> WOMAN </b> But there have been other things too, such things that can't even be spoken of. (whispers) Things that mustn't be named -- but the priests say that the woman carries it between her legs and that's why she must cleanse herself. <b> OLD MAN </b> Judgment day. And the Riders of the Apocalypse stand at the bend in the village road. I imagine they'll come on judgment night, at sundown. <b> WOMAN </b> There are many who have purged themselves with fire and died from it, but the priests say that it's better to die pure than to live for hell. <b> </b><b> MERCHANT </b> This is the end, yes, it is. No one says it out loud, but all of us know that it's the end. And people are going mad from fear. <b> FARMER </b> So you're afraid too. <b> MERCHANT </b> Of course I'm afraid. <b> OLD MAN </b> The judgment day becomes night, and the angels descend and the graves open. It will be terrible to see. They whisper in low tones and sit close to each other. PLOG, the smith, shoves his way into a place next to JOF, who is still dressed in his costume. Opposite him sits RAVAL, leaning slightly forward, his face perspiring heavily. RAVAL rolls an armlet out on the table. <b> RAVAL </b> Do you want this armlet? You can have it cheap. <b> JOF </b> I can't afford it. <b> RAVAL </b> It's real silver. <b> JOF </b> It's nice. But it's surely too expensive for me. <b> PLOG </b> Excuse me, but has anyone here seen my wife? <b> JOF </b> Has she disappeared? <b> PLOG </b> They say she's run away. <b> JOF </b> Has she deserted you? <b> PLOG </b> With an actor. <b> JOF </b> An actor! If she's got such bad taste, then I think you should let her go. <b> PLOG </b> You're right. My first thought, of course, was to kill her. <b> JOF </b> Oh. But to murder her, that's a terrible thing to do. <b> PLOG </b> I'm also going to kill the actor. <b> JOF </b> The actor? <b> PLOG </b> Of course, the one she eloped with. <b> JOF </b> What has he done to deserve that? <b> PLOG </b> Are you stupid? <b> </b><b> JOF </b> The actor! Now I understand. There are too many of them, so even if he hasn't done anything in particular you ought to kill him merely because he's an actor. <b> PLOG </b> You see, my wife has always been interested in the tricks of the theatre. <b> JOF </b> And that turned out to be her misfortune. <b> PLOG </b> Her misfortune, but not mine, because a person who's born unfortunate can hardly suffer from any further misfortune. Isn't that true? Now RAVAL enters the discussion. He is slightly drunk and his voice is shrill and evil. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Listen, you! You sit there and lie to the smith. <b> JOF </b> I! A liar! <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> You're an actor too and it's probably your partner who's run off with Plog's old lady. <b> PLOG </b> Are you an actor too? <b> JOF </b> An actor! Me! I wouldn't quite call myself that! <b> RAVAL </b> We ought to kill you; it's only logical. <b> JOF </b> (laughs) You're really funny. <b> RAVAL </b> How strange -- you've turned pale. Have you anything on your conscience? <b> JOF </b> You're funny. Don't you think he's funny? (to Plog) Oh, you don't. <b> RAVAL </b> Maybe we should mark you up a little with a knife, like they do petty scoundrels of your kind. PLOG bangs his hands down on the table so that the dishes jump. He gets up. <b> </b><b> PLOG </b> (shouting) What have you done with my wife? The room becomes silent. JOF looks around, but there is no exit, no way to escape. He puts his hands on the table. Suddenly a knife flashes through the air and sinks into the table top between his fingers. JOF snatches away his hands and raises his head. He looks half surprised, as if the truth had just become apparent to him. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Do you want to hurt me? Why? Have I provoked someone, or got in the way? I'll leave right now and never come back. JOF looks from one face to another, but no one seems ready to help him or come to his defense. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Get up so everyone can hear you. Talk louder. Trembling, JOF rises. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but not a word comes out. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Stand on your head so that we can see how good an actor you are. JOF gets up on the table and stands on his head. A hand pushes him forward so that he collapses on the floor. PLOG rises, pulls him to his feet with one hand. <b> PLOG </b> (shouts) What have you done with my wife? PLOG beats him so furiously that JOF flies across the table. RAVAL leans over him. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Don't lie there moaning. Get up and dance. <b> JOF </b> I don't want to. I can't. <b> RAVEL </b> Show us how you imitate a bear. <b> JOF </b> I can't play a bear. <b> RAVAL </b> Let's see if you can't after all. RAVAL prods JOF lightly with the knife point. JOF gets up with cold sweat on his cheeks and forehead, frightened half to death. He begins to jump and hop on top of the tables, swinging his arms and legs and making grotesque faces. Some laugh, but most of the people sit silently. JOF gasps as if his lungs were about to burst. He sinks to his knees, and someone pours beer over him. <b> RAVEL </b> Up again! Be a good bear. <b> JOF </b> I haven't done any harm. I haven't got the strength to play a bear any more. At that moment the door opens and JONS enters. JOF sees his chance and steals out. RAVAL intends to follow him, but suddenly stops. JONS and RAVAL look at each other. <b> JONS </b> Do you remember what I was going to do to you if we met again? RAVAL steps back without speaking. <b> JONS </b> I'm a man who keeps his word. JONS raises his knife and cuts RAVAL from forehead to cheek. RAVAL staggers towards the wall. <b> </b> The hot day has become night. Singing and howling can be heard from the inn. In a hollow near the forest, the light still lingers. Hidden in the grass and the shrubbery, nightingales sing and their voices echo through the stillness. <b> </b>The players' wagon stands in a small ravine, and not far away the horse grazes on the dry grass. MIA has sat down in front of the wagon with her son in her arms. They play together and laugh happily. Now, a soft gleam of light strokes the hilltops, a last reflection from the red clouds over the sea. Not far from the wagon, the KNIGHT sits crouched over his chess game. He lifts his head. The evening light moves across the heavy wagon wheels, across the woman and the child. The KNIGHT gets up. MIA sees him and smiles. She holds up her struggling son, as if to amuse the <b>KNIGHT. </b> <b> KNIGHT </b> What's his name? <b> MIA </b> Mikael. <b> KNIGHT </b> How old is he? <b> MIA </b> Oh, he'll soon be two. <b> KNIGHT </b> He's big for his age. <b> MIA </b> Do you think so? Yes, I guess he's rather big. She puts the child down on the ground and half rises to shake out her red skirt. When she sits down again, the KNIGHT steps closer. <b> KNIGHT </b> You played some kind of show this afternoon. <b> MIA </b> Did you think it was bad? <b> KNIGHT </b> You are more beautiful now without your face painted, and this gown is more becoming. <b> MIA </b> You see, Jonas Skat has run off and left us, so we're in real trouble now. <b> KNIGHT </b> Is that your husband? <b> MIA </b> (laughs) Jonas! The other man is my husband. His name is Jof. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Oh, that one. <b> MIA </b> And now there's only him and me. We'll have to start doing tricks again and that's more trouble than it's worth. <b> KNIGHT </b> Do you do tricks also? <b> MIA </b> We certainly do. And Jof is a very skillful juggler. <b> KNIGHT </b> Is Mikael going to be an acrobat? <b> MIA </b> Jof wants him to be. <b> KNIGHT </b> But you don't. <b> MIA </b> I don't know. (smiling) Perhaps he'll become a knight. <b> KNIGHT </b> Let me assure you, that's no pleasure either. <b> MIA </b> No, you don't look so happy. <b> KNIGHT </b> No. <b> MIA </b> Are you tired? <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes. <b> MIA </b> Why? <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> I have dull company. <b> MIA </b> Do you mean your squire? <b> KNIGHT </b> No, not him. <b> MIA </b> Who do you mean, then? <b> KNIGHT </b> Myself. <b> MIA </b> I understand. <b> KNIGHT </b> Do you, really? <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Yes, I understand rather well. I have often wondered why people torture themselves as often as they can. Isn't that so? She nods energetically and the KNIGHT smiles seriously. Now the shrieks and the noise from the inn become louder. Black figures flicker across the grass mound. Someone collapses, gets up and runs. It is JOF. MIA stretches out her arms and receives him. He holds his hands in front of his face, moaning like a child, and his body sways. He kneels. MIA holds him close to her and sprinkles him with small, anxious questions: What have you done? How are you? What is it? Does it hurt? What can I do? Have they been cruel to you? She runs for a rag, which she dips in water, and carefully bathes her husband's dirty, bloody face. <b> </b>Eventually a rather sorrowful visage emerges. Blood runs from a bruise on his forehead and his nose, and a tooth has been loosened, but otherwise JOF seems unhurt. <b> JOF </b> Ouch, it hurts. <b> MIA </b> Why did you have to go there? And of course you drank. MIA's anxiety has been replaced by a mild anger. She pats him a little harder than necessary. <b> JOF </b> Ouch! I didn't drink anything. <b> MIA </b> Then I suppose you were boasting about the angels and devils you consort with. People don't like someone who has too many ideas and fantasies. <b> JOF </b> I swear to you that I didn't say a word about angels. <b> MIA </b> You were, of course, busy singing and dancing. You can never stop being an actor. People also become angry at that, and you know it. JOF doesn't answer but searches for the armlet. He holds it up in front of MIA with an injured expression. <b> JOF </b> Look what I bought for you. <b> MIA </b> You couldn't afford it. <b> JOF </b> (angry) But I got it anyhow. The armlet glitters faintly in the twilight. MIA now pulls it across her wrist. They look at it in silence, and their faces soften. They look at each other, touch each other's hands. JOF puts his head against MIA'S shoulder and sighs. <b> JOF </b> Oh, how they beat me. <b> MIA </b> Why didn't you beat them back? <b> JOF </b> I only become frightened and angry. I never get a chance to hit back. I can get angry, you know that. I roared like a lion. <b> MIA </b> Were they frightened? <b> JOF </b> No, they just laughed. Their son MIKAEL crawls over to them. JOF lies down on the ground and pulls his son on top of him. MIA gets down on her hands and knees and playfully sniffs at MIKAEL. <b> MIA </b> Do you notice how good he smells? <b> JOF </b> And he is so compact to hold. You're a sturdy one. A real acrobat's body. He lifts MIKAEL up and holds him by the legs. MIA looks up suddenly, remembering the knight's presence. <b> MIA </b> Yes, this is my husband, Jof. <b> JOF </b> Good evening. <b> KNIGHT </b> Good evening. <b> </b>JOF becomes a little embarrassed and rises. All three of them look at one another silently. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> I have just told your wife that you have a splendid son. He'll bring great joy to you. <b> JOF </b> Yes, he's fine. <b> </b>They become silent again. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Have we nothing to offer the knight, Mia? <b> KNIGHT </b> Thank you, I don't want anything. <b> MIA </b> (housewifely) I picked a basket of wild strawberries this afternoon. And we have a drop of milk fresh from a cow ... <b> JOF </b> ... that we were allowed to milk. So, if you would like to partake of this humble fare, it would be a great honor. <b> MIA </b> Please be seated and I'll bring the food. They sit down. MIA disappears with MIKAEL. <b> KNIGHT </b> Where are you going next? <b> JOF </b> Up to the saints' feast at Elsinore. <b> KNIGHT </b> I wouldn't advise you to go there. <b> JOF </b> Why not, if I may ask? <b> KNIGHT </b> The plague has spread in that direction, following the coast line south. It's said that people are dying by the tens of thousands. <b> JOF </b> Really! Well, sometimes life is a little hard. <b> KNIGHT </b> May I suggest ... (JOF looks at him, surprised) ... that you follow me through the forest tonight and stay at my home if you like. Or go along the east coast. You'll probably be safer there. MIA has returned with a bowl of wild strawberries and the milk, places it between them and gives each of them a spoon. <b> JOF </b> I wish you good appetite. <b> KNIGHT </b> I humbly thank you. <b> MIA </b> These are wild strawberries from the forest. I have never seen such large ones. They grow up there on the hillside. Notice how they smell! She points with a spoon and smiles. The KNIGHT nods, as if he were pondering some profound thought. JOF eats heartily. <b> JOF </b> Your suggestion is good, but I must think it over. <b> MIA </b> It might be wise to have company going through the forest. It's said to be full of trolls and ghosts and bandits. That's what I've heard. <b> JOF </b> (staunchly) Yes, I'd say that it's not a bad idea, but I have to think about it. Now that Skat has left, I am responsible for the troupe. After all, I have become director of the whole company. <b> MIA </b> (mimics) After all, I have become director of the whole company. JONS comes walking slowly down the hill, closely followed by the GIRL. MIA points with her spoon. <b> MIA </b> Do you want some strawberries? <b> JOF </b> This man saved my life. Sit down, my friend, and let us be together. <b> MIA </b> (stretches herself) Oh, how nice this is. <b> KNIGHT </b> For a short while. <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Nearly always. One day is like another. There is nothing strange about that. The summer, of course, is better than the winter, because in summer you don't have to be cold. But spring is best of all. <b> JOF </b> I have written a poem about the spring. Perhaps you'd like to hear it. I'll run and get my lyre. He sprints towards the wagon. <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Not now, Jof. Our guests may not be amused by your songs. <b> JONS </b> (politely) By all means. I write little songs myself. For example, I know a very funny song about a wanton fish which I doubt that you've heard yet. The KNIGHT looks at him. <b> JONS </b> You'll not get to hear it either. There are persons here who don't appreciate my art and I don't want to upset anyone. I'm a sensitive soul. JOF has come out with his lyre, sits on a small, gaudy box and plucks at the instrument, humming quietly, searching for his melody. JONS yawns and lies down. <b> KNIGHT </b> People are troubled by so much. <b> MIA </b> It's always better when one is two. Have you no one of your own? <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes, I think I had someone. <b> MIA </b> And what is she doing now? <b> KNIGHT </b> I don't know. <b> MIA </b> You look so solemn. Was she your beloved? <b> KNIGHT </b> We were newly married and we played together. We laughed a great deal. I wrote songs to her eyes, to her nose, to her beautiful little ears. We went hunting together and at night we danced. The house was full of life ... <b> MIA </b> Do you want some more strawberries? <b> KNIGHT </b> (shakes his head) Faith is a torment, did you know that? It is like loving someone who is out there in the darkness but never appears, no matter how loudly you call. <b> MIA </b> I don't understand what you mean. <b> KNIGHT </b> Everything I've said seems meaningless and unreal while I sit here with you and your husband. How unimportant it all becomes suddenly. He takes the bowl of milk in his hand and drinks deeply from it several times. Then he carefully puts it down and looks up, smiling. <b> MIA </b> Now you don't look so solemn. <b> KNIGHT </b> I shall remember this moment. The silence, the twilight, the bowls of strawberries and milk, your faces in the evening light. Mikael sleeping, Jof with his lyre. I'll try to remember what we have talked about. I'll carry this memory between my hands as carefully as if it were a bowl filled to the brim with fresh milk. He turns his face away and looks out towards the sea and the colorless gray sky. <b> KNIGHT </b> And it will be an adequate sign -- it will be enough for me. He rises, nods to the others and walks down towards the forest. JOF continues to play on his lyre. MIA stretches out on the grass. The KNIGHT picks up his chess game and carries it towards the beach. It is quiet and deserted; the sea is still. <b> DEATH </b> I have been waiting for you. <b> KNIGHT </b> Pardon me. I was detained for a few moments. Because I revealed my tactics to you, I'm in retreat. It's your move. <b> DEATH </b> Why do you look so satisfied? <b> KNIGHT </b> That's my secret. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> Of course. Now I take your knight. <b> KNIGHT </b> You did the right thing. <b> DEATH </b> Have you tricked me? <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Of course. You fell right in the trap. Check! <b> DEATH </b> What are you laughing at? <b> KNIGHT </b> Don't worry about my laughter; save your king instead. <b> DEATH </b> You're rather arrogant. <b> KNIGHT </b> Our game amuses me. <b> DEATH </b> It's your move. Hurry up. I'm a little pressed for time. <b> KNIGHT </b> I understand that you've a lot to do, but you can't get out of our game. It takes time. DEATH is about to answer him but stops and leans over the board. The KNIGHT smiles. <b> DEATH </b> Are you going to escort the juggler and his wife through the forest? Those whose names are Jof and Mia and who have a small son? <b> KNIGHT </b> Why do you ask? <b> DEATH </b> Oh, no reason at all. <b> </b>The KNIGHT suddenly stops smiling. DEATH looks at him scornfully. <b> </b> Immediately after sundown, the little company gathers in the yard of the inn. There is the KNIGHT, JONS and the GIRL, JOF and MIA in their wagon. Their son, MIKAEL, is already asleep. JONAS SKAT is still missing. JONS goes into the inn to get provisions for the night journey and to have a last mug of beer. The inn is now empty and quiet except for a few farmhands and maidens who are eating their evening meal in a corner. At one of the small windows sits a lonely, hunched-over fellow, with a jug of brandy in his hands. His expression is very sad. Once in a while he is shaken by a gigantic sob. It is PLOG, the smith, who sits there and whimpers. <b> JONS </b> God in heaven, isn't this Plog, the smith? <b> PLOG </b> Good evening. <b> JONS </b> Are you sitting here sniveling in loneliness? <b> PLOG </b> Yes, yes, look at the smith. He moans like a rabbit. <b> JONS </b> If I were in your boots, I'd be happy to get rid of a wife in such an easy way. JONS pats the smith on the back, quenches his thirst with beer, and sits down by his side. <b> PLOG </b> Are you married? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> I! A hundred times and more. I can't keep count of all my wives any longer. But it's often that way when you're a traveling man. <b> PLOG </b> I can assure you that one wife is worse than a hundred, or else I've had worse luck than any poor wretch in this miserable world, which isn't impossible. <b> JONS </b> Yes, it's hell with women and hell without them. So, however you look at it, it's still best to kill them off while it's most amusing. <b> </b><b> PLOG </b> Women's nagging, the shrieking of children and wet diapers, sharp nails and sharp words, blows and pokes, and the devil's aunt for a mother-in-law. And then, when one wants to sleep after a long day, there's a new song -- tears, whining and moans loud enough to wake the dead. JONS nods delightedly. He has drunk deeply and talks with an old woman's voice. <b> JONS </b> Why don't you kiss me good night? <b> PLOG </b> (in the same way) Why don't you sing a song for me? <b> JONS </b> Why don't you love me the way you did when we first met? <b> PLOG </b> Why don't you look at my new slip? <b> JONS </b> You only turn your back and snore. <b> PLOG </b> Oh hell! <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Oh hell. And now she's gone. Rejoice! <b> </b><b> PLOG </b> (furious) I'll snip their noses with pliers, I'll bash in their chests with a small hammer, I'll tap their heads ever so lightly with a sledge. PLOG begins to cry loudly and his whole body sways in an enormous attack of sorrow. JONS looks at him with interest. <b> JONS </b> Look how he howls again. <b> PLOG </b> Maybe I love her. <b> JONS </b> So, maybe you love her! Then, you poor misguided ham shank, I'll tell you that love is another word for lust, plus lust, plus lust and a damn lot of cheating, falseness, lies and all kinds of other fooling around. <b> PLOG </b> Yes, but it hurts anyway. <b> JONS </b> Of course. Love is the blackest of all plagues, and if one could die of it, there would be some pleasure in love. But you almost always get over it. <b> PLOG </b> No, no, not me. <b> JONS </b> Yes, you too. There are only a couple of poor wretches who die of love once in a while. Love is as contagious as a cold in the nose. It eats away at your strength, your independence, your morale, if you have any. If everything is imperfect in this imperfect world, love is most perfect in its perfect imperfection. <b> PLOG </b> You're happy, you with your oily words, and, besides, you believe your own drivel. <b> JONS </b> Believe! Who said that I believed it? But I love to give good advice. If you ask me for advice you'll get two pieces for the price of one, because after all I really am an educated man. JONS gets up from the table and strokes his face with his hands. PLOG becomes very unhappy and grabs his belt. <b> PLOG </b> Listen, Jns. May I go with you through the forest? I'm so lonely and don't want to go home because everyone will laugh at me. <b> JONS </b> Only if you don't whimper all the time, because in that case we'll all have to avoid you. PLOG gets up and embraces JONS. Slightly drunk, the two new friends walk towards the door. <b> </b>When they come out in the yard, JOF immediately catches sight of them, becomes angry and yells a warning to JONS. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Jns! Watch out. That one wants to fight all the time. He's not quite sane. <b> JONS </b> Yes, but now he's just sniveling. PLOG steps up to JOF, who blanches with fear. PLOG offers his hand. <b> PLOG </b> I'm really sorry if I hurt you. But I have such a hell of a temper, you know. Shake hands. JOF gingerly proffers a frightened hand and gets it thoroughly shaken and squeezed. While JOF tries to straighten out his fingers, PLOG is seized by great good will and opens his arms. <b> PLOG </b> Come in my arms, little brother. <b> JOF </b> Thank you, thank you, perhaps later. But now we're really in a hurry. JOF climbs up on the wagon seat quickly and clucks at the horse. <b> </b> The small company is on its way towards the forest and the night. It is dark in the forest. <b> </b>First comes the KNIGHT on his large horse. Then JOF and MIA follow, sitting close to each other in the juggler's wagon. MIA holds her son in her arms. JONS follows them with his heavily laden horse. He has the smith in tow. The GIRL sits on top of the load on the horse's back, hunched over as if asleep. The footsteps, the horses' heavy tramp on the soft path, the human breathing -- yet it is quiet. <b> </b>Then the moon sails out of the clouds. The forest suddenly becomes alive with the night's unreality. The dazzling light pours through the thick foliage of the beech trees, a moving, quivering world of light and shadow. The wanderers stop. Their eyes are dark with anxiety and foreboding. Their faces are pale and unreal in the floating light. It is very quiet. <b> PLOG </b> Now the moon has come out of the clouds. <b> JONS </b> That's good. Now we can see the road better. <b> MIA </b> I don't like the moon tonight. <b> JOF </b> The trees stand so still. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> That's because there's no wind. <b> PLOG </b> I guess he means that they stand very still. <b> JOF </b> It's completely quiet. <b> JONS </b> If one could hear a fox at least. <b> JOF </b> Or an owl. <b> JONS </b> Or a human voice besides one's own. <b> GIRL </b> They say it's dangerous to remain standing in moonlight. Suddenly, out of the silence and the dim light falling across the forest road, a ghostlike cart emerges. It is the WITCH being taken to the place where she will be burned. Next to her eight soldiers shuffle along tiredly, carrying their lances on their backs. The girl sits in the cart, bound with iron chains around her throat and arms. She stares fixedly into the moonlight. <b> </b>A black figure sits next to her, a monk with his hood pulled down over his head. <b> JONS </b> Where are you going? <b> SOLDIER </b> To the place of execution. <b> JONS </b> Yes, now I can see. It's the girl who has done it with the Black One. The witch? The SOLDIER nods sourly. Hesitantly, the travelers follow. The KNIGHT guides his horse over to the side of the cart. The WITCH seems to be half-conscious, but her eyes are wide open. <b> KNIGHT </b> I see that they have hurt your hands. The WITCH'S pale, childish face turns towards the KNIGHT and she shakes her head. <b> KNIGHT </b> I have a potion that will stop your pain. She shakes her head again. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Why do you burn her at this time of night? People have so few diversions these days. <b> </b><b> SOLDIER </b> Saints preserve us, be quiet! It's said that she brings the Devil with her wherever she goes. <b> JONS </b> You are eight brave men, then. <b> SOLDIER </b> Well, we've been paid. And this is a volunteer job. The SOLDIER speaks in whispers while glancing anxiously at the WITCH. <b> KNIGHT </b> (to the WITCH) What's your name? <b> TYAN </b> My name is Tyan, my lord. <b> KNIGHT </b> How old are you? <b> TYAN </b> Fourteen, my lord. <b> KNIGHT </b> And is it true that you have been in league with the Devil? TYAN nods quietly and looks away. Now they arrive at the parish border. At the foot of the nearby hills lies a crossroads. The pyre has already been stacked in the center of the forest clearing. The travelers remain there, hesitant and curious. <b> </b>The soldiers have tied up the cart horse and bring out two long wooden beams. They nail rungs across the beams so that it looks like a ladder. TYAN will be bound to this like an eelskin stretched out to dry. The sound of the hammering echoes through the forest. The KNIGHT has dismounted and walks closer to the cart. Again he tries to catch TYAN'S eyes, touches her very lightly as if to waken her. Slowly she turns her face towards him. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> They say that you have been in league with the Devil. <b> TYAN </b> Why do you ask? <b> KNIGHT </b> Not out of curiosity, but for very personal reasons. I too want to meet him. <b> TYAN </b> Why? <b> KNIGHT </b> I want to ask him about God. He, if anyone, must know. <b> TYAN </b> You can see him anytime. <b> KNIGHT </b> How? <b> TYAN </b> You must do as I tell you. The KNIGHT grips the wooden rail of the cart so tightly that his knuckles whiten. TYAN leans forward and joins her gaze with his. <b> TYAN </b> Look into my eyes. The KNIGHT meets her gaze. They stare at each other for a long time. <b> TYAN </b> What do you see? Do you see him? <b> KNIGHT </b> I see fear in your eyes, an empty, numb fear. But nothing else. He falls silent. The soldiers work at the stakes; their hammering echoes in the forest. <b> TYAN </b> No one, nothing, no one? <b> KNIGHT </b> (shakes his head) No. <b> TYAN </b> Can't you see him behind your back? <b> KNIGHT </b> (looks around) No, there is no one there. <b> TYAN </b> But he is with me everywhere. I only have to stretch out my hand and I can feel his hand. He is with me now too. The fire won't hurt me. He will protect me from everything evil. <b> KNIGHT </b> Has he told you this? <b> TYAN </b> I know it. <b> KNIGHT </b> Has he said it? <b> TYAN </b> I know it, I know it. You must see him somewhere, you must. The priests had no difficulty seeing him, nor did the soldiers. They are so afraid of him that they don't even dare touch me. The sounds of the hammers stops. The soldiers stand like black shadows rooted in the moss. They fumble with the chains and pull at the neck iron. TYAN moans weakly, as if she were far away. <b> KNIGHT </b> Why have you crushed her hands? <b> SOLDIER </b> (surly) We didn't do it. <b> KNIGHT </b> Who did? <b> SOLDIER </b> Ask the monk. The soldiers pull the iron and the chains. TYAN'S shaven head sways, gleaming in the moonlight. Her blackened mouth opens as if to scream, but no sound emerges. They take her down from the cart and lead her towards the ladder and the stake. The KNIGHT turns to the MONK, who remains seated in the cart. <b> KNIGHT </b> What have you done with the child? DEATH turns around and looks at him. <b> DEATH </b> Don't you ever stop asking questions? <b> KNIGHT </b> No, I'll never stop. The soldiers chain TYAN to the rungs of the ladder. She submits resignedly, moans weakly like an animal and tries to ease her body into position. <b> </b>When they have fastened her, they walk over to light the pyre. The KNIGHT steps up and leans over her. <b> JONS </b> For a moment I thought of killing the soldiers, but it would do no good. She's nearly dead already. One of the soldiers approaches. Thick smoke wells down from the pyre and sweeps over the quiet shadows near the crossroads and the hill. <b> SOLDIER </b> I've told you to be careful. Don't go too close to her. The KNIGHT doesn't heed this warning. He cups his hand, fills it with water from the skin and gives it to TYAN. Then he gives her a potion. <b> KNIGHT </b> Take this and it will stop the pain. Smoke billows down over them and they begin to cough. The soldiers step forward and raise the ladder against a nearby fir tree. TYAN hangs there motionlessly, her eyes wide open. The KNIGHT straightens up and stands immobile. JONS is behind him, his voice nearly choked with rage. <b> JONS </b> What does she see? Can you tell me? <b> KNIGHT </b> (shakes his head) She feels no more pain. <b> JONS </b> You don't answer my question. Who watches over that child? Is it the angels, or God, or the Devil, or only the emptiness? Emptiness, my lord! <b> KNIGHT </b> This cannot be. <b> JONS </b> Look at her eyes, my lord. Her poor brain has just made a discovery. Emptiness under the moon. <b> KNIGHT </b> No. <b> JONS </b> We stand powerless, our arms hanging at our sides, because we see what she sees, and our terror and hers are the same. (an outburst) That poor little child. I can't stand it, I can't stand it ... His voice sticks in his throat and he suddenly walks away. The KNIGHT mounts his horse. The travelers depart from the crossroads. TYAN finally closes her eyes. <b> </b> The forest is now very dark. The road winds between the trees. The wagon squeaks and rattles over stones and roots. A bird suddenly shrieks. <b> </b>JOF lifts his head and wakes up. He has been asleep with his arms around MIA's shoulders. The KNIGHT is sharply silhouetted against the tree trunks. His silence makes him seem almost unreal. JONS and PLOG are slightly drunk and support each other. Suddenly PLOG has to sit down. He puts his hands over his face and howls piteously. <b> PLOG </b> Oh, now it came over me again! <b> JONS </b> Don't scream. What came over you? <b> PLOG </b> My wife, damn it. She is so beautiful. She is so beautiful that she can't be described without the accompaniment of a lyre. <b> JONS </b> Now it starts again. <b> PLOG </b> Her smile is like brandy. Her eyes like blackberries ... PLOG searches for beautiful words. He gestures gropingly with his large hands. <b> JONS </b> (sighs) Get up, you tear-drenched pig. We'll lose the others. <b> PLOG </b> Yes, of course, of course. Her nose is like a little pink potato; her behind is like a juicy pear -- yes, the whole woman is like a strawberry patch. I can see her in front of me, with arms like wonderful cucumbers. <b> JONS </b> Saints almighty, stop! You're a very bad poet, despite the fact that you're drunk. And your vegetable garden bores me. They walk across an open meadow. Here it is a little brighter and the moon shimmers behind a thin sky. Suddenly PLOG points a large finger towards the edge of the forest. <b> PLOG </b> Look there. <b> JONS </b> Do you see something? <b> PLOG </b> There, over there! <b> JONS </b> I don't see anything. <b> PLOG </b> Hang on to something, my friends. The hour is near! Who is that at the edge of the forest if not my own dearly beloved, with actor attached? The two lovers discover PLOG and it's too late. They cannot retreat. SKAT immediately takes to his heels. PLOG chases him, swinging his sledge and bellowing like a wild boar. For a few confusing moments the two rivals stumble among the stones and bushes in the gray gloom of the forest. The duel begins to look senseless, because both of them are equally frightened. The travelers silently observe this confused performance. LISA screams once in a while, more out of duty than out of impulse. <b> SKAT </b> (panting) You miserable stubbleheaded bastard of seven scurvy bitches, if I were in your lousy rags I would be stricken with such eternal shame about my breath, my voice, my arms and legs -- in short, about my whole body -- that I would immediately rid nature of my own embarrassing self. <b> PLOG </b> (angry) Watch out, you perfumed slob, that I don't fart on you and immediately blow you down to the actor's own red-hot hell, where you can sit and recite monologues to each other until the dust comes out of the Devil's ears. Then LISA throws herself around her husband's neck. <b> LISA </b> Forgive me, dear little husband, I'll never do it again. I am so sorry and you can't imagine how terribly that man over there betrayed me. <b> PLOG </b> I'll kill him anyway. <b> LISA </b> Yes, do that, just kill him. He isn't even a human being. <b> JONS </b> Hell, he's an actor. <b> LISA </b> He is only a false beard, false teeth, false smiles, rehearsed lines, and he's as empty as a jug. Just kill him. LISA sobs with excitement and sorrow. PLOG looks around, a little confused. SKAT uses this opportunity. He pulls out a dagger and places the point against his breast. <b> SKAT </b> She's right. Just kill me. If you thought that I was going to apologize for being what I am, you are mistaken. <b> LISA </b> Look how sickening he is. How he makes a fool of himself, how he puts on an act. Dear Plog, kill him. <b> SKAT </b> My friends, you have only to push, and my unreality will soon be transformed into a new, solid reality. An absolutely tangible corpse. <b> LISA </b> Do something then. Kill him. <b> PLOG </b> (embarrassed) He has to fight me, otherwise I can't kill him. <b> SKAT </b> Your life's thread now hangs by a very ragged shred. Idiot, your day is short. <b> PLOG </b> You'll have to irritate me a little more to get me as angry as before. SKAT looks at the travelers with a pained expression and then lifts his eyes towards the night sky. <b> SKAT </b> I forgive all of you. Pray for me sometimes. SKAT sinks the dagger into his breast and slowly falls to the ground. The travelers stand confused. PLOG rushes forward and begins to pull at SKAT'S hands. <b> PLOG </b> Oh dear, dear, I didn't mean it that way! Look, there's no life left in him. I was beginning to like him, and in my opinion Lisa was much too spiteful. JOF leans over his colleague. <b> JOF </b> He's dead, totally, enormously dead. In fact, I've never seen such a dead actor. <b> LISA </b> Come on, let's go. This is nothing to mourn over. He has only himself to blame. <b> PLOG </b> And I have to be married to her. <b> JONS </b> We must go on. SKAT lies in the grass and keeps the dagger pressed tightly to his breast. The travelers depart and soon they have disappeared into the dark forest on the other side of the meadow. When SKAT is sure that no one can see him, he sits up and lifts the dagger from his breast. It is a stage dagger with a blade that pushes into the handle. SKAT laughs to himself. <b> SKAT </b> Now that was a good scene. I'm really a good actor. After all, why shouldn't I be a little pleased with myself? But where shall I go? I'll wait until it becomes light and then I'll find the easiest way out of the forest. I'll climb up a tree for the time being so that no bears, wolves or ghosts can get at me. He soon finds a likely tree and climbs up into its thick foliage. He sits down as comfortably as possible and reaches for his food pouch. <b> SKAT </b> (yawns) Tomorrow I'll find Jof and Mia and then we'll go to the saints' feast in Elsinore. We'll make lots of money there. (yawns) Now, I'll sing a little song to myself: (sings) I am a little bird Who sings whate'er he will, And when I am in danger I fling out a pissing trill As in the carnal thrill. (speaks) It's boring to be alone in the forest tonight. (sings) The terrible night doesn't frighten me ... He interrupts himself and listens. The sound of industrious sawing is heard through the silence. <b> SKAT </b> Workmen in the forest. Oh, well! (sings) The terrible night doesn't frighten me ... (speaks) Hey, what the devil ... it's my tree they're cutting down. He peers through the foliage. Below him stands a dark figure diligently sawing away at the base of the tree. SKAT becomes frightened and angry. <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> Hey, you! Do you hear me, you tricky bastard? What are you doing with my tree? The sawing continues without a pause. SKAT becomes more frightened. <b> SKAT </b> Can't you at least answer me? Politeness costs so little. Who are you? DEATH straightens his back and squints up at him. SKAT cries out in terror. <b> DEATH </b> I'm sawing down your tree because your time is up. <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> It won't do. I haven't got time. <b> DEATH </b> So you haven't got time. <b> SKAT </b> No, I have my performance. <b> DEATH </b> Then it's canceled because of death. <b> SKAT </b> My contract. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> Your contract is terminated. <b> SKAT </b> My children, my family. <b> DEATH </b> Shame on you, Skat! <b> SKAT </b> Yes, I'm ashamed. DEATH begins to saw again. The tree creaks. <b> SKAT </b> Isn't there any way to get off? Aren't there any special rules for actors? <b> DEATH </b> No, not in this case. <b> SKAT </b> No loopholes, no exceptions? DEATH saws. <b> SKAT </b> Perhaps you'll take a bribe. DEATH saws. <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> Help! DEATH saws. <b> SKAT </b> Help! Help! The tree falls. The forest becomes silent again. <b> </b> Night and then dawn. The travelers have come to a sort of clearing and have collapsed on the moss. They lie quietly and listen to their own breathing, their heartbeats, and the wind in the tree tops. Here the forest is wild and impenetrable. Huge boulders stick up out of the ground like the heads of black giants. A fallen tree lies like a mighty barrier between light and shadow. MIA, JOF and their child have sat down apart from the others. They look at the light of the moon, which is no longer full and dead but mysterious and unstable. The KNIGHT sits bent over his chess game. LISA cries quietly behind PLOG'S back. JONS lies on the ground and looks up at the heavens. <b> JONS </b> Soon dawn will come, but the heat continues to hang over us like a smothering blanket. <b> LISA </b> I'm so frightened. <b> PLOG </b> We feel that something is going to happen to us, but we don't know what. <b> JONS </b> Maybe it's the day of judgment. <b> PLOG </b> The day of judgment ... Now, something moves behind the fallen tree. There is a rustling sound and a moaning cry that seems to come from a wounded animal. Everyone listens intently, all faces turned towards the sound. A voice comes out of the darkness. <b> RAVAL </b> Do you have some water? RAVAL'S perspiring face soon becomes visible. He disappears in the darkness, but his voice is heard again. <b> RAVAL </b> Can't you give me a little water? (pause) I have the plague. <b> JONS </b> Don't come here. If you do I'll slit your throat. Keep to the other side of the tree. <b> RAVEL </b> I'm afraid of death. No one answers. There is complete silence. RAVAL gasps heavily for air. The dry leaves rustle with his movements. <b> RAVEL </b> I don't want to die! I don't want to! <b> </b>No one answers. RAVAL'S face appears suddenly at the base of the tree. His eyes bulge wildly and his mouth is ringed with foam. <b> RAVAL </b> Can't you have pity on me? Help me! At least talk to me. No one answers. The trees sigh. RAVAL begins to cry. <b> RAVAL </b> I am going to die. I. I. I! What will happen to me! Can no one console me? Haven't you any compassion? Can't you see that I ... His words are choked off by a gurgling sound. He disappears in the darkness behind the fallen tree. It becomes quiet for a few moments. <b> RAVAL </b> (whispers) Can't anyone ... only a little water. Suddenly the GIRL gets up with a quick movement, snatches JONS'S water bag and runs a few steps. JONS grabs her and holds her fast. <b> JONS </b> It's no use. It's no use. I know that it's no use. It's meaningless. It's totally meaningless. I tell you that it's meaningless. Can't you hear that I'm consoling you? <b> RAVEL </b> Help me, help me! No one answers, no one moves. RAVAL'S sobs are dry and convulsive, like a frightened child's. His sudden scream is cut off in the middle. Then it becomes quiet. <b> </b>The GIRL sinks down and hides her face in her hands. JONS places his hand on her shoulder. <b> </b> <b>16 </b>The KNIGHT is no longer alone. DEATH has come to him and he raises his hand. <b> DEATH </b> Shall we play our game to the end? <b> KNIGHT </b> Your move! DEATH raises his hand and strikes the KNIGHT'S queen. Antonius Block looks at <b>DEATH. </b> <b> DEATH </b> Now I take your queen. <b> KNIGHT </b> I didn't notice that. The KNIGHT leans over the game. The moonlight moves over the chess pieces, which seem to have a life of their own. JOF has dozed off for a few moments, but suddenly he wakens. Then he sees the KNIGHT and DEATH together. He becomes very frightened and awakens MIA. <b> JOF </b> Mia! <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Yes, what is it? <b> </b><b> JOF </b> I see something terrible. Something I almost can't talk about. <b> MIA </b> What do you see? <b> JOF </b> The knight is sitting over there playing chess. <b> MIA </b> Yes, I can see that too and I don't think it's so terrible. <b> JOF </b> But do you see who he's playing with? <b> MIA </b> He is alone. You mustn't frighten me this way. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> No, no, he isn't alone. <b> MIA </b> Who is it, then? <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Death. He is sitting there playing chess with Death himself. <b> MIA </b> You mustn't say that. <b> JOF </b> We must try to escape. <b> MIA </b> One can't do that. <b> JOF </b> We must try. They are so occupied with their game that if we move very quietly, they won't notice us. JOF gets up carefully and disappears into the darkness behind the trees. MIA remains standing, as if paralyzed by fear. She stares fixedly at the KNIGHT and the chess game. She holds her son in her arms. Now JOF returns. <b> JOF </b> I have harnessed the horse. The wagon is standing near the big tree. You go first and I'll follow you with the packs. See that Mikael doesn't wake up. MIA does what JOF has told her. At the same moment, the KNIGHT looks up from his game. <b> DEATH </b> It is your move, Antonius Block. The KNIGHT remains silent. He sees MIA go through the moonlight towards the wagon. JOF bends down to pick up the pack and follows at a distance. <b> DEATH </b> Have you lost interest in our game? <b> </b>The KNIGHT'S eyes become alarmed. DEATH looks at him intently. <b> KNIGHT </b> Lost interest? On the contrary. <b> DEATH </b> You seem anxious. Are you hiding anything? <b> KNIGHT </b> Nothing escapes you -- or does it? <b> DEATH </b> Nothing escapes me. No one escapes from me. <b> KNIGHT </b> It's true that I'm worried. He pretends to be clumsy and knocks the chess pieces over with the hem of his coat. He looks up at DEATH. <b> KNIGHT </b> I've forgotten how the pieces stood. <b> DEATH </b> (laughs contentedly) But I have not forgotten. You can't get away that easily. <b> </b>DEATH leans over the board and rearranges the pieces. The KNIGHT looks past him towards the road. MIA has just climbed up on the wagon. JOF takes the horse by the bridle and leads it down the road. DEATH notices nothing; he is completely occupied with reconstructing the game. <b> DEATH </b> Now I see something interesting. <b> KNIGHT </b> What do you see? <b> DEATH </b> You are mated on the next move, Antonius Block. <b> KNIGHT </b> That's true. <b> DEATH </b> Did you enjoy your reprieve? <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes, I did. <b> DEATH </b> I'm happy to hear that. Now I'll be leaving you. When we meet again, you and your companions' time will be up. <b> KNIGHT </b> And you will divulge your secrets. <b> DEATH </b> I have no secrets. <b> KNIGHT </b> So you know nothing. <b> DEATH </b> I have nothing to tell. The KNIGHT wants to answer, but DEATH is already gone. A murmur is heard in the tree tops. Dawn comes, a flickering light without life, making the forest seem threatening and evil. JOF drives over the twisting road. MIA sits beside him. <b> MIA </b> What a strange light. <b> JOF </b> I guess it's the thunderstorm which comes with dawn. <b> MIA </b> No, it's something else. Something terrible. Do you hear the roar in the forest? <b> JOF </b> It's probably rain. <b> MIA </b> No, it isn't rain. He has seen us and he's following us. He has overtaken us; he's coming towards us. <b> JOF </b> Not yet, Mia. In any case, not yet. <b> MIA </b> I'm so afraid. I'm so afraid. The wagon rattles over roots and stones; it sways and creaks. Now the horse stops with his ears flat against his head. The forest sighs and stirs ponderously. <b> JOF </b> Get into the wagon, Mia. Crawl in quickly. We'll lie down, Mia, with Mikael between us. They crawl into the wagon and crouch around the sleeping child. <b> JOF </b> It is the Angel of Death that's passing over us, Mia. It's the Angel of Death. The Angel of Death, and he's very big. <b> MIA </b> Do you feel how cold it is? I'm freezing. I'm terribly cold. She shivers as if she had a fever. They pull the blankets over them and lie closely together. The wagon canvas flutters and beats in the wind. The roar outside is like a giant bellowing. <b> </b> The castle is silhouetted like a black boulder against the heavy dawn. Now the storm moves there, throwing itself powerfully against walls and abutments. The sky darkens; it is almost like night. Antonius Block has brought his companions with him to the castle. But it seems deserted. They walk from room to room. There is only emptiness and quiet echoes. Outside, the rain is heard roaring noisily. Suddenly the KNIGHT stands face to face with his wife. They look at each other quietly. <b> KARIN </b> I heard from people who came from the crusade that you were on your way home. I've been waiting for you here. All the others have fled from the plague. The KNIGHT is silent. He looks at her. <b> KARIN </b> Don't you recognize me any more? The KNIGHT nods, silent. <b> KARIN </b> You also have changed. She walks closer and looks searchingly into his face. The smile lingers in her eyes and she touches his hand lightly. <b> KARIN </b> Now I can see that it's you. Somewhere in your eyes, somewhere in your face, but hidden and frightened, is that boy who went away so many years ago. <b> KNIGHT </b> It's over now and I'm a little tired. <b> KARIN </b> I see that you're tired. <b> KNIGHT </b> Over there stand my friends. <b> KARIN </b> Ask them in. They will break the fast with us. They all sit down at the table in the room, which is lit by torches on the walls. Silently they eat the hard bread and the salt-darkened meat. KARIN sits at the head of the table and reads aloud from a thick book. <b> KARIN </b> "And when the Lamb broke the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about the space of half an hour. And I saw the seven angels which stood before God; and to them were given seven trumpets. And another ..." Three mighty knocks sound on the large portal. KARIN interrupts her reading and looks up from the book. JONS rises quickly and goes to open the door. <b> KARIN </b> "The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth; and the third part of the trees was burnt up and all the green grass was burnt up." Now the rain becomes quiet. There is suddenly an immense, frightening silence in the large, murky room where the burning torches throw uneasy shadows over the ceiling and the walls. Everyone listens tensely to the stillness. <b> KARIN </b> "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and a third part of the sea became blood ..." Steps are heard on the stairs. JONS returns and sits down silently at his place but does not continue to eat. <b> KNIGHT </b> Was someone there? <b> JONS </b> No, my lord. I saw no one. KARIN lifts her head for a moment but once again leans over the large book. <b> KARIN </b> "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a torch, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers and upon the fountains of waters; and the name of the star is called Wormwood ..." They all lift their heads, and when they see who is coming towards them through the twilight of the large room, they rise from the table and stand close together. <b> KNIGHT </b> Good morning, noble lord. <b> KARIN </b> I am Karin, the knight's wife, and welcome you courteously to my house. <b> PLOG </b> I am a smith by profession and rather good at my trade, if I say so myself. My wife Lisa -- curtsy for the great lord, Lisa. She's a little difficult to handle once in a while and we had a little spat, so to speak, but no worse than most people. The KNIGHT hides his face in his hands. <b> KNIGHT </b> From our darkness, we call out to Thee, Lord. Have mercy on us because we are small and frightened and ignorant. <b> JONS </b> (bitterly) In the darkness where You are supposed to be, where all of us probably are.... In the darkness You will find no one to listen to Your cries or be touched by Your sufferings. Wash Your tears and mirror Yourself in Your indifference. <b> KNIGHT </b> God, You who are somewhere, who must be somewhere, have mercy upon us. <b> JONS </b> I could have given you an herb to purge you of your worries about eternity. Now it seems to be too late. But in any case, feel the immense triumph of this last minute when you can still roll your eyes and move your toes. <b> KARIN </b> Quiet, quiet. <b> JONS </b> I shall be silent, but under protest. <b> GIRL </b> (on her knees) It is the end. <b> </b> JOF and MIA sit close together and listen to the rain tapping lightly on the wagon canvas, a sound which diminishes until finally there are only single drops. They crawl out of their hiding place. The wagon stands on a height above a slope, protected by an enormous tree. They look across ridges, forests, the wide plains, and the sea, which glistens in the sunlight breaking through the clouds. <b> </b>JOF stretches his arms and legs. MIA dries the wagon seat and sits down next to her husband. MIKAEL crawls between JOF'S knees. A lone bird tests its voice after the storm. The trees and bushes drip. From the sea comes a strong and fragrant wind. JOF points to the dark, retreating sky where summer lightning glitters like silver needles over the horizon. <b> JOF </b> I see them, Mia! I see them! Over there against the dark, stormy sky. They are all there. The smith and Lisa and the knight and Raval and Jns and Skat. And Death, the severe master, invites them to dance. He tells them to hold each other's hands and then they must tread the dance in a long row. And first goes the master with his scythe and hourglass, but Skat dangles at the end with his lyre. They dance away from the dawn and it's a solemn dance towards the dark lands, while the rain washes their faces and cleans the salt of the tears from their cheeks. He is silent. He lowers his hand. His son, MIKAEL, has listened to his words. Now, he crawls up to MIA and sits down in her lap. <b> MIA </b> (smiling) You with your visions and dreams. <b> </b> Screenplay by Ingmar Bergman <b> </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: When Mary was younger, how did her mother fill her free time?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "she was obsessed with novels." ]	23,319	narrativeqa	en	null	13bff0d53a16f0e4ea96e342a517d30aab0357d624ee1ceb	E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Janet Blenkinship, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/) Transcriber's note: The author is Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-1797). MARY, A Fiction L'exercice des plus sublimes vertus éleve et nourrit le génie. ROUSSEAU. London, Printed for J. Johnson, St. Paul's Church-Yard. MDCCLXXXVIII ADVERTISEMENT. In delineating the Heroine of this Fiction, the Author attempts to develop a character different from those generally portrayed. This woman is neither a Clarissa, a Lady G----, nor a[A] Sophie.--It would be vain to mention the various modifications of these models, as it would to remark, how widely artists wander from nature, when they copy the originals of great masters. They catch the gross parts; but the subtile spirit evaporates; and not having the just ties, affectation disgusts, when grace was expected to charm. Those compositions only have power to delight, and carry us willing captives, where the soul of the author is exhibited, and animates the hidden springs. Lost in a pleasing enthusiasm, they live in the scenes they represent; and do not measure their steps in a beaten track, solicitous to gather expected flowers, and bind them in a wreath, according to the prescribed rules of art. These chosen few, wish to speak for themselves, and not to be an echo--even of the sweetest sounds--or the reflector of the most sublime beams. The[B] paradise they ramble in, must be of their own creating--or the prospect soon grows insipid, and not varied by a vivifying principle, fades and dies. In an artless tale, without episodes, the mind of a woman, who has thinking powers is displayed. The female organs have been thought too weak for this arduous employment; and experience seems to justify the assertion. Without arguing physically about _possibilities_--in a fiction, such a being may be allowed to exist; whose grandeur is derived from the operations of its own faculties, not subjugated to opinion; but drawn by the individual from the original source. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Rousseau.] [Footnote B: I here give the Reviewers an opportunity of being very witty about the Paradise of Fools, &c.] MARY CHAP. I. Mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who married Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that stamp. She carefully attended to the _shews_ of things, and her opinions, I should have said prejudices, were such as the generality approved of. She was educated with the expectation of a large fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of her attendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she never imagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions of her own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, and the years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments, without having any taste for them. When she was first introduced into the polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wished to be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in a more distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, and promised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool,) as in duty bound. While they resided in London, they lived in the usual fashionable style, and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when they wooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful country, where Nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around; for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved, and sought amusement in country sports. He hunted in the morning, and after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not enliven, it is not necessary to say which a _gourmand_ would give the preference to. Their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely more agreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor. Her voice was but the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, so relaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing. Many such noughts are there in the female world! yet she had a good opinion of her own merit,--truly, she said long prayers,--and sometimes read her Week's Preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarly called _hell_, the regions below; but whether her's was a mounting spirit, I cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet would have been proper for her, when she left her _material_ part in this world, let metaphysicians settle; I have nothing to say to her unclothed spirit. As she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her French waiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications, and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes from the glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodily dissipation, novels. I say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rational one can find no employment in polite circles. The glare of lights, the studied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at the shrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses. When she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, she tried another. The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and some other interesting tales were perused with eagerness. Nothing could be more natural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking than the views of the human heart. What delicate struggles! and uncommonly pretty turns of thought! The picture that was found on a bramble-bush, the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by the upper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait.--Fatal image!--It planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent a new kind of a knight-errant into the world. But even this was nothing to the catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornet settling on the sleeping lover's face. What a _heart-rending_ accident! She planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; but there was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered it with her tears.--Alas! Alas! If my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me credit for genius, I would go on and tell them such tales as would force the sweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautiful cheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, &c. &c. Nay, I would make it so interesting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser to settle the curls himself, and not interrupt her. She had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who shared her bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day. These she watched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmest caresses. This fondness for animals was not that kind of _attendrissement_ which makes a person take pleasure in providing for the subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded from vanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest French expressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attuned by tenderness. She was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that is, she did not make any actual _faux pas_; she feared the world, and was indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, she read all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had she thought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as she accompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them by the clear light of the moon. She wondered her husband did not stay at home. She was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze her hand, and look unutterable things? Gentle reader, I will tell thee; they neither of them felt what they could not utter. I will not pretend to say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of those feelings which are not easily analyzed. CHAP. II. In due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following year a daughter. After the mother's throes she felt very few sentiments of maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and she played with her dogs. Want of exercise prevented the least chance of her recovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on a consumption, to which her constitution tended. Her children all died in their infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of the son, as he was remarkably handsome. For years she divided her time between the sofa, and the card-table. She thought not of death, though on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her station occur to her as necessary. Her children were left in the nursery; and when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the awkward thing away. To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a house without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and she scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old house-keeper told her stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read. Her mother talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and, in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French. As she had learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in her way. Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and learned to think. She had heard of a separate state, and that angels sometimes visited this earth. She would sit in a thick wood in the park, and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them to tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweet and touching. Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was glad that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself about them. She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband was very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness, and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart through life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her own.--She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when she was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse. Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which she imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and confidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new world. Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious distress. She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concluded animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice of man; but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year after year rolled on, her mother still vegetating. A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her great attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child while she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the first began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every part of it. The impression that this accident made was indelible. As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to exert herself, her health would soon be re-established. In general he treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and visibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she could not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from the gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of it, she was pinched by hunger. She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner was she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the slave of compassion. CHAP. III. Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune; and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a distant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just at this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they took no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her natural disposition was very different. She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb; and now she had another motive to actuate her. As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend, mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their intercourse more agreeable. Young people are mostly fond of scribbling; Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend's letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes. As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits were fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain on account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter. Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these consequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, she found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the offspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran to her with delight, and not perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann's countenance, she has shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressions seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility. She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all reflection. In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and exercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her own unsettled mind. CHAP. IV. Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were, literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested, and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river. Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea. This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there. When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observe the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, she admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in existence, and darted into futurity. One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. A clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple of Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost. At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure. In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had not animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones which look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving more light to the beholders than they receive themselves. Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or comforted them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent, that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less interested observer. In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read, and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became a part of her mind. Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her Creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were mostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted to contemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think of the voice that could still the tumultuous deep. These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out those which the soil would have a tendency to nurse. Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination has strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity. Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, _conversing_ with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her own composing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end her various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth, which afterwards more fully unfolded itself. She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under the influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with redoubled force. Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her ecstacies arose from genius. She was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; and perusing the scriptures, and discussing some points of doctrine which puzzled her, she would sit up half the night, her favourite time for employing her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through a glass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectual researches, is one of the trials of a probationary state. But her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and she eagerly desired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor. The night before the important day, when she was to take on herself her baptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on her meditations, and found her not exhausted by her watching. The orient pearls were strewed around--she hailed the morn, and sung with wild delight, Glory to God on high, good will towards men. She was indeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternal preservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; and the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthly passions made it grow languid. These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the luxuriant shoots restrained by culture. The servants and the poor adored her. In order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, she practiced the most rigid oeconomy, and had such power over her appetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered them so entirely, that when her understanding or affections had an object, she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment. This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the passions. We will now enter on the more active field of life. CHAP. V. A few months after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was attacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach the school. She was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her of consequence, and did not call her _the child_. Proper masters were sent for; she was taught to dance, and an extraordinary master procured to perfect her in that most necessary of all accomplishments. A part of the estate she was to inherit had been litigated, and the heir of the person who still carried on a Chancery suit, was only two years younger than our heroine. The fathers, spite of the dispute, frequently met, and, in order to settle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle, determined to quash it by a marriage, and, by uniting the two estates, to preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their different claims. While this important matter was settling, Mary was otherwise employed. Ann's mother's resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty, made hasty strides to catch them in his clutches. Ann had not fortitude enough to brave such accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm was lodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. She denied herself every little comfort; things that would be no sacrifice when a person is well, are absolutely necessary to alleviate bodily pain, and support the animal functions. There were many elegant amusements, that she had acquired a relish for, which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; but these her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of relaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil he taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination, and that taste invigorated love. Poverty, and all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother's abode; and she, though a good sort of a woman, was not calculated to banish, by her trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was lost. This ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, a delicacy so truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold her without wishing to chase her sorrows away. She was timid and irresolute, and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to make her reflect. In every thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty, that caught her attention. And in composition, the polish of style, and harmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius, or abstracted speculations. She often wondered at the books Mary chose, who, though she had a lively imagination, would frequently study authors whose works were addressed to the understanding. This liking taught her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herself, even when under the influence of the most violent passions. Ann's misfortunes and ill health were strong ties to bind Mary to her; she wished so continually to have a home to receive her in, that it drove every other desire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tender schemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she longed most ardently to put them in practice. Fondly as she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whose decline was so imperceptible, that they were not aware of her approaching dissolution. The physician, however, observing the most alarming symptoms; her husband was apprised of her immediate danger; and then first mentioned to her his designs with respect to his daughter. She approved of them; Mary was sent for; she was not at home; she had rambled to visit Ann, and found her in an hysteric fit. The landlord of her little farm had sent his agent for the rent, which had long been due to him; and he threatened to seize the stock that still remained, and turn them out, if they did not very shortly discharge the arrears. As this man made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of the person to whom he was deputy, little was to be expected from his forbearance. All this was told to Mary--and the mother added, she had many other creditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch from them all that had been saved out of the wreck. "I could bear all," she cried; "but what will become of my children? Of this child," pointing to the fainting Ann, "whose constitution is already undermined by care and grief--where will she go?"--Mary's heart ceased to beat while she asked the question--She attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds died away. Before she had recovered herself, her father called himself to enquire for her; and desired her instantly to accompany him home. Engrossed by the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walked silently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours to live; and before she could return him any answer, informed her that they had both determined to marry her to Charles, his friend's son; he added, the ceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witness of it; for such a desire she had expressed with childish eagerness. Overwhelmed by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, with a vacant stare, fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longer a sense; they conveyed no ideas to the brain. As she drew near the house, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension of thought, a thousand darted into her mind,--her dying mother,--her friend's miserable situation,--and an extreme horror at taking--at being forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the reluctance, which arises from a prior attachment. She loved Ann better than any one in the world--to snatch her from the very jaws of destruction--she would have encountered a lion. To have this friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect to her family, would it not be superlative bliss? Full of these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they then fled at the sight of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; it feebly pressed her's. "My child," said the languid mother: the words reached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accents denoting affection; "My child, I have not always treated you with kindness--God forgive me! do you?"--Mary's tears strayed in a disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve the fluttering tenant. "I forgive you!" said she, in a tone of astonishment. The clergyman came in to read the service for the sick, and afterwards the marriage ceremony was performed. Mary stood like a statue of Despair, and pronounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and then ran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms. Her husband set off for the continent the same day, with a tutor, to finish his studies at one of the foreign universities. Ann was sent for to console her, not on account of the departure of her new relation, a boy she seldom took any notice of, but to reconcile her to her fate; besides, it was necessary she should have a female companion, and there was not any maiden aunt in the family, or cousin of the same class. CHAP. VI. Mary was allowed to pay the rent which gave her so much uneasiness, and she exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to succour the family; but the utmost she could obtain was a small sum very inadequate to the purpose, to enable the poor woman to carry into execution a little scheme of industry near the metropolis. Her intention of leaving that part of the country, had much more weight with him, than Mary's arguments, drawn from motives of philanthropy and friendship; this was a language he did not understand; expressive of occult qualities he never thought of, as they could not be seen or felt. After the departure of her mother, Ann still continued to languish, though she had a nurse who was entirely engrossed by the desire of amusing her. Had her health been re-established, the time would have passed in a tranquil, improving manner. During the year of mourning they lived in retirement; music, drawing, and reading, filled up the time; and Mary's taste and judgment were both improved by contracting a habit of observation, and permitting the simple beauties of Nature to occupy her thoughts. She had a wonderful quickness in discerning distinctions and combining ideas, that at the first glance did not appear to be similar. But these various pursuits did not banish all her cares, or carry off all her constitutional black bile. Before she enjoyed Ann's society, she imagined it would have made her completely happy: she was disappointed, and yet knew not what to complain of. As her friend could not accompany her in her walks, and wished to be alone, for a very obvious reason, she would return to her old haunts, retrace her anticipated pleasures--and wonder how they changed their colour in possession, and proved so futile. She had not yet found the companion she looked for. Ann and she were not congenial minds, nor did she contribute to her comfort in the degree she expected. She shielded her from poverty; but this was only a negative blessing; when under the pressure it was very grievous, and still more so were the apprehensions; but when exempt from them, she was not contented. Such is human nature, its laws were not to be inverted to gratify our heroine, and stop the progress of her understanding, happiness only flourished in paradise--we cannot taste and live. Another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. Ann had a hectic cough, and many unfavourable prognostics: Mary then forgot every thing but the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery would have made her happy. Her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only read books of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended in vanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what she could not prevent. As her mind expanded, her marriage appeared a dreadful misfortune; she was sometimes reminded of the heavy yoke, and bitter was the recollection! In one thing there seemed to be a sympathy between them, for she wrote formal answers to his as formal letters. An extreme dislike took root in her mind; the found of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all, listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame. She would then catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness, as if to save her from sinking into an opening grave. CHAP. VII. It was the will of Providence that Mary should experience almost every species of sorrow. Her father was thrown from his horse, when his blood was in a very inflammatory state, and the bruises were very dangerous; his recovery was not expected by the physical tribe. Terrified at seeing him so near death, and yet so ill prepared for it, his daughter sat by his bed, oppressed by the keenest anguish, which her piety increased. Her grief had nothing selfish in it; he was not a friend or protector; but he was her father, an unhappy wretch, going into eternity, depraved and thoughtless. Could a life of sensuality be a preparation for a peaceful death? Thus meditating, she passed the still midnight hour by his bedside. The nurse fell asleep, nor did a violent thunder storm interrupt her repose, though it made the night appear still more terrific to Mary. Her father's unequal breathing alarmed her, when she heard a long drawn breath, she feared it was his last, and watching for another, a dreadful peal of thunder struck her ears. Considering the separation of the soul and body, this night seemed sadly solemn, and the hours long. Death is indeed a king of terrors when he attacks the vicious man! The compassionate heart finds not any comfort; but dreads an eternal separation. No transporting greetings are anticipated, when the survivors also shall have finished their course; but all is black!--the grave may truly be said to receive the departed--this is the sting of death! Night after night Mary watched, and this excessive fatigue impaired her own health, but had a worse effect on Ann; though she constantly went to bed, she could not rest; a number of uneasy thoughts obtruded themselves; and apprehensions about Mary, whom she loved as well as her exhausted heart could love, harassed her mind. After a sleepless, feverish night she had a violent fit of coughing, and burst a blood-vessel. The physician, who was in the house, was sent for, and when he left the patient, Mary, with an authoritative voice, insisted on knowing his real opinion. Reluctantly he gave it, that her friend was in a critical state; and if she passed the approaching winter in England, he imagined she would die in the spring; a season fatal to consumptive disorders. The spring!--Her husband was then expected.--Gracious Heaven, could she bear all this. In a few days her father breathed his last. The horrid sensations his death occasioned were too poignant to be durable: and Ann's danger, and her own situation, made Mary deliberate what mode of conduct she should pursue. She feared this event might hasten the return of her husband, and prevent her putting into execution a plan she had determined on. It was to accompany Ann to a more salubrious climate. CHAP. VIII. I mentioned before, that Mary had never had any particular attachment, to give rise to the disgust that daily gained ground. Her friendship for Ann occupied her heart, and resembled a passion. She had had, indeed, several transient likings; but they did not amount to love. The society of men of genius delighted her, and improved her faculties. With beings of this class she did not often meet; it is a rare genus; her first favourites were men past the meridian of life, and of a philosophic turn. Determined on going to the South of France, or Lisbon; she wrote to the man she had promised to obey. The physicians had said change of air was necessary for her as well as her friend. She mentioned this, and added, "Her comfort, almost her existence, depended on the recovery of the invalid she wished to attend; and that should she neglect to follow the medical advice she had received, she should never forgive herself, or those who endeavoured to prevent her." Full of her design, she wrote with more than usual freedom; and this letter was like most of her others, a transcript of her heart. "This dear friend," she exclaimed, "I love for her agreeable qualities, and substantial virtues. Continual attention to her health, and the tender office of a nurse, have created an affection very like a maternal one--I am her only support, she leans on me--could I forsake the forsaken, and break the bruised reed--No--I would die first! I must--I will go." She would have added, "you would very much oblige me by consenting;" but her heart revolted--and irresolutely she wrote something about wishing him happy.--"Do I not wish all the world well?" she cried, as she subscribed her name--It was blotted, the letter sealed in a hurry, and sent out of her sight; and she began to prepare for her journey. By the return of the post she received an answer; it contained some common-place remarks on her romantic friendship, as he termed it; "But as the physicians advised change of air, he had no objection." CHAP. IX. There was nothing now to retard their journey; and Mary chose Lisbon rather than France, on account of its being further removed from the only person she wished not to see. They set off accordingly for Falmouth, in their way to that city. The journey was of use to Ann, and Mary's spirits were raised by her recovered looks--She had been in despair--now she gave way to hope, and was intoxicated with it. On ship-board Ann always remained in the cabin; the sight of the water terrified her: on the contrary, Mary, after she was gone to bed, or when she fell asleep in the day, went on deck, conversed with the sailors, and surveyed the boundless expanse before her with delight. One instant she would regard the ocean, the next the beings who braved its fury. Their insensibility and want of fear, she could not name courage; their thoughtless mirth was quite of an animal kind, and their feelings as impetuous and uncertain as the element they plowed. They had only been a week at sea when they hailed the rock of Lisbon, and the next morning anchored at the castle. After the customary visits, they were permitted to go on shore, about three miles from the city; and while one of the crew, who understood the language, went to procure them one of the ugly carriages peculiar to the country, they waited in the Irish convent, which is situated close to the Tagus. Some of the people offered to conduct them into the church, where there was a fine organ playing; Mary followed them, but Ann preferred staying with a nun she had entered into conversation with. One of the nuns, who had a sweet voice, was singing; Mary was struck with awe; her heart joined in the devotion; and tears of gratitude and tenderness flowed from her eyes. My Father, I thank thee! burst from her--words were inadequate to express her feelings. Silently, she surveyed the lofty dome; heard unaccustomed sounds; and saw faces, strange ones, that she could not yet greet with fraternal love. In an unknown land, she considered that the Being she adored inhabited eternity, was ever present in unnumbered worlds. When she had not any one she loved near her, she was particularly sensible of the presence of her Almighty Friend. The arrival of the carriage put a stop to her speculations; it was to conduct them to an hotel, fitted up for the reception of invalids. Unfortunately, before they could reach it there was a violent shower of rain; and as the wind was very high, it beat against the leather curtains, which they drew along the front of the vehicle, to shelter themselves from it; but it availed not, some of the rain forced its way, and Ann felt the effects of it, for she caught cold, spite of Mary's precautions. As is the custom, the rest of the invalids, or lodgers, sent to enquire after their health; and as soon as Ann left her chamber, in which her complaints seldom confined her the whole day, they came in person to pay their compliments. Three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; the one a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other an invalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. They entered into conversation immediately. People who meet in a strange country, and are all together in a house, soon get acquainted, without the formalities which attend visiting in separate houses, where they are surrounded by domestic friends. Ann was particularly delighted at meeting with agreeable society; a little hectic fever generally made her low-spirited in the morning, and lively in the evening, when she wished for company. Mary, who only thought of her, determined to cultivate their acquaintance, as she knew, that if her mind could be diverted, her body might gain strength. They were all musical, and proposed having little concerts. One of the gentlemen played on the violin, and the other on the german-flute. The instruments were brought in, with all the eagerness that attends putting a new scheme in execution. Mary had not said much, for she was diffident; she seldom joined in general conversations; though her quickness of penetration enabled her soon to enter into the characters of those she conversed with; and her sensibility made her desirous of pleasing every human creature. Besides, if her mind was not occupied by any particular sorrow, or study, she caught reflected pleasure, and was glad to see others happy, though their mirth did not interest her. This day she was continually thinking of Ann's recovery, and encouraging the cheerful hopes, which though they dissipated the spirits that had been condensed by melancholy, yet made her wish to be silent. The music, more than the conversation, disturbed her reflections; but not at first. The gentleman who played on the german-flute, was a handsome, well-bred, sensible man; and his observations, if not original, were pertinent. The other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and played a little Scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of the instrument, that Mary started, and looking at him with more attention than she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong lines of genius. His manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which is often found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered his opinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice. When the concert was over, they all retired to their apartments. Mary always slept with Ann, as she was subject to terrifying dreams; and frequently in the night was obliged to be supported, to avoid suffocation. They chatted about their new acquaintance in their own apartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion. CHAP. X. Every day almost they saw their new acquaintance; and civility produced intimacy. Mary sometimes left her friend with them; while she indulged herself in viewing new modes of life, and searching out the causes which produced them. She had a metaphysical turn, which inclined her to reflect on every object that passed by her; and her mind was not like a mirror, which receives every floating image, but does not retain them: she had not any prejudices, for every opinion was examined before it was adopted. The Roman Catholic ceremonies attracted her attention, and gave rise to conversations when they all met; and one of the gentlemen continually introduced deistical notions, when he ridiculed the pageantry they all were surprised at observing. Mary thought of both the subjects, the Romish tenets, and the deistical doubts; and though not a sceptic, thought it right to examine the evidence on which her faith was built. She read Butler's Analogy, and some other authors: and these researches made her a christian from conviction, and she learned charity, particularly with respect to sectaries; saw that apparently good and solid arguments might take their rise from different points of view; and she rejoiced to find that those she should not concur with had some reason on their side. CHAP. XI. When I mentioned the three ladies, I said they were fashionable women; and it was all the praise, as a faithful historian, I could bestow on them; the only thing in which they were consistent. I forgot to mention that they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. The daughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the mother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her. They were people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancient family, the title had descended to a very remote branch--a branch they took care to be intimate with; and servilely copied the Countess's airs. Their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerning propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which always hamper weak people. What will the world say? was the first thing that was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had not done before. Or what would the Countess do on such an occasion? And when this question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered without the trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads. This same Countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a most harmonic dance around her. After this account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds had received very little cultivation. They were taught French, Italian, and Spanish; English was their vulgar tongue. And what did they learn? Hamlet will tell you--words--words. But let me not forget that they squalled Italian songs in the true _gusto_. Without having any seeds sown in their understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work, they were brought out of their nursery, or the place they were secluded in, to prevent their faces being common; like blazing stars, to captivate Lords. They were pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another, occasioned the disorder which required change of air. The mother, if we except her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature; and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciously adhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, some trivial points of ceremony, as a matter of the last importance; of which she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionable world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do to the sun. It appears to me that every creature has some notion--or rather relish, of the sublime. Riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime of weak minds:--These images fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls. One afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, Ann was so ill, that Mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending the tea-table. The apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, with a look of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name was Henry, and said; "Though people of the first fashion are frequently at places of this kind, intimate with they know not who; yet I do not choose that my daughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with any one she would blush to know elsewhere. It is only on that account, for I never suffer her to be with any one but in my company," added she, sitting more erect; and a smile of self-complacency dressed her countenance. "I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune." "Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a romantic creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the large fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard the Countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much admired; but she is married." She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who picked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls. "She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed, and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise it. The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses like the sweet south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears almost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had taken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine she had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this welcome guest.--And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety, that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid. No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look, to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered the room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken words, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed, "I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, what a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they, "have you not a husband?" Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. A delicate sense of propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered reason.--Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyes followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange behaviour. CHAP. XII. The physician was sent for; his prescription afforded Ann a little temporary relief; and they again joined the circle. Unfortunately, the weather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confined them to the house. Ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when they sat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and, but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away in listless indolence. The bad weather had had as ill an effect on Henry as on Ann. He was frequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy would of itself have attracted Mary's notice, if she had not found his conversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group. When she conversed with him, all the faculties of her soul unfolded themselves; genius animated her expressive countenance and the most graceful, unaffected gestures gave energy to her discourse. They frequently discussed very important subjects, while the rest were singing or playing cards, nor were they observed for doing so, as Henry, whom they all were pleased with, in the way of gallantry shewed them all more attention than her. Besides, as there was nothing alluring in her dress or manner, they never dreamt of her being preferred to them. Henry was a man of learning; he had also studied mankind, and knew many of the intricacies of the human heart, from having felt the infirmities of his own. His taste was just, as it had a standard--Nature, which he observed with a critical eye. Mary could not help thinking that in his company her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. She increased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved. He was also a pious man; his rational religious sentiments received warmth from his sensibility; and, except on very particular occasions, kept it in proper bounds; these sentiments had likewise formed his temper; he was gentle, and easily to be intreated. The ridiculous ceremonies they were every day witness to, led them into what are termed grave subjects, and made him explain his opinions, which, at other times, he was neither ashamed of, nor unnecessarily brought forward to notice. CHAP. XIII. When the weather began to clear up, Mary sometimes rode out alone, purposely to view the ruins that still remained of the earthquake: or she would ride to the banks of the Tagus, to feast her eyes with the sight of that magnificent river. At other times she would visit the churches, as she was particularly fond of seeing historical paintings. One of these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party descanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soon adverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters in which they should wish to be drawn. Mary did not fix on one--when Henry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "I would give the world for your picture, with the expression I have seen in your face, when you have been supporting your friend." This delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her heart. She then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--for whom was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, so strongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown away--given in with an estate. As Mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her thoughts were employed about the objects around her. She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. She saw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers may fall from the lips without purifying the heart. They who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers, or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainly allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfish principles; how then can they be called good? The pattern of all goodness went about _doing_ good. Wrapped up in themselves, the nuns only thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of intrigues were carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts were fixed: Such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that were servile or laborious. In short, when they could be neither wives nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations? In these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of grief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step. The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow, the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart. She will find that those affections that have once been called forth and strengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, by disappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrode the heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for which there is no specific. The community at large Mary disliked; but pitied many of them whose private distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were the same things with her. The exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and dignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but never mean or cunning. CHAP. XIV. The Portuguese are certainly the most uncivilized nation in Europe. Dr. Johnson would have said, "They have the least mind.". And can such serve their Creator in spirit and in truth? No, the gross ritual of Romish ceremonies is all they can comprehend: they can do penance, but not conquer their revenge, or lust. Religion, or love, has never humanized their hearts; they want the vital part; the mere body worships. Taste is unknown; Gothic finery, and unnatural decorations, which they term ornaments, are conspicuous in their churches and dress. Reverence for mental excellence is only to be found in a polished nation. Could the contemplation of such a people gratify Mary's heart? No: she turned disgusted from the prospects--turned to a man of refinement. Henry had been some time ill and low-spirited; Mary would have been attentive to any one in that situation; but to him she was particularly so; she thought herself bound in gratitude, on account of his constant endeavours to amuse Ann, and prevent her dwelling on the dreary prospect before her, which sometimes she could not help anticipating with a kind of quiet despair. She found some excuse for going more frequently into the room they all met in; nay, she avowed her desire to amuse him: offered to read to him, and tried to draw him into amusing conversations; and when she was full of these little schemes, she looked at him with a degree of tenderness that she was not conscious of. This divided attention was of use to her, and prevented her continually thinking of Ann, whose fluctuating disorder often gave rise to false hopes. A trifling thing occurred now which occasioned Mary some uneasiness. Her maid, a well-looking girl, had captivated the clerk of a neighbouring compting-house. As the match was an advantageous one, Mary could not raise any objection to it, though at this juncture it was very disagreeable to her to have a stranger about her person. However, the girl consented to delay the marriage, as she had some affection for her mistress; and, besides, looked forward to Ann's death as a time of harvest. Henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gave Mary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interested about him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which the purity of her heart made her never wish to restrain. The only visible return he made was not obvious to common observers. He would sometimes fix his eyes on her, and take them off with a sigh that was coughed away; or when he was leisurely walking into the room, and did not expect to see her, he would quicken his steps, and come up to her with eagerness to ask some trivial question. In the same style, he would try to detain her when he had nothing to say--or said nothing. Ann did not take notice of either his or Mary's behaviour, nor did she suspect that he was a favourite, on any other account than his appearing neither well nor happy. She had often seen that when a person was unfortunate, Mary's pity might easily be mistaken for love, and, indeed, it was a temporary sensation of that kind. Such it was--why it was so, let others define, I cannot argue against instincts. As reason is cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this may have given rise to the assertion, "That as judgment improves, genius evaporates." CHAP. XV. One morning they set out to visit the aqueduct; though the day was very fine when they left home, a very heavy shower fell before they reached it; they lengthened their ride, the clouds dispersed, and the sun came from behind them uncommonly bright. Mary would fain have persuaded Ann not to have left the carriage; but she was in spirits, and obviated all her objections, and insisted on walking, tho' the ground was damp. But her strength was not equal to her spirits; she was soon obliged to return to the carriage so much fatigued, that she fainted, and remained insensible a long time. Henry would have supported her; but Mary would not permit him; her recollection was instantaneous, and she feared sitting on the damp ground might do him a material injury: she was on that account positive, though the company did not guess the cause of her being so. As to herself, she did not fear bodily pain; and, when her mind was agitated, she could endure the greatest fatigue without appearing sensible of it. When Ann recovered, they returned slowly home; she was carried to bed, and the next morning Mary thought she observed a visible change for the worse. The physician was sent for, who pronounced her to be in the most imminent danger. All Mary's former fears now returned like a torrent, and carried every other care away; she even added to her present anguish by upbraiding herself for her late tranquillity--it haunted her in the form of a crime. The disorder made the most rapid advances--there was no hope!--Bereft of it, Mary again was tranquil; but it was a very different kind of tranquillity. She stood to brave the approaching storm, conscious she only could be overwhelmed by it. She did not think of Henry, or if her thoughts glanced towards him, it was only to find fault with herself for suffering a thought to have strayed from Ann.--Ann!--this dear friend was soon torn from her--she died suddenly as Mary was assisting her to walk across the room.--The first string was severed from her heart--and this "slow, sudden-death" disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable to reflect, or even to feel her misery. The body was stolen out of the house the second night, and Mary refused to see her former companions. She desired her maid to conclude her marriage, and request her intended husband to inform her when the first merchantman was to leave the port, as the packet had just sailed, and she determined not to stay in that hated place any longer than was absolutely necessary. She then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid a parade of grief--her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not to admit of increase or softening. She was right; the sight of them did not affect her, or turn the stream of her sullen sorrow; the black wave rolled along in the same course, it was equal to her where she cast her eyes; all was impenetrable gloom. CHAP. XVI. Soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry, requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: she consented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. She ran eagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his countenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed hers seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unable to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death; but her conversation was incoherent. She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest. Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!" Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart." "I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store." "Impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that she was in love with misery. He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took very little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined: and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations, rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in order to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me: these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I was witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution is naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain some dominion over my passions. At least," added he, stifling a sigh, "over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection only renders the tender ones more tyrannic. "I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--the object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion has pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and pursuits.--I am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin I tell the sorrows I now confide with thee. The object I loved forfeited my esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequently delighted to form a creature that I could love, that could convey to my soul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conception of." He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a listening attitude, continued his little narrative. "I kept up an irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance and ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I hastened to comfort her--and was a comfort to her. "My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness. But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain. No: I have frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts; and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant. "I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending this winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had before visited the Continent." He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with the most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her friendship? If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the fate of a darling child, than he did in her's." Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that she in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant. Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it: accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection. Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. He had exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had succeeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself for defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt on Henry's misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fate was a balm to her sick mind. She did not reason on the subject; but she felt he was attached to her: lost in this delirium, she never asked herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to; nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thought with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an affection for her, and that person she admired--had a friendship for. He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by accident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His child, what an association of ideas! If I had had a father, such a father!--She could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves. Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul. Lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry's account of himself; till she actually thought she would tell Ann--a bitter recollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she begged forgiveness of her. By these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to bed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not refresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her waking train of thoughts. One instant she was supporting her dying mother; then Ann was breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her. The unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell the truth, she thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spirits in motion: but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell her that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could be accommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger on board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on that account--Mary did not want a companion. As she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first vessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for the lonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of the first fair wind. She had too much strength of mind to waver in her determination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old wounds, and made them bleed afresh. What was she to do? where go? Could she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her--her soul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the world by such mock heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!" There is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while, stills the tumult of passion. Mary's mind had been thrown off its poise; her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but less regular. She forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth, and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the first serious thought: when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to render life bearable she gave way to fancy--this was madness. In a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was very tempestuous--what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every other trifling--it was not the contending elements, but _herself_ she feared! CHAP. XVII. In order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she went out in a carriage. The day was fine; but all nature was to her a universal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she could not. She passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill she got out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did not avoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed glad to contend with it, or rather walk against it. Exhausted she returned to the carriage was soon at home, and in the old room. Henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before her complexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire. He was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and he owned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormant tenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by the present happiness of seeing, of hearing him. Once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, to depart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow; should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus she thought, and insensibly grew more calm. The Ladies prevailed on her to spend the evening with them; but she retired very early to rest, and sat on the side of her bed several hours, then threw herself on it, and waited for the dreaded to-morrow. CHAP. XVIII. The ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that she was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at the Custom-house. Henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary called up all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from the females her internal struggles. She durst not encounter Henry's glances when she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, she knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began to laugh she could not stop herself. Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such benignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and, the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained silent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn. Henry began. "You are going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind is not in a state to be left to its own operations--yet I cannot, dissuade you; if I attempted to do it, I should ill deserve the title I wish to merit. I only think of your happiness; could I obey the strongest impulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to England; but such a step might endanger your future peace." Mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explained her situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that he trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me to love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did she not fix on Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and if Ann had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some remote corner to have escaped from him. "I intend," said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall I hear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine," replied Mary. "I am well, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the most precarious state." She then mentioned her intention of going to Ann's relations. "I am her representative, I have duties to fulfil for her: during my voyage I have time enough for reflection; though I think I have already determined." "Be not too hasty, my child," interrupted Henry; "far be it from me to persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thy future life may probably take its colour from thy present mode of conduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the object you now shun may appear in a different light." He paused. "In advising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary." She only answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary--yet they can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite a part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form my taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies, and make me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives its stamp to the rest--because I am capable of loving one, I have that kind of charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked. Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly we may ascend." She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface them but death--No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be created afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted from my Ann--I could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--I could not bear to think that time could wear away an affection that was founded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt to persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose from certain modifications of it." "Dear enthusiastic creature," whispered Henry, "how you steal into my soul." She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me to adore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that he only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder strokes to them. I knew I am in some degree under the influence of a delusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am _of subtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of the imagination point to futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause in nature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule? have I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will they never be gratified? shall I never be happy? My feelings do not accord with the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of bliss, it will be the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great part of our happiness. "With these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? can I listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits, and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I wish to please--one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I am bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could I consider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awful day of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience does not smite me, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approve of what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I brave His presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary to conviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could the world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed against the feeling heart! "Riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me to sit down and enjoy them--I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I do, what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good, an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me for eternity--when I no longer see through a glass darkly I shall not reason about, but _feel_ in what happiness consists." Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and that these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well digested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour, and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He was startled, if not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestures were all persuasive. Some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue; it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in a cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary to reveal it? He wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; she knew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, or rest satisfied with any inferior gratification. When passion first enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after, and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out. CHAP. XIX. Two days passed away without any particular conversation; Henry, trying to be indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. The conflict was too violent for his present state of health; the spirit was willing, but the body suffered; he lost his appetite, and looked wretchedly; his spirits were calmly low--the world seemed to fade away--what was that world to him that Mary did not inhabit; she lived not for him. He was mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dear prop she had sunk into the grave of her lost--long-loved friend;--his attention snatched her from despair. Inscrutable are the ways of Heaven! The third day Mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the wind continued in the same point, they should set sail the next evening. She tried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not useless she appeared less agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyage with composure. On great occasions she was generally calm and collected, her resolution would brace her unstrung nerves; but after the victory she had no triumph; she would sink into a state of moping melancholy, and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was over. The morning of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone with Henry only a few moments, and an awkward kind of formality made them slip away without their having said much to each other. Henry was afraid to discover his passion, or give any other name to his regard but friendship; yet his anxious solicitude for her welfare was ever breaking out-while she as artlessly expressed again and again, her fears with respect to his declining health. "We shall soon meet," said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; she caught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not knowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room. When she was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The few precious moments I have thus thrown away may never return," she thought-the reflection led to misery. She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She could not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her more than can be well conceived. The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For a while the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry, though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his own. "My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this spot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah! no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement! Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?" Ann occupied her until they reached the ship. The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the last;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of parting with him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she looked round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time. She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole which was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. On this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable to close her eyes. A small taper made the darkness visible; and the third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment. "Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling winds and dashing waves;--on no human support can I rest--when not lost to hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to them. How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it over--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will only be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.--Yet surely, I am not alone!" Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them. "Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to be composed--to forget my Henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawn across in an agony. CHAP. XX. The mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her some refreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness or civility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted: peevishly she desired him not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when her heart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink. After drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into a death-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, on the contrary, she awoke languid and stupid. The wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had she struggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever, which sometimes gave her false spirits. The winds then became very tempestuous, the Great Deep was troubled, and all the passengers appalled. Mary then left her bed, and went on deck, to survey the contending elements: the scene accorded with the present state of her soul; she thought in a few hours I may go home; the prisoner may be released. The vessel rose on a wave and descended into a yawning gulph--Not slower did her mounting soul return to earth, for--Ah! her treasure and her heart was there. The squalls rattled amongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then die away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with a tremendous roar. In a little vessel in the midst of such a storm she was not dismayed; she felt herself independent. Just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help of a glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, drifted about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm. Mary's thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink of destruction. They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed the trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loud cries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and with ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launched their boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of the sea. Stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched the boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view--she ceased to breathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again. At last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and Mary caught the poor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them in thanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to still the raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour. Amongst the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when she was hauled on board: Mary undressed her, and when she had recovered, and soothed her, left her to enjoy the rest she required to recruit her strength, which fear had quite exhausted. She returned again to view the angry deep; and when she gazed on its perturbed state, she thought of the Being who rode on the wings of the wind, and stilled the noise of the sea; and the madness of the people--He only could speak peace to her troubled spirit! she grew more calm; the late transaction had gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself. One of the sailors, happening to say to another, "that he believed the world was going to be at an end;" this observation led her into a new train of thoughts: some of Handel's sublime compositions occurred to her, and she sung them to the grand accompaniment. The Lord God Omnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever!--Why then did she fear the sorrows that were passing away, when she knew that He would bind up the broken-hearted, and receive those who came out of great tribulation. She retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book that was now her only confident. It was after midnight. "At this solemn hour, the great day of judgment fills my thoughts; the day of retribution, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed; when all worldly distinctions will fade away, and be no more seen. I have not words to express the sublime images which the bare contemplation of this awful day raises in my mind. Then, indeed, the Lord Omnipotent will reign, and He will wipe the tearful eye, and support the trembling heart--yet a little while He hideth his face, and the dun shades of sorrow, and the thick clouds of folly separate us from our God; but when the glad dawn of an eternal day breaks, we shall know even as we are known. Here we walk by faith, and not by sight; and we have this alternative, either to enjoy the pleasures of life which are but for a season, or look forward to the prize of our high calling, and with fortitude, and that wisdom which is from above, endeavour to bear the warfare of life. We know that many run the race; but he that striveth obtaineth the crown of victory. Our race is an arduous one! How many are betrayed by traitors lodged in their own breasts, who wear the garb of Virtue, and are so near akin; we sigh to think they should ever lead into folly, and slide imperceptibly into vice. Surely any thing like happiness is madness! Shall probationers of an hour presume to pluck the fruit of immortality, before they have conquered death? it is guarded, when the great day, to which I allude, arrives, the way will again be opened. Ye dear delusions, gay deceits, farewel! and yet I cannot banish ye for ever; still does my panting soul push forward, and live in futurity, in the deep shades o'er which darkness hangs.--I try to pierce the gloom, and find a resting-place, where my thirst of knowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object to fix them. Every thing material must change; happiness and this fluctating principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, and happiness,--what are ye? How shall I grasp the mighty and fleeting conceptions ye create?" After writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of the Father of Spirits; and slept in peace. CHAP. XXI. Mary rose early, refreshed by the seasonable rest, and went to visit the poor woman, whom she found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard that she had lately buried her husband, a common sailor; and that her only surviving child had been washed over-board the day before. Full of her own danger, she scarcely thought of her child till that was over; and then she gave way to boisterous emotions. Mary endeavoured to calm her at first, by sympathizing with her; and she tried to point out the only solid source of comfort but in doing this she encountered many difficulties; she found her grossly ignorant, yet she did not despair: and as the poor creature could not receive comfort from the operations of her own mind, she laboured to beguile the hours, which grief made heavy, by adapting her conversation to her capacity. There are many minds that only receive impressions through the medium of the senses: to them did Mary address herself; she made her some presents, and promised to assist her when they should arrive in England. This employment roused her out of her late stupor, and again set the faculties of her soul in motion; made the understanding contend with the imagination, and the heart throbbed not so irregularly during the contention. How short-lived was the calm! when the English coast was descried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor.--She was to visit and comfort the mother of her lost friend--And where then should she take up her residence? These thoughts suspended the exertions of her understanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarming apprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude. CHAP. XXII. In England then landed the forlorn wanderer. She looked round for some few moments--her affections were not attracted to any particular part of the Island. She knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to which she was going: the mass of buildings appeared to her a huge body without an informing soul. As she passed through the streets in an hackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. She met some women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors, made her shrink into herself, and exclaim, are these my fellow creatures! Detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up the river in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she saw vulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first time such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight.--Forgetting her own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view of innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and could not bear to see her own species sink below them. In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the mother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did not resemble Ann. To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the unfortunate mother of her loss. The poor woman, oppressed by it, and her many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all her past misfortunes, and present cares. The heavy tale lasted until midnight, and the impression it made on Mary's mind was so strong, that it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things. She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging, and relieved her present necessities. A few days were spent in a kind of listless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thought of returning home. She had hitherto treated her with the greatest respect, and concealed her wonder at Mary's choosing a remote room in the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as if she intended living in it. Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probable she would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she could not have talked of her passion to any human creature. She deliberated, and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living with her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--Not live with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could not answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more? I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave. CHAP. XXIII. Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more intimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want of education. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind. One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she resided in, caught her eye. She accosted him; in a confused manner, he informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the bread he could not earn. Mary desired to be conducted to his habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tattered shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth; round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of festivity. It was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or singing indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yet she had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On the floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the broken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children, all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes, exhibited none of the charms of childhood. Some were fighting, and others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary was petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and, regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch, and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want. Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband for a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a shop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of horror and satisfaction. She visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary to her expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesome food had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw her rising as it were from the grave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of it till she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such an alarming progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but the disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; and Mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the crisis, the symptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, without regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low: she wanted a tender nurse. For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the woman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto supported her; as her finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try to earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse. Two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from Henry. He was sick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and all the people ungrateful. She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she wrote in her book another fragment: "Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude, disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel joy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly susceptible of misery? It is true, I have experienced the most rapturous emotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, which only serves to shew my present misery--yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and my brain--why dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why do thoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappear leave such deep traces? I could almost wish for the madman's happiness, and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe. "Oh! reason, thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when I most need thy assistance! Canst thou not calm this internal tumult, and drive away the death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me,--a sadness surely very nearly allied to despair. I am now the prey of apathy--I could wish for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimes illumined my path; I had a pursuit; but now _it visits not my haunts forlorn_. Too well have I loved my fellow creatures! I have been wounded by ingratitude; from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth. "When overwhelmed by sorrow, I have met unkindness; I looked for some one to have pity on me; but found none!--The healing balm of sympathy is denied; I weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my cheeks. I have not the medicine of life, the dear chimera I have so often chased, a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! dost thou ever visit thy poor Mary? Refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep, to see her struggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which corrode her small portion of comfort!" She could not write any more; she wished herself far distant from all human society; a thick gloom spread itself over her mind: but did not make her forget the very beings she wished to fly from. She sent for the poor woman she found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herself and children, and buy some furniture for a little hut, in a large garden, the master of which agreed to employ her husband, who had been bred a gardener. Mary promised to visit the family, and see their new abode when she was able to go out. CHAP. XXIV. Mary still continued weak and low, though it was spring, and all nature began to look gay; with more than usual brightness the sun shone, and a little robin which she had cherished during the winter sung one of his best songs. The family were particularly civil this fine morning, and tried to prevail on her to walk out. Any thing like kindness melted her; she consented. Softer emotions banished her melancholy, and she directed her steps to the habitation she had rendered comfortable. Emerging out of a dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when she had last walked out, snow covered the ground, and bleak winds pierced her through and through: now the hedges were green, the blossoms adorned the trees, and the birds sung. She reached the dwelling, without being much exhausted and while she rested there, observed the children sporting on the grass, with improved complexions. The mother with tears thanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. Mary's tears flowed not only from sympathy, but a complication of feelings and recollections the affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again to play, and reanimated nature. She observed the change in herself, tried to account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapsody on sensibility. "Sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul is susceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it last unmixed, we might form some conjecture of the bliss of those paradisiacal days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion of reason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction. "It is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us to relish the sublime touches of the poet, and the painter; it is this, which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed with tenderness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of a good action. The same effect we experience in the spring, when we hail the returning sun, and the consequent renovation of nature; when the flowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice of music is heard in the land. Softened by tenderness; the soul is disposed to be virtuous. Is any sensual gratification to be compared to that of feelings the eves moistened after having comforted the unfortunate? "Sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but these raptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by what strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of nature escape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections.--But it is only to be felt; it escapes discussion." She then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which was rendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian of life, of polished manners, and dazzling wit. He endeavoured to draw Mary out, and succeeded; she entered into conversation, and some of her artless flights of genius struck him with surprise; he found she had a capacious mind, and that her reason was as profound as her imagination was lively. She glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light of truth. Her expressive countenance shewed what passed in her mind, and her tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicity never threw a shade over her words or actions. Mary found him a man of learning; and the exercise of her understanding would frequently make her forget her griefs, when nothing else could, except benevolence. This man had known the mistress of the house in her youth; good nature induced him to visit her; but when he saw Mary he had another inducement. Her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivation of mind, roused his curiosity; but her dignified manners had such an effect on him, he was obliged to suppress it. He knew men, as well as books; his conversation was entertaining and improving. In Mary's company he doubted whether heaven was peopled with spirits masculine; and almost forgot that he had called the sex "the pretty play things that render life tolerable." He had been the slave of beauty, the captive of sense; love he ne'er had felt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it made the body appear lovely in his eyes. He was humane, despised meanness; but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a useful member of society. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any solid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, or rather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him to hunt down pleasure, he was discontented. Mary observed his character, and wrote down a train of reflections, which these observations led her to make; these reflections received a tinge from her mind; the present state of it, was that kind of painful quietness which arises from reason clouded by disgust; she had not yet learned to be resigned; vague hopes agitated her. "There are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as you dissipate one, another overspreads it. Of this kind are our reasonings concerning happiness; till we are obliged to cry out with the Apostle, _That it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive in what it could consist_, or how satiety could be prevented. Man seems formed for action, though the passions are seldom properly managed; they are either so languid as not to serve as a spur, or else so violent, as to overleap all bounds. "Every individual has its own peculiar trials; and anguish, in one shape or other, visits every heart. Sensibility produces flights of virtue; and not curbed by reason, is on the brink of vice talking, and even thinking of virtue. "Christianity can only afford just principles to govern the wayward feelings and impulses of the heart: every good disposition runs wild, if not transplanted into this soil; but how hard is it to keep the heart diligently, though convinced that the issues of life depend on it. "It is very difficult to discipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcile him to the weakness, the inconsistency of his understanding; and a still more laborious task for him to conquer his passions, and learn to seek content, instead of happiness. Good dispositions, and virtuous propensities, without the light of the Gospel, produce eccentric characters: comet-like, they are always in extremes; while revelation resembles the laws of attraction, and produces uniformity; but too often is the attraction feeble; and the light so obscured by passion, as to force the bewildered soul to fly into void space, and wander in confusion." CHAP. XXV. A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: the servant waited for an answer. Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry; she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his sailing in the first packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquiries were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were expressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as it stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and illness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--she read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt by--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. She wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her the next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of his letter. Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run before to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come; certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret. To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were sung; the books they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a hundred times.--Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she was trying to decypher Chinese characters. After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the street door opened. At last he came, and she who had been counting the hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped the approaching interview. With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful presentiment stilled the internal conflict. She caught his hand, and looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!" "I am very far from well; but it matters not," added he with a smile of resignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is a tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee." Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. She enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought experience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she was sure he would soon recover. She would then look in his face, to see if he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. She tried to avoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise of visiting her the next day. Her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herself to think that she feared an event she could not name. She still saw his pale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she tried to retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed. Henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fade away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck behind? These thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as if to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all was not well there. Out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrival of a letter from her husband; it came to Lisbon after her departure: Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver it himself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced a conversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution took its rise almost equally from benevolence and love. She could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: her fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informed her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master, and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to visit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground, where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the masquerades, and such burlesque amusements. These instances of folly relieved Mary, in some degree reconciled her to herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced something like a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when she reflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to the seemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination, however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, or force us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and that the most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties, refines our affections, and enables us to be useful. One reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty; her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power of comforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy. Heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of His benevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to her own inclinations? These suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion, increased her misery. One moment she was a heroine, half determined to bear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--and tenderness possessed her whole soul. Some instances of Henry's affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her. CHAP. XXVI. Henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of the following week; but still Mary kept up some little formality, a certain consciousness restrained her; and Henry did not enter on the subject which he found she wished to avoid. In the course of conversation, however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain a place in one of the public offices for Ann's brother, as the family were again in a declining way. Henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the following week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whom he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would infallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety. Mary could not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused her face; her blood eloquently spoke. She delighted to receive benefits through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them from Henry was exquisite pleasure. As the summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his fixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him. He could not think of going far off, but chose a little village on the banks of the Thames, near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his mother. They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his violin, and Mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them. She pleased his mother; she inchanted him. It was an advantage to Mary that friendship first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of humanity:--and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one sprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it. The last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black, and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness that had prevailed previous to it. The thunder roared; and the oars plying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a not unpleasing sound. Mary drew still nearer Henry; she wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him.--She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind--he felt them; threw his arm round her waist--and they enjoyed the luxury of wretchedness.--As they touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry was wet; with eager anxiety she cried, What shall I do!--this day will kill thee, and I shall not die with thee! This accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured him, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to--perhaps it was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. In vain did Mary try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! Henry every day grew worse and worse. CHAP. XXVII. Oppressed by her foreboding fears, her sore mind was hurt by new instances of ingratitude: disgusted with the family, whose misfortunes had often disturbed her repose, and lost in anticipated sorrow, she rambled she knew not where; when turning down a shady walk, she discovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. She saw Henry sitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden-gate, and she sat down by him. "I did not," said he, "expect to see thee this evening, my dearest Mary; but I was thinking of thee. Heaven has endowed thee with an uncommon portion of fortitude, to support one of the most affectionate hearts in the world. This is not a time for disguise; I know I am dear to thee--and my affection for thee is twisted with every fibre of my heart.--I loved thee ever since I have been acquainted with thine: thou art the being my fancy has delighted to form; but which I imagined existed only there! In a little while the shades of death will encompass me--ill-fated love perhaps added strength to my disease, and smoothed the rugged path. Try, my love, to fulfil thy destined course--try to add to thy other virtues patience. I could have wished, for thy sake, that we could have died together--or that I could live to shield thee from the assaults of an unfeeling world! Could I but offer thee an asylum in these arms--a faithful bosom, in which thou couldst repose all thy griefs--" He pressed her to it, and she returned the pressure--he felt her throbbing heart. A mournful silence ensued! when he resumed the conversation. "I wished to prepare thee for the blow--too surely do I feel that it will not be long delayed! The passion I have nursed is so pure, that death cannot extinguish it--or tear away the impression thy virtues have made on my soul. I would fain comfort thee--" "Talk not of comfort," interrupted Mary, "it will be in heaven with thee and Ann--while I shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!"--She grasped his hand. "There we shall meet, my love, my Mary, in our Father's--" His voice faultered; he could not finish the sentence; he was almost suffocated--they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walked slowly to the garden-gate (Mary would not go into the house); they could not say farewel when they reached it--and Mary hurried down the lane; to spare Henry the pain of witnessing her emotions. When she lost sight of the house she sat down on the ground, till it grew late, thinking of all that had passed. Full of these thoughts, she crept along, regardless of the descending rain; when lifting up her eyes to heaven, and then turning them wildly on the prospects around, without marking them; she only felt that the scene accorded with her present state of mind. It was the last glimmering of twilight, with a full moon, over which clouds continually flitted. Where am I wandering, God of Mercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what a labyrinth am I lost! What miseries have I already encountered--and what a number lie still before me. Her thoughts flew rapidly to something. I could be happy listening to him, soothing his cares.--Would he not smile upon me--call me his own Mary? I am not his--said she with fierceness--I am a wretch! and she heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were running into confusion. Wherefore am I made thus? Vain are my efforts--I cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness.--Yet I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction. She looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters.--No where could she find rest. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is not my abiding place--may I not too go home! Ah! no. Is this complying with my Henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to associate with his? Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. She felt the rain, and turned to her solitary home. Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers. Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten to draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre; the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked; her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one object. Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the Window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's scene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe, were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these arms shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world." The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy; but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated. Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the remnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to come after that? CHAP. XXVIII. Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother called on her. "My son is worse to-day," said she, "I come to request you to spend not only this day, but a week or two with me.--Why should I conceal any thing from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and, in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when I shall be childless. I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked thus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a widow--may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?" This new instance of Henry's disinterested affection, Mary felt most forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth the wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forced tears from her, by saying, "I deserve this blow; my partial fondness made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect, perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous Heaven has made my crime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss my child--my only child!" When they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; but during the short ride, the mother related several instances of Henry's goodness of heart. Mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the display of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human nature prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a more genial clime. CHAP. XXIX. She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declared he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certain he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by opiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sigh did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. She would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of hope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head where she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--she could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven be done. While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him believe he was resigned, than really to be so. She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which was to extend beyond the grave. She did so, and received comfort from it; she rose above her misery. His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyes appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for his last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent emotion. The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time only attended to Mary--Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience increased her sorrow; she whispered him, "Thy mother weeps, disregarded by thee; oh! comfort her!--My mother, thy son blesses thee.--" The oppressed parent left the room. And Mary _waited_ to see him die. She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened his eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gave a look--it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted? Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not a complete wretch! The words almost choked her. He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. At last, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up. Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die in her arms. Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its prison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last sigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, she calmly cried. The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light from an opened window discovered the pale face. She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained the body. Every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful rapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. She sat till midnight.--Then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, and desired those who watched the body to retire. She knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame the dictates of despair.--She prayed most ardently to be supported, and dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she had committed the spirit she almost adored--again--and again,--she prayed wildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--her head swum--she sunk-- CHAP. XXX. Three months after, her only friend, the mother of her lost Henry began to be alarmed, at observing her altered appearance; and made her own health a pretext for travelling. These complaints roused Mary out of her torpid state; she imagined a new duty now forced her to exert herself--a duty love made sacred!-- They went to Bath, from that to Bristol; but the latter place they quickly left; the sight of the sick that resort there, they neither of them could bear. From Bristol they flew to Southampton. The road was pleasant--yet Mary shut her eyes;--or if they were open, green fields and commons, passed in quick succession, and left no more traces behind than if they had been waves of the sea. Some time after they were settled at Southampton, they met the man who took so much notice of Mary, soon after her return to England. He renewed his acquaintance; he was really interested in her fate, as he had heard her uncommon story; besides, he knew her husband; knew him to be a good-natured, weak man. He saw him soon after his arrival in his native country, and prevented his hastening to enquire into the reasons of Mary's strange conduct. He desired him not to be too precipitate, if he ever wished to possess an invaluable treasure. He was guided by him, and allowed him to follow Mary to Southampton, and speak first to her friend. This friend determined to trust to her native strength of mind, and informed her of the circumstance; but she overrated it: Mary was not able, for a few days after the intelligence, to fix on the mode of conduct she ought now to pursue. But at last she conquered her disgust, and wrote her _husband_ an account of what had passed since she had dropped his correspondence. He came in person to answer the letter. Mary fainted when he approached her unexpectedly. Her disgust returned with additional force, in spite of previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed on to promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year, travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her. The time too quickly elapsed, and she gave him her hand--the struggle was almost more than she could endure. She tried to appear calm; time mellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husband would take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantly feel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, that the earth would open and swallow her. CHAP. XXXI. Mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; but her nerves were not to be restored to their former state. She then retired to her house in the country, established manufactories, threw the estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this way to dissipate care, and banish unavailing regret. She visited the sick, supported the old, and educated the young. These occupations engrossed her mind; but there were hours when all her former woes would return and haunt her.--Whenever she did, or said, any thing she thought Henry would have approved of--she could not avoid thinking with anguish, of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed to her heart--a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence and religion could not fill. The latter taught her to struggle for resignation; and the former rendered life supportable. Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments of solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind--She thought she was hastening to that world _where there is neither marrying_, nor giving in marriage. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What attratcs men to Anderson?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "HER BEAUTY" ]	8,721	narrativeqa	en	null	478201dd5ae2b46b44caacaa387140a11bf5437332820d41	Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net DOCTOR BY MURRAY LEINSTER Illustrated by FINLAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine February 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly the biggest thing in the universe was the very tiniest. There were suns, which were nearby, and there were stars which were so far away that no way of telling their distance had any meaning. The suns had planets, most of which did not matter, but the ones that did count had seas and continents, and the continents had cities and highways and spaceports. And people. The people paid no attention to their insignificance. They built ships which went through emptiness beyond imagining, and they landed upon planets and rebuilt them to their own liking. Suns flamed terribly, renting their impertinence, and storms swept across the planets they preëmpted, but the people built more strongly and were secure. Everything in the universe was bigger or stronger than the people, but they ignored the fact. They went about the businesses they had contrived for themselves. They were not afraid of anything until somewhere on a certain small planet an infinitesimal single molecule changed itself. It was one molecule among unthinkably many, upon one planet of one solar system among uncountable star clusters. It was not exactly alive, but it acted as if it were, in which it was like all the important matter of the cosmos. It was actually a combination of two complicated substances not too firmly joined together. When one of the parts changed, it became a new molecule. But, like the original one, it was still capable of a process called autocatalysis. It practiced that process and catalyzed other molecules into existence, which in each case were duplicates of itself. Then mankind had to take notice, though it ignored flaming suns and monstrous storms and emptiness past belief. Men called the new molecule a virus and gave it a name. They called it and its duplicates "chlorophage." And chlorophage was, to people, the most terrifying thing in the universe. * * * * * In a strictly temporary orbit around the planet Altaira, the _Star Queen_ floated, while lift-ships brought passengers and cargo up to it. The ship was too large to be landed economically at an unimportant spaceport like Altaira. It was a very modern ship and it made the Regulus-to-Cassim run, which is five hundred light-years, in only fifty days of Earthtime. Now the lift-ships were busy. There was an unusual number of passengers to board the _Star Queen_ at Altaira and an unusual number of them were women and children. The children tended to pudginess and the women had the dieted look of the wives of well-to-do men. Most of them looked red-eyed, as if they had been crying. One by one the lift-ships hooked onto the airlock of the _Star Queen_ and delivered passengers and cargo to the ship. Presently the last of them was hooked on, and the last batch of passengers came through to the liner, and the ship's doctor watched them stream past him. His air was negligent, but he was actually impatient. Like most doctors, Nordenfeld approved of lean children and wiry women. They had fewer things wrong with them and they responded better to treatment. Well, he was the doctor of the _Star Queen_ and he had much authority. He'd exerted it back on Regulus to insist that a shipment of botanical specimens for Cassim travel in quarantine--to be exact, in the ship's practically unused hospital compartment--and he was prepared to exercise authority over the passengers. He had a sheaf of health slips from the examiners on the ground below. There was one slip for each passenger. It certified that so-and-so had been examined and could safely be admitted to the _Star Queen's_ air, her four restaurants, her two swimming pools, her recreation areas and the six levels of passenger cabins the ship contained. He impatiently watched the people go by. Health slips or no health slips, he looked them over. A characteristic gait or a typical complexion tint, or even a certain lack of hair luster, could tell him things that ground physicians might miss. In such a case the passenger would go back down again. It was not desirable to have deaths on a liner in space. Of course nobody was ever refused passage because of chlorophage. If it were ever discovered, the discovery would already be too late. But the health regulations for space travel were very, very strict. He looked twice at a young woman as she passed. Despite applied complexion, there was a trace of waxiness in her skin. Nordenfeld had never actually seen a case of chlorophage. No doctor alive ever had. The best authorities were those who'd been in Patrol ships during the quarantine of Kamerun when chlorophage was loose on that planet. They'd seen beamed-up pictures of patients, but not patients themselves. The Patrol ships stayed in orbit while the planet died. Most doctors, and Nordenfeld was among them, had only seen pictures of the screens which showed the patients. * * * * * He looked sharply at the young woman. Then he glanced at her hands. They were normal. The young woman went on, unaware that for the fraction of an instant there had been the possibility of the landing of the _Star Queen_ on Altaira, and the destruction of her space drive, and the establishment of a quarantine which, if justified, would mean that nobody could ever leave Altaira again, but must wait there to die. Which would not be a long wait. A fat man puffed past. The gravity on Altaira was some five per cent under ship-normal and he felt the difference at once. But the veins at his temples were ungorged. Nordenfeld let him go by. There appeared a white-haired, space-tanned man with a briefcase under his arm. He saw Nordenfeld and lifted a hand in greeting. The doctor knew him. He stepped aside from the passengers and stood there. His name was Jensen, and he represented a fund which invested the surplus money of insurance companies. He traveled a great deal to check on the business interests of that organization. The doctor grunted, "What're you doing here? I thought you'd be on the far side of the cluster." "Oh, I get about," said Jensen. His manner was not quite normal. He was tense. "I got here two weeks ago on a Q-and-C tramp from Regulus. We were a ship load of salt meat. There's romance for you! Salt meat by the spaceship load!" The doctor grunted again. All sorts of things moved through space, naturally. The _Star Queen_ carried a botanical collection for a museum and pig-beryllium and furs and enzymes and a list of items no man could remember. He watched the passengers go by, automatically counting them against the number of health slips in his hand. "Lots of passengers this trip," said Jensen. "Yes," said the doctor, watching a man with a limp. "Why?" Jensen shrugged and did not answer. He was uneasy, the doctor noted. He and Jensen were as much unlike as two men could very well be, but Jensen was good company. A ship's doctor does not have much congenial society. The file of passengers ended abruptly. There was no one in the _Star Queen's_ airlock, but the "Connected" lights still burned and the doctor could look through into the small lift-ship from the planet down below. He frowned. He fingered the sheaf of papers. "Unless I missed count," he said annoyedly, "there's supposed to be one more passenger. I don't see--" A door opened far back in the lift-ship. A small figure appeared. It was a little girl perhaps ten years old. She was very neatly dressed, though not quite the way a mother would have done it. She wore the carefully composed expression of a child with no adult in charge of her. She walked precisely from the lift-ship into the _Star Queen's_ lock. The opening closed briskly behind her. There was the rumbling of seals making themselves tight. The lights flickered for "Disconnect" and then "All Clear." They went out, and the lift-ship had pulled away from the _Star Queen_. "There's my missing passenger," said the doctor. * * * * * The child looked soberly about. She saw him. "Excuse me," she said very politely. "Is this the way I'm supposed to go?" "Through that door," said the doctor gruffly. "Thank you," said the little girl. She followed his direction. She vanished through the door. It closed. There came a deep, droning sound, which was the interplanetary drive of the _Star Queen_, building up that directional stress in space which had seemed such a triumph when it was first contrived. The ship swung gently. It would be turning out from orbit around Altaira. It swung again. The doctor knew that its astrogators were feeling for the incredibly exact pointing of its nose toward the next port which modern commercial ship operation required. An error of fractional seconds of arc would mean valuable time lost in making port some ten light-years of distance away. The drive droned and droned, building up velocity while the ship's aiming was refined and re-refined. The drive cut off abruptly. Jensen turned white. The doctor said impatiently, "There's nothing wrong. Probably a message or a report should have been beamed down to the planet and somebody forgot. We'll go on in a minute." But Jensen stood frozen. He was very pale. The interplanetary drive stayed off. Thirty seconds. A minute. Jensen swallowed audibly. Two minutes. Three. The steady, monotonous drone began again. It continued interminably, as if while it was off the ship's head had swung wide of its destination and the whole business of lining up for a jump in overdrive had to be done all over again. Then there came that "Ping-g-g-g!" and the sensation of spiral fall which meant overdrive. The droning ceased. Jensen breathed again. The ship's doctor looked at him sharply. Jensen had been taut. Now the tensions had left his body, but he looked as if he were going to shiver. Instead, he mopped a suddenly streaming forehead. "I think," said Jensen in a strange voice, "that I'll have a drink. Or several. Will you join me?" Nordenfeld searched his face. A ship's doctor has many duties in space. Passengers can have many things wrong with them, and in the absolute isolation of overdrive they can be remarkably affected by each other. "I'll be at the fourth-level bar in twenty minutes," said Nordenfeld. "Can you wait that long?" "I probably won't wait to have a drink," said Jensen. "But I'll be there." The doctor nodded curtly. He went away. He made no guesses, though he'd just observed the new passengers carefully and was fully aware of the strict health regulations that affect space travel. As a physician he knew that the most deadly thing in the universe was chlorophage and that the planet Kamerun was only one solar system away. It had been a stop for the _Star Queen_ until four years ago. He puzzled over Jensen's tenseness and the relief he'd displayed when the overdrive field came on. But he didn't guess. Chlorophage didn't enter his mind. Not until later. * * * * * He saw the little girl who'd come out of the airlock last of all the passengers. She sat on a sofa as if someone had told her to wait there until something or other was arranged. Doctor Nordenfeld barely glanced at her. He'd known Jensen for a considerable time. Jensen had been a passenger on the _Star Queen_ half a dozen times, and he shouldn't have been upset by the temporary stoppage of an interplanetary drive. Nordenfeld divided people into two classes, those who were not and those who were worth talking to. There weren't many of the latter. Jensen was. He filed away the health slips. Then, thinking of Jensen's pallor, he asked what had happened to make the _Star Queen_ interrupt her slow-speed drive away from orbit around Altaira. The purser told him. But the purser was fussily concerned because there were so many extra passengers from Altaira. He might not be able to take on the expected number of passengers at the next stop-over point. It would be bad business to have to refuse passengers! It would give the space line a bad name. Then the air officer stopped Nordenfeld as he was about to join Jensen in the fourth-level bar. It was time for a medical inspection of the quarter-acre of Banthyan jungle which purified and renewed the air of the ship. Nordenfeld was expected to check the complex ecological system of the air room. Specifically, he was expected to look for and identify any patches of colorlessness appearing on the foliage of the jungle plants the _Star Queen_ carried through space. The air officer was discreet and Nordenfeld was silent about the ultimate reason for the inspection. Nobody liked to think about it. But if a particular kind of bleaching appeared, as if the chlorophyll of the leaves were being devoured by something too small to be seen by an optical microscope--why, that would be chlorophage. It would also be a death sentence for the _Star Queen_ and everybody in her. But the jungle passed medical inspection. The plants grew lushly in soil which periodically was flushed with hydroponic solution and then drained away again. The UV lamps were properly distributed and the different quarters of the air room were alternately lighted and darkened. And there were no colorless patches. A steady wind blew through the air room and had its excess moisture and unpleasing smells wrung out before it recirculated through the ship. Doctor Nordenfeld authorized the trimming of some liana-like growths which were developing woody tissue at the expense of leaves. The air officer also told him about the reason for the turning off of the interplanetary drive. He considered it a very curious happening. The doctor left the air room and passed the place where the little girl--the last passenger to board the _Star Queen_--waited patiently for somebody to arrange something. Doctor Nordenfeld took a lift to the fourth level and went into the bar where Jensen should be waiting. He was. He had an empty glass before him. Nordenfeld sat down and dialed for a drink. He had an indefinite feeling that something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. There are always things going wrong for a ship's doctor, though. There are so many demands on his patience that he is usually short of it. Jensen watched him sip at his drink. "A bad day?" he asked. He'd gotten over his own tension. * * * * * Nordenfeld shrugged, but his scowl deepened. "There are a lot of new passengers." He realized that he was trying to explain his feelings to himself. "They'll come to me feeling miserable. I have to tell each one that if they feel heavy and depressed, it may be the gravity-constant of the ship, which is greater than their home planet. If they feel light-headed and giddy, it may be because the gravity-constant of the ship is less than they're used to. But it doesn't make them feel better, so they come back for a second assurance. I'll be overwhelmed with such complaints within two hours." Jensen waited. Then he said casually--too casually, "Does anybody ever suspect chlorophage?" "No," said Nordenfeld shortly. Jensen fidgeted. He sipped. Then he said, "What's the news from Kamerun, anyhow?" "There isn't any," said Nordenfeld. "Naturally! Why ask?" "I just wondered," said Jensen. After a moment: "What was the last news?" "There hasn't been a message from Kamerun in two years," said Nordenfeld curtly. "There's no sign of anything green anywhere on the planet. It's considered to be--uninhabited." Jensen licked his lips. "That's what I understood. Yes." Nordenfeld drank half his drink and said unpleasantly, "There were thirty million people on Kamerun when the chlorophage appeared. At first it was apparently a virus which fed on the chlorophyll of plants. They died. Then it was discovered that it could also feed on hemoglobin, which is chemically close to chlorophyll. Hemoglobin is the red coloring matter of the blood. When the virus consumed it, people began to die. Kamerun doctors found that the chlorophage virus was transmitted by contact, by inhalation, by ingestion. It traveled as dust particles and on the feet of insects, and it was in drinking water and the air one breathed. The doctors on Kamerun warned spaceships off and the Patrol put a quarantine fleet in orbit around it to keep anybody from leaving. And nobody left. And everybody died. _And_ so did every living thing that had chlorophyll in its leaves or hemoglobin in its blood, or that needed plant or animal tissues to feed on. There's not a person left alive on Kamerun, nor an animal or bird or insect, nor a fish nor a tree, or plant or weed or blade of grass. There's no longer a quarantine fleet there. Nobody'll go there and there's nobody left to leave. But there are beacon satellites to record any calls and to warn any fool against landing. If the chlorophage got loose and was carried about by spaceships, it could kill the other forty billion humans in the galaxy, together with every green plant or animal with hemoglobin in its blood." "That," said Jensen, and tried to smile, "sounds final." "It isn't," Nordenfeld told him. "If there's something in the universe which can kill every living thing except its maker, that something should be killed. There should be research going on about the chlorophage. It would be deadly dangerous work, but it should be done. A quarantine won't stop contagion. It can only hinder it. That's useful, but not enough." Jensen moistened his lips. Nordenfeld said abruptly, "I've answered your questions. Now what's on your mind and what has it to do with chlorophage?" Jensen started. He went very pale. "It's too late to do anything about it," said Nordenfeld. "It's probably nonsense anyhow. But what is it?" Jensen stammered out his story. It explained why there were so many passengers for the _Star Queen_. It even explained his departure from Altaira. But it was only a rumor--the kind of rumor that starts up untraceably and can never be verified. This one was officially denied by the Altairan planetary government. But it was widely believed by the sort of people who usually were well-informed. Those who could sent their families up to the _Star Queen_. And that was why Jensen had been tense and worried until the liner had actually left Altaira behind. Then he felt safe. Nordenfeld's jaw set as Jensen told his tale. He made no comment, but when Jensen was through he nodded and went away, leaving his drink unfinished. Jensen couldn't see his face; it was hard as granite. And Nordenfeld, the ship's doctor of the _Star Queen_, went into the nearest bathroom and was violently sick. It was a reaction to what he'd just learned. * * * * * There were stars which were so far away that their distance didn't mean anything. There were planets beyond counting in a single star cluster, let alone the galaxy. There were comets and gas clouds in space, and worlds where there was life, and other worlds where life was impossible. The quantity of matter which was associated with life was infinitesimal, and the quantity associated with consciousness--animal life--was so much less that the difference couldn't be expressed. But the amount of animal life which could reason was so minute by comparison that the nearest ratio would be that of a single atom to a sun. Mankind, in fact, was the least impressive fraction of the smallest category of substance in the galaxy. But men did curious things. There was the cutting off of the _Star Queen's_ short-distance drive before she'd gotten well away from Altaira. There had been a lift-ship locked to the liner's passenger airlock. When the last passenger entered the big ship--a little girl--the airlocks disconnected and the lift-ship pulled swiftly away. It was not quite two miles from the _Star Queen_ when its emergency airlocks opened and spacesuited figures plunged out of it to emptiness. Simultaneously, the ports of the lift-ship glowed and almost immediately the whole plating turned cherry-red, crimson, and then orange, from unlimited heat developed within it. The lift-ship went incandescent and ruptured and there was a spout of white-hot air, and then it turned blue-white and puffed itself to nothing in metallic steam. Where it had been there was only shining gas, which cooled. Beyond it there were figures in spacesuits which tried to swim away from it. The _Star Queen's_ control room, obviously, saw the happening. The lift-ship's atomic pile had flared out of control and melted down the ship. It had developed something like sixty thousand degrees Fahrenheit when it ceased to flare. It did not blow up; it only vaporized. But the process must have begun within seconds after the lift-ship broke contact with the _Star Queen_. In automatic reaction, the man in control of the liner cut her drive and offered to turn back and pick up the spacesuited figures in emptiness. The offer was declined with almost hysterical haste. In fact, it was barely made before the other lift-ships moved in on rescue missions. They had waited. And they were picking up castaways before the _Star Queen_ resumed its merely interplanetary drive and the process of aiming for a solar system some thirty light-years away. When the liner flicked into overdrive, more than half the floating figures had been recovered, which was remarkable. It was almost as remarkable as the flare-up of the lift-ship's atomic pile. One has to know exactly what to do to make a properly designed atomic pile vaporize metal. Somebody had known. Somebody had done it. And the other lift-ships were waiting to pick up the destroyed lift-ship's crew when it happened. The matter of the lift-ship's destruction was fresh in Nordenfeld's mind when Jensen had told his story. The two items fitted together with an appalling completeness. They left little doubt or hope. * * * * * Nordenfeld consulted the passenger records and presently was engaged in conversation with the sober-faced, composed little girl on a sofa in one of the cabin levels of the _Star Queen_. "You're Kathy Brand, I believe," he said matter-of-factly. "I understand you've been having a rather bad time of it." She seemed to consider. "It hasn't been too bad," she assured him. "At least I've been seeing new things. I got dreadfully tired of seeing the same things all the time." "What things?" asked Nordenfeld. His expression was not stern now, though his inner sensations were not pleasant. He needed to talk to this child, and he had learned how to talk to children. The secret is to talk exactly as to an adult, with respect and interest. "There weren't any windows," she explained, "and my father couldn't play with me, and all the toys and books were ruined by the water. It was dreadfully tedious. There weren't any other children, you see. And presently there weren't any grownups but my father." Nordenfeld only looked more interested. He'd been almost sure ever since knowing of the lift-ship's destruction and listening to Jensen's account of the rumor the government of Altaira denied. He was horribly sure now. "How long were you in the place that hadn't any windows?" "Oh, dreadfully long!" she said. "Since I was only six years old! Almost half my life!" She smiled brightly at him. "I remember looking out of windows and even playing out-of-doors, but my father and mother said I had to live in this place. My father talked to me often and often. He was very nice. But he had to wear that funny suit and keep the glass over his face because he didn't live in the room. The glass was because he went under the water, you know." Nordenfeld asked carefully conversational-sounding questions. Kathy Brand, now aged ten, had been taken by her father to live in a big room without any windows. It hadn't any doors, either. There were plants in it, and there were bluish lights to shine on the plants, and there was a place in one corner where there was water. When her father came in to talk to her, he came up out of the water wearing the funny suit with glass over his face. He went out the same way. There was a place in the wall where she could look out into another room, and at first her mother used to come and smile at her through the glass, and she talked into something she held in her hand, and her voice came inside. But later she stopped coming. * * * * * There was only one possible kind of place which would answer Kathy's description. When she was six years old she had been put into some university's aseptic-environment room. And she had stayed there. Such rooms were designed for biological research. They were built and then made sterile of all bacterial life and afterward entered through a tank of antiseptic. Anyone who entered wore a suit which was made germ-free by its passage through the antiseptic, and he did not breathe the air of the aseptic room, but air which was supplied him through a hose, the exhaled-air hose also passing under the antiseptic outside. No germ or microbe or virus could possibly get into such a room without being bathed in corrosive fluid which would kill it. So long as there was someone alive outside to take care of her, a little girl could live there and defy even chlorophage. And Kathy Brand had done it. But, on the other hand, Kamerun was the only planet where it would be necessary, and it was the only world from which a father would land his small daughter on another planet's spaceport. There was no doubt. Nordenfeld grimly imagined someone--he would have had to be a microbiologist even to attempt it--fighting to survive and defeat the chlorophage while he kept his little girl in an aseptic-environment room. She explained quite pleasantly as Nordenfeld asked more questions. There had been other people besides her father, but for a long time there had been only him. And Nordenfeld computed that somehow she'd been kept alive on the dead planet Kamerun for four long years. Recently, though--very recently--her father told her that they were leaving. Wearing his funny, antiseptic-wetted suit, he'd enclosed her in a plastic bag with a tank attached to it. Air flowed from the tank into the bag and out through a hose that was all wetted inside. She breathed quite comfortably. It made sense. An air tank could be heated and its contents sterilized to supply germ-free--or virus-free--air. And Kathy's father took an axe and chopped away a wall of the room. He picked her up, still inside the plastic bag, and carried her out. There was nobody about. There was no grass. There were no trees. Nothing moved. Here Kathy's account was vague, but Nordenfeld could guess at the strangeness of a dead planet, to the child who barely remembered anything but the walls of an aseptic-environment room. Her father carried her to a little ship, said Kathy, and they talked a lot after the ship took off. He told her that he was taking her to a place where she could run about outdoors and play, but he had to go somewhere else. He did mysterious things which to Nordenfeld meant a most scrupulous decontamination of a small spaceship's interior and its airlock. Its outer surface would reach a temperature at which no organic material could remain uncooked. And finally, said Kathy, her father had opened a door and told her to step out and good-by, and she did, and the ship went away--her father still wearing his funny suit--and people came and asked her questions she did not understand. * * * * * Kathy's narrative fitted perfectly into the rumor Jensen said circulated among usually well-informed people on Altaira. They believed, said Jensen, that a small spaceship had appeared in the sky above Altaira's spaceport. It ignored all calls, landed swiftly, opened an airlock and let someone out, and plunged for the sky again. And the story said that radar telescopes immediately searched for and found the ship in space. They trailed it, calling vainly for it to identify itself, while it drove at top speed for Altaira's sun. It reached the sun and dived in. Nordenfeld reached the skipper on intercom vision-phone. Jensen had been called there to repeat his tale to the skipper. "I've talked to the child," said Nordenfeld grimly, "and I'm putting her into isolation quarters in the hospital compartment. She's from Kamerun. She was kept in an aseptic-environment room at some university or other. She says her father looked after her. I get an impression of a last-ditch fight by microbiologists against the chlorophage. They lost it. Apparently her father landed her on Altaira and dived into the sun. From her story, he took every possible precaution to keep her from contagion or carrying contagion with her to Altaira. Maybe he succeeded. There's no way to tell--yet." The skipper listened in silence. Jensen said thinly, "Then the story about the landing was true." "Yes. The authorities isolated her, and then shipped her off on the _Star Queen_. Your well-informed friends, Jensen, didn't know what their government was going to do!" Nordenfeld paused, and said more coldly still, "They didn't handle it right. They should have killed her, painlessly but at once. Her body should have been immersed, with everything that had touched it, in full-strength nitric acid. The same acid should have saturated the place where the ship landed and every place she walked. Every room she entered, and every hall she passed through, should have been doused with nitric and then burned. It would still not have been all one could wish. The air she breathed couldn't be recaptured and heated white-hot. But the chances for Altaira's population to go on living would be improved. Instead, they isolated her and they shipped her off with us--and thought they were accomplishing something by destroying the lift-ship that had her in an airtight compartment until she walked into the _Star Queen's_ lock!" The skipper said heavily, "Do you think she's brought chlorophage on board?" "I've no idea," said Nordenfeld. "If she did, it's too late to do anything but drive the _Star Queen_ into the nearest sun.... No. Before that, one should give warning that she was aground on Altaira. No ship should land there. No ship should take off. Altaira should be blocked off from the rest of the galaxy like Kamerun was. And to the same end result." Jensen said unsteadily; "There'll be trouble if this is known on the ship. There'll be some unwilling to sacrifice themselves." "Sacrifice?" said Nordenfeld. "They're dead! But before they lie down, they can keep everybody they care about from dying too! Would you want to land and have your wife and family die of it?" The skipper said in the same heavy voice, "What are the probabilities? You say there was an effort to keep her from contagion. What are the odds?" "Bad," said Nordenfeld. "The man tried, for the child's sake. But I doubt he managed to make a completely aseptic transfer from the room she lived in to the spaceport on Altaira. The authorities on Altaira should have known it. They should have killed her and destroyed everything she'd touched. And _still_ the odds would have been bad!" Jensen said, "But you can't do that, Nordenfeld! Not now!" "I shall take every measure that seems likely to be useful." Then Nordenfeld snapped, "Damnation, man! Do you realize that this chlorophage can wipe out the human race if it really gets loose? Do you think I'll let sentiment keep me from doing what has to be done?" He flicked off the vision-phone. * * * * * The _Star Queen_ came out of overdrive. Her skipper arranged it to be done at the time when the largest possible number of her passengers and crew would be asleep. Those who were awake, of course, felt the peculiar inaudible sensation which one subjectively translated into sound. They felt the momentary giddiness which--having no natural parallel--feels like the sensation of treading on a stair-step that isn't there, combined with a twisting sensation so it is like a spiral fall. The passengers who were awake were mostly in the bars, and the bartenders explained that the ship had shifted overdrive generators and there was nothing to it. Those who were asleep started awake, but there was nothing in their surroundings to cause alarm. Some blinked in the darkness of their cabins and perhaps turned on the cabin lights, but everything seemed normal. They turned off the lights again. Some babies cried and had to be soothed. But there was nothing except wakening to alarm anybody. Babies went back to sleep and mothers returned to their beds and--such awakenings being customary--went back to sleep also. It was natural enough. There were vague and commonplace noises, together making an indefinite hum. Fans circulated the ship's purified and reinvigorated air. Service motors turned in remote parts of the hull. Cooks and bakers moved about in the kitchens. Nobody could tell by any physical sensation that the _Star Queen_ was not in overdrive, except in the control room. There the stars could be seen. They were unthinkably remote. The ship was light-years from any place where humans lived. She did not drive. Her skipper had a family on Cassim. He would not land a plague ship which might destroy them. The executive officer had a small son. If his return meant that small son's death as well as his own, he would not return. All through the ship, the officers who had to know the situation recognized that if chlorophage had gotten into the _Star Queen_, the ship must not land anywhere. Nobody could survive. Nobody must attempt it. So the huge liner hung in the emptiness between the stars, waiting until it could be known definitely that chlorophage was aboard or that with absolute certainty it was absent. The question was up to Doctor Nordenfeld. He had isolated himself with Kathy in the ship's hospital compartment. Since the ship was built it had been used once by a grown man who developed mumps, and once by an adolescent boy who developed a raging fever which antibiotics stopped. Health measures for space travel were strict. The hospital compartment had only been used those two times. * * * * * On this voyage it had been used to contain an assortment of botanical specimens from a planet seventy light-years beyond Regulus. They were on their way to the botanical research laboratory on Cassim. As a routine precaution they'd been placed in the hospital, which could be fumigated when they were taken out. Now the doctor had piled them in one side of the compartment, which he had divided in half with a transparent plastic sheet. He stayed in that side. Kathy occupied the other. She had some flowering plants to look at and admire. They'd come from the air room and she was delighted with their coloring and beauty. But Doctor Nordenfeld had put them there as a continuing test for chlorophage. If Kathy carried that murderous virus on her person, the flowering plants would die of it--probably even before she did. It was a scrupulously scientific test for the deadly stuff. Completely sealed off except for a circulator to freshen the air she breathed, Kathy was settled with toys and picture books. It was an improvised but well-designed germproof room. The air for Kathy to breathe was sterilized before it reached her. The air she had breathed was sterilized as it left her plastic-sided residence. It should be the perfection of protection for the ship--if it was not already too late. The vision-phone buzzed. Doctor Nordenfeld stirred in his chair and flipped the switch. The _Star Queen's_ skipper looked at him out of the screen. "I've cut the overdrive," said the skipper. "The passengers haven't been told." "Very sensible," said the doctor. "When will we know?" "That we can go on living? When the other possibility is exhausted." "Then, how will we know?" asked skipper stonily. Doctor Nordenfeld ticked off the possibilities. He bent down a finger. "One, her father took great pains. Maybe he did manage an aseptic transfer from a germ-free room to Altaira. Kathy may not have been exposed to the chlorophage. If she hasn't, no bleached spots will show up on the air-room foliage or among the flowering plants in the room with her. Nobody in the crew or among the passengers will die." He bent down a second finger. "It is probably more likely that white spots will appear on the plants in the air room _and_ here, and people will start to die. That will mean Kathy brought contagion here the instant she arrived, and almost certainly that Altaira will become like Kamerun--uninhabited. In such a case we are finished." * * * * * He bent down a third finger. "Not so likely, but preferable, white spots may appear on the foliage inside the plastic with Kathy, but not in the ship's air room. In that case she was exposed, but the virus was incubating when she came on board, and only developed and spread after she was isolated. Possibly, in such a case, we can save the passengers and crew, but the ship will probably have to be melted down in space. It would be tricky, but it might be done." The skipper hesitated. "If that last happened, she--" "I will take whatever measures are necessary," said Doctor Nordenfeld. "To save your conscience, we won't discuss them. They should have been taken on Altaira." He reached over and flipped off the phone. Then he looked up and into the other part of the ship's hospital space. Kathy came out from behind a screen, where she'd made ready for bed. She was beaming. She had a large picture book under one arm and a doll under the other. "It's all right for me to have these with me, isn't it, Doctor Nordenfeld?" she asked hopefully. "I didn't have any picture books but one, and it got worn out. And my doll--it was dreadful how shabby she was!" The doctor frowned. She smiled at him. He said, "After all, picture books are made to be looked at and dolls to be played with." She skipped to the tiny hospital bed on the far side of the presumably virusproof partition. She climbed into it and zestfully arranged the doll to share it. She placed the book within easy reach. She said, "I think my father would say you were very nice, Doctor Nordenfeld, to look after me so well." "No-o-o-o," said the doctor in a detached voice. "I'm just doing what anybody ought to do." She snuggled down under the covers. He looked at his watch and shrugged. It was very easy to confuse official night with official day, in space. Everybody else was asleep. He'd been putting Kathy through tests which began with measurements of pulse and respiration and temperature and went on from there. Kathy managed them herself, under his direction. He settled down with one of the medical books he'd brought into the isolation section with him. Its title was _Decontamination of Infectious Material from Different Planets_. He read it grimly. * * * * * The time came when the _Star Queen_ should have come out of overdrive with the sun Circe blazing fiercely nearby, and a green planet with ice caps to be approached on interplanetary drive. There should have been droning, comforting drive noises to assure the passengers--who naturally could not see beyond the ship's steel walls--that they were within a mere few million miles of a world where sunshine was normal, and skies were higher than ship's ceilings, and there were fascinating things to see and do. Some of the passengers packed their luggage and put it outside their cabins to be picked up for landing. But no stewards came for it. Presently there was an explanation. The ship had run under maximum speed and the planetfall would be delayed. The passengers were disappointed but not concerned. The luggage vanished into cabins again. The _Star Queen_ floated in space among a thousand thousand million stars. Her astrogators had computed a course to the nearest star into which to drive the _Star Queen_, but it would not be used unless there was mutiny among the crew. It would be better to go in remote orbit around Circe III and give the news of chlorophage on Altaira, if Doctor Nordenfeld reported it on the ship. Time passed. One day. Two. Three. Then Jensen called the hospital compartment on vision-phone. His expression was dazed. Nordenfeld saw the interior of the control room behind Jensen. He said, "You're a passenger, Jensen. How is it you're in the control room?" Jensen moistened his lips. "The skipper thought I'd better not associate with the other passengers. I've stayed with the officers the past few days. We--the ones who know what's in prospect--we're keeping separate from the others so--nobody will let anything out by accident." "Very wise. When the skipper comes back on duty, ask him to call me. I've something interesting to tell him." "He's--checking something now," said Jensen. His voice was thin and reedy. "The--air officer reports there are white patches on the plants in the air room. They're growing. Fast. He told me to tell you. He's--gone to make sure." "No need," said Nordenfeld bitterly. He swung the vision-screen. It faced that part of the hospital space beyond the plastic sheeting. There were potted flowering plants there. They had pleased Kathy. They shared her air. And there were white patches on their leaves. "I thought," said Nordenfeld with an odd mirthless levity, "that the skipper'd be interested. It is of no importance whatever now, but I accomplished something remarkable. Kathy's father didn't manage an aseptic transfer. She brought the chlorophage with her. But I confined it. The plants on the far side of that plastic sheet show the chlorophage patches plainly. I expect Kathy to show signs of anemia shortly. I'd decided that drastic measures would have to be taken, and it looked like they might work, because I've confined the virus. It's there where Kathy is, but it isn't where I am. All the botanical specimens on my side of the sheet are untouched. The phage hasn't hit them. It is remarkable. But it doesn't matter a damn if the air room's infected. And I was so proud!" Jensen did not respond. * * * * * Nordenfeld said ironically, "Look what I accomplished! I protected the air plants on my side See? They're beautifully green! No sign of infection! It means that a man can work with chlorophage! A laboratory ship could land on Kamerun and keep itself the equivalent of an aseptic-environment room while the damned chlorophage was investigated and ultimately whipped! And it doesn't matter!" Jensen said numbly, "We can't ever make port. We ought--we ought to--" "We'll take the necessary measures," Nordenfeld told him. "Very quietly and very efficiently, with neither the crew nor the passengers knowing that Altaira sent the chlorophage on board the _Star Queen_ in the hope of banishing it from there. The passengers won't know that their own officials shipped it off with them as they tried to run away.... And I was so proud that I'd improvised an aseptic room to keep Kathy in! I sterilized the air that went in to her, and I sterilized--" Then he stopped. He stopped quite short. He stared at the air unit, set up and with two pipes passing through the plastic partition which cut the hospital space in two. He turned utterly white. He went roughly to the air machine. He jerked back its cover. He put his hand inside. Minutes later he faced back to the vision-screen from which Jensen looked apathetically at him. "Tell the skipper to call me," he said in a savage tone. "Tell him to call me instantly he comes back! Before he issues any orders at all!" He bent over the sterilizing equipment and very carefully began to disassemble it. He had it completely apart when Kathy waked. She peered at him through the plastic separation sheet. "Good morning, Doctor Nordenfeld," she said cheerfully. The doctor grunted. Kathy smiled at him. She had gotten on very good terms with the doctor, since she'd been kept in the ship's hospital. She did not feel that she was isolated. In having the doctor where she could talk to him at any time, she had much more company than ever before. She had read her entire picture book to him and discussed her doll at length. She took it for granted that when he did not answer or frowned that he was simply busy. But he was company because she could see him. Doctor Nordenfeld put the air apparatus together with an extremely peculiar expression on his face. It had been built for Kathy's special isolation by a ship's mechanic. It should sterilize the used air going into Kathy's part of the compartment, and it should sterilize the used air pushed out by the supplied fresh air. The hospital itself was an independent sealed unit, with its own chemical air freshener, and it had been divided into two. The air freshener was where Doctor Nordenfeld could attend to it, and the sterilizer pump simply shared the freshening with Kathy. But-- But the pipe that pumped air to Kathy was brown and discolored from having been used for sterilizing, and the pipe that brought air back was not. It was cold. It had never been heated. So Doctor Nordenfeld had been exposed to any contagion Kathy could spread. He hadn't been protected at all. Yet the potted plants on Kathy's side of the barrier were marked with great white splotches which grew almost as one looked, while the botanical specimens in the doctor's part of the hospital--as much infected as Kathy's could have been, by failure of the ship's mechanic to build the sterilizer to work two ways: the stacked plants, the alien plants, the strange plants from seventy light-years beyond Regulus--they were vividly green. There was no trace of chlorophage on them. Yet they had been as thoroughly exposed as Doctor Nordenfeld himself! The doctor's hands shook. His eyes burned. He took out a surgeon's scalpel and ripped the plastic partition from floor to ceiling. Kathy watched interestedly. "Why did you do that, Doctor Nordenfeld?" she asked. He said in an emotionless, unnatural voice, "I'm going to do something that it was very stupid of me not to do before. It should have been done when you were six years old, Kathy. It should have been done on Kamerun, and after that on Altaira. Now we're going to do it here. You can help me." * * * * * The _Star Queen_ had floated out of overdrive long enough to throw all distance computations off. But she swung about, and swam back, and presently she was not too far from the world where she was now many days overdue. Lift-ships started up from the planet's surface. But the _Star Queen_ ordered them back. "Get your spaceport health officer on the vision-phone," ordered the _Star Queen's_ skipper. "We've had chlorophage on board." There was panic. Even at a distance of a hundred thousand miles, chlorophage could strike stark terror into anybody. But presently the image of the spaceport health officer appeared on the _Star Queen's_ screen. "We're not landing," said Doctor Nordenfeld. "There's almost certainly an outbreak of chlorophage on Altaira, and we're going back to do something about it. It got on our ship with passengers from there. We've whipped it, but we may need some help." The image of the health officer aground was a mask of horror for seconds after Nordenfeld's last statement. Then his expression became incredulous, though still horrified. "We came on to here," said Doctor Nordenfeld, "to get you to send word by the first other ship to the Patrol that a quarantine has to be set up on Altaira, and we need to be inspected for recovery from chlorophage infection. And we need to pass on, officially, the discovery that whipped the contagion on this ship. We were carrying botanical specimens to Cassim and we discovered that they were immune to chlorophage. That's absurd, of course. Their green coloring is the same substance as in plants under Sol-type suns anywhere. They couldn't be immune to chlorophage. So there had to be something else." "Was--was there?" asked the health officer. "There was. Those specimens came from somewhere beyond Regulus. They carried, as normal symbiotes on their foliage, microörganisms unknown both on Kamerun and Altaira. The alien bugs are almost the size of virus particles, feed on virus particles, and are carried by contact, air, and so on, as readily as virus particles themselves. We discovered that those microörganisms devoured chlorophage. We washed them off the leaves of the plants, sprayed them in our air-room jungle, and they multiplied faster than the chlorophage. Our whole air supply is now loaded with an airborne antichlorophage organism which has made our crew and passengers immune. We're heading back to Altaira to turn loose our merry little bugs on that planet. It appears that they grow on certain vegetation, but they'll live anywhere there's phage to eat. We're keeping some chlorophage cultures alive so our microörganisms don't die out for lack of food!" The medical officer on the ground gasped. "Keeping phage _alive_?" * * * * * "I hope you've recorded this," said Nordenfeld. "It's rather important. This trick should have been tried on Kamerun and Altaira and everywhere else new diseases have turned up. When there's a bug on one planet that's deadly to us, there's bound to be a bug on some other planet that's deadly to it! The same goes for any pests or vermin--the principle of natural enemies. All we have to do is find the enemies!" There was more communication between the _Star Queen_ and the spaceport on Circe III, which the _Star Queen_ would not make other contact with on this trip, and presently the big liner headed back to Altaira. It was necessary for official as well as humanitarian reasons. There would need to be a health examination of the _Star Queen_ to certify that it was safe for passengers to breathe her air and eat in her restaurants and swim in her swimming pools and occupy the six levels of passenger cabins she contained. This would have to be done by a Patrol ship, which would turn up at Altaira. The _Star Queen's_ skipper would be praised by his owners for not having driven the liner into a star, and the purser would be forgiven for the confusion in his records due to off-schedule operations of the big ship, and Jensen would find in the ending of all terror of chlorophage an excellent reason to look for appreciation in the value of the investments he was checking up. And Doctor Nordenfeld.... He talked very gravely to Kathy. "I'm afraid," he told her, "that your father isn't coming back. What would you like to do?" She smiled at him hopefully. "Could I be your little girl?" she asked. Doctor Nordenfeld grunted. "Hm ... I'll think about it." But he smiled at her. She grinned at him. And it was settled. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Doctor, by Murray Leinster Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why was Falder worried about Ruth?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The context is a play called "Justice" by John Galsworthy. The play is divided into four acts. The first act takes place in the office of James and Walter How, a law firm, on a July morning. The office is old-fashioned and furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. SWEEDLE tells COKESON that there's a party wants to see FALDER, the firm's junior clerk. COKESON sends SWEEDLE to Morris's to send FALDER there. However, SWEEDLE returns and tells COKESON that the party is a woman, and she's brought her children with her. COKESON is hesitant but allows the woman, RUTH HONEYWILL, to see FALDER. RUTH tells FALDER that Honeywill, her husband, has been ill-treating her, and she's been living with FALDER. FALDER is torn between his love for RUTH and his desire to escape his situation. He gives RUTH seven pounds and tells her to meet him at the booking office at 11.45 that night. RUTH and FALDER share a passionate kiss before COKESON re-enters the room. COKESON is shocked and tries to intervene, but FALDER quickly composes himself and leaves the room. COKESON is left looking uncomfortable and tries to distract himself by adding up figures in his pass-book. WALTER HOW, the son of the firm's partner, enters the room and talks to COKESON about some business matters. COKESON mentions that he's been adding up figures in the pass-book and offers to let WALTER take it. WALTER agrees and takes the pass-book. JAMES HOW, the firm's partner, enters the room and talks to WALTER and COKESON about some business matters. COKESON mentions that he's been adding up figures in the pass-book and offers to let JAMES take it. JAMES agrees and takes the pass-book. COKESON is left looking uncomfortable and tries to Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Her husband abused her" ]	22,762	narrativeqa	en	null	b91ede2d2d08ea6f5f3b894c932b70e141665dd59d334dc8	Produced by David Widger GALSWORTHY PLAYS SECOND SERIES--NO. 1 JUSTICE By John Galsworthy PERSONS OF THE PLAY JAMES HOW, solicitor WALTER HOW, solicitor ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk SWEEDLE, their office-boy WISTER, a detective COWLEY, a cashier MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate HECTOR FROME, a young advocate CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain EDWARD CLEMENT, a prison doctor WOODER, a chief warder MOANEY, convict CLIFTON, convict O'CLEARY, convict RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman A NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITERS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS, JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS TIME: The Present. ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July. ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. ACT III. A prison. December. SCENE I. The Governor's office. SCENE II. A corridor. SCENE III. A cell. ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. March, two years later. CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINE Walter How MR. CHARLES MAUDE Cokeson MR. EDMUND GWENN Falder MR. DENNIS EADIE The Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEE The Detective MR. LESLIE CARTER The Cashier MR. C. E. VERNON The Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULT The Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYE The Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANT The Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEY The Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBEN The Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSON Wooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYD Moaney MR. ROBERT PATEMAN Clipton MR. O. P. HEGGIE O'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANE Ruth Honeywill Miss EDYTH OLIVE ACT I The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of James and Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned, furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the partners' room. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. COKESON. And five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks the page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one. SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carry two. Send him to Morris's. What name? SWEEDLE. Honeywill. COKESON. What's his business? SWEEDLE. It's a woman. COKESON. A lady? SWEEDLE. No, a person. COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closes the pass-book.] SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, please? RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She is a tall woman, twenty-six years old, unpretentiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. She stands very still, having a natural dignity of pose and gesture. SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young man's out. [Suspiciously] State your business, please. RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slight West-Country accent] It's a personal matter, sir. COKESON. We don't allow private callers here. Will you leave a message? RUTH. I'd rather see him, please. She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. Suppose I had my friends here to see me! It'd never do! RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here you are wanting to see a junior clerk! RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him. COKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of outraged interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to his private address. RUTH. He's not there. COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know what to say. It's no affair of the office. RUTH. But what am I to do? COKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. SWEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer office and passes through into it, with a quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully leaving the door an inch or two open. COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, this won't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in! An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer door of the outer office. SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some children outside here. RUTH. They're mine, please. SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check? RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON] COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk short as it is. RUTH. It's a matter of life and death. COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death! SWEEDLE. Here is Falder. FALDER has entered through the outer office. He is a pale, good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. He moves towards the door of the clerks' office, and stands there irresolute. COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not regular. Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' room. RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. He tried to cut my throat last night. I came out with the children before he was awake. I went round to you. FALDER. I've changed my digs. RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night? FALDER. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at the booking office. For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her with tragic intensity] Ruth! RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you? FALDER. Have you got your things, and the children's? RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but one bag. I can't go near home again. FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. How much must you have? RUTH. Six pounds--I could do with that, I think. FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [As if to himself] When I get out there I mean to forget it all. RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than take you against your will. FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'll have you. RUTH. You've just to say; it's not too late. FALDER. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. Booking office 11.45 to-night. If you weren't what you are to me, Ruth----! RUTH. Kiss me! They cling together passionately, there fly apart just as COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH turns and goes out through the outer office. COKESON advances deliberately to his chair and seats himself. COKESON. This isn't right, Falder. FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir. COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. FALDER. Yes, sir. COKESON. You quite understand-the party was in some distress; and, having children with her, I allowed my feelings----[He opens a drawer and produces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in the Home." It's a well-written thing. FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] Thank you, sir. COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left? FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir--for good. COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't mention about the party having called, but---- FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost apologetic voice. WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson. COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter. WALTER. My father here? COKESON. [Always with a certain patronage as to a young man who might be doing better] Mr. James has been here since eleven o'clock. WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the Guildhall. COKESON. [Looking at him as though this were exactly what was to be expected] Have you now--ye--es. This lease of Boulter's--am I to send it to counsel? WALTER. What does my father say? COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him. WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful. COKESON. It's such a little thing--hardly worth the fees. I thought you'd do it yourself. WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the responsibility. COKESON. [With an indescribable air of compassion] Just as you like. This "right-of-way" case--we've got 'em on the deeds. WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit of common ground. COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're the right side of the law. WALTER. I don't like it, COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want to set ourselves up against the law. Your father wouldn't waste his time doing that. As he speaks JAMES How comes in from the partners' room. He is a shortish man, with white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. JAMES. Morning, Walter. WALTER. How are you, father? COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as though deprecating their size] I'll just take Boulter's lease in to young Falder to draft the instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room.] WALTER. About that right-of-way case? JAMES. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I thought you told me yesterday the firm's balance was over four hundred. WALTER. So it is. JAMES. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three--five--one, no recent cheques. Just get me out the cheque-book. WALTER goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer and produces a cheque-book. JAMES. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, fifty-four, seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, eleven, fifty-two, seventy-one. Tally? WALTER. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure it was over four hundred. JAMES. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the check-book and cons the counterfoils] What's this ninety? WALTER. Who drew it? JAMES. You. WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's the day I went down to look over the Trenton Estate--last Friday week; I came back on the Tuesday, you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my expenses. It just covered all but half a crown. JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. [He sorts the cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] Seems all right. There's no nine here. This is bad. Who cashed that nine-pound cheque? WALTER. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see! I was finishing Mrs. Reddy's will--only just had time; yes--I gave it to Cokeson. JAMES. Look at that 't' 'y': that yours? WALTER. [After consideration] My y's curl back a little; this doesn't. JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room] We must ask him. Just come here and carry your mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you remember cashing a cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week--the day he went to Trenton? COKESON. Ye-es. Nine pounds. JAMES. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque.] COKESON. No! Nine pounds. My lunch was just coming in; and of course I like it hot; I gave the cheque to Davis to run round to the bank. He brought it back, all gold--you remember, Mr. Walter, you wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain contemptuous compassion] Here, let me see. You've got the wrong cheque. He takes cheque-book and pass-book from WALTER. WALTER. Afraid not. COKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. JAMES. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for Australia on Monday. Looks black, Cokeson. COKESON. [Puzzled and upset] why this'd be a felony! No, no! there's some mistake. JAMES. I hope so. COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort in the office the twenty-nine years I've been here. JAMES. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a very clever bit of work; a warning to you not to leave space after your figures, Walter. WALTER. [Vexed] Yes, I know--I was in such a tearing hurry that afternoon. COKESON. [Suddenly] This has upset me. JAMES. The counterfoil altered too--very deliberate piece of swindling. What was Davis's ship? WALTER. 'City of Rangoon'. JAMES. We ought to wire and have him arrested at Naples; he can't be there yet. COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young man. Dear, oh dear! In this office! WALTER. Shall I go to the bank and ask the cashier? JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring up Scotland Yard. WALTER. Really? He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces the room. He stops and looks at COKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the knees of his trousers. JAMES. Well, Cokeson! There's something in character, isn't there? COKESON. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't quite take you, sir. JAMES. Your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn't know you. COKESON. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with a sudden gravity] I'm sorry for that young man. I feel it as if it was my own son, Mr. James. JAMES. A nasty business! COKESON. It unsettles you. All goes on regular, and then a thing like this happens. Shan't relish my lunch to-day. JAMES. As bad as that, Cokeson? COKESON. It makes you think. [Confidentially] He must have had temptation. JAMES. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him yet. COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen. [He broods.] JAMES. I hope that fellow will hurry up. COKESON. [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] It isn't fifty yards, Mr. James. He won't be a minute. JAMES. The idea of dishonesty about this office it hits me hard, Cokeson. He goes towards the door of the partners' room. SWEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to COKESON in a low voice] She's popped up again, sir-something she forgot to say to Falder. COKESON. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh? Impossible. Send her away! JAMES. What's that? COKESON. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter. Here, I'll come myself. [He goes into the outer office as JAMES passes into the partners' room] Now, you really mustn't--we can't have anybody just now. RUTH. Not for a minute, sir? COKESON. Reely! Reely! I can't have it. If you want him, wait about; he'll be going out for his lunch directly. RUTH. Yes, sir. WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH as she leaves the outer office. COKESON. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary dragoon] Good-morning. [To WALTER] Your father's in there. WALTER crosses and goes into the partners' room. COKESON. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, Mr. Cowley. I'm quite ashamed to have to trouble you. COWLEY. I remember the cheque quite well. [As if it were a liver] Seemed in perfect order. COKESON. Sit down, won't you? I'm not a sensitive man, but a thing like this about the place--it's not nice. I like people to be open and jolly together. COWLEY. Quite so. COKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing toward the partners' room] Of course he's a young man. I've told him about it before now-- leaving space after his figures, but he will do it. COWLEY. I should remember the person's face--quite a youth. COKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show him to you, as a matter of fact. JAMES and WALTER have come back from the partners' room. JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen my son and myself, you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. It was none of us, I take it. The cashier shakes his head with a smile. JAMES. Be so good as to sit there. Cokeson, engage Mr. Cowley in conversation, will you? He goes toward FALDER'S room. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. JAMES. Well? COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man in there, do you? He's a nervous young feller. JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake of Falder's name, to say nothing of yours. COKESON. [With Some dignity] That'll look after itself, sir. He's been upset once this morning; I don't want him startled again. JAMES. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon niceness over a thing like this--too serious. Just talk to Mr. Cowley. He opens the door of FALDER'S room. JAMES. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will you, Falder? COKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs? The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer. COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare me, I suppose? At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to see FALDER standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on COWLEY, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake. FALDER. [Advancing with the papers] Here they are, sir! JAMES. [Taking them] Thank you. FALDER. Do you want me, sir? JAMES. No, thanks! FALDER turns and goes back into his own room. As he shuts the door JAMES gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the cashier nods. JAMES. Sure? This isn't as we suspected. COWLEY. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't slip out of that room? COKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window--a whole floor and a basement. The door of FALDER'S room is quietly opened, and FALDER, with his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office. JAMES. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder? FALDER. To have my lunch, sir. JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want to speak to you about this lease. FALDER. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room.] COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the young man who cashed the cheque. It was the last cheque I handled that morning before my lunch. These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slip of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning! JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley! COWLEY. [To COKESON] Good-morning. COKESON. [With Stupefaction] Good-morning. The cashier goes out through the outer office. COKESON sits down in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the morass of his feelings. WALTER. What are you going to do? JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and the counterfoil. COKESON. I don't understand. I thought young Davis---- JAMES. We shall see. WALTER. One moment, father: have you thought it out? JAMES. Call him in! COKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening FALDER'S door; hoarsely] Step in here a minute. FALDER. [Impassively] Yes, sir? JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] You know this cheque, Falder? FALDER. No, sir. JADES. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week. FALDER. Oh! yes, sir; that one--Davis gave it me. JAMES. I know. And you gave Davis the cash? FALDER. Yes, sir. JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this? FALDER. Yes, I think so, sir. JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque for nine pounds? FALDER. No, sir--ninety. JAMES. Nine, Falder. FALDER. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir. JAMES. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque was altered; whether by you or Davis is the question. FALDER. I--I COKESON. Take your time, take your time. FALDER. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir. JAMES. The cheque was handed to--Cokeson by Mr. Walter at one o'clock; we know that because Mr. Cokeson's lunch had just arrived. COKESON. I couldn't leave it. JAMES. Exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to Davis. It was cashed by you at 1.15. We know that because the cashier recollects it for the last cheque he handled before his lunch. FALDER. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me because some friends were giving him a farewell luncheon. JAMES. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then? FALDER. I don't know, sir--it's very funny. WALTER, who has come close to his father, says something to him in a low voice. JAMES. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, was he? COKESON. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young man, and seeing faint signs of their all being jolly once more] No, he sailed on the Monday. JAMES. Was he, Falder? FALDER. [Very faintly] No, sir. JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for the fact that this nought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after Tuesday? COKESON. [Surprised] How's that? FALDER gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull himself together, but he has gone all to pieces. JAMES. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson. The cheque-book remained in Mr. Walter's pocket till he came back from Trenton on Tuesday morning. In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny that you altered both cheque and counterfoil? FALDER. No, sir--no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I did it. COKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear! what a thing to do! FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I didn't know what I was doing. COKESON. However such a thing could have come into your head! FALDER. [Grasping at the words] I can't think, sir, really! It was just a minute of madness. JAMES. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the counterfoil] Four days at least. FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done till afterwards, and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! Sir, look over it! I'll pay the money back--I will, I promise. JAMES. Go into your room. FALDER, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room. There is silence. JAMES. About as bad a case as there could be. COKESON. To break the law like that-in here! WALTER. What's to be done? JAMES. Nothing for it. Prosecute. WALTER. It's his first offence. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of that. Too neat a piece of swindling altogether. COKESON. I shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted. JAMES. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, Mr. James. There was a woman come to see him this morning. WALTER. The woman we passed as we came in just now. Is it his wife? COKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in jollier circumstances would have been a wink] A married person, though. WALTER. How do you know? COKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised] There they were outside the office. JAMES. A real bad egg. WALTER. I should like to give him a chance. JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way he went to work-- counting on our suspecting young Davis if the matter came to light. It was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. WALTER. It must have been the temptation of a moment. He hadn't time. JAMES. A man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, if he's a clean mind and habits. He's rotten; got the eyes of a man who can't keep his hands off when there's money about. WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before. JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots of those fellows in my time. No doing anything with them except to keep 'em out of harm's way. They've got a blind spat. WALTER. It's penal servitude. COKESON. They're nahsty places-prisons. JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Out of the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine qua non'. COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is. JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst people who've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society. WALTER. But to brand him like this? JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd give him another chance. It's far from that. He has dissolute habits. COKESON. I didn't say that--extenuating circumstances. JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. If that's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know what is. WALTER. For the sake of his future, though. JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one would ever prosecute. WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it. COKESON. That's rather 'ex parte', Mr. Walter! We must have protection. JAMES. This is degenerating into talk. He moves towards the partners' room. WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father. JAMES. You ask too much of me. WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him. JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do this sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn't nothing'll make him. WALTER. He'll never do it again. COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk with him. We don't want to be hard on the young man. JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my mind. [He passes into the partners' room.] COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must excuse your father. I don't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right. WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You know you feel---- COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what I feel. WALTER. We shall regret it. COKESON. He must have known what he was doing. WALTER. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not strained." COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. Walter. We must try and see it sensible. SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir. COKESON. Put it down! While SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON's table, the detective, WISTER, enters the outer office, and, finding no one there, comes to the inner doorway. He is a square, medium-sized man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong boots. COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we doing? WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir. Detective-Sergeant Blister. WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my father. He goes into the partners' room. JAMES enters. JAMES. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture from COKESON] I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I felt I could. Open that door. [SWEEDLE, wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder. As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a sign from JAMES, slips his hand out and grasps his arm. FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh! no,--oh! no! WALTER. Come, come, there's a good lad. JAMES. I charge him with felony. FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one--I did it for her. Let me be till to-morrow. JAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of hardness, FALDER becomes rigid. Then, turning, he goes out quietly in the detective's grip. JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE, rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the outer office into the corridor. When they have all disappeared COKESON spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer office. COKESON: [Hoarsely] Here! What are we doing? There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief and mops the sweat from his face. Going back blindly to his table, sits down, and stares blankly at his lunch. The curtain falls. ACT II A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon crowded with barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. Sitting in the large, solid dock is FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to and unconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting exactly opposite to the JUDGE, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seems unconscious of and indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, the counsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middle age, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in a very white wig. Among the spectators, having already given their evidence, are JAMES and WALTER HOW, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! Gathering his robes together, he sits down. FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it please your lordship and gentlemen of the jury. I am not going to dispute the fact that the prisoner altered this cheque, but I am going to put before you evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that you would not be justified in finding that he was responsible for his actions at the time. I am going to show you, in fact, that he did this in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. I shall call before you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up to this act. You will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstances of her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she has inspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading a miserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, from whom she actually goes in terror of her life. I am not, of course, saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall in love with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue her from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying anything of the sort. But we all know the power of the passion of love; and I would ask you to remember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to a drunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enable a woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear that her husband is guilty. JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely--I shall be able to show your lordship that directly. JUDGE. Very well. FROME. In these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her? She could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of her life; or she could apply to the Court for a separation order. Well, gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this would have given her very insufficient protection from the violence of such a man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced her either to the workhouse or the streets--for it's not easy, as she is now finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood to support herself and her children without resorting either to the Poor Law or--to speak quite plainly--to the sale of her body. JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome. FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord. JUDGE. Let us hope so. FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark--and this is what I have been leading up to--this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on himself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. She saw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, where they would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. This was a desperate and, as my friend Mr. Cleaver will no doubt call it, an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation possibly have the right to hold up their hands--as to that I prefer to say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part of the prisoner's story--whatever opinion you form of the right of these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into their own hands--the fact remains that this young woman in her distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so devotedly attached to her, did conceive this--if you like-- reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, of course, they required money, and--they had none. As to the actual events of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility --I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the lips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takes up a sheet of paper, and waits.] COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him. FROME. What is your name? COKESON. Robert Cokeson. FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ the prisoner? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ? COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there--all but seventeen days. FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time? COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays. FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about his general character during those two years. COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprised at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. I'd no fault to find with him--quite the contrary. It was a great surprise to me when he did a thing like that. FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty? COKESON. No! To have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do. FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua non'. FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not? COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We were all very jolly and pleasant together, until this happened. Quite upset me. FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning on which the cheque was altered. What have you to say about his demeanour that morning? COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quite compos when he did it. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he was insane? COKESON. Not compos. THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please. FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion--[looking at the JUDGE]--such as it is--he was jumpy at the time. The jury will understand my meaning. FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that conclusion? COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in from the restaurant, a chop and a potato--saves time. That day it happened to come just as Mr. Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it hot; so I went into the clerks' office and I handed the cheque to Davis, the other clerk, and told him to get change. I noticed young Falder walking up and down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological Gardens, Falder." FROME. Do you remember what he answered? COKESON. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck me as funny. FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar? COKESON. I did. FROME. What was that? COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like a young man to be neat. I said to him: "Your collar's unbuttoned." FROME. And what did he answer? COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice. THE JUDGE. Stared at you? Isn't that a very common practice? COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain my meaning--it was funny. FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before? COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to the partners. We can't have anything eccentric in our profession. THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that occasion? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to trouble them about prime facey evidence. FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on your mind? COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same. FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the forgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that morning? COKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little deaf. FROME. Was there anything in the course of that morning--I mean before the discovery--that caught your attention? COKESON. Ye-es--a woman. THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind in which the prisoner committed this act, my lord. THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after the act. FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention. THE JUDGE. Well! FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. What for? COKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out at the moment. FROME. Did you see her? COKESON. I did. FROME. Did she come alone? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me in a difficulty. I mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me. FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so---- COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of "You are young--leave it to me"] But I think we can get round it. In answer to a question put to her by a third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, sir." THE JUDGE. What are? What were? COKESON. Her children. They were outside. THE JUDGE. HOW do you know? COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I shall have to tell you what I was told--and that'd never do. THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a statement. COKESON. Egg-zactly. FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the course of her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that you specially remember? COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to complete the sentence] A leetle more, sir. FROME. Or did she not? COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have led me to the answer. FROME. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the jury what it was? COKESON. "It's a matter of life and death." FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman said that? COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have said to you. FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in while she was there? [COKESON nods] And she saw him, and went away? COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go. FROME. Well, is she there now? COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No! FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down.] CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery the prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by that word? COKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. Have you ever seen a dog that's lost its master? He was kind of everywhere at once with his eyes. CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them "funny." What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what? COKESON. Ye-es, funny. COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not be funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, or fierce, or what? COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and you want me to give you another. CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean mad? CLEAVER. Not mad, fun---- CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Was it a hot day? COKESON. Ye-es; I think it was. CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it? COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did. CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted insanity? He sits downs. COKESON, who has opened his mouth to reply, is left gaping. FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelled state before? COKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet. FROME. That will do, thank you. COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though to rebuke counsel for not remembering that the JUDGE might wish to have a chance; arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next to JAMES and WALTER. FROME. Ruth Honeywill. RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the witness-box. She is sworn. FROME. What is your name, please? RUTH. Ruth Honeywill. FROME. How old are you? RUTH. Twenty-six. FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A little louder. RUTH. No, sir; not since July. FROME. Have you any children? RUTH. Yes, sir, two. FROME. Are they living with you? RUTH. Yes, sir. FROME. You know the prisoner? RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes. FROME. What was the nature of your relations with him? RUTH. We were friends. THE JUDGE. Friends? RUTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use that word? RUTH. We love each other. THE JUDGE. Yes, but---- RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship--not yet. THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well! FROME. What is your husband? RUTH. Traveller. FROME. And what was the nature of your married life? RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking about. FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what? RUTH. Ever since my first was born. FROME. In what way? RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me out of it, sir. We were going to South America. FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite--and what prevented you? RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearly broke my heart. FROME. You knew, then, that he had been arrested? RUTH. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, and [pointing to COKESON] that gentleman told me all about it. FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of Friday, July 7th? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Why? RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that morning. THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you! RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord. FROME. With his hands, or----? RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight to my friend. It was eight o'clock. THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influence of liquor then? RUTH. It wasn't always that. FROME. In what condition were you? RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was half choking. FROME. Did you tell your friend what had happened? RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had. FROME. It upset him? RUTH. Dreadfully. FROME. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? RUTH. Never. FROZE. Did he ever give you any money? RUTH. Yes. FROME. When was that? RUTH. On Saturday. FROME. The 8th? RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to start. FROME. Did that surprise you, or not? RUTH. What, sir? FROME. That he had money to give you. Ring. Yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed me my friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. He told me afterwards he'd come into a windfall. FROME. And when did you last see him? RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were to have started. FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him at all between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was his manner then? RUTH. Dumb--like--sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word. FROME. As if something unusual had happened to him? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what? RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him. FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the prisoner very much? RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes. FROME. And had he a very great affection for you? RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir. FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his actions? RUTH. Yes. FROME. His reason, even? RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would. FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairly calm? RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me. FROME. Do you still love him? RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me. FROME. Thank you. He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright in the witness-box. CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morning of Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, I suppose? RUTH. No, sir. CLEAVER. Thank you; I've no further questions to ask you. RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done the same for him; I would indeed. THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappy one? Faults on both sides? RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why I should, sir, not to a man like that. THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him? RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied him to keep things nice. THE JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner--was that it? RUTH. No; even after that. THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in this affection of yours for the prisoner. RUTH. [Hesitating] I--I do. It's the only thing in my life now. THE JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, please. RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her seat among the witnesses. FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord. FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly sworn. FROME. What is your name? FALDER. William Falder. FROME. And age? FALDER. Twenty-three. FROME. You are not married? FALDER shakes his head FROME. How long have you known the last witness? FALDER. Six months. FROME. Is her account of the relationship between you a correct one? FALDER. Yes. FROME. You became devotedly attached to her, however? FALDER. Yes. THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married woman? FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship. THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it? FALDER. I didn't seem able to. The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders. FROME. How did you come to know her? FALDER. Through my married sister. FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband? FALDER. It was trouble all the time. FROME. You knew her husband? FALDER. Only through her--he's a brute. THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person not present. FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To FALDER] You admit altering this cheque? FALDER bows his head. FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the 7th, and tell the jury what happened. FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my breakfast when she came. Her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seem to get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyes dreadfully. It frightened me, and then when she told me, I felt--I felt--well--it was too much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'd seen it, having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt the same, I know. FROME. Yes? FALDER. When she left me--because I had to go to the office--I was out of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what I could do. I couldn't work--all the morning I was like that--simply couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't think at all. I seemed to have to keep moving. When Davis--the other clerk--gave me the cheque--he said: "It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. You seem half off your chump this morning." Then when I had it in my hand--I don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that if I put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get her away. It just came and went--I never thought of it again. Then Davis went out to his luncheon, and I don't really remember what I did till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. I remember his saying "Gold or notes?" Then I suppose I knew what I'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted to chuck myself under a bus; I wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed I was in for it, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets I took for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, and all, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've restored. I keep thinking over and over however it was I came to do it, and how I can't have it all again to do differently! FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him. FROME. How far is it from your office to the bank? FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir. FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed the cheque, how long do you say it must have been? FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran all the way. FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing? FALDER. No, sir; only that I ran. FROME. Not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?' FALDER. No, sir. I don't really. FROME sits down, and CLEAVER rises. CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you? FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the bank. CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the cheque? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is casting over the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? Come. FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning, sir. CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the cashier? FALDER. It was an accident. CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't it? On which day did you alter the counterfoil? FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday morning. CLEAVER. Was that an accident too? FALDER. [Faintly] No. CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your opportunity, I suppose? FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes. CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under great excitement when you did that? FALDER. I was haunted. CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out? FALDER. [Very low] Yes. THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do was to confess to your employers, and restore the money? FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence] CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design of taking this woman away? FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that, to do it for nothing seemed so dreadful. I might just as well have chucked myself into the river. CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England --didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion would fall on him? FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought of it afterwards. CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done? FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got out there--I would have repaid the money. THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have been prosecuted. FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. I thought there'd be time. I didn't think they'd find it out so soon. FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if the discovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would have left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis, from the beginning. THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion would light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did you know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis had sailed? FALDER. I--I--thought--he---- THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth-yes or no! FALDER. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means of knowing. THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr. Frome. [FROME bows to the JUDGE] CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work that afternoon? FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back. CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keen for you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don't remember altering this cheque. [He sits down] FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage. FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back? FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep. FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between Davis's going out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollect nothing during those four minutes? FALDER. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson's face. FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what you were doing? FALDER. No, Sir. FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran out? FALDER. Yes, and while I was running. FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold or notes?" FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself--and it was too late. FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, my lord. The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock. FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship--Gentlemen of the Jury,--My friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I am free to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidence has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. My friend has alluded to the "romantic glamour" with which I have sought to invest this case. Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I have merely shown you the background of "life"--that palpitating life which, believe me--whatever my friend may say--always lies behind the commission of a crime. Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. But when we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love--what then? Just think of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the prisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! he is hardly the comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was devotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just the sort of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. You have heard the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at the word "funny"--I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which could have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that his mental irresponsibility--was more than a flash of darkness, in which all sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intent and treated as a patient. I admit that this is a plea which might well be abused. It is a matter for discretion. But here you have a case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four fatal minutes. What was his answer? "I thought of Mr. Cokeson's face!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is absolutely stamped with truth. You have seen the great affection [legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It is impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he committed this act. We well know what terrible havoc such distress can make in weak and highly nervous people. It was all the work of a moment. The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter impossibility of changing what you have done. Once this cheque was altered and presented, the work of four minutes--four mad minutes --the rest has been silence. But in those four minutes the boy before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great cage which never again quite lets a man go--the cage of the Law. His further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence--not of deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from which these subsequent acts arose; no--they are merely evidence of the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. But is a man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in all probability become one. I beg you not to return a verdict that may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the starting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be ground to pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of weakness? Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? Is that to be his voyage-from which so few return? Or is he to have another chance, to be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will come back? I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, stares him in the face. He can be saved now. Imprison him as a criminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost. He has neither the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he has undergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. He has lain in prison under this charge for more than two months. Is he likely ever to forget that? Imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. He has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decided to prosecute him. We are now already at the second stage. If you permit it to go on to the third I would not give--that for him. He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a circle, drops his hand, and sits dozen. The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towards the counsel for the Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spot that seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and then towards the jury. CLEAVER. May it please your lordship--[Rising on his toes] Gentlemen of the Jury,--The facts in this case are not disputed, and the defence, if my friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that I don't propose to waste the time of the Court by taking you over the evidence. The plea is one of temporary insanity. Well, gentlemen, I daresay it is clearer to me than it is to you why this rather--what shall we call it?--bizarre defence has been set up. The alternative would have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the prisoner had pleaded guilty my friend would have had to rely on a simple appeal to his lordship. Instead of that, he has gone into the byways and hedges and found this--er--peculiar plea, which has enabled him to show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box--to give, in fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I compliment my friend; I think it highly ingenious of him. By these means, he has--to a certain extent--got round the Law. He has brought the whole story of motive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he would not otherwise have been able to do. But when you have once grasped that fact, gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [With good-humoured contempt] For look at this plea of insanity; we can't put it lower than that. You have heard the woman. She has every reason to favour the prisoner, but what did she say? She said that the prisoner was not insane when she left him in the morning. If he were going out of his mind through distress, that was obviously the moment when insanity would have shown itself. You have heard the managing clerk, another witness for the defence. With some difficulty I elicited from him the admission that the prisoner, though jumpy [a word that he seemed to think you would understand, gentlemen, and I'm sure I hope you do], was not mad when the cheque was handed to Davis. I agree with my friend that it's unfortunate that we have not got Davis here, but the prisoner has told you the words with which Davis in turn handed him the cheque; he obviously, therefore, was not mad when he received it, or he would not have remembered those words. The cashier has told you that he was certainly in his senses when he cashed it. We have therefore the plea that a man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at fifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding the consequences of a crime, call himself insane between those points of time. Really, gentlemen, this is so peculiar a proposition that I am not disposed to weary you with further argument. You will form your own opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way of saying a great deal to you--and very eloquently--on the score of youth, temptation, and the like. I might point out, however, that the offence with which the prisoner is charged is one of the most serious known to our law; and there are certain features in this case, such as the suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent fellow-clerk, and his relations with this married woman, which will render it difficult for you to attach too much importance to such pleading. I ask you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which, in the circumstances, I regard you as, unfortunately, bound to record. Letting his eyes travel from the JUDGE and the jury to FROME, he sits down. THE JUDGE. [Bending a little towards the jury, and speaking in a business-like voice] Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence, and the comments on it. My only business is to make clear to you the issues you have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as the alteration of this cheque and counterfoil by the prisoner. The defence set up is that he was not in a responsible condition when he committed the crime. Well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the evidence of the other witnesses--so far as it bears on the point of insanity. If you think that what you have heard establishes the fact that the prisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you will find him guilty, but insane. If, on the other hand, you conclude from what you have seen and heard that the prisoner was sane--and nothing short of insanity will count--you will find him guilty. In reviewing the testimony as to his mental condition you must bear in mind very carefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct both before and after the act of forgery--the evidence of the prisoner himself, of the woman, of the witness--er--COKESON, and--er--of the cashier. And in regard to that I especially direct your attention to the prisoner's admission that the idea of adding the 'ty' and the nought did come into his mind at the moment when the cheque was handed to him; and also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to his subsequent conduct generally. The bearing of all this on the question of premeditation [and premeditation will imply sanity] is very obvious. You must not allow any considerations of age or temptation to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. Before you can come to a verdict of guilty but insane you must be well and thoroughly convinced that the condition of his mind was such as would have qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [He pauses, then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire or no, adds:] You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to do so. The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE. The JUDGE bends over his notes. FALDER, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly to his solicitor, pointing dawn at RUTH. The solicitor in turn speaks to FROME. FROME. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very anxious that I should ask you if your lordship would kindly request the reporters not to disclose the name of the woman witness in the Press reports of these proceedings. Your lordship will understand that the consequences might be extremely serious to her. THE JUDGE. [Pointedly--with the suspicion of a smile] well, Mr. Frome, you deliberately took this course which involved bringing her here. FROME. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship thinks I could have brought out the full facts in any other way? THE JUDGE. H'm! Well. FROME. There is very real danger to her, your lordship. THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for all that. FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I can assure your lordship that I am not exaggerating. THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain with me that the name of a witness should ever be suppressed. [With a glance at FALDER, who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH, who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on FALDER] I'll consider your application. It must depend. I have to remember that she may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. FROME. Your lordship, I really---- THE JUDGE. Yes, yes--I don't suggest anything of the sort, Mr. Frome. Leave it at that for the moment. As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the box. CLERK of ASSIZE. Gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? FOREMAN. We are. CLERK of ASSIZE. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but insane? FOREMAN. Guilty. The JUDGE nods; then, gathering up his notes, sits looking at FALDER, who stands motionless. FROME. [Rising] If your lordship would allow me to address you in mitigation of sentence. I don't know if your lordship thinks I can add anything to what I have said to the jury on the score of the prisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he acted. THE JUDGE. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome. FROME. If your lordship says so--I do most earnestly beg your lordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. [He sits down.] THE JUDGE. [To the CLERK] Call upon him. THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Have you anything to say for yourself, why the Court should not give you judgment according to law? [FALDER shakes his head] THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given fair trial and found guilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses; then, consulting his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that you were not responsible for your actions at the moment of committing this crime. There is no, doubt, I think, that this was a device to bring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which you succumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel was in reality making an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence of course enabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in that direction. Whether he was well advised to so is another matter. He claimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as a criminal. And this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the march of Justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completing the process of criminality. Now, in considering how far I should allow weight to his appeal; I have a number of factors to take into account. I have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of your offence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, to my mind, is a very grave point--and finally I have to consider the necessity of deterring others from following your example. On the other hand, I have to bear in mind that you are young, that you have hitherto borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of some emotional excitement when you committed this crime. I have every wish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to the community--to treat you with leniency. And this brings me to what are the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of your case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very serious element in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you on the ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of the crime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. It is said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. The story has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--Mrs. Honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy were in effect based. Now what is that story? It is that you, a young man, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed an attachment, which you both say--with what truth I am unable to gauge --had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admit was about to result in such relationship. Your counsel has made an attempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what he describes, I think, as "a hopeless position." As to that I can express no opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is patent that you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoral design. Now, however I might wish, I am not able to justify to my conscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality. It is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you for the completion of this immoral project. Your counsel has made an attempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is a defect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show that to punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. I do not follow him in these flights. The Law is what it is--a majestic edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another. I am concerned only with its administration. The crime you have committed is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance with my duty to Society to exercise the powers I have in your favour. You will go to penal servitude for three years. FALDER, who throughout the JUDGE'S speech has looked at him steadily, lets his head fall forward on his breast. RUTH starts up from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. There is a bustle in court. THE JUDGE. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen of the Press, I think that the name of the female witness should not be reported. The reporters bow their acquiescence. THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who is staring in the direction in which FALDER has disappeared] Do you understand, your name will not be mentioned? COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking to you. RUTH turns, stares at the JUDGE, and turns away. THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the next case. CLERK of ASSIZE. [To a warder] Put up John Booley. To cries of "Witnesses in the case of Booley": The curtain falls. ACT III SCENE I A prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large barred windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise yard, where men, in yellow clothes marked with arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are seen in single file at a distance of four yards from each other, walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on the concrete floor of the yard. Two warders in blue uniforms, with peaked caps and swords, are stationed amongst them. The room has distempered walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the prison on the wall, a writing-table covered with documents. It is Christmas Eve. The GOVERNOR, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, fair moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled hair, receding from the temples, is standing close to this writing-table looking at a sort of rough saw made out of a piece of metal. The hand in which he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are missing. The chief warder, WOODER, a tall, thin, military-looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and melancholy, monkey-like eyes, stands very upright two paces from him. THE GOVERNOR. [With a faint, abstracted smile] Queer-looking affair, Mr. Wooder! Where did you find it? WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come across such a thing for two years now. THE GOVERNOR. [With curiosity] Had he any set plan? WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [He holds up his thumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart] THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon. What's his name? Moaney! An old hand, I think? WOODER. Yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. You'd think an old lag like him would have had more sense by now. [With pitying contempt] Occupied his mind, he said. Breaking in and breaking out--that's all they think about. THE GOVERNOR. Who's next him? WOODER. O'Cleary, sir. THE GOVERNOR. The Irishman. WOODER. Next him again there's that young fellow, Falder--star class--and next him old Clipton. THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes! "The philosopher." I want to see him about his eyes. WOODER. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one of these tries at escape going on. It makes them restive--there's a regular wave going through them just now. THE GOVERNOR. [Meditatively] Odd things--those waves. [Turning to look at the prisoners exercising] Seem quiet enough out here! WOODER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging on his door this morning. Little thing like that's quite enough to upset the whole lot. They're just like dumb animals at times. THE GOVERNOR. I've seen it with horses before thunder--it'll run right through cavalry lines. The prison CHAPLAIN has entered. He is a dark-haired, ascetic man, in clerical undress, with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped face and slow, cultured speech. THE GOVERNOR. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, Miller? THE CHAPLAIN. Useful-looking specimen. THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes to the cupboard and opens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, and metal tools with labels tied on them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out] THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men last day or two, Miller? Seems going through the whole place. THE CHAPLAIN. No. I don't know of anything. THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dine with us on Christmas Day? THE CHAPLAIN. To-morrow. Thanks very much. THE GOVERNOR. Worries me to feel the men discontented. [Gazing at the saw] Have to punish this poor devil. Can't help liking a man who tries to escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks the cupboard again] THE CHAPLAIN. Extraordinary perverted will-power--some of them. Nothing to be done till it's broken. THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm afraid. Ground too hard for golf? WOODER comes in again. WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks to speak to you, sir. I told him it wasn't usual. THE GOVERNOR. What about? WOODER. Shall I put him off, sir? THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see him. Don't go, Miller. WOODER motions to some one without, and as the visitor comes in withdraws. The visitor is COKESON, who is attired in a thick overcoat to the knees, woollen gloves, and carries a top hat. COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been talking to the young man. THE GOVERNOR. We have a good many here. COKESON. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a card, and handing it to the GOVERNOR] Firm of James and Walter How. Well known in the law. THE GOVERNOR. [Receiving the card-with a faint smile] What do you want to see me about, sir? COKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] Why! what a sight! THE GOVERNOR. Yes, we have that privilege from here; my office is being done up. [Sitting down at his table] Now, please! COKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the window] I wanted to say a word to you; I shan't keep you long. [Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be here by rights. His sister came to me--he's got no father and mother--and she was in some distress. "My husband won't let me go and see him," she said; "says he's disgraced the family. And his other sister," she said, "is an invalid." And she asked me to come. Well, I take an interest in him. He was our junior--I go to the same chapel--and I didn't like to refuse. And what I wanted to tell you was, he seems lonely here. THE GOVERNOR. Not unnaturally. COKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see a lot of them about working together. THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The convicts serve their three months here in separate confinement, sir. COKESON. But we don't want to be unreasonable. He's quite downhearted. I wanted to ask you to let him run about with the others. THE GOVERNOR. [With faint amusement] Ring the bell-would you, Miller? [To COKESON] You'd like to hear what the doctor says about him, perhaps. THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not accustomed to prisons, it would seem, sir. COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite a young fellow. I said to him: "Before a month's up" I said, "you'll be out and about with the others; it'll be a nice change for you." "A month!" he said --like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. What's a month? Why, it's nothing!" "A day," he said, "shut up in your cell thinking and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside. I can't help it," he said; "I try--but I'm built that way, Mr. COKESON." And, he held his hand up to his face. I could see the tears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice. THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, isn't he? Not Church of England, I think? COKESON. No. THE CHAPLAIN. I know. THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be good enough to come here for a minute. [WOODER salutes, and goes out] Let's see, he's not married? COKESON. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party he's very much attached to, not altogether com-il-fa. It's a sad story. THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prison might be closed. COKESON. [Looking at the CHAPLAIN over his spectacles] Ye-es, but I wanted to tell you about that, special. He had hopes they'd have let her come and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked me questions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the poor young fellow a lie, with him in here--seemed like hitting him. But I'm afraid it's made him worse. THE GOVERNOR. What was this news then? COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a husband, and she'd left him. Fact is, she was going away with our young friend. It's not nice--but I've looked over it. Well, when he was put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait for him to come out. That was a great consolation to him. But after a month she came to me--I don't know her personally--and she said: "I can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--I've got no friends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else my husband'd get to know where I was. I'm very much reduced," she said. And she has lost flesh. "I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's a painful story. I said to her: "No," I said, "not that! I've got a wife an' family, but sooner than you should do that I'll spare you a little myself." "Really," she said--she's a nice creature--"I don't like to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband." Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but I didn't like to persuade her not to. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow dreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three years to serve. I want things to be pleasant for him. THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The Law hardly shares your view, I'm afraid. COKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut him up there by himself'll turn him silly. And nobody wants that, I s'pose. I don't like to see a man cry. THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that. COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility] I keep dogs. THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed? COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over. THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a sense of right and wrong. COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it. THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ. COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes 'em savage. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners. COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for years. He's eurotic--got no stamina. His father died of consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him harm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the wall." It's not nice. During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He is a medium-Sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye. He stands leaning against the window. THE GOVERNOR. This gentleman thinks the separate is telling on Q 3007--Falder, young thin fellow, star class. What do you say, Doctor Clements? THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm. COKESON. But he's told me. THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. He's lost no weight since he's been here. COKESON. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of. THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's nervous, rather melancholy. I don't see signs of anything more. I'm watching him carefully. COKESON. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say that. THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this period that we are able to make some impression on them, sir. I am speaking from my special standpoint. COKESON. [Turning bewildered to the GOVERNOR] I don't want to be unpleasant, but having given him this news, I do feel it's awkward. THE GOVERNOR. I'll make a point of seeing him to-day. COKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought perhaps seeing him every day you wouldn't notice it. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather sharply] If any sign of injury to his health shows itself his case will be reported at once. That's fully provided for. [He rises] COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, what you don't see doesn't trouble you; but having seen him, I don't want to have him on my mind. THE GOVERNOR. I think you may safely leave it to us, sir. COKESON. [Mollified and apologetic] I thought you'd understand me. I'm a plain man--never set myself up against authority. [Expanding to the CHAPLAIN] Nothing personal meant. Good-morning. As he goes out the three officials do not look at each other, but their faces wear peculiar expressions. THE CHAPLAIN. Our friend seems to think that prison is a hospital. COKESON. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] There's just one little thing. This woman--I suppose I mustn't ask you to let him see her. It'd be a rare treat for them both. He's thinking about her all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's quite safe in here. They're a pitiful couple. You couldn't make an exception? THE GOVERNOR. [Wearily] As you say, my dear sir, I couldn't make an exception; he won't be allowed another visit of any sort till he goes to a convict prison. COKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have troubled you. [He again goes out] THE CHAPLAIN. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain man indeed, poor fellow. Come and have some lunch, Clements? He and the DOCTOR go out talking. The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a pen. The curtain falls. SCENE II Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls are coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe of deeper green about the height of a man's shoulder, and above this line are whitewashed. The floor is of blackened stones. Daylight is filtering through a heavily barred window at the end. The doors of four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little round peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered by a little round disc, which, raised upwards, affords a view o f the cell. On the wall, close to each cell door, hangs a little square board with the prisoner's name, number, and record. Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor and second-floor corridors. The WARDER INSTRUCTOR, a bearded man in blue uniform, with an apron, and some dangling keys, is just emerging from one of the cells. INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell] I'll have another bit for you when that's finished. O'CLEARY. [Unseen--in an Irish voice] Little doubt o' that, sirr. INSTRUCTOR. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have it than nothing, I s'pose. O'CLEARY. An' that's the blessed truth. Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of approaching footsteps. INSTRUCTOR. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive over it! He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. The GOVERNOR comes walking down the corridor, followed by WOODER. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to report? INSTRUCTOR. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a cell] is behind with his work, sir. He'll lose marks to-day. The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end cell. The INSTRUCTOR goes away. THE GOVERNOR. This is our maker of saws, isn't it? He takes the saw from his pocket as WOODER throws open the door of the cell. The convict MOANEY is seen lying on his bed, athwart the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and stands in the middle of the cell. He is a raw-boned fellow, about fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce, staring, steel-coloured eyes. WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap] Out here! [MOANEY Comes to the door] THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding up the saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private] Anything to say about this, my man? [MOANEY is silent] Come! MOANEY. It passed the time. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough to do, eh? MOANEY. It don't occupy your mind. THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find a better way than this. MOANEY. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must keep my hand in against the time I get out. What's the good of anything else to me at my time of life? [With a gradual change to civility, as his tongue warms] Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or two, after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace meself when I'm out. You've got your pride keeping the prison smart; well, I've got mine. [Seeing that the GOVERNOR is listening with interest, he goes on, pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this. It's no harm to any one. I was five weeks makin' that saw--a bit of all right it is, too; now I'll get cells, I suppose, or seven days' bread and water. You can't help it, sir, I know that--I quite put meself in your place. THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass it over will you give me your word not to try it on again? Think! [He goes into the cell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries the window-bars] THE GOVERNOR. [Returning] Well? MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another six weeks to do in here, alone. I can't do it and think o' nothing. I must have something to interest me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but I can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive a gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four hours' steady work would have done it. THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then? Caught, brought back, punishment. Five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, while they put anew bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney? MOANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is. THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, well! Two days' cells-bread and water. MOANEY. Thank 'e, sir. He turns quickly like an animal and slips into his cell. The GOVERNOR looks after him and shakes his head as WOODER closes and locks the cell door. THE GOVERNOR. Open Clipton's cell. WOODER opens the door of CLIPTON'S cell. CLIPTON is sitting on a stool just inside the door, at work on a pair of trousers. He is a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost shaven head, and smouldering little dark eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets up and stands motionless in the doorway, peering at his visitors. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning] Come out here a minute, Clipton. CLIPTON, with a sort of dreadful quietness, comes into the corridor, the needle and thread in his hand. The GOVERNOR signs to WOODER, who goes into the cell and inspects it carefully. THE GOVERNOR. How are your eyes? CLIFTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see the sun here. [He makes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] There's just one thing, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd ask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter. THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want any tales, Clipton. CLIPTON. He keeps me awake. I don't know who he is. [With contempt] One of this star class, I expect. Oughtn't to be here with us. THE GOVERNOR. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton. He'll be moved when there's a cell vacant. CLIPTON. He knocks about like a wild beast in the early morning. I'm not used to it--stops me getting my sleep out. In the evening too. It's not fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. Sleep's the comfort I've got here; I'm entitled to take it out full. WOODER comes out of the cell, and instantly, as though extinguished, CLIPTON moves with stealthy suddenness back into his cell. WOODER. All right, sir. THE GOVERNOR nods. The door is closed and locked. THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on his door this morning? WOODER. [Going towards O'CLEARY'S cell] This one, sir; O'Cleary. He lifts the disc and glances through the peephole. THE GOVERNOR. Open. WOODER throws open the door. O'CLEARY, who is seated at a little table by the door as if listening, springs up and stands at attention jest inside the doorway. He is a broad-faced, middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, flexible mouth, and little holes under his high cheek-bones. THE GOVERNOR. Where's the joke, O'Cleary? O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour? I've not seen one for a long time. THE GOVERNOR. Banging on your door? O'CLEARY. Oh! that! THE GOVERNOR. It's womanish. O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two months past. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to complain of? O'CLEARY. NO, Sirr. THE GOVERNOR. You're an old hand; you ought to know better. O'CLEARY. Yes, I've been through it all. THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him. O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't always be the same steady man. THE GOVERNOR. Work all right? O'CLEARY. [Taking up a rush mat he is making] Oh! I can do it on me head. It's the miserablest stuff--don't take the brains of a mouse. [Working his mouth] It's here I feel it--the want of a little noise --a terrible little wud ease me. THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if you were out in the shops you wouldn't be allowed to talk. O'CLEARY. [With a look of profound meaning] Not with my mouth. THE GOVERNOR. Well, then? O'CLEARY. But it's the great conversation I'd have. THE GOVERNOR. [With a smile] Well, no more conversation on your door. O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit to repeat meself. THE GOVERNOR. [Turning] Good-night. O'CLEARY. Good-night, your honour. He turns into his cell. The GOVERNOR shuts the door. THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't help liking the poor blackguard. WOODER. He's an amiable man, sir. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask the doctor to come here, Mr. Wooder. WOODER salutes and goes away down the corridor. The GOVERNOR goes to the door of FALDER'S cell. He raises his uninjured hand to uncover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, after scrutinising the record board, he opens the cell door. FALDER, who is standing against it, lurches forward. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: can't you settle down, Falder? FALDER. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean? It's no good running your head against a stone wall, is it? FALDER. No, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Well, come. FALDER. I try, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Can't you sleep? FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and getting up's the worst time. THE GOVERNOR. How's that? FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't know, sir. I was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] Everything seems to get such a size then. I feel I'll never get out as long as I live. THE GOVERNOR. That's morbid, my lad. Pull yourself together. FALDER. [With an equally sudden dogged resentment] Yes--I've got to. THE GOVERNOR. Think of all these other fellows? FALDER. They're used to it. THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it once for the first time, just as you're doing now. FALDER. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in time, I suppose. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! That rests with you. Now come. Set your mind to it, like a good fellow. You're still quite young. A man can make himself what he likes. FALDER. [Wistfully] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Take a good hold of yourself. Do you read? FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his head] I know it's no good; but I can't help thinking of what's going on outside. In my cell I can't see out at all. It's thick glass, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You've had a visitor. Bad news? FALDER. Yes. THE GOVERNOR. You mustn't think about it. FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help it, sir? He suddenly becomes motionless as WOODER and the DOCTOR approach. The GOVERNOR motions to him to go back into his cell. FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my head, sir. [He goes back into his cell.] THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and see him, Clements. The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR pushes the door to, nearly closing it, and walks towards the window. WOODER. [Following] Sorry you should be troubled like this, sir. Very contented lot of men, on the whole. THE GOVERNOR. [Shortly] You think so? WOODER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my opinion. THE GOVERNOR. [To himself] Queer, that! WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? THE GOVERNOR. Christmas! He turns towards the window, leaving WOODER looking at him with a sort of pained anxiety. WOODER. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show enough, sir? If you'd like us to have more holly? THE GOVERNOR. Not at all, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. Very good, sir. The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell, and the GOVERNOR beckons to him. THE GOVERNOR. Well? THE DOCTOR. I can't make anything much of him. He's nervous, of course. THE GOVERNOR. Is there any sort of case to report? Quite frankly, Doctor. THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separates doing him any good; but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better in the shops, there's no doubt. THE GOVERNOR. You mean you'd have to recommend others? THE DOCTOR. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves. There's nothing tangible. That fellow there [pointing to O'CLEARY'S cell], for instance--feels it just as much, in his way. If I once get away from physical facts--I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously, sir, I don't know how to differentiate him. He hasn't lost weight. Nothing wrong with his eyes. His pulse is good. Talks all right. THE GOVERNOR. It doesn't amount to melancholia? THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on him if you like; but if I do I ought to report on others. THE GOVERNOR. I see. [Looking towards FALDER'S cell] The poor devil must just stick it then. As he says thin he looks absently at WOODER. WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns on his heel, and walks away. There is a sound as of beating on metal. THE GOVERNOR. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder? WOODER. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we should have more of that. He hurries forward, passing the GOVERNOR, who follows closely. The curtain falls. SCENE III FALDER's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass, with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet]. Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark ventilator under the window, and another over the door. FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under the window. In fast-failing daylight, FALDER, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. He springs suddenly upright--as if at a sound-and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. FALDER is seen gasping for breath. A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. FALDER shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; FALDER'S hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it. The curtain falls. ACT IV The scene is again COKESON'S room, at a few minutes to ten of a March morning, two years later. The doors are all open. SWEEDLE, now blessed with a sprouting moustache, is getting the offices ready. He arranges papers on COKESON'S table; then goes to a covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at himself in the mirror. While he is gazing his full RUTH HONEYWILL comes in through the outer office and stands in the doorway. There seems a kind of exultation and excitement behind her habitual impassivity. SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstand with a bang] Hello! It's you! RUTH. Yes. SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't waste their time hurrying down in the morning. Why, it must be two years since we had the pleasure of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been doing with yourself? RUTH. [Sardonically] Living. SWEEDLE. [Impressed] If you want to see him [he points to COKESON'S chair], he'll be here directly--never misses--not much. [Delicately] I hope our friend's back from the country. His time's been up these three months, if I remember. [RUTH nods] I was awful sorry about that. The governor made a mistake--if you ask me. RUTH. He did. SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. And, I say, the judge ought to ha' let him go after that. They've forgot what human nature's like. Whereas we know. [RUTH gives him a honeyed smile] SWEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload of bricks, flatten you out, and when you don't swell up again they complain of it. I know 'em--seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [He shakes his head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other day the governor---- But COKESON has come in through the outer office; brisk with east wind, and decidedly greyer. COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! it's you! [Then motioning SWEEDLE out, and closing the door] Quite a stranger! Must be two years. D'you want to see me? I can give you a minute. Sit down! Family well? RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was. COKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are more comfortable at home. RUTH. I couldn't stay with Honeywill, after all. COKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. I should be sorry if you'd done anything rash. RUTH. I've kept the children with me. COKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so jolly as ha had hoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen you. You've not heard from the young man, I suppose, since he came out? RUTH. Yes, I ran across him yesterday. COKESON. I hope he's well. RUTH. [With sudden fierceness] He can't get anything to do. It's dreadful to see him. He's just skin and bone. COKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that. [On his guard again] Didn't they find him a place when his time was up? RUTH. He was only there three weeks. It got out. COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you. I don't like to be snubby. RUTH. I can't bear his being like that. COKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I know his relations aren't very forthy about him. Perhaps you can do something for him, till he finds his feet. RUTH. Not now. I could have--but not now. COKESON. I don't understand. RUTH. [Proudly] I've seen him again--that's all over. COKESON. [Staring at her--disturbed] I'm a family man--I don't want to hear anything unpleasant. Excuse me--I'm very busy. RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, but they've never got over me marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise, Mr. Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when I married him. I thought the world of him, of course... he used to come travelling to our farm. COKESON. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got on better, after you saw me. RUTH. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't break my nerve, but I lost my health; and then he began knocking the children about. I couldn't stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were dying. COKESON. [Who has risen and is shifting about as though dodging a stream of lava] We mustn't be violent, must we? RUTH. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave better than that-- [There is silence] COKESON. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there you were! And what did you do then? RUTH. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left him before..., making skirts... cheap things. It was the best I could get, but I never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and working all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I kept at it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that; I wasn't made for it. I'd rather die. COKESON. My dear woman! We mustn't talk like that. RUTH. It was starvation for the children too--after what they'd always had. I soon got not to care. I used to be too tired. [She is silent] COKESON. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what happened then? RUTH. [With a laugh] My employer happened then--he's happened ever since. COKESON. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a thing like this. RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But I've done with that. [Suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the back of her hand] I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was just a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in there and sat down, and he told me all about himself. Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him another chance. COKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost your livings! What a horrible position! RUTH. If he could only get here--where there's nothing to find out about him! COKESON. We can't have anything derogative to the firm. RUTH. I've no one else to go to. COKESON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't think they'll take him, under the circumstances. I don't really. RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in the street. [She points to the window.] COKESON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done that until he's sent for. [Then softening at the look on her face] We've got a vacancy, as it happens, but I can't promise anything. RUTH. It would be the saving of him. COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not sanguine. Now tell him that I don't want him till I see how things are. Leave your address? [Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street? [He notes it on blotting-paper] Good-morning. RUTH. Thank you. She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not, and goes away. COKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a large white cotton handkerchief] What a business! [Then looking amongst his papers, he sounds his bell. SWEEDLE answers it] COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here to-day after the clerk's place? SWEEDLE. Yes. COKESON. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want to see him yet. SWEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir? COKESON. [With asperity] invent something. Use your brains. Don't stump him off altogether. SWEEDLE. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, sir? COKESON. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here to-day. SWEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? COKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remember Falder? I may be having him round to see me. Now, treat him like you'd have him treat you in a similar position. SWEEDLE. I naturally should do. COKESON. That's right. When a man's down never hit 'im. 'Tisn't necessary. Give him a hand up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you in life. It's sound policy. SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take him on again, sir? COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the sound of some one having entered the outer office] Who's there? SWEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's Falder, sir. COKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty of her. Tell him to call again. I don't want---- He breaks off as FALDER comes in. FALDER is thin, pale, older, his eyes have grown more restless. His clothes are very worn and loose. SWEEDLE, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. COKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous. [Trying to keep things pleasant] Shake hands! She's striking while the iron's hot. [He wipes his forehead] I don't blame her. She's anxious. FALDER timidly takes COKESON's hand and glances towards the partners' door. COKESON. No--not yet! Sit down! [FALDER sits in the chair at the aide of COKESON's table, on which he places his cap] Now you are here I'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [Looking at him over his spectacles] How's your health? FALDER. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that. About this matter. I don't like doing anything out of the ordinary; it's not my habit. I'm a plain man, and I want everything smooth and straight. But I promised your friend to speak to the partners, and I always keep my word. FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've paid for that job a thousand times and more. I have, sir. No one knows. They say I weighed more when I came out than when I went in. They couldn't weigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart, and gives a sort of laugh]. Till last night I'd have thought there was nothing in here at all. COKESON. [Concerned] You've not got heart disease? FALDER. Oh! they passed me sound enough. COKESON. But they got you a place, didn't they? FALSER. Yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me. I thought I was going to get on first rate. But one day, all of a sudden, the other clerks got wind of it.... I couldn't stick it, Mr. COKESON, I couldn't, sir. COKESON. Easy, my dear fellow, easy! FALDER. I had one small job after that, but it didn't last. COKESON. How was that? FALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. The fact is, I seem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. I can't explain it: it's as if I was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, it grows up there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about references; but what are you to do? You must have them. And that made me afraid, and I left. In fact, I'm--I'm afraid all the time now. He bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table. COKESON. I feel for you--I do really. Aren't your sisters going to do anything for you? FALDER. One's in consumption. And the other---- COKESON. Ye...es. She told me her husband wasn't quite pleased with you. FALDER. When I went there--they were at supper--my sister wanted to give me a kiss--I know. But he just looked at her, and said: "What have you come for?" Well, I pocketed my pride and I said: "Aren't you going to give me your hand, Jim? Cis is, I know," I said. "Look here!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd better come to an understanding. I've been expecting you, and I've made up my mind. I'll give you fifteen pounds to go to Canada with." "I see," I said--"good riddance! No, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds." Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where I have. COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen pound from me? [Flustered, as FALDER regards him with a queer smile] Quite without prejudice; I meant it kindly. FALDER. I'm not allowed to leave the country. COKESON. Oh! ye...es--ticket-of-leave? You aren't looking the thing. FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawns aren't all poetry there. But meeting her--I feel a different man this morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the best thing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. That's queer, isn't it? COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you. FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me. [With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate with criminals! COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That never did a man any good. Put a face on it. FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're independent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk about giving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over. COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven't made a Socialist of you. FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he utters a peculiar laugh. COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Really you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure. FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, but they down you all the same. This feeling--[He stares round him, as though at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden impersonality] I know it is. COKESON. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there! We must try and take it quiet. I'm sure I've often had you in my prayers. Now leave it to me. I'll use my gumption and take 'em when they're jolly. [As he speaks the two partners come in] COKESON [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put them all at ease] I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've just been having a talk with this young man. I think you'll remember him. JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How are you, Falder? WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] Very glad to see you again, Falder. FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] Thank you, sir. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To FALDER, pointing to the clerks' office] You might go in there a minute. You know your way. Our junior won't be coming this morning. His wife's just had a little family. FALDER, goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all about it. He's quite penitent. But there's a prejudice against him. And you're not seeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It's very trying to go without your dinner. JAMES. Is that so, COKESON? COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. Now we know all about him, and we want a clerk. There is a young fellow applying, but I'm keeping him in the air. JAMES. A gaol-bird in the office, COKESON? I don't see it. WALTER. "The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice!" I've never got that out of my head. JAMES. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this affair. What's he been doing since he came out? COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. He's sensitive--quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's down on him. JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow--never did from the first. "Weak character"'s written all over him. WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up. JAMES. He brought it all on himself. WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold in these days. JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold it for all that, my boy. WALTER. For oneself, yes--not for other people, thanks. JAMES. Well! I don't want to be hard. COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something [spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy. JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some one uncommonly like her outside as we came in. COKESON. That! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has met her. JAMES. Is she with her husband? COKESON. No. JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose? COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] I don't know that of my own knowledge. 'Tisn't my business. JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage him, COKESON. COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. I've had the party here this morning. JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Too shady altogether! COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you--I see that. WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what we have to do with his private life. JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come here. WALTER. Poor devil! COKESON. Will you--have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I can get him to see reason. JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, COKESON. WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON is summoning FALDER] His whole future may depend on what we do, dad. FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself together, and presents a steady front. JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you another chance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the first place: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notion that you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. You can't play fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. If Society didn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise that the better. FALDER. Yes, sir; but--may I say something? JAMES. Well? FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [He stops] COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, that if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a quarter of us would ever have got there. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that, Falder. FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you began it. FALDER. I never wanted to do wrong. JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did. FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knocked me out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not what I was. JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. FALDER. [Throwing over his caution from the intensity of his feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to the future. FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what prison is. It's here it gets you. He grips his chest. COKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he wanted nourishment. WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. Time's merciful. FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what you've got to do is to put all the past behind you and build yourself up a steady reputation. And that brings me to the second thing. This woman you were mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have done with that. There's no chance of your keeping straight if you're going to begin your future with such a relationship. FALDER. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted expression] But sir... but sir... it's the one thing I looked forward to all that time. And she too... I couldn't find her before last night. During this and what follows COKESON becomes more and more uneasy. JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself that it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come back--not otherwise. FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffens himself] I couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got. JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for the benefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of this connection. It was the cause of all your disaster. FALDER. But sir, it means-having gone through all that-getting broken up--my nerves are in an awful state--for nothing. I did it for her. JAMES. Come! If she's anything of a woman she'll see it for herself. She won't want to drag you down further. If there were a prospect of your being able to marry her--it might be another thing. FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him --she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble from the beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER]... If anybody would help her! It's only money wants now, I'm sure. COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and is about to speak] I don't think we need consider that--it's rather far-fetched. FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full cause since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, if it can be managed. FALDER. Oh, sir! He goes to the window and looks down into the street. COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr. Walter. I have my reasons. FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her? I can beckon to her from here. WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to JAMES. JAMES. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. FALDER beckons from the window. COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James. She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young man's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to swindle the Law. FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a sort of awed silence. FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some change--looking from one to the other] There's been nothing between us, sir, to prevent it.... What I said at the trial was true. And last night we only just sat in the Park. SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office. COKESON. What is it? SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honeywill. [There is silence] JAMES. Show her in. RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKESON turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed groove. JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door] We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be faced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falder again. RUTH. Yes--only yesterday. JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. [Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage, ma'am. RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to twist her hands in front of her as though prescient of disaster. FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us to get you a divorce. RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and WALTER. JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. FALDER. But, Sir----! JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're fond of him. RUTH. Yes, Sir; I love him. She looks miserably at FALDER. JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way, do you? RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce. There's been nothing between us, has there? RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head-without looking at him] No. FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help us--we promise. JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you? You see what I mean? RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes. COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. JAMES. The situation is impossible. RUTH. Must I, Sir? JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to you, ma'am. His future is in your hands. RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right! FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to give me up--after all this? There's something--[Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, I swear solemnly there's been nothing between us. JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He starts at RUTH, who is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as the truth dawns on him] What is it? You've not been-- WALTER. Father! JAMES. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do, that'll do! I'll give you your chance, Falder. Don't let me know what you do with yourselves, that's all. FALDER. [As if he has not heard] Ruth? RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands. There is silence. COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. [To RUTH] Go in here. You'll feel better by yourself for a minute. He points to the clerks' room and moves towards the outer office. FALDER does not move. RUTH puts out her hand timidly. He shrinks back from the touch. She turns and goes miserably into the clerks' room. With a brusque movement he follows, seizing her by the shoulder just inside the doorway. COKESON shuts the door. JAMES. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, whoever it is. SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice] Detective-Sergeant blister. The detective enters, and closes the door behind him. WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two years and a half ago: I arrested him in, this room. JAMES. What about him? WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his whereabouts from you. [There is an awkward silence] COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're not responsible for his movements; you know that. JAMES. What do you want with him? WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four weeks. WALTER. How d'you mean? WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police till then? WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare say we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employment with a forged reference. What with the two things together--we must have him. Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON steal glances at JAMES, who stands staring steadily at the detective. COKESON. [Expansively] We're very busy at the moment. If you could make it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but I dislike peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. If you want him you must find him without us. As he speaks his eye falls on FALDER'S cap, still lying on the table, and his face contracts. WISTER. [Noting the gesture--quietly] Very good, sir. I ought to warn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still a convict, and sheltering a convict. JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come here and ask questions which it's not my business to answer. WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quite understand, don't you? Good-morning! WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. COKESON. The other door.... the other door! WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTHS's voice is heard: "Oh, do!" and FALDER'S: "I can't!" There is a little pause; then, with sharp fright, RUTH says: "Who's that?" WISTER has gone in. The three men look aghast at the door. WISTER [From within] Keep back, please! He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in FALDER'S. The latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake! WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. FALDER. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up his head, and goes out through the outer office, half dragging WISTER after him. WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll go on for ever now. SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER's voice. JAMES. What's that? SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to behind him. There is dead silence. WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The woman-she's fainting! He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the clerks' room. COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! WALTER. Have you any brandy? COKESON. I've got sherry. WALTER. Get it, then. Quick! He places RUTH in a chair--which JAMES has dragged forward. COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They try to force the sherry between her lips.] There is the sound of feet, and they stop to listen. The outer door is reopened--WISTER and SWEEDLE are seen carrying some burden. JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it? They lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and all but RUTH cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices. WISTER. He jumped--neck's broken. WALTER. Good God! WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the slip like that. And what was it--just a few months! WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all? JAMES. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice unlike his own] Run for a doctor--you! [SWEEDLE rushes from the outer office] An ambulance! WISTER goes out. On RUTH's face an expression of fear and horror has been seen growing, as if she dared not turn towards the voices. She now rises and steals towards them. WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look! The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body. RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it? He's not breathing. [She crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! In the outer office doorway the figures of men am seen standing. RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead! [The figures of the men shrink back] COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] There, there, poor dear woman! At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at him. COKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! He's safe with gentle Jesus! RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at COKESON, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as one would to a lost dog. The curtain falls. End of Project Gutenberg's Justice (Second Series Plays), by John Galsworthy Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How did Bill die?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and create your cheat sheet. Here is the context: DAYS OF HEAVEN by Terry Malick REVISED: 6/2/76 SETTING The story is set in Texas just before the First World War. CAST OF CHARACTERS BILL: A young man from Chicago following the harvest. ABBY: The beautiful young woman he loves. CHUCK: The owner of a vast wheat ranch ("bonanza") in the Texas Panhandle. URSULA: Abby's younger sister, a reckless child of14. BENSON: The bonanza foreman, an enemy of the newcomers. MISS CARTER: Chief domestic at the Belvedere, Chuck's home. McLEAN: Chuck's accountant. GEORGE: A young pilot who interests Ursula. A PREACHER, A DOCTOR, AN ORGANIST, VARIOUS HARVEST HANDS, LAWMEN, VAUDEVILLIANS, etc. "Troops of nomads swept over the country at harvest time like a visitation of locusts, reckless young fellows, handsome, profane, licentious, given to drink, powerful but inconstant workmen, quarrelsome and difficult to manage at all times. They came in the season when work was plenty and wages high. They dressed well, in their own peculiar fashion, and made much of their freedom to come and go." "HAMLIN GARLAND, Boy Life on the Prairie (1899)" DAYS OF HEAVEN by Terry Malick REVISED: 6/2/76 SETTING The story is set in Texas just before the First World War. CAST OF CHARACTERS BILL: A young man from Chicago following the harvest. ABBY: The beautiful young woman he loves. CHUCK: The owner of a vast wheat ranch ("bonanza") in the Texas Panhandle. URSULA: Abby's younger sister, a reckless child of14. BENSON: The bonanza foreman, an enemy of the newcomers. MISS CARTER: Chief domestic at the Belvedere, Chuck's home. McLEAN: Chuck's accountant. GEORGE: A young pilot who interests Ursula. A PREACHER, A DOCTOR, AN ORGANIST, VARIOUS HARVEST HANDS, LAWMEN, VAUDEVILLIANS, etc. "Troops of nomads swept Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "He is killed by police." ]	31,690	narrativeqa	en	null	fd7551a90b78405f6b71079bb8565a2c9f60db1b7e4179c8	<html> <head> <LINK rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="style.css" title="style1"> <b> </b><META http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <script> <b><!-- </b>if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href <b>// --> </b></script> </HEAD> <title>DAYS OF HEAVEN by Terry Malick REVISED: 6/2/76</title> </head> <body> </p><p><p ID="act">DAYS OF HEAVEN" </p><p><p ID="act">by Terry Malick </p><p><p ID="act">REVISED: 6/2/76 </p><p><p ID="act">SETTING The story is set in Texas just before the First World War. </p><p><p ID="act">CAST OF CHARACTERS BILL: A young man from Chicago following the harvest. ABBY: The beautiful young woman he loves. CHUCK: The owner of a vast wheat ranch ("bonanza") in the Texas Panhandle. URSULA: Abby's younger sister, a reckless child of14. BENSON: The bonanza foreman, an enemy of the newcomers. MISS CARTER: Chief domestic at the Belvedere, Chuck's home. McLEAN: Chuck's accountant. GEORGE: A young pilot who interests Ursula. A PREACHER, A DOCTOR, AN ORGANIST, VARIOUS HARVEST HANDS, LAWMEN, VAUDEVILLIANS, etc. </p><p><p ID="act">"Troops of nomads swept over the country at harvest time like a visitation of locusts, reckless young fellows, handsome, profane, licentious, given to drink, powerful but inconstant workmen, quarrelsome and difficult to manage at all times. They came in the season when work was plenty and wages high. They dressed well, in their own peculiar fashion, and made much of their freedom to come and go." </p><p><p ID="act">"They told of the city, and sinister and poisonous jungles all cities seemed in their stories. They were scarred with battles. They came from the far-away and unknown, and passed on to the north, mysterious as the flight of locusts, leaving the people of Sun Prairie quite as ignorant of their real names and characters as upon the first day of their coming." Hamlin Garland, Boy Life on the Prairie (1899) </b></I> </p><p><p ID="act">DAYS OF HEAVEN </p><p><p ID="slug">1 INT. CHICAGO MILL - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">WORKERS in a dark Chicago mill pound molten iron out in flaming sheets. The year is 1916. </p><p><p ID="slug">2 EXT. MILL </p><p><p ID="act">BILL, a handsome young man from the slums, and his brother STEVE sit outside on their lunch break talking with an older man named BLACKIE. By the look of his flashy clothes Blackie is not a worker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">Listen, if I ever seen a tit, this here's a tit. You understand? Candy. My kid sister could do this one. Pure fucking candy'd melt in your hand. Don't take brains. Just a set of rocks. I told you this already. </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Blackie, you told me it was going to snow in the winter, I'd go out and bet against it. You know? <P ID="spkdir">(to Bill) <P ID="dia">There is nothing, nothing in the world, dumber than a dumb guinea. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">Okay, all right, fine. Why should I be doing favors for a guy that isn't doing me any favors? I must be losing my grip. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I got to give it to you, though. Couple of guys look like you just rolled in on a wagonload of chickens. You ever get laid? </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Sure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">Without a lot of talk, I mean? 'Cause I'm beginning to understand these guys, go down the hotel, pick something up for a couple of bucks. It's clean, and you know what you're in for. </p><p><p ID="slug">3 EXT. ALLEY </p><p><p ID="act">Sam the Collector's GANG swaggers around in the alley behind a textile plant. ONE of them has filed his teeth down to points and stuck diamonds in between them. ANOTHER wears big suspenders. Sam and Bill appear to know one another. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Hey, Billy, you made a mistake. You made somebody mad. Nothing personal, okay? It's just gotta be done. You made a mistake. Happens in the best of families. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I paid you everything I have. Search me. The rest he gets next week. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Listen, what happens if I don't do this? I gotta leave town? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I could do something, you know. You guys wanta do something to me, I know who to tell about it. You guys ought to think about that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">You maybe already did something. Maybe that's why you're here, on account of you already done something. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I haven't done anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Then you're all right, Billy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAZOR TEETH <P ID="dia">You got nothing to worry about. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Cut it out, Billy, all right? You know what can happen to a guy that doesn't wanta do what people tell him? You know. So don't give us a lot of trouble. You're liable to get everybody all pissed off. </p><p><p ID="act">Sam, a busy man, checks his watch. </p><p><p ID="slug">4 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill puts his hand on the ground. Sam drops a keg of roofing nails on it and, his work done, leaves with his gang. Bill sobs with pain. </p><p><p ID="slug">5 EXT. LOT BEYOND MILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Steve drag a safe by a rope through a vacant lot beyond the mill. Blackie walks behind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">You know what I'm doing with my end? Buy a boat. Get that? I had a boat. I had a nice apartment, I had a boat. Margie don't like that. We got to have a house. "I can't afford no house," I said. She says, "Sell the boat." I didn't want to sell my boat. I didn't want to buy the house. I sell the boat, I buy the house. Nine years we had the house, eight of them she's after me, we should get another boat. I give up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Same as always, I do all the work, you gripe about it. Suddenly FOUR POLICEMEN surprise them from ambush. Bill lets go of the rope and starts to run. Steve does not give up immediately, however, and they shoot him down. Bill picks up Steve's gun and fires back. Three of the Policemen go chasing after Blackie, whom they soon bring to heel. The FOURTH stays behind taking potshots at Bill while he attends to Steve. </p><p><p ID="slug">6 TIGHT ON STEVE </p><p><p ID="act">Steve, badly wounded, is about to die. </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Run. Get out of here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(weeping) <P ID="dia">I love you so much. Why didn't you run. Don't die. Steve dies. Bullets kick up dust around him. He takes off running. One of the bullets has caught him in the shoulder. </p><p><p ID="slug">7 INT. SEWER </p><p><p ID="act">ABBY, a beautiful woman in her late twenties, attends to Bill's wounds in a big vaulted sewer. Her sister URSULA, a reckless girl of14, stands watch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(weeping) <P ID="dia">They shot the shit out of him. My brother. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Hold still, or I can't do anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I love you, Abby. You're so good to me. Remember how much fun we had, on the roof... </p><p><p ID="slug">8 EXT. ROOF - MATTE SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby flirt on the root of a tenement, happily in love. The city stretches out behind them. </p><p><p ID="slug">9 INT. BED - QUICK CUT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby lies shivering with fever. Bill spoons hot soup into her mouth. Ursula rolls paper flowers for extra change. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="spkdir">(continuing) <P ID="dia">... even when you were sick and I was in the mill. </p><p><p ID="slug">10 INT. MILL - QUICK CUT (VARIOUS ANGLES OF OTHER WORKERS) </p><p><p ID="act">Bill works in the glow of a blast furnace. He does not seem quite in place with the rest of the workers. A pencil moustache lends a desired gentlemanliness to his appearance. He looks fallen on hard times, without ever having known any better--like Chaplin, an immigrant lost in the heartless city, with dim hopes for a better way of life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">I won't let you go back in the mill. People die in there. I'm a man, and I can look out for you. </p><p><p ID="slug">11 EXT. SIDING OUTSIDE MILL </p><p><p ID="act">Along a railroad spur outside the mill, Abby and Ursula glean bits of coal that have fallen from the tenders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">We're going west. Things gotta be better out there. </p><p><p ID="slug">12 EXT. TENEMENT </p><p><p ID="act">A POLICEMAN, looking for Bill, roughs Abby up behind the tenement where they live. Suddenly Bill runs out from a doorway and slams him over the head with a clay pitcher full of water. </p><p><P ID="speaker">POLICEMAN <P ID="dia">What'd you do? </p><p><p ID="act">Bill shrugs, then hits him again, knocking him unconscious, when he reaches for a gun. Abby calls Ursula and they take off running, Bill stopping only to collect some of their laundry off a clothesline. </p><p><p ID="slug">13 EXT. FREIGHT YARDS </p><p><p ID="act">They hop a freight train. </p><p><p ID="slug">14 CREDITS (OVER EXISTING PHOTOS) </p><p><p ID="act">The CREDITS run over black and white photos of the Chicago they are leaving behind. Pigs roam the gutters. Street urchins smoke cigar butts under a stairway. A blind man hawks stale bread. Dirty children play around a dripping hydrant. Laundry hangs out to dry on tenement fire escapes. Police look for a thief under a bridge. Irish gangs stare at the camera, curious how they will look. The CREDITS end. </p><p><p ID="slug">15 EXT. MOVING TRAIN </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Bill sit atop a train racing through the wheat country of the Texas Panhandle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I like the sunshine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Everybody does. They laugh. She is dressed in men's clothes, her hair tucked up under a cap. They are sharing a bottle of wine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I never wanted to fall in love with you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nobody asked you to. </p><p><p ID="act">He draws her toward him. She pulls away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter? A while ago you said I was irresistible. I still am. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That was then. </p><p><p ID="act">She pushes her nose up against his chest and sniffs around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You playing mousie again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I love how nice and hard your shoulders are. And your hair is light. You're not a soft, greasy guy that puts bay rum on every night. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I love it when you've been drinking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're not greasy, Bill. You have any idea what that means? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Kind of. </p><p><p ID="act">They share the boxcar with a crowd of other HARVEST HANDS. Ursula is among them, also dressed like a man. Bill gestures out at the landscape. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Look at all that space. Oweee! We should've done this a long time ago. It's just us and the road now, Abby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We're all still together, though. That's all I care about. </p><p><p ID="slug">16 EXT. JERKWATER </p><p><p ID="act">The train slows down to take on water. The hands jump off. Each carries his "bindle"-- a blanket and a few personal effects wrapped in canvas. TOUGHS with ax handles are on hand to greet them. The harvesters speak a Babel of tongues, from German to Uzbek to Swedish. Only English is rare. Some retain odd bits of their national costumes, they are pathetic figures, lonely and dignified and so far from home. Others, in split shoes and sockless feet, are tramps. Most are honest workers, though, here to escape the summer heat in the factories of the East. They dress inappropriately for farm work, in the latest fashions. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Elbow room! Oweee! Give me a chance and I'm going to dance! </p><p><p ID="act">Bill struts around with a Napoleonic air, in a white Panama hat and gaiters, taking in the vista. Under his arm he carries a sword cane with a pearl handle. It pleases him, in this small way, to set himself apart from the rest of toiling humanity. He wants it known that he was born to greater things. </p><p><p ID="slug">17 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill comes upon a BIG MAN whose face is covered with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Good, very good. Where you from, mister? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG MAN <P ID="dia">Cleveland. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Like to see the other guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Bill helps him to his feet and dusts him off. A TOUGH walks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">TOUGH <P ID="dia">You doing this shit? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Then keep it moving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Oh yeah? Who're you? The Tough hits Bill across the head with his ax handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">TOUGH <P ID="dia">Name is Morrison. Bill looks around to see whether Abby has seen this. She hasn't. He walks dizzily off down the tracks. </p><p><p ID="slug">18 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">He takes Abby by the arm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What happened to your ear? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nothing. She is a sultry beauty--emancipated, full of bright hopes and a zest for life. Her costume does not fool the men. Wherever she goes they ogle her insolently. <b>EXT. WAGONS </b>The FOREMEN of the surrounding farms wait by their wagons to carry the workers off. A flag pole is planted by each wagon. Those who do not speak English negotiate their wages on a blackboard. BENSON, a leathery man of fifty, bellows through a megaphone. In the background a NEWCOMER to the harvest talks with a VETERAN. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Shockers! Four more and I'm leaving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How much you paying? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Man can make three dollars a day, he wants to work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who're you kidding? Bill mills around. They have no choice but to accept his offer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Sackers! Abby steps up. Benson takes her for a young man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">You ever sacked before? </p><p><p ID="act">She nods. </p><p><p ID="act">Transcriber's Note: the following seven lines of dialogue between the NEWCOMER and the VETERAN runs concurrent with the previous six lines of dialogue between Benson and Bill and Abby. In the original script they are typed in two columns running side-by-side down the page. </p><p><p ID="act">*** </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How's the pussy up there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">VETERAN <P ID="dia">Not good. Where you from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Detroit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VETERAN <P ID="dia">How's the pussy up there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Good. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">The guys tough out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">VETERAN (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Not so tough. How about up there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Tough. <b>* </b></p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">When's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Last year. He waves her on. Abby nods at Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're making a mistake, you pass this kid up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Get on. He snaps his fingers at her. Bill climbs up ahead of the women. Anger makes him extremely polite. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You don't need to say it like that. Benson ignores this remark but dislikes Bill from the first. </p><p><p ID="slug">20 EXT. PLAINS </p><p><p ID="act">Benson's wagons roll across the plains toward the Razumihin, a "bonanza" or wheat ranch of spectacular dimensions, its name spelled out in whitewashed rocks on the side of a hill. </p><p><p ID="slug">21 EXT. BONANZA GATES (NEAR SIGN) </p><p><p ID="act">The wagons pass under a large arch, set in the middle of nowhere, like the gates to a vanished kingdom. Goats peer down from on top. Bill looks at Abby and raises his eyebrows. </p><p><p ID="slug">22 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">At the center of the bonanza, amid a tawny sea of grain, stands a gay Victorian house, three stories tall. Where most farm houses stand more sensibly on low ground, protected from the elements, "The Belvedere" occupies the highest ridge around, commanding the view and esteem of all. Filigrees of gingerbread adorn the eaves. Cottonwood saplings, six feet high, have recently been planted in the front. Peacocks fuss about the yard. There is a lawn swing and a flagpole, used like a ship's mast for signaling distant parts of the bonanza. A wind generator supplies electric power. A white picket fence surrounds the house, though its purpose is unclear; where the prairie leaves off and the yard begins is impossible to tell. Bison drift over the hills like boats on the ocean. Bill shouts at the nearest one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Yo, Beevo! </p><p><p ID="slug">23 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">CHUCK ARTUNOV, the owner--a man of great reserve and dignity, still a bachelor--stands on the front porch of the Belvedere high above, observing the new arrivals. </p><p><p ID="slug">24 EXT. DORMITORY </p><p><p ID="act">Benson drops the hands off at the dormitory, a hundred yards below, a plain clapboard building with a ceiling of exposed joists. Ursula sees Chuck watching them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Whose place is that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">The owner's. Don't none of you go up around his place. First one that does is fired. I'm warning you right now. </p><p><p ID="act">In the warm July weather most of the hands forsake the dorm to spread their bedrolls around a strawpile or in the hayloft of the nearby barn. </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Bill slip off to share a cigarette. Ursula tags behind. </p><p><p ID="slug">25 EXT. ROCK </p><p><p ID="act">Bill lifts a big rock. Abby applauds. Ursula kneels down behind him. Abby pushes him over backwards. </p><p><p ID="slug">26 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula gasps as Abby tumbles off the roof of the barn and falls through the air screaming: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Urs! She lands in a straw pile. </p><p><p ID="slug">27 TIGHT ON ABBY AND BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill takes Abby by the hands, spins her around until she is thoroughly dizzy, then grasps her across the chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Ready? She giggles her consent. He crushes her in a bear hug until she is just on the verge of passing out, then lets her go. She sinks to the grass, in a daze of sweet intoxication. </p><p><p ID="slug">28 EXT. LANTERN - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill looks deeply into Abby's eyes by the light of a lantern that night. They have made a shallow cut on their thumbs and press them together mixing their blood like children. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're all I've got, Abby. No, really, everything I ever had is a complete piece of garbage except you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know. They laugh. He bends to kiss her. She pulls away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Sometimes I think you don't like men. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">As individuals? Very seldom. She kisses him lovingly. </p><p><p ID="slug">29 EXT. WHEAT FIELDS - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">The sun peers over the horizon. The wheat makes a sound like a waterfall. It stretches for as far as the eye can see. A PREACHER has come out, in a cassock and surplice, to offer prayers of thanksgiving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PREACHER <P ID="dia">"... that your days may be multiplied, and the days of your children, in the land which the Lord swore unto your fathers to give them, as the days of' heaven upon the earth." The harvesters spit and rub their hands as they wait for the dew to burn off. They have slept in their coats. The dawn has a raw edge, even in summer. </p><p><p ID="slug">30 TIGHT ON WHEAT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks to see if the wheat is ready to harvest. He shakes the heads; they make a sound like paper. He snaps off a handful, rolls them between his palms, blows away the chaff and pinches the kernels that remain to make sure they have grown properly hard. Tiny sounds are magnified in the early morning stillness: grasshoppers snapping through the air, a cough, a distant hawk. He pops the kernels into his mouth, chews them up, and rolls the wad around in his mouth. Satisfied, he spits it out and gives a nod. The Preacher begins a prayer of thanksgiving. Two ACOLYTES flank him, one with a smoking censer, the other with a crucifix. All repeat the "Amen." Benson makes a tugging signal with his arm. A Case tractor--forty tons of iron, steam-driven, as big and as powerful as a locomotive--blasts its whistle. This is the moment they have been waiting all year for. </p><p><p ID="slug">31 OTHER FIELDS - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">A SIGNALMAN with two hand flags passes the message on from the crest of a nearby hill. In the far-flung fields of the bonanza other tractors answer as other crews set to work. Abby and Bill join in, Bill reaping the wheat with a mowing machine called a binder, Abby propping the bound sheaves together to make bunches or "shocks." A cloud of chaff rises over the field, melting the sun down to a cold red bulb. Abby is well turned out, in a boater and string tie, as though she were planning any moment to leave for a picnic. Bill, too, dresses with an eye to flashy fashion: Tight dark trousers, a silk handkerchief stuck in the back pocket with a copy of the Police Gazette, low-top calfskin boots with high heels and pointed toes, a shirt with ruffled cuffs, and a big signet ring. While at work he wears a white smock over all this to keep the chaff off. It gives him the air more of a researcher than a worker. The harvesters itch madly as the chaff gets into their clothes. The shocks, full of briars, cut their hands; smut and rust make the cuts sting like fire. Nobody talks. From time to time they raise a chant. Ursula, plucking chickens by the cookhouse--a shack on wheels-- steals a key chain from an unwatched coat. Benson follows the reapers around the field in a buggy. He keeps their hours, chides loafers, checks the horses, etc. The harvesters are city people. Few of them are trained to farming. Most--Abby and Bill are no exception--have contempt for it and anybody dull enough to practice it. Tight control is therefore exercised to see that the machines are not damaged. Where the others loaf whenever Benson's back is turned, Bill works like a demon, as a point of pride. </p><p><p ID="slug">32 CHUCK AND BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Lightning shivers through the clouds along the horizon. Chuck looks concerned. Benson consults a windsock. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Should miss us. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">They must be having trouble over there, though. Abby, passing by, lifts her hat to wipe her face. As she does her hair falls out of the crown. Women are rare in the harvest fields. One so beautiful is unprecedented. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I didn't know we had any women on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="spkdir">(surprised) <P ID="dia">I thought she was a boy. Should I get rid of her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><p ID="slug">33 MONTAGE </p><p><p ID="act">A COOK stands on the horizon waving a white flag at the end of a fishing pole. Ursula bounds through the wheat blowing a horn. Benson consults the large clock strapped to the back of his buggy, then fires a smoke pistol in the air. Their faces black with chaff, the hands fall out in silence. They shuffle across the field toward the cookhouse, keeping their feet close to the ground to avoid being spiked by the stubble. </p><p><p ID="slug">34 EXT. COOKHOUSE - STUBBLE FIELD IN B.G. </p><p><p ID="act">The COOKS, Orientals in homburgs, serve from planks thrown across sawhorses. The hands cuff and push each other around as they wash up. The water, brought up fresh in wagons from the wells, makes them gasp. An ice wagon and a fire truck are parked nearby. Most sit on the ground to eat, under awnings or beach umbrellas dotted around the field like toadstools. The Belvedere is visible miles away on the horizon. Bill is carrying Abby's lunch to her when a loutish DUTCH MAN makes a crack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DUTCHMAN <P ID="dia">Your sister keep you warm at night? Bill throws a plate of stew at him and they are quickly in a fight. No fists are used, just food. The others pull them apart. Bill storms away, flicking mashed potatoes off his shirt. </p><p><p ID="slug">35 EXT. GRAIN WAGON - STUBBLE FIELD IN B.G. </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby sit by themselves in the shade of a grain wagon. Demoralized, Abby soaks her hands in a pail of bran water. Bill inspects them anxiously. They are swollen and cracked from the morning's work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I ran a stubble under my nail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Didn't you ever learn how to take care of yourself? I told you to keep the gloves on. What can I do if you don't listen? Bill presses her wrists against his cheek, ashamed that he can do nothing to shield her from such indignities. In the b.g. a MAN with a fungo bat hits flies to SOME MEN with baseball gloves. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You can't keep on like this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What else can we do? She nods at the others. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Anyway, if they can, I can too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That bunch? Don't compare yourself to them. She flexes her fingers. They seem lame. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You drop off this weak. I can make enough for us both. It was a crime to bring you out here. Somebody like you. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Right now, what I'm doing, I'm just dragging you down. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Maybe you should go back to Chicago. We've got enough for a ticket, and I can send you what I make. He seems a little surprised when she does not reject this idea out of hand. Perhaps he fears that if she ever did go back, he might never see her again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter? She begins to cry. He takes her in his arms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know how you feel, honey. Things won't always be this way. I promise. </p><p><p ID="slug">36 ABBY AND BILL - CHUCK'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">The men knock out their pipes as Benson's whistle summons them back to their stations. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Tick tockl Tick tock! Nothing moving but the clock! Bill pulls Abby to her feet. He sees the Dutchman he fought with and shoots him the finger. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You better be careful. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Of him? He's just a. sack of shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Stop it! He's liable to see you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I want him to. He's the one better be careful. </p><p><p ID="slug">37 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks on. Something about her captivates hint, not so much her beauty--which only makes her seem beyond his reach--as the way she takes it utterly for granted. </p><p><p ID="slug">38 MONTAGE (DISSOLVES) </p><p><p ID="act">The work goes on through the afternoon. The pace is stern and incessant, and for a reason: a storm could rise at any moment and sweep the crops flat, or a dry wind shrivel them up. A series of dissolves gives the sense of many days passing. Iany moment and sweep the crops flat, or a dry wind shrivel them up.Animals--snakes and gophers, rabbits and foxes--dart through the field into the deep of the wheat, not realizing their sanctuary is growing ever smaller as the reapers make their rounds. The moment will come when they will every one be killed with rakes and flails. The wheat changes colors in the wind, like velvet. As the sun drops toward the horizon a dew sets, making the straw hard to cut. Benson fires his pistol. A vine of smoke sinks lazily through the sky. As the workers move off, the fields grow vast and inhospitable. Oil wells can be seen here and there amid the grain. </p><p><p ID="slug">39 EXT. ABBY'S ROW </p><p><p ID="act">Bill helps Abby finish up a row. Thousands of shocks stretch out in the distance. Benson comes up behind her, making a spray of the stalks that she missed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">You must've passed over a dozen bushels here. I'm docking you three dollars. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? That's not fair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Then leave. You're fired. Abby is speechless. Bill squeezes the small rubber ball which he carries around to improve his grip and swallows his pride. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Wait a minute. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">You want to stay? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Then shut up and get back to work. Benson leaves. Abby covers Bill's embarrassment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I guess he meant it. She turns her back to him and goes about picking up the sheaf Benson threw down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He did. Ask him. If you can't sing or dance, what do you do in this world? You might as well forget it. Ising or dance, what do you do this world? You might as wellu rorget it. </p><p><p ID="slug">40 EXT. STOCK POND - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Their day's work done, the men swim naked in a stock pond. Their faces are black, their bodies white as a baby's. A retriever plunges through the water fetching sticks. </p><p><p ID="slug">41 EXT. ROAD - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Some bowl with their hats on in a dusty road and argue in Italian. </p><p><p ID="slug">42 EXT. BELVEDERE - DOCTOR'S WAGON - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">A physician's wagon stands in front of the Belvedere. Bill hunts nervously through it for medicine to soothe Abby's hands. Not knowing quite what to look for, he sniffs whatever catches his eye. Suddenly the front door opens and Chuck steps out with a DOCTOR, a stooped old man in a black frock coat. Bill, surprised, crouches behind the wheel. As they draw closer their conversation becomes faintly audible. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How long you give it? DOCTOR (o.s.) Could be next month. Could be a year. Hard to say. Anyway, I'm sorry. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Got to happen sometime. They shake hands </p><p><p ID="slug">43 NEW ANGLE - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">The Doctor snaps his whip at the horses. Bill grabs holdI The Doctor snaps his whip at the horses. Bill grabs hold of the back of the wagon and lets it drag him away from the Belvedere.the Belvedere. - </p><p><p ID="slug">44 EXT. BARN - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula and Abby case the barn for dinner. Abby points at a pair of peacocks strutting by, nods to Ursula and puts a finger over her lips. Ursula, with a giggle, followsone while Abby stalks the other. </p><p><p ID="slug">45 EXT. RAPESEED FIELD - SERIES OF ANGLES - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">The peacock, a resplendent white, leads Abby through a bright yellow rapeseed field. It keeps just out of reach, as though it were enticing her on. as though it were enticing her on.'U All at once she looks up with a start. Chuck is standing in front of her, dressed in his habitual black. The Belvedere rises behind him like a castle in a fairy tale. She remembers Benson's warning that this is forbidden ground. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(afraid) <P ID="dia">I forgot where I was. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Don't worry. Where you from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Chicago. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">We hardly ever see a woman on the harvest. There is a small rip in the side of her shirt, which the camera observes with Chuck. She pulls her sweater over it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You like the work? <P ID="spkdir">(she shrugs) <P ID="dia">Where do you go from here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Wyoming and places. I've never been up that way. You think I'll like it? He shrugs. Shy at first, she begins to open up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That dog belongs to you that was running around here? That little pointer? <P ID="spkdir">(he nods) <P ID="dia">What's his name </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Buster. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He seems like a good dog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I think so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He came over and tried to eat my bread from lunch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Maybe I should keep him penned up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(smiling) <P ID="dia">You asking me? </p><p><p ID="slug">46 EXT. SPIT - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds Ursula roasting a peacock on a spit. She has arranged some of its tail feathers in her hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're getting prettier every day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Aren't you sweet! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Depends how people are with me. Where's Abby? I found her something. He holds out a jar of salve. Ursula shrugs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">She mention anything to you about going back? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What? Ursula has no idea what he is talking about. </p><p><p ID="slug">47 EXT. STRAW STACK - MAGIC HOURMost of the workers are fast asleep around the strawplU </p><p><p ID="act">Most of the workers are fast asleep around the strawpile, their bodies radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. A few stay up late to shoot dice in the back of a wagon. </p><p><p ID="slug">48 EXT. SEPARATE STACK - MAGIC HOUR </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Bill have laid their bedrolls out by a stack away from the others. A fire burns nearby. Abby look at the stars. Bill shines his shoes. The straw is fragrant as thyme. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I've had it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're tired, that's all. I'm going to find you another blanket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No, it's not that. I'm not tired. I just can't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't you want to be with me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know I do. It's just that, well, I'm not a bum, Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know. I told you though, this is only for a while. Then we're going to New York.Then we're New York. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">And after that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Then we're there. Then we get fixed up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You mean spend one night in a flophouse and start looking for work. They are silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You should go back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">And leave you? I couldn't do that. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Someday, when I'm dying, I'd like somebody to ask me if I still see life the same way as before--and I'd like them to write down what I say. It might be interesting.I Suddenly they look around. The chief domestic at the Belvedere, a churlish lady named MISS CARTER, stands above them with a salver of fruit and roast fowl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(suspicious) <P ID="dia">What's going on? Who sent it? She nods up toward the Belvedere and sets it down.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What for? She withdraws with a shrug. She does not appear to relish this duty. Bill watches her walk back to the buggy she came down in. Benson waits beside it.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(to Abby) <P ID="dia">She's the kind wouldn't tell you if your coat was on fire.U </p><p><p ID="slug">49 NEW ANGLE - MAGIC HOURI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby, with the look of a child that has wandered into aI magic world, digs in. Bill looks on, suspicious of the_ motives behind this generosity. </p><p><p ID="slug">50 EXT. FIELD WITH OIL WELL - URSULA'S THEME - MAGIC HOUR </p><p><p ID="act">A bank of clouds moves across the moon. Ursula roams the fields, keen with unsatisfied intelligence. The stubble hisses as a hot wind blows up from the South, driving bits of grain into her face like sleet. From time to time she does a cartwheel. Equipment cools in the fields. Little jets of steam escape the boilers of the tractors.Ursula stops in front of a donkey well. It nods up and down in ceaseless agreement, pumping up riches from deep in the earth. </p><p><p ID="slug">51 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW - MAGIC HOUR </p><p><p ID="act">The camera moves through the bedroom window to find Chuck asleep on his pillow. The wind taps the curtain into the room. </p><p><p ID="slug">52 EXT. FATHER IN CHAIR - QUICK CUT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck dreams of a Biblical figure with a long plaited room.U52EXT. Chuck dreams of a Biblical figure with a long plaited beard, in a frock coat and Astrakhan hat, sitting in a_ chair on the open prairie, guarding his land with a brace of guns. This man will later be identified as his FATHER. </p><p><p ID="slug">53 EXT. FIELDS - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The next day Benson yells through a megaphone from atop a stool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Hold your horses!I The huge tractors start up with a bang. Despite Benson's warning a team of Percherons breaks free. Threshing, the separating of the wheat from the chaff, has begun. </p><p><p ID="slug">54 EXT. SEPARATOR - SERIES OF ANGLESI </p><p><p ID="act">Sixty foot belts connect the tractors to the separating machines, huge rattletrap devices that shell the wheat out at deafening volume. Benson tosses bundles down the hissing maw, squirts oil into the gears, tightens belts, chews out a MAN who's sliced a hand on the driveshaft, etc. Bill works on the straw pile at the back of the machine, in a soft rain of chaff, spreading it out with a pitchfork. Ursula helps stoke the tractor with coal and water. When nothing is required of her she sneaks off to burrow in the straw. Gingerbread on the eaves of the tractors gives them a Victorian appearance. Tall flags mark their position in the field. Abby moves quickly, without a moment's rest, sewing up the sacks of grain as they are measured out at the bottom of the separator. A clowning WORKER comes up and smells herU like a flower. </p><p><p ID="slug">55 EXT. GRAIN ELEVATORSU </p><p><p ID="act">Fully laden wagons set off toward distant grain elevators.U </p><p><p ID="slug">56 EXT. COUCH ON RIDGE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and McLEAN, his accountant, sit on a ridge away from the chaff, in the shade of a beach umbrella. Chuck keeps track of operations through a telescope. Our last view of Abby, we realize, was from his POV. A plush Empire couch has been drawn up for his to rest in. At a table beside it, McLean computes the yield. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">This must be wrong. No, dammit, nineteen bushels an acre. Chuck sails his hat out in the stubble with a whoop. McLean leans over his adding machine, cackling like a thief. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">Say it goes at fifty-five cents a bushel, that means a profit of four dollars and seventy-five cents per acre. Multiply by twenty thousand and you're talking over six figures.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Big year. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">Your biggest ever. This could make you the richest man in thePanhandle. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You ought to get out while you're this far ahead. You'll never do better. I mean it. You have nothing to gain by staying.U nothing to gain by staying. I </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I want to expand. I want to run this land clear to the Oklahoma border. Next spring I will. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">And gamble everything?U <P ID="spkdir">(he nods)I <P ID="dia">You're crazy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I been out here all my life. Selling this place would be like cutting my heart out. This is the only home I ever had. ThisI is where I belong. Besides, I don't want to live in town. I couldn't take my dogs.I </p><p><p ID="slug">57 CHUCK'S POV - TELESCOPE MATTE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck takes another look at Abby through the telescope. <b>25 </b></p><p><p ID="slug">58 EXT. BUGGY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill drinks from the water barrel at the back of Benson'sU buggy, his eyes fixed on Chuck's distan </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Big place here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">The President's going to pay a visit next time he comes West.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Got a smoke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">No.I Bill puts his hat back on. He keeps wet cottonwood leaves in the crown to cool himself off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why's that guy dragging an expensive piece of furniture out here? Reason I ask is he's going to ruin thefinish and have to strip it.I Benson hesitates, uncertain whether he might be divulging a confidence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">He's not well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter with him?I Benson immediately regrets having spoken so freely. He checks his watch to suggest Bill should get back to work. This uneasiness confirms Bill's sense that Chuck is gravely ill. </p><p><p ID="slug">59 EXT. SEPARATOR - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby is sewing up her last sacks by the separator that evening when Chuck walks up, still in the flush of McLean's good news. The others have finished and left to wash up. He sits down and helps her. Shy and upright, he does not know quite how to behave with a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Probably be all done tomorrow. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You still plan on going North? She nods and draws her last stitch. Chuck musters his courage. It must be now or never. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Reason I ask is maybe you'd like to stay on. Be easier than now. There's hardly any work after harvest. The pay is just as good, though. Better in fact. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why're you offering me this? My honest face? Chuck takes a moment to compose his reply. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I've watched you work. Think about it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Maybe I will. She backs off toward Bill, who is waiting in the distance. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Who's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(hesitant) <P ID="dia">My brother. Chuck nods. </p><p><p ID="slug">60 NEW ANGLE - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">She joins Bill. He gives her a melon, wanting to pick up her spirits. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This is all I could find. You feeling better? <P ID="spkdir">(she shrugs) <P ID="dia">What'd he want? They look at each other. </p><p><p ID="slug">61 EXT. RIVER - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">As Bill and Abby bathe in the river that evening, he tells her what he seems to have learned about Chuck's state of health. Down the way Ursula sits under a tree playing a guitar. Otherwise they are alone. They all wear bathing suits, Bill a shirt as well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILLU <P ID="dia">It must be something wrong with his lungs. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">He doesn't have any family, either.his lungs.I <P ID="spkdir">(pause)I </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">So what? Bill shrugs. Does he have to draw her a picture? A shy, virginal light has descended over the world. Cranes peer at them from the tamarack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Tell him you'll stay. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What for? Bill is wondering what might happen if Chuck got interested enough to marry her. Isn't he soon to die, leaving a vast inheritance that will otherwise go to waste? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know I love you, don't you? ABBY Yes. Abby guesses what is going through his mind, and it shocks her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Oh, Bill! He takes her into his arms, full of emotion.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What else can we really do? I know how you feel, but we keepon this way, in five years we'll be washed up. He catches a stick drifting by and throws it further down stream. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You ever think about all those ladies parading up and downU Michigan Avenue? Bunch of whores! You're better than anyI of them. You ever think how they got where they are? He wants to breathe hope into her. He thinks of himself as responding to what she needs and secretly wants. When she does not answer he gives up with a sigh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Let's forget it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know what you mean, though. He takes her hand, with fresh hope of convincing her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We weren't meant to end up like this. At least you weren't. You could be something. I've heard you sing. You have a lot of fine qualities that need to come out. Ursula, too. What.U kind of people is she meeting up with, riding the rods? The girl's never had a clean shot-- never will. She oughta be in school. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(nodding) <P ID="dia">You wouldn't say this if you really loved me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">But I do. You know I do. This just shows how much. We're shitI out of luck, Abby. People need luck. What're you crying about? Oh, don't tell me. I already know. All on account of your unhappy life and all that stuff. Well, we gotta do something about it, honey. We can't expect anybody else to. Abby runs into the woods.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Always the lady! Well, you don't know how things work in this country. This is why every hunkie I ever met is going nowhere. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Why do you want to make me feel worse than I already do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (CONT'D) <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You people get hold of the guy that's passing out dough, giveI him my name, would you? I'd appreciate it. </p><p><p ID="slug">62 TIGHT ON BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill skims rocks off the water to calm himself down. HeI feels that somehow he did not get to say what he wanted to.U </p><p><p ID="slug">63 EXT. WOODS BY RIVER </p><p><p ID="act">Abby is dressing in the cool woven shade of the woods when Ursula, her face caked with a mask of river mud, jumps from the bushes with a shriek, scaring the wits out of her sister. </p><p><p ID="slug">64 EXT. BELVEDERE - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">On their way home they pass the Belvedere. A single light burns on the second floor. Abby picks cornflowers to put in her hair. Bill runs his hand down her back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why're you touching me that way? He shrugs. Muffled by the walls of the house, above the cries of the peafowl, they can faintly hear Chuck singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He's singing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He can't be too sick if he's singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He might be singing to God. They look at each other and smile. It does not appear that she has held what he said by the river against him. Bill stands for a moment and looks up at the Belvedere before passing on. </p><p><p ID="slug">65 EXT. SEPARATOR, LAST SHEAVES, RATS </p><p><p ID="act">Work goes on the next day. As they near the last sheaves of unthreshed grain, hundreds of rats burst out of hiding. The harvesters go after them with shovels and stones. The dogs chase down the ones that escape. </p><p><p ID="slug">66 BENSON AND CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Benson and Chuck smile at each other. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">We should be done around four. They improvise a chat about past harvests. Years of shared hardship have drawn them close. Chuck trails off in the middle of a reminiscence. Something else weighing on his mind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(shyly) <P ID="dia">You put her on the slowest machine? Benson nods.U </p><p><p ID="slug">67 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">The threshing is done. A bundle is pitched into the separator backwards, snapping it abruptly to a stop. The drive belt whips along the ground like a mad snake. </p><p><p ID="slug">68 EXT. PAYROLL TABLEI </p><p><p ID="act">All hands line up at the payroll table. McLean gives out their wages in twists of newspaper. Chuck and Benson shake their hands. </p><p><p ID="slug">69 TIGHT ON BILL AND SORROWFUL MAN </p><p><p ID="act">A SORROWFUL MAN shows Bill a picture of a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SORROWFUL MAN <P ID="dia">And I let somebody like that get away from me. Redhead. Lost her to a guy named Ed. Just let it happen. Should've gone out there outside the city limits and shot him. I just about did, too. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">If you're knocking yourself out like this, I hope it's for a woman. And I hope she's good looking. You understand? </p><p><p ID="slug">70 TIGHT ON ABBY AND URSULAI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby snatches a cigarette out of Ursula's mouth, takes a drag and throws it away. When Ursula goes to pick it up, she stamps it out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't spend a cent of that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Why don't you leave me alone?U </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm not going to sit around and watch you throw your life away. Nobody's going to look at you twice if you've got nothing to your name. Ursula dislikes meddlesome adults. She takes out a pouch of tobacco to roll another cigarette. Abby swats it out of her hand and chases her off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want me to cut a switch? </p><p><p ID="slug">71 SERIES OF ANGLES - FESTIVITIES - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">There are feats of strength and prowess as workers from the many fields of the bonanza join to celebrate the harvest home: boxing, wrestling, barrel jumping, rooster bouts, bear hugs, "Crack the Whip" and nut fights. Two tractors, joined by a heavy chain, vie to see which can outpull the other. Chuck lifts the back wheel of the separator off the ground; Benson replies by holding an anvil at arm's length; they tease each other about showing off. A GYMNAST does flips. They all seem happy as kids on holiday. </p><p><p ID="slug">72 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Ursula share a cigarette. Ursula tries on his sunglasses. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">We going to stay? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">If she wants to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You'd rather go?_ Bill, after a moment's thought, shrugs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">She's the one has to say. You put aspirin in this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">No. She hands back his sunglasses. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Keep them. </p><p><p ID="slug">73 EXT. MUD PIT - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Two TEAMS of harvesters have a tug of war. The losers are dragged through a pit of mud. Cradling handfuls of slime, they chase the winners off into the dusk. </p><p><p ID="slug">74 BILL AND ABBY - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds Abby sitting off by herself, wanting no part of the festivities. This is the first time since their arrival in Texas we have seen her wearing a dress. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Sunny Jim, look at this. My first ice cream in six months. And the lady even asks do I want sprinkles on top, thank you. Big, deep dish of ice cream. You couldn't pay me to leave this place, Got you one, too. You should've heard the line I had to give her, though. Oowee! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Good, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Great. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Now you're trying to coax me. You never used to act like this. Bill throws down the bowls of ice cream. In the distance, some MEN compete at throwing a sledge hammer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">For as long as I can remember, people been giving me a hard time about one thing or another. Don't you start in, too! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want to turn me into a whore? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We don't have to decide anything final now. Just if we're going to stay. You never have to touch him if you don't feel like it. Minute you get fed up, we take off. Worst that can happen is we had it soft for a while. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Something's made you mean. She walks off, uncertain what Bill really wants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Or else we can forget it. I'm not going to spend the whole afternoon on this, though. That I'm not going to do. </p><p><p ID="slug">75 ISOLATED ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck watches from a distance, fearful that tonight may be the last he will ever see of her.U </p><p><p ID="slug">76 TGHT ON ABBY, EFFIGY, MARS, ETC.I </p><p><p ID="act">The harvesters shape and dress the final sheaf as a woman. The LAST of them to finish that day carries the effigy at the end of the pole to the Belvedere. His mates follow behind, jeering and throwing dirt clods at him.U Aby watches. We sense that anything she sees mightI figure in her decision.U Mars hangs low and red in the western sky._ </p><p><p ID="slug">77 URSULA AND DRUNK </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula is looking at her figure in a pocket mirror whenU a DRUNK appears behind her.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">DRUNK <P ID="dia">See what happens to you? Little shit. Get out there and make that big money and don't spend time dicking around. </p><p><p ID="slug">78 EXT. PIT OF COALS - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">A feast is laid on. ONE PERSON rolls a flaming wheel down a hill. ANOTHER sets off a string of firecrackers. GERMANS pelt each other with spareribs. Ursula spears hogsheads out of a pit of hot coals. The YOUNGER MEN tease her. She is too much of a tomboy to interest any of thm seriously. The effigy sits off in a chair by itself. <b>1 </b></p><p><p ID="slug">79 TIGHT ON ABBY AND CHUCK - DUSKChuck awaits Abby's answer.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There's a problem. I have to keep my baby sister with me. Someday_ my baby sister with me. Someday I'm going to save up enough, see, and send her to school. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">My brother, too. I can't leave him.I Abby fears she has asked too much. Chuck hesitates, but only to suggest he still has the prudence he long since has abandoned. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">There's work for them, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><p ID="slug">80 EXT. BONFIRE - DUSK. </p><p><p ID="act">A bonfire burns like a huge eye in the vat of the prairie night. The band strikes up a reel. Chuck and Abby lead the dancing off, as though to celebrate their agreement. Their giant shadows dance with them. Soon the other harvesters join in. </p><p><p ID="slug">81 TIGHT ON BILL - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches Abby dance--it almost seems in farewell to their innocence. After a moment he turns off into the night.I </p><p><p ID="slug">82 MONTAGE - NIGHT_ </p><p><p ID="act">The effigy is held over the flame at the end of a pole until it catches fire. The harvesters prance around in the dark, trading it from hand to hand. The MUSICIANS, drunk and happy, bow their hearts out. </p><p><p ID="slug">83 TIGHT ON BILL - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">While the others pursue their merriment, Bill walks the fields by himself, trembling with grief and indecision. Dawn is breaking. The eastern sky glows like a forge. Suddenly he comes upon a wolf. He catches his breath. The wolf stares back at him for a moment, then turns and pads off into the stubble. </p><p><p ID="slug">84 EXT. RAILROAD TRACKS - DAWNEEXT. RAILROAD TRACKS - DAWNU </p><p><p ID="act">Early the next morning the HARVESTERS wander by the hundreds down to the railroad tracks to catch a train for the North, where the crops are just now coming into maturity. A subtle feeling of sadness pervades the group. Bill gives his sword cane away to a MAN who seems to have admired it. The MAN offers him money, but he declines it. </p><p><p ID="slug">85 EXT. TRAIN - URSULA AND JOHN - LATER </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula says goodbye to her favorite, a redhead named JOHN. She is hoarse, as always. </p><p><P ID="speaker">JOHN <P ID="dia">Why don't you come with us? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">They won't let me. So when am I going to see you again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">JOHN <P ID="dia">Maybe in Cheyenne. She nods okay. They both know they will never see each other again. On a sudden impulse she gives him a love note. </p><p><P ID="speaker">JOHN <P ID="dia">What's this? She takes it back immediately, but he snatches it away from her and, after a brief, giggling scuffle, hops aboard the train, now picking up speed. Ursula runs along behind, cursing and throwing rocks at him. </p><p><p ID="slug">86 TIGHT ON BILL AND ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby look on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I told her, "none of my business Urs, I just hope you're not rolling around with some redhead is all." She looks me over. "Why?" she says, "What've you guys got that redheads don't?" I pity that kid. Ursula runs up and throws herself tearfully into Abby's arms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter? What'd he do? Bill starts off after the train. </p><p><p ID="slug">87 EXT.-"SHEEP POWER" </p><p><p ID="act">Abby tends a washing machine driven by a sheep on a treadmill. Chuck watches from the front steps of the Belvedere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm just about done with this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">So what's next? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Next? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There's nothing else you want done? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Not that I can think of. Not right now. Miss Carter, the housekeeper, steps out on the porch and pours a bucket of milk into a cream separator. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How about the cream? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">She takes care of that. He nods at Miss Carter, who conspicuously lets the screen door clap shut as she goes back inside. She misses no opportunity to express her disdain for these newcomers. She and Benson are the only employees seen at the Belvedere. Several dozen others have stayed on after the harvest but they keep to their quarters down at the dorm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You mean I'm done for today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(uncomfortably) <P ID="dia">Something else might come up. In truth, Chuck does not want to see Abby degraded by menial labor, considering her more a guest than an employee. They look at each other. Abby does not know quite what to make of him </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Well, I'm going back to the dorm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCKU <P ID="dia">Is everything okay down there? In the way of accommodations, I mean.U She nods and waves goodbye.I </p><p><p ID="slug">88 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Down by the barn Bill teaches Chuck how to shoot dice. Chuck feigns interest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I like to gamble, and I like to win. I make no bones about it. Got to where the guys on Throop Street wouldn't even lag pennies with me on account of I was such a winner. I'm starting out level with you, you understand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Have you ever been in trouble with the law? Bill looks around. Abby would think it impolitic of him to speak so openly with Chuck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILLI <P ID="dia">Nothing they could make stick. My problem has always been not having the education. I bullshitted my way into school. They gave me a test. It was ridiculous. I got in fights. Ended up paying for a window. They threw me out. Don't blame them either. Still, I wanted to make something of myself. I mean, guys look at you across a desk, you know what they're thinking. So I went in the mill. Couldn't wait to get in there. Begin at seven, got to have a smile on your face. Didn't work out, though. No matter what you do, sometimes things just don't go right. It gets to you after a while. It gives you that feeling, "Oh hell, what's the use?" <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">My dad told me, forget what the people around you are doing. You got enough to worry about without considering what somebody else does. Otherwise you get fouled up. He used to say (tapping his temple) "All you got is this." Only one day you wake up, find you're not the smartest guy in the world, never going to come up with the big score. I really believed when I was growing up that somehow I would. I worked like a bastard in that mill. I felt all right about it, though. I felt that somewhere along the line somebody would see I had that special gleam. "Hey, you, come over here." So then I'd go. They are silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCKI <P ID="dia">You seem close to your sister._ </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Yeah. We've been together since we were kids. You like her, don't you? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">She likes you, too. Chuck looks down, feeling transparent in the pleasure he takes at this news. </p><p><p ID="slug">89 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">The camera moves back to reveal Abby listening in from the other side of the barn. Her eyes are full of tears. How can Bill prize her so lightly? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Don't get the wrong idea, though. </p><p><p ID="slug">90 ISOLATED ON BILL - LATERI </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sits on the ground reading his Police Gazette. Abby walks up and without a word of explanation, slaps him. He jumps up and protests but quickly tapers off. She turns on her heel and leaves.U Bill sits down feeling misunderstood and abused. Does she think all this pleases him? <b>1 </b></p><p><p ID="slug">91 EXT. FAIRY RINGS (PRAIRIE) </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, out for a stroll with Abby and Ursula, shows them a fairy ring--a colony of mushrooms growing in a circle thirty feet across. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I heard you farmers were big and dumb. You aren't so big. Where do they learn how to? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">They're so darling! Can you eat them? Chuck nods. Abby snaps the mushrooms off flush at the ground. The music underscores this moment. She smiles at Chuck as she eats the dark earthy flesh. </p><p><p ID="slug">92 EXT. POST </p><p><p ID="act">They pitch rocks at a post and exchange intimacies. Abby has grown more lively. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know sometimes I think there might have been a mixup at the hospital where I. was born and that I could actually be the interesting daughter of some big financier. Nobody would actually know.I <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Are you in love with me, Chuck, or why are you always so nervous? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(Stumbling) <P ID="dia">Maybe I am. I must be. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why? On account of something I've done? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Because you're so beautiful. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What a nice thing to say. Look, I hit it. Did you see? She goes right on with their game, as though she attached no great importance to his momentous declaration. </p><p><p ID="slug">93 TIGHT ON CHUCK AND ABBY - LATERI </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck takes Abby's hand for the first time. Abby, startled, gives him a gentle smile, then lets go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What about my shoes? Aren't they pretty?U94EXT. SWING </p><p><p ID="slug">94 EXT. SWING </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sits in a swing and plays a clarinet. The music flows out across the fields like a night breeze from the city. Abby, passing by, glowers at him, as though to ask if things are going along to his satisfaction. </p><p><p ID="slug">95 ASTRONOMICAL SIGHTS (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">Jupiter, the Crab Nebula, the canals of Mars, etc. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">It turns out that people might have built them. Does that surprise you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.)U <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><p ID="slug">96 EXT. RIDGE - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">They are on a ridge opposite the Belvedere looking at the heavens through Chuck's telescope. Abby tingles with a sense of wonder. Chuck has opened a whole new world to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know so much! Would you bring my sister up here and tell her some of this stuff? </p><p><p ID="slug">97 EXT. FATHER'S GRAVE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Nearby the grave of Chuck's father stands in helpless witness to Abby's deception. A cottonwood tree rises against the cold blue sky, still as a statue. </p><p><p ID="slug">98 TIGHT ON BOOK - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">A hand turns the pages of a book from Chuck's childhood. The text and VOICE reading it are in Russian, the picture of Russian wood folk and animals. </p><p><p ID="slug">99 EXT. VIRGIN PRAIRIE - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck's father rushes around marking off his property with stakes. </p><p><p ID="slug">100 EXT. UNFINISHED SOD HOUSE - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, ten years old, scours up the blade of a scythe. Family effects -- a big green stove, a bird cage, a table stacked with melons and a mirror--stand waiting in front of their half-finished sod house. We see no sign of Chuck's mother. </p><p><p ID="slug">101 EXT. PLOWED FIELD - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">A plow folds back the earth. The roots of the prairie grass twang like harp strings. The plowing done, his father sows the seed. Poverty requires that for a harrow he drag a tree branch in back of his ox. Over his shoulder he carries a rifle. Chuck blows a horn to chase the blackbirds off the seed. A scarecrow is rigged to his back, to make him more intimidating. </p><p><p ID="slug">102 CHUCK AND FATHER - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck's father has caught smallpox. His face is covered with sores. Chuck wants to embrace him, but the father wards him off with a long stick as he passes on some last instructions in Russian. </p><p><p ID="slug">103 EXT. RIVER - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">The father stands on a ledge above the river, filling his pockets with rocks to weight him down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (V.0.) <P ID="dia">My father caught smallpox when I was eleven. I fished him out of the river and buried him myself. </p><p><p ID="slug">104 EXT. SAND BAR - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck drags his father's drowned body across a sand bar with a rope. </p><p><p ID="slug">105 EXT. FATHER'S GRAVE - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck heaps the last bit of earth on his father's grave. The stove stands as a marker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">So who raised you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Nobody. Did it myself. </p><p><p ID="slug">106 CHUCK AS BOY - WITH COYOTE, INDIANS - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Famished, Chuck eats from the carcass of a coyote. Some INDIANS watch him from a ridge. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">From the time you were a kid? How? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Worked hard, didn't fool around. I never saw a city. Never had time. All I ever did is work. He digs a post hole with a shovel twice his size. </p><p><p ID="slug">107 PAN OVER HILLS-DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">The camera pans across Chuck's vast domain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">I gave my life to that land. But what do I really have now? It'll still be here when I'm gone. It won't remember me. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'd give it all up for you. I could make you happy, too, I think-if only you'd trust me. The camera settles on Ursula, playing with a dog on a seesaw Chuck has built her, then begins to move again, to a long shot of Chuck and Abby on the ridge by the telescope. Chuck is proposing. </p><p><p ID="slug">108 EXT. DORM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby has told him of the proposal. Bill broods over an unlit cigarette. Is this a great blessing or a great misfortune which has befallen them? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He's asked me to marry him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I never really thought he would. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I thought you wanted me to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Before I did. You cold? Abby is shivering. Bill takes off his jacket and slips it over her shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you thinking? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We've never done anything like this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who'd know but you and me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nobody. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's it, Ab. That's all that matters, isn't it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You talk like it was all right. It would be a crime. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">But to give him what he wants more than anything? Two, threeI months of sunshine? He'll never get to enjoy his money anyway. What're you talking about? We'd be showing him the first good times of his life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Maybe you're right. At each hint of consent from Abby, Bill feels he must press on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know what they're going to stick on his tombstone? "Born like a fool, worked like a mule." Two lines. Abby cannot say the proposal is devoid of principle. The idea of easing Chuck's imminent death gives them just the shade of a good motive. This would be a trade. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What makes you think we're just talking about a couple of months?U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Listen, the man's got one foot on a banana peel and the other on a roller skate. What can I say? We'll be gone before theI President shows up. He straightens his coat and smooths back his hair, to make her smile, without success. BILL Hey, I know how you feel. II Hey, I know how you feel. I feel just as bad. Like I was sticking an icepick in my heart. Makes me sick just to think about it! heart. Makes me sick just to </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I held out a long time. I could've taken the first guy with a gold watch, but I held out. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told myself that when I found somebody, I'd stick by him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know. We're in quicksand, though. We stand around, it's going to suck us down like everybody else. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Somewhere along the line you have to make a sacrifice. Lots of people want to sit back and take a piece without doing nothing. He waits to see how she will respond. Half of him wants her to turn him down flat. Abby is bewildered. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Have I ever complained? Have I said anything that would make you think... </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You don't have to. I hate it when I see you stooped over and them looking at your ass like you were a whore. I personally feel ashamed! I want to take a .45 and let somebody have it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">We got to look on the bright side of this, Ab. Year from today we got a Chinese butler and no shit from anybody. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Some people need more'n they have, some have more'n they need. It's just a matter of getting us all together. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't even know if I believe what I'm saying, though. I feel like we're on the edge of a big cliff. Abby looks at the ground for a moment, then nods. </p><p><p ID="slug">109 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck lies in bed, daydreaning. </p><p><p ID="slug">110 TIGHT ON ABBY AND URSULA </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula decorates Abby's hair with flowers and tells her how pretty she looks. </p><p><p ID="slug">111 EXT. RIVER BANK </p><p><p ID="act">The wedding takes place along the river. The Preacher has come back with his ACOLYTES. A chest of drawers serves as the altar. Benson is the best man--a joyless one. Ursula bounces around in a beautiful gown, looking for the first time like a young woman. The BAND practically outnumbers the guests: ELDERS from the local Mennonites, the MAYORS of a few surrounding towns decked out in sashes and medals, etc. </p><p><p ID="slug">112 TIGHT ON ABBY AND BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill kisses the bride on the cheek. Each believes she is going through with this for the other's sake. They whisper back and forth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know what this means, don't you? <P ID="spkdir">(he nods) <P ID="dia">We won't ever let each other down, will we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I love you more than ever. I always will. I couldn't do this unless I loved you. </p><p><p ID="slug">113 SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">The Acolytes ring an angelus bell. Chuck slips a sapphire on her finger. The Preacher, with outstretched arms, reminds them all that they are witness to a great event. </p><p><p ID="slug">114 SKY - ABBY'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Abby, frightened, looks off at the rolling sky, wondering how all thislooks in the sight of heaven. </p><p><p ID="slug">115 INT. BEDROOM - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">From her pillow, Abby watches Chuck shyly enter the bedroom He comes over and sits down beside her </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're wonderful. She is silent for a moment. The wind moans in the rafter </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No. But I wish I were. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Listen. It sounds like the ocean. They smile at each other. </p><p><p ID="slug">116 EXT. BELVEDERE - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches the lights go out in the Belvedere. A lump rises to his throat. How exactly did this happen? He sets his jaw, vowing not to give way to weakness or jealousy. This is the price they have to pay for a lasting happiness. </p><p><p ID="slug">117 TIGHT ON ABBY, CHUCK, ETC. </p><p><p ID="act">The next morning the newlyweds set off on their honeymoon. Chuck tells Bill to move his things from the dorm into the Belvedere. Abby, a basket of cucumbers under her arm, waves goodbye, angling her wrist so that Bill and Ursula can see the diamond bracelet Chuck has given her. </p><p><p ID="slug">118 EXT. PRAIRIEI </p><p><p ID="act">They steer out across the prairie in a1912 Overland auto. Ursula runs after them, slaps the back fender and hops around on one foot, pretending the other was run over. Abby laughs. She knows this stunt. When they are gone Ursula turns fiercely on Bill.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I hate you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What for? Don't be any more of a pain in the neck than you gotta be, okay? She swings at him with her fist. He pushes her away._ </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You think I like this? I'm doing it for her! </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You scum. Bill slaps her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Still think so? She throws a rock at him and runs off. He catches her, repenting of his meanness. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know you can't understand this, but there's nothing I want except good things for Abby and you. Go ahead and hit me back. She hesitates a second, then slaps him as hard as she can. Blood glistens on his lip. He does not say a word in protest. She looks at the wound, horrified, then throws her arms tight around him. </p><p><p ID="slug">119 EXT. PIERI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Chuck disembark from a paddleboat steamer at a pier along the river. Chuck looks excited. </p><p><p ID="slug">120 EXT. YELLOWSTONE POOL </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and Abby have gone to Yellowstone Park for their honeymoon. Abby wades in a pool, wreathed by mists from the underworld. She carries a parasol to protect her from the sun. The trees in the vicinity are bare of leaves. </p><p><p ID="slug">121 EXT. ANTLERS - FREEZE FRAME </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck kneels with a box camera to photograph a large pair of antlers lying on the ground. </p><p><p ID="slug">122 SERIES OF STILLS (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">This photo becomes the first in a series from their Yellowstone trip: fishermen displaying sensational catches by a river, buggies vying with early autos on rutted roads, the giant Beaupre who stood eight feet tall, etc. Each of the pictures bears a caption. Together they make a little story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">We saw grizzly bears and a boar. The bears scared me the most. They eat garbage. <P ID="spkdir">(whispering) <P ID="dia">I was so lonesome. I missed you. </p><p><p ID="slug">123 TIGHT ON BILL AND ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby kiss, renewing old ties.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There was a mountain partly made of glass, too, but we didn't get to see it. And a petrified tree. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We'll go back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Can we? Because there's a whole lot I didn't get to see. Bill straightens up. Chuck sits down on Abby's other side. </p><p><p ID="slug">124 EXT. DINNER TABLE UNDER NETI </p><p><p ID="act">They are having dinner on the lawn in front of the Belvedere. A fine mesh net is spread above them like a tent to keep the insects out. Ursula sits on Bill's lap. He puts a hand up the back of her shirt and they play as though she were a ventriloquist's dummy. </p><p><p ID="slug">125 TIGHT ON RABBIT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill displays a rabbit which he trained in their absence to perform a card trick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">I have you now, Ed. Only thing that can beat me is the ace of spades. (His name's Ed..) Her name's Abigail. Hungarian name. <P ID="spkdir">(mumbling) <P ID="dia">Andrew drew Ann. Ann drew Andrew. From the whole of a spread deck it picks the ace of spades. </p><p><p ID="slug">126 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Chuck applaud. Ursula cranks up the victrola and puts on a record. Bill strokes the rabbit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know why I like him? He minds his business and isn't full of baloney. Chuck turns to Abby and, for nearly the first time, smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He's funny. Bill holds a plate up for Abby to see. Limoges china. Abby rolls her eyes and spits out a cherry pit. They eat like pigs, with no respect for bourgeois manners. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You have any talents, Chuck? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No, but I admire people who do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That's not so. He can do a duck. Show them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Stand back. Get the women and children someplace safe. Chuck, feeling it would be wrong not to enter the spirit of the occasion, does his imitation. The likeness is astonishing. Abby wipes a bit of food off his chin with her napkin. Bill drums on the table with his spoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You saw how modest he was? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How'd you get along so long without a woman? Chuck shrugs. Ursula makes a gesture as though to say by masturbating. Chuck does not see it. Billy laughs. Abby slaps her. The rabbit jumps out of the way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't you ever behave that way at table! <P ID="spkdir">(to Chuck) <P ID="dia">She's adopted. I had nothing to do with her upbringing. I'd trade her off for a yellow dog. <P ID="spkdir">(to Ursula) <P ID="dia">Now eat. You want to starve to death? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">That's what you'd like. Abby, overcome with impatience, throws her food to the dogs. Ursula catches a grasshopper and holds it out to Chuck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You give me a quarter to eat this hopper? Chuck does not reply. She pops it into her mouth anyway, enjoying his look of shock. Bill throws down his fork. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">All right, okay, nobody's hungry anymore. What's the worst thing you ever did, Chuck? Besides missing church and that kind of stuff. Chuck thinks about this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Once I turned a man out in the middle of winter, without a cent of pay. For all I know he froze. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">If you went that far, he must've deserved it. What else? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He didn't. I fired him out of resentment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Well, you're the boss, right? That's how it works. Got to make decisions on the spot. Anyway, this guy-what's his name?--if I know his kind, which I do, he's probably doing okay for himself, got a hand in somebody else's pocket for a change. Is that all? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">All I can think of right now. How about yourself? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(to Abby) <P ID="dia">He wants to know. I'm not going to count setting Blackie's on fire either. He had it coming. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (con't) <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Once I punched a guy while he was asleep. Chuck looks surprised. Bill glances at Abby, worried that he might have said too much. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I was just kidding. Actually a guy I know did, though. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Maybe he did it to you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Yeah. I think so. Chuck gets up to ring for Miss Carter. Bill looks him up and down. Chuck, though older, is physically more imposing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Can I have the rabbit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Get serious. I can win money with him. She licks his ear. He laughs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I want that bunny. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You still believe in Santa Claus. Bill closes his eyes as he feels the soft fur of the rabbit. Ursula looks around to make sure Chuck is gone, then wings a roll at Bill. It bounces off his forehead. He retaliates with a pat of butter. </p><p><p ID="slug">127 BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Benson watches from another hill. He finds his displacement by these newcomers a humiliating injustice. </p><p><p ID="slug">128 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck returns to the table and draws Bill aside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Almost forgot. Here's your pay. Bill takes the envelope Chuck holds out. Then, in a spasm of conscience, he gives it back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">hat's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I got no right to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why? Bill is momentarily at a loss for words. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I haven't worked hard enough to deserve it. I been goofing off.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Don't be silly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Give it to charity or something. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Don't worry. I always know to look out for myself, because ifI I don't, who will? See what I'm driving at? Chuck sees a sense of honor at work in Bill here, and though he considers the gesture misguided and a little grand, admires him for it. </p><p><p ID="slug">129 EXT. BASESU </p><p><p ID="act">They play a game with big lace pillows for bases. The rules are unintelligible. </p><p><p ID="slug">130 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill is expert at throwing knives. As the others watch, he goes into a big windup and pins a playing card to the side of the house.U Everyone seems happy and congenial. They have reached some kind of plateau. Chuck's ignorance of the ruse does not cause the others to treat him with less respect. They seem themselves almost to have forgotten it. </p><p><p ID="slug">131 BILL AND ABBY'S POV - LATERU </p><p><p ID="act">Benson collects the bases, a job he doubtless feels is beneath him. The Doctor's wagon, unmistakable even at such a great distance, thunders away from the Belvedere. </p><p><p ID="slug">132 TIGHT ON BILL AND ABBYU </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby, waiting for Chuck to join them for a swim,U look questioningly at each other.S </p><p><p ID="slug">133 EXT. RIVER </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula, in her bathing suit, jumps from a ledge above the river. She holds a big umbrella over her to see if it will act as a parachute. Bill and Chuck have a water fight. Abby wades in the shallows with a parasol. </p><p><p ID="slug">134 TIGHT ON ABBY AND URSULA - LATER </p><p><p ID="act">Abby is teaching Ursula how to kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Too like a mule. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="spkdir">(trying again) <P ID="dia">What about that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It's got to be--how should I say?-- more relaxed. They laugh and kiss again. </p><p><p ID="slug">135 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Farther up the slope Bill and Chuck wring out their bathing suits. Bill, thinking of the Doctor's visit, puts a hand on Chuck's shoulder. This time Chuck does not stiffen or ease it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You okay? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Sure. Why? Bill shrugs, beaming with admiration for this man who does not burden others with his secrets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I appreciate everything you've done for Abby. I really do. You've given her all the things she always deserved. I got to admit you have. Chuck looks off, embarrassed but oddly pleased. Bill snatches up a handful of weeds and smells them. <b>. </b></p><p><p ID="slug">136 CRANE SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">Returning home they portray the movements of the sun, earth and moon relative to each other. Abby is the sun and keeps up a steady pace across the prairie. Chuck, the earth, circles her at a trot, giving instructions. Bill, with the most strenuous role of all--the moon-- runs around Chuck while he circles Abby. </p><p><p ID="slug">137 EXT. PRAIRIE - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">They play golf on the infinite fairway of the prairie. Bill and Abby make a team against Chuck and Ursula. Nightingales call out like mermaids from the sea. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You liking it here? <P ID="spkdir">(she nods) <P ID="dia">Feel good? <P ID="spkdir">(she nods) <P ID="dia">Feels good to feel good. He smiles, satisfied that he has done well by her, and lets a new ball slip down his pant leg to replace the one he played. </p><p><p ID="slug">138 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula, meanwhile, grinds Abby's ball into the dirt with the heel of her boot. She winks at Chuck. Chuck smiles back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's your mother like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Her? Like somebody that just got hit on the head. She used to pray for me. Rosary, the stations, everything. "Hey, Ma," I tell her, "I ain't crippled." They don't know, though. They say you're in trouble. They don't know. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">My dad, the same way. Thought the world owed him a living. He drowned in Lake Michigan. </p><p><p ID="slug">139 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">They walk home. Bill stays behind to work on his strokes. Ursula sends the dogs after the balls. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You shag them, not those dogs. They might choke or run off with them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Who made you the boss? Shag them yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Listen, some day all this is going to be mine. Or half is. Somebody like that, you want to get on his good side, not give him a lot of gas. You want to do what he says. He steps off a few paces of his future kingdom and draws a deep breath. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This reminds me of where I came from. I left when I was six. That's when I met your sister. He looks at the land with a new sense of reverence. He snatches up a handful of grass and rolls it between his palms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can't wait to go back to Chicago, bring them down for a visit. Blackie and them. There's a lot of satisfaction in showing up people who thought you'd never amount to anything. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'd really like to see this place run right. I got a lot of ideas I'd like to try out. </p><p><p ID="slug">140 BILL'S POV AND TIGHT ON BILL </p><p><p ID="act">In the distance he sees Chuck put his arm on Abby's waist and whisper something in her ear. This intimacy rubs him the wrong way. He gives his clubs to Ursula and starts after them. </p><p><p ID="slug">141 INT. KITCHEN </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds them in the kitchen. Chuck goes into the other room to look for something. Abby lifts the cigarette out of Bill's mouth, takes a drag and does a French inhale. Bill kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nobody's all bad, are they? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I met a few I was wrong on, then. Suddenly they hear Chuck's footsteps. They pull back just in time, Abby returning the cigarette to him behind her back. They chat as though nothing had happened. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I have a headache. I probably should've worn a hat. Abby rolls her eyes at this improvisation. No sooner does Chuck turn his back than Bill's hand darts out to touch her breast. He snatches it away a moment before Chuck turns back. Together they walk into the living room. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You ever see anybody out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Not after harvest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How often do you get into town? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Once or twice a year. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're kidding. He must be kidding. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why do I need to? Bill catches Abby's eyes. He frowns at the idea of being cooped up with this Mormon all winter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Relaxation. Look at the girls. Opportunity to see how other folks live. Chuck looks at him blankly. None of these reasons seems to carry much weight for him. Bill turns to Abby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Somebody is nuts. I don't know whether it's him or me, but somebody is definitely nuts. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why don't I fix tea? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Maybe I should help you. He follows her back into the kitchen, where he starts to kiss her. She pushes him away and turns to making the tea. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're worse than an Airedale. <P ID="spkdir">(raising her voice) <P ID="dia">You want jasmine or mint? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Mint. Bill lifts up the back of her dress and looks under it, testing the breadth of his license. She slaps it back down. He lifts it again, standing on his right to. She glowers at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't do that. <P ID="spkdir">(calling to Chuck) <P ID="dia">How much sugar? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why not? I'm just seeing what kind of material it's made of. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">One spoonful. Bill walks around absentmindedly, inspecting Chuck's things, stealing whatever catches his fancy. A book, a paperweight, a bell--things he does not really want and has no use for. His conscience is clear, however; the sacrifices they are making excuse these little sins. As Chuck walks in, Bill has pocketed a candlestick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Where's the candlestick? Chuck shrugs. Bill gives Abby a cold look and goes outside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He's a strange one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(nodding) <P ID="dia">Once he named his shoes like they were pets. It was a joke, I guess. </p><p><p ID="slug">142 EXT. WELL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill drops the candlestick down the well, stands for a moment, then punches the bucket with his fist. He looks up. Benson has seen him. </p><p><p ID="slug">143 EXT. SAPLINGS AGAINST WINDOW - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Outside the saplings thrash in the wind. </p><p><p ID="slug">144 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby wakes up with a gasp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I had a dream. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What about? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Was something after you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I forgot it already. </p><p><p ID="slug">145 AERIAL SHOT (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">The camera falls through the clouds as though in a lost fragment of Abby's dreams. </p><p><p ID="slug">146 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Benson sulks by the barn. Chuck approaches him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You come down here a lot, don't you? Always when you're mad. You never change. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">It might not be my place to say this, sir, but I don't think they're honest people. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He gets on your nerves, doesn't he? He always has. <P ID="spkdir">(cutting in) <P ID="dia">Now don't say something you're going to regret. <b>. </b></p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Why should I regret it? I think they're a pair of scam artists, sir. Let me tell you what I've seen, and you judge for yourself. Chuck, who of course has seen the same things and more, raises a hand to silence him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Maybe you'd be happier taking over the north end till spring. I don't say this in anger. We've been together a long time, and I've always felt about you like, well, close. It just might work out better is all. Less friction. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Don't believe me, then. You shouldn't. But why not check it out, sir? Hire a detective in Chicago. It won't cost much. What's there to lose? Chuck's brow darkens as Benson goes on. For a moment we glimpse the anger that would be unleashed if ever he woke up. Somewhere he already knows the truth but refuses to acknowledge it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're talking about my wife. And so Chuck, too, becomes an accomplice in the scheme. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Maybe I better pack my things. Benson turns and walks off. Chuck watches him go, ashamed at himself. What has this man done but a friend's duty? </p><p><p ID="slug">147 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby sits at the dresser in the master bedroom. Bill walks in through the door and tries Chuck's hat on for size. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you doing in here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Just walked in through the door, like any other white man. On the bureau he finds a pistol. He aims it out the window. All this will soon be theirs! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Smith and Wesson. You ought to see one of these plow into a watermelon. She holds a hairbrush out for him to see. He looks it over and gives it back without comment. He finds a stain on the tabletop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Somebody's been staining this fake inlay with a water glass. Actually I don't blame them. He walks around trying out more of Chuck's appurtenances. Abby, caught up, models a shawl before an imaginary mirror. She blows a kiss at herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't say I did that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">The bed should be over next to the window. Where the view is. Bill is already making plans for life after Chuck's demise. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Maybe we build on a balcony. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">First the birds go. The peacocks are crowing outside. They burst out laughing. Bill checks the mussed bedsheets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That doesn't concern you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why not? <P ID="spkdir">(no reply) <P ID="dia">Look, I know you've got urges. It wouldn't be right if you didn't. Abby stands up, angry. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You think I enjoy it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Lower your voice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You act like it's harder on you than me! I never want to talk about this again. Bill, consoled, holds an eyelet blouse against the light. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I bet he enjoys looking at you in this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I thought you liked it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He likes it, too, is what I'm saying. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Well, it's the style. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I see. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What do you want me to wear in this heat? A blanket? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's your problem. Abby puts on her wedding bracelet and admires it. Bill softens at the sight of her beauty, properly adorned. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I told you someday we'd be living in style. When this whole thing is over I'm going to buy you a necklace with diamonds as big as that. He holds out the tip of his little finger. They laugh, as though they suddenly felt the absurdity of all this make-believe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're cute. Maybe a shade too cute. She touches his face sympathetically, as though to say that she knows the pain this was causing him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">This is terrible for us both. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Abby? They jump as Chuck calls up from downstairs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Down in a minute. She kisses Bill. </p><p><p ID="slug">148 EXT. BACK DOOR OF BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sneaks out the back door of' the Belvedere, only to find Benson drinking at the well. They look at each other in silence for a moment. Benson's horse stands beside him, a suitcase fixed to the saddle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">I know what you're doing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">That boy's like a son to me. Don't you forget it. I know what you're doing. Benson gets on his horse, turns and rides off. Miss Carter waves goodbye from the side of the house. She and Bill exchange a look. </p><p><p ID="slug">149 EXT. FRONT PORCH </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds the others around front. Abby lolls in the hammock writing in her diary and eating a peach. Ursula plays the guitar. Little by little the newcomers have done the house over from the austere structure that it was. Living room furniture has been moved out onto the front lawn and there arranged as though by a child. Goats sleep on the divan. Archery targets hang from the side of the house. The porch is covered with a striped awning, bird cages and twirls of bunting. Everywhere an atmosphere of drunken ease prevails. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nice fall day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Wish I'd said that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(to Abby) <P ID="dia">Watcha doing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Eating a green peach. 'Spect to die any minute. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Listen, I had a great idea. Let's spend Christmas in Chicago. Break up the old routine. Rhino's never been to a baseball game or a horse race. I know guys one month off the boat that have. Don't even speak the English language, but they eat it right up. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You're just a young guy, Rhino; you oughta be running around raising hell. No offense to the little woman. He bows apologetically to Abby. She pinches a dead leaf off a plant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Abby says that in the poor section people eat cats. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did you, sis? Well, there's always something doing. I can't begin to tell you. State and Madison? Mmmm. Lights everywhere. You'd love it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">It can be rough, though. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Rough? Listen, you can't walk down the street without somebody reaching in your pocket! You've got to keep your coat like this and poke them away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Bill got shot once. The bullet's still in him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Doctor said he took it out, but I never saw it. Hurt like a bastard. You got no idea how it hurt. Suddenly he worries this might discourage Chuck from going. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">They won't mess with you, though. Big fella like you. I can see it now. He offers a taste of the talk Chuck is like to provoke on the street corners. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">"Hey, hey, hey. Who's this here, fresh out of the African Jungle, moving down the sidewalk with a whowhowho, taking ten feet at a step and making all the virgins run for cover? Why, it's Big Rhino, the King of Beasts. He walks, he talks, he sucks up chalk." Bill steps back and sees, as though for the first time, how imposing Chuck really is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You are big, aren't you? Sunny Jim! You must've had a real moose for an old lady. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Take it easy. But Chuck holds none of this against him. He knows it comes from respect. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">So what do you say? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What a sorry outfit! Bunch of old ladies. You better stay behind. Your mammas'd probably get upset. But when the time comes, I'm out of here. Hit the road, Toad! Ursula passes the sandwiches around until there is just one left, Miss Carter's. While the others are talking, she scoops up a handful of dirt and pours it into the middle. Bill, lighting a cigarette, notices Chuck's hand on Abby's. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Ever seen a match burn twice? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No. Bill blows out the match and touches Chuck's hand with the hot ember, causing him to yank it away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's old. Chuck starts to cough. Bill looks at Abby, then whips the handkerchief out of his pocket and puts it over his nose, as though to keep from getting Chuck's germs. Miss Carter's face goes blank as she bites into her sandwich. She jumps up and rushes back into the house. Chuck frowns. Bill glares at Ursula, then turns to Chuck and, referring to the dead prairie grass which runs through the front yard right up to the house, continues: </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You ever thought of putting in some fescue here? Some fescue grass? Of course, it might not take in this soil. Chuck stands up and winds a stole, a long religious scarf, around his neck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You ready? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I still have a little of this sore throat. Where you going, though? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">To kill a hog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the necktie for? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Or does it just come in handy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Keeps the stain of guilt off. Chuck nods goodbye and walks off, taking a stool with him. Bill sighs with admiration. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I try and try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What a splendid person! I've never met anybody like him! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Splendid people make you nervous. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">They do! I breathe a sigh of relief when they step outside the room. Bill puts on his boater and opens a copy of the Police Gazette. They are silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">A guy ate a brick on a bet. Must of busted it up first with a hammer. Guy in New York City. Where else? <P ID="spkdir">(Jumping up) <P ID="dia">Anybody want to bet me I can't stick this knife in that post? Nobody takes him up on this. Abby leafs through the Sears catalogue, her mind dancing with visions of splendor. </p><p><p ID="slug">150 TIGHT ON CATALOGUE </p><p><p ID="act">Pictured. in the catalogue are bath oils and corsets and feathered hats. A grasshopper is perched on the page among them, its eyes blank and dumb. </p><p><p ID="slug">151 TIGHT ON ROSE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches her run her finger slowly around the closed heart of a rose. Suddenly they both look at each other. They have heard the squeals, faint but unmistakable, of a hog being led to slaughter. </p><p><p ID="slug">152 TIGHT ON STOOL - QUICK CUT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck has tied the hog's feet to the inverted legs of the stool. </p><p><p ID="slug">153 OTHER QUICK CUTS </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula, off by herself, skips rope. A flag on the pole by the front gate snaps in the breeze. From the branch of a lone tree the hog dangles by its hocks into the mouth of a barrel. </p><p><p ID="slug">154 EXT. BELVEDERE - ABBY'S POV FROM SECOND FLOOR WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">Miss Carter storms down the hill with her bags. Fed up, she is leaving the bonanza. Chuck tries in vain to appease her. She keeps walking, out the front gate and into the prairie on a straight course for the railroad tracks. Chuck will now be alone at the Belvedere with the newcomers and no other point of reference. </p><p><p ID="slug">155 EXT. CLOTHES LINE </p><p><p ID="act">Later that afternoon, Bill catches sight of Abby's underthings rustling on the clothes line. </p><p><p ID="slug">156 INT. STAIRS </p><p><p ID="act">That evening he watches her from behind as she climbs the stairs to join Chuck at their bedroom door. She nods goodnight, sensing the jealousy that is growing in him. </p><p><p ID="slug">157 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks impatiently through a drawer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I can't find anything around here. Last week it was my gloves; this week my talc. What's going on? He stands and watches Abby get ready for bed. She fills him with a deep adoration. He feels that in the tulip of her mouth at last he has found heaven. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're beautiful. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You don't think my skin's too fair? He comes up behind her and touches her long hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're smart, too, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know what the Magna Carta is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Can I help you brush it out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Not right now. She is cold to discourage false expectations in him--and because she feels that she at least owes Bill this. Chuck, however, assumes the fault must be his own. His naivete about women, and the world in general, protects the conspirators--and protects him, too, for he glimpses enough of the truth not to want to know any more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What makes you so distant with me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Distant? I don't mean to be. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You know what I'm talking about, though. You aren't that way with your brother. </p><p><p ID="slug">158 INT.ATTIC </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, eavesdropping in the attic above them, surveys Chuck's dusty heirlooms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">It must be something I'm doing. I wish you'd tell me what, though. </p><p><p ID="slug">159 INT. BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">These gentle endearments, so rarely heard from Bill, stir her deeply. She throws herself in his arms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Oh, Chuck I Please forgive me. Does it mean anything that I'm sorry? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(pleased) <P ID="dia">But I don't blame you. Did I make it sound that way? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You should. You have a right to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">It's just that sometimes I feel I don't know you well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You don't. It's true. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I think you love me better than before, though. She rubs her cheek against his hands. Daily she feels warmer toward him. How much of this is love, how much respect or devotion, even she cannot say. </p><p><p ID="slug">160 TIGHT ON BILL - LATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The night throbs with crickets. Bill cracks open the bedroom door. Chuck lies asleep in a shaft of moonlight next to Abby. He hesitates a moment, but a strange compulsion drives him on. He has never done anything so dangerous, or had so little idea why. </p><p><p ID="slug">161 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby wakes up to find him staring her in the face. He kisses her. Chuck stirs. Abby signals they should go outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">162 EXT. BELVEDERE - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They sneak out of the Belvedere. The night is warm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're no good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Mmmm. But I love you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I can't stand it any more. This is just so cruel. We're both no good. I've got to get drunk with you, Bill. You know what I mean? Drunk. Bill wags a bottle. The dogs, awakened, bay from the kennel. They wait a moment to see if a light will go on in the house, then dart off toward the fields. A plaster lawn dwarf seems to watch them go. </p><p><p ID="slug">163 EXT. FIELDS - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They run through the fields, hand in hand, laughing and flirting. The moon makes Abby's nightgown a ghostly white. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We can never do this again, though. Okay? It really is too dangerous. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This one night. He toes a sodden old shoe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Hey, I found a shoe. </p><p><p ID="slug">164 SHOE, COYOTES, SCARECROW - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The shoe gleams in the moonlight. Coyotes yelp from the hilltops. A scarecrow spreads its arms against the sky. The waving fields of wheat have given way to vast reaches of cleanly shaven stubble, stained with purple morning glories. Odd, large stakes are planted among them. </p><p><p ID="slug">165 NEW ANGLE - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You want me to spin you around? She nods okay. He takes her by the hands and spins her around the way he used to--until they go reeling off, too dizzy to stand. </p><p><p ID="slug">166 EXT. RIVER BANK - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They lie by the river looking at the great dome of stars. Bill wants to believe things are the same between them as before. So does Abby--but she knows better. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Suppose we woke up tomorrow and it was a thousand years ago. I mean, with all we know? Electricity, the telephone, radio, that kind of stuff. They'd never figure out how we came up with it all. Maybe they'd kill us. She looks at him, and they laugh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You sleepy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">This is the first time we slept together in a while, Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You like it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Of course. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Kiss me, then. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It's so sweet to be able to kiss you when I want to. </p><p><p ID="slug">167 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Before the marriage his lovemaking was gentle and soft. Now it has a brutal air, as though he were asserting his right to her for the last time. </p><p><p ID="slug">168 TIGHT ON ABBY - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">Dawn is breaking. Abby jumps to her feet, alarmed. They have slept too long. </p><p><p ID="slug">169 EXT. BELVEDERE - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">They have run back to the Belvedere. It seems they are safe until Chuck appears on the porch, yawning and stretching. Bill drops to the ground while Abby goes ahead. Abby appears at one side of the house while Bill steals around the other. Luckily, they have come up from the back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Abby! I've been looking all over for you. Where have you been? While she distracts Chuck, Bill slips back in the house. It has been a close call. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Watching the ducks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Didn't you sleep well? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><p ID="slug">170 TIGHT ON ABBY (DISSOLVE TO PAGE, THEN TO URSULA) </p><p><p ID="act">Abby looks sympathetically at Chuck. Her face dissolves into a page of her diary and from there to Ursula, balancing an egg on her fingertip. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Chuck saw Ursula balance an egg. He begged her to repeat this trick, but she wouldn't. </p><p><p ID="slug">171 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck tries to reduplicate Ursula's feat. Abby, amused, reaches out and touches his face. We wonder if, despite herself, she might be falling in love with him. </p><p><p ID="slug">172 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches the Doctor walk out the front door and down the steps to his wagon. Chuck follows, smiling. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">The Doctor came. Chuck looked pleased for a change. </p><p><p ID="slug">173 EXT. PRAIRIE - BILL'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">The Doctor's wagon rolls off across the prairie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Tomorrow the President passes through. Plans have changed, and he can't stop. </p><p><p ID="slug">174 EXT. RAILROAD TRACKS - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">They have come down to the railroad tracks to watch the President pass through. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">We should have brought a flag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Does she have time to ride back and get it? Abby and Bill hold hands. Chuck by now is accustomed to such displays. They seem, however, to make Abby increasingly uncomfortable. </p><p><p ID="slug">175 MOVING TRAIN - THEIR POVS </p><p><p ID="act">The train bursts past at twenty yards, its great light rolling like a lunatic eye. Bill's heart pounds with excitement. Chuck holds Abby by the waist. Ursula waves a handkerchief... They cannot make out anything specific in the windows, but there is the sense of people going more important places, getting on with the serious business of their lives - while out here they stagnate. Dimly visible, on the back platform of the caboose, a MAN in a frock coat salutes them with his cane. The train has quickly vanished into the declining sun. Everything is quiet again. Ursula rushes up the grade to collect some pennies she laid on the tracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Did you see him wave? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He was shorter than I expected. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How do you know it was him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I saw! He had a hat on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You didn't understand my question. They walk back to the buggy. Ursula holds up a dead snake she found on the tracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You know what I'm going to do with this? Take it home and put it in vinegar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That was the President, shortie. Wake up. Bill watches Chuck help Abby into the buggy. She is laughing about something or other. His hand lingers for a moment on hers. She does not brush it aside, as once she might have, but to Bill's dismay, presses it against her breast. Chuck seems to have breathed a hope into her that he, Bill, was never able to. </p><p><p ID="slug">176 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Ursula race across the fields trying to fly a kite. Ursula rides a tiny Shetland pony. Just as the wind lifts the kite away, they run into Bill. He sits by himself observing a spear of grass. Abby drops off. Ursula rides off over the hill with the kite, leaving her alone with Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You look deep in thought. She touches his cheek. He brushes her hand away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There's nothing wrong? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you so mad about then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who said I was mad? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Can't I be alone once in a while without everybody getting all worked up? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're the only person getting worked up. Some buffalo appear on the crest of the next hill. Abby looks at them. They do not seem quite part of this world but mythical, like minotaurs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Chuck says they're good for the grass. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Stop giving me that look. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You can't keep your hands off him these days. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I haven't touched him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How about the other night? I saw you, Abby. The other night by the tracks? If only you wouldn't lie! Really, there's some things about you I'm never going to understand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I forgot. Anyway it doesn't matter. What are you doing, always trying to trap me? Bill paces around, disgusted with himself and the whole situation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can't stand it any more. It's just too degrading. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You and him. Why do I have to spell it out? I thought it would be all over in a month or two. Guy might go another five years. We've got to clear out, Abby. They stare at each other in silence for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why stop now? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">We've come this far. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You heard me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why stay? Go ahead and tell me! I'm standing here. Bill trembles with shock and anger. The buffalo cast aware glances at them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want us to lose everything? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm telling you I can't stand it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're weak then. What about all I've been through? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">And what about him? It would be the worst thing we could do. Worse than anything so far. It would break his heart. Bill is silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're getting to like him, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It would kill him. Leaving now would be just cruel. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Would it? So what's it matter to somebody in his shape? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">In fact you're just leaving us one way out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? Murdering him? Ursula comes riding over the hill, without the kite. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You watch and see. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I had to let it go. One of them started following me, and I threw a rock at him. I had a bunch stored in my pocket. They take off running after her. </p><p><p ID="slug">177 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">As they approach the Belvedere, Bill sees Chuck standing on the front steps. Suddenly angry, he draws Abby to him and in plain view kisses her on the lips. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He can see you! Bill nods; he knows. Abby runs ahead, angry and alarmed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't you believe in being honest? </p><p><p ID="slug">178 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby bounds up the steps. Chuck has bent his mind to understand all this as mere sibling love, but here is the greatest test so far. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Aren't you going to kiss me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Today's my birthday. Chuck gives her a kiss, glad to put aside his suspicions. </p><p><p ID="slug">179 TIGHT ON POINTERS, QUAIL AND PHEASANTS </p><p><p ID="act">Tails level, their noses thrust high in the air, a pair of pointers prance through the high uplands grass, following a scent like sailors taking in a rope. Pheasants and quail tremble in their coveys, their eyes big with fear. </p><p><p ID="slug">180 EXT. UPLANDS </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck has taken Bill out bird-hunting. They wear heavy canvas leggings and carry shotguns. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did you ever tell Abby the buffalo help keep up the grass? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I think so. Why? Bill shrugs. Chuck welcomes this opportunity to speak of his wife. He considers Bill a good friend, in fact the only person with whom he can talk about delicate matters. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I want to get her something nice for Christmas. Bill, who means to kill Chuck the first chance he gets, forgets this intention for a moment to give him advice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(thoughtfully) <P ID="dia">She likes to draw. Maybe some paints. Nothing too expensive-- she might want to exchange it. Maybe a coat. She likes to show off sometimes. She's sweet that way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I wish I knew how to make her happy. Nothing I do really seems to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's how they are. They like to make you work for it. I couldn't ever figure out why. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Sometimes you can't go wrong, though. You know that one Abby showed you a picture of? Elizabeth? I took her cherry. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I know. You told me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Actually, I didn't, but I could have. The point I'm making is you've got to understand how they operate. Get them thinking you can take it or leave it, you're usually okay. Suddenly the dogs stop rigid, on point. At Chuck's hiss they sink into the grass. Bill looks at Chuck's exposed back. Nobody would know. It could be made to seem like a hunting accident. He cocks the hammer of his shotgun. His heart pounds wildly. Chuck talks in a low voice to the dogs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">All right, put them up, girl. The dogs rise and inch toward the birds, as slowly as the minute hand of a clock. All at once the quail explode out of hiding. Bill jumps at the noise. Chuck fires twice. Two birds fall. The retriever notes where. Chuck turns around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why aren't you shooting? I left you those two on the left. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">They caught me off guard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You have to keep your gun up. Chuck walks ahead. The music builds a mood of tension. Bill takes a practice shot into the ground. Bill looks around. There is nobody in sight. He turns the sights on Chuck's back. It would be simple enough. Though only twenty feet away, he closes the gap, to make sure he does not miss. Chuck whistles the scattered birds back to their covey. "Pheo! Pheo!" Soon, faint and far away, comes a reply-the sweet, pathetic whistle of the quail lost in a forest of grass. The mother bird utters a low "all is well." One by one, near and far, the note is taken up, and they begin to return. Bill holds his breath. His finger moves inside the trigger guard. He only has to squeeze a fraction of an inch. Three more birds shoot out of the grass. Chuck fires. At first we think Bill has, but he cannot stoop this low. He does not have the heart. Disgusted, he throws his gun on the ground. Both barrels go off. Chuck snaps around, startled and concerned. Bill is shaking like a leaf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? What are you so upset about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">They surprised me again. Chuck sends a retriever after the fallen birds, then--in an unprecedented gesture-he puts his arm over Bill's shoulder to comfort him, like an older brother. </p><p><p ID="slug">181 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">They return home, the day's kill slung over the back of a Shetland pony. </p><p><p ID="slug">182 EXT. BACK YARD </p><p><p ID="act">They sit on stools in the back yard plucking the birds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You like to box? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I never have. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Just wondering. I got a pair of gloves I brought with me. Bill feels oddly better, as though Chuck had backed down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Abby bought me this at Yellowstone. Chuck shows Bill his knife. Bill reads a name off the handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's what she calls you? 'Chickie?' He gets up, his nostrils flaring with anger. Chuck thinks this indignance is on his behalf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Doesn't bother me. Should it? Bill throws down the pheasant he was plucking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't let her fool you, too. She warms up to whoever says please and thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? Bill, still angry at himself, considers telling him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You really want to know? He would like Chuck to know the truth but does not want theresponsibility for revealing it. He must find out by accident. Luckily they are interrupted as Ursula runs up, pointing over her shoulder. A pair of three-wing airplanes sputters into view low overhead. One seems to be having engine trouble. </p><p><p ID="slug">183 EXT. FIELD NEAR BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">The planes set down in a nearby field. "Toto's Flying Circus" is emblazoned on the wings. </p><p><p ID="slug">184 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Five PEOPLE clamber out, members of a seedy vaudeville troupe. They swagger around, filthy with oil from the backwash of the props, looking more like convicts than entertainers. Their LEADER is an excitable Levantine. <b>LEADER </b>How long it take to fix? Very mooch time! Now look where you hab stuck us. Salaupe! You forget who I aim! Bill, Abby and Ursula approach the aircraft with the greatest caution, like the Indians at Cortez's ships. </p><p><p ID="slug">185 EXT. SCREEN - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A JUGGLER and a SNAKE CHARMER perform first separately, then jointly as a slap act. A DOUBLE TALKER weaves sentences of absolute nonsense. After a moment a black and white image appears over his face and he drops out of sight. The troupe is putting on a show to earn its supper. ONE of them stands behind the viewers -- Abby and Bill, Chuck and Ursula -- cranking a carbide projector by hand. A silent movie appears on the screen, full of extraordinary pratfalls, disappearances and other tricks of the early cinema. Chuck has never seen anything remotely like this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How'd they do that? Where'd he go? There must be a wire. Etc. He steps forward to inspect the screen, actually just a sheet hung along a clothesline, to see whether the image is coming from behind. Bill and Abby sit rapt as children, nostalgic for Chicago. </p><p><p ID="slug">186 EXT. DINNER TABLE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula serves dinner. She is excited by the visitors' city ways. They are bored with her, all except the youngest, GEORGE, a young pilot in a white scarf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">We never hear a thing out here. It's like being on a boat in the middle of a lake. You see things going on, but way far away, with no voices. <b>GEORGE </b>Maybe time to clear out. George puts his hand on hers. She snatches it away. <b>GEORGE </b>What's the matter? Aren't I your type or something? The Doubletalker pokes his fork into a pudding. A balloon, concealed beneath the surface, explodes to general delight. Down the table Abby and Bill chat with the Leader. <b>LEADER </b>You do not understand, sir. I am saddled with asses, yaays? I, who once played the Albert Hall </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You. hear that? He called me 'sir.' In their gaiety he carelessly puts a hand on Abby's leg. </p><p><p ID="slug">187 TIGHT ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks on from the shadows, no longer just puzzled but angry. He has watched them behave this way a dozen times before, but tonight, with other people around, he must see it more directly. </p><p><p ID="slug">188 EXT. STRAW STACK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">George tells Ursula a joke. She dissolves in giggles before he can finish, as though amazed at his power to dispense illusion. </p><p><p ID="slug">189 INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, alone in the darkened living room, calms himself down by breathing through a rubber mask into a respirator. Joyful noises reach him from outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">190 CHUCK'S POV - NEXT MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">The next morning Chuck looks down out his bedroom window. The troupe is packing to leave. Still troubled, he walks to the bed and and stands over Abby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's going on, Abby? She does not respond. He yanks the sheet off. She is wearing a nightgown. She looks up and frowns. This is the first time she has ever seen him this way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You know what I mean. Between you and Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I have no idea..... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">Something's not right, and I want to know what. Abby jumps out of bed and assumes the offensive. She has no other choice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Say it out loud. What're you worried about? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Incest? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">It just doesn't look right. I don't know how brothers and sisters carry on where you come from, but... </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">Did you ever have a brother. Then who are you to judge? Maybe if you had, you'd understand. Anyway, times have changed while you've been stuck out in this weed patch. We're ********************line missing************** She puts on a robe and walks out. Her last argument has worked best. Chuck never imagined he was in step with the times. </p><p><p ID="slug">191 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby slips out the front door. She looks around to make sure that Chuck is not watching her, then heads off to find Bill. The vaudevillians gorge themselves on last night's leftovers, steal flowers from the flower beds, etc. ONE sits off by himself, playing a French horn. </p><p><p ID="slug">192 EXT. DORM </p><p><p ID="act">She finds Bill by the dorm throwing a switchblade in the ground, a toothbrush in his mouth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I have to talk to you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Look what I traded off those clowns. For a bushel of corn! She draws him by the arm behind a wall. She is trembling with fear. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Chuck is suspicious. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Chickie you mean? So what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Really. This is the first time he's ever been like this. I'm scared. All this flatters Chuck in a way Bill does not like. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What for? Why're you so worried what he thinks? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He could kill us. I want to live a long time, okay? I just got started and I like it. Bill shrugs, as though to say he can handle whatever Chuck can dish out and a little more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You might take a little responsibility here. You got us into all this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did I? Well, it never would've come up if you hadn't led him on. Led Chickie on! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Is that the best you can do? Knowing you it probably is. You've made a mess of our lives, okay. Don't pretend it was my fault. Bill combs his hair to calm himself down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why's this guy still hanging on like a goddamn snapping turtle? Because of you. Boy, this was a great idea. Right up there with Lincoln going down to the theater, see what's on! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Keep your voice down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't give me that. When a guy's getting screwed, he's got a right to holler. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're such a fool! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I heard what you said. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Then why'd you ask? Oh, how did I ever get mixed up with you? Abby, in terror of Chuck's finding out, cannot understand why Bill seems to care so little. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You've gone sweet on him. You have, haven't you? Abby hesitates. Bill throws his knife away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I admire him. He's a good man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Broad shoulders. I know. Very high morals. Why can't he talk faster? It's like waiting for a hen to lay an egg. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You wouldn't understand, though. He's not like you. You don't know how people feel. You only think of yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's going on between us, Abby? Think about that. If you figure it out, tell me, will you? I'd appreciate it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Lord, but you do come on! You talking like this, used to play around right under his nose. Somebody I met in a bar, remember? Or maybe you walked in, thought it was a church. Well, I've had it.I'm clearing out. You understand? They look at each other for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Go ahead. This is not what he expected to hear. But now his pride requires that he face the truth and not back down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Okay. He looks at her for a moment. He cannot be dealt with this way. He turns and walks off. </p><p><p ID="slug">193 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula flirts with George. He slips a hand inside her blouse. She bats it away. </p><p><p ID="slug">194 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">Bill stands on the ground below the master bedroom. Chuck leans out the window above him. Peacocks roost on the balcony, beneath the telescope. The vaudevillians are loading up their planes. Abby watches from the porch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm going away for a while. They're giving me a lift. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What for? He shrugs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm wearing one of your shirts. Let me take it off for you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Never mind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I got my own. Just wasn't any clean today. Bill takes off the shirt, drapes it over a post and walks off, hurt and angry, but with a sad dignity. Chuck is not entirely sorry to see him go, nor is Abby; she knows that he is getting out just in time. One more episode like last night's and the fuse would hit the powder. </p><p><p ID="slug">195 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill gives Ursula his money. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We get split up for any reason, you spend that on school. </p><p><p ID="slug">196 EXT. PRAIRIE </p><p><p ID="act">The vaudevillians are ready to take off. Bill boards the plane which George is piloting, wondering if today's break with Abby is real or just in anger, a necessary gesture. With him he carries his only possessions, a bindle and his trick rabbit. Abby, Chuck and Ursula look on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's eating him? Abby shrugs and walks down to Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Why aren't we going with him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What for? To sleep in boxcars? </p><p><p ID="slug">197 AIRPLANES </p><p><p ID="act">The planes set their wheels in the furrows, rev their engines and wobble off into the sky. Ursula waves goodbye to George. </p><p><p ID="slug">198 EXT. PLAINS UNDER SNOW - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Winter has come. Snow falls across the breadth of the plains, on the river and the dark sleeping fields. </p><p><p ID="slug">199 EXT. SLEIGH (OR ICE BOAT) - SNOW </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and Abby skim over the snow in a gaily painted sleigh (or ice boat). She is wrapped up snug in a buffalo robe, her feet on a hot brick. Pigs forage along the fences. </p><p><p ID="slug">200 INT. CAVE </p><p><p ID="act">They inspect a cave with a kerosene lantern. Blocks of ice, covered with burlap and sawdust, cool shelves of preserves. Abby drops a stone into a dark pit. Two seconds pass before it hits the bottom. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Probably that's the first noise down there for thousands of years. She speaks as though she had done it a favor. He puts his hand on hers. She presses it against her chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You ever wish you could turn your heart off for a second and see what happened? </p><p><p ID="slug">201 OTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Views of backlit gems, stalactites, salamanders in their cold dark pools, hidden springs and other mysteries of nature. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Maybe nothing would. They round a corner and come upon an underground waterfall. It flows out of darkness back into darkness. </p><p><p ID="slug">202 INT. FORGE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, meanwhile, stands in a line of panting, sweating IMMIGRANTS. On their shoulders they carry the huge barrel of a cannon. With a grunt they drive it into the fiery mouth of a forge. </p><p><p ID="slug">203 EXT. CITY STREET </p><p><p ID="act">Bill stands on the corner of a big city street, stamping his feet against the cold. He tries to catch a pigeon with some bread crumbs under a box propped up by a stick, but just as he pulls the string to drop the trap it darts out of the way. </p><p><p ID="slug">204 BILL AND YOUNG GIRL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill has an improvised conversation with a YOUNG GIRL who has run away from home. He asks her where she comes from, whom she belongs to, etc. She tells him of her hopes, then passes on. Bill gives her all the money in his pocket. </p><p><p ID="slug">205 MONTAGE </p><p><p ID="act">Enthralled, Abby surveys the wonders of Babylon and Nineveh in a book about the Near East. Ursula sits with a world globe, taking a geography lesson from a traveling TUTOR. No doubt this was Abby's idea. Abby copies from a small plaster model of a Roman bust. She wants painfully to improve herself. </p><p><p ID="slug">206 EXT. FROZEN LAKE -NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Chuck skate around a bonfire on a frozen prairie lake, carrying torches to guide them through the dark. </p><p><p ID="slug">207 INT. CHICAGO FLOPHOUSE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sits in a cold flophouse trying to write a letter. After a moment he wads it up and throws it away. </p><p><p ID="slug">208 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby, Ursula and Chuck are on a walk outside the Belvedere. The snow is gone. Abby's hands are stuffed in a chinchilla muff. All at once they hear a distant noise like the whoops of an Indian war party. It seems mysteriously to come from every hilltop. Abby turns to Chuck with a puzzled look. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Prairie chickens. That means winter's broken. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Really? Where are they? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You hardly ever see them. They stand and listen to the birds. There is a sense of the earth stirring back to life. Abby breathes in with a wild joy and hugs Chuck tightly by the waist. </p><p><p ID="slug">209 EXT. TENEMENT HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill is talking with a FRIEND in the hallway of a tenement. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can't seem to get my mind on anything. I thought, when I came off that place, boy, they'd better get all the women out of town that day, you know? Somewhere safe. But you know what I do? I sleep, nothing but sleep. A PANHANDLER approaches them with a hard-luck story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FRIEND <P ID="dia">Okay, here's a quarter, but give me some entertainment, okay? Not this old song and dance. While the Panhandler performs, Bill looks around. Two POLICEMEN have appeared in the entryway talking with the LANDLADY. Bill edges out the back door and down the steps, as though they might be after him. He walks briskly down the alley without looking back. </p><p><p ID="slug">210 TIGHT ON CHUCK (DISSOLVE TO DIARY) </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck holds a handful of seed under his nose. His heart stirs at the dark, mellow smell. Into this dissolves an image of Abby writing in her diary. </p><p><p ID="slug">211 EXT. FIELD </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck swings a barometer round and round, checking the weather. Two Case tractors pitch across a field like boats on a rolling sea. Long plumes of smoke wind off behind them. Each tows a fourteen-gang plow. A third tractor follows, putting in the seed. Ursula chases a flock of blackbirds off with a big rattle. Every acre of ground for as far as the eye can see is under cultivation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">They put in the wheat the other day. This will be the biggest year ever. There was a scare when a locust turned up. Luckily it wasn't the bad kind. </p><p><p ID="slug">212 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">The plows have turned up a hibernating locust. Chuck stands by the tractor, inspecting it under a magnifying glass. The creature nestles like a fossil in the black earth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">They sleep in the ground for seventeen years, then crawl up around the end of May and spend a week flying around before they die. Chuck kicks up the dirt around the plow, looking for others. Benson, back from exile, looks concerned. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Nothing to worry about. Just shows the land is good. </p><p><p ID="slug">213 SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Various wonders of the prairie: a charred tree, a huge mastodon bone, a flowering bush, a pelican, the rusted hulk of an ancient machine, etc. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How strange this new world is! You walk out in the morning sometimes to find a lake rippling where the day before solid land was. </p><p><p ID="slug">214 EXT. STONE BOAT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck has laid out the outline of a 50-foot boat in whitewashed stones. He walks around the imaginary deck showing Abby where the cabins will be. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Chuck wants to build a boat and take us off to Java, which he's never seen. </p><p><p ID="slug">215 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula goes out to the fields with an organist named JOEY whom Chuck has hired to play for the crops. He and Ursula seem to hit it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Last month he brought in a kid to play the organ. He claims it helps the crops grow. Personally I doubt it. </p><p><p ID="slug">216 EXT. MIDDLE OF FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">They have brought an organ out into the middle of the fields. Ursula pumps up the bellows. Joey sits in front of the keyboard and shoots his cuffs. His fingers strike the keys. </p><p><p ID="slug">217 CLOUDS, CLOSEUPS OF PLANTS - TIME LAPSE PHOTOGRAPHY (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">Clouds build in huge toadstools. Thunder rolls across the plains. A rain begins to fall. The music seems to work a magic on the crops, to draw them forth. The seeds germinate in the darkness of the soil. Water finds its way down. Roots, tiny hairs at first, spread and grow. </p><p><p ID="slug">218 DOLLS, TIGHT ANGLES ON THEIR FACES </p><p><p ID="act">Rude dolls fixed at the ends of pointed sticks--agricultural fetishes that Chuck's father brought with him from the Old World--stand around the field to join in aiding the crops. </p><p><p ID="slug">219 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Flags and bunting adorn the porch for Independence Day. Ursula sets off some fireworks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Time has flown, and once again harvest is near. </p><p><p ID="slug">220 EXT. GREEN FIELDS(TRIFFIDS) </p><p><p ID="act">The bald earth has, as though by a mystery, become a sheet of grain, its green already fading to gold. The music dies away, replaced by the whirr of summer crickets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">It will be a year that we have been here. The camera holds and holds on the fields until in their vacant depths, we begin to sense the presence of a deep malevolence, still biding its time but growing every minute. Seagulls--like strange emissaries from another world--glide back and forth over the fields in search of grasshoppers. </p><p><p ID="slug">221 INT. LANTERN - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula takes curling irons from the chimney of a lantern where she has set them to heat, and applies them to Abby hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Suppose I never fall in love, Abby? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't be silly. Everybody does. What do you think all those songs are about? You need to be careful, though, and not throw it away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Throw what away? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know, your chances. It's too hard to explain to a little squirrel like you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">That sounded just like Bill. Don't you miss him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Sometimes. From her tone, however, we sense that she finds it easier with him gone. </p><p><p ID="slug">222 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby whispers something to Chuck in bed that evening. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You ever said that to anybody else? She giggles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're lying, aren't you? Well, go right on lying. The camera moves to the window, beneath the eave. Outside, peacocks strut back and forth. </p><p><p ID="slug">223 EXT. MUDDY ROAD </p><p><p ID="act">Bill rides an Indian motorcycle along a muddy road back to the bonanza. His rabbit is strapped to the back. He stops for a moment to look at the new fields. </p><p><p ID="slug">224 EXT. BELVEDERE - BILL'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Abby sings to herself as she beats out a carpet. Bill appears on the ridge behind her. Hope leaves him like a ghost. She looks happily settled into a new life with Chuck. All at once she turns around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Bill! She rushes up and embraces him, but her warmth just seems a tease to Bill. She is different. She looks different. The tutors and tailors Chuck has brought in over the winter have given her more polish. Her hair is nicely coiffed. Where she used to dress in cotton shirtwaists, she wears crinolines now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How's everybody been? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Including me? Okay. Gee, you look good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Thanks. And Chuck? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Still the same. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Actually I didn't mean it that way. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I came back to help out with the harvest. He feels humiliated at not having a stronger excuse. But he loves her. He aches with love. He hoped their last fight was just another storm in the romance. Evidently it was more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I thought about you a lot. Wrote you a letter, but it was no good, so I tore it up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How'd you come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Train. He looks her up and down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nice dress. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm glad you like it. He admires her garden. His familiar cockiness vanishes as little by little he sees the old feeling is not there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This is new, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">The daffodils were already here, but I put in the rest. You really do like them? At a shriek from Ursula, Bill turns around. She runs into his arms, and covers him with kisses. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I've missed you! I thought about you every day. You should've written. Did Abby show you what she got? Abby scowls at Ursula. With no choice but to show him, she opens the top button of her blouse and draws out a diamond necklace. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(apologetically) <P ID="dia">For Christmas. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Plus a music box. He spoils her. Why don't they spoil me, too? <P ID="spkdir">(whispering) <P ID="dia">You oughta be glad you didn't have to spend the winter. You would've gone crazy. </p><p><p ID="slug">225 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">The winter's peace is gone. Abby is sick with fear. Now that she loves Chuck, too, she can never again be honest with Bill. The truth of her feelings would crush him. Moreover, there's no telling how he might react. He could ruin everything, even get them killed. </p><p><p ID="slug">226 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks on from behind the bedroom window. </p><p><p ID="slug">227 EXT. DINNER TABLE </p><p><p ID="act">They dine in awkward silence. Benson has joined them. Abby, for all her winter's polish, still eats with the back of her knife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">How was Chicago? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Great. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How's everybody doing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Okay. They are silent for a moment. Bill senses that nobody except Ursula is really glad to see him back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How's Blackie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Still hasn't wised up. Know what I mean? He asked how you were doing, though. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told him. Ran into Sam, too. He'd been in a fight. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Oh yeah? Bill can see that her interest is only polite. He knows that he should turn around and leave, but he cannot. The sight of him with his confidence gone is painful to behold. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">His nose was like this. He pushes his nose to one side. Ursula and Abby laugh. </p><p><p ID="slug">228 EXT. STOCK POND </p><p><p ID="act">Bill plants willow slips in the soft earth by the stock pond. Ursula orders a dog around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Look at this dog mind me. Sit! You've got to say it like hitting a nail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Has she asked you anything about me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">No. Ursula flirts with him, running the shoots along his back. She waits to see what he will do. He gets up and after a short chase catches her. He holds her at arm's length for a moment, then kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What'd you do that for? Bill wonders himself. To get revenge on Abby? He touches her breast. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why not? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Cause there's nothing there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can be the judge of that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Then ask first. He kisses her neck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nobody has to know but us chickens. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What do I have to say to convince you? You tell me, I'll say it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What makes you think I would? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nothing. She giggles and kisses him back. But guilt has caught up with him. He cannot go ahead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What's the matter? No reply. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Maybe it would be wrong. <P ID="spkdir">(disappointed) <P ID="dia">You still love her, don't you? Bill hums a rock off toward the horizon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I should've gone in the church, like my father was after me to. </p><p><p ID="slug">229 BILL'S POV - OUTSIDE THE BELVEDERE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and Abby sit in their cozy living room playing Parcheesi. The sound of their voices is muffled. The camera draws back to reveal Bill outside the window, watching. She is comfortable with Chuck now. Apparently, he has lost his place in her heart. He wants to rush in and drag her away. </p><p><p ID="slug">230 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Later that night he stands under the bedroom window and wonders at the meaning of the shadows that flicker across the ceiling. After a moment he withdraws into the darkness. </p><p><p ID="slug">231 EXT. SMALL PRAIRIE TOWN (DUCK LAKE) </p><p><p ID="act">Bill has brought Abby into a nearby town to make some purchases. Dressed in a chauffeur's gown and goggles, he sits against the fender of the Overland watching her move from store to store. Ursula is with her. The TOWNSPEOPLE all speak German. Their peasant costumes are freely mixed with Western dress. The signs are old German script. Two MEN carry a huge bulb through the street, to put atop a church. </p><p><p ID="slug">232 OVERLAND AUTO </p><p><p ID="act">Abby walks up with Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Listen, I'm going to stay and go back with the laundry wagon. Abby looks at Bill, then nods okay. Ursula runs off. Bill opens the door, and she gets in. </p><p><p ID="slug">233 EXT. ROAD OUTSIDE TOWN (DUCK LAKE) </p><p><p ID="act">They are stopped on the road a hundred yards outside the town. Abby smokes as Bill checks the radiator. Something in his behavior leads us to suspect he may have staged this stop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How you been doing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Me? Fine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We don't talk so much these days. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know. She knows what he wants. She cannot give it anymore. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I said a lot of stupid things before I went off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(politely) <P ID="dia">I forgot about it already. Bill, trying his best to make peace with her, cannot help seeing that she would like to keep things as they are--and not because she harbors any grudge. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You've forgiven me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There was nothing to forgive. He holds a bottle of liquor out to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you worried about? She takes a swig. He laughs. She laughs back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">So how'm I doing with you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Fine. He takes her hand and holds it like a trapped bird. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's happened? She shrugs, disengaging her hand to brush aside her hair. She is painfully aware of his suffering but doesn't have the heart to tell him how it all is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I probably ought to leave. I will. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Already? You just got here. She hasn't really contradicted him. He leans forward as though to kiss her. She lets him. She wishes that she could give herself to him, but she doesn't know what is right. Then, a sudden impulse of panic, she gets up and backs away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Where you going? He reaches out to catch her. She breaks away and starts to run. He walks quickly after her, cutting off any escape toward the town. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why'd you have to come back? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm not going to hurt you. I only want to talk with you. She stops and hides her face in her hands. He gently pulls them away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I didn't come back to make trouble for you. I guess we were fooling each other to think it could last. I mean, What was I offering youanyhow? A ride to the bottom. Looking at you now, in the right clothes and everything, I see how crazy I was and--well, I understand. It's okay. I sort of cut my own throat, actually. Her eyes close and her legs give in. Bill lets her go and backs off a step in surprise. She sinks to the ground, as though in a trance. </p><p><p ID="slug">234 TIGHT ON BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, taken by surprise, goes up and kneels down beside her. He looks to see that she is okay. He picks a fox-tail out of her hair. Her dress has worked up toward her knees. He pulls it back down. He wants to caress her face but hesitates. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How'd we let it happen, Abby? We were so happy once. Why didn't we starve? I love you so much. What have1 done? You're so beautiful. What have I done? He touches his lips for a fraction of a second to hers, notices another car approaching down the road. He picks her up like a doll and carries her back to the Overland. </p><p><p ID="slug">235 EXT. BELVEDERE - CHUCK'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">They have arrived back at the Belvedere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm sorry. She touches his face in a surge of sympathy. What has she done to him? He kisses her neck and leads her toward the front door. </p><p><p ID="slug">236 CRANE TO CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">The camera rises to the uppermost story of the Belvedere. Chuck has seen them. Hot tears leap to his eyes. Before Bill left for the winter he often observed such intimacies between them. Now it all looks different. </p><p><p ID="slug">237 CHUCK'S POVS (HIGH ANGLES) </p><p><p ID="act">He looks around at his estate--his barn, his auto, his great house and his granary. None of them is any consolation now. Far a moment it seems to him as though he lived here in some time long past. </p><p><p ID="slug">238 INT. BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby notices Chuck watching her outside the bedroom door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want something from me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Will you hand me that magazine? He gives her the magazine she wants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's the matter? He seems for a moment to consider telling her, then shrugs and goes downstairs. </p><p><p ID="slug">239 INT. LIVING ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">He stumbles into a bird cage but hardly notices. The jostled birds raise a fuss. </p><p><p ID="slug">240 EXT. FRONT PORCH </p><p><p ID="act">He runs into Bill on the front porch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I've been looking for you. I have to take off again, real soon here, and... Chuck puts a hand on Bill's shoulder, stopping him. They look at each other for a moment, then he passes on. Bill seems puzzled. </p><p><p ID="slug">241 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck walks out into the deep of his fields. The wheat, a warm dry gold, is almost ready to take in. He sits down and rests his head against a furrow, powerless to think. The wind makes a song in the infinitude of sweet clicking heads. He puts his hands over his heart and breathes in gasps, with the dumb honesty of a wounded animal. He could not himself quite say what it is that he knows. </p><p><p ID="slug">242 EXT. BONANZA - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Late that afternoon disaster strikes as a swarm of locusts sweeps down on the bonanza. We do not see where they come from. They seem to appear out of nowhere, unnoticed. Ursula works in the kitchen, Bill by the barn. Chuck lies asleep in the field, Abby upstairs in bed. </p><p><p ID="slug">243 ANIMALS ON BONANZA </p><p><p ID="act">The animals sense it first. The buffalo move off in a mass. The horses become uncontrollable. One runs around the barn in a panic. Bill watches it, puzzled. Two peacocks have a fight. A dog in the treadmill races in vain to escape, driving the machine to a feverish pitch. The shadow of a giant cloud licks over the hills. </p><p><p ID="slug">244 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Everything seems normal in the fields. Then, as you listen, a strange new sound begins to rise from them, a wild sea-like singing. As the camera moves over the fields and down into the wheat it swells in a crescendo until... </p><p><p ID="slug">245 TIGHT ON LOCUSTS </p><p><p ID="act">Suddenly we see them up close, devouring the stalks in a fever, the noise of their jaws magnified a thousand times. They slip into the Belvedere, under the sash and wainscoting, turning up first in places it would seem they could never get into: a jewelry case, the back of a radio, the works of a music box, a bottle with a miniature ship inside, etc. </p><p><p ID="slug">246 EXTREME CLOSEUPS </p><p><p ID="act">Their eyes are dumb and implacable. They seem to have a whole hidden life of their own. </p><p><p ID="slug">247 INT. KITCHEN </p><p><p ID="act">Little by little they gather in numbers. Ursula first sees one on the drainboard. She swats it with a newspaper. Others sprout up. One by one she picks them up with a tongs and drops them into the stove. This method is too slow. She begins to use her fingers. She moves with a quick, nervous energy, even as she understands this is futile. At last claustro-phobia seizes her. She spins around with a shriek, lashing out at everything in sight. </p><p><p ID="slug">248 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">In the bedroom overhead, Abby wakes up from one nightmare into another. She jumps out of bed and goes to the window. The locusts pelt against the pane like shot. She throws the bolt. Suddenly a crack shoots through the glass. She jumps back and watches in horror as a sliver of the pane falls in. They are free to enter. </p><p><p ID="slug">249 SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Suddenly they are everywhere: on the clothesline, in the pantry, in hats and shoes and the seams of clothing. Not a nook or cranny is safe from penetration. </p><p><p ID="slug">250 TIGHT ON CHUCK - SLOW MOTION </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, asleep in the deep of the wheat, bolts up in slow motion. His hair is seething with them. </p><p><p ID="slug">251 EXT. BONANZA - FURTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Panic hits the bonanza. Workers tie string around their pant cuffs to keep the insects from crawling up their legs, then rush out to the fields with gongs, rattles, pot lids, scarecrows on sticks, drums and horns and other noisemakers to scare them off. Some pray. Others run around like madmen, stamping and yelling, ignored by the gathering host. A couple get into a fistfight. A storm flag is run up the flagpole. A tractor blasts out an S.O.S. The peacocks huddle under the stoop. </p><p><p ID="slug">252 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck gives Benson his orders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Offer fifty cents a bushel for them. Get out the reapers. See what you can harvest. </p><p><p ID="slug">253 HIGH DOWN ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">The locusts snap through the air. Bill, swatting at them with a shovel, stops to gag. One has flown into his mouth. </p><p><p ID="slug">254 TIGHT ON GEARS </p><p><p ID="act">They jam up the gears of the machinery with the crush of their bodies. </p><p><p ID="slug">255 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby throws a sheet over herself, but they get in under it. She thrashes around madly, then with a cry goes limp. </p><p><p ID="slug">256 CHUCK AND BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Benson reports back to Chuck. A team of horses races by, nearly bowling them over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">We can't get the machines out. They're jamming up the gears. There's a good chance they'll pass on south, though. Unless... unless a wind comes up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What happens then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">They'll set down and walk in. </p><p><p ID="slug">257 SIGNS OF DAMAGE </p><p><p ID="act">The locusts devour not just the crops but every organic thing: pitchfork handles, linens on the clothesline, leather traces, flowers in the window boxes, etc. Soon a large area of wheat is eaten down to stubble. Bill looks away from a tree for a second. When he turns back it has been stripped to a wintry bareness. </p><p><p ID="slug">258 EXT. WIND GENERATOR, OTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">The vanes of the wind generator begin gently to stir. Little by little the wind picks up. A dust devil spins across the yard. The grass lists by the well. A power line moans. </p><p><p ID="slug">259 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">As the sun dips below the horizon, the locusts pour in like a living river, walking along the ground like a procession of Army ants. The roar of their wings is deafening. The air hisses and pops with their electric frenzy. </p><p><p ID="slug">260 STOCK AND MATTE SHOTS - SUNSET </p><p><p ID="act">And these are but the advance elements of a main force which looms like a silver cloud on the horizon. </p><p><p ID="slug">261 EXT. BONFIRE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">WORKERS dump bushels of the insects into a bonfire. A MAN with an abacus keeps track of what each is owed. </p><p><p ID="slug">262 SAME FIELDS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The wind has picked up. Chuck, Bill and Abby have come out to the fields with a dozen WORKERS to investigate the extent of the damage. The insects buzz around blindly in the light of their lanterns, which they carry Japanese-fashion at the ends of cane poles. </p><p><p ID="slug">263 TIGHT ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck inspects the grain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">There's nothing we can do but wait. They're either going to take it all or they're not. He covers his face with his hands. The others shy back at this display of grief, startling in one so formal. Their jostled lanterns cast a dance of lights. Bill, moved to real sympathy, takes him by the shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Come on. They might still lift. Hey, I've seen a wind like this lay down and die. Don't give up now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(ignoring him) <P ID="dia">We could at least make sure they don't get the people on south. He breaks open the mantle of his lantern, still unsure what he should do. Some of the flaming kerosene splashes onto the crops nearby, setting them ablaze. Bill drops his rattle and swats the fire out with his coat. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you doing? Watch it! What're you, crazy? There's still a chance, don't you see? Chuck goes to his horse. Bill grabs him by the sleeve. Does he really mean to set the fields on fire? Chuck pushes him aside. Bill, frantic, turns to the others for support. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Stop him, or it's all going up. They, however, are too uncertain of their ground to intervene. Chuck turns on Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What does it matter to you? Chuck slings fire out of the broken lantern onto the crops next to Bill -- a sudden, hostile gesture that catches them all by surprise. Independent of his will, the truth is forcing its way up, like a great blind fish from the bottom of the sea. He slings the fire out again. A patch lands on Bill's pantleg. Bill slaps it out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's got into you? They stare at each other. Bill backs off like a cat, sensing Chuck knows the truth, but at a loss to understand how he could. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why do you care? I gave my life for this land. Chuck walks towards him. Suddenly Bill turns and takes off running. Chuck swings at him with the lantern. Bill escapes behind the building wall of flame that springs up between them. The whirr of the locusts stops for a moment--they seem at times to have a collective mind--then, just as mysteriously, resumes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Stop, Chuck! Chuck leaps on his horse. She tries to drag him off but is thrown aside and almost trampled underfoot. Now the others join in, trying to knock away the lantern or catch his stirrup. He eludes them and rides off after Bill, leaving a slash of flame behind him in the grain. They tear off their coats to swat it out, in vain--already it stretches a hundred yards. </p><p><p ID="slug">264 BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill runs through the night, still carrying his lantern. Chuck bears down on him. Abby chases along behind him, screaming for him to stop. Bill realizes the lantern is giving his position away He blows it out and vanishes from sight. All we can see is the thundering horseman, sowing fire. </p><p><p ID="slug">265 CRANE SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">With a rough idea where Bill is, Chuck begins to lay a ring of fire around him, fifty yards in diameter. </p><p><p ID="slug">266 BILL AND ABBY INSIDE RING </p><p><p ID="act">Abby spots Bill against the flames. She rushes up, gasping. They have been caught inside the ring. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you doing? This is a bad place to talk He throws his coat over Abby's head, picks her up by the waist and crashes through the flame. They have to shout to make themselves understood. The locusts roar like a cyclone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did you see that? He was trying to burn me. What's got into him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He knows. He must. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">A whole year's work. All wasted! These bugs, once they make up their minds... Bill stalls. The fire races toward them through the wheat. They appear as silhouettes against it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I need to get out of here. I think you probably should, too. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Hell of a life. Damned if you do and damned if you don't. He leaves. Abby wonders if she ought to run after him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Bill! But this moment's hesitation has been too long. Already he is swallowed up in the night, her voice swept away in the roar of the flame and the locusts, who seem to wail louder now, and with a great mournfulness--like keening Arab women--as if they knew the fate shortly to envelop them. Abby turns back. She, too, has reason to fear Chuck and must escape. </p><p><p ID="slug">267 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Benson rallies the workers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">There's still a chance they're going to fly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VOICES <P ID="dia">Get the tractor out! The pump wagon! Blankets! They rush off to find equipment to fight the fire. </p><p><p ID="slug">268 ISOLATED ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck rides through the dark like a lone Horseman of the Apocalypse, setting his fields on fire. </p><p><p ID="slug">269 EXT. PLAINS ON FIRE - SERIES OF ANGLES - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Tractors attempt to plow a firebreak. Mad silhouettes run back and forth, slapping at the blaze with wet gunny sacks fixed to the ends of sticks. Two dormitories burn out of control. Ursula throws open the barn and lets the horses out. They have raised thunder kicking at their stalls. The light above the barn door pulses erratically. </p><p><p ID="slug">270 EXPLOSIONS - NIGHT (MINIATURES) </p><p><p ID="act">Oil wells explode along the horizon. Huge balls of flames roll into the heavens. </p><p><p ID="slug">271 EXT. BURNING PLAINS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Panic spreads among the workers as the holocaust threatens to engulf them. They throw down their tools and run for their lives. </p><p><p ID="slug">272 ANIMALS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Animals flee in all directions: birds and deer and rabbits, pigs, buffalo and the horses from the barn. The locusts mill around crazily on the wheat stalks, backlit against the flame. </p><p><p ID="slug">273 BILL - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, fleeing on his motorbike with his rabbit, holds up for a moment to watch the fire--a Biblical inferno of spectacular sweep. </p><p><p ID="slug">274 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW--TRACKING SHOT (CHUCK'S POV)--NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A single light burns in the Belvedere. </p><p><p ID="slug">275 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Heaving with sobs, Abby throws her things into a bindle. She has lost Chuck forever. Their life is destroyed. She glances out the window. She still has time to get away, but she must hurry. She bolts for the door. Sud- denly Chuck steps from the shadows, blocking her exit. His face, black with soot, looks gruesome in the gas1ight. The locusts have chewed up his clothes. Abby is like a frightened deer. Did he see her packing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You look as though you'd seen a ghost. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Where you going? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Off with him? The wind cuts gaps in the death wail of the locusts. From time to time we hear the thump of an exploding well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He's not your brother, is he? How much does he know? She edges toward the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why do you say that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Come here a minute. Who are you? <P ID="spkdir">(no reply) <P ID="dia">Where'd you come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I told you. He shakes her. She quivers like a child in his grasp. She no longer has the audacity to lie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How long have you known? He drops his eyes. Shamefully long -- and his anger is partly just at this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What'd you want? He punches in the shade of a lamp, extinguishing it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Tell me. He shoves over the chest of drawers. She does not move. He tears down the drapes, already in shreds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">This? Show me what you wanted! I would have given it all to you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Please, Chuck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Please what? You're not going to tell me you're sorry, I hope.. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">But I am. Outside the window fires rage along half the horizon. He sits down. He wants to sob, but cannot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're so wonderful. How could you do this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm just no good. You picked me from the gutter, and this is how -- I never deserved you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">The things you told me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I love you, though. You have to believe me. It may sound false after... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">Down at the cave. Don't you remember? I believed them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">All right. I'm going away. You'll never have to see me again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Away? He gets up, suddenly alarmed, walks to the mantel and opens a chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you doing? Chuck drapes his neck with the stole he used in slaughtering the hog. Her face goes empty. He gets his razor strop from the shaving basin. She shrinks back in the corner. He looks at her for a moment, then leaves the room. </p><p><p ID="slug">276 INT. STAIRCASE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby pursues him down the stairs. He throws her aside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Where are you doing? Chuck! What are you doing? I won't let you! Come back! Again he throws her aside, and again she keeps after him, desperate to prevent any harm coming to Bill. Finally he picks her up and drags her outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">277 EXT. PORCH - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">He lashes her with a rope to a column of the porch. She struggles vainly to free herself. Does he intend to use the razor on her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No, Chuck! Please, darling! It wasn't his fault. It was mine. Let him go. I love you, Chuck. Do anything, only please... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I'm sick of hearing lies. He stuffs a handkerchief in her mouth and leaves. </p><p><p ID="slug">278 TIGHT ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck wanders through the night with a lantern, calling his mare. </p><p><p ID="slug">279 EXT. BURNT-OUT FIELDS - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">Dawn breaks. Chuck rides over the burnt-out fields looking for Bill. The feet of his lank white mare are wrapped to the fetlock in wet burlap, to protect them from the smouldering grass. It prances warily along, without making a sound, wreathed in a mist of blue smoke. With him he carries a stool. The camera pans up to the smoke which is carrying his fortune off. </p><p><p ID="slug">280 CHUCK'S POVS </p><p><p ID="act">Burnt, blind deer stand and look at him in utter terror, as though they understood his intentions. The roasted corpses of sharptail grouse, coyotes and badgers lie scattered here and there. Piles of dung burn on after the grass is out. A peacock from the Belvedere wanders around, angry and perplexed. </p><p><p ID="slug">281 BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill is repairing his motorbike by a rock in the middle of the scorched landscape. The tires are soft as licorice from the heat. Suddenly, he looks up. Chuck has found him. He jumps behind the handlebars and fishtails off. Chuck breaks into a gallop, rides him down, knocks him to the ground with the stool, dismounts and stamps in the spokes of the front wheel to make sure he goes no further. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who do you think you are? Now you've ruined it. What's got into you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Where you headed? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why do I have to tell you? I can come and go when I like. This is still a free country, last I heard. Bill stops when he sees the stool. Chuck calmly strops the razor on his stirrup flap. There are no secrets now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What can I say? Too late for apologies. You've got a right to hate me. Chuck puts the razor away and advances on Bill with the stool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I want to leave. You won't ever see me again. I already got what I deserve. There is nothing Bill can say to appease him. This will be a fight to the death. Chuck lashes out with the stool. Bill ducks too late. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Watch it! Chuck comes at him again. Bill throws a punch, but Chuck blocks it and knocks him down again with the stool. Bill reels back and cracks his head on the bicycle frame. This time he stays down. Satisfied the struggle is over, Chuck goes back to get some rope. </p><p><p ID="slug">282 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck shuts his eyes to mumble a prayer of absolution--in Russian. Bill in a panic, snaps a spoke out of the broken wheel and lays it against his sleeve. Chuck moves in for the kill. Bill gets to his feet. He wants to run but fear makes his knees like water. Suddenly, they are face to face. Chuck swings at Bill with the stool but misses. Bill lifts the spoke above him and drives it deep into Chuck's heart. Chuck gasps. Bill seems just as shocked. Chuck sits down to determine the gravity of his injury. Blood jets rhythmically out the end of the spoke, as though from a straw. Bill circles him, unbelieving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Should I pull it out? Chuck puts his finger over the end of the spoke. Blood seeps out the side of his mouth, like sap from a broken stem. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I better get somebody. He tries to catch the reins of Chuck's horse, but it shies out of reach, its conscience repelled. He looks back at Chuck in anguish. What has he done? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You were my friend. </p><p><p ID="slug">283 TIGHT ON BILL AND HIS POVS </p><p><p ID="act">The Belvedere is visible on the horizon. Bill hesitates a moment, then heads back on foot to find Abby. He gives Chuck a wide berth. Then, on a ridge in the distance, he spots Benson. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Get a doctor! Fast! How much did he see? Bill does not stay to find out but takes off running, though not without first collecting his rabbit. Benson, meanwhile, bounds down the hill to Chuck's side. His left sleeve has been burned away. The flesh beneath is the color of a raw steak. </p><p><p ID="slug">284 CHUCK'S POVS </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck sees the smoke from his fields, the burnt deer, a circling hawk. </p><p><p ID="slug">285 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">He breathes in gulps. His eyes are blank, like a child's marbles. He takes Benson's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(weakly) <P ID="dia">Wasn't his fault. Tell her...forgive them. The locusts can be heard no more. The prairie makes a sound like the ocean. Chuck turns his back and dies. </p><p><p ID="slug">286 TIGHT ON BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Benson weeps. Whether or not he understood Chuck's last wishes, he seems unlikely to abide by them. </p><p><p ID="slug">287 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds Abby bound to the house like the figurehead of a ship. He cuts her loose. The ropes fall at her feet. She is free. They look at each other for a moment. Then, in a rush of compassion for them all, she throws her arms around him. Bill wonders if she is taking him back. Might their differences all have been a terrible misunderstanding? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We have to hurry. Chuck's out looking right now. Oh, Bill, what have we done? He took his razor. We need to hurry. He might be coming back any minute. Bill mentions nothing of his encounter. She grabs her bindle, Bill a handful of silverware and an umbrella. After a moment's hesitation, he puts them back. </p><p><p ID="slug">288 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">They run down to the barn, where the cars are stored. The saplings in the front yard have been stripped even of their bark. Abby stops to look back at the Belvedere one last time. Chuck does not want her anymore. How could she expect him to? Bill grabs her by the hand and tugs her along. </p><p><p ID="slug">289 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Abby throws open the doors of the barn. Bill cranks up the engine of the Overland. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Will the cops be looking for us, too? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Probably. Abby stands in the door. She is reluctant to leave, though she knows they must. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Get in. She notices that Bill's lip is cut, his shirt soaked with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What happened to you? Where's this from? Bill looks down. He forgot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Had an accident. She looks at him for a moment, not quite trusting this explanation. The engine catches with a noise like start- led poultry. Bill gets behind the wheel. Just as they are pulling out of the garage, Ursula runs up, black as coal from battling the fire all night. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Where you going? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(breathless) <P ID="dia">We got in a jam. You'll be safer here. Say we're headed for town. Take care of the rabbit, too. He's yours now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Just do what I say. Why're you always arguing about everything? Wait here till we get in touch. Bill gives Ursula his wallet and a kiss. Abby gives her a hug. </p><p><p ID="slug">290 EXT. BURNT GRASS </p><p><p ID="act">They roar off through the burnt grass of the prairie. Abby waves goodbye. </p><p><p ID="slug">291 THEIR POV (MOVING) </p><p><p ID="act">As they crest a ridge, Benson appears in front of them, waving a hand to flag them down. Bill puts his foot on the gas. Benson sees they are not going to stop and fires at then with a pistol. Bill grabs a shotgun from a scab- bard under the dash and fires back. Nobody is hurt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's the matter with him? Bill shrugs. Inside he feels a great relief. They are free at last. At last he has her back. </p><p><p ID="slug">292 EXT. BONANZA GATES </p><p><p ID="act">They veer off across the prairie, towards the Razumihin gates. The music comes up full. </p><p><p ID="slug">293 EXT. SHACK ON RIVER </p><p><p ID="act">They have come to a lone shack on the river, a drinking house for passing boatmen. They negotiate (in pantomime) with the PROPRIETOR for a tiny steam boat moored at the end of the pier. When the car is not enough, Abby throws in her necklace. </p><p><p ID="slug">294 ABOARD THE BOAT </p><p><p ID="act">They board the boat and turn down stream. There is a phonograph on board. </p><p><p ID="slug">295 TIGHT ON NECKLACE </p><p><p ID="act">The necklace sparkles on the hood of the car--a hint they are leaving behind evidence that could betray them. </p><p><p ID="slug">296 EXT. BOAT ON RIVER - AND MOVING POVS </p><p><p ID="act">They glide along in the hush of evening. The reeds are full of deer. Cranes, imprudently tame, dance on the sand bars. Bill looks around in wonder. He knows these may be his last days on earth. Abby throws a sounding line. A COUPLE from a local farm seeks privacy in the willows. Other BOATMEN glide past in silence. A CHILD plays a fiddle on the deck of a scow. HUNTERS creep along the shore in search of waterfowl. </p><p><p ID="slug">297 EXT. CAMP - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sleeps under a tarp. Abby looks out across the water and bursts into sobs. She has wronged Chuck and thrown her life away. </p><p><p ID="slug">298 THEIR POVS (MOVING) - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They shine a lamp into the murky depths and spear pickerel with a hammered-out fork. Strange rocks loom up and give way to wide moonlit fields. They have the sense of entering places where nobody has been since the making of the world. </p><p><p ID="slug">299 EXT. FARMHOUSE </p><p><p ID="act">Four LAWMEN, in pursuit, interrogate some FARMERS. Have they seen the two people standing by Chuck in his wedding portrait? Benson holds the bulky frame. There is a funereal border of black crepe at the corners. </p><p><p ID="slug">300 EXT. ABOARD THE BOAT - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">They drift idly on the flood. The phonograph is playing in the stern. Abby is back in trousers. Bill points to a white house on the shore, an image of comfort and peace. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I used to want a set-up like that. Something like that, I thought, and you'd really have it made. Now I don't care. I just wish we could always live this way. He sees that her mind is somewhere else. He wants to tell her the truth about Chuck, for intimacy's sake, but it would just put more of a cloud over everything. It might even cause her to hate him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Maybe you want to write him a letter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I hadn't thought of that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You really do love him, don't you? She does not reply. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You want to go back? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(shaking her head) <P ID="dia">Too late for that. I could never face him again. They look at each other for a moment. He touches her face, to show that he does not hold it against her. She touches him back. They only have each other now. They must save what moments they can. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Guess it's you and me again. </p><p><p ID="slug">301 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">On a sudden whim, Abby takes off her wedding bracelet and holds it over the water. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Watch this. Bill is caught off guard. Before he can make a move she throws it far out into the river. They laugh, without knowing why, at this extravagance. </p><p><p ID="slug">302 EXT. SHORE .. TRACKING SHOTS </p><p><p ID="act">They gather May apples and black haws. The music from the phonograph comes up full. They dig clams from a sand bar in a playful way. We are reminded of their first days on the harvest. </p><p><p ID="slug">303 XT. UNDERGROWTH </p><p><p ID="act">They make love in the undergrowth. Abby, afterwards, lies in a naked daze. The damp greens of the wilderness envelop her. </p><p><p ID="slug">304 THEIR POV - ON CITY ON RIVER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Rounding a bend in the river that night, they come upon the lights of a great city. They have doused the running lamp. Except for a faint groaning of the trees along the shore, the river is silent, conveying the sounds of the city to them from across a great distance -- bells, joy- ful voices, horns, the chirping of brakes, etc. </p><p><p ID="slug">305 EXT. CITY STREETS AND THEIR POVS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They sneak down an alley. There are signs of life behind a few windows, but the city pursues its gaiety elsewhere. Suddenly, they come upon a POLICEMAN making his rounds. They let him pass, then cut through a vacant lot back to the boat. </p><p><p ID="slug">306 EXT. RIVER FRONT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The next morning finds them camped in a thicket on the river front below a factory. Bill wakes up, mysteriously happy. Their blankets are heavy with dew. Overhead, finches tilt from branch to branch. A light wind rushes through the leaves. Whatever his trou- bles, they seem very small to him in the great. scheme of things. He looks at Abby, mouthing silent words in her sleep. He puts on a white scarf and starts down to the boat. The slope is strewn with sodden cartons, burnt bricks and burst mattresses, an avalanche of urban excreta. </p><p><p ID="slug">307 HIS POV </p><p><p ID="act">Abruptly he stops. Two POLICE OFFICERS are combing over the boat. They have not seen him. He edges back. Suddenly, there is yelling on the hill above them. Bill looks up. Benson is calling him to the attention of a car-load of POLICEMEN pulling up beside him. The Officers at the boat now spot him, too, and open fire. Bill darts like a rabbit into the thicket. </p><p><p ID="slug">308 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Abby bolts awake. Bill jumps down beside her, breathless, and begins looking frantically for the shells to his shotgun. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's going on? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Keep down. Can't explain now. They're here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Who? What're you talking about? Stop a minute. He covers her with his body as bullets zoom through the undergrowth. His face is close to hers. She bursts into tears. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't get shot. Look for me under that next bridge down. After dark. He empties out the contents of his pockets -- a watch, a couple of dollars in change, a ring -- and slaps them down in front of her. The Police fan out along the ridge above them. He jams a flare pistol into his belt and kisses her goodbye--after a moment's hesitation -- on the cheek. She tries in vain to hold him back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I wish I could tell you how much I love you. </p><p><p ID="slug">309 EXT. MUD FLAT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill runs from the thicket down to the water. The Police have bunched on the other side. It seems he might be able to escape. Keeping low, he splashes across a mud flat. Suddenly he runs into a trot line that a fisherman has left out overnight. The hooks bite into his thigh and shoulder, yanking a string of startled, thrashing catfish out of the water. He keeps running in a panic, not realizing the line is staked to the shore. All at once, he jackknifes in the air. The stake twangs loose. The Police now spot him and begin firing. </p><p><p ID="slug">310 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Abby runs out of hiding, thinking at first that the Police must be looking for her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why're you shooting? You'll kill him! Have you gone crazy? Stop! Oh, Bill, not you! Not you! </p><p><p ID="slug">311 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill stumbles along, trying to rip the hooks from his flesh, but the fish--fighting their way back to the water--only drive them in deeper. Ahead two MOUNTED POLICE surge into the river, blocking his retreat. He empties his shotgun at them and throws it away. They hold up, astonished. He dashes across a sand bar for the deep of the river and comparative safety. Black mud clings to his feet, drawing him down like a fly in molasses. Benson goes running out into the river ahead of the Police. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Leave him alone. I want him. Leave him alone. <P ID="spkdir">(firing) <P ID="dia">There you go! There you go! He shoots Bill down. Bill turns and looks at him in sur- prise. Benson shoots him again, point blank. </p><p><p ID="slug">312 UNDERWATER SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill's blood fades off quickly in the gliding water of the river. The line of frightened catfish dances out behind him like a garland. </p><p><p ID="slug">313 OTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">A dog trots off in alarm. Benson wades into shore, tears streaming down his face, his chest heaving with emotion. Abby falls to the ground in a convulsion of grief. A short way down the river PEOPLE come and go along the bridge where they were to meet. </p><p><p ID="slug">314 ISOLATED ON ROLLER PIANO </p><p><p ID="act">A roller piano sits in a corner by itself, playing a fox- trot. The camera moves back. </p><p><p ID="slug">315 INT. ARBORETUM - ATTIC </p><p><p ID="act">YOUNG DANCERS are learning the foxtrot in the attic of the Arboretum, a tacky Western version of an Eastern finishing school. The steps are painted on the floor as white footprints. Abby is apparently enrolling Ursula here. The headmistress, MADAME MURPHY, boasts of the school's achievements. Ursula looks trapped. Abby checks her watch. She must go. </p><p><p ID="slug">316 EXT. BRICK STREET </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Ursula walk down an empty street. Abby wears a mourning band on her sleeve. She is under the false im- pression that Ursula likes her new home. An INDIAN PORTER carts her bags along behind them in a wheelbarrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">They'll teach you poise, too, so you can walk in any room you please. Pretty soon you'll know all kind of things. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I never read a whole book till I was fifteen. It was by Caesar. They laugh at her careful pronunciation of "Caesar." </p><p><p ID="slug">317 EXT. TRAIN STATION </p><p><p ID="act">Abby's train is about to leave. The CONDUCTOR walks by blowing a whistle. A five-piece BAND plays Sousa airs. They are practically the only civilians on the platform. The rest are SOLDIERS bound for Europe, where America has just entered the War, on fire with excitement and a sense of high adventure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I like your hat. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It doesn't seem like a bird came down and landed on my head? Abby takes the hat off and gives it to Ursula, who lately has begun to take more trouble with her appearance, comb- ing her hair free of its usual snarls. They laugh at their reflection in a window of the train. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I hardly ever wear it. Be sure and write every week. Signals nod. A lamp winks. There are leave-takings up and down the platform as the train slides away. Abby hops on board. A SOLDIER next to her sheds bitter tears. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You write me, too! They wave goodbye. </p><p><p ID="slug">318 EXT. ARBORETUM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Late that evening Ursula lowers herself out a third-floor window of the Arboretum with a rope made of bedsheets. </p><p><p ID="slug">319 TIGHT ON GIRLS AT WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">The other GIRLS stand in their nightgowns and wave good- bye, amazed at her boldness. She slips off into the night. </p><p><p ID="slug">320 EXT. BACKSTAGE DOOR - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula looks in a backstage door. She can see, through the wings, a MAN dancing on stage. There is a feeling of mad excitement about the place. The person she is looking for is not here, however. </p><p><p ID="slug">321 EXT. ALLEY - URSULA'S THEME - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">She runs down an alley. A man steps out of the shadows-- George, the pilot. She throws herself in his arms. This is our first sight of him since he left the bonanza. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You're here! Oh, hug me! They kiss madly, with mystery. The moonlit, midsummer night thrums </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Aren't we happy? Oh, George, has anybody ever been this happy? He rocks her back and forth in his arms. They laugh, thinking what lucky exceptions they are to the world's misery. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Hurry. They'll be looking for me. </p><p><p ID="slug">322 EXT. AIRPLANE - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">George bundles Ursula, giggling, into a biplane. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">This doesn't even belong to you. Suppose they catch us? </p><p><p ID="slug">323 EXT. PASTURE -- DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">From a pasture outside town the plane rises into the vast dawn sky. </p><p><p ID="slug">324 INT. TEXTILE FACTORY </p><p><p ID="act">Abby changes bobbins on a huge loom. A pall of lint and anonymous toil hangs over the factory. Down the way a handsome MALE WORKER smiles at her. She smiles back, interested. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It seems an age we've been apart, and truly is for those who love each other so. Whenever shall we meet?' </p><p><p ID="slug">325 TIGHT ON MACHINERY </p><p><p ID="act">The shuttle rockets back and forth. Off camera we hear Abby reading what seems part of a letter to Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Soon, I hope, for by and by we'll all be gone, Urs. Does it really seem as though we might?' </p><p><p ID="slug">326 UNDERWATER SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">We look from the bottom of a river up toward the light. In the foreground, dangling from the tip of a submerged limb, is the bracelet Abby threw away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">'The other day I tried to think how I'd look laid out in a solemn white gown. Closing my eyes I could almost hear you tiptoe inlook down in my face, so deep asleep, so still. </p><p><p ID="slug">327 EXT. FIELDS - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">The PEOPLE of the Razumihin rebuild the land -- raising fences and sinking a well, plowing down the stubble and putting in the seed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">'I went to Lincoln Park Zoo the other day. It was great as usual. I enclose a check.' </p><p><p ID="act">An ANONYMOUS YOUNG MAN, standing on a carpet of new-sprung wheat, looks up with a start. From the distance comes a ghostly noise--the call of the prairie chickens at their spring rites. He listens for just a moment, then returns to work. </p><p><p ID="act">THE END</p> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why are Holmes and Dr. Watson in Cornwall?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "For Holmes' health." ]	10,014	narrativeqa	en	null	627d4b1bf8c78ab08d4da01abc81be9e724d1e8bcb2d2e6b	Produced by David Brannan. HTML version by Al Haines. The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early spring of that year we found ourselves together in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish peninsula. It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim humour of my patient. From the windows of our little whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end. With a northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection. Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale from the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out from that evil place. On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with an occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he spent much of his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and he had, I remember, conceived the idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived from the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of books upon philology and was settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a problem at our very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more mysterious than any of those which had driven us from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were violently interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of a series of events which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain some recollection of what was called at the time "The Cornish Horror," though a most imperfect account of the matter reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details of this inconceivable affair to the public. I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and as such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a considerable fund of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman's scanty resources by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to such an arrangement, though he had little in common with his lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression of actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our short visit we found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs. These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion upon the moors. "Mr. Holmes," said the vicar in an agitated voice, "the most extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night. It is the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a special Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all England you are the one man we need." I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained than the clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of his dark eyes showed that they shared a common emotion. "Shall I speak or you?" he asked of the vicar. "Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it may be, and the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps you had better do the speaking," said Holmes. I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise which Holmes's simple deduction had brought to their faces. "Perhaps I had best say a few words first," said the vicar, "and then you can judge if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis, or whether we should not hasten at once to the scene of this mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here spent last evening in the company of his two brothers, Owen and George, and of his sister Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is near the old stone cross upon the moor. He left them shortly after ten o'clock, playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent health and spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he walked in that direction before breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who explained that he had just been sent for on a most urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally went with him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his sister were seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards still spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their sockets. The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses stricken clean out of them. All three of them, the dead woman and the two demented men, retained upon their faces an expression of the utmost horror--a convulsion of terror which was dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of the presence of anyone in the house, except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that she had slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen or disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of what the horror can be which has frightened a woman to death and two strong men out of their senses. There is the situation, Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can help us to clear it up you will have done a great work." I had hoped that in some way I could coax my companion back into the quiet which had been the object of our journey; but one glance at his intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was now the expectation. He sat for some little time in silence, absorbed in the strange drama which had broken in upon our peace. "I will look into this matter," he said at last. "On the face of it, it would appear to be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you been there yourself, Mr. Roundhay?" "No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the account to the vicarage, and I at once hurried over with him to consult you." "How far is it to the house where this singular tragedy occurred?" "About a mile inland." "Then we shall walk over together. But before we start I must ask you a few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis." The other had been silent all this time, but I had observed that his more controlled excitement was even greater than the obtrusive emotion of the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his anxious gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands clasped convulsively together. His pale lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful experience which had befallen his family, and his dark eyes seemed to reflect something of the horror of the scene. "Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes," said he eagerly. "It is a bad thing to speak of, but I will answer you the truth." "Tell me about last night." "Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has said, and my elder brother George proposed a game of whist afterwards. We sat down about nine o'clock. It was a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I left them all round the table, as merry as could be." "Who let you out?" "Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I shut the hall door behind me. The window of the room in which they sat was closed, but the blind was not drawn down. There was no change in door or window this morning, or any reason to think that any stranger had been to the house. Yet there they sat, driven clean mad with terror, and Brenda lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over the arm of the chair. I'll never get the sight of that room out of my mind so long as I live." "The facts, as you state them, are certainly most remarkable," said Holmes. "I take it that you have no theory yourself which can in any way account for them?" "It's devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!" cried Mortimer Tregennis. "It is not of this world. Something has come into that room which has dashed the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance could do that?" "I fear," said Holmes, "that if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr. Tregennis, I take it you were divided in some way from your family, since they lived together and you had rooms apart?" "That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past and done with. We were a family of tin-miners at Redruth, but we sold our venture to a company, and so retired with enough to keep us. I won't deny that there was some feeling about the division of the money and it stood between us for a time, but it was all forgiven and forgotten, and we were the best of friends together." "Looking back at the evening which you spent together, does anything stand out in your memory as throwing any possible light upon the tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can help me." "There is nothing at all, sir." "Your people were in their usual spirits?" "Never better." "Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any apprehension of coming danger?" "Nothing of the kind." "You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?" Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a moment. "There is one thing occurs to me," said he at last. "As we sat at the table my back was to the window, and my brother George, he being my partner at cards, was facing it. I saw him once look hard over my shoulder, so I turned round and looked also. The blind was up and the window shut, but I could just make out the bushes on the lawn, and it seemed to me for a moment that I saw something moving among them. I couldn't even say if it was man or animal, but I just thought there was something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told me that he had the same feeling. That is all that I can say." "Did you not investigate?" "No; the matter passed as unimportant." "You left them, then, without any premonition of evil?" "None at all." "I am not clear how you came to hear the news so early this morning." "I am an early riser and generally take a walk before breakfast. This morning I had hardly started when the doctor in his carriage overtook me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy down with an urgent message. I sprang in beside him and we drove on. When we got there we looked into that dreadful room. The candles and the fire must have burned out hours before, and they had been sitting there in the dark until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been dead at least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She just lay across the arm of the chair with that look on her face. George and Owen were singing snatches of songs and gibbering like two great apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I couldn't stand it, and the doctor was as white as a sheet. Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of faint, and we nearly had him on our hands as well." "Remarkable--most remarkable!" said Holmes, rising and taking his hat. "I think, perhaps, we had better go down to Tredannick Wartha without further delay. I confess that I have seldom known a case which at first sight presented a more singular problem." Our proceedings of that first morning did little to advance the investigation. It was marked, however, at the outset by an incident which left the most sinister impression upon my mind. The approach to the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a narrow, winding, country lane. While we made our way along it we heard the rattle of a carriage coming towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it drove by us I caught a glimpse through the closed window of a horribly contorted, grinning face glaring out at us. Those staring eyes and gnashing teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision. "My brothers!" cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. "They are taking them to Helston." We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon its way. Then we turned our steps towards this ill-omened house in which they had met their strange fate. It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa than a cottage, with a considerable garden which was already, in that Cornish air, well filled with spring flowers. Towards this garden the window of the sitting-room fronted, and from it, according to Mortimer Tregennis, must have come that thing of evil which had by sheer horror in a single instant blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly and thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the path before we entered the porch. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over the watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged both our feet and the garden path. Inside the house we were met by the elderly Cornish housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl, looked after the wants of the family. She readily answered all Holmes's questions. She had heard nothing in the night. Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and she had never known them more cheerful and prosperous. She had fainted with horror upon entering the room in the morning and seeing that dreadful company round the table. She had, when she recovered, thrown open the window to let the morning air in, and had run down to the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for the doctor. The lady was on her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It took four strong men to get the brothers into the asylum carriage. She would not herself stay in the house another day and was starting that very afternoon to rejoin her family at St. Ives. We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had been a very beautiful girl, though now verging upon middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there still lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had been her last human emotion. From her bedroom we descended to the sitting-room, where this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table were the four guttered and burned-out candles, with the cards scattered over its surface. The chairs had been moved back against the walls, but all else was as it had been the night before. Holmes paced with light, swift steps about the room; he sat in the various chairs, drawing them up and reconstructing their positions. He tested how much of the garden was visible; he examined the floor, the ceiling, and the fireplace; but never once did I see that sudden brightening of his eyes and tightening of his lips which would have told me that he saw some gleam of light in this utter darkness. "Why a fire?" he asked once. "Had they always a fire in this small room on a spring evening?" Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp. For that reason, after his arrival, the fire was lit. "What are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. "I think, Watson, that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have so often and so justly condemned," said he. "With your permission, gentlemen, we will now return to our cottage, for I am not aware that any new factor is likely to come to our notice here. I will turn the facts over in my mind, Mr. Tregennis, and should anything occur to me I will certainly communicate with you and the vicar. In the meantime I wish you both good-morning." It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that Holmes broke his complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his armchair, his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down, his forehead contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he laid down his pipe and sprang to his feet. "It won't do, Watson!" said he with a laugh. "Let us walk along the cliffs together and search for flint arrows. We are more likely to find them than clues to this problem. To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson--all else will come. "Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson," he continued as we skirted the cliffs together. "Let us get a firm grip of the very little which we DO know, so that when fresh facts arise we may be ready to fit them into their places. I take it, in the first place, that neither of us is prepared to admit diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out of our minds. Very good. There remain three persons who have been grievously stricken by some conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm ground. Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left the room. That is a very important point. The presumption is that it was within a few minutes afterwards. The cards still lay upon the table. It was already past their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not changed their position or pushed back their chairs. I repeat, then, that the occurrence was immediately after his departure, and not later than eleven o'clock last night. "Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the movements of Mortimer Tregennis after he left the room. In this there is no difficulty, and they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my methods as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot than might otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path took it admirably. Last night was also wet, you will remember, and it was not difficult--having obtained a sample print--to pick out his track among others and to follow his movements. He appears to have walked away swiftly in the direction of the vicarage. "If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and yet some outside person affected the card-players, how can we reconstruct that person, and how was such an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs. Porter may be eliminated. She is evidently harmless. Is there any evidence that someone crept up to the garden window and in some manner produced so terrific an effect that he drove those who saw it out of their senses? The only suggestion in this direction comes from Mortimer Tregennis himself, who says that his brother spoke about some movement in the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the night was rainy, cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm these people would be compelled to place his very face against the glass before he could be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border outside this window, but no indication of a footmark. It is difficult to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so terrible an impression upon the company, nor have we found any possible motive for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You perceive our difficulties, Watson?" "They are only too clear," I answered with conviction. "And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that they are not insurmountable," said Holmes. "I fancy that among your extensive archives, Watson, you may find some which were nearly as obscure. Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until more accurate data are available, and devote the rest of our morning to the pursuit of neolithic man." I may have commented upon my friend's power of mental detachment, but never have I wondered at it more than upon that spring morning in Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed upon celts, arrowheads, and shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery were waiting for his solution. It was not until we had returned in the afternoon to our cottage that we found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our minds back to the matter in hand. Neither of us needed to be told who that visitor was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the beard--golden at the fringes and white near the lips, save for the nicotine stain from his perpetual cigar--all these were as well known in London as in Africa, and could only be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr. Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer. We had heard of his presence in the district and had once or twice caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths. He made no advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamed of doing so to him, as it was well known that it was his love of seclusion which caused him to spend the greater part of the intervals between his journeys in a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he lived an absolutely lonely life, attending to his own simple wants and paying little apparent heed to the affairs of his neighbours. It was a surprise to me, therefore, to hear him asking Holmes in an eager voice whether he had made any advance in his reconstruction of this mysterious episode. "The county police are utterly at fault," said he, "but perhaps your wider experience has suggested some conceivable explanation. My only claim to being taken into your confidence is that during my many residences here I have come to know this family of Tregennis very well--indeed, upon my Cornish mother's side I could call them cousins--and their strange fate has naturally been a great shock to me. I may tell you that I had got as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, but the news reached me this morning, and I came straight back again to help in the inquiry." Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Did you lose your boat through it?" "I will take the next." "Dear me! that is friendship indeed." "I tell you they were relatives." "Quite so--cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboard the ship?" "Some of it, but the main part at the hotel." "I see. But surely this event could not have found its way into the Plymouth morning papers." "No, sir; I had a telegram." "Might I ask from whom?" A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer. "You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes." "It is my business." With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure. "I have no objection to telling you," he said. "It was Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me." "Thank you," said Holmes. "I may say in answer to your original question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject of this case, but that I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It would be premature to say more." "Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?" "No, I can hardly answer that." "Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." The famous doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable ill-humour, and within five minutes Holmes had followed him. I saw him no more until the evening, when he returned with a slow step and haggard face which assured me that he had made no great progress with his investigation. He glanced at a telegram which awaited him and threw it into the grate. "From the Plymouth hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name of it from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale's account was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last night there, and that he has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on to Africa, while he returned to be present at this investigation. What do you make of that, Watson?" "He is deeply interested." "Deeply interested--yes. There is a thread here which we had not yet grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson, for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand. When it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us." Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened up an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my window in the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking up, saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at our door, and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our garden path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet him. Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but at last in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him. "We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-ridden!" he cried. "Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his hands!" He danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it were not for his ashy face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his terrible news. "Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the same symptoms as the rest of his family." Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant. "Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?" "Yes, I can." "Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are entirely at your disposal. Hurry--hurry, before things get disarranged." The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor or the police, so that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me describe exactly the scene as we saw it upon that misty March morning. It has left an impression which can never be effaced from my mind. The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness. The servant who had first entered had thrown up the window, or it would have been even more intolerable. This might partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning back in his chair, his thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead, and his lean dark face turned towards the window and twisted into the same distortion of terror which had marked the features of his dead sister. His limbs were convulsed and his fingers contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm of fear. He was fully clothed, though there were signs that his dressing had been done in a hurry. We had already learned that his bed had been slept in, and that the tragic end had come to him in the early morning. One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes's phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the moment that he entered the fatal apartment. In an instant he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast around and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give him some fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with loud ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry. The lamp, which was an ordinary standard, he examined with minute care, making certain measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized with his lens the talc shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped off some ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of them into an envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally, just as the doctor and the official police put in an appearance, he beckoned to the vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn. "I am glad to say that my investigation has not been entirely barren," he remarked. "I cannot remain to discuss the matter with the police, but I should be exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you would give the inspector my compliments and direct his attention to the bedroom window and to the sitting-room lamp. Each is suggestive, and together they are almost conclusive. If the police would desire further information I shall be happy to see any of them at the cottage. And now, Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better employed elsewhere." It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an amateur, or that they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of investigation; but it is certain that we heard nothing from them for the next two days. During this time Holmes spent some of his time smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in country walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours without remark as to where he had been. One experiment served to show me the line of his investigation. He had bought a lamp which was the duplicate of the one which had burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy. This he filled with the same oil as that used at the vicarage, and he carefully timed the period which it would take to be exhausted. Another experiment which he made was of a more unpleasant nature, and one which I am not likely ever to forget. "You will remember, Watson," he remarked one afternoon, "that there is a single common point of resemblance in the varying reports which have reached us. This concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the room in each case upon those who had first entered it. You will recollect that Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the episode of his last visit to his brother's house, remarked that the doctor on entering the room fell into a chair? You had forgotten? Well I can answer for it that it was so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted upon entering the room and had afterwards opened the window. In the second case--that of Mortimer Tregennis himself--you cannot have forgotten the horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived, though the servant had thrown open the window. That servant, I found upon inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You will admit, Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In each case there is evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there is combustion going on in the room--in the one case a fire, in the other a lamp. The fire was needed, but the lamp was lit--as a comparison of the oil consumed will show--long after it was broad daylight. Why? Surely because there is some connection between three things--the burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness or death of those unfortunate people. That is clear, is it not?" "It would appear so." "At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis. We will suppose, then, that something was burned in each case which produced an atmosphere causing strange toxic effects. Very good. In the first instance--that of the Tregennis family--this substance was placed in the fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally carry fumes to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect the effects of the poison to be less than in the second case, where there was less escape for the vapour. The result seems to indicate that it was so, since in the first case only the woman, who had presumably the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others exhibiting that temporary or permanent lunacy which is evidently the first effect of the drug. In the second case the result was complete. The facts, therefore, seem to bear out the theory of a poison which worked by combustion. "With this train of reasoning in my head I naturally looked about in Mortimer Tregennis's room to find some remains of this substance. The obvious place to look was the talc shelf or smoke-guard of the lamp. There, sure enough, I perceived a number of flaky ashes, and round the edges a fringe of brownish powder, which had not yet been consumed. Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in an envelope." "Why half, Holmes?" "It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the official police force. I leave them all the evidence which I found. The poison still remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it. Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought I knew my Watson. This chair I will place opposite yours, so that we may be the same distance from the poison and face to face. The door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position to watch the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our powder--or what remains of it--from the envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp. So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await developments." They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my chair before I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very first whiff of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes, and my mind told me that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon my appalled senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold, whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing horror took possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my eyes were protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my tongue like leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that something must surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself. At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror--the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in. Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension at each other to mark the last traces of that terrific experience which we had undergone. "Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry." "You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you." He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude to those about him. "It would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson," said he. "A candid observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined that the effect could be so sudden and so severe." He dashed into the cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held at full arm's length, he threw it among a bank of brambles. "We must give the room a little time to clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?" "None whatever." "But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come into the arbour here and let us discuss it together. That villainous stuff seems still to linger round my throat. I think we must admit that all the evidence points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been the criminal in the first tragedy, though he was the victim in the second one. We must remember, in the first place, that there is some story of a family quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that quarrel may have been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot tell. When I think of Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the small shrewd, beady eyes behind the spectacles, he is not a man whom I should judge to be of a particularly forgiving disposition. Well, in the next place, you will remember that this idea of someone moving in the garden, which took our attention for a moment from the real cause of the tragedy, emanated from him. He had a motive in misleading us. Finally, if he did not throw the substance into the fire at the moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The affair happened immediately after his departure. Had anyone else come in, the family would certainly have risen from the table. Besides, in peaceful Cornwall, visitors did not arrive after ten o'clock at night. We may take it, then, that all the evidence points to Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit." "Then his own death was suicide!" "Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not impossible supposition. The man who had the guilt upon his soul of having brought such a fate upon his own family might well be driven by remorse to inflict it upon himself. There are, however, some cogent reasons against it. Fortunately, there is one man in England who knows all about it, and I have made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts this afternoon from his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his time. Perhaps you would kindly step this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducing a chemical experiment indoors which has left our little room hardly fit for the reception of so distinguished a visitor." I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now the majestic figure of the great African explorer appeared upon the path. He turned in some surprise towards the rustic arbour in which we sat. "You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about an hour ago, and I have come, though I really do not know why I should obey your summons." "Perhaps we can clear the point up before we separate," said Holmes. "Meanwhile, I am much obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence. You will excuse this informal reception in the open air, but my friend Watson and I have nearly furnished an additional chapter to what the papers call the Cornish Horror, and we prefer a clear atmosphere for the present. Perhaps, since the matters which we have to discuss will affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it is as well that we should talk where there can be no eavesdropping." The explorer took his cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at my companion. "I am at a loss to know, sir," he said, "what you can have to speak about which affects me personally in a very intimate fashion." "The killing of Mortimer Tregennis," said Holmes. For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale's fierce face turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate veins started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward with clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and with a violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps, more suggestive of danger than his hot-headed outburst. "I have lived so long among savages and beyond the law," said he, "that I have got into the way of being a law to myself. You would do well, Mr. Holmes, not to forget it, for I have no desire to do you an injury." "Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale. Surely the clearest proof of it is that, knowing what I know, I have sent for you and not for the police." Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the first time in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance of power in Holmes's manner which could not be withstood. Our visitor stammered for a moment, his great hands opening and shutting in his agitation. "What do you mean?" he asked at last. "If this is bluff upon your part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a bad man for your experiment. Let us have no more beating about the bush. What DO you mean?" "I will tell you," said Holmes, "and the reason why I tell you is that I hope frankness may beget frankness. What my next step may be will depend entirely upon the nature of your own defence." "My defence?" "Yes, sir." "My defence against what?" "Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis." Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Upon my word, you are getting on," said he. "Do all your successes depend upon this prodigious power of bluff?" "The bluff," said Holmes sternly, "is upon your side, Dr. Leon Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a proof I will tell you some of the facts upon which my conclusions are based. Of your return from Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go on to Africa, I will say nothing save that it first informed me that you were one of the factors which had to be taken into account in reconstructing this drama--" "I came back--" "I have heard your reasons and regard them as unconvincing and inadequate. We will pass that. You came down here to ask me whom I suspected. I refused to answer you. You then went to the vicarage, waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your cottage." "How do you know that?" "I followed you." "I saw no one." "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. You spent a restless night at your cottage, and you formed certain plans, which in the early morning you proceeded to put into execution. Leaving your door just as day was breaking, you filled your pocket with some reddish gravel that was lying heaped beside your gate." Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes in amazement. "You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from the vicarage. You were wearing, I may remark, the same pair of ribbed tennis shoes which are at the present moment upon your feet. At the vicarage you passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming out under the window of the lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight, but the household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the gravel from your pocket, and you threw it up at the window above you." Sterndale sprang to his feet. "I believe that you are the devil himself!" he cried. Holmes smiled at the compliment. "It took two, or possibly three, handfuls before the lodger came to the window. You beckoned him to come down. He dressed hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room. You entered by the window. There was an interview--a short one--during which you walked up and down the room. Then you passed out and closed the window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a cigar and watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of Tregennis, you withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do you justify such conduct, and what were the motives for your actions? If you prevaricate or trifle with me, I give you my assurance that the matter will pass out of my hands forever." Our visitor's face had turned ashen gray as he listened to the words of his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with his face sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it on the rustic table before us. "That is why I have done it," said he. It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful woman. Holmes stooped over it. "Brenda Tregennis," said he. "Yes, Brenda Tregennis," repeated our visitor. "For years I have loved her. For years she has loved me. There is the secret of that Cornish seclusion which people have marvelled at. It has brought me close to the one thing on earth that was dear to me. I could not marry her, for I have a wife who has left me for years and yet whom, by the deplorable laws of England, I could not divorce. For years Brenda waited. For years I waited. And this is what we have waited for." A terrible sob shook his great frame, and he clutched his throat under his brindled beard. Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke on: "The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He would tell you that she was an angel upon earth. That was why he telegraphed to me and I returned. What was my baggage or Africa to me when I learned that such a fate had come upon my darling? There you have the missing clue to my action, Mr. Holmes." "Proceed," said my friend. Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet and laid it upon the table. On the outside was written "Radix pedis diaboli" with a red poison label beneath it. He pushed it towards me. "I understand that you are a doctor, sir. Have you ever heard of this preparation?" "Devil's-foot root! No, I have never heard of it." "It is no reflection upon your professional knowledge," said he, "for I believe that, save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is no other specimen in Europe. It has not yet found its way either into the pharmacopoeia or into the literature of toxicology. The root is shaped like a foot, half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful name given by a botanical missionary. It is used as an ordeal poison by the medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa and is kept as a secret among them. This particular specimen I obtained under very extraordinary circumstances in the Ubangi country." He opened the paper as he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like powder. "Well, sir?" asked Holmes sternly. "I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually occurred, for you already know so much that it is clearly to my interest that you should know all. I have already explained the relationship in which I stood to the Tregennis family. For the sake of the sister I was friendly with the brothers. There was a family quarrel about money which estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to be made up, and I afterwards met him as I did the others. He was a sly, subtle, scheming man, and several things arose which gave me a suspicion of him, but I had no cause for any positive quarrel. "One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage and I showed him some of my African curiosities. Among other things I exhibited this powder, and I told him of its strange properties, how it stimulates those brain centres which control the emotion of fear, and how either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy native who is subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him also how powerless European science would be to detect it. How he took it I cannot say, for I never left the room, but there is no doubt that it was then, while I was opening cabinets and stooping to boxes, that he managed to abstract some of the devil's-foot root. I well remember how he plied me with questions as to the amount and the time that was needed for its effect, but I little dreamed that he could have a personal reason for asking. "I thought no more of the matter until the vicar's telegram reached me at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I would be at sea before the news could reach me, and that I should be lost for years in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I could not listen to the details without feeling assured that my poison had been used. I came round to see you on the chance that some other explanation had suggested itself to you. But there could be none. I was convinced that Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer; that for the sake of money, and with the idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his family were all insane he would be the sole guardian of their joint property, he had used the devil's-foot powder upon them, driven two of them out of their senses, and killed his sister Brenda, the one human being whom I have ever loved or who has ever loved me. There was his crime; what was to be his punishment? "Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I knew that the facts were true, but could I help to make a jury of countrymen believe so fantastic a story? I might or I might not. But I could not afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I have said to you once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside the law, and that I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it was even now. I determined that the fate which he had given to others should be shared by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon him with my own hand. In all England there can be no man who sets less value upon his own life than I do at the present moment. "Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. I did, as you say, after a restless night, set off early from my cottage. I foresaw the difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some gravel from the pile which you have mentioned, and I used it to throw up to his window. He came down and admitted me through the window of the sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair, paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder above it, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my heart was flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent darling had not felt before him. There is my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would have done as much yourself. At any rate, I am in your hands. You can take what steps you like. As I have already said, there is no man living who can fear death less than I do." Holmes sat for some little time in silence. "What were your plans?" he asked at last. "I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My work there is but half finished." "Go and do the other half," said Holmes. "I, at least, am not prepared to prevent you." Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and walked from the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his pouch. "Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcome change," said he. "I think you must agree, Watson, that it is not a case in which we are called upon to interfere. Our investigation has been independent, and our action shall be so also. You would not denounce the man?" "Certainly not," I answered. "I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not offend your intelligence by explaining what is obvious. The gravel upon the window-sill was, of course, the starting-point of my research. It was unlike anything in the vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr. Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp shining in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield were successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and go back with a clear conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots which are surely to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic speech." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Adventure of the Devil's Foot, by Arthur Conan Doyle Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What ghost emerged from a painting at Dana's workplace?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and memorize the context. (Note: I will give you the question after you confirm that you have memorized the context.) \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Vigo" ]	25,089	narrativeqa	en	null	414ea192da69d6665e5ad41f59b34c6e1a8b5a59fa0703e5	Ghostbusters II by Harold Ramis and Dan Aykroyd September 29, 1988 Last revised Feburary 27, 1989 <b>EXT. MANHATTAN ISLAND - DAY </b> A high AERIAL SHOT of the island features the Statue of Liberty prominently in the foreground then TRAVELS ACROSS the harbor, OVER the Battery and Lower Manhattan to Greenwich Village. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY </b> A car is being hoisted up by a municipal tow truck while its owner is having a terrible screaming arguement with a parking enforcement officer. DANA BARRETT comes home pushing a baby buggy, struggling with two full bags of groceries, and trying to dig her keys out of her purse. The building superintendent FRANK, sees her struggling but pretends not to notice. <b> DANA </b> (exasperated) Frank, do you think you could give me a hand with these bags? <b> FRANK </b> I'm not a doorman, Miss Barrett. I'm a building superintendent. <b> DANA </b> You're also a human being, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> (reluctantly going to help) Okay, okay. It's not my job, but what the hell. I'll do you a favor. He takes the grocery bags from her. <b> DANA </b> (setting the wheel brakes on the buggy) Thank you, Frank. I'll get the hang of this eventually. She continues digging in her purse while Frank leans over the buggy and makes funny faces at the baby, OSCAR, a very cute nine-month old boy. <b> FRANK </b> (to the baby) Hiya, Oscar. What do you say, slugger? <b> FRANK </b> (to Dana) That's a good-looking kid you got there, Ms. Barrett. <b> DANA </b> (finding her keys) Thank you, Frank. Oh, are you ever going to fix the radiator in my bedroom? I asked you last week. <b> FRANK </b> Didn't I do it? <b>BABY BUGGY </b> It starts to vibrate as if shaken by an unseen hand. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> He GURGLES with delight at the movement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DANA AND FRANK - DAY </b> Neither of them notice the movement of the carriage. <b> DANA </b> No, you didn't, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> Okay, that's no problem. <b> DANA </b> That's exactly what you said last week. <b>BUGGY WHEELS </b> The brakes unlock themselves. <b>DANA </b> She reaches for the handlebar of the buggy, but the buggy rolls forward just out of her reach and stops. Surprised by the movement, she reaches for the handlebar again, but this time the buggy rolls away even further. Alarmed now, Dana hurries after it, but the buggy keeps rolling down the street at ever increasing speed. <b>SIDEWALK </b> Dana chases the buggy down the street, shouting to passing pedestrians for help, but every time someone reaches out to stop it, the buggy swerves and continues unchecked. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars, trucks, and buses speed by in both directions as the buggy races toward the corner. <b>DANA </b> She puts her head down and sprints after the buggy like an Olympian. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> A city bus is on a collision course with the speeding baby buggy. <b>BUGGY </b> It careens toward the corner. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> Its eyes are wide open with excitement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> Bus and buggy are closing fast as the buggy bounces over the curb and into the crosswalk. <b>BUS </b> The bus driver reacts in helpless horror as he sees the buggy enter the intersection at high speed. <b>BUGGY </b> It comes to a dead stop right in the middle of the street. The bus continues missing the buggy by inches. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars and trucks swerve and hit their brakes as Dana runs into the intersection and snatches up the baby. She hugs it close, deeply relieved, then looks at the buggy with the dawning awareness that the supernatural has re-entered her life. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UPPER WEST SIDE - NEW YORK CITY STREET - GHOSTBUSTERS LOGO - DAY </b> THEME MUSIC kicks in strongly as we see the familiar "No Ghosts" symbol and PULL BACK to reveal that it's painted on the side of Ecto-1, the Ghostbusters' emergency vehicle, which is speeding up Broadway on the Upper West Side. RAY STANTZ is driving and WINSTON ZEDDEMORE is riding shotgun. <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> The Ectomobile pulls up in front of a carefully-restored brownstone. Stantz and Winston, wearing their official Ghostbuster uniforms, jump out of the old ambulance, shoulder their proton packs and enter the house. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> A WOMAN greets them and leads them through the expensively-furnished house. <b> STANTZ </b> (all business) How many of them are there, ma'am? <b> WOMAN </b> Fourteen. They're in the back. I hope you can handle them. It's been like a nightmare. <b> WINSTON </b> How big are they? She holds her hand out indicating about four feet. <b> WINSTON </b> (resolute) We'll do our best, ma'am. <b> WOMAN </b> They're right out here. She leads them to a set of French doors that open into another room. Stantz and Winston pause to make final adjustments to their equipment. <b> STANTZ </b> Ready? <b> WINSTON </b> I'm ready. <b> STANTZ </b> Then let's do it. He pushes through the French doors and they step into the room. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They are immediately attacked by fourteen or fifteen screaming KIDS between the ages of seven and ten. <b> KIDS </b> (disappointed) Ghostbusters!! Boooo!! Tables are set with party favors, ice cream and birthday cake and the room is strewn with discarded toys and games. A couple of weary parents sink onto lawn chairs as Stantz and Winston take over the party. <b> WINSTON </b> (trying his best) How you doin', kids? <b> LITTLE BOY </b> (nasty) I though we were having He-Man. <b> STANTZ </b> He-Man couldn't make it today. That's why we're here. <b> BOY </b> My dad says you're full of crap. <b> STANTZ </b> (stopped cold) Well, a lot of people have trouble believing in the paranormal. <b> BOY </b> No, he just says you're full of crap and that's why you went out of business. He kicks Stantz in the leg. Stantz grabs him by the shirtfront. <b> STANTZ </b> (low and menacing) I'm watching you. (to Winston) Song. Winston switches on a tiny TAPE RECORDER which starts PLAYING the Ghostbusters THEME SONG. Stantz and WInston start singing <b> STANTZ AND WINSTON </b> 'There's something wrong in the neighborhood. Who you gonna call?' <b> KIDS </b> (all together) He-Man!! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Stantz and Winston wearily load their equipment into the Ectomobile. <b> WINSTON </b> That's it, Ray. I've had it. No more parties. I'm tired of taking abuse from over-privileged nine-year-olds. <b> STANTZ </b> Come on, Winston. We can't quit now. The holidays are coming up. It's our best season. They get in the car <b>INT. ECTO-1 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz tries to start the car, but the engine won't turn over. <b> WINSTON </b> Give it up, Ray. You're living in the past. Ghostbusters doesn't exist anymore. In a year these kids won't even remember who we are. <b> STANTZ </b> (tries to start the car again) Ungrateful little Yuppie larvae. After all we did for this city. <b> WINSTON </b> Yeah, what did we do, Ray? The last real job we had we bubbled up a hundred foot marshmallow man and blew the top three floors off an uptown highrise. <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, but what a ride. You can't make a hamburger without chopping up a cow. He turns the key again, the ENGING TURNS OVER, then starts GRINDING and CLUNKING disastrously, chewing up vital parts and dropping twisted bits of metal onto the pavement. Finally, with a BLAST of black sooty exhaust from the tailpipe, Ecto-1 shudders and dies. Frustrated, Stantz bangs his head lightly on the steering wheel <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. WKRR-TV STUDIO RECEPTION AREA - DAY (LATER) </b> A bank of monitors in the lobby show the program now running on WKRR, Channel 10 in New York. We PUSH IN ON one of the monitors as a title card and logo come up accompanied by some EERIE SYNTHESIZER MUSIC, and we return to the show in progress: "World of the Psychic with Dr. Peter Venkman." There is a video dissolve to a standard talk show set and sitting there is our host PETER VENKMAN, the renowned and somewhat infamous ex-Ghostbuster. <b>VENKMAN </b> He turns TO CAMERA and talks to his viewers in a suavely engaging tone, understated and intimate. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, welcome back to the 'World of the Psychic,' I'm Peter Venkman and I'm chatting with my guest, author, lecturer and of course, psychic, Milton Anglund. (to his guest) Milt, your new book is called The End of the World. Isn't that kind of like writing about gum disease. Yes, it could happen, but do you think anybody wants to read a book about it? <b> MILTON </b> Well, I think it's important for people to know that the world is in danger. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, so can you tell us when it's going to happen or do we have to buy the book? <b> MILTON </b> I predict that the world will end at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> This year? That's cutting it a little close, isn't it? I mean, just from a sales point of view, the book just came out, right? So you're not even looking at the paperback release for maybe a year. And it's going to be at least another year after that if the thing has movie-of-the-week or mini-series potential. You would have been better off predicting 1992 or even '94 just to be safe. <b> MILTON </b> (irritated) This is not just some money-making scheme! I didn't just make up the date. I have a strong psychic belief that the world will end on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> (placating) Well, for your sake, I hope you're right. But I think my other guest may disagree with you. Elaine, you had another date in mind? The CAMERA REVEALS ELAINE, an attractive, aggressive New Jersey housewife, sitting on the other side of Venkman. <b> ELAINE </b> According to my sources, the world will end on February 14, in the year 2016. <b> VENKMAN </b> Valentine's Day. That's got to be a bummer. Where did you get that date, Elaine? <b> ELAINE </b> I received this information from an alien. I was at the Paramus Holiday Inn, I was having a drink in the bar when he approached me and started talking. Then he must have used some sort of ray or a mind control device because he made me follow him to his room and that's where he told me about the end of the world. <b> VENKMAN </b> Your alien had a room in the Holiday Inn? <b> ELAINE </b> It may have been a room on the spacecraft made up to look like a room in the Holiday Inn. I can't be sure, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (humoring her) No, you can't, and I think that's the whole problem with aliens; you just can't trust them. You may get some nice ones occasionally like Starman or E.T., but most of them turn out to be some kind of lizard. Anyway, we're just about out of time. (does his wrap-up right TO the CAMERA) Next week on 'World of the Psychic,' hairless pets. (holds up a hairless cat) Until then, this is Peter Venkman saying ... (puts a finger to his temple and sends out a though to his viewers) ... Good night. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. TV STUDIO - CORRIDOR - DAY (LATER) </b> Venkman comes out of the studio squabbling with his producer, NORMAN, a well-meaning young incompetent. <b> VENKMAN </b> Where do you find these people? I thought we were having the telekinetic guy who bends the spoons? <b> NORMAN </b> A lot of the better psychics won't come on the show. They think you're too skeptical. <b> VENKMAN </b> Skeptical! Norman, I'm a pushover. I think professional wrestling is real. There is a small commotion down the hall as two plainclothes cops come out of the next studio followed by a group of mayoral assistants. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Norman) What's all this? <b> NORMAN </b> They just interviewed the mayor on 'Cityline.' <b> VENKMAN </b> The Mayor! He's a friend of mine. Venkman starts down the hall as the MAYOR and his principal aide, JACK HARDEMEYER, come walking out of the studio. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calling to the Mayor) Lenny! The Mayor sees Venkman, blanches and hurries off, pretending not to know him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (starts to follow him) Lenny! It's Pete Venkman! The plainclothesmen cut Venkman off and Hardemeyer puts a heavy hand against Venkman's chest. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (snide) Can I help you? <b> VENKMAN </b> (dangerous) Yeah, you can get your hand off my chest. Hardemeyer smiles and drops his hand. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> I'm Jack Hardemeyer. I'm the mayor's assistant. What can I do for you? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm an old friend of the mayor's. I just want to say hello to him. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (scornful) I know who you are, Doctor Venkman. Busting any ghosts lately? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, that's what I want to talk to the mayor about. We did a little job for the city a while back and we ended up getting sued, screwed and tattooed by deskworms like you. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (bristling) Look, you stay away from the mayor. Next fall, barring a disaster, he's going to be elected governor of this state and the last thing we need is for him to be associated with two-bit frauds and publicity hounds like you and your friends. You read me? Hardemeyer walks off with the two cops. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, I get it. But I want you to tell Lenny that, because of you, I'm not voting for him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - DAY </b> The broad front steps of the museum are crowded with tourists and visitors. Dana arrives carrying a portfolio and artist's tackle box and enters the museum. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATER) </b> We are FULL-FRAME ON a larger-than-life, full-figure portrait of VIGO THE CARPATHIAN, a demented and sadistic 16th century despot with an incredibly powerful evil presence. Then we PULL BACK to reveal the studio, which is a large open space on the top floor of the museum, lit by large skylights in the ceiling. Working on the Vigo painting is JANOSZ POHA, a youngish art historian and painter, the head of the department, quirky, intense and somewhat creepy. Janosz is staring longingly across the room at Dana. <b>DANA </b> She is carefully cleaning a 19th Century landscape painting, still preoccupied by the extraordinary near-accident with the buggy. Janosz watches her for a moment, then comes up behind her and looks over her shoulder. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with an East European accent) Still working on the Turner? Dana jumps, startled by the intrusion. <b> DANA </b> Oh, yes, I got in a little late this morning, Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> You know, you are really doing very good work here. I think soon you may be ready to assist me in some of the more important restorations. <b> DANA </b> Thank you, Janosz. I've learned a lot here, but now that my baby's a little older, I was hoping to rejoin the orchestra. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> At the mention of Dana's baby, the figure of Vigo miraculously turns his head and looks at Dana. <b>JANOSZ AND DANA </b> Neither of them notice the movement in the painting. <b> JANOSZ </b> (disappointed) We'll be very sorry to lose you. Perhaps I could take you to lunch today? <b> DANA </b> Actually, I'm not eating lunch today. I have an appointment. (looks at her watch) In fact, I'd better go. She starts gathering up her things. <b> JANOSZ </b> Every day I ask you, and every day you've got something else to do. Do I have bad breath or something? <b> DANA </b> (trying to brush him off) I'm sorry. Perhaps some other time. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, I'll take a raincheck on that. Janosz smiles at her as she exits, then goes back to his easel. <b> JANOSZ </b> (to himself) I think she likes me. He switches on an English language TAPE and starts practicing the phrases as he resumes working. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UNIVERSITY - DAY </b> Dana Barrett crosses the quad and enters a modern building. A sign identifies it as "The Institute for Advanced Theoretical Research." <b>INT. UNIVERSITY - DAY (A LITTLE LATER) </b> Dana is explaining the buggy incident to EGON SPENGLER, the soberly intellectual techno-wizard and former Ghostbuster, as he conducts an experiment assisted by a research team of graduate students, all of whom are Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. The device he is testing is a black box about the size of a Sony Watchman with both digital and graphic displays. <b> DANA </b> ... and then the buggy just suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the street <b> SPENGLER </b> Did anyone else see this happen? <b> DANA </b> Hundreds of people. Believe me, I didn't imagine this. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm not saying you did. In science we always look for the simplest explanation. An ASSISTANT interrupts. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready, Dr. Spengler <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Assistant) We'll start with the negative calibration. He picks up the device and prepares to test it. <b> DANA </b> (curious) What are you working on, Egon? <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm trying to determine whether human emotional states have a measurable effect on the psychomagnetheric energy field. It's a theory Ray and I were working on when we had to dissolve Ghostbusters. An assistant draws a curtain revealing a large picture window, actually a two-way mirror, that looks into a small waiting room. Inside the waiting room they can see but not hear a youngish couple having a heated arguement. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Dana) They think they're here for marriage counseling. We've kept them waiting for two hours and we've been gradually increasing the temperature in the room. (checking a heat sensor) It's up to 95 degrees at the moment. Now my assistant is going to enter and ask them if they'd mind waiting another half-hour. As Spengler, Dana, and the research team watch, the assistant enters the waiting room and tells the couple about the new delay. They explode with anger both at him and each other while Spengler monitors them through the glass. After recording his readings, he returns to his Assistant. <b> SPENGLER </b> We'll do the happiness index next. (to Dana) I'd like to bring Ray in on your case, if it's all right with you. <b> DANA </b> Okay, whatever you think -- but not Venkman. <b> SPENGLER </b> Oh no. <b> DANA </b> (affectedly casual) Do you ever see him? <b> SPENGLER </b> Occasionally <b> DANA </b> How is he these days? <b> SPENGLER </b> Venkman? I think he was borderline for a while there. Then he crossed the border. <b> DANA </b> Does he ever mention me? <b> SPENGLER </b> No. Not that I can recall. They move to another two-way mirror through which they can see a lovely little girl playing with a wonderful array of toys. <b> DANA </b> (slightly disappointed) Well, we didn't part on very good terms and we sort of lost track of each other when I got married. The Assistant interrupts again. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready for the affection test. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the assistant) Good. Send in the puppy. <b> DANA </b> (continuing) I thought of calling him after my marriage ended, but --. Anyway, I appreciate you're doing this, Egon They watch as another assistant enters the playroom with an adorable Cocker Spaniel puppy and gives it to the little girl. Spengler monitors her as she jumps for joy and hugs the little dog. <b> DANA </b> (handing him a card) This is my address and telephone number. Will you call me? <b> SPENGLER </b> Certainly. <b> DANA </b> Egon, I'd rather you didn't mention any of this to Peter if you don't mind. <b> SPENGLER </b> I won't. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. She shakes his hand and exits. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to his assistant) Now let's see how she reacts when we take away the puppy <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOK STORE - DAY (LATER) </b> It's a small basement shop located on a quaint commercial block in Greenwich Village. The window is crowded with occult artifacts and old books full of arcane metaphysical lore. The TELEPHONE RINGS. <b> STANTZ </b> (v.o., answering the phone) Ray's Occult. <b>INT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOKS - CONTINUOUS </b> The shelves are jammed floor to ceiling with books on the paranormal. Ray sits on a barstool behind the counter wearing an old cardigan sweater over a T-shirt. He has on a pair of reading glasses and chews on a battered, reeking pipe. As he talks on the phone he prepares a cup of herb tea for Spengler who is thumbing through an arcane text. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the phone) Yeah ... mmhmm ... What do you need? ... What have I got? I've got alchemy, astrology, apparitions, Bundu Magic Men, demon intercession, U.F.O. abductions, psychic surgery, stigmata, modern miracles, pixie sightings, golden geese, geists, ghosts, I've got it all -- what are you looking for? ... Don't have any. Try the stockyards. He hangs up. <b> SPENGLER </b> Who was that? <b> STANTZ </b> Some crank. Looking for goat hooves. Come up with anything? <b> SPENGLER </b> (referring to the book) This one's interesting. Berlin, 1939, a flower cart took off by itself and rolled approximately half a kilometer over level ground. Three hundred eyewitnesses. <b> STANTZ </b> You might want to check those Duke University mean averaging studies on controlled psychokinesis. <b> SPENGLER </b> (going to the stacks) Good idea. The bones hanging over the door rattle as Venkman enters the shop. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, hello, perhaps you could help me. I'm looking for an aerosol love potion I could spray on a certain Penthouse Pet that would make her unconditionally submit to an unusual personal request. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, hiya, Pete. <b> VENKMAN </b> So, no goat hooves, huh? <b> STANTZ </b> (strung) I knew that voice sounded familiar. What's up? How's it going? <b> VENKMAN </b> Nowhere -- fast. Why don't you lock up and buy me a sub? <b> STANTZ </b> (slightly evasive) Uh, I can't. I'm kind of working on something. Spengler steps out of the stacks. <b> VENKMAN </b> Egon! <b> SPENGLER </b> Hello, Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> How've you been? How's teaching? I bet those science chicks really dig that big cranium of yours, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think they're more interested in my epididymis. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't even want to know where that is. Venkman steps behind the counter and takes a beer from Ray's mini-fridge. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, your book came in, Venkman. Magical Paths to Fortune and Power. He hands Venkman the book. <b> VENKMAN </b> Great. (reading the contents) So what are you guys working on? <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, just checking something for an old friend. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? <b> STANTZ </b> (at a loss) Who? Just -- someone we know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, Ray -- He grabs Stantz by both ears and pulls up. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? Who? Who? <b> STANTZ </b> Aaah! Nobody! I can't tell you! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who, Ray? <b> STANTZ </b> (giving in) Dana! Dana Barrett! Venkman lets go of his ears and smiles. Spengler looks at Stantz and shakes his head. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - DAY (LATER) </b> The apartment is old and creatively furnished with a comfortable mix of modern and traditional pieces. Maria, a young Hispanic woman who does day care for Dana, is feeding the baby in the kitchen when the DOORBELL <b>RINGS. </b> <b> CUT TO: </b> Dana enters from the bedroom and crosses to the front door. She opens it and admits Ray and Egon. <b> DANA </b> (hugging Ray) Hi, Ray. It's good to see you. Thanks for coming. <b> STANTZ </b> No problem. Always glad to help -- and hug. <b> DANA </b> (to Spengler) Hi, Egon. She shakes his hand and is about to close the door when Venkman appears in the doorway. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, Dana. Dana is caught completely off guard by Venkman's surprise appearance. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew you'd come crawling back to me. She regards him coolly, as always amused and amazed at his presumptuousness. <b> DANA </b> Hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) You know, Dana, I'm very very hurt that you didn't call me first. I'm still into all this stuff, you know. Haven't you ever seen my show? <b> DANA </b> I have. That's why I didn't call you first. <b> VENKMAN </b> I can see that you're still very bitter about us, but in the interest of science, I'm going to give it my best shot. Let's go to work, boys. Stantz and Spengler begin a comprehensive parapsychological work-up on the baby and the immediate physical environment. <b>VENKMAN AND DANA </b> Venkman starts nosing around the apartment. Dana follows him. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what happened to Mr. Right? I hear he ditched you and the kid and moved to Europe. <b> DANA </b> He didn't "ditch" me. We had some problems, he got a good offer from an orchestra in England and he took it. <b> VENKMAN </b> He ditched you. You should've married me, you know. <b> DANA </b> You never asked me, and every time I brought it up you'd get drowsy and fall asleep. <b> VENKMAN </b> Men are very sensitive, you know. We need to feel loved and desired, too. <b> DANA </b> Well, when you started introducing me as "the old ball and chain," that's when I left. <b> VENKMAN </b> I may have a few personal problems but one thing I am is a total professional. He leaves her and crosses to Spengler. <b>SPENGLER </b> He's taking a complete set of body and head measurements of the baby with a tape measure and calipers. <b> VENKMAN </b> What are you going to do, Egon? Knit him a snowsuit? Spengler ignores the remark and hands Venkman a specimen jar. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'd like to have a stool specimen <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, you would. Is that for personal or professional reasons? <b> VENKMAN </b> (picking up the baby) Okay, kid. Up you go. He starts clowning with the baby, holding him over his head and pressing his nose into the baby's belly, pretending that the baby is attacking him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Help! Please somebody help me! Get him off! Quickly! He's gone completely berserk! Dana is amused and somewhat disarmed by Venkman's rapport with the baby. <b> DANA </b> What do you think? <b> VENKMAN </b> There's no doubt about it. He's got his father's looks. The kid is ugly -- extremely ugly. And smelly. (resumes playing with the baby) You stink! It's just horrible. You are the stinkiest baby I ever smelled. (to Dana) What's his name? <b> DANA </b> His name is Oscar. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oscar! You poor kid! <b> DANA </b> (losing patience) Peter, this is serious. I need to know if you think there's anything unusual about him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Unusual? (holds up the baby and scrutinizes him) I don't know. I haven't had a lot of experience with babies. He looks at the baby, pulling his feet up, trying to get the sleeper off. <b> DANA </b> (taking the specimen jar) I'll do it. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll supervise. <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NURSERY - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman enters and finds Stantz monitoring the room. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) Well, Holmes, what do you think? <b> STANTZ </b> It's an interesting one, Pete. If anything was going on it's totally subdued now. Spengler enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) What now, Brainiac? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think we should see if we can find anything abnormal on the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finding something abnormal on the street shouldn't be too hard. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Dana walks down the street with Venkman, retracing the path of the runaway buggy. Spengler and Stantz follow, monitoring PKE valences from the pavement and the buildings. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana, nostalgic) Brings back a lot of sweet memories, doesn't it? (pointing out familiar neighborhood sights) There's our old cash machine. And the dry cleaners we used to go to. And the old video store. (he wipes away an imaginary tear) We really had some good times, didn't we? <b> DANA </b> We definitely had a moment or two. Dana stops at the intersection and points to the middle of the street. <b> DANA </b> That's where the buggy stopped. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, let's take a look. Venkman walks right out into the middle of the street, completely oblivious to the CARS HONKING and whizzing past him and starts motioning like a traffic cop, bringing traffic to a standstill. Then he signals for Dana, Stantz and Spengler to join him in the middle of the street. <b> STANTZ </b> (reading the PKE meter) Is this the spot? <b> DANA </b> A little to the left. Right there! That's where it stopped. Stantz reads the PKE meter. <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Not a trace. <b> SPENGLER </b> Why don't we try the Giga-meter? <b> VENKMAN </b> What's that? <b> STANTZ </b> Egon and I have been working on a gauge to measure psychomagnetheric energy in GEVs - giga electron volts. <b> SPENGLER </b> That's a thousand million electron volts. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew that. Spengler switches on the Giga-meter, the device he was testing in the lab, and passes it over the spot on the street where the buggy stopped. The indicator goes right into the red zone and the DEVICE starts CLICKING <b>WILDLY. </b> <b> STANTZ </b> I think we hit the honeypot, boys. There's something brewing under the street. <b> DANA </b> (worried, to Venkman) Peter, do you think maybe I have some genetic problem or something that makes me vulnerable to these supernatural things. <b> VENKMAN </b> You mean like the time you got possessed and turned into a monster terror dog? No, not a chance. Total coincidence. (to Stantz and Spengler) Am I right? Stantz and Spengler look at him skeptically, not convinced by the coincidence theory. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - LATE AFTERNOON </b> The museum has just closed for the day and the last of the visitors and employees are leaving. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is working late on the painting of Vigo. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> Unnoticed by Janosz, the eyes of Vigo start to glow. <b>JANOSZ </b> He touches his brush to the canvas and a powerful current of red, crackling energy surges through the brush and courses through his body, driving him to his knees. <b>PAINTING </b> The figure of Vigo comes to life, turns toward Janosz and gestures dramatically at him. Then he speaks to Janosz in a commanding voice. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia, the sorrow of Moldavia, command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (in agony) Command me, lord. <b> VIGO </b> On a mountain of skulls in a castle of pain, I sat on a throne of blood. What was will be, what is will be no more. Now is the season of evil. Find me a child that I might live again. Bolts of red-hot energy shoot from the eyes of Vigo into Janosz's eyes. He screams and falls to his knees. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. COFFEE SHOP - EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT </b> Venkman and Stantz come out with small boxes containing coffee, sandwiches and Danish and start walking up the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> I love this. We're onto something really big. I can smell it, Ray. We're going to make some headlines with this one. <b> STANTZ </b> Hey, hey, hey, stresshound! Are you nuts? If anybody found out about this we'd be in serious trouble. The judge couldn't have been clearer - no ghostbusting. <b> VENKMAN </b> Relax. We're going to keep this whole thing nice and quiet, low key, no profile. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Spengler, wearing a hardhat, is JACKHAMMERING a hole in the middle of the street. Safety cones and reflectors have been set up and a small area is lit by strong work lights. <b>POLICE CAR </b> It turns onto East 77th Street, cruises slowly up to the makeshift worksite and stops. The noise of the JACKHAMMER is so loud, Spengler doesn't notice the police car and the two COPS inside looking at them. Finally, he looks up, sees the police car and freezes. <b> FIRST COP </b> How ya doing? <b> SPENGLER </b> (reeking with guilt) Fine! It's cutting fine now. <b> FIRST COP </b> (curious) Why are you cutting? <b> SPENGLER </b> (looking for one of the others) Why are we cutting? Uh - boss! Venkman and Stantz arrive just in time wearing Con Ed hardhats, doing a good imitation of a Consolidated Edison repairman. <b> FIRST COP </b> What are you doing here? <b> VENKMAN </b> (belligerent) What the hell's it look like we're doing? We're bustin out asses over here 'cause some douchebag downtown ain't got nothin' better to do than make idiots like us work late on a Friday night, right? (looks to Spengler for agreement) <b> SPENGLER </b> (with a "right on" fist) Yo. The cops seem satisfied by the explanation. <b> FIRST COP </b> Okay, boys, take it easy. They drive off. Spengler breathes a great sigh of relief and starts rubbing his sore shoulders. <b> SPENGLER </b> You were supposed to help me with this. <b> VENKMAN </b> You need the exercise. Stantz resumes JACKHAMMERING, while Venkman and Spengler clear the rubble from the hole. Suddenly he hits metal. They clear away generations of paving material revealing an ornate iron manhole cover. The manhole cover bears a strange logo and the letters NYPRR. <b> STANTZ </b> (examing it) NYPRR. What the hell -- ? Help me lift this. They prey off the iron cover with crowbars, uncovering a very dark and very deep abyss. <b> STANTZ </b> (shining a flashlight into the hole) Wow! It's an old airshaft. It just goes forever. Spengler leans in with the giga-meter which is reading even higher now. <b> SPENGLER </b> Very intense. We need a deeper reading. Somebody has to go down there. Venkman and Spengler both look at Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> Thanks, boys. They snap Stantz into a harness and lower him into the hole on a strong cable attached to a winch. Ray calls out orders to them as he descends deeper and deeper. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (his voice echoing in the airshaft) Keep going -- more -- more -- <b>INT. HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz rappels off the sides of the airshaft as he continues his descent in total darkness. <b> STANTZ </b> (using a radio now) Lower -- lower -- (to himself) Gee, this really is deep. Suddenly, his feet kick thin air as he gets to the bottom of the airshaft and swings free in some kind of tunnel. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it! Steady! He pulls a powerful flashlight from his utility belt and shines it into the tunnel below. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - NIGHT </b> He is suspended near the top of a beautifully preserved chamber with rounded, polished tile walls ardorned with intricate, colorfully enameled Art Nouveau mosaics. A finely inlaid sign identifies it as VAN HORNE <b>STATION. </b> <b>STANTZ </b> He pans the walls with his flashlight, admiring the excellent tilework, and speaks quietly to Venkman and Spengler over his walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ </b> (reverently) This is it, boys, the end of the line. Van Horne Station. The old New York Pneumatic. It's still here. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman has no idea what he's talking about. <b> SPENGLER </b> (explaining) The New York Pneumatic Railway. It was an experimental subway system. Fan-forced air-trains, built around 1870. <b> STANTZ </b> (over the walkie-talkie) This is about as deep as you can go under Manhattan without digging your own hole. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) What's the reading? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz shines his flashlight on the meter and whistles at the extremely high reading. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Off the top of the scale. This place is really hot. Lower me to the floor. As Venkman and Spengler feed him some more cable, he pans his flashlight down the wall of the station, then onto the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it!! Stop!! Whoa!! <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - FLOOR - NIGHT </b> Below him is a river of bubbling seething, glowing slime, a veritable torrent of disgusting ooze. As he stares into the foul effluent, we become aware of the strangely amplified and magnified sounds of great ENGINES THROBBING and pulsing in the bowels of the city, of WATER RUSHING through pipes, STEAM HISSING through ducts, the muffled RUMBLE of the SUBWAY and the ROAR of TRAFFIC, and mixed with it all, the unmistakable sounds of human conflict and pain -- VOICES SHOUTING in anger, SCREAMING in fear, GROANING in pain, a sad and eerie symphony. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ - NIGHT </b> <b> STANTZ </b> (ranting on the radio) Oh, my God! It's a seething, bubbling, psychic cess! Interlocked tubes of plasm, crackling with negative GEVs! It's glowing and moving! It's -- it's a river of slime!! <b>STANTZ </b> He dangles from the end of the cable, holding his feet up as high as he can. He unhooks a device from his utility belt and pulls the trigger on it, shooting out a long telescoping fishing-pole with a scoop on the end. Reaching down, he scoops up a sample of the slime and starts retracting the pole. <b>SLIME </b> Suddenly, a grotesque arm with a long skeletal fingers reaches up out of the slime and snatches at Stantz's dangling feet. He jerks his legs up as several more arms poke up out of the slime and reach for him. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Haul me up, Venkman! Now! <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman and Spengler start hauling in the cable as a Con Ed Supervisor's car drives up, and behind it, the same police car they saw earlier. A burly SUPERVISOR gets out and crosses toward them, followed by the two cops. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (no nonsense) Okay, what's the story here? Venkman and Spengler stop pulling up the cable and Venkman tries the belligerent worker ploy again, only this time he's wearing a Nynex hardhat. <b> VENKMAN </b> What, I got time for this? We got three thousand phones out in the Village and about eight million miles of cable to check. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (not buying it) The phone lines are over there. (points to the curb) Venkman pops Spengler on the head. <b> VENKMAN </b> I told ya! Stantz can be heard ranting over Venkman's walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (filtered) Help! Help! Pull me up! It's alive! It's eating my boots. Venkman switches off the walkie-talkie. <b> FIRST COP </b> You ain't with Con Ed or the phone company. We checked. Tell me another one. Venkman stares at the Cop for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Gas leak? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - SAME TIME </b> Stantz is hanging there, looking down into the shaft at the slime which is now bubbling up the shaft after him. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouting) Get me out of here!! Desperate now, he kicks wildly and knocks loose a section of an old, rusting conduit. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - BOTTOM OF THE SHAFT </b> The conduit falls on a heavy electrical transmission line, ripping through the cable with a SHOWER OF SPARKS. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman, Spengler, the cops and the supervisor all react to a bright FLASH deep down in the hole and a SHOUT from Stantz. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - STREET - NIGHT </b> One by one, all the streetlights go out; then the lights on all the buildings along East 77th street; then the whole neighborhood blacks out, and finally the entire city is plunged into darkness. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> Sorry. <b>INT. DANA BARRETT'S APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> She walks around in the dark lighting candles and placing them all over the living room. Then she finds a transistor radio and turns it on for information about the blackout. She listens to a special news report for a moment, then has a compelling impulse to go check on the baby. She crosses to the nursery carrying a candle and quietly opens the door and looks in. Suddenly the DOORBELL RINGS, scaring her half to death. Leaving the chain on the door, she opens it a crack and sees Janosz standing in the hall, eerily lit by a red emergency spot at the end of the hallway. He looks slightly dazed and even creepier. <b> DANA </b> (surprised) Janosz? <b> JANOSZ </b> Hello, Dana. I happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop by to see if everything's all right with you -- you know, with the blackout and everything? Are you okay? Is the baby all right? His affected concern is chilling. She is frightened but conceals it from him. <b> DANA </b> (mechanically and cautiously) We're fine, Janosz. He tires to look around her into the apartment. <b> JANOSZ </b> Do you need anything? You want me to come in? <b> DANA </b> No, everything's fine. Honestly. Thanks anyway. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, just thought I'd check. Good night, Dana. Sleep well. Don't let the bedbugs bite you. <b> DANA </b> Good night, Janosz. She closes the door behind him and double locks it, then stands there staring into the candlelight, alone and afraid. <b>INT. HALLWAY OF DANA'S BUILDING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz stands there in semi-darkness, then his eyes light up like headlights and he walks off down the hall. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - NEXT DAY </b> The JUDGE, a rather sour-looking jurist of the old school, calls the court to order. <b> JUDGE </b> I want to make one thing very clear before we go any further. The law does not recognize the existence of ghosts, and I don't believe in them either, so I don't want to hear a lot of malarkey about goblins and spooks and demons. We're going to stick to the facts in this case and save the ghost stories for the kiddies. Understood? <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz leans over and whispers to Spengler. <b> STANTZ </b> Seems like a pretty open-minded guy, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> His nickname is "The Hammer." Stantz and Spengler are seated with their attorney LOUIS TULLY, lawyer, CPA and former demonic possession victim. Louis is desperately paging through a mountain of legal textbooks. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervous) I think you're making a big mistake here, fellas. I do mostly tax law and some probate stuff occasionally. I got my law degree at night school. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right. We got arrested at night. <b>SPECTATORS' GALLERY </b> Venkman is talking to Dana at the wooden rail in front of the gallery. <b> DANA </b> I wish I could stay. I feel personally responsible for you being here. <b> VENKMAN </b> You are personally responsible. If I can get conjugal rights, will you visit me at Sing Sing? <b> DANA </b> Please don't say that. You won't go to prison. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry about me. I'm like a cat. <b> DANA </b> You mean you cough up hairballs all over the rug? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm El Gato. I always land on my feet. <b> DANA </b> (sincerely) Good luck. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thanks. She gives him a quick, unexpected kiss and exits. Venkman savors it for a moment then goes back to the defense table. <b>PROSECUTION TABLE </b> Jack Hardemeyer, the mayor's principal aide, is goading the PROSECUTOR, a very sober, humorless woman in her late thirties. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> How are you doing, hon? Just put these guys away fast and make sure they go away for a long, long time. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> It shouldn't be hard with this list of charges. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Good. Very good. The mayor and future governor won't forget this. He smiles conspiratorially and makes a point of passing the defense table on his way out of the courtroom. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> The Ghostbusters look up as Hardemeyer approaches. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (gloating) Nice going, Venkman. Violating a judicial restraining order, willful destruction of public property, fraud, malicious mischief -- smooth move. See you in a couple years -- at your first parole hearing. Herdemeyer exits. Louis looks devastated. <b> LOUIS </b> Gee, the whole city's against us. I think I'm going to be sick. Spengler hands him a waste basket as the Prosecutor calls her first witness. <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - DAY (LATER) </b> The Con Ed Supervisor is testifying. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Mr. Fianella, please look at Exhibits A through F on the table over there. Do you recognize that equipment? <b>EXHIBIT TABLE </b> Lying on the table are the basic tools of the Ghostbusting trade: three proton packs and particle throwers, a couple of ghost traps, and various meters and detection devices. <b> CON ED </b> (o.c.) That's the stuff the cops found in their truck. <b>WITNESS STAND </b> She continues. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Do you know what this equipment is used for? <b> CON ED </b> (shrugs) I don't know. Catching ghosts, I guess. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> (to the Judge) May I remind the court that the defendants are under a judicial restraining order that specifically forbids them from performing services as paranormal investigators and eliminators. <b> JUDGE </b> So noted. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Now, Mr. Fianella, can you identify the substance in the jar on the table marked Exhibit F? <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She goes to the exhibit table and picks up a specimen jar containing the slime sample Stantz removed from the tunnel. <b> CON ED </b> I been working underground for Con Ed for 27 years and I never saw anything like that in my life. We checked out that tunnel the next day and we didn't find nothing. If it was down there, they must have put it there. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Venkman and Spengler look at Stantz. <b> STANTZ </b> (defensively) Hey, I didn't imagine it. There must have been ten thousand gallons of it down there. <b> SPENGLER </b> It may be ebbing and flowing from some tidal source. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervously) Should I say that? <b> SPENGLER </b> I doubt that they'd believe us. Louis moans and goes back to his notes. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - LATER </b> Venkman himself is on the stand and Louis is questioning him. <b> LOUIS </b> So like you were just trying to help out your old friend because she was scared and you didn't really mean to do anything bad and you really love the city and won't ever do anything like this again, right? <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection, your Honor. He's leading the witness. <b> JUDGE </b> The witness is leading him. Sustained. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, let me rephrase that question. (to venkman) Didn't you once coach a basketball team for underprivileged children? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yes, I did. We were city champs. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection. Irrelevant and immaterial. <b> JUDGE </b> Sustained. Mr. Tully, do you have anything to ask this witness that may have some bearing on this case? <b> LOUIS </b> (to Venkman) Do I? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I think you've helped them enough already. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the Judge) No, I guess not. (to the Prosecutor) Your witness. The Prosecutor rises and approaches the witness stand with relish. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So, Dr. Venkman, please explain to the court why it is you and your co-defendants took it upon yourselves to dig a big hole in the middle of the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Seventy-seventh and First Avenue has so many holes already we didn't think anyone would notice. The gallery laughs and the Judge gavels for order. <b> JUDGE </b> Keep that up, mister, and I'll find you in contempt. <b> VENKMAN </b> Sorry, your Honor, but when somebody sets me up like that I can't resist. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> I'll ask you again, Dr. Venkman. Why were you digging the hole? And please remember that you're under oath. <b> VENKMAN </b> I had my fingers crossed when they swore me in, but I'm going to tell you the truth. There are things in this world that go way beyond human understanding, things that can't be explained and that most people don't want to know about anyway. That's where we come in. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So what are you saying? That the world of the supernatural is your special province? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I guess I'm just saying that shit happens and somebody has to deal with it. The spectators in the gallery cheer and the judge gavels for order. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - LATER </b> The trial is nearing its end. The Judge calls on Louis to make his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> Does the counsel for the defense wish to make any final arguements? Louis rises. <b> LOUIS </b> Your honor, may I approach the bench? <b> JUDGE </b> (impatient) Yes. Louis crosses to the judge's bench. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the judge) Can I have some of your water? <b> JUDGE </b> Get on with it, counselor! <b> LOUIS </b> (scared) Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the -- (he remembers there's no jury) audience. I don't think it's fair to call my clients frauds. Okay, the blackout was a big problem for everybody. I was stuck in an elevator for about three hours and I had to go to the bathroom the whole time, but I don't blame them because once I turned into a dog and they helped me. Thank you. He goes back to the defense table and sits down. Stantz and Spengler hang their heads. Venkman pats Louis on the back. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Louis) Way to go. Concise and to the point. <b>JUDGE </b> He stares at Louis, astonished at his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> That's it? That's all you have to say? <b> LOUIS </b> Did I forget something? He searches through a disorderly pile of notes. <b> JUDGE </b> That was unquestionably the worst presentation of a case I've ever heard in a court of law! I ought to cite you for contempt and have you disbarred. As for your clients, Peter Venkman, Raymond Stantz and Egon Spengler, on the charges of conspiracy, fraud and the willful destruction of public property, I find you guilty on all counts. I order you to pay fines in the amount of $25,000 each and I sentence you to eighteen months in the city correctional facility at Ryker's Island. <b>STANTZ </b> He sees the activity in the jar <b> STANTZ </b> Uh-oh, she's twitchin'. <b>THE BENCH </b> The Judge continues <b> JUDGE </b> And on a more personal note, let me go on record as saying that there is no place in decent society for fakes, charlatans and tricksters like you who prey on the gullibility of innocent people. You're beneath the contempt of this court. And believe me, if my hands were not tied by the unalterable fetters of the law, a law which has become in my view far too permissive and inadequate in it's standards of punishment, I would invoke the tradition of our illustrious forebearers, reach back to a sterner, purer justice and have you burned at the stake! He hammers the bench with his gravel as the gallery erupts noisily. Then he feels a LOW RUMBLING TREMOR in the courtroom. <b>SPECIMEN JAR </b> The slime starts to pulse and swell, pushing up the lid on the jar. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz anticipates big trouble. <b> STANTZ </b> Under the table, boys! The Ghostbusters duck under the defense table. <b>LOUIS </b> He stands up and looks around fearfully. <b>INT. COURTROOM - GHOST BATTLE - DAY </b> Everybody is silent now as the rumbling increases. All eyes turn to the exhibit table. Then suddenly all Hell breaks loose as TWO FULL-TORSO APPARITIONS explode out of the specimen jar. <b>JUDGE </b> He looks up in terror at the two huge apparitions looming above him and recognizes them immediately. <b> JUDGE </b> (in horror) Oh, my God! The Scoleri Brothers! <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> Big in life, even bigger in death, the ghostly Scoleri brothers seem ten feet tall. They are strapped into electric chairs and on their heads are metal electrocution caps with live, sparking electrical wires still attached. Twenty-five hundred volts of electricity shoot through their bodies as they start to break free of the leather restraints, trying to get at the Judge. <b>JUDGE </b> Holding his gavel like a pitiful weapon, he crawls over to the defense table where Venkman, Stantz and Spengler are now crouched, assessing the spectral intruders. <b> JUDGE </b> (terrified) You've got to do something! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who are they? <b> JUDGE </b> They're the Scoleri Brothers. I tried them for murder. They were electrocuted up at Ossining in '48. Now they want to kill me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Maybe they just want to appeal. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They break loose from the electric chairs, then turn toward the defense table and BLAST it with HIGH-VOLTAGE FINGER-LIGHTNING. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She sprints for the door, pursued by one of the Scoleri brothers. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They jump to safety behind the rail of the jury box, pulling the Judge with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These boys aren't playing around. <b> JUDGE </b> (desperately) You've got to stop them. Please! <b> LOUIS </b> (thinking like a lawyer) Violating a judicial restraining order could expose my clients to serious criminal penalties. As their attorney I'd have to advise them against it. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They start punching through the jury box. <b>JUDGE </b> He is just about hysterical with fear. <b> JUDGE </b> All right! All right! I'm recinding the order. Case dismissed!! (he pounds his gavel on the floor) Now do something! <b> STANTZ </b> Let's go to work, boys. With that, the Ghostbusters leap over the rail of the jury box and dash across the courtroom to the exhibit table where their proton packs were being displayed as evidence. They strap them on hastily as the Brothers continue tearing up the seats looing for the Judge. <b> VENKMAN </b> (slinging the pack onto his back) Geez, I forgot how heavy these things are. <b> STANTZ </b> (grabbing other gear) Okay, let's heat 'em up! They flip the power switches on their packs and draw their particle throwers. <b> STANTZ </b> All right, throwers. Set for full neutronas on stream. They switch on their throwers and turn to face the raging phantasms. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They are just about to wipe out the Judge when a loud shout distracts them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size? The towering ghosts turn in a fury and raise their arms, ready to shoot lightning at their new adversaries. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the others) On my signal, boys. Open 'em up -- Now! They all pull their triggers and the wands EXPLODE with incredible powerful STREAMS OF ENERGY, doing even more damage to the courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Spengs, take the door. Ray, let's try and work them down and into the corner. Working as a team, they gradually confine the Scoleri Brothers with the streams, forcing them closer and closer to the traps Ray has set out on the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch it! I'm coming under you, Pete. They circle around the two ghosts, prodding them with the streams while ducking the lightning bolts shooting from their fingers. Finally, Ray sees his chance and pops open the traps which emit inverted pyramids of light energy. <b> STANTZ </b> Steady -- watch your streams -- easy now -- Venky, bring him left -- Spengy, pull him down -- trapping -- trapping -- now! He stomps on a control pedal and the Scoleri Brothers are drawn into the traps which snap shut. <b>INT. COURTROOM - TRAPS - DAY </b> LEDs on the outer casing start flashing, indicating the presence of a ghost inside each trap. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking the trap) Occupado. <b>INT. COURTROOM - JUDGE - DAY (AFTER GHOST BATTLE) </b> He sticks his head up slowly from behind the debris of his bench and looks around in total amazement. <b>LOUIS </b> He crawls out from under a chair. Reporters and spectators get back on their feet and start buzzing about the incredible manifestation. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She's lying on the floor, attended to by the Bailiff and the Court Clerk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Prosecutor) Brilliant summation. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They break into big smiles as photographers start snapping pictures of them standing in the wrecked courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Case closed, boys. We're back in business. The spectators cheer and applaud. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> The old, dilapidated Ghostbusters logo comes crashing to the ground, dropped by a pair of workmen on a ladder, and the new logo is hoisted into place over the main entrance. It's just like the original "No Ghosts" logo, but in the new one the ghost in the red circle is holding up two fingers. Venkman enters the firehouse. <b>INT. BEDROOM SET (TV COMMERCIAL - FULL SCREEN VIDEO) - NIGHT </b> A man and his wife are lying in bed reading. The man is played by Louis Tully and JANINE MELNITZ, the Ghostbusters' once and future receptionist, is playing his wife. They are both terrible actors. Suddenly, a ghost, actually a very bad puppet on a wire, floats through the bedroom. Janine sees it and screams. <b> LOUIS </b> What is it, honey? <b> JANINE </b> It's that darn ghost again! I don't know what to do anymore. He just won't leave us alone. I guess we'll just have to move. <b> LOUIS </b> Don't worry. We're not moving. He is. He picks up the phone. <b> JANINE </b> Who are you going to call? <b> LOUIS </b> (with a wink) Ghostbusters. As he starts to dial, the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the Ghostbusters standing in the bedroom. Their acting isn't much better than Louis and Janine's. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> Stantz speaks directly TO the CAMERA. <b> STANTZ </b> I'm Ray -- <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm Peter -- <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm Egon -- <b> STANTZ </b> And we're the ... <b> ALL </b> (together) Ghostbusters. <b> STANTZ </b> That's right -- Ghostbusters. We're back and we're better than ever with twice the know-how and twice the particle-power to deal with all your supernatural elimination needs. During his speech, Winston can be seen in the b.g. pretending to trap the fake ghost. <b> STANTZ </b> Careful, Winston. He's a mean one. <b> (TO CAMERA) </b> And to celebrate our grand reopening, we're giving you twice the value with our special half-price 'Welcome Back' service plan. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hold on, Ray! Half-price! Have you gone crazy? <b> STANTZ </b> I guess so, Pete, because that's not all. Tell them what else we've got, Egon. Spengler actually mouths everyone else's dialogue along with them, waiting for his cue. <b> SPENGLER </b> You mean the Ghostbusters hot beverage thermal mugs and free balloons for the kids? He holds up a mug and a limp, uninflated balloon. <b> STANTZ </b> You bet. As Stantz wraps it up, SUPERS APPEAR at the bottom of the SCREEN: FULLY <b>BONDED - FULLY LICENSED - SE HABLA ESPANOL. </b> <b> STANTZ </b><b> (TO CAMERA) </b> So don't wait another minute. Make your supernatural problem our supernatural problem. Call now, because we're still -- <b> ALL </b> (in unison, mechanically) -- Ready to believe you. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. JACK HARDEMEYER'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Hardemeyer is watching the Ghostbusters commercial on a TV in his office. He bangs his fist on his desk and angrily switches OFF the TV. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY (LATER) </b> The garage door opens and the new improved ECTOMOBILE comes ROARING out onto the street, its ghostly SIREN MOANING and WAILING. Louis comes running out after it. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis comes back into the garage bay and stops as he smells a foul odor. He sniffs around, following the smell. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, geez, smells like somebody took a really big -- He freezes. <b>INT. OFFICE AREA - LOUIS'S POV </b> Slimer, a spud-like green ghost, is hovering over Louis's desk, scarfing down Louis's bag lunch. Slimer looks up and sees Louis. <b>SLIMER AND LOUIS </b> They both scream and run off in opposite directions. <b>SLIMER </b> He passes right through a wall and disappears. <b>LOUIS </b> He runs right into a wall, recovers and exits in a hurry. <b> LOUIS </b> (screaming) Help! There's a thing! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK RESERVOIR - DAY (LATER) </b> Runners of both sexes and all ages are huffing and puffing as they jog along the track that circles the reservoir. One of the runners looks behind him at the sound of APPROACHING FOOTFALLS and screams. <b>GHOSTLY JOGGER </b> A ghost jogger is loping along at a pretty fair pace. Other runners stumble and run screaming into the park as he passes them. Seemingly oblivious to the effect he's having, the ghost jogger puts two fingers to his skeletal neck and checks his watch as if taking his pulse. <b>EXT. CLEARING IN PARK - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman is sitting on a park bench near the jogging track reading the newspaper, eating a donut and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. <b>STANTZ </b> He's sitting on a bench opposite Venkman's, casually watching the jogging track. <b>GHOST JOGGER </b> He approaches the benches where the Ghostbusters are waiting. As the ghost jogger passes the benches, Stantz and Venkman simultaneously hit concealed control buttons. A ghost trap buried in the track throws up a glowing inverted pyramid and catches the ghost jogger in mid-stride. Stantz and Venkman close the trap and capture the ghost jogger. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking his watch) You know he ran that last lap in under six minutes? <b> STANTZ </b> If he wasn't dead he'd be an Olympic prospect. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. JEWELRY STORE - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters come out carrying smoking traps, wearing cheap dime-store Santa Claus hats. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the client) Merry Christmas! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - ORREFORS GLASS STORE - DAY </b> The Ectomobile is parked at the curb and a curious crowd looks on as the Ghostbusters enter the store. <b>INT. ORREFORS GLASS STORE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> All the precious crystal is floating in the air, several feet above the glass shelves and display tables. Stantz and Venkman are talking to the manager while Winston and Spengler set up an array of electronic devices positioned in each corner of the store. On a signal from Stantz, Spengler and Winston switch on the devices which throw laser-type beams around the perimeter of the store. The manager watches in horror as all the GLASSWARE suddenly drops out of the air, SMASHES through the GLASS SHELVES and SHATTERS on the display tables. There is a long pregnant pause. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the manager) So will that be cash or a check? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) </b> Everyone else has gone home. Dana is cleaning her brushes and putting her supplies away. <b>VIGO PAINTING - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Vigo turns his head and watches Dana as she walks past the painting. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis is lurking behind a pillar, peeking out at the office area. We PAN DOWN TO the floor and see a foot pedal, then PAN ALONG the cord TO a ghost trap sitting on Louis's desk. Hanging from strings over the desk are several pieces of Kentucky fried chicken. <b>WALL </b> Slimer partially emerges and furtively sniffs the air, then spots the chicken bait. He licks his lips, materializes completely and flies to the chicken. <b>LOUIS </b> His eyes light up and he stomps the foot pedal. <b> LOUIS </b> (shouts) Gotcha! <b>DESK </b> The trap pops open and shoots out a powerful cone of energy. Slimer dodges it and escapes as a big section of the ceiling comes crashing down on Louis's desk. <b> LOUIS </b> (seeing the damage) Uh-oh. He slinks off, defeated. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - SECURITY DESK - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters commercial is playing on a portable TV on the security desk. Rudy, the Security Guard, is reading a National Enquirer with a giant front-page headline: GHOSTBUSTERS SAVE JUDGE. Venkman enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm looking for Dana Barrett. <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> Room 304 -- Restorations. (recognizing him) Hey! Dr. Venkman -- 'World of the Psychic.' I'm a big, big fan. That used to be one of my two favorite shows. <b> VENKMAN </b> (flattered) Thanks. What's the other one? <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> 'Bass Masters.' It's a fishing show. Ever see it? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, really great. Take it easy. He exits. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Dana is working on a valuable Flemish still-life by Ver Meer. Janosz is at the other end of the room, still working on the painting of Vigo. Venkman enters and sneaks up behind Dana. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the Ver Meer) So this is what you do, huh? <b> DANA </b> (glad to see him) Oh, hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> You're really good, you know. <b> DANA </b> I didn't paint it. I'm just cleaning it. It's an original Ver Meer. It's worth about ten million dollars. <b>VIGO </b> He turns his head and watches Venkman and Dana. <b>VENKMAN </b> Unaware that he's being watched, Venkman squints at the still life, holding up his thumb like he's seen artists do. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know you can go to Art World and get these huge sofa-size paintings for about forty-five bucks. He starts looking around at the other artwork in the studio. <b> DANA </b> I'm sure you didn't come here just to talk about art. <b> VENKMAN </b> As a matter of fact, I stopped by to tell you that I haven't forgotten your problem and that we're still on the case. They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> (smiling at Venkman) Dana, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend? <b> DANA </b> Oh, I'm sorry. This is Peter Venkman. Peter, Janosz Poha. Venkman warily shakes his hand, trying to size him up. <b> JANOSZ </b> (avoiding his gaze) Pleasure to meet you. I've seen you on television. <b> VENKMAN </b> How are you? (looking over at the Vigo painting) What's that you're working on, Johnny? Janosz winces at the nickname but lets it go. Venkman and Dana cross to the Vigo painting. Janosz steps protectively in front of it. <b> JANOSZ </b> It's a painting I'm restoring for the new Byzantine exhibition. It's a self-portrait of Prince Vigo, the Carpathian. He ruled most of Carpathia and Moldavia in the 17th Century. <b> VENKMAN </b> (staring at the painting) Too bad for the Moldavians. <b> JANOSZ </b> (defensive) He was a very powerful magician. A genius in many ways and quite a skilled painter. <b> DANA </b> He was also a lunatic and a genocidal madman. I hate this painting. I've felt very uncomfortable since they brought it up from storage. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, it's not the kind of thing you'd want to hang in the rec room. You know what it needs? (picking up a brush) A fluffy little white kitten in the corner. Venkman reaches toward the painting, but Janosz grabs his hand. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with forced good will) We don't go around altering valuable paintings, Dr. Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, I'd make an exception in this case if I were you. Dana looks disapprovingly at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) I'll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you. <b> JANOSZ </b> My pleasure. Venkman and Dana cross back to her workspace. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) I may be wrong, but I think you've got a little crush on this guy. <b> DANA </b> Good-bye, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (dragging his feet) I'd like to stay, but I really don't have time to hang around here. I'll call you. (calls out to Janosz) Later, Johnny! He exits. <b>VIGO </b> Vigo turns his head and follows Dana as she returns to her workbench. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LIVING QUARTERS - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> Venkman and Winston enter and find Stantz and Spengler at work in the lab area. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh good, you're here. Spengler and I have something really amazing to show you. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) It's not that thing you do with your nostrils, is it? Stantz goes to the refrigerator, opens the freezer, rummages around among the TV dinners and frozen pizza and pulls out a slime specimen in a Tupperware container. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Venkman) We've been studying the stuff that we took from the subway tunnel. He pops the specimen jar in the microwave and lets it thaw for a minute. <b> VENKMAN </b> And now you're going to eat it? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm just restoring it to its normal state. He takes the specimen out of the microwave and pours some of it into a large Petri dish. <b> STANTZ </b> Now watch this. He leans over the specimen and starts shouting at it. <b> STANTZ </b> (simulating anger) You worthless piece of slime!! (as the slime starts to twitch and glow) You ignorant disgusting blob!! <b>SPECIMEN </b> It bubbles and swells, changing color with each insult. <b> STANTZ </b> You foul, obnoxious muck!! <b>STANTZ </b> He continues venting his rage on the slime. <b> STANTZ </b> I've seen some real crud in my time, but you're a chemical disgrace!! The specimen doubles its size and starts spilling over the rim of the Petri dish. <b>STANTZ AND SPENGLER </b> They turn to Venkman for his reaction. He's dumbfounded. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is what you do with your spare time? <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) This is an incredible breakthrough, Venkman. A psychoreactive substance! Whatever this is, it clearly responds to human emotional states. <b> VENKMAN </b> 'Mood slime.' We ought to bottle this stuff and sell it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We've found it at every event site we've been to lately. <b> WINSTON </b> (poking at the slime) You mean this stuff actually feeds on 'bad vibes'? <b> STANTZ </b> Like a goat on garbage. <b> STANTZ </b> We're running tests to see if we can get an equally strong positive reaction. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of tests? <b> STANTZ </b> (a little embarrassed) Well, we sing to it, we talk to it, we say supportive, nurturing things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> You're not sleeping with this stuff, are you? Spengler reacts as if he might be. <b> STANTZ </b> It really responds to music. (to Spengler) Let's calm it down. Spengler picks up a guitar and he and Stantz start singing "Cumbaya" to the slime specimen. <b>SPECIMEN </b> It stops bubbling and starts to shrink. <b> WINSTON </b> Does it have any favorites? <b> STANTZ </b> It likes all the sappy stuff: 'Cumbaya,' 'Everything is Beautiful,' 'It's a Small World' -- but it loves Jackie Wilson. Venkman and Winston watch intently as Spengler spoons some of the psych-reactive slime onto an old toaster. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch this. Stantz turns on a CASSETTE PLAYER and Jackie Wilson's "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BLASTS from the speakers. <b>TOASTER </b> It shakes, spins and actually starts moving in time with the MUSIC. <b>VENKMAN </b> He stares in disbelief at the dancing toaster as it shoots two pieces of toast into the air and catches them without missing a beat. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't care what you say. This could be a major Christmas gift item. <b> WINSTON </b> Right, and the first time someone gets mad, their toaster will eat their hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> So we'll put a warning on the label. Stantz turns OFF the MUSIC and the toaster stops moving. Venkman looks at the toaster and sticks his fingers in the slot. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the toaster) Go ahead. I dare you. Suddenly, he yelps as if the toaster has actually bitten into his hand and won't let go. The others jump in to help him, but Venkman laughs and easily withdraws his hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> Just kidding. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Dana brings Oscar into the bathroom and lays him on the bassinet. She's wearing a robe over her nightgown, preparing to bathe the baby. She turns the taps on the old claw-footed bathtub, checks the water temperature, then turns away and starts to undress the baby. <b> DANA </b> (talking sweetly to the baby) Look at you. I think we got more food on your shirt than we got in your mouth. <b>BATHTUB </b> The water pouring from the faucet changes to slime and settles at the bottom of the tub. Dana reaches over and turns off the water without looking into the tub. When she turns away, both taps start to spin by themselves and the tub flexes and bulges. <b>DANA </b> Still unaware, she routinely reaches over and squirts some bubble bath into the tub. <b>BATHTUB </b> The rim of the tub puckers up and the sides convulse as if swallowing the bubble bath. <b>DANA </b>She picks the baby up off the bassinet and turns to place him in the tub. She is just about to lower him into the water when the tub starts to close up around the baby like a hugh mouth. Dana screams, snatches the baby away and runs from the room clutching Oscar to her bosom as the bathtub convulses and vomits up buckets of slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - SAME NIGHT (LATER) </b> The big open loft space is a chaotic clutter of mismatched furniture, old magazines, books, tapes, and sports equipment. Venkman is asleep on the floor, still wearing his coat, scarf, hat and gloves, having collapsed just short of the bedroom. The DOORBELL RINGS, he wakes up, lumbers to his feet and answers it. He opens the door and sees Dana standing there. She is wearing only a nightgown under her coat and Oscar is naked, wrapped in a baby blanket. <b> DANA </b> (somewhat embarrassed to be there) I'm sorry. Were you on your way out? <b> VENKMAN </b> (surprised to see her) No, I just got in -- a couple hours ago. Come on in. (noting her apparel) Are we having a pajama party? <b> DANA </b> (upset) Peter, the bathtub tried to eat Oscar. Venkman looks at her for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know, if anyone else told me that, I'd have serious doubts. But coming from you, I can't honestly say I'm surprised. <b> DANA </b> I must be losing my mind. At the museum today I could have sworn that terrible painting of Vigo looked right at me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who could blame him? Were you wearing this nightgown? <b> DANA </b> (distraught) I don't know what to do anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll get Ray and Egon to check out the bathtub. You better stay here. He exits to the bathroom. She looks around the loft, amazed at the disorder. Venkman comes back immediately with an old sweatshirt and takes Oscar from her. <b> VENKMAN </b> Now this kid has a serious nudity problem. He spreads the sweatshirt out on the sofa, lays the baby on it and starts tying it around him like a diaper. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the baby) This is Joe Namath's old number, you know. You could get a lot of chicks with this. Just don't pee in it. <b> DANA </b> Peter, what about the bathtub? <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the phone and dials) We'll take care of that. (on the phone) Ray, Pete. Listen, get over to Dana's right away ... Her bathtub pulled a fast one -- tried to eat the kid. <b> DANA </b> It was full of this awful pink ooze. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray) Sounds like another slime job ... No, they're all right. They're here now ... Right ... Let me know. He hangs up. <b> VENKMAN </b> They're going over there right now. You might as well make yourself at home. Let me show you around. (he crosses to the kitchen area) This is the cuisine de maison -- It's an incredible mess. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes and the counters are littered with all sorts of food trash. He grabs a big open Hefty bag on the floor and starts throwing garbage into it. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the sink) We may have to wash some of these if you get hungry -- (he looks in the fridge) -- but there's no food anyway so forget about it. I have all kinds of carry-out menus if you feel like ordering. He opens a drawer full of pizza, barbecue and Chinese food menus, then crosses to the bathroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Bathroom's right here -- let me just tidy up a few things. <b> DANA </b> Peter, this is very nice, but you don't have to do any of this, you know. He goes into the bathroom and we hear WATER RUNNING, the TOILET FLUSHING and more items going into the Hefty bag. <b> VENKMAN (O.S.) </b> The shower works but it's a little tricky. They're both marked "Hot." It takes a little practice, but at least this one won't try and eat you. He comes out of the bathroom with the now-loaded Hefty bag over his shoulder. <b> VENKMAN </b> Be careful on that sofa -- it's a butt-biter. But the bed's good and I just changed the sheets so if you get tired, feel free. In fact, I think you should definitely plan on spending the night here. <b> DANA </b> Really? And how would we handle the sleeping arrangements? <b> VENKMAN </b> For me it's best if I sleep on my side and you spoon up right behind me with your arms around me. If we go the other way I'm afraid your hair will be getting in my face all night. <b> DANA </b> How about you on the sofa and me in bed with the baby. <b> VENKMAN </b> Or we could do that. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. (she picks up Oscar) Poor baby. I think I should put him down now. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll put him down for you. (taking the baby) You are way too short! And your belly-button sticks out! You're nothing but a burden to your poor mother! Venkman carries the baby into the bedroom leaving Dana in the living room, feeling more relaxed and a lot safer. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> Venkman is waiting in front of the building as ECTO-2 pulls up and Stantz, Spengler and Winston get out and report on Dana's apartment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you find anything at Dana's? <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Just some mood-slime residue in and around the bathtub. But we did turn up some interesting stuff on this Vigo character you mentioned. I found the name Vigo the Carpathian in Leon Zundinger's Magicians, Martyrs and Madmen. Listen to this: <b> SPENGLER </b> (reads from xerox of entry) "Vigo the Carpathian, born 1505, died 1610 --" <b> VENKMAN </b> A hundred and five years? He really hung on, didn't he. <b> STANTZ </b> And he didn't die of old age either. He was poisoned, stabbed, shot, hung, stretched, disemboweled, drawn and quartered. <b> WINSTON </b> I guess he wasn't too popular at the end there. <b> SPENGLER </b> No, not exactly a man of the people. (reads) "Also known as Vigo the Cruel, Vigo the Torturer, Vigo the Despised, and Vigo the Unholy." <b> STANTZ </b> This guy was a bad monkey. He dabbled in all the Black Arts, and listen to this prophecy. Just before his head died, his last words were, "Death is but a door, time is but a window. I'll be back." <b> VENKMAN </b> That's it? "I'll be back?" <b> SPENGLER </b> It's a rough translation from the Moldavian. They enter the museum carrying their monitoring equipment. <b>INT. MUSEUM - SECURITY DESK - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Rudy the guard looks up in surprise as the Ghostbusters enter. <b> RUDY </b> Hey, Dr. Venkman. What's going on? <b> VENKMAN </b> We're just going up to Restorations for a minute. <b> RUDY </b> Oh, I can't let you do that. Mr. Poha told me not to let you up there anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> (with mock seriousness) Okay, we were trying to keep this quiet but I think you can be trusted. Tell him, Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> (very official) Mister, you have an Ecto-paritic, subfusionary flux in this building. <b> RUDY </b> We got a flux? <b> WINSTON </b> You got a flux and a half. <b> STANTZ </b> Now if you don't want to be the -- (he counts) -- fifth person ever to die in meta-shock from a planar rift, I suggest you get down behind that desk and don't move until we give you the signal "Stabilize -- All Clear." Rudy gulps and starts to hunker down behind the desk as the Ghostbusters head upstairs. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Janosz is working on the Vigo painting when the Ghostbusters enter. He rushes over and stops them at the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> Dr. Venkman? Dana is not here. <b> VENKMAN </b> I know. <b> JANOSZ </b> Then why have you come? <b> VENKMAN </b> We got a major creep alert and we're just going down the list. Your name was first. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Spengler and Winston) Let's sweep it, boys. They deploy and start scanning the studio with their monitoring devices. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) You know, I never got to ask you. Where you from, Johnny? <b> JANOSZ </b> (nervous) The Upper West Side. <b> SPENGLER </b> (consulting his PKE meter) This entire room is extremely hot, Peter. <b> JANOSZ </b> What exactly are you looking for, Dr. Venkman? <b> VENKMAN </b> We'll know when we find it. You just sit tight. This won't take long. <b>STANTZ </b> Using the Giga-meter, he traces a strong psychomagnetheric reading to the painting of Vigo in the alcove at the end of the studio. Venkman comes up behind him with Janosz right on his heels. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is the one that looked at Dana. <b> JANOSZ </b> It must be the chemical fumes in the studio. People start imagining things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (interrupts) I'm going to rule out the glue-sniffing theory. If she says it looked at her, it looked at her. (to Vigo) Hey, you! Vigie! Look at me. I'm talking to you. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you. They watch the painting for any sign of movement. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes stare lifelessly into the distance. <b>STANTZ AND VENKMAN </b> Venkman starts shooting Polaroids of Vigo. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Vigo) Beautiful, beautiful. Work with me, baby. Just have fun with it. (to Stantz) Okay, he's playing it cool. Let's finish up and get out of here. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll get one more reading. Venkman walks off leaving Stantz alone with the painting. Stantz scans the painting with the Giga-meter until his eyes meet Vigo's. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes seems to burn right through to the depths of Stantz's soul. <b>STANTZ </b> He stands there transfixed, unable to look away, as a strange and subtle transformation occurs within him. Winston comes up behind him and breaks the spell. <b> WINSTON </b> (looking at the painting) Now that's one ugly dude. <b> STANTZ </b> (coming back to his senses) Huh? What? <b> WINSTON </b> You finished here? <b> STANTZ </b> (distracted) What? Yeah. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? You coming down with something? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm fine. I just got light-headed for a second there. Let's go. They head for the door. <b>JANOSZ </b> He escorts the Ghostbusters to the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> So you see, everything is in order, is it not? <b> VENKMAN </b> Not. Don't leave town and report any change in your address to the proper authorities. We'll be back. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters cross to ECTO-2. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's definitely something going on in that studio. The PKE levels were max-plus and the Giga-meter was showing all red. <b> WINSTON </b> I'd put my money on that Vigo character. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, that's a safe bet. (to Stantz) You and Spengman see what else you can dig up on Vigo and this little weasel Poha. Those two were made for each other. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are driving back to the firehouse. Stantz is at the wheel. His eyes are vacant, he seems distracted and very tense. Stantz swerves suddenly and HONKS the horn angrily. <b> STANTZ </b> (to another driver) Idiot! (honking) Move it, you jerk! Venkman and Winston exchange surprised looks. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz drives extremely fast, HONKING vindictively, weaving dangerously through traffic. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks at Ray, concerned. <b> WINSTON </b> Going a little fast, aren't we, Ray? Stantz turns on him. <b> STANTZ </b> (viciously) Are you telling me how to drive? <b> WINSTON </b> No, I just thought -- <b> STANTZ </b> Well don't think! He HONKS again and tromps hard on the accelerator. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS) </b> Ecto-2 is now barreling down the avenue. Pedestrians leap to safety as Stantz runs a red light. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They hang on to the safety straps as Stantz continues his maniacal ride. <b> WINSTON </b> (to Stantz, really worried now) Are you crazy, man? You're going to kill somebody! Stantz looks at him and smile demonically. <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm going to kill everybody! He swerves off the road. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car heads right for a big tree. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> At the last possible moment, Winston cold-cocks Stantz, grabs the wheel and steps across to stomp on the brakes. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car skids into the tree and stops. The Ghostbusters stumble out dazed and shaken, but unhurt. Stantz rubs his eyes and looks at the others, completely at a loss. <b> STANTZ </b> (himself again) What happened? <b> VENKMAN </b> You just picked up three penalty points on your driver's license. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, I guess so. It was the strangest thing. I knew what I was doing but I couldn't stop. This really terrible feeling came over me and -- I don't know -- I just felt like driving into that tree and ending it all. Whew! Sorry, boys. They inspect the damage to the car. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially, to Spengler) Watch him, Egon. Don't even let him shave. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - DAY (LATER) </b> There's a KNOCK at the front door, a key turns in the lock, and Venkman enters somewhat tentatively holding a bouquet of flowers and a small suitcase of Dana's. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calls out) I'm home! He looks around the large open loft. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to himself) I knew it. She cleaned. He hears the SHOWER RUNNING and crosses to the bathroom. The door is half-open and he can see Dana in the shower (tastefully blurred) through the transparent vinyl curtain. He closes the bathroom door and looks at the baby asleep on the bed, surrounded by pillows to prevent him rolling off. Then he turns and bumps into Dana who's just coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She jumps back into the bathroom. She comes out again, this time wearing a robe. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you all squeaky clean now? <b> DANA </b> (humoring him) Yes, I'm very clean. Did they find anything at my apartment? She squeezes past him into the bedroom and closes the door. <b> VENKMAN </b> (through the door) Nothing. They stayed there all night, went through your personal stuff, made a bunch of long-distance phone calls and cleaned out your refrigerator. And didn't find anything. Dana opens the bedroom door. <b> DANA </b> They didn't find anything? In the bathtub ... the pink ooze ... nothing? So, what do I do now? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you get dressed and we go out. I got a babysitter and everything. Trust me, you need it. <b> DANA </b> I'm not here to date. I can't leave Oscar in a strange place with someone I don't know. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's Janine Melnitz, from my staff. She's one of my most valuable employees. <b> DANA </b> Does she know anything about babies? <b> VENKMAN </b> Janine Melnitz, are you kidding? (handing her the flowers) Do I have a vase? I brought some of your clothes. Wear something intriguing. I brought along some interesting possibilities. <b> DANA </b> Okay, but it's not a date. It's a dinner. She smiles and closes the door again. He opens the closet and starts looking for his good suit. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you happen to see some shirts on the floor in here? <b> DANA (O.S.) </b> I put them in your hamper. I thought they were dirty. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shaking his head) I have a hamper? Next time ask me first, okay. I have more than two grades of laundry. There're lots of subtle levels between clean and dirty. He pulls some clothes out of the hamper and inspects them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These aren't so bad yet. You just hang them up for a while and they're fine. <b> CUT TO: </b><b>INT. FIREHOUSE - RECEPTION AREA - EARLY EVENING </b> Janine covers her computer terminal and starts turning out the lights. Then she notices that the lights are still on upstairs. She starts primping and freshening up her makeup. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LAB AREA - SAME TIME </b> Louis is strapping on a proton pack, preparing to deal with Slimer once and for all. He's wearing a bicyclist's rearview mirror on a headband. <b> LOUIS </b> (to himself) Okay, Stinky, this is it. Showdown time. You and me, pal. You think you're smarter than I am? We'll see about that. (loud) Oh, hello, Pizza Man! Oh, two larges! I only ordered one. Oh, pepperoni and pineapple. My absolute favorite. I guess I'll have to eat these both by myself. <b>THE CEILING </b> Slimer pokes his head through the ceiling and scans the room hanging upside down. <b>LOUIS </b> He spots Slimer through the rearview mirror. <b> LOUIS </b> (quietly) Okay, let's boogie! He whirls around and fires a proton stream at Slimer, slicing a burning a gash across the ceiling. <b>THE STAIRS </b> Janine comes up and ducks as a bolt of energy streaks across the room and strikes the wall behind her. Slimer disappears. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed and apologetic) Oh migod! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It was an accident. <b> JANINE </b> What are you doing up here? <b> LOUIS </b> I was trying to get that smelly green thing. The guys asked me to help out. I'm like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> JANINE </b> Why would you want to be a Ghostbuster if you're already an accountant? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, no, it's just if one of the guys calls in sick or gets hurt. Louis quickly slips off the proton pack and sets it down. <b> JANINE </b> Have you made any plans yet? You know tomorrow is New Year's Eve. <b> LOUIS </b> No, I celebrate at the beginning of my corporate tax year which is March first. That way I beat the crowds. <b> JANINE </b> That's very practical. I hate going out on New Year's Eve, too. There is an awkward silence between them and Janine starts to leave. <b> JANINE </b> Well, good night, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> (on an impulse) Janine, do you feel like maybe getting something to eat on the way home? <b> JANINE </b> I'd like to, but I told Dr. Venkman I'd babysit. (seductively) Do you want to babysit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, sure, that sounds great. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> There is a KNOCK at the door and Venkman goes to answer it. He's dressed for the evening and looking very dapper. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - ENTRANCE HALL - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman opens the door and finds Stantz, Spengler and Winston standing there wearing over-the-hip rubberized waders, firemen's slickers, and miners' helmets, carrying tons of sensing devices, meters, collection jars and photographic equipment. They look like they're rigged out for a major spelunking expedition. <b> VENKMAN </b> (ushering them in) Don't tell me, let me guess. All-you-can-eat barbecue rib night at the Sizzler? <b> STANTZ </b> We're going down into the sewer system to see if we can trace the source of the psycho-reactive slime flow. We thought you might want to come along. <b> VENKMAN </b> Darn it! I wish I'd known you were going. I'm stuck with these damn dinner reservations. <b> SPENGLER </b> You know, animals and lower life forms often anticipate major disasters. Given the new magnetheric readings we could see a tremendous breeding surge in the cockroach population. <b> VENKMAN </b> Roach breeding? Sounds better and better. (calls out) Dana? The boys are going down under the sewers tonight to look for slime. Egon thinks there might even be some kind of big roach-breeding surge. Should we forget about dinner and go with them instead? Dana steps into the living room looking very beautiful. <b> STANTZ </b> Wow. Dana looks curiously at their outfits. <b> DANA </b> Hi. They nod and wave back. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray and Egon) I think we're going to have to pass on the sewer trip, boys. Let me know what you find out. <b> STANTZ </b> (on his exit) Okay, but you're missing all the fun. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Stantz, Spengler and Winston come down the stairs into the station, guided by a very old map of the underground city. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. Van Horne Station. Right where the old transit map said it would be. They cross to the edge of the platform and look into the river of slime. <b> STANTZ </b> Let's get a sounding on the depth of that flow. Stantz has a long, coiled, graduated cord with a plumb bob on the end of it attached to his utility belt. <b> STANTZ </b> Stand back. He takes the cord in his hand, swings the plumb bob over his head and casts it out into the middle of the flow. The plumb bob sinks and Spengler reads the depth. <b> SPENGLER </b> Six feet -- seven -- eight -- <b> STANTZ </b> That's it. It's on the bottom. <b> SPENGLER </b> Nine feet -- ten -- <b> WINSTON </b> Is the line sinking? <b> SPENGLER </b> No, the slime is rising. Stantz looks down and notices the slime rising over the edge of the platform and around his boots. <b> STANTZ </b> (alarmed) Let's get out of here, boys. He starts to pull out the plumb line but it seems to be stuck. Spengler tries to help, but whatever is pulling on the cord is stronger than all three of them. As their unseen adversary pulls them closer and closer to the edge, Stantz works desperately to unhook the cord from his belt but finally just unhooks the whole belt. Spengler lets go in time but Winston doesn't. He is jerked off his feet and into the slime flow. Stantz and Spengler look at each other, summon their courage and jump in after him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Dana and Venkman are sitting at a table in an elegant restaurant nibbling caviar and toasting with very expensive champagne. <b> VENKMAN </b> (very intimate) Here's to -- us. She sighs and drinks. <b> VENKMAN </b> So -- are you making any New Year's resolutions? <b> DANA </b> I want to stop getting involved with men who aren't good for me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Does that start exactly at midnight tomorrow, or could you hold off for a few days maybe? <b> DANA </b> For one night in your life, do you think it's possible for us to be completely real? <b> VENKMAN </b> All right, you want to be real? So tell me why did you dump me? <b> DANA </b> Oh, Peter, I didn't dump you. I just had to protect myself. You really weren't very good for me, you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm not even good for me. <b> DANA </b> Why do you say things like that? You're so much better than you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thank you. If I had that kind of support on a daily basis, I could definitely shape up by the turn of the century. <b> DANA </b> (already feeling the effects of the champagne) So why don't you give me a jingle in the year 2000? <b> VENKMAN </b> Let me jingle you right now. He leans over to kiss her. <b> DANA </b> Maybe I should call Janine. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry. Janine has a very special way with children. They kiss. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine is on the sofa doing her nails while Louis paces with the baby. <b> JANINE </b> (looking around) I can't believe a person could actually live like this. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the baby) So these dwarfs had a limited partnership in a small mining operation and then one day a beautiful princess came to live with them. <b> JANINE </b> It's really not a bad place. It just needs a woman's touch. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) So they bartered room and board in exchange for housekeeping services, which was a good deal for all of them because then they didn't have to withhold tax and social security, which I'm not saying is right but it's just a story, so I guess it's all right. I can finish this later if you're tired. Louis goes into the bedroom and puts the baby down. <b> JANINE </b> You're really good with children, Louis. I can tell. (as he returns) Why don't you come here and sit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Okay. He sits stiffly beside her on the sofa. <b> JANINE </b> (getting close) Motherhood is a very natural instinct for me. I'd like to have a baby myself. Wouldn't you? <b> LOUIS </b> (gulps) Tonight? <b>EXT. STREET - MANHOLE COVER - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A manhole cover is dislodged and pushed up from below. It slides away, and Winston crawls out of the manhole followed by Stantz and Spengler. They are exhausted and covered with slime. <b> WINSTON </b> (uncharacteristically angry) Nice going, Ray! What were you trying to do -- drown me? <b> STANTZ </b> (unusually mean) Look, Zeddemore, it wasn't my fault you were too stupid to drop that line. <b> WINSTON </b> (shoves him) You better watch your mouth, man, or I'll punch your lights out. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh yeah? Anytime, anytime. Just go ahead and try it. Spengler steps between them with unprecedented aggression. <b> SPENGLER </b> If you two are looking for a fight, you got one. (putting up his fists) Who wants it first? Come on, Ray. Try me, sucker. <b> STANTZ </b> (squaring off) Butt out, you pencil-necked geek. I've had it with you. They grab each other and start to tussle. Suddenly Spengler comes to his senses and pulls them apart. <b> SPENGLER </b> (forcefully) Strip! Right now! Get out of those clothes! He starts yanking off his slicker and waders. Bewildered, Stantz and Winston start doing the same. Spengler helps pull off their clothes and throws them into the open manhole. Now wearing only long underwear, they seem to return to normal. <b> WINSTON </b> What are we doing? Ray, I was ready to kill you. <b> STANTZ </b> Don't you see? It's the slime. That stuff is like pure, concentrated evil. Stantz looks around and sees that they are standing right in front of the museum. <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing right to this spot. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT ENTRANCE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The MAITRE D' looks up in surprise as Stantz, Spengler and Winston enter the restaurant wearing only long underwear. <b> MAITRE D' </b> (intercepting them) Can I help you? Stantz looks around and spots Venkman. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right, I see him. They blow right by the Maitre d' who jumps back in horror as they pass. <b>VENKMAN </b> He's just about to pour more champagne when he sees Ray, Egon and Winston coming toward him through the restaurant. <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) You should've been there, Venkman. Absolutely incredible! <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, sorry I missed it. (noting their attire) I guess you guys didn't know about the dress code here. It's really kind of a coat and tie place. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all over the city, Pete -- well, under it actually. <b> WINSTON </b> Rivers of the stuff! <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing toward the museum. He gestures excitedly and a big gob of slime flies across the room and lands on a well-dressed diner. <b> STANTZ </b> (calls out) Sorry! <b> DANA </b> Maybe we should discuss this somewhere else. Venkman notes the look of alarm on Dana's face and pulls his colleagues aside. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) Boys, listen. You're scaring the straights. Let's save this until tomorrow, okay? <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Venkman) This won't wait until tomorrow, Venkman. It's hot and it's ready to pop. <b>MAITRE D' </b> He hurries through the restaurant with two city COPS right behind him and makes straight for Venkman's table. <b> MAITRE D' </b> Arrest these men. <b> COP </b> (recognizing them) Hey! It's the Ghostbusters. You're out of uniform, gentlemen Stantz suddenly realizes how ridiculous they look. <b> STANTZ </b> (self-conscious) Uh -- well -- we had a little accident, but forget that. We have to see the mayor as soon as possible. <b> COP </b> Look, Doc, why don't you just go home. You'll get a good night's sleep and then you can give the mayor a call in the morning. Come on. He takes Stantz by the arm but Stantz resists. <b> STANTZ </b> We're not going anywhere with you. I told you we have to see the mayor now. <b> COP </b> (grabbing Stantz) I'm warning you. You can come along peaceably or -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the Cop) Hey, don't be an idiot. This is serious. <b> COP </b> (angry) Look, pal, keep this up and you're going with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, yeah? <b> COP </b> (has had enough) Yeah, let's go. You're all under arrest. The Cop catches Venkman in an armlock and starts walking him out of the restaurant. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) Finish your dessert -- it's already paid for. I'll call you. They all exit, causing a major commotion among the other diners. <b>EXT. ARMAND'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The police car is parked right behind Ecto-2. Spengler stops at the police car and confronts the cops. <b> SPENGLER </b> Look, we're not drunk and we're not crazy. This is a matter of vital importance. Venkman steps in and looks at the policemen's nametags. <b> COP </b> What are you doing? <b> VENKMAN </b> I just want to get your names right for when the mayor asks us why we didn't let him know about this sooner. The Cops look at each other, uncertain about what to do. <b> COP </b> (relenting) Okay, Doc. You want to see the mayor, you got it. Follow us. They head for their respective vehicles. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are on the sofa making out when Dana enters. They jump up and start smoothing their clothes. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed) Oh, hello, Dana. we were just -- we were -- <b> DANA </b> I know what you were doing, Louis. It's all right. <b> JANINE </b> How was your date? <b> DANA </b> Typical. Peter was arrested. Has he called? <b> LOUIS </b> No, nobody called. Dana frowns. <b> DANA </b> Is everything all right with Oscar? <b> JANINE </b> Oh, he's fine. He's such a good baby. He was a little fussy at first, but we gave him a Freach bread pizza and he went right to sleep. <b> DANA </b> (relieved) Oh, good. I'll just check on him. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana looks at Oscar sleeping peacefully on the bed. She starts to change clothes. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine aren't sure what to do. <b> LOUIS </b> Should we go? <b> JANINE </b> I don't think we should leave her alone. <b> LOUIS </b> You're right. We should stay. He grabs Janine and they start making out again. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz stands before the painting of Vigo. Vigo comes to life and repeats the litany of his power. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> (heard all this before) Yes, the scourge -- <b> VIGO </b> -- the sorrow of Moldavia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> -- the sorrow -- <b> VIGO </b> I command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (checking his watch) I await the word of Vigo. <b> VIGO </b> The season of evil begins with the birth of the new year. Bring me the child that I might live again. <b> JANOSZ </b> (abjectly humble) Lord Vigo, the mother, Dana, is fine and strong. I was wondering -- well, would it be possible -- if I bring the baby, could I have the woman? <b> VIGO </b> So be it. On this the day of darkness, she will be ours, wife to you and mother to me. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CARL SCHURZ PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Preceded by a police car, Ecto-2 enters the small park on the East River at 88th Street and disappears into an underground entrance. The CAMERA PANS UP to reveal Gracie Mansion, the residence of the Mayor of New York City. <b>INT. GRACIE MANSION - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters, now wearing police raincoats over their longjohns are ushered through the house by a butler to a set of double oak doors. The butler knocks lightly, then opens the door to reveal the MAYOR sitting in front of the fireplace in his well-appointed private study, flanked by Jack Hardemeyer, both in tuxedoes. The Ghostbusters enter. <b>INT. STUDY - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> The Mayor is impatient and a little angry at having been pulled out of his formal reception. He frowns at their bizarre attire. <b> MAYOR </b> All right -- the Ghostbusters. I'll tell you right now; I've got two hundred of the heaviest campaign contributors in the city out there eating bad roast chicken waiting for me to give the speech of my life. You've got two minutes. Make it good. <b> STANTZ </b> You get enough negative energy flowing in a dense environment like Manhattan, it starts to build up, and if we don't do something fast this whole place will blow like a frog on a hotplate. <b> WINSTON </b> Tell him about the toaster. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't think he's ready for the toaster. <b> MAYOR </b> (shaking his head) Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right. What am I supposed to do -- go on television and tell eight million people they have to be nice to each other? I'm sorry, none of this makes any sense to me, and if anything does happen we've got plenty of paid professionals to deal with it. Your two minutes are up. Good night, gentlemen. The mayor exits, leaving the Ghostbusters to Hardemeyer. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (smirking) That's quite a story. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, I think the Times might be interested, don't you? The Post might have a lot of fun with it, too. Hardemeyer's eyes go cold and calculating. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Before you go running to the newspapers with this, would you consider telling this slime thing to some people downtown? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you're talking. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - PSYCHIATRIC WARD - NIGHT (LATER) </b> An attendant opens a locked door with a wire mesh window and the Ghostbusters, in straitjackets, are led into the psych ward as Hardemeyer confers with the chief PSYCHIATRIST. <b> WINSTON </b> (protesting) I'm telling you, we're not crazy. He is! <b>HARDEMEYER </b> He laughs off the remark. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to the Psychiatrist) The mayor wants them kept under strict observation for a few days. We think they're seriously disturbed and potentially dangerous. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> We'll do whatever's necessary. Hardemeyer shakes his hand and exits as the door slams shut on the Ghostbusters. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are watching an old rerun on TV, eating popcorn, while Dana is stretched out on the other sofa. <b> DANA </b> (wishing they'd leave) You know you really don't have to stay. Peter should be back soon. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh no, we don't mind. She hears a little CRY from the nursery and sits up. <b> DANA </b> Excuse me. I think Oscar is up. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana enters and immediately notices that the crib is empty and the window is open. <b> DANA </b> (screams) Louis! Frantic now, Dana rushes to the window and looks out, as Louis and Janine come running in. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - DANA'S POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The baby is standing out on the ledge at the corner of the building, fifty feet above the street, staring off into the distance as if he's waiting for something. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana climbs out onto the ledge and starts inching slowly toward the baby. Then she stops as a miraculous apparition materializes. <b>LOUIS AND JANINE </b> They lean out the window, gaping at the apparition. <b>EXT. VENKMAN'S LEDGE - APPARITION </b> A sweet, kindly-looking English nanny appears, pushing a pram, strolling on thin air parallel to the ledge high above the ground. Her face looks remarkably like Janosz Poha's. The nanny extends her hand to the BABY who GURGLES sweetly as he reaches out to take it. <b>DANA </b> She watches in helpless horror. <b> DANA </b> (screams) No!! <b>GHOST NANNY </b> She picks up the baby and lays it gently in the pram, then turns and smiles at Dana. The smile turns to a hideous grin, then the nanny shrieks at Dana and takes off like a shot with the baby. <b>DANA </b> She watches the creature fly off with Oscar, then climbs back through the window assisted by Louis and Janine. <b> DANA </b> (resolutely) Louis, you have to find Peter and tell him what happened. <b> LOUIS </b> (confused and worried) Where're you going? <b> DANA </b> To get my baby back. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (A LITTLE LATER) </b> A taxi pulls up, Dana jumps out and rushes into the museum. The moment the door closes behind her, there is a loud THUNDERCLAP, the ground trembles and a massive amount of slime erupts from around the base of the museum and starts covering the walls, sealing her inside the building. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC - PADDED ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are in a padded cell. They are handcuffed and the cuffs are chained to thick leather belts around their waists. Venkman stands there banging his head into the padded wall while the others try to explain the situation to a skeptical Psychiatrist. <b> STANTZ </b> We think the spirit of Vigo the Carpathian is alive in a painting at the Manhattan Museum. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> I see. And are there any other paintings in the museum with bad spirits in them? <b> SPENGLER </b> (impatient) You're wasting valuable time! We have reason to believe that Vigo is drawing strength from a psychomagnetheric slime flow that's been collecting under the city. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> Yes, tell me about the slime. <b> WINSTON </b> It's potent stuff. We made a toaster dance with it, then a bathtub tried to eat his friend's baby. The psychiatrist looks at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't look at me. I think they're nuts. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Moonlight streams through the skylight above, bathing the studio in eerie white light. Oscar is lying safely on a table in front of the painting of Vigo. Dana enters cautiously and sees the baby. Seeing no one else about, she quickly sneaks down to the table and picks up the baby, hugging hin tight, greatly relieved to find him unharmed and intact. <b> JANOSZ (O.S.) </b> I knew you would come. Startled, Dana turns at the sound of his voice as Janosz steps out from behind the Vigo painting. <b> DANA </b> (defiantly) What do you want with my baby? <b> JANOSZ </b> No harm will come to the child. You might even say it's a privilege. He will be the vessel for the spirit of Vigo. And you -- well, you will be the mother of the ruler of the world. Doesn't that sound nice? <b> DANA </b> If this is what the world will be like, I don't want to live in it. <b> JANOSZ </b> (confidentially, indicating Vigo) I don't believe we have the luxury of choice. <b> DANA </b> Everybody has a choice. <b> JANOSZ </b> Not in this case, my dear. Take a look. That's not Gainsborough's Blue Boy up there. He's Vigo! <b> DANA </b> I don't care who he is. He's not taking my baby. Dana walks quickly to the door but suddenly Oscar flies out of her arms, floats across the room and lands lightly back in the cradle. <b>DANA </b> She turns and looks at Vigo, for the first time feeling his power. <b> JANOSZ </b> You will see. It's all for the best. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> It's the last day of the year and the sun is shining brightly. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC WARD - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> The Ghostbusters are sitting in the dayroom, a dingy lounge for patients in the locked ward. There is a television set, a Ping-Pong table and a few tables and chairs. Stantz is looking at the sky through the heavy wire mesh covering the windows. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. boys. It's starting. Shit-storm <b> 2000. </b> Venkman is doing occupational therapy, weaving on a little hand-loom. <b> VENKMAN </b> It better not start yet. I'm trying to finish my potholder before lunch. <b> WINSTON </b> You think all those predictions about the world coming to an end in the 1990s are true? A PATIENT at the next table joins the discussion. <b> PATIENT </b> (with certainty) 1997. My dog told me. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of dog? <b> PATIENT </b> Labrador. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shakes his head) Habitual liars. They can't help it. It's in the breed. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - EXAMINING ROOM - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Louis is pleading with his cousin, SHERMAN TULLY, a doctor on the staff at Parkview. He looks and sounds just like Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> Come on, Sherm. You're my cousin. Do this for me. I'm begging you. <b> SHERMAN </b> I can't do it, Louis. It isn't ethical. I could lose my license. <b> LOUIS </b> Why can't you just have them released? You're a doctor. <b> SHERMAN </b> I'm a dermatologist. I can't write orders on the psych ward. <b> LOUIS </b> Sherman, I've done lots of favors for you. <b> SHERMAN </b> Like what? <b> LOUIS </b> I got you out of those bad tax shelters. <b> SHERMAN </b> You were the one who got me in. <b> LOUIS </b> I fixed you up with Diane Troxler and she put out, didn't she? <b> SHERMAN </b> Yeah, I had to give her free dermabrasion for a year. Forget it, Louis. I could get in a lot of trouble. <b> LOUIS </b> I'm telling you, we're all going to be in big trouble if we don't do something fast. That ghost guy came and took my friend's baby and we got to get it back. It's just a scared little baby, Sherm. <b> SHERMAN </b> Then you should go to the police. I don't believe in any of that stuff. Sherman looks out the window. <b>EXT. SKY - SHERMAN'S POV </b> The sky begins to go dark as the sun is magically eclipsed. <b>INT. EXAMINING ROOM - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> The room goes dark. Louis switches on a lamp which casts an eerie light on his face. <b> LOUIS </b> (spooky) Do you believe it now, Sherm? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. HUDSON RIVER PIER - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> A drainpipe starts dripping slime into the river near the Cunard Line docks. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PUBLIC FOUNTAIN (59TH AND FIFTH) - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> With the Plaza Hotel in the background, the fountain starts to spout psycho-reactive slime. <b>HOTEL ENTRANCE </b> A well-heeled MAN and WOMAN step out of a limousine and walk up the steps toward the revolving door. She looks up at the sky and frowns. <b> WOMAN </b> (shrewish) I told you we should have stayed in Palm Beach. The weather here gets stranger every year. <b> MAN </b> Yes, dear. She doesn't notice it, but a small amount of slime falls on the back of her luxurious, full-length, white mink coat. The doorman nods courteously and extends a hand to help her up the stairs. <b>WOMAN </b> She yelps in pain. <b> WOMAN </b> (to the doorman) Something just bit me! The doorman looks curiously at her, then recoils in shock as her coat comes alive. MINK HEADS pop out of the thick fur, SNARLING, BARKING and YAPPING, their sharp, little teeth biting the air. Reacting quickly, the doorman yanks the coat off the woman's back, throws it to the ground and starts stomping on it as the Woman and her husband look on in horror. The coat scuttles down the steps and runs off down the street. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MIDTOWN CENTRAL POLICE PRECINCT - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The squad room is busy as DETECTIVES try to answer the flood of calls regarding the wave of supernatural events sweeping the city. <b> DETECTIVE ONE </b> (on the phone) Look, lady, of course there are dead people there. It's a cemetery ... (his face falls) They were asking you for directions? <b> DETECTIVE TWO </b> (on another phone) Was this a big dinosaur or a little dinosaur? ... Oh, just the skeleton, huh? Well, where is it now? <b> DETECTIVE THREE </b> (on the phone) Wait a second -- the park bench was chasing you? You mean, someone was chasing you in the park ... No, the bench itself was chasing you. I see -- A weary SERGEANT answers a RINGING PHONE. <b> SERGEANT </b> Manhattan Central, Flaherty speaking ... Yeah ... yeah? ... What? Who is this? ... Wait a second. He puts the caller on "Hold" and turns the LIEUTENANT. <b> SERGEANT </b> Lieutenant, I think you better talk to this guy. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> (on another call) What is it? I'm talkin' here! <b> SERGEANT </b> It's some dock supervisor down at Pier 34 on the Hudson. The guy's going nuts. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> What's the problem? <b> SERGEANT </b> (takes a deep breath) He says the Titanic just arrived. <b>INT. PORT AUTHORITY OFFICE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The dock supervisor stands there with the phone in his hand, an assistant beside him, both staring out the window at the ocean liner tied up at the pier. <b>EXT. PIER 34 - THEIR POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The name "R.M.S. Titanic" is clearly visible on the side of the huge ship. The gangplank is down and dozens of drowned passengers, sopping wet and festooned with seaweed, are disembarking while drowned porters off-load their waterlogged baggage. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER)(ECLIPSE) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside as Louis and Sherman come out of the hospital with the Ghostbusters, now wearing their standard uniforms. <b> STANTZ </b> Good work, Louis. How did you get us out? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, I pulled a few strings. I wouldn't want to say any more than that. Louis winks conspiratorially at Sherman. <b> LOUIS </b> This is my cousin Sherman. Sherm, say hello to the Ghostbusters. (sotto voce to Stantz) I promised him a ride in the car if he got you out. <b> SHERMAN </b> (to the Ghostbusters) Hi, it's really great to meet you guys. I know this sounds weird but once I had a dream that my grandfather was standing at the foot of my bed, but I knew it was impossible because he died and he started to tell me that -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ectomobile and drive off, leaving him and Louis standing at the curb. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> SHERMAN </b> I thought you were like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> LOUIS </b> I let them handle all the little stuff. I just come in on the big ones. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b>(original version of the above scene - 11/27/88) (TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: These two versions of this scene were put in my copy of the script, so I have included both of them here) <b> LOUIS </b> Actually, they still think you're crazy, but I convinced them you're not dangerous. <b> VENKMAN </b> (determined) Yeah, well guess again. <b>EXT. BELLEVUE HOSPITAL - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(MOMENTS LATER) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside and the Ghostbusters are hastily donning their standard uniforms. <b> LOUIS </b> I brought everything you asked for and I gassed up the car with Super Unleaded. It cost twenty cents more than Regular Unleaded but you get much better performance and in an old car like this that'll end up saving you money in the long run. I put it on my credit card, so you can either reimburse me or I can take it out of petty cash -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ecto-2 and drive off without him. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(LATER) </b> ECTO-2 pulls to the curb across the street from the museum. Hundreds of spectators are already there gawking at the building as the Ghostbusters jump out and gape at the sight that greets them. <b>EXT. MUSEUM THEIR POV - BUILDING </b> The building is now totally covered in a shell of psycho-reactive slime. CITY WORKMEN and FIREMEN are trying to cut their way in with blowtorches, jackhammers, power tools and the "jaws of life," but they can't even make a dent. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They size up the situation as they don their proton packs. <b> STANTZ </b> It looks like a giant Jello mold. <b> VENKMAN </b> I hate Jello. They stride manfully across the street and approach the main entrance to the museum. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the Fire Captain) Okay, give it a rest, Captain. We'll take it from here. <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> (skeptical) Be my guest. We been cutting here for three hours. What the hell's going on? You know the Titanic arrived this morning? <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, better late than never. The workmen and firemen put down their tools and fall back as the Ghostbusters draw their particle throwers. <b> SPENGLER </b> (monitoring valences) Full neutronas, maser assist. They adjust their settings and prepare to fire. <b> STANTZ </b> Throw 'em! They trigger their throwers and spray the front doors of the building with bolts of proton energy, but it has no effect on the hardened slime. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the firemen) Okay, who knows "Cumbaya?" A few of the firemen and workmen tentatively raise their hands. Venkman grabs them and lines them up at the entrance of the museum. <b> VENKMAN </b> All right. Nice and sweet -- (starts singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya -- Stantz, Spengler, Winston and the firemen sing along, reluctantly holding hands and swaying to the music. <b> ALL </b> (singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Oh, Lord, cumbaya. Stantz inspects the wall of slime with his infra-goggles and finds that they have only managed to open a hole the size of a dime. <b> STANTZ </b> Forget it. The Vienna Boys Choir couldn't get through this stuff. <b> VENKMAN </b> Good effort. Now what? Should we say supportive, nurturing things to it, Ray? <b> SPENGLER </b> It won't work. There's no way we could generate enough positive energy to crack that shell. <b> STANTZ </b> I can't believe things have gotten so bad in this city that there's no way back. Sure, it's crowded, it's dirty, it's noisy. And there are too many people who'd just as soon step on your face as look at you. But there've got to be a few sparks of sweet humanity left in this burned-out burg. We just have to mobilize it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We need something that everyone can get behind, a symbol -- His eyes fall on ECTO-2's New York State license plate which features a line drawing of the Statue of Liberty. <b> STANTZ </b> (he sees it, too) Something that appeals to the best in each and every one of us -- <b> SPENGLER </b> Something good -- <b> VENKMAN </b> And pure -- <b> WINSTON </b> And decent. <b>EXT. THE STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> There is a commotion among the crowd as the Mayor's limousine arrives with a police escort. Jack Hardemeyer steps out followed by the Mayor himself and they cross to the museum entrance. Hardemeyer, his ASSISTANT and several police BODYGUARDS confront the Ghostbusters. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Look, I've had it with you. Get your stuff together, get back in that clown car and get out of here. This is a city matter and everything's under control. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, you think so? Well, I've got news for you. You've got Dracula's brother-in-law in there and he's got my girlfriend and her kid. Around about midnight tonight, when you're partying uptown, this guy's going to come to life and start doing amateur head transplants. And that's just round one. <b> MAYOR </b> Are you telling me there're people trapped in there? <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to his assistant) This is dynamite. Call A.P., U.P.I., and C.N.N. and get them down here right away. When the police bring this kid out I want them to hand it right to the mayor and I want it all on camera. <b> STANTZ </b> Mr. Mayor, if we don't do something by midnight, you're going to go down in history as the man who let New York get sucked down into the tenth level of hell. The Mayor stops to consider the situation. <b> MAYOR </b> (to the Fire Captain) Can you get into that museum? <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> If I had a nuclear warhead, maybe. The Mayor turns to Venkman. <b> MAYOR </b> You know why all these things are happening? <b> VENKMAN </b> We tried to tell you last night, but Mr. Hard-On over here packed us off to the loony bin. Hardemeyer flips out. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> This is preposterous! You can't seriously believe all this mumbo-jumbo! It's the Twentieth Century, for crying out loud! (viciously, to Venkman) Look, mister, I don't know what this stuff is or how you got it all over the museum, but you better get it off and I mean right now! He pounds the wall of slime with his fist, and they all watch in amazement as his fist goes through the wall and he is sucked bodily through the slime curtain. Only his shoes can be seen, embedded in the slime. <b> MAYOR </b> (to Venkman) Okay, just tell me what you need. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND (NEW YORK HARBOR) - NIGHT </b> With the city skyline in the b.g., the Ghostbusters prepare their equipment. Each of them dons a makeshift backpack consisting of tanks, hoses, nozzles and an abundance of gauges, valves and regulators. Venkman looks up at the Statue of Liberty looming above them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it? <b> WINSTON </b> Wonder what? <b> VENKMAN </b> If she's naked under that toga. She's French, you know. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's nothing under that toga but 300 tons of iron and steel. Stantz is looking worried. <b> STANTZ </b> I hope we have enough stuff to do the job. <b> VENKMAN </b> Only one way to find out. (to Stantz) Ready, Teddy? They enter the statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters are working from the iron staircase that spirals straight up 100 feet inside the hollow super-structure of the statue. Spengler and Winston are busy assembling hundreds of wires connected to various relays on the interior surface of the statue. Venkman and Stantz are mounting large auditorium loudspeakers near the top of the staircase. They finish the installation, then Stantz dons one of the new backpacks and gives the order. <b> STANTZ </b> Okay, boys. Let's frost it. They begin hosing the inside of the statue with the psycho-reactive slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine watches as Louis, wearing a Ghostbuster uniform, slings a heavy proton pack onto his back. <b> JANINE </b> I'm not sure this is such a good idea? Do they know you're doing this? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, yeah, sure -- no. But there's really not much to do here and they might need some back-up at the museum. <b> JANINE </b> You're very brave, Louis. Good luck. She kisses Louis and he gets extremely self-conscious. <b> LOUIS </b> Uh -- oh -- well, I better hurry. He rushes out. <b>EXT STREET OUTSIDE FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> Louis stands on the street corner waiting for a bus. Finally, a bus pulls up, Louis climbs aboard and finds Slimer behind the wheel. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - OBSERVATION DECK - MOMENTS LATER </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are standing in the observation windows in the crown of the statue. It looks like they're on the bridge of an ocean liner, then the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the head of the statue. <b>STANTZ </b> He plugs the main cable lead into a transformer. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all yours, Pete. (checks his watch) There's not much time left. Venkman plugs the speaker cable into a Walkman and gives a downbeat. <b> VENKMAN </b> (giving the downbeat) Okay, one, two, three, four -- He hits "Play" on the Walkman and "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BOOMS from the huge SPEAKERS, amplified by the statue's vast hollow interior. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The head of the statue lurches suddenly, but the Ghostbusters cling to the rail and manage to keep their feet. <b> STANTZ </b> She's moving! <b> WINSTON </b> I've lived in New York all my life and I never visited the Statue of Liberty. Now I finally get here and we're taking her out for a walk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (reading the Giga-meter) We've got full power. Stantz picks up a Nintendo control paddle from a home video game and starts pushing the buttons. <b> VENKMAN </b> (into a microphone) Okay, Libby. Let's get it in gear. They feel a strong vibration and the statue starts to move. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. SOUTH STREET SEAPORT - NIGHT </b> New Years Eve celebrants line the riverfront, pointing and gawking at an incredible sight. <b>EXT. EAST RIVER - THEIR POV - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The statue is moving up the river almost completely submerged, only her head from the nose up is visible above the surface. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks out apprehensively. <b> WINSTON </b> How deep does it get? That water's cold and I can't swim. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's okay. I have my Senior Lifesaving card. <b> SPENGLER </b> With a water temperature of forty degrees we'd survive approximately fifteen minutes. Stantz studies a maritime navigational chart. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll keep to the middle of the channel. We're okay to 59th Street, then we'll go ashore and take First Avenue to 79th. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you kidding? We'll hit all that bridge traffic at 59th. I'm going to take 72nd straight up to Fifth. Trust me, I used to drive a cab. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RIVERFRONT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Spectators cheer wildly, inspired by the sight of the Statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz is sitting next to Dana, still wheedling her with promises and self-serving logic. <b> JANOSZ </b> Time is running out, Dana. Soon it will be midnight and the city will be mine -- and Vigo's. Well, mainly Vigo's. But we have a spectacular opportunity to make the best of our relationship. <b> DANA </b> We don't have a relationship. <b> JANOSZ </b> I know. Marry me, Dana, and together we will raise Vigo as our son. There are many perks that come with being the mother of a living god. I'm sure he will supply for us a magnificent apartment. And perhaps a car and free parking. <b> DANA </b> I hate and despise you and everything you stand for with all my heart and soul. I could never forgive what you've done to me and my child. <b> JANOSZ </b> Many marriages begin with a certain amount of distance, but after a while I believe we could learn to love each other. Think about it. <b> DANA </b> I'd rather not. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> People are jammed together shoulder to shoulder filling Times Square, watching the big Seiko clock count down the last ten minutes to midnight. Suddenly, they look down Broadway and see a magnificent sight. <b>EXT. BROADWAY - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue of Liberty is walking up Broadway approaching 42nd Street, with "Higher and Higher" BOOMING from the SPEAKERS inside. A great cheer goes up, and the crowd goes wild with joy, dancing and singing along with the MUSIC. <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS) </b> Spengler reads the Giga-meter. <b> SPENGLER </b> It's working. The positive GeV's are climbing. <b> VENKMAN </b> (patting the Statue) They love you, Lib. Keep it up. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The avenue has been closed to traffic and barricades placed, blocking all the side streets. A squadron of police motorcycles comes speeding around the corner at 72nd Street and proceeds up Fifth Avenue in the direction of the museum. Then MUSIC is heard BOOMING in the distance, the ground shakes and the Statue of Liberty comes walking around the corner onto Fifth Avenue followed by a wildly cheering throng. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters can see the museum ahead. <b> VENKMAN </b> So far so good. <b> SPENGLER </b> (worried) I'm worried. The vibrations could shake her to pieces. We should have padded her feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I don't think they make Nikes in her size. <b> VENKMAN </b> We're almost there, Lib. (to Stantz) Step on it. <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue's huge foot comes down and squashes a car. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters look down at the flattened car. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts out the window) My Fault! <b> VENKMAN </b> (shouts) She's new in town. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is painting the last of the mystical symbols on the baby's chest. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> The people still in the square start counting off the last ten seconds to midnight and the New Year. <b> CROWD </b> (chanting) Ten .. nine ... eight ... seven ... <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> A strange light spreads over the painting. As the light moves onto his face, Vigo spreads his arms wide and his upper body starts to emerge from the canvas. <b> VIGO </b> Soon my life begins. Then woe to the weak, all power to me, the world is mine. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ - NIGHT </b> The baby's body begins to glow as Vigo reaches out for it. Then suddenly a dark shadow falls across the skylight. Janosz looks up. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ'S POV - SKYLIGHT - NIGHT </b> The Statue of Liberty is looming over the skylight looking down on Janosz with an expression of righteous anger on it's face. <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Kneeling beside the museum, the statue draws back it's mighty right arm and smashes the skylight with its torch. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz retreats from the shower of broken glass as the Ghostbusters come sliding down ropes into the studio and confront Janosz with their new weapons. Quick as a flash, Dana seizes the moment, dashes across the studio and snatches the baby from Vigo's outstretched arms. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) Happy New Year. <b>INT. MUSEUM - VIGO PAINTING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Vigo bellows in rage. <b>INT. MUSEUM - STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz steps in front of the painting. <b> SPENGLER </b> Hi there. Feel free to try something stupid. Janosz sneers, trusting the invincibility of Vigo. <b> JANOSZ </b> You pitiful, miserable creatures! You dare to challenge the power of darkness? Don't you realize what you are dealing with? He's Vigo! You are like the buzzing of flies to him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (sighs) Oh, Johnny. Did you back the wrong horse. With that, the Ghostbusters fire their slime-blowers and hose Janosz from head to toe, blowing him into the corner. Then they turn to Vigo. <b>VIGO </b> He is now almost completely out of the painting, but still held from the knees down. He spits and rages at the Ghostbusters, trying to unleash his magic powers. <b>THE GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They stand fast, secure in the knowledge that Vigo's power has been neutralized by the good will of the people. <b> STANTZ </b> Vigi, Vigi, Vigi -- you have been a bad little monkey. <b> VENKMAN </b> The whole city's together on this one. We took a vote. Everybody's down on you, you know. <b> WINSTON </b> (arming his slime-blower) Say goodnight now. Suddenly Vigo grabs Stantz by the neck and holds him up as a shield. <b> SPENGLER </b> Don't shoot! You'll hit Ray! <b> STANTZ </b> (strangling) Do it! Just do it! Winston fires and hoses both Vigo and Ray. <b>VIGO </b> He bellows and drops Ray, then falls back into the painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> The paint turns liquid, melts off the canvas and runs onto the floor revealing another painting underneath it. <b>INT. MUSEUM - GHOSTBUSTERS - NIGHT (AFTER BATTLE) </b> Venkman, Spengler and Winston rush over to Ray and kneel beside him. He is completely covered with slime and motionless. <b> SPENGLER </b> (examining him) He's breathing. Winston wipes the slime off Ray's face and Ray opens his eyes. <b> WINSTON </b> Ray -- Ray -- How do you feel, man? <b> STANTZ </b> (smiles lovingly) Groovy. I've never felt better in my life. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, no. We've got to live with this? They pull him to his feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I love you guys. You're the best friends I've ever had. He hugs them each in turn, leaving them slimed as well. Venkman recoils in disgust. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey, I just had this suit cleaned. (indicating Janosz) Take care of the wiggler, will you. Venkman crosses to Dana who is snuggling the baby. She hugs Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> What is this -- a love in? (notes the symbols painted on the baby's body) Hey, sailor. I think the tattoos are a little much, don't you? He picks up the baby. <b> DANA </b> (to Venkman) I think he likes you. I think I do too. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finally came to your senses, huh? They hug and kiss. <b>SPENGLER, WINSTON AND STANTZ </b> They help Janosz to his feet. He's dazed but unhurt. <b> JANOSZ </b> (restored to normalcy) What happened? <b> STANTZ </b> (calmly) Sir, you had a violent, prolonged, transformative psychic episode. But it's over now. Want a coffee? <b> JANOSZ </b> (extremely nice) That's very kind of you. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) He's fine, Ray. Physically intact, psychomagnetherically neutral. <b> JANOSZ </b> Is that good? <b> WINSTON </b> It's where you want to be. As they exit they stop to examine the painting that was concealed by Vigo's self-portrait. <b> SPENGLER </b> Late Renaissance, I think. Caravaggio or Brunelleschi. <b> WINSTON </b> (staring at it) There's something very familiar about this painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - NEW PAINTING - NIGHT </b> It's a beautiful painting in the high-Renaissance style depicting four archangels hovering protectively over a cherubic baby. One holds a harp, one, an olive branch, the third, a book, and the last, a sword. Most remarkably, their faces bear an uncanny resemblance to Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A city bus pulls up near the museum and Louis steps off. He waves his thanks to Slimer who is behind the wheel. <b> LOUIS </b> (to Slimer) Okay, so Monday night we'll get something to eat and maybe go bowling? Can you bowl with those little arms? SLIMER GRUNTS and SLOBBERS a reply, flexing his scrawny biceps. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, I have to go save Dana. I'll see you later. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are greeted by wild cheering and applause as they come out the main entrance with Dana and the baby. Everybody starts singing "Auld Lang Syne." Louis picks his way through the celebrating crowd and finds the Ghostbusters. <b> LOUIS </b> Am I too late? <b> STANTZ </b> No, you're right on time. Stantz pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and hands it to him. <b>EXT. MUSEUM ENTRANCE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Hardemeyer staggers out of the museum covered in slime. He looks at the celebrating crowd and his eyes fill with tears. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (weepy) Happy New Year, everybody! He joins in on "Auld Lang Syne." <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The Statue of Liberty is sprawled inert on her back in the park behind the museum, her toga up over her knees. The Mayor looks nearly suicidal. The Ghostbusters stand beside him commiserating. <b> VENKMAN </b> She's all right. She's just sleeping it off. <b> MAYOR </b> (stricken) We just had it restored. <b> VENKMAN </b> This probably isn't a good time to bring this up, but the last time we did a job for the city you stiffed us. <b> STANTZ </b> (handing the Mayor an invoice) This is a bill for tonight's job. The Mayor looks at it and gasps at the amount. <b> MAYOR </b> What! This is way too much. (hands the bill back to Venkman) We won't pay. Venkman looks at the Statue. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) I think she looks pretty good here, don't you? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, and a lot easier to get to than that island. Realizing he has no alternative, the Mayor sighs and takes the bill back. <b> MAYOR </b> All right, all right. If you can wait until Monday I'll issue you a check. <b> SPENGLER </b> Sorry. No checks. Company policy. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND - DAY (WEEKS LATER) </b> The sun is shining brightly and Liberty is back on her pedestal where she belongs. The Mayor and a host of officials are commemorating her return. The Ghostbusters, Dana, Janine and Louis are there as honored guests. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking up at the statue) Pretty impressive, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> (musing) It's probably the first thing my grandparents saw when they came to this country. <b> VENKMAN </b> From where -- Neptune? <b> SPENGLER </b> They came from Ostrov in Eastern Poland. <b> VENKMAN </b> Ostrov? I've been there. Good party town. <b> STANTZ </b> (in a similarly reflective mood) My great-grandparents were Swiss. I still have the pictures they took of the statue from the boat when they arrived. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, right, you told me that. They came to America seeking other kinds of cheese, as I recall. How about you, Winston? <b> WINSTON </b> My people weren't taking any pictures from those slave ships, man. And there wasn't any Statue in Charleston Harbor to welcome them, either. What are you, Dana? <b> VENKMAN </b> Miss Blue Blood? Her family's been here since the year 12. <b> DANA </b> That's not true. It was 1620. <b> VENKMAN </b> Same difference. <b> STANTZ </b> What's your story, Pete? <b> VENKMAN </b> Me? I'm a little of everything. Some Irish, some German, some French, Dutch -- the women in my family slept around. And that's what made this country great. <b> DANA </b> That's a terrible thing to say. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what? It's a free country. (looking up at the Statue) Thanks, Lib. They all look up at the Statue. <b>EXT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - HEAD OF STATUE - DAY </b> Slimer flies out one of the observation windows, THEME MUSIC KICKS IN and the CAMERA PULLS UP and AWAY FROM the island TO a HIGH SHOT of the Statue, lower Manhattan and the shining sea beyond. <b> FADE OUT. </b> <b> THE END </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How is Mary initially educated?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Nature and books" ]	23,312	narrativeqa	en	null	507378fadb4447d3f857ab09512a7bf0cae2c34083e449c6	E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Janet Blenkinship, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/) Transcriber's note: The author is Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-1797). MARY, A Fiction L'exercice des plus sublimes vertus éleve et nourrit le génie. ROUSSEAU. London, Printed for J. Johnson, St. Paul's Church-Yard. MDCCLXXXVIII ADVERTISEMENT. In delineating the Heroine of this Fiction, the Author attempts to develop a character different from those generally portrayed. This woman is neither a Clarissa, a Lady G----, nor a[A] Sophie.--It would be vain to mention the various modifications of these models, as it would to remark, how widely artists wander from nature, when they copy the originals of great masters. They catch the gross parts; but the subtile spirit evaporates; and not having the just ties, affectation disgusts, when grace was expected to charm. Those compositions only have power to delight, and carry us willing captives, where the soul of the author is exhibited, and animates the hidden springs. Lost in a pleasing enthusiasm, they live in the scenes they represent; and do not measure their steps in a beaten track, solicitous to gather expected flowers, and bind them in a wreath, according to the prescribed rules of art. These chosen few, wish to speak for themselves, and not to be an echo--even of the sweetest sounds--or the reflector of the most sublime beams. The[B] paradise they ramble in, must be of their own creating--or the prospect soon grows insipid, and not varied by a vivifying principle, fades and dies. In an artless tale, without episodes, the mind of a woman, who has thinking powers is displayed. The female organs have been thought too weak for this arduous employment; and experience seems to justify the assertion. Without arguing physically about _possibilities_--in a fiction, such a being may be allowed to exist; whose grandeur is derived from the operations of its own faculties, not subjugated to opinion; but drawn by the individual from the original source. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Rousseau.] [Footnote B: I here give the Reviewers an opportunity of being very witty about the Paradise of Fools, &c.] MARY CHAP. I. Mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who married Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that stamp. She carefully attended to the _shews_ of things, and her opinions, I should have said prejudices, were such as the generality approved of. She was educated with the expectation of a large fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of her attendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she never imagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions of her own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, and the years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments, without having any taste for them. When she was first introduced into the polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wished to be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in a more distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, and promised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool,) as in duty bound. While they resided in London, they lived in the usual fashionable style, and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when they wooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful country, where Nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around; for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved, and sought amusement in country sports. He hunted in the morning, and after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not enliven, it is not necessary to say which a _gourmand_ would give the preference to. Their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely more agreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor. Her voice was but the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, so relaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing. Many such noughts are there in the female world! yet she had a good opinion of her own merit,--truly, she said long prayers,--and sometimes read her Week's Preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarly called _hell_, the regions below; but whether her's was a mounting spirit, I cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet would have been proper for her, when she left her _material_ part in this world, let metaphysicians settle; I have nothing to say to her unclothed spirit. As she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her French waiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications, and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes from the glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodily dissipation, novels. I say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rational one can find no employment in polite circles. The glare of lights, the studied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at the shrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses. When she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, she tried another. The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and some other interesting tales were perused with eagerness. Nothing could be more natural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking than the views of the human heart. What delicate struggles! and uncommonly pretty turns of thought! The picture that was found on a bramble-bush, the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by the upper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait.--Fatal image!--It planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent a new kind of a knight-errant into the world. But even this was nothing to the catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornet settling on the sleeping lover's face. What a _heart-rending_ accident! She planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; but there was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered it with her tears.--Alas! Alas! If my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me credit for genius, I would go on and tell them such tales as would force the sweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautiful cheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, &c. &c. Nay, I would make it so interesting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser to settle the curls himself, and not interrupt her. She had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who shared her bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day. These she watched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmest caresses. This fondness for animals was not that kind of _attendrissement_ which makes a person take pleasure in providing for the subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded from vanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest French expressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attuned by tenderness. She was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that is, she did not make any actual _faux pas_; she feared the world, and was indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, she read all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had she thought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as she accompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them by the clear light of the moon. She wondered her husband did not stay at home. She was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze her hand, and look unutterable things? Gentle reader, I will tell thee; they neither of them felt what they could not utter. I will not pretend to say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of those feelings which are not easily analyzed. CHAP. II. In due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following year a daughter. After the mother's throes she felt very few sentiments of maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and she played with her dogs. Want of exercise prevented the least chance of her recovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on a consumption, to which her constitution tended. Her children all died in their infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of the son, as he was remarkably handsome. For years she divided her time between the sofa, and the card-table. She thought not of death, though on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her station occur to her as necessary. Her children were left in the nursery; and when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the awkward thing away. To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a house without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and she scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old house-keeper told her stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read. Her mother talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and, in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French. As she had learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in her way. Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and learned to think. She had heard of a separate state, and that angels sometimes visited this earth. She would sit in a thick wood in the park, and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them to tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweet and touching. Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was glad that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself about them. She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband was very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness, and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart through life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her own.--She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when she was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse. Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which she imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and confidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new world. Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious distress. She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concluded animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice of man; but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year after year rolled on, her mother still vegetating. A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her great attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child while she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the first began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every part of it. The impression that this accident made was indelible. As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to exert herself, her health would soon be re-established. In general he treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and visibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she could not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from the gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of it, she was pinched by hunger. She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner was she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the slave of compassion. CHAP. III. Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune; and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a distant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just at this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they took no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her natural disposition was very different. She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb; and now she had another motive to actuate her. As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend, mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their intercourse more agreeable. Young people are mostly fond of scribbling; Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend's letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes. As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits were fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain on account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter. Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these consequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, she found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the offspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran to her with delight, and not perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann's countenance, she has shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressions seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility. She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all reflection. In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and exercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her own unsettled mind. CHAP. IV. Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were, literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested, and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river. Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea. This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there. When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observe the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, she admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in existence, and darted into futurity. One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. A clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple of Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost. At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure. In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had not animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones which look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving more light to the beholders than they receive themselves. Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or comforted them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent, that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less interested observer. In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read, and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became a part of her mind. Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her Creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were mostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted to contemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think of the voice that could still the tumultuous deep. These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out those which the soil would have a tendency to nurse. Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination has strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity. Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, _conversing_ with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her own composing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end her various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth, which afterwards more fully unfolded itself. She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under the influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with redoubled force. Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her ecstacies arose from genius. She was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; and perusing the scriptures, and discussing some points of doctrine which puzzled her, she would sit up half the night, her favourite time for employing her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through a glass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectual researches, is one of the trials of a probationary state. But her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and she eagerly desired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor. The night before the important day, when she was to take on herself her baptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on her meditations, and found her not exhausted by her watching. The orient pearls were strewed around--she hailed the morn, and sung with wild delight, Glory to God on high, good will towards men. She was indeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternal preservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; and the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthly passions made it grow languid. These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the luxuriant shoots restrained by culture. The servants and the poor adored her. In order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, she practiced the most rigid oeconomy, and had such power over her appetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered them so entirely, that when her understanding or affections had an object, she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment. This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the passions. We will now enter on the more active field of life. CHAP. V. A few months after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was attacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach the school. She was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her of consequence, and did not call her _the child_. Proper masters were sent for; she was taught to dance, and an extraordinary master procured to perfect her in that most necessary of all accomplishments. A part of the estate she was to inherit had been litigated, and the heir of the person who still carried on a Chancery suit, was only two years younger than our heroine. The fathers, spite of the dispute, frequently met, and, in order to settle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle, determined to quash it by a marriage, and, by uniting the two estates, to preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their different claims. While this important matter was settling, Mary was otherwise employed. Ann's mother's resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty, made hasty strides to catch them in his clutches. Ann had not fortitude enough to brave such accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm was lodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. She denied herself every little comfort; things that would be no sacrifice when a person is well, are absolutely necessary to alleviate bodily pain, and support the animal functions. There were many elegant amusements, that she had acquired a relish for, which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; but these her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of relaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil he taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination, and that taste invigorated love. Poverty, and all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother's abode; and she, though a good sort of a woman, was not calculated to banish, by her trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was lost. This ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, a delicacy so truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold her without wishing to chase her sorrows away. She was timid and irresolute, and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to make her reflect. In every thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty, that caught her attention. And in composition, the polish of style, and harmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius, or abstracted speculations. She often wondered at the books Mary chose, who, though she had a lively imagination, would frequently study authors whose works were addressed to the understanding. This liking taught her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herself, even when under the influence of the most violent passions. Ann's misfortunes and ill health were strong ties to bind Mary to her; she wished so continually to have a home to receive her in, that it drove every other desire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tender schemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she longed most ardently to put them in practice. Fondly as she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whose decline was so imperceptible, that they were not aware of her approaching dissolution. The physician, however, observing the most alarming symptoms; her husband was apprised of her immediate danger; and then first mentioned to her his designs with respect to his daughter. She approved of them; Mary was sent for; she was not at home; she had rambled to visit Ann, and found her in an hysteric fit. The landlord of her little farm had sent his agent for the rent, which had long been due to him; and he threatened to seize the stock that still remained, and turn them out, if they did not very shortly discharge the arrears. As this man made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of the person to whom he was deputy, little was to be expected from his forbearance. All this was told to Mary--and the mother added, she had many other creditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch from them all that had been saved out of the wreck. "I could bear all," she cried; "but what will become of my children? Of this child," pointing to the fainting Ann, "whose constitution is already undermined by care and grief--where will she go?"--Mary's heart ceased to beat while she asked the question--She attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds died away. Before she had recovered herself, her father called himself to enquire for her; and desired her instantly to accompany him home. Engrossed by the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walked silently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours to live; and before she could return him any answer, informed her that they had both determined to marry her to Charles, his friend's son; he added, the ceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witness of it; for such a desire she had expressed with childish eagerness. Overwhelmed by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, with a vacant stare, fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longer a sense; they conveyed no ideas to the brain. As she drew near the house, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension of thought, a thousand darted into her mind,--her dying mother,--her friend's miserable situation,--and an extreme horror at taking--at being forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the reluctance, which arises from a prior attachment. She loved Ann better than any one in the world--to snatch her from the very jaws of destruction--she would have encountered a lion. To have this friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect to her family, would it not be superlative bliss? Full of these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they then fled at the sight of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; it feebly pressed her's. "My child," said the languid mother: the words reached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accents denoting affection; "My child, I have not always treated you with kindness--God forgive me! do you?"--Mary's tears strayed in a disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve the fluttering tenant. "I forgive you!" said she, in a tone of astonishment. The clergyman came in to read the service for the sick, and afterwards the marriage ceremony was performed. Mary stood like a statue of Despair, and pronounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and then ran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms. Her husband set off for the continent the same day, with a tutor, to finish his studies at one of the foreign universities. Ann was sent for to console her, not on account of the departure of her new relation, a boy she seldom took any notice of, but to reconcile her to her fate; besides, it was necessary she should have a female companion, and there was not any maiden aunt in the family, or cousin of the same class. CHAP. VI. Mary was allowed to pay the rent which gave her so much uneasiness, and she exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to succour the family; but the utmost she could obtain was a small sum very inadequate to the purpose, to enable the poor woman to carry into execution a little scheme of industry near the metropolis. Her intention of leaving that part of the country, had much more weight with him, than Mary's arguments, drawn from motives of philanthropy and friendship; this was a language he did not understand; expressive of occult qualities he never thought of, as they could not be seen or felt. After the departure of her mother, Ann still continued to languish, though she had a nurse who was entirely engrossed by the desire of amusing her. Had her health been re-established, the time would have passed in a tranquil, improving manner. During the year of mourning they lived in retirement; music, drawing, and reading, filled up the time; and Mary's taste and judgment were both improved by contracting a habit of observation, and permitting the simple beauties of Nature to occupy her thoughts. She had a wonderful quickness in discerning distinctions and combining ideas, that at the first glance did not appear to be similar. But these various pursuits did not banish all her cares, or carry off all her constitutional black bile. Before she enjoyed Ann's society, she imagined it would have made her completely happy: she was disappointed, and yet knew not what to complain of. As her friend could not accompany her in her walks, and wished to be alone, for a very obvious reason, she would return to her old haunts, retrace her anticipated pleasures--and wonder how they changed their colour in possession, and proved so futile. She had not yet found the companion she looked for. Ann and she were not congenial minds, nor did she contribute to her comfort in the degree she expected. She shielded her from poverty; but this was only a negative blessing; when under the pressure it was very grievous, and still more so were the apprehensions; but when exempt from them, she was not contented. Such is human nature, its laws were not to be inverted to gratify our heroine, and stop the progress of her understanding, happiness only flourished in paradise--we cannot taste and live. Another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. Ann had a hectic cough, and many unfavourable prognostics: Mary then forgot every thing but the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery would have made her happy. Her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only read books of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended in vanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what she could not prevent. As her mind expanded, her marriage appeared a dreadful misfortune; she was sometimes reminded of the heavy yoke, and bitter was the recollection! In one thing there seemed to be a sympathy between them, for she wrote formal answers to his as formal letters. An extreme dislike took root in her mind; the found of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all, listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame. She would then catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness, as if to save her from sinking into an opening grave. CHAP. VII. It was the will of Providence that Mary should experience almost every species of sorrow. Her father was thrown from his horse, when his blood was in a very inflammatory state, and the bruises were very dangerous; his recovery was not expected by the physical tribe. Terrified at seeing him so near death, and yet so ill prepared for it, his daughter sat by his bed, oppressed by the keenest anguish, which her piety increased. Her grief had nothing selfish in it; he was not a friend or protector; but he was her father, an unhappy wretch, going into eternity, depraved and thoughtless. Could a life of sensuality be a preparation for a peaceful death? Thus meditating, she passed the still midnight hour by his bedside. The nurse fell asleep, nor did a violent thunder storm interrupt her repose, though it made the night appear still more terrific to Mary. Her father's unequal breathing alarmed her, when she heard a long drawn breath, she feared it was his last, and watching for another, a dreadful peal of thunder struck her ears. Considering the separation of the soul and body, this night seemed sadly solemn, and the hours long. Death is indeed a king of terrors when he attacks the vicious man! The compassionate heart finds not any comfort; but dreads an eternal separation. No transporting greetings are anticipated, when the survivors also shall have finished their course; but all is black!--the grave may truly be said to receive the departed--this is the sting of death! Night after night Mary watched, and this excessive fatigue impaired her own health, but had a worse effect on Ann; though she constantly went to bed, she could not rest; a number of uneasy thoughts obtruded themselves; and apprehensions about Mary, whom she loved as well as her exhausted heart could love, harassed her mind. After a sleepless, feverish night she had a violent fit of coughing, and burst a blood-vessel. The physician, who was in the house, was sent for, and when he left the patient, Mary, with an authoritative voice, insisted on knowing his real opinion. Reluctantly he gave it, that her friend was in a critical state; and if she passed the approaching winter in England, he imagined she would die in the spring; a season fatal to consumptive disorders. The spring!--Her husband was then expected.--Gracious Heaven, could she bear all this. In a few days her father breathed his last. The horrid sensations his death occasioned were too poignant to be durable: and Ann's danger, and her own situation, made Mary deliberate what mode of conduct she should pursue. She feared this event might hasten the return of her husband, and prevent her putting into execution a plan she had determined on. It was to accompany Ann to a more salubrious climate. CHAP. VIII. I mentioned before, that Mary had never had any particular attachment, to give rise to the disgust that daily gained ground. Her friendship for Ann occupied her heart, and resembled a passion. She had had, indeed, several transient likings; but they did not amount to love. The society of men of genius delighted her, and improved her faculties. With beings of this class she did not often meet; it is a rare genus; her first favourites were men past the meridian of life, and of a philosophic turn. Determined on going to the South of France, or Lisbon; she wrote to the man she had promised to obey. The physicians had said change of air was necessary for her as well as her friend. She mentioned this, and added, "Her comfort, almost her existence, depended on the recovery of the invalid she wished to attend; and that should she neglect to follow the medical advice she had received, she should never forgive herself, or those who endeavoured to prevent her." Full of her design, she wrote with more than usual freedom; and this letter was like most of her others, a transcript of her heart. "This dear friend," she exclaimed, "I love for her agreeable qualities, and substantial virtues. Continual attention to her health, and the tender office of a nurse, have created an affection very like a maternal one--I am her only support, she leans on me--could I forsake the forsaken, and break the bruised reed--No--I would die first! I must--I will go." She would have added, "you would very much oblige me by consenting;" but her heart revolted--and irresolutely she wrote something about wishing him happy.--"Do I not wish all the world well?" she cried, as she subscribed her name--It was blotted, the letter sealed in a hurry, and sent out of her sight; and she began to prepare for her journey. By the return of the post she received an answer; it contained some common-place remarks on her romantic friendship, as he termed it; "But as the physicians advised change of air, he had no objection." CHAP. IX. There was nothing now to retard their journey; and Mary chose Lisbon rather than France, on account of its being further removed from the only person she wished not to see. They set off accordingly for Falmouth, in their way to that city. The journey was of use to Ann, and Mary's spirits were raised by her recovered looks--She had been in despair--now she gave way to hope, and was intoxicated with it. On ship-board Ann always remained in the cabin; the sight of the water terrified her: on the contrary, Mary, after she was gone to bed, or when she fell asleep in the day, went on deck, conversed with the sailors, and surveyed the boundless expanse before her with delight. One instant she would regard the ocean, the next the beings who braved its fury. Their insensibility and want of fear, she could not name courage; their thoughtless mirth was quite of an animal kind, and their feelings as impetuous and uncertain as the element they plowed. They had only been a week at sea when they hailed the rock of Lisbon, and the next morning anchored at the castle. After the customary visits, they were permitted to go on shore, about three miles from the city; and while one of the crew, who understood the language, went to procure them one of the ugly carriages peculiar to the country, they waited in the Irish convent, which is situated close to the Tagus. Some of the people offered to conduct them into the church, where there was a fine organ playing; Mary followed them, but Ann preferred staying with a nun she had entered into conversation with. One of the nuns, who had a sweet voice, was singing; Mary was struck with awe; her heart joined in the devotion; and tears of gratitude and tenderness flowed from her eyes. My Father, I thank thee! burst from her--words were inadequate to express her feelings. Silently, she surveyed the lofty dome; heard unaccustomed sounds; and saw faces, strange ones, that she could not yet greet with fraternal love. In an unknown land, she considered that the Being she adored inhabited eternity, was ever present in unnumbered worlds. When she had not any one she loved near her, she was particularly sensible of the presence of her Almighty Friend. The arrival of the carriage put a stop to her speculations; it was to conduct them to an hotel, fitted up for the reception of invalids. Unfortunately, before they could reach it there was a violent shower of rain; and as the wind was very high, it beat against the leather curtains, which they drew along the front of the vehicle, to shelter themselves from it; but it availed not, some of the rain forced its way, and Ann felt the effects of it, for she caught cold, spite of Mary's precautions. As is the custom, the rest of the invalids, or lodgers, sent to enquire after their health; and as soon as Ann left her chamber, in which her complaints seldom confined her the whole day, they came in person to pay their compliments. Three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; the one a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other an invalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. They entered into conversation immediately. People who meet in a strange country, and are all together in a house, soon get acquainted, without the formalities which attend visiting in separate houses, where they are surrounded by domestic friends. Ann was particularly delighted at meeting with agreeable society; a little hectic fever generally made her low-spirited in the morning, and lively in the evening, when she wished for company. Mary, who only thought of her, determined to cultivate their acquaintance, as she knew, that if her mind could be diverted, her body might gain strength. They were all musical, and proposed having little concerts. One of the gentlemen played on the violin, and the other on the german-flute. The instruments were brought in, with all the eagerness that attends putting a new scheme in execution. Mary had not said much, for she was diffident; she seldom joined in general conversations; though her quickness of penetration enabled her soon to enter into the characters of those she conversed with; and her sensibility made her desirous of pleasing every human creature. Besides, if her mind was not occupied by any particular sorrow, or study, she caught reflected pleasure, and was glad to see others happy, though their mirth did not interest her. This day she was continually thinking of Ann's recovery, and encouraging the cheerful hopes, which though they dissipated the spirits that had been condensed by melancholy, yet made her wish to be silent. The music, more than the conversation, disturbed her reflections; but not at first. The gentleman who played on the german-flute, was a handsome, well-bred, sensible man; and his observations, if not original, were pertinent. The other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and played a little Scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of the instrument, that Mary started, and looking at him with more attention than she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong lines of genius. His manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which is often found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered his opinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice. When the concert was over, they all retired to their apartments. Mary always slept with Ann, as she was subject to terrifying dreams; and frequently in the night was obliged to be supported, to avoid suffocation. They chatted about their new acquaintance in their own apartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion. CHAP. X. Every day almost they saw their new acquaintance; and civility produced intimacy. Mary sometimes left her friend with them; while she indulged herself in viewing new modes of life, and searching out the causes which produced them. She had a metaphysical turn, which inclined her to reflect on every object that passed by her; and her mind was not like a mirror, which receives every floating image, but does not retain them: she had not any prejudices, for every opinion was examined before it was adopted. The Roman Catholic ceremonies attracted her attention, and gave rise to conversations when they all met; and one of the gentlemen continually introduced deistical notions, when he ridiculed the pageantry they all were surprised at observing. Mary thought of both the subjects, the Romish tenets, and the deistical doubts; and though not a sceptic, thought it right to examine the evidence on which her faith was built. She read Butler's Analogy, and some other authors: and these researches made her a christian from conviction, and she learned charity, particularly with respect to sectaries; saw that apparently good and solid arguments might take their rise from different points of view; and she rejoiced to find that those she should not concur with had some reason on their side. CHAP. XI. When I mentioned the three ladies, I said they were fashionable women; and it was all the praise, as a faithful historian, I could bestow on them; the only thing in which they were consistent. I forgot to mention that they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. The daughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the mother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her. They were people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancient family, the title had descended to a very remote branch--a branch they took care to be intimate with; and servilely copied the Countess's airs. Their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerning propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which always hamper weak people. What will the world say? was the first thing that was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had not done before. Or what would the Countess do on such an occasion? And when this question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered without the trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads. This same Countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a most harmonic dance around her. After this account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds had received very little cultivation. They were taught French, Italian, and Spanish; English was their vulgar tongue. And what did they learn? Hamlet will tell you--words--words. But let me not forget that they squalled Italian songs in the true _gusto_. Without having any seeds sown in their understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work, they were brought out of their nursery, or the place they were secluded in, to prevent their faces being common; like blazing stars, to captivate Lords. They were pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another, occasioned the disorder which required change of air. The mother, if we except her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature; and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciously adhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, some trivial points of ceremony, as a matter of the last importance; of which she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionable world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do to the sun. It appears to me that every creature has some notion--or rather relish, of the sublime. Riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime of weak minds:--These images fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls. One afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, Ann was so ill, that Mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending the tea-table. The apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, with a look of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name was Henry, and said; "Though people of the first fashion are frequently at places of this kind, intimate with they know not who; yet I do not choose that my daughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with any one she would blush to know elsewhere. It is only on that account, for I never suffer her to be with any one but in my company," added she, sitting more erect; and a smile of self-complacency dressed her countenance. "I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune." "Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a romantic creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the large fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard the Countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much admired; but she is married." She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who picked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls. "She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed, and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise it. The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses like the sweet south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears almost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had taken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine she had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this welcome guest.--And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety, that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid. No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look, to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered the room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken words, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed, "I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, what a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they, "have you not a husband?" Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. A delicate sense of propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered reason.--Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyes followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange behaviour. CHAP. XII. The physician was sent for; his prescription afforded Ann a little temporary relief; and they again joined the circle. Unfortunately, the weather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confined them to the house. Ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when they sat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and, but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away in listless indolence. The bad weather had had as ill an effect on Henry as on Ann. He was frequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy would of itself have attracted Mary's notice, if she had not found his conversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group. When she conversed with him, all the faculties of her soul unfolded themselves; genius animated her expressive countenance and the most graceful, unaffected gestures gave energy to her discourse. They frequently discussed very important subjects, while the rest were singing or playing cards, nor were they observed for doing so, as Henry, whom they all were pleased with, in the way of gallantry shewed them all more attention than her. Besides, as there was nothing alluring in her dress or manner, they never dreamt of her being preferred to them. Henry was a man of learning; he had also studied mankind, and knew many of the intricacies of the human heart, from having felt the infirmities of his own. His taste was just, as it had a standard--Nature, which he observed with a critical eye. Mary could not help thinking that in his company her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. She increased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved. He was also a pious man; his rational religious sentiments received warmth from his sensibility; and, except on very particular occasions, kept it in proper bounds; these sentiments had likewise formed his temper; he was gentle, and easily to be intreated. The ridiculous ceremonies they were every day witness to, led them into what are termed grave subjects, and made him explain his opinions, which, at other times, he was neither ashamed of, nor unnecessarily brought forward to notice. CHAP. XIII. When the weather began to clear up, Mary sometimes rode out alone, purposely to view the ruins that still remained of the earthquake: or she would ride to the banks of the Tagus, to feast her eyes with the sight of that magnificent river. At other times she would visit the churches, as she was particularly fond of seeing historical paintings. One of these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party descanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soon adverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters in which they should wish to be drawn. Mary did not fix on one--when Henry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "I would give the world for your picture, with the expression I have seen in your face, when you have been supporting your friend." This delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her heart. She then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--for whom was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, so strongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown away--given in with an estate. As Mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her thoughts were employed about the objects around her. She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. She saw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers may fall from the lips without purifying the heart. They who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers, or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainly allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfish principles; how then can they be called good? The pattern of all goodness went about _doing_ good. Wrapped up in themselves, the nuns only thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of intrigues were carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts were fixed: Such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that were servile or laborious. In short, when they could be neither wives nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations? In these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of grief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step. The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow, the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart. She will find that those affections that have once been called forth and strengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, by disappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrode the heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for which there is no specific. The community at large Mary disliked; but pitied many of them whose private distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were the same things with her. The exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and dignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but never mean or cunning. CHAP. XIV. The Portuguese are certainly the most uncivilized nation in Europe. Dr. Johnson would have said, "They have the least mind.". And can such serve their Creator in spirit and in truth? No, the gross ritual of Romish ceremonies is all they can comprehend: they can do penance, but not conquer their revenge, or lust. Religion, or love, has never humanized their hearts; they want the vital part; the mere body worships. Taste is unknown; Gothic finery, and unnatural decorations, which they term ornaments, are conspicuous in their churches and dress. Reverence for mental excellence is only to be found in a polished nation. Could the contemplation of such a people gratify Mary's heart? No: she turned disgusted from the prospects--turned to a man of refinement. Henry had been some time ill and low-spirited; Mary would have been attentive to any one in that situation; but to him she was particularly so; she thought herself bound in gratitude, on account of his constant endeavours to amuse Ann, and prevent her dwelling on the dreary prospect before her, which sometimes she could not help anticipating with a kind of quiet despair. She found some excuse for going more frequently into the room they all met in; nay, she avowed her desire to amuse him: offered to read to him, and tried to draw him into amusing conversations; and when she was full of these little schemes, she looked at him with a degree of tenderness that she was not conscious of. This divided attention was of use to her, and prevented her continually thinking of Ann, whose fluctuating disorder often gave rise to false hopes. A trifling thing occurred now which occasioned Mary some uneasiness. Her maid, a well-looking girl, had captivated the clerk of a neighbouring compting-house. As the match was an advantageous one, Mary could not raise any objection to it, though at this juncture it was very disagreeable to her to have a stranger about her person. However, the girl consented to delay the marriage, as she had some affection for her mistress; and, besides, looked forward to Ann's death as a time of harvest. Henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gave Mary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interested about him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which the purity of her heart made her never wish to restrain. The only visible return he made was not obvious to common observers. He would sometimes fix his eyes on her, and take them off with a sigh that was coughed away; or when he was leisurely walking into the room, and did not expect to see her, he would quicken his steps, and come up to her with eagerness to ask some trivial question. In the same style, he would try to detain her when he had nothing to say--or said nothing. Ann did not take notice of either his or Mary's behaviour, nor did she suspect that he was a favourite, on any other account than his appearing neither well nor happy. She had often seen that when a person was unfortunate, Mary's pity might easily be mistaken for love, and, indeed, it was a temporary sensation of that kind. Such it was--why it was so, let others define, I cannot argue against instincts. As reason is cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this may have given rise to the assertion, "That as judgment improves, genius evaporates." CHAP. XV. One morning they set out to visit the aqueduct; though the day was very fine when they left home, a very heavy shower fell before they reached it; they lengthened their ride, the clouds dispersed, and the sun came from behind them uncommonly bright. Mary would fain have persuaded Ann not to have left the carriage; but she was in spirits, and obviated all her objections, and insisted on walking, tho' the ground was damp. But her strength was not equal to her spirits; she was soon obliged to return to the carriage so much fatigued, that she fainted, and remained insensible a long time. Henry would have supported her; but Mary would not permit him; her recollection was instantaneous, and she feared sitting on the damp ground might do him a material injury: she was on that account positive, though the company did not guess the cause of her being so. As to herself, she did not fear bodily pain; and, when her mind was agitated, she could endure the greatest fatigue without appearing sensible of it. When Ann recovered, they returned slowly home; she was carried to bed, and the next morning Mary thought she observed a visible change for the worse. The physician was sent for, who pronounced her to be in the most imminent danger. All Mary's former fears now returned like a torrent, and carried every other care away; she even added to her present anguish by upbraiding herself for her late tranquillity--it haunted her in the form of a crime. The disorder made the most rapid advances--there was no hope!--Bereft of it, Mary again was tranquil; but it was a very different kind of tranquillity. She stood to brave the approaching storm, conscious she only could be overwhelmed by it. She did not think of Henry, or if her thoughts glanced towards him, it was only to find fault with herself for suffering a thought to have strayed from Ann.--Ann!--this dear friend was soon torn from her--she died suddenly as Mary was assisting her to walk across the room.--The first string was severed from her heart--and this "slow, sudden-death" disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable to reflect, or even to feel her misery. The body was stolen out of the house the second night, and Mary refused to see her former companions. She desired her maid to conclude her marriage, and request her intended husband to inform her when the first merchantman was to leave the port, as the packet had just sailed, and she determined not to stay in that hated place any longer than was absolutely necessary. She then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid a parade of grief--her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not to admit of increase or softening. She was right; the sight of them did not affect her, or turn the stream of her sullen sorrow; the black wave rolled along in the same course, it was equal to her where she cast her eyes; all was impenetrable gloom. CHAP. XVI. Soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry, requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: she consented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. She ran eagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his countenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed hers seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unable to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death; but her conversation was incoherent. She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest. Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!" Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart." "I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store." "Impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that she was in love with misery. He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took very little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined: and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations, rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in order to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me: these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I was witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution is naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain some dominion over my passions. At least," added he, stifling a sigh, "over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection only renders the tender ones more tyrannic. "I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--the object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion has pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and pursuits.--I am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin I tell the sorrows I now confide with thee. The object I loved forfeited my esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequently delighted to form a creature that I could love, that could convey to my soul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conception of." He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a listening attitude, continued his little narrative. "I kept up an irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance and ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I hastened to comfort her--and was a comfort to her. "My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness. But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain. No: I have frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts; and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant. "I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending this winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had before visited the Continent." He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with the most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her friendship? If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the fate of a darling child, than he did in her's." Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that she in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant. Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it: accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection. Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. He had exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had succeeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself for defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt on Henry's misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fate was a balm to her sick mind. She did not reason on the subject; but she felt he was attached to her: lost in this delirium, she never asked herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to; nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thought with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an affection for her, and that person she admired--had a friendship for. He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by accident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His child, what an association of ideas! If I had had a father, such a father!--She could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves. Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul. Lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry's account of himself; till she actually thought she would tell Ann--a bitter recollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she begged forgiveness of her. By these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to bed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not refresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her waking train of thoughts. One instant she was supporting her dying mother; then Ann was breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her. The unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell the truth, she thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spirits in motion: but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell her that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could be accommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger on board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on that account--Mary did not want a companion. As she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first vessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for the lonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of the first fair wind. She had too much strength of mind to waver in her determination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old wounds, and made them bleed afresh. What was she to do? where go? Could she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her--her soul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the world by such mock heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!" There is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while, stills the tumult of passion. Mary's mind had been thrown off its poise; her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but less regular. She forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth, and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the first serious thought: when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to render life bearable she gave way to fancy--this was madness. In a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was very tempestuous--what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every other trifling--it was not the contending elements, but _herself_ she feared! CHAP. XVII. In order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she went out in a carriage. The day was fine; but all nature was to her a universal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she could not. She passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill she got out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did not avoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed glad to contend with it, or rather walk against it. Exhausted she returned to the carriage was soon at home, and in the old room. Henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before her complexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire. He was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and he owned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormant tenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by the present happiness of seeing, of hearing him. Once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, to depart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow; should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus she thought, and insensibly grew more calm. The Ladies prevailed on her to spend the evening with them; but she retired very early to rest, and sat on the side of her bed several hours, then threw herself on it, and waited for the dreaded to-morrow. CHAP. XVIII. The ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that she was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at the Custom-house. Henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary called up all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from the females her internal struggles. She durst not encounter Henry's glances when she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, she knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began to laugh she could not stop herself. Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such benignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and, the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained silent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn. Henry began. "You are going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind is not in a state to be left to its own operations--yet I cannot, dissuade you; if I attempted to do it, I should ill deserve the title I wish to merit. I only think of your happiness; could I obey the strongest impulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to England; but such a step might endanger your future peace." Mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explained her situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that he trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me to love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did she not fix on Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and if Ann had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some remote corner to have escaped from him. "I intend," said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall I hear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine," replied Mary. "I am well, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the most precarious state." She then mentioned her intention of going to Ann's relations. "I am her representative, I have duties to fulfil for her: during my voyage I have time enough for reflection; though I think I have already determined." "Be not too hasty, my child," interrupted Henry; "far be it from me to persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thy future life may probably take its colour from thy present mode of conduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the object you now shun may appear in a different light." He paused. "In advising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary." She only answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary--yet they can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite a part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form my taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies, and make me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives its stamp to the rest--because I am capable of loving one, I have that kind of charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked. Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly we may ascend." She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface them but death--No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be created afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted from my Ann--I could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--I could not bear to think that time could wear away an affection that was founded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt to persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose from certain modifications of it." "Dear enthusiastic creature," whispered Henry, "how you steal into my soul." She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me to adore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that he only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder strokes to them. I knew I am in some degree under the influence of a delusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am _of subtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of the imagination point to futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause in nature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule? have I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will they never be gratified? shall I never be happy? My feelings do not accord with the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of bliss, it will be the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great part of our happiness. "With these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? can I listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits, and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I wish to please--one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I am bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could I consider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awful day of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience does not smite me, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approve of what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I brave His presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary to conviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could the world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed against the feeling heart! "Riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me to sit down and enjoy them--I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I do, what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good, an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me for eternity--when I no longer see through a glass darkly I shall not reason about, but _feel_ in what happiness consists." Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and that these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well digested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour, and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He was startled, if not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestures were all persuasive. Some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue; it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in a cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary to reveal it? He wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; she knew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, or rest satisfied with any inferior gratification. When passion first enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after, and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out. CHAP. XIX. Two days passed away without any particular conversation; Henry, trying to be indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. The conflict was too violent for his present state of health; the spirit was willing, but the body suffered; he lost his appetite, and looked wretchedly; his spirits were calmly low--the world seemed to fade away--what was that world to him that Mary did not inhabit; she lived not for him. He was mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dear prop she had sunk into the grave of her lost--long-loved friend;--his attention snatched her from despair. Inscrutable are the ways of Heaven! The third day Mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the wind continued in the same point, they should set sail the next evening. She tried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not useless she appeared less agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyage with composure. On great occasions she was generally calm and collected, her resolution would brace her unstrung nerves; but after the victory she had no triumph; she would sink into a state of moping melancholy, and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was over. The morning of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone with Henry only a few moments, and an awkward kind of formality made them slip away without their having said much to each other. Henry was afraid to discover his passion, or give any other name to his regard but friendship; yet his anxious solicitude for her welfare was ever breaking out-while she as artlessly expressed again and again, her fears with respect to his declining health. "We shall soon meet," said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; she caught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not knowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room. When she was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The few precious moments I have thus thrown away may never return," she thought-the reflection led to misery. She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She could not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her more than can be well conceived. The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For a while the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry, though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his own. "My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this spot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah! no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement! Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?" Ann occupied her until they reached the ship. The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the last;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of parting with him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she looked round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time. She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole which was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. On this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable to close her eyes. A small taper made the darkness visible; and the third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment. "Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling winds and dashing waves;--on no human support can I rest--when not lost to hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to them. How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it over--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will only be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.--Yet surely, I am not alone!" Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them. "Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to be composed--to forget my Henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawn across in an agony. CHAP. XX. The mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her some refreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness or civility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted: peevishly she desired him not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when her heart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink. After drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into a death-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, on the contrary, she awoke languid and stupid. The wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had she struggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever, which sometimes gave her false spirits. The winds then became very tempestuous, the Great Deep was troubled, and all the passengers appalled. Mary then left her bed, and went on deck, to survey the contending elements: the scene accorded with the present state of her soul; she thought in a few hours I may go home; the prisoner may be released. The vessel rose on a wave and descended into a yawning gulph--Not slower did her mounting soul return to earth, for--Ah! her treasure and her heart was there. The squalls rattled amongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then die away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with a tremendous roar. In a little vessel in the midst of such a storm she was not dismayed; she felt herself independent. Just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help of a glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, drifted about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm. Mary's thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink of destruction. They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed the trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loud cries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and with ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launched their boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of the sea. Stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched the boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view--she ceased to breathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again. At last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and Mary caught the poor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them in thanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to still the raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour. Amongst the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when she was hauled on board: Mary undressed her, and when she had recovered, and soothed her, left her to enjoy the rest she required to recruit her strength, which fear had quite exhausted. She returned again to view the angry deep; and when she gazed on its perturbed state, she thought of the Being who rode on the wings of the wind, and stilled the noise of the sea; and the madness of the people--He only could speak peace to her troubled spirit! she grew more calm; the late transaction had gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself. One of the sailors, happening to say to another, "that he believed the world was going to be at an end;" this observation led her into a new train of thoughts: some of Handel's sublime compositions occurred to her, and she sung them to the grand accompaniment. The Lord God Omnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever!--Why then did she fear the sorrows that were passing away, when she knew that He would bind up the broken-hearted, and receive those who came out of great tribulation. She retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book that was now her only confident. It was after midnight. "At this solemn hour, the great day of judgment fills my thoughts; the day of retribution, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed; when all worldly distinctions will fade away, and be no more seen. I have not words to express the sublime images which the bare contemplation of this awful day raises in my mind. Then, indeed, the Lord Omnipotent will reign, and He will wipe the tearful eye, and support the trembling heart--yet a little while He hideth his face, and the dun shades of sorrow, and the thick clouds of folly separate us from our God; but when the glad dawn of an eternal day breaks, we shall know even as we are known. Here we walk by faith, and not by sight; and we have this alternative, either to enjoy the pleasures of life which are but for a season, or look forward to the prize of our high calling, and with fortitude, and that wisdom which is from above, endeavour to bear the warfare of life. We know that many run the race; but he that striveth obtaineth the crown of victory. Our race is an arduous one! How many are betrayed by traitors lodged in their own breasts, who wear the garb of Virtue, and are so near akin; we sigh to think they should ever lead into folly, and slide imperceptibly into vice. Surely any thing like happiness is madness! Shall probationers of an hour presume to pluck the fruit of immortality, before they have conquered death? it is guarded, when the great day, to which I allude, arrives, the way will again be opened. Ye dear delusions, gay deceits, farewel! and yet I cannot banish ye for ever; still does my panting soul push forward, and live in futurity, in the deep shades o'er which darkness hangs.--I try to pierce the gloom, and find a resting-place, where my thirst of knowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object to fix them. Every thing material must change; happiness and this fluctating principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, and happiness,--what are ye? How shall I grasp the mighty and fleeting conceptions ye create?" After writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of the Father of Spirits; and slept in peace. CHAP. XXI. Mary rose early, refreshed by the seasonable rest, and went to visit the poor woman, whom she found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard that she had lately buried her husband, a common sailor; and that her only surviving child had been washed over-board the day before. Full of her own danger, she scarcely thought of her child till that was over; and then she gave way to boisterous emotions. Mary endeavoured to calm her at first, by sympathizing with her; and she tried to point out the only solid source of comfort but in doing this she encountered many difficulties; she found her grossly ignorant, yet she did not despair: and as the poor creature could not receive comfort from the operations of her own mind, she laboured to beguile the hours, which grief made heavy, by adapting her conversation to her capacity. There are many minds that only receive impressions through the medium of the senses: to them did Mary address herself; she made her some presents, and promised to assist her when they should arrive in England. This employment roused her out of her late stupor, and again set the faculties of her soul in motion; made the understanding contend with the imagination, and the heart throbbed not so irregularly during the contention. How short-lived was the calm! when the English coast was descried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor.--She was to visit and comfort the mother of her lost friend--And where then should she take up her residence? These thoughts suspended the exertions of her understanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarming apprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude. CHAP. XXII. In England then landed the forlorn wanderer. She looked round for some few moments--her affections were not attracted to any particular part of the Island. She knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to which she was going: the mass of buildings appeared to her a huge body without an informing soul. As she passed through the streets in an hackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. She met some women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors, made her shrink into herself, and exclaim, are these my fellow creatures! Detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up the river in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she saw vulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first time such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight.--Forgetting her own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view of innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and could not bear to see her own species sink below them. In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the mother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did not resemble Ann. To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the unfortunate mother of her loss. The poor woman, oppressed by it, and her many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all her past misfortunes, and present cares. The heavy tale lasted until midnight, and the impression it made on Mary's mind was so strong, that it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things. She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging, and relieved her present necessities. A few days were spent in a kind of listless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thought of returning home. She had hitherto treated her with the greatest respect, and concealed her wonder at Mary's choosing a remote room in the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as if she intended living in it. Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probable she would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she could not have talked of her passion to any human creature. She deliberated, and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living with her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--Not live with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could not answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more? I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave. CHAP. XXIII. Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more intimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want of education. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind. One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she resided in, caught her eye. She accosted him; in a confused manner, he informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the bread he could not earn. Mary desired to be conducted to his habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tattered shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth; round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of festivity. It was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or singing indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yet she had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On the floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the broken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children, all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes, exhibited none of the charms of childhood. Some were fighting, and others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary was petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and, regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch, and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want. Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband for a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a shop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of horror and satisfaction. She visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary to her expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesome food had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw her rising as it were from the grave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of it till she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such an alarming progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but the disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; and Mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the crisis, the symptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, without regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low: she wanted a tender nurse. For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the woman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto supported her; as her finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try to earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse. Two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from Henry. He was sick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and all the people ungrateful. She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she wrote in her book another fragment: "Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude, disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel joy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly susceptible of misery? It is true, I have experienced the most rapturous emotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, which only serves to shew my present misery--yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and my brain--why dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why do thoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappear leave such deep traces? I could almost wish for the madman's happiness, and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe. "Oh! reason, thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when I most need thy assistance! Canst thou not calm this internal tumult, and drive away the death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me,--a sadness surely very nearly allied to despair. I am now the prey of apathy--I could wish for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimes illumined my path; I had a pursuit; but now _it visits not my haunts forlorn_. Too well have I loved my fellow creatures! I have been wounded by ingratitude; from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth. "When overwhelmed by sorrow, I have met unkindness; I looked for some one to have pity on me; but found none!--The healing balm of sympathy is denied; I weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my cheeks. I have not the medicine of life, the dear chimera I have so often chased, a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! dost thou ever visit thy poor Mary? Refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep, to see her struggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which corrode her small portion of comfort!" She could not write any more; she wished herself far distant from all human society; a thick gloom spread itself over her mind: but did not make her forget the very beings she wished to fly from. She sent for the poor woman she found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herself and children, and buy some furniture for a little hut, in a large garden, the master of which agreed to employ her husband, who had been bred a gardener. Mary promised to visit the family, and see their new abode when she was able to go out. CHAP. XXIV. Mary still continued weak and low, though it was spring, and all nature began to look gay; with more than usual brightness the sun shone, and a little robin which she had cherished during the winter sung one of his best songs. The family were particularly civil this fine morning, and tried to prevail on her to walk out. Any thing like kindness melted her; she consented. Softer emotions banished her melancholy, and she directed her steps to the habitation she had rendered comfortable. Emerging out of a dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when she had last walked out, snow covered the ground, and bleak winds pierced her through and through: now the hedges were green, the blossoms adorned the trees, and the birds sung. She reached the dwelling, without being much exhausted and while she rested there, observed the children sporting on the grass, with improved complexions. The mother with tears thanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. Mary's tears flowed not only from sympathy, but a complication of feelings and recollections the affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again to play, and reanimated nature. She observed the change in herself, tried to account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapsody on sensibility. "Sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul is susceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it last unmixed, we might form some conjecture of the bliss of those paradisiacal days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion of reason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction. "It is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us to relish the sublime touches of the poet, and the painter; it is this, which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed with tenderness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of a good action. The same effect we experience in the spring, when we hail the returning sun, and the consequent renovation of nature; when the flowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice of music is heard in the land. Softened by tenderness; the soul is disposed to be virtuous. Is any sensual gratification to be compared to that of feelings the eves moistened after having comforted the unfortunate? "Sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but these raptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by what strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of nature escape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections.--But it is only to be felt; it escapes discussion." She then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which was rendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian of life, of polished manners, and dazzling wit. He endeavoured to draw Mary out, and succeeded; she entered into conversation, and some of her artless flights of genius struck him with surprise; he found she had a capacious mind, and that her reason was as profound as her imagination was lively. She glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light of truth. Her expressive countenance shewed what passed in her mind, and her tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicity never threw a shade over her words or actions. Mary found him a man of learning; and the exercise of her understanding would frequently make her forget her griefs, when nothing else could, except benevolence. This man had known the mistress of the house in her youth; good nature induced him to visit her; but when he saw Mary he had another inducement. Her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivation of mind, roused his curiosity; but her dignified manners had such an effect on him, he was obliged to suppress it. He knew men, as well as books; his conversation was entertaining and improving. In Mary's company he doubted whether heaven was peopled with spirits masculine; and almost forgot that he had called the sex "the pretty play things that render life tolerable." He had been the slave of beauty, the captive of sense; love he ne'er had felt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it made the body appear lovely in his eyes. He was humane, despised meanness; but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a useful member of society. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any solid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, or rather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him to hunt down pleasure, he was discontented. Mary observed his character, and wrote down a train of reflections, which these observations led her to make; these reflections received a tinge from her mind; the present state of it, was that kind of painful quietness which arises from reason clouded by disgust; she had not yet learned to be resigned; vague hopes agitated her. "There are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as you dissipate one, another overspreads it. Of this kind are our reasonings concerning happiness; till we are obliged to cry out with the Apostle, _That it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive in what it could consist_, or how satiety could be prevented. Man seems formed for action, though the passions are seldom properly managed; they are either so languid as not to serve as a spur, or else so violent, as to overleap all bounds. "Every individual has its own peculiar trials; and anguish, in one shape or other, visits every heart. Sensibility produces flights of virtue; and not curbed by reason, is on the brink of vice talking, and even thinking of virtue. "Christianity can only afford just principles to govern the wayward feelings and impulses of the heart: every good disposition runs wild, if not transplanted into this soil; but how hard is it to keep the heart diligently, though convinced that the issues of life depend on it. "It is very difficult to discipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcile him to the weakness, the inconsistency of his understanding; and a still more laborious task for him to conquer his passions, and learn to seek content, instead of happiness. Good dispositions, and virtuous propensities, without the light of the Gospel, produce eccentric characters: comet-like, they are always in extremes; while revelation resembles the laws of attraction, and produces uniformity; but too often is the attraction feeble; and the light so obscured by passion, as to force the bewildered soul to fly into void space, and wander in confusion." CHAP. XXV. A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: the servant waited for an answer. Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry; she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his sailing in the first packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquiries were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were expressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as it stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and illness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--she read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt by--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. She wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her the next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of his letter. Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run before to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come; certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret. To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were sung; the books they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a hundred times.--Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she was trying to decypher Chinese characters. After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the street door opened. At last he came, and she who had been counting the hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped the approaching interview. With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful presentiment stilled the internal conflict. She caught his hand, and looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!" "I am very far from well; but it matters not," added he with a smile of resignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is a tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee." Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. She enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought experience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she was sure he would soon recover. She would then look in his face, to see if he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. She tried to avoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise of visiting her the next day. Her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herself to think that she feared an event she could not name. She still saw his pale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she tried to retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed. Henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fade away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck behind? These thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as if to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all was not well there. Out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrival of a letter from her husband; it came to Lisbon after her departure: Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver it himself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced a conversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution took its rise almost equally from benevolence and love. She could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: her fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informed her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master, and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to visit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground, where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the masquerades, and such burlesque amusements. These instances of folly relieved Mary, in some degree reconciled her to herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced something like a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when she reflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to the seemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination, however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, or force us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and that the most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties, refines our affections, and enables us to be useful. One reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty; her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power of comforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy. Heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of His benevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to her own inclinations? These suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion, increased her misery. One moment she was a heroine, half determined to bear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--and tenderness possessed her whole soul. Some instances of Henry's affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her. CHAP. XXVI. Henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of the following week; but still Mary kept up some little formality, a certain consciousness restrained her; and Henry did not enter on the subject which he found she wished to avoid. In the course of conversation, however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain a place in one of the public offices for Ann's brother, as the family were again in a declining way. Henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the following week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whom he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would infallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety. Mary could not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused her face; her blood eloquently spoke. She delighted to receive benefits through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them from Henry was exquisite pleasure. As the summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his fixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him. He could not think of going far off, but chose a little village on the banks of the Thames, near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his mother. They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his violin, and Mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them. She pleased his mother; she inchanted him. It was an advantage to Mary that friendship first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of humanity:--and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one sprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it. The last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black, and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness that had prevailed previous to it. The thunder roared; and the oars plying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a not unpleasing sound. Mary drew still nearer Henry; she wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him.--She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind--he felt them; threw his arm round her waist--and they enjoyed the luxury of wretchedness.--As they touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry was wet; with eager anxiety she cried, What shall I do!--this day will kill thee, and I shall not die with thee! This accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured him, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to--perhaps it was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. In vain did Mary try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! Henry every day grew worse and worse. CHAP. XXVII. Oppressed by her foreboding fears, her sore mind was hurt by new instances of ingratitude: disgusted with the family, whose misfortunes had often disturbed her repose, and lost in anticipated sorrow, she rambled she knew not where; when turning down a shady walk, she discovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. She saw Henry sitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden-gate, and she sat down by him. "I did not," said he, "expect to see thee this evening, my dearest Mary; but I was thinking of thee. Heaven has endowed thee with an uncommon portion of fortitude, to support one of the most affectionate hearts in the world. This is not a time for disguise; I know I am dear to thee--and my affection for thee is twisted with every fibre of my heart.--I loved thee ever since I have been acquainted with thine: thou art the being my fancy has delighted to form; but which I imagined existed only there! In a little while the shades of death will encompass me--ill-fated love perhaps added strength to my disease, and smoothed the rugged path. Try, my love, to fulfil thy destined course--try to add to thy other virtues patience. I could have wished, for thy sake, that we could have died together--or that I could live to shield thee from the assaults of an unfeeling world! Could I but offer thee an asylum in these arms--a faithful bosom, in which thou couldst repose all thy griefs--" He pressed her to it, and she returned the pressure--he felt her throbbing heart. A mournful silence ensued! when he resumed the conversation. "I wished to prepare thee for the blow--too surely do I feel that it will not be long delayed! The passion I have nursed is so pure, that death cannot extinguish it--or tear away the impression thy virtues have made on my soul. I would fain comfort thee--" "Talk not of comfort," interrupted Mary, "it will be in heaven with thee and Ann--while I shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!"--She grasped his hand. "There we shall meet, my love, my Mary, in our Father's--" His voice faultered; he could not finish the sentence; he was almost suffocated--they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walked slowly to the garden-gate (Mary would not go into the house); they could not say farewel when they reached it--and Mary hurried down the lane; to spare Henry the pain of witnessing her emotions. When she lost sight of the house she sat down on the ground, till it grew late, thinking of all that had passed. Full of these thoughts, she crept along, regardless of the descending rain; when lifting up her eyes to heaven, and then turning them wildly on the prospects around, without marking them; she only felt that the scene accorded with her present state of mind. It was the last glimmering of twilight, with a full moon, over which clouds continually flitted. Where am I wandering, God of Mercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what a labyrinth am I lost! What miseries have I already encountered--and what a number lie still before me. Her thoughts flew rapidly to something. I could be happy listening to him, soothing his cares.--Would he not smile upon me--call me his own Mary? I am not his--said she with fierceness--I am a wretch! and she heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were running into confusion. Wherefore am I made thus? Vain are my efforts--I cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness.--Yet I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction. She looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters.--No where could she find rest. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is not my abiding place--may I not too go home! Ah! no. Is this complying with my Henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to associate with his? Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. She felt the rain, and turned to her solitary home. Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers. Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten to draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre; the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked; her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one object. Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the Window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's scene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe, were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these arms shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world." The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy; but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated. Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the remnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to come after that? CHAP. XXVIII. Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother called on her. "My son is worse to-day," said she, "I come to request you to spend not only this day, but a week or two with me.--Why should I conceal any thing from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and, in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when I shall be childless. I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked thus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a widow--may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?" This new instance of Henry's disinterested affection, Mary felt most forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth the wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forced tears from her, by saying, "I deserve this blow; my partial fondness made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect, perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous Heaven has made my crime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss my child--my only child!" When they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; but during the short ride, the mother related several instances of Henry's goodness of heart. Mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the display of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human nature prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a more genial clime. CHAP. XXIX. She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declared he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certain he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by opiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sigh did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. She would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of hope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head where she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--she could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven be done. While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him believe he was resigned, than really to be so. She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which was to extend beyond the grave. She did so, and received comfort from it; she rose above her misery. His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyes appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for his last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent emotion. The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time only attended to Mary--Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience increased her sorrow; she whispered him, "Thy mother weeps, disregarded by thee; oh! comfort her!--My mother, thy son blesses thee.--" The oppressed parent left the room. And Mary _waited_ to see him die. She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened his eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gave a look--it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted? Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not a complete wretch! The words almost choked her. He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. At last, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up. Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die in her arms. Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its prison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last sigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, she calmly cried. The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light from an opened window discovered the pale face. She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained the body. Every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful rapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. She sat till midnight.--Then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, and desired those who watched the body to retire. She knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame the dictates of despair.--She prayed most ardently to be supported, and dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she had committed the spirit she almost adored--again--and again,--she prayed wildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--her head swum--she sunk-- CHAP. XXX. Three months after, her only friend, the mother of her lost Henry began to be alarmed, at observing her altered appearance; and made her own health a pretext for travelling. These complaints roused Mary out of her torpid state; she imagined a new duty now forced her to exert herself--a duty love made sacred!-- They went to Bath, from that to Bristol; but the latter place they quickly left; the sight of the sick that resort there, they neither of them could bear. From Bristol they flew to Southampton. The road was pleasant--yet Mary shut her eyes;--or if they were open, green fields and commons, passed in quick succession, and left no more traces behind than if they had been waves of the sea. Some time after they were settled at Southampton, they met the man who took so much notice of Mary, soon after her return to England. He renewed his acquaintance; he was really interested in her fate, as he had heard her uncommon story; besides, he knew her husband; knew him to be a good-natured, weak man. He saw him soon after his arrival in his native country, and prevented his hastening to enquire into the reasons of Mary's strange conduct. He desired him not to be too precipitate, if he ever wished to possess an invaluable treasure. He was guided by him, and allowed him to follow Mary to Southampton, and speak first to her friend. This friend determined to trust to her native strength of mind, and informed her of the circumstance; but she overrated it: Mary was not able, for a few days after the intelligence, to fix on the mode of conduct she ought now to pursue. But at last she conquered her disgust, and wrote her _husband_ an account of what had passed since she had dropped his correspondence. He came in person to answer the letter. Mary fainted when he approached her unexpectedly. Her disgust returned with additional force, in spite of previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed on to promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year, travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her. The time too quickly elapsed, and she gave him her hand--the struggle was almost more than she could endure. She tried to appear calm; time mellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husband would take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantly feel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, that the earth would open and swallow her. CHAP. XXXI. Mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; but her nerves were not to be restored to their former state. She then retired to her house in the country, established manufactories, threw the estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this way to dissipate care, and banish unavailing regret. She visited the sick, supported the old, and educated the young. These occupations engrossed her mind; but there were hours when all her former woes would return and haunt her.--Whenever she did, or said, any thing she thought Henry would have approved of--she could not avoid thinking with anguish, of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed to her heart--a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence and religion could not fill. The latter taught her to struggle for resignation; and the former rendered life supportable. Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments of solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind--She thought she was hastening to that world _where there is neither marrying_, nor giving in marriage. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Where does the slime attack Dana and Oscar?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and memorize the context. (Note: I will give you the question after you confirm that you have memorized the context.) \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "museum" ]	25,088	narrativeqa	en	null	73705494f8a477420b27dee08ab2c02f30cad6025cd3e388	Ghostbusters II by Harold Ramis and Dan Aykroyd September 29, 1988 Last revised Feburary 27, 1989 <b>EXT. MANHATTAN ISLAND - DAY </b> A high AERIAL SHOT of the island features the Statue of Liberty prominently in the foreground then TRAVELS ACROSS the harbor, OVER the Battery and Lower Manhattan to Greenwich Village. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY </b> A car is being hoisted up by a municipal tow truck while its owner is having a terrible screaming arguement with a parking enforcement officer. DANA BARRETT comes home pushing a baby buggy, struggling with two full bags of groceries, and trying to dig her keys out of her purse. The building superintendent FRANK, sees her struggling but pretends not to notice. <b> DANA </b> (exasperated) Frank, do you think you could give me a hand with these bags? <b> FRANK </b> I'm not a doorman, Miss Barrett. I'm a building superintendent. <b> DANA </b> You're also a human being, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> (reluctantly going to help) Okay, okay. It's not my job, but what the hell. I'll do you a favor. He takes the grocery bags from her. <b> DANA </b> (setting the wheel brakes on the buggy) Thank you, Frank. I'll get the hang of this eventually. She continues digging in her purse while Frank leans over the buggy and makes funny faces at the baby, OSCAR, a very cute nine-month old boy. <b> FRANK </b> (to the baby) Hiya, Oscar. What do you say, slugger? <b> FRANK </b> (to Dana) That's a good-looking kid you got there, Ms. Barrett. <b> DANA </b> (finding her keys) Thank you, Frank. Oh, are you ever going to fix the radiator in my bedroom? I asked you last week. <b> FRANK </b> Didn't I do it? <b>BABY BUGGY </b> It starts to vibrate as if shaken by an unseen hand. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> He GURGLES with delight at the movement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DANA AND FRANK - DAY </b> Neither of them notice the movement of the carriage. <b> DANA </b> No, you didn't, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> Okay, that's no problem. <b> DANA </b> That's exactly what you said last week. <b>BUGGY WHEELS </b> The brakes unlock themselves. <b>DANA </b> She reaches for the handlebar of the buggy, but the buggy rolls forward just out of her reach and stops. Surprised by the movement, she reaches for the handlebar again, but this time the buggy rolls away even further. Alarmed now, Dana hurries after it, but the buggy keeps rolling down the street at ever increasing speed. <b>SIDEWALK </b> Dana chases the buggy down the street, shouting to passing pedestrians for help, but every time someone reaches out to stop it, the buggy swerves and continues unchecked. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars, trucks, and buses speed by in both directions as the buggy races toward the corner. <b>DANA </b> She puts her head down and sprints after the buggy like an Olympian. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> A city bus is on a collision course with the speeding baby buggy. <b>BUGGY </b> It careens toward the corner. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> Its eyes are wide open with excitement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> Bus and buggy are closing fast as the buggy bounces over the curb and into the crosswalk. <b>BUS </b> The bus driver reacts in helpless horror as he sees the buggy enter the intersection at high speed. <b>BUGGY </b> It comes to a dead stop right in the middle of the street. The bus continues missing the buggy by inches. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars and trucks swerve and hit their brakes as Dana runs into the intersection and snatches up the baby. She hugs it close, deeply relieved, then looks at the buggy with the dawning awareness that the supernatural has re-entered her life. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UPPER WEST SIDE - NEW YORK CITY STREET - GHOSTBUSTERS LOGO - DAY </b> THEME MUSIC kicks in strongly as we see the familiar "No Ghosts" symbol and PULL BACK to reveal that it's painted on the side of Ecto-1, the Ghostbusters' emergency vehicle, which is speeding up Broadway on the Upper West Side. RAY STANTZ is driving and WINSTON ZEDDEMORE is riding shotgun. <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> The Ectomobile pulls up in front of a carefully-restored brownstone. Stantz and Winston, wearing their official Ghostbuster uniforms, jump out of the old ambulance, shoulder their proton packs and enter the house. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> A WOMAN greets them and leads them through the expensively-furnished house. <b> STANTZ </b> (all business) How many of them are there, ma'am? <b> WOMAN </b> Fourteen. They're in the back. I hope you can handle them. It's been like a nightmare. <b> WINSTON </b> How big are they? She holds her hand out indicating about four feet. <b> WINSTON </b> (resolute) We'll do our best, ma'am. <b> WOMAN </b> They're right out here. She leads them to a set of French doors that open into another room. Stantz and Winston pause to make final adjustments to their equipment. <b> STANTZ </b> Ready? <b> WINSTON </b> I'm ready. <b> STANTZ </b> Then let's do it. He pushes through the French doors and they step into the room. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They are immediately attacked by fourteen or fifteen screaming KIDS between the ages of seven and ten. <b> KIDS </b> (disappointed) Ghostbusters!! Boooo!! Tables are set with party favors, ice cream and birthday cake and the room is strewn with discarded toys and games. A couple of weary parents sink onto lawn chairs as Stantz and Winston take over the party. <b> WINSTON </b> (trying his best) How you doin', kids? <b> LITTLE BOY </b> (nasty) I though we were having He-Man. <b> STANTZ </b> He-Man couldn't make it today. That's why we're here. <b> BOY </b> My dad says you're full of crap. <b> STANTZ </b> (stopped cold) Well, a lot of people have trouble believing in the paranormal. <b> BOY </b> No, he just says you're full of crap and that's why you went out of business. He kicks Stantz in the leg. Stantz grabs him by the shirtfront. <b> STANTZ </b> (low and menacing) I'm watching you. (to Winston) Song. Winston switches on a tiny TAPE RECORDER which starts PLAYING the Ghostbusters THEME SONG. Stantz and WInston start singing <b> STANTZ AND WINSTON </b> 'There's something wrong in the neighborhood. Who you gonna call?' <b> KIDS </b> (all together) He-Man!! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Stantz and Winston wearily load their equipment into the Ectomobile. <b> WINSTON </b> That's it, Ray. I've had it. No more parties. I'm tired of taking abuse from over-privileged nine-year-olds. <b> STANTZ </b> Come on, Winston. We can't quit now. The holidays are coming up. It's our best season. They get in the car <b>INT. ECTO-1 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz tries to start the car, but the engine won't turn over. <b> WINSTON </b> Give it up, Ray. You're living in the past. Ghostbusters doesn't exist anymore. In a year these kids won't even remember who we are. <b> STANTZ </b> (tries to start the car again) Ungrateful little Yuppie larvae. After all we did for this city. <b> WINSTON </b> Yeah, what did we do, Ray? The last real job we had we bubbled up a hundred foot marshmallow man and blew the top three floors off an uptown highrise. <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, but what a ride. You can't make a hamburger without chopping up a cow. He turns the key again, the ENGING TURNS OVER, then starts GRINDING and CLUNKING disastrously, chewing up vital parts and dropping twisted bits of metal onto the pavement. Finally, with a BLAST of black sooty exhaust from the tailpipe, Ecto-1 shudders and dies. Frustrated, Stantz bangs his head lightly on the steering wheel <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. WKRR-TV STUDIO RECEPTION AREA - DAY (LATER) </b> A bank of monitors in the lobby show the program now running on WKRR, Channel 10 in New York. We PUSH IN ON one of the monitors as a title card and logo come up accompanied by some EERIE SYNTHESIZER MUSIC, and we return to the show in progress: "World of the Psychic with Dr. Peter Venkman." There is a video dissolve to a standard talk show set and sitting there is our host PETER VENKMAN, the renowned and somewhat infamous ex-Ghostbuster. <b>VENKMAN </b> He turns TO CAMERA and talks to his viewers in a suavely engaging tone, understated and intimate. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, welcome back to the 'World of the Psychic,' I'm Peter Venkman and I'm chatting with my guest, author, lecturer and of course, psychic, Milton Anglund. (to his guest) Milt, your new book is called The End of the World. Isn't that kind of like writing about gum disease. Yes, it could happen, but do you think anybody wants to read a book about it? <b> MILTON </b> Well, I think it's important for people to know that the world is in danger. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, so can you tell us when it's going to happen or do we have to buy the book? <b> MILTON </b> I predict that the world will end at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> This year? That's cutting it a little close, isn't it? I mean, just from a sales point of view, the book just came out, right? So you're not even looking at the paperback release for maybe a year. And it's going to be at least another year after that if the thing has movie-of-the-week or mini-series potential. You would have been better off predicting 1992 or even '94 just to be safe. <b> MILTON </b> (irritated) This is not just some money-making scheme! I didn't just make up the date. I have a strong psychic belief that the world will end on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> (placating) Well, for your sake, I hope you're right. But I think my other guest may disagree with you. Elaine, you had another date in mind? The CAMERA REVEALS ELAINE, an attractive, aggressive New Jersey housewife, sitting on the other side of Venkman. <b> ELAINE </b> According to my sources, the world will end on February 14, in the year 2016. <b> VENKMAN </b> Valentine's Day. That's got to be a bummer. Where did you get that date, Elaine? <b> ELAINE </b> I received this information from an alien. I was at the Paramus Holiday Inn, I was having a drink in the bar when he approached me and started talking. Then he must have used some sort of ray or a mind control device because he made me follow him to his room and that's where he told me about the end of the world. <b> VENKMAN </b> Your alien had a room in the Holiday Inn? <b> ELAINE </b> It may have been a room on the spacecraft made up to look like a room in the Holiday Inn. I can't be sure, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (humoring her) No, you can't, and I think that's the whole problem with aliens; you just can't trust them. You may get some nice ones occasionally like Starman or E.T., but most of them turn out to be some kind of lizard. Anyway, we're just about out of time. (does his wrap-up right TO the CAMERA) Next week on 'World of the Psychic,' hairless pets. (holds up a hairless cat) Until then, this is Peter Venkman saying ... (puts a finger to his temple and sends out a though to his viewers) ... Good night. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. TV STUDIO - CORRIDOR - DAY (LATER) </b> Venkman comes out of the studio squabbling with his producer, NORMAN, a well-meaning young incompetent. <b> VENKMAN </b> Where do you find these people? I thought we were having the telekinetic guy who bends the spoons? <b> NORMAN </b> A lot of the better psychics won't come on the show. They think you're too skeptical. <b> VENKMAN </b> Skeptical! Norman, I'm a pushover. I think professional wrestling is real. There is a small commotion down the hall as two plainclothes cops come out of the next studio followed by a group of mayoral assistants. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Norman) What's all this? <b> NORMAN </b> They just interviewed the mayor on 'Cityline.' <b> VENKMAN </b> The Mayor! He's a friend of mine. Venkman starts down the hall as the MAYOR and his principal aide, JACK HARDEMEYER, come walking out of the studio. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calling to the Mayor) Lenny! The Mayor sees Venkman, blanches and hurries off, pretending not to know him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (starts to follow him) Lenny! It's Pete Venkman! The plainclothesmen cut Venkman off and Hardemeyer puts a heavy hand against Venkman's chest. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (snide) Can I help you? <b> VENKMAN </b> (dangerous) Yeah, you can get your hand off my chest. Hardemeyer smiles and drops his hand. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> I'm Jack Hardemeyer. I'm the mayor's assistant. What can I do for you? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm an old friend of the mayor's. I just want to say hello to him. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (scornful) I know who you are, Doctor Venkman. Busting any ghosts lately? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, that's what I want to talk to the mayor about. We did a little job for the city a while back and we ended up getting sued, screwed and tattooed by deskworms like you. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (bristling) Look, you stay away from the mayor. Next fall, barring a disaster, he's going to be elected governor of this state and the last thing we need is for him to be associated with two-bit frauds and publicity hounds like you and your friends. You read me? Hardemeyer walks off with the two cops. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, I get it. But I want you to tell Lenny that, because of you, I'm not voting for him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - DAY </b> The broad front steps of the museum are crowded with tourists and visitors. Dana arrives carrying a portfolio and artist's tackle box and enters the museum. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATER) </b> We are FULL-FRAME ON a larger-than-life, full-figure portrait of VIGO THE CARPATHIAN, a demented and sadistic 16th century despot with an incredibly powerful evil presence. Then we PULL BACK to reveal the studio, which is a large open space on the top floor of the museum, lit by large skylights in the ceiling. Working on the Vigo painting is JANOSZ POHA, a youngish art historian and painter, the head of the department, quirky, intense and somewhat creepy. Janosz is staring longingly across the room at Dana. <b>DANA </b> She is carefully cleaning a 19th Century landscape painting, still preoccupied by the extraordinary near-accident with the buggy. Janosz watches her for a moment, then comes up behind her and looks over her shoulder. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with an East European accent) Still working on the Turner? Dana jumps, startled by the intrusion. <b> DANA </b> Oh, yes, I got in a little late this morning, Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> You know, you are really doing very good work here. I think soon you may be ready to assist me in some of the more important restorations. <b> DANA </b> Thank you, Janosz. I've learned a lot here, but now that my baby's a little older, I was hoping to rejoin the orchestra. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> At the mention of Dana's baby, the figure of Vigo miraculously turns his head and looks at Dana. <b>JANOSZ AND DANA </b> Neither of them notice the movement in the painting. <b> JANOSZ </b> (disappointed) We'll be very sorry to lose you. Perhaps I could take you to lunch today? <b> DANA </b> Actually, I'm not eating lunch today. I have an appointment. (looks at her watch) In fact, I'd better go. She starts gathering up her things. <b> JANOSZ </b> Every day I ask you, and every day you've got something else to do. Do I have bad breath or something? <b> DANA </b> (trying to brush him off) I'm sorry. Perhaps some other time. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, I'll take a raincheck on that. Janosz smiles at her as she exits, then goes back to his easel. <b> JANOSZ </b> (to himself) I think she likes me. He switches on an English language TAPE and starts practicing the phrases as he resumes working. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UNIVERSITY - DAY </b> Dana Barrett crosses the quad and enters a modern building. A sign identifies it as "The Institute for Advanced Theoretical Research." <b>INT. UNIVERSITY - DAY (A LITTLE LATER) </b> Dana is explaining the buggy incident to EGON SPENGLER, the soberly intellectual techno-wizard and former Ghostbuster, as he conducts an experiment assisted by a research team of graduate students, all of whom are Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. The device he is testing is a black box about the size of a Sony Watchman with both digital and graphic displays. <b> DANA </b> ... and then the buggy just suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the street <b> SPENGLER </b> Did anyone else see this happen? <b> DANA </b> Hundreds of people. Believe me, I didn't imagine this. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm not saying you did. In science we always look for the simplest explanation. An ASSISTANT interrupts. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready, Dr. Spengler <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Assistant) We'll start with the negative calibration. He picks up the device and prepares to test it. <b> DANA </b> (curious) What are you working on, Egon? <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm trying to determine whether human emotional states have a measurable effect on the psychomagnetheric energy field. It's a theory Ray and I were working on when we had to dissolve Ghostbusters. An assistant draws a curtain revealing a large picture window, actually a two-way mirror, that looks into a small waiting room. Inside the waiting room they can see but not hear a youngish couple having a heated arguement. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Dana) They think they're here for marriage counseling. We've kept them waiting for two hours and we've been gradually increasing the temperature in the room. (checking a heat sensor) It's up to 95 degrees at the moment. Now my assistant is going to enter and ask them if they'd mind waiting another half-hour. As Spengler, Dana, and the research team watch, the assistant enters the waiting room and tells the couple about the new delay. They explode with anger both at him and each other while Spengler monitors them through the glass. After recording his readings, he returns to his Assistant. <b> SPENGLER </b> We'll do the happiness index next. (to Dana) I'd like to bring Ray in on your case, if it's all right with you. <b> DANA </b> Okay, whatever you think -- but not Venkman. <b> SPENGLER </b> Oh no. <b> DANA </b> (affectedly casual) Do you ever see him? <b> SPENGLER </b> Occasionally <b> DANA </b> How is he these days? <b> SPENGLER </b> Venkman? I think he was borderline for a while there. Then he crossed the border. <b> DANA </b> Does he ever mention me? <b> SPENGLER </b> No. Not that I can recall. They move to another two-way mirror through which they can see a lovely little girl playing with a wonderful array of toys. <b> DANA </b> (slightly disappointed) Well, we didn't part on very good terms and we sort of lost track of each other when I got married. The Assistant interrupts again. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready for the affection test. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the assistant) Good. Send in the puppy. <b> DANA </b> (continuing) I thought of calling him after my marriage ended, but --. Anyway, I appreciate you're doing this, Egon They watch as another assistant enters the playroom with an adorable Cocker Spaniel puppy and gives it to the little girl. Spengler monitors her as she jumps for joy and hugs the little dog. <b> DANA </b> (handing him a card) This is my address and telephone number. Will you call me? <b> SPENGLER </b> Certainly. <b> DANA </b> Egon, I'd rather you didn't mention any of this to Peter if you don't mind. <b> SPENGLER </b> I won't. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. She shakes his hand and exits. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to his assistant) Now let's see how she reacts when we take away the puppy <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOK STORE - DAY (LATER) </b> It's a small basement shop located on a quaint commercial block in Greenwich Village. The window is crowded with occult artifacts and old books full of arcane metaphysical lore. The TELEPHONE RINGS. <b> STANTZ </b> (v.o., answering the phone) Ray's Occult. <b>INT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOKS - CONTINUOUS </b> The shelves are jammed floor to ceiling with books on the paranormal. Ray sits on a barstool behind the counter wearing an old cardigan sweater over a T-shirt. He has on a pair of reading glasses and chews on a battered, reeking pipe. As he talks on the phone he prepares a cup of herb tea for Spengler who is thumbing through an arcane text. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the phone) Yeah ... mmhmm ... What do you need? ... What have I got? I've got alchemy, astrology, apparitions, Bundu Magic Men, demon intercession, U.F.O. abductions, psychic surgery, stigmata, modern miracles, pixie sightings, golden geese, geists, ghosts, I've got it all -- what are you looking for? ... Don't have any. Try the stockyards. He hangs up. <b> SPENGLER </b> Who was that? <b> STANTZ </b> Some crank. Looking for goat hooves. Come up with anything? <b> SPENGLER </b> (referring to the book) This one's interesting. Berlin, 1939, a flower cart took off by itself and rolled approximately half a kilometer over level ground. Three hundred eyewitnesses. <b> STANTZ </b> You might want to check those Duke University mean averaging studies on controlled psychokinesis. <b> SPENGLER </b> (going to the stacks) Good idea. The bones hanging over the door rattle as Venkman enters the shop. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, hello, perhaps you could help me. I'm looking for an aerosol love potion I could spray on a certain Penthouse Pet that would make her unconditionally submit to an unusual personal request. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, hiya, Pete. <b> VENKMAN </b> So, no goat hooves, huh? <b> STANTZ </b> (strung) I knew that voice sounded familiar. What's up? How's it going? <b> VENKMAN </b> Nowhere -- fast. Why don't you lock up and buy me a sub? <b> STANTZ </b> (slightly evasive) Uh, I can't. I'm kind of working on something. Spengler steps out of the stacks. <b> VENKMAN </b> Egon! <b> SPENGLER </b> Hello, Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> How've you been? How's teaching? I bet those science chicks really dig that big cranium of yours, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think they're more interested in my epididymis. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't even want to know where that is. Venkman steps behind the counter and takes a beer from Ray's mini-fridge. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, your book came in, Venkman. Magical Paths to Fortune and Power. He hands Venkman the book. <b> VENKMAN </b> Great. (reading the contents) So what are you guys working on? <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, just checking something for an old friend. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? <b> STANTZ </b> (at a loss) Who? Just -- someone we know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, Ray -- He grabs Stantz by both ears and pulls up. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? Who? Who? <b> STANTZ </b> Aaah! Nobody! I can't tell you! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who, Ray? <b> STANTZ </b> (giving in) Dana! Dana Barrett! Venkman lets go of his ears and smiles. Spengler looks at Stantz and shakes his head. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - DAY (LATER) </b> The apartment is old and creatively furnished with a comfortable mix of modern and traditional pieces. Maria, a young Hispanic woman who does day care for Dana, is feeding the baby in the kitchen when the DOORBELL <b>RINGS. </b> <b> CUT TO: </b> Dana enters from the bedroom and crosses to the front door. She opens it and admits Ray and Egon. <b> DANA </b> (hugging Ray) Hi, Ray. It's good to see you. Thanks for coming. <b> STANTZ </b> No problem. Always glad to help -- and hug. <b> DANA </b> (to Spengler) Hi, Egon. She shakes his hand and is about to close the door when Venkman appears in the doorway. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, Dana. Dana is caught completely off guard by Venkman's surprise appearance. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew you'd come crawling back to me. She regards him coolly, as always amused and amazed at his presumptuousness. <b> DANA </b> Hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) You know, Dana, I'm very very hurt that you didn't call me first. I'm still into all this stuff, you know. Haven't you ever seen my show? <b> DANA </b> I have. That's why I didn't call you first. <b> VENKMAN </b> I can see that you're still very bitter about us, but in the interest of science, I'm going to give it my best shot. Let's go to work, boys. Stantz and Spengler begin a comprehensive parapsychological work-up on the baby and the immediate physical environment. <b>VENKMAN AND DANA </b> Venkman starts nosing around the apartment. Dana follows him. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what happened to Mr. Right? I hear he ditched you and the kid and moved to Europe. <b> DANA </b> He didn't "ditch" me. We had some problems, he got a good offer from an orchestra in England and he took it. <b> VENKMAN </b> He ditched you. You should've married me, you know. <b> DANA </b> You never asked me, and every time I brought it up you'd get drowsy and fall asleep. <b> VENKMAN </b> Men are very sensitive, you know. We need to feel loved and desired, too. <b> DANA </b> Well, when you started introducing me as "the old ball and chain," that's when I left. <b> VENKMAN </b> I may have a few personal problems but one thing I am is a total professional. He leaves her and crosses to Spengler. <b>SPENGLER </b> He's taking a complete set of body and head measurements of the baby with a tape measure and calipers. <b> VENKMAN </b> What are you going to do, Egon? Knit him a snowsuit? Spengler ignores the remark and hands Venkman a specimen jar. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'd like to have a stool specimen <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, you would. Is that for personal or professional reasons? <b> VENKMAN </b> (picking up the baby) Okay, kid. Up you go. He starts clowning with the baby, holding him over his head and pressing his nose into the baby's belly, pretending that the baby is attacking him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Help! Please somebody help me! Get him off! Quickly! He's gone completely berserk! Dana is amused and somewhat disarmed by Venkman's rapport with the baby. <b> DANA </b> What do you think? <b> VENKMAN </b> There's no doubt about it. He's got his father's looks. The kid is ugly -- extremely ugly. And smelly. (resumes playing with the baby) You stink! It's just horrible. You are the stinkiest baby I ever smelled. (to Dana) What's his name? <b> DANA </b> His name is Oscar. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oscar! You poor kid! <b> DANA </b> (losing patience) Peter, this is serious. I need to know if you think there's anything unusual about him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Unusual? (holds up the baby and scrutinizes him) I don't know. I haven't had a lot of experience with babies. He looks at the baby, pulling his feet up, trying to get the sleeper off. <b> DANA </b> (taking the specimen jar) I'll do it. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll supervise. <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NURSERY - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman enters and finds Stantz monitoring the room. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) Well, Holmes, what do you think? <b> STANTZ </b> It's an interesting one, Pete. If anything was going on it's totally subdued now. Spengler enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) What now, Brainiac? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think we should see if we can find anything abnormal on the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finding something abnormal on the street shouldn't be too hard. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Dana walks down the street with Venkman, retracing the path of the runaway buggy. Spengler and Stantz follow, monitoring PKE valences from the pavement and the buildings. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana, nostalgic) Brings back a lot of sweet memories, doesn't it? (pointing out familiar neighborhood sights) There's our old cash machine. And the dry cleaners we used to go to. And the old video store. (he wipes away an imaginary tear) We really had some good times, didn't we? <b> DANA </b> We definitely had a moment or two. Dana stops at the intersection and points to the middle of the street. <b> DANA </b> That's where the buggy stopped. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, let's take a look. Venkman walks right out into the middle of the street, completely oblivious to the CARS HONKING and whizzing past him and starts motioning like a traffic cop, bringing traffic to a standstill. Then he signals for Dana, Stantz and Spengler to join him in the middle of the street. <b> STANTZ </b> (reading the PKE meter) Is this the spot? <b> DANA </b> A little to the left. Right there! That's where it stopped. Stantz reads the PKE meter. <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Not a trace. <b> SPENGLER </b> Why don't we try the Giga-meter? <b> VENKMAN </b> What's that? <b> STANTZ </b> Egon and I have been working on a gauge to measure psychomagnetheric energy in GEVs - giga electron volts. <b> SPENGLER </b> That's a thousand million electron volts. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew that. Spengler switches on the Giga-meter, the device he was testing in the lab, and passes it over the spot on the street where the buggy stopped. The indicator goes right into the red zone and the DEVICE starts CLICKING <b>WILDLY. </b> <b> STANTZ </b> I think we hit the honeypot, boys. There's something brewing under the street. <b> DANA </b> (worried, to Venkman) Peter, do you think maybe I have some genetic problem or something that makes me vulnerable to these supernatural things. <b> VENKMAN </b> You mean like the time you got possessed and turned into a monster terror dog? No, not a chance. Total coincidence. (to Stantz and Spengler) Am I right? Stantz and Spengler look at him skeptically, not convinced by the coincidence theory. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - LATE AFTERNOON </b> The museum has just closed for the day and the last of the visitors and employees are leaving. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is working late on the painting of Vigo. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> Unnoticed by Janosz, the eyes of Vigo start to glow. <b>JANOSZ </b> He touches his brush to the canvas and a powerful current of red, crackling energy surges through the brush and courses through his body, driving him to his knees. <b>PAINTING </b> The figure of Vigo comes to life, turns toward Janosz and gestures dramatically at him. Then he speaks to Janosz in a commanding voice. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia, the sorrow of Moldavia, command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (in agony) Command me, lord. <b> VIGO </b> On a mountain of skulls in a castle of pain, I sat on a throne of blood. What was will be, what is will be no more. Now is the season of evil. Find me a child that I might live again. Bolts of red-hot energy shoot from the eyes of Vigo into Janosz's eyes. He screams and falls to his knees. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. COFFEE SHOP - EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT </b> Venkman and Stantz come out with small boxes containing coffee, sandwiches and Danish and start walking up the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> I love this. We're onto something really big. I can smell it, Ray. We're going to make some headlines with this one. <b> STANTZ </b> Hey, hey, hey, stresshound! Are you nuts? If anybody found out about this we'd be in serious trouble. The judge couldn't have been clearer - no ghostbusting. <b> VENKMAN </b> Relax. We're going to keep this whole thing nice and quiet, low key, no profile. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Spengler, wearing a hardhat, is JACKHAMMERING a hole in the middle of the street. Safety cones and reflectors have been set up and a small area is lit by strong work lights. <b>POLICE CAR </b> It turns onto East 77th Street, cruises slowly up to the makeshift worksite and stops. The noise of the JACKHAMMER is so loud, Spengler doesn't notice the police car and the two COPS inside looking at them. Finally, he looks up, sees the police car and freezes. <b> FIRST COP </b> How ya doing? <b> SPENGLER </b> (reeking with guilt) Fine! It's cutting fine now. <b> FIRST COP </b> (curious) Why are you cutting? <b> SPENGLER </b> (looking for one of the others) Why are we cutting? Uh - boss! Venkman and Stantz arrive just in time wearing Con Ed hardhats, doing a good imitation of a Consolidated Edison repairman. <b> FIRST COP </b> What are you doing here? <b> VENKMAN </b> (belligerent) What the hell's it look like we're doing? We're bustin out asses over here 'cause some douchebag downtown ain't got nothin' better to do than make idiots like us work late on a Friday night, right? (looks to Spengler for agreement) <b> SPENGLER </b> (with a "right on" fist) Yo. The cops seem satisfied by the explanation. <b> FIRST COP </b> Okay, boys, take it easy. They drive off. Spengler breathes a great sigh of relief and starts rubbing his sore shoulders. <b> SPENGLER </b> You were supposed to help me with this. <b> VENKMAN </b> You need the exercise. Stantz resumes JACKHAMMERING, while Venkman and Spengler clear the rubble from the hole. Suddenly he hits metal. They clear away generations of paving material revealing an ornate iron manhole cover. The manhole cover bears a strange logo and the letters NYPRR. <b> STANTZ </b> (examing it) NYPRR. What the hell -- ? Help me lift this. They prey off the iron cover with crowbars, uncovering a very dark and very deep abyss. <b> STANTZ </b> (shining a flashlight into the hole) Wow! It's an old airshaft. It just goes forever. Spengler leans in with the giga-meter which is reading even higher now. <b> SPENGLER </b> Very intense. We need a deeper reading. Somebody has to go down there. Venkman and Spengler both look at Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> Thanks, boys. They snap Stantz into a harness and lower him into the hole on a strong cable attached to a winch. Ray calls out orders to them as he descends deeper and deeper. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (his voice echoing in the airshaft) Keep going -- more -- more -- <b>INT. HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz rappels off the sides of the airshaft as he continues his descent in total darkness. <b> STANTZ </b> (using a radio now) Lower -- lower -- (to himself) Gee, this really is deep. Suddenly, his feet kick thin air as he gets to the bottom of the airshaft and swings free in some kind of tunnel. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it! Steady! He pulls a powerful flashlight from his utility belt and shines it into the tunnel below. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - NIGHT </b> He is suspended near the top of a beautifully preserved chamber with rounded, polished tile walls ardorned with intricate, colorfully enameled Art Nouveau mosaics. A finely inlaid sign identifies it as VAN HORNE <b>STATION. </b> <b>STANTZ </b> He pans the walls with his flashlight, admiring the excellent tilework, and speaks quietly to Venkman and Spengler over his walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ </b> (reverently) This is it, boys, the end of the line. Van Horne Station. The old New York Pneumatic. It's still here. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman has no idea what he's talking about. <b> SPENGLER </b> (explaining) The New York Pneumatic Railway. It was an experimental subway system. Fan-forced air-trains, built around 1870. <b> STANTZ </b> (over the walkie-talkie) This is about as deep as you can go under Manhattan without digging your own hole. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) What's the reading? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz shines his flashlight on the meter and whistles at the extremely high reading. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Off the top of the scale. This place is really hot. Lower me to the floor. As Venkman and Spengler feed him some more cable, he pans his flashlight down the wall of the station, then onto the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it!! Stop!! Whoa!! <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - FLOOR - NIGHT </b> Below him is a river of bubbling seething, glowing slime, a veritable torrent of disgusting ooze. As he stares into the foul effluent, we become aware of the strangely amplified and magnified sounds of great ENGINES THROBBING and pulsing in the bowels of the city, of WATER RUSHING through pipes, STEAM HISSING through ducts, the muffled RUMBLE of the SUBWAY and the ROAR of TRAFFIC, and mixed with it all, the unmistakable sounds of human conflict and pain -- VOICES SHOUTING in anger, SCREAMING in fear, GROANING in pain, a sad and eerie symphony. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ - NIGHT </b> <b> STANTZ </b> (ranting on the radio) Oh, my God! It's a seething, bubbling, psychic cess! Interlocked tubes of plasm, crackling with negative GEVs! It's glowing and moving! It's -- it's a river of slime!! <b>STANTZ </b> He dangles from the end of the cable, holding his feet up as high as he can. He unhooks a device from his utility belt and pulls the trigger on it, shooting out a long telescoping fishing-pole with a scoop on the end. Reaching down, he scoops up a sample of the slime and starts retracting the pole. <b>SLIME </b> Suddenly, a grotesque arm with a long skeletal fingers reaches up out of the slime and snatches at Stantz's dangling feet. He jerks his legs up as several more arms poke up out of the slime and reach for him. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Haul me up, Venkman! Now! <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman and Spengler start hauling in the cable as a Con Ed Supervisor's car drives up, and behind it, the same police car they saw earlier. A burly SUPERVISOR gets out and crosses toward them, followed by the two cops. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (no nonsense) Okay, what's the story here? Venkman and Spengler stop pulling up the cable and Venkman tries the belligerent worker ploy again, only this time he's wearing a Nynex hardhat. <b> VENKMAN </b> What, I got time for this? We got three thousand phones out in the Village and about eight million miles of cable to check. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (not buying it) The phone lines are over there. (points to the curb) Venkman pops Spengler on the head. <b> VENKMAN </b> I told ya! Stantz can be heard ranting over Venkman's walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (filtered) Help! Help! Pull me up! It's alive! It's eating my boots. Venkman switches off the walkie-talkie. <b> FIRST COP </b> You ain't with Con Ed or the phone company. We checked. Tell me another one. Venkman stares at the Cop for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Gas leak? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - SAME TIME </b> Stantz is hanging there, looking down into the shaft at the slime which is now bubbling up the shaft after him. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouting) Get me out of here!! Desperate now, he kicks wildly and knocks loose a section of an old, rusting conduit. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - BOTTOM OF THE SHAFT </b> The conduit falls on a heavy electrical transmission line, ripping through the cable with a SHOWER OF SPARKS. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman, Spengler, the cops and the supervisor all react to a bright FLASH deep down in the hole and a SHOUT from Stantz. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - STREET - NIGHT </b> One by one, all the streetlights go out; then the lights on all the buildings along East 77th street; then the whole neighborhood blacks out, and finally the entire city is plunged into darkness. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> Sorry. <b>INT. DANA BARRETT'S APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> She walks around in the dark lighting candles and placing them all over the living room. Then she finds a transistor radio and turns it on for information about the blackout. She listens to a special news report for a moment, then has a compelling impulse to go check on the baby. She crosses to the nursery carrying a candle and quietly opens the door and looks in. Suddenly the DOORBELL RINGS, scaring her half to death. Leaving the chain on the door, she opens it a crack and sees Janosz standing in the hall, eerily lit by a red emergency spot at the end of the hallway. He looks slightly dazed and even creepier. <b> DANA </b> (surprised) Janosz? <b> JANOSZ </b> Hello, Dana. I happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop by to see if everything's all right with you -- you know, with the blackout and everything? Are you okay? Is the baby all right? His affected concern is chilling. She is frightened but conceals it from him. <b> DANA </b> (mechanically and cautiously) We're fine, Janosz. He tires to look around her into the apartment. <b> JANOSZ </b> Do you need anything? You want me to come in? <b> DANA </b> No, everything's fine. Honestly. Thanks anyway. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, just thought I'd check. Good night, Dana. Sleep well. Don't let the bedbugs bite you. <b> DANA </b> Good night, Janosz. She closes the door behind him and double locks it, then stands there staring into the candlelight, alone and afraid. <b>INT. HALLWAY OF DANA'S BUILDING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz stands there in semi-darkness, then his eyes light up like headlights and he walks off down the hall. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - NEXT DAY </b> The JUDGE, a rather sour-looking jurist of the old school, calls the court to order. <b> JUDGE </b> I want to make one thing very clear before we go any further. The law does not recognize the existence of ghosts, and I don't believe in them either, so I don't want to hear a lot of malarkey about goblins and spooks and demons. We're going to stick to the facts in this case and save the ghost stories for the kiddies. Understood? <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz leans over and whispers to Spengler. <b> STANTZ </b> Seems like a pretty open-minded guy, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> His nickname is "The Hammer." Stantz and Spengler are seated with their attorney LOUIS TULLY, lawyer, CPA and former demonic possession victim. Louis is desperately paging through a mountain of legal textbooks. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervous) I think you're making a big mistake here, fellas. I do mostly tax law and some probate stuff occasionally. I got my law degree at night school. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right. We got arrested at night. <b>SPECTATORS' GALLERY </b> Venkman is talking to Dana at the wooden rail in front of the gallery. <b> DANA </b> I wish I could stay. I feel personally responsible for you being here. <b> VENKMAN </b> You are personally responsible. If I can get conjugal rights, will you visit me at Sing Sing? <b> DANA </b> Please don't say that. You won't go to prison. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry about me. I'm like a cat. <b> DANA </b> You mean you cough up hairballs all over the rug? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm El Gato. I always land on my feet. <b> DANA </b> (sincerely) Good luck. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thanks. She gives him a quick, unexpected kiss and exits. Venkman savors it for a moment then goes back to the defense table. <b>PROSECUTION TABLE </b> Jack Hardemeyer, the mayor's principal aide, is goading the PROSECUTOR, a very sober, humorless woman in her late thirties. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> How are you doing, hon? Just put these guys away fast and make sure they go away for a long, long time. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> It shouldn't be hard with this list of charges. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Good. Very good. The mayor and future governor won't forget this. He smiles conspiratorially and makes a point of passing the defense table on his way out of the courtroom. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> The Ghostbusters look up as Hardemeyer approaches. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (gloating) Nice going, Venkman. Violating a judicial restraining order, willful destruction of public property, fraud, malicious mischief -- smooth move. See you in a couple years -- at your first parole hearing. Herdemeyer exits. Louis looks devastated. <b> LOUIS </b> Gee, the whole city's against us. I think I'm going to be sick. Spengler hands him a waste basket as the Prosecutor calls her first witness. <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - DAY (LATER) </b> The Con Ed Supervisor is testifying. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Mr. Fianella, please look at Exhibits A through F on the table over there. Do you recognize that equipment? <b>EXHIBIT TABLE </b> Lying on the table are the basic tools of the Ghostbusting trade: three proton packs and particle throwers, a couple of ghost traps, and various meters and detection devices. <b> CON ED </b> (o.c.) That's the stuff the cops found in their truck. <b>WITNESS STAND </b> She continues. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Do you know what this equipment is used for? <b> CON ED </b> (shrugs) I don't know. Catching ghosts, I guess. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> (to the Judge) May I remind the court that the defendants are under a judicial restraining order that specifically forbids them from performing services as paranormal investigators and eliminators. <b> JUDGE </b> So noted. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Now, Mr. Fianella, can you identify the substance in the jar on the table marked Exhibit F? <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She goes to the exhibit table and picks up a specimen jar containing the slime sample Stantz removed from the tunnel. <b> CON ED </b> I been working underground for Con Ed for 27 years and I never saw anything like that in my life. We checked out that tunnel the next day and we didn't find nothing. If it was down there, they must have put it there. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Venkman and Spengler look at Stantz. <b> STANTZ </b> (defensively) Hey, I didn't imagine it. There must have been ten thousand gallons of it down there. <b> SPENGLER </b> It may be ebbing and flowing from some tidal source. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervously) Should I say that? <b> SPENGLER </b> I doubt that they'd believe us. Louis moans and goes back to his notes. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - LATER </b> Venkman himself is on the stand and Louis is questioning him. <b> LOUIS </b> So like you were just trying to help out your old friend because she was scared and you didn't really mean to do anything bad and you really love the city and won't ever do anything like this again, right? <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection, your Honor. He's leading the witness. <b> JUDGE </b> The witness is leading him. Sustained. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, let me rephrase that question. (to venkman) Didn't you once coach a basketball team for underprivileged children? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yes, I did. We were city champs. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection. Irrelevant and immaterial. <b> JUDGE </b> Sustained. Mr. Tully, do you have anything to ask this witness that may have some bearing on this case? <b> LOUIS </b> (to Venkman) Do I? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I think you've helped them enough already. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the Judge) No, I guess not. (to the Prosecutor) Your witness. The Prosecutor rises and approaches the witness stand with relish. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So, Dr. Venkman, please explain to the court why it is you and your co-defendants took it upon yourselves to dig a big hole in the middle of the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Seventy-seventh and First Avenue has so many holes already we didn't think anyone would notice. The gallery laughs and the Judge gavels for order. <b> JUDGE </b> Keep that up, mister, and I'll find you in contempt. <b> VENKMAN </b> Sorry, your Honor, but when somebody sets me up like that I can't resist. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> I'll ask you again, Dr. Venkman. Why were you digging the hole? And please remember that you're under oath. <b> VENKMAN </b> I had my fingers crossed when they swore me in, but I'm going to tell you the truth. There are things in this world that go way beyond human understanding, things that can't be explained and that most people don't want to know about anyway. That's where we come in. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So what are you saying? That the world of the supernatural is your special province? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I guess I'm just saying that shit happens and somebody has to deal with it. The spectators in the gallery cheer and the judge gavels for order. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - LATER </b> The trial is nearing its end. The Judge calls on Louis to make his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> Does the counsel for the defense wish to make any final arguements? Louis rises. <b> LOUIS </b> Your honor, may I approach the bench? <b> JUDGE </b> (impatient) Yes. Louis crosses to the judge's bench. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the judge) Can I have some of your water? <b> JUDGE </b> Get on with it, counselor! <b> LOUIS </b> (scared) Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the -- (he remembers there's no jury) audience. I don't think it's fair to call my clients frauds. Okay, the blackout was a big problem for everybody. I was stuck in an elevator for about three hours and I had to go to the bathroom the whole time, but I don't blame them because once I turned into a dog and they helped me. Thank you. He goes back to the defense table and sits down. Stantz and Spengler hang their heads. Venkman pats Louis on the back. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Louis) Way to go. Concise and to the point. <b>JUDGE </b> He stares at Louis, astonished at his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> That's it? That's all you have to say? <b> LOUIS </b> Did I forget something? He searches through a disorderly pile of notes. <b> JUDGE </b> That was unquestionably the worst presentation of a case I've ever heard in a court of law! I ought to cite you for contempt and have you disbarred. As for your clients, Peter Venkman, Raymond Stantz and Egon Spengler, on the charges of conspiracy, fraud and the willful destruction of public property, I find you guilty on all counts. I order you to pay fines in the amount of $25,000 each and I sentence you to eighteen months in the city correctional facility at Ryker's Island. <b>STANTZ </b> He sees the activity in the jar <b> STANTZ </b> Uh-oh, she's twitchin'. <b>THE BENCH </b> The Judge continues <b> JUDGE </b> And on a more personal note, let me go on record as saying that there is no place in decent society for fakes, charlatans and tricksters like you who prey on the gullibility of innocent people. You're beneath the contempt of this court. And believe me, if my hands were not tied by the unalterable fetters of the law, a law which has become in my view far too permissive and inadequate in it's standards of punishment, I would invoke the tradition of our illustrious forebearers, reach back to a sterner, purer justice and have you burned at the stake! He hammers the bench with his gravel as the gallery erupts noisily. Then he feels a LOW RUMBLING TREMOR in the courtroom. <b>SPECIMEN JAR </b> The slime starts to pulse and swell, pushing up the lid on the jar. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz anticipates big trouble. <b> STANTZ </b> Under the table, boys! The Ghostbusters duck under the defense table. <b>LOUIS </b> He stands up and looks around fearfully. <b>INT. COURTROOM - GHOST BATTLE - DAY </b> Everybody is silent now as the rumbling increases. All eyes turn to the exhibit table. Then suddenly all Hell breaks loose as TWO FULL-TORSO APPARITIONS explode out of the specimen jar. <b>JUDGE </b> He looks up in terror at the two huge apparitions looming above him and recognizes them immediately. <b> JUDGE </b> (in horror) Oh, my God! The Scoleri Brothers! <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> Big in life, even bigger in death, the ghostly Scoleri brothers seem ten feet tall. They are strapped into electric chairs and on their heads are metal electrocution caps with live, sparking electrical wires still attached. Twenty-five hundred volts of electricity shoot through their bodies as they start to break free of the leather restraints, trying to get at the Judge. <b>JUDGE </b> Holding his gavel like a pitiful weapon, he crawls over to the defense table where Venkman, Stantz and Spengler are now crouched, assessing the spectral intruders. <b> JUDGE </b> (terrified) You've got to do something! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who are they? <b> JUDGE </b> They're the Scoleri Brothers. I tried them for murder. They were electrocuted up at Ossining in '48. Now they want to kill me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Maybe they just want to appeal. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They break loose from the electric chairs, then turn toward the defense table and BLAST it with HIGH-VOLTAGE FINGER-LIGHTNING. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She sprints for the door, pursued by one of the Scoleri brothers. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They jump to safety behind the rail of the jury box, pulling the Judge with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These boys aren't playing around. <b> JUDGE </b> (desperately) You've got to stop them. Please! <b> LOUIS </b> (thinking like a lawyer) Violating a judicial restraining order could expose my clients to serious criminal penalties. As their attorney I'd have to advise them against it. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They start punching through the jury box. <b>JUDGE </b> He is just about hysterical with fear. <b> JUDGE </b> All right! All right! I'm recinding the order. Case dismissed!! (he pounds his gavel on the floor) Now do something! <b> STANTZ </b> Let's go to work, boys. With that, the Ghostbusters leap over the rail of the jury box and dash across the courtroom to the exhibit table where their proton packs were being displayed as evidence. They strap them on hastily as the Brothers continue tearing up the seats looing for the Judge. <b> VENKMAN </b> (slinging the pack onto his back) Geez, I forgot how heavy these things are. <b> STANTZ </b> (grabbing other gear) Okay, let's heat 'em up! They flip the power switches on their packs and draw their particle throwers. <b> STANTZ </b> All right, throwers. Set for full neutronas on stream. They switch on their throwers and turn to face the raging phantasms. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They are just about to wipe out the Judge when a loud shout distracts them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size? The towering ghosts turn in a fury and raise their arms, ready to shoot lightning at their new adversaries. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the others) On my signal, boys. Open 'em up -- Now! They all pull their triggers and the wands EXPLODE with incredible powerful STREAMS OF ENERGY, doing even more damage to the courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Spengs, take the door. Ray, let's try and work them down and into the corner. Working as a team, they gradually confine the Scoleri Brothers with the streams, forcing them closer and closer to the traps Ray has set out on the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch it! I'm coming under you, Pete. They circle around the two ghosts, prodding them with the streams while ducking the lightning bolts shooting from their fingers. Finally, Ray sees his chance and pops open the traps which emit inverted pyramids of light energy. <b> STANTZ </b> Steady -- watch your streams -- easy now -- Venky, bring him left -- Spengy, pull him down -- trapping -- trapping -- now! He stomps on a control pedal and the Scoleri Brothers are drawn into the traps which snap shut. <b>INT. COURTROOM - TRAPS - DAY </b> LEDs on the outer casing start flashing, indicating the presence of a ghost inside each trap. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking the trap) Occupado. <b>INT. COURTROOM - JUDGE - DAY (AFTER GHOST BATTLE) </b> He sticks his head up slowly from behind the debris of his bench and looks around in total amazement. <b>LOUIS </b> He crawls out from under a chair. Reporters and spectators get back on their feet and start buzzing about the incredible manifestation. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She's lying on the floor, attended to by the Bailiff and the Court Clerk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Prosecutor) Brilliant summation. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They break into big smiles as photographers start snapping pictures of them standing in the wrecked courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Case closed, boys. We're back in business. The spectators cheer and applaud. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> The old, dilapidated Ghostbusters logo comes crashing to the ground, dropped by a pair of workmen on a ladder, and the new logo is hoisted into place over the main entrance. It's just like the original "No Ghosts" logo, but in the new one the ghost in the red circle is holding up two fingers. Venkman enters the firehouse. <b>INT. BEDROOM SET (TV COMMERCIAL - FULL SCREEN VIDEO) - NIGHT </b> A man and his wife are lying in bed reading. The man is played by Louis Tully and JANINE MELNITZ, the Ghostbusters' once and future receptionist, is playing his wife. They are both terrible actors. Suddenly, a ghost, actually a very bad puppet on a wire, floats through the bedroom. Janine sees it and screams. <b> LOUIS </b> What is it, honey? <b> JANINE </b> It's that darn ghost again! I don't know what to do anymore. He just won't leave us alone. I guess we'll just have to move. <b> LOUIS </b> Don't worry. We're not moving. He is. He picks up the phone. <b> JANINE </b> Who are you going to call? <b> LOUIS </b> (with a wink) Ghostbusters. As he starts to dial, the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the Ghostbusters standing in the bedroom. Their acting isn't much better than Louis and Janine's. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> Stantz speaks directly TO the CAMERA. <b> STANTZ </b> I'm Ray -- <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm Peter -- <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm Egon -- <b> STANTZ </b> And we're the ... <b> ALL </b> (together) Ghostbusters. <b> STANTZ </b> That's right -- Ghostbusters. We're back and we're better than ever with twice the know-how and twice the particle-power to deal with all your supernatural elimination needs. During his speech, Winston can be seen in the b.g. pretending to trap the fake ghost. <b> STANTZ </b> Careful, Winston. He's a mean one. <b> (TO CAMERA) </b> And to celebrate our grand reopening, we're giving you twice the value with our special half-price 'Welcome Back' service plan. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hold on, Ray! Half-price! Have you gone crazy? <b> STANTZ </b> I guess so, Pete, because that's not all. Tell them what else we've got, Egon. Spengler actually mouths everyone else's dialogue along with them, waiting for his cue. <b> SPENGLER </b> You mean the Ghostbusters hot beverage thermal mugs and free balloons for the kids? He holds up a mug and a limp, uninflated balloon. <b> STANTZ </b> You bet. As Stantz wraps it up, SUPERS APPEAR at the bottom of the SCREEN: FULLY <b>BONDED - FULLY LICENSED - SE HABLA ESPANOL. </b> <b> STANTZ </b><b> (TO CAMERA) </b> So don't wait another minute. Make your supernatural problem our supernatural problem. Call now, because we're still -- <b> ALL </b> (in unison, mechanically) -- Ready to believe you. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. JACK HARDEMEYER'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Hardemeyer is watching the Ghostbusters commercial on a TV in his office. He bangs his fist on his desk and angrily switches OFF the TV. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY (LATER) </b> The garage door opens and the new improved ECTOMOBILE comes ROARING out onto the street, its ghostly SIREN MOANING and WAILING. Louis comes running out after it. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis comes back into the garage bay and stops as he smells a foul odor. He sniffs around, following the smell. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, geez, smells like somebody took a really big -- He freezes. <b>INT. OFFICE AREA - LOUIS'S POV </b> Slimer, a spud-like green ghost, is hovering over Louis's desk, scarfing down Louis's bag lunch. Slimer looks up and sees Louis. <b>SLIMER AND LOUIS </b> They both scream and run off in opposite directions. <b>SLIMER </b> He passes right through a wall and disappears. <b>LOUIS </b> He runs right into a wall, recovers and exits in a hurry. <b> LOUIS </b> (screaming) Help! There's a thing! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK RESERVOIR - DAY (LATER) </b> Runners of both sexes and all ages are huffing and puffing as they jog along the track that circles the reservoir. One of the runners looks behind him at the sound of APPROACHING FOOTFALLS and screams. <b>GHOSTLY JOGGER </b> A ghost jogger is loping along at a pretty fair pace. Other runners stumble and run screaming into the park as he passes them. Seemingly oblivious to the effect he's having, the ghost jogger puts two fingers to his skeletal neck and checks his watch as if taking his pulse. <b>EXT. CLEARING IN PARK - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman is sitting on a park bench near the jogging track reading the newspaper, eating a donut and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. <b>STANTZ </b> He's sitting on a bench opposite Venkman's, casually watching the jogging track. <b>GHOST JOGGER </b> He approaches the benches where the Ghostbusters are waiting. As the ghost jogger passes the benches, Stantz and Venkman simultaneously hit concealed control buttons. A ghost trap buried in the track throws up a glowing inverted pyramid and catches the ghost jogger in mid-stride. Stantz and Venkman close the trap and capture the ghost jogger. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking his watch) You know he ran that last lap in under six minutes? <b> STANTZ </b> If he wasn't dead he'd be an Olympic prospect. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. JEWELRY STORE - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters come out carrying smoking traps, wearing cheap dime-store Santa Claus hats. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the client) Merry Christmas! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - ORREFORS GLASS STORE - DAY </b> The Ectomobile is parked at the curb and a curious crowd looks on as the Ghostbusters enter the store. <b>INT. ORREFORS GLASS STORE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> All the precious crystal is floating in the air, several feet above the glass shelves and display tables. Stantz and Venkman are talking to the manager while Winston and Spengler set up an array of electronic devices positioned in each corner of the store. On a signal from Stantz, Spengler and Winston switch on the devices which throw laser-type beams around the perimeter of the store. The manager watches in horror as all the GLASSWARE suddenly drops out of the air, SMASHES through the GLASS SHELVES and SHATTERS on the display tables. There is a long pregnant pause. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the manager) So will that be cash or a check? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) </b> Everyone else has gone home. Dana is cleaning her brushes and putting her supplies away. <b>VIGO PAINTING - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Vigo turns his head and watches Dana as she walks past the painting. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis is lurking behind a pillar, peeking out at the office area. We PAN DOWN TO the floor and see a foot pedal, then PAN ALONG the cord TO a ghost trap sitting on Louis's desk. Hanging from strings over the desk are several pieces of Kentucky fried chicken. <b>WALL </b> Slimer partially emerges and furtively sniffs the air, then spots the chicken bait. He licks his lips, materializes completely and flies to the chicken. <b>LOUIS </b> His eyes light up and he stomps the foot pedal. <b> LOUIS </b> (shouts) Gotcha! <b>DESK </b> The trap pops open and shoots out a powerful cone of energy. Slimer dodges it and escapes as a big section of the ceiling comes crashing down on Louis's desk. <b> LOUIS </b> (seeing the damage) Uh-oh. He slinks off, defeated. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - SECURITY DESK - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters commercial is playing on a portable TV on the security desk. Rudy, the Security Guard, is reading a National Enquirer with a giant front-page headline: GHOSTBUSTERS SAVE JUDGE. Venkman enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm looking for Dana Barrett. <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> Room 304 -- Restorations. (recognizing him) Hey! Dr. Venkman -- 'World of the Psychic.' I'm a big, big fan. That used to be one of my two favorite shows. <b> VENKMAN </b> (flattered) Thanks. What's the other one? <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> 'Bass Masters.' It's a fishing show. Ever see it? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, really great. Take it easy. He exits. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Dana is working on a valuable Flemish still-life by Ver Meer. Janosz is at the other end of the room, still working on the painting of Vigo. Venkman enters and sneaks up behind Dana. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the Ver Meer) So this is what you do, huh? <b> DANA </b> (glad to see him) Oh, hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> You're really good, you know. <b> DANA </b> I didn't paint it. I'm just cleaning it. It's an original Ver Meer. It's worth about ten million dollars. <b>VIGO </b> He turns his head and watches Venkman and Dana. <b>VENKMAN </b> Unaware that he's being watched, Venkman squints at the still life, holding up his thumb like he's seen artists do. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know you can go to Art World and get these huge sofa-size paintings for about forty-five bucks. He starts looking around at the other artwork in the studio. <b> DANA </b> I'm sure you didn't come here just to talk about art. <b> VENKMAN </b> As a matter of fact, I stopped by to tell you that I haven't forgotten your problem and that we're still on the case. They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> (smiling at Venkman) Dana, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend? <b> DANA </b> Oh, I'm sorry. This is Peter Venkman. Peter, Janosz Poha. Venkman warily shakes his hand, trying to size him up. <b> JANOSZ </b> (avoiding his gaze) Pleasure to meet you. I've seen you on television. <b> VENKMAN </b> How are you? (looking over at the Vigo painting) What's that you're working on, Johnny? Janosz winces at the nickname but lets it go. Venkman and Dana cross to the Vigo painting. Janosz steps protectively in front of it. <b> JANOSZ </b> It's a painting I'm restoring for the new Byzantine exhibition. It's a self-portrait of Prince Vigo, the Carpathian. He ruled most of Carpathia and Moldavia in the 17th Century. <b> VENKMAN </b> (staring at the painting) Too bad for the Moldavians. <b> JANOSZ </b> (defensive) He was a very powerful magician. A genius in many ways and quite a skilled painter. <b> DANA </b> He was also a lunatic and a genocidal madman. I hate this painting. I've felt very uncomfortable since they brought it up from storage. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, it's not the kind of thing you'd want to hang in the rec room. You know what it needs? (picking up a brush) A fluffy little white kitten in the corner. Venkman reaches toward the painting, but Janosz grabs his hand. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with forced good will) We don't go around altering valuable paintings, Dr. Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, I'd make an exception in this case if I were you. Dana looks disapprovingly at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) I'll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you. <b> JANOSZ </b> My pleasure. Venkman and Dana cross back to her workspace. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) I may be wrong, but I think you've got a little crush on this guy. <b> DANA </b> Good-bye, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (dragging his feet) I'd like to stay, but I really don't have time to hang around here. I'll call you. (calls out to Janosz) Later, Johnny! He exits. <b>VIGO </b> Vigo turns his head and follows Dana as she returns to her workbench. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LIVING QUARTERS - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> Venkman and Winston enter and find Stantz and Spengler at work in the lab area. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh good, you're here. Spengler and I have something really amazing to show you. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) It's not that thing you do with your nostrils, is it? Stantz goes to the refrigerator, opens the freezer, rummages around among the TV dinners and frozen pizza and pulls out a slime specimen in a Tupperware container. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Venkman) We've been studying the stuff that we took from the subway tunnel. He pops the specimen jar in the microwave and lets it thaw for a minute. <b> VENKMAN </b> And now you're going to eat it? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm just restoring it to its normal state. He takes the specimen out of the microwave and pours some of it into a large Petri dish. <b> STANTZ </b> Now watch this. He leans over the specimen and starts shouting at it. <b> STANTZ </b> (simulating anger) You worthless piece of slime!! (as the slime starts to twitch and glow) You ignorant disgusting blob!! <b>SPECIMEN </b> It bubbles and swells, changing color with each insult. <b> STANTZ </b> You foul, obnoxious muck!! <b>STANTZ </b> He continues venting his rage on the slime. <b> STANTZ </b> I've seen some real crud in my time, but you're a chemical disgrace!! The specimen doubles its size and starts spilling over the rim of the Petri dish. <b>STANTZ AND SPENGLER </b> They turn to Venkman for his reaction. He's dumbfounded. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is what you do with your spare time? <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) This is an incredible breakthrough, Venkman. A psychoreactive substance! Whatever this is, it clearly responds to human emotional states. <b> VENKMAN </b> 'Mood slime.' We ought to bottle this stuff and sell it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We've found it at every event site we've been to lately. <b> WINSTON </b> (poking at the slime) You mean this stuff actually feeds on 'bad vibes'? <b> STANTZ </b> Like a goat on garbage. <b> STANTZ </b> We're running tests to see if we can get an equally strong positive reaction. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of tests? <b> STANTZ </b> (a little embarrassed) Well, we sing to it, we talk to it, we say supportive, nurturing things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> You're not sleeping with this stuff, are you? Spengler reacts as if he might be. <b> STANTZ </b> It really responds to music. (to Spengler) Let's calm it down. Spengler picks up a guitar and he and Stantz start singing "Cumbaya" to the slime specimen. <b>SPECIMEN </b> It stops bubbling and starts to shrink. <b> WINSTON </b> Does it have any favorites? <b> STANTZ </b> It likes all the sappy stuff: 'Cumbaya,' 'Everything is Beautiful,' 'It's a Small World' -- but it loves Jackie Wilson. Venkman and Winston watch intently as Spengler spoons some of the psych-reactive slime onto an old toaster. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch this. Stantz turns on a CASSETTE PLAYER and Jackie Wilson's "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BLASTS from the speakers. <b>TOASTER </b> It shakes, spins and actually starts moving in time with the MUSIC. <b>VENKMAN </b> He stares in disbelief at the dancing toaster as it shoots two pieces of toast into the air and catches them without missing a beat. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't care what you say. This could be a major Christmas gift item. <b> WINSTON </b> Right, and the first time someone gets mad, their toaster will eat their hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> So we'll put a warning on the label. Stantz turns OFF the MUSIC and the toaster stops moving. Venkman looks at the toaster and sticks his fingers in the slot. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the toaster) Go ahead. I dare you. Suddenly, he yelps as if the toaster has actually bitten into his hand and won't let go. The others jump in to help him, but Venkman laughs and easily withdraws his hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> Just kidding. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Dana brings Oscar into the bathroom and lays him on the bassinet. She's wearing a robe over her nightgown, preparing to bathe the baby. She turns the taps on the old claw-footed bathtub, checks the water temperature, then turns away and starts to undress the baby. <b> DANA </b> (talking sweetly to the baby) Look at you. I think we got more food on your shirt than we got in your mouth. <b>BATHTUB </b> The water pouring from the faucet changes to slime and settles at the bottom of the tub. Dana reaches over and turns off the water without looking into the tub. When she turns away, both taps start to spin by themselves and the tub flexes and bulges. <b>DANA </b> Still unaware, she routinely reaches over and squirts some bubble bath into the tub. <b>BATHTUB </b> The rim of the tub puckers up and the sides convulse as if swallowing the bubble bath. <b>DANA </b>She picks the baby up off the bassinet and turns to place him in the tub. She is just about to lower him into the water when the tub starts to close up around the baby like a hugh mouth. Dana screams, snatches the baby away and runs from the room clutching Oscar to her bosom as the bathtub convulses and vomits up buckets of slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - SAME NIGHT (LATER) </b> The big open loft space is a chaotic clutter of mismatched furniture, old magazines, books, tapes, and sports equipment. Venkman is asleep on the floor, still wearing his coat, scarf, hat and gloves, having collapsed just short of the bedroom. The DOORBELL RINGS, he wakes up, lumbers to his feet and answers it. He opens the door and sees Dana standing there. She is wearing only a nightgown under her coat and Oscar is naked, wrapped in a baby blanket. <b> DANA </b> (somewhat embarrassed to be there) I'm sorry. Were you on your way out? <b> VENKMAN </b> (surprised to see her) No, I just got in -- a couple hours ago. Come on in. (noting her apparel) Are we having a pajama party? <b> DANA </b> (upset) Peter, the bathtub tried to eat Oscar. Venkman looks at her for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know, if anyone else told me that, I'd have serious doubts. But coming from you, I can't honestly say I'm surprised. <b> DANA </b> I must be losing my mind. At the museum today I could have sworn that terrible painting of Vigo looked right at me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who could blame him? Were you wearing this nightgown? <b> DANA </b> (distraught) I don't know what to do anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll get Ray and Egon to check out the bathtub. You better stay here. He exits to the bathroom. She looks around the loft, amazed at the disorder. Venkman comes back immediately with an old sweatshirt and takes Oscar from her. <b> VENKMAN </b> Now this kid has a serious nudity problem. He spreads the sweatshirt out on the sofa, lays the baby on it and starts tying it around him like a diaper. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the baby) This is Joe Namath's old number, you know. You could get a lot of chicks with this. Just don't pee in it. <b> DANA </b> Peter, what about the bathtub? <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the phone and dials) We'll take care of that. (on the phone) Ray, Pete. Listen, get over to Dana's right away ... Her bathtub pulled a fast one -- tried to eat the kid. <b> DANA </b> It was full of this awful pink ooze. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray) Sounds like another slime job ... No, they're all right. They're here now ... Right ... Let me know. He hangs up. <b> VENKMAN </b> They're going over there right now. You might as well make yourself at home. Let me show you around. (he crosses to the kitchen area) This is the cuisine de maison -- It's an incredible mess. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes and the counters are littered with all sorts of food trash. He grabs a big open Hefty bag on the floor and starts throwing garbage into it. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the sink) We may have to wash some of these if you get hungry -- (he looks in the fridge) -- but there's no food anyway so forget about it. I have all kinds of carry-out menus if you feel like ordering. He opens a drawer full of pizza, barbecue and Chinese food menus, then crosses to the bathroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Bathroom's right here -- let me just tidy up a few things. <b> DANA </b> Peter, this is very nice, but you don't have to do any of this, you know. He goes into the bathroom and we hear WATER RUNNING, the TOILET FLUSHING and more items going into the Hefty bag. <b> VENKMAN (O.S.) </b> The shower works but it's a little tricky. They're both marked "Hot." It takes a little practice, but at least this one won't try and eat you. He comes out of the bathroom with the now-loaded Hefty bag over his shoulder. <b> VENKMAN </b> Be careful on that sofa -- it's a butt-biter. But the bed's good and I just changed the sheets so if you get tired, feel free. In fact, I think you should definitely plan on spending the night here. <b> DANA </b> Really? And how would we handle the sleeping arrangements? <b> VENKMAN </b> For me it's best if I sleep on my side and you spoon up right behind me with your arms around me. If we go the other way I'm afraid your hair will be getting in my face all night. <b> DANA </b> How about you on the sofa and me in bed with the baby. <b> VENKMAN </b> Or we could do that. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. (she picks up Oscar) Poor baby. I think I should put him down now. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll put him down for you. (taking the baby) You are way too short! And your belly-button sticks out! You're nothing but a burden to your poor mother! Venkman carries the baby into the bedroom leaving Dana in the living room, feeling more relaxed and a lot safer. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> Venkman is waiting in front of the building as ECTO-2 pulls up and Stantz, Spengler and Winston get out and report on Dana's apartment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you find anything at Dana's? <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Just some mood-slime residue in and around the bathtub. But we did turn up some interesting stuff on this Vigo character you mentioned. I found the name Vigo the Carpathian in Leon Zundinger's Magicians, Martyrs and Madmen. Listen to this: <b> SPENGLER </b> (reads from xerox of entry) "Vigo the Carpathian, born 1505, died 1610 --" <b> VENKMAN </b> A hundred and five years? He really hung on, didn't he. <b> STANTZ </b> And he didn't die of old age either. He was poisoned, stabbed, shot, hung, stretched, disemboweled, drawn and quartered. <b> WINSTON </b> I guess he wasn't too popular at the end there. <b> SPENGLER </b> No, not exactly a man of the people. (reads) "Also known as Vigo the Cruel, Vigo the Torturer, Vigo the Despised, and Vigo the Unholy." <b> STANTZ </b> This guy was a bad monkey. He dabbled in all the Black Arts, and listen to this prophecy. Just before his head died, his last words were, "Death is but a door, time is but a window. I'll be back." <b> VENKMAN </b> That's it? "I'll be back?" <b> SPENGLER </b> It's a rough translation from the Moldavian. They enter the museum carrying their monitoring equipment. <b>INT. MUSEUM - SECURITY DESK - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Rudy the guard looks up in surprise as the Ghostbusters enter. <b> RUDY </b> Hey, Dr. Venkman. What's going on? <b> VENKMAN </b> We're just going up to Restorations for a minute. <b> RUDY </b> Oh, I can't let you do that. Mr. Poha told me not to let you up there anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> (with mock seriousness) Okay, we were trying to keep this quiet but I think you can be trusted. Tell him, Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> (very official) Mister, you have an Ecto-paritic, subfusionary flux in this building. <b> RUDY </b> We got a flux? <b> WINSTON </b> You got a flux and a half. <b> STANTZ </b> Now if you don't want to be the -- (he counts) -- fifth person ever to die in meta-shock from a planar rift, I suggest you get down behind that desk and don't move until we give you the signal "Stabilize -- All Clear." Rudy gulps and starts to hunker down behind the desk as the Ghostbusters head upstairs. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Janosz is working on the Vigo painting when the Ghostbusters enter. He rushes over and stops them at the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> Dr. Venkman? Dana is not here. <b> VENKMAN </b> I know. <b> JANOSZ </b> Then why have you come? <b> VENKMAN </b> We got a major creep alert and we're just going down the list. Your name was first. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Spengler and Winston) Let's sweep it, boys. They deploy and start scanning the studio with their monitoring devices. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) You know, I never got to ask you. Where you from, Johnny? <b> JANOSZ </b> (nervous) The Upper West Side. <b> SPENGLER </b> (consulting his PKE meter) This entire room is extremely hot, Peter. <b> JANOSZ </b> What exactly are you looking for, Dr. Venkman? <b> VENKMAN </b> We'll know when we find it. You just sit tight. This won't take long. <b>STANTZ </b> Using the Giga-meter, he traces a strong psychomagnetheric reading to the painting of Vigo in the alcove at the end of the studio. Venkman comes up behind him with Janosz right on his heels. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is the one that looked at Dana. <b> JANOSZ </b> It must be the chemical fumes in the studio. People start imagining things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (interrupts) I'm going to rule out the glue-sniffing theory. If she says it looked at her, it looked at her. (to Vigo) Hey, you! Vigie! Look at me. I'm talking to you. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you. They watch the painting for any sign of movement. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes stare lifelessly into the distance. <b>STANTZ AND VENKMAN </b> Venkman starts shooting Polaroids of Vigo. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Vigo) Beautiful, beautiful. Work with me, baby. Just have fun with it. (to Stantz) Okay, he's playing it cool. Let's finish up and get out of here. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll get one more reading. Venkman walks off leaving Stantz alone with the painting. Stantz scans the painting with the Giga-meter until his eyes meet Vigo's. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes seems to burn right through to the depths of Stantz's soul. <b>STANTZ </b> He stands there transfixed, unable to look away, as a strange and subtle transformation occurs within him. Winston comes up behind him and breaks the spell. <b> WINSTON </b> (looking at the painting) Now that's one ugly dude. <b> STANTZ </b> (coming back to his senses) Huh? What? <b> WINSTON </b> You finished here? <b> STANTZ </b> (distracted) What? Yeah. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? You coming down with something? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm fine. I just got light-headed for a second there. Let's go. They head for the door. <b>JANOSZ </b> He escorts the Ghostbusters to the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> So you see, everything is in order, is it not? <b> VENKMAN </b> Not. Don't leave town and report any change in your address to the proper authorities. We'll be back. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters cross to ECTO-2. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's definitely something going on in that studio. The PKE levels were max-plus and the Giga-meter was showing all red. <b> WINSTON </b> I'd put my money on that Vigo character. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, that's a safe bet. (to Stantz) You and Spengman see what else you can dig up on Vigo and this little weasel Poha. Those two were made for each other. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are driving back to the firehouse. Stantz is at the wheel. His eyes are vacant, he seems distracted and very tense. Stantz swerves suddenly and HONKS the horn angrily. <b> STANTZ </b> (to another driver) Idiot! (honking) Move it, you jerk! Venkman and Winston exchange surprised looks. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz drives extremely fast, HONKING vindictively, weaving dangerously through traffic. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks at Ray, concerned. <b> WINSTON </b> Going a little fast, aren't we, Ray? Stantz turns on him. <b> STANTZ </b> (viciously) Are you telling me how to drive? <b> WINSTON </b> No, I just thought -- <b> STANTZ </b> Well don't think! He HONKS again and tromps hard on the accelerator. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS) </b> Ecto-2 is now barreling down the avenue. Pedestrians leap to safety as Stantz runs a red light. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They hang on to the safety straps as Stantz continues his maniacal ride. <b> WINSTON </b> (to Stantz, really worried now) Are you crazy, man? You're going to kill somebody! Stantz looks at him and smile demonically. <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm going to kill everybody! He swerves off the road. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car heads right for a big tree. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> At the last possible moment, Winston cold-cocks Stantz, grabs the wheel and steps across to stomp on the brakes. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car skids into the tree and stops. The Ghostbusters stumble out dazed and shaken, but unhurt. Stantz rubs his eyes and looks at the others, completely at a loss. <b> STANTZ </b> (himself again) What happened? <b> VENKMAN </b> You just picked up three penalty points on your driver's license. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, I guess so. It was the strangest thing. I knew what I was doing but I couldn't stop. This really terrible feeling came over me and -- I don't know -- I just felt like driving into that tree and ending it all. Whew! Sorry, boys. They inspect the damage to the car. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially, to Spengler) Watch him, Egon. Don't even let him shave. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - DAY (LATER) </b> There's a KNOCK at the front door, a key turns in the lock, and Venkman enters somewhat tentatively holding a bouquet of flowers and a small suitcase of Dana's. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calls out) I'm home! He looks around the large open loft. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to himself) I knew it. She cleaned. He hears the SHOWER RUNNING and crosses to the bathroom. The door is half-open and he can see Dana in the shower (tastefully blurred) through the transparent vinyl curtain. He closes the bathroom door and looks at the baby asleep on the bed, surrounded by pillows to prevent him rolling off. Then he turns and bumps into Dana who's just coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She jumps back into the bathroom. She comes out again, this time wearing a robe. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you all squeaky clean now? <b> DANA </b> (humoring him) Yes, I'm very clean. Did they find anything at my apartment? She squeezes past him into the bedroom and closes the door. <b> VENKMAN </b> (through the door) Nothing. They stayed there all night, went through your personal stuff, made a bunch of long-distance phone calls and cleaned out your refrigerator. And didn't find anything. Dana opens the bedroom door. <b> DANA </b> They didn't find anything? In the bathtub ... the pink ooze ... nothing? So, what do I do now? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you get dressed and we go out. I got a babysitter and everything. Trust me, you need it. <b> DANA </b> I'm not here to date. I can't leave Oscar in a strange place with someone I don't know. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's Janine Melnitz, from my staff. She's one of my most valuable employees. <b> DANA </b> Does she know anything about babies? <b> VENKMAN </b> Janine Melnitz, are you kidding? (handing her the flowers) Do I have a vase? I brought some of your clothes. Wear something intriguing. I brought along some interesting possibilities. <b> DANA </b> Okay, but it's not a date. It's a dinner. She smiles and closes the door again. He opens the closet and starts looking for his good suit. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you happen to see some shirts on the floor in here? <b> DANA (O.S.) </b> I put them in your hamper. I thought they were dirty. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shaking his head) I have a hamper? Next time ask me first, okay. I have more than two grades of laundry. There're lots of subtle levels between clean and dirty. He pulls some clothes out of the hamper and inspects them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These aren't so bad yet. You just hang them up for a while and they're fine. <b> CUT TO: </b><b>INT. FIREHOUSE - RECEPTION AREA - EARLY EVENING </b> Janine covers her computer terminal and starts turning out the lights. Then she notices that the lights are still on upstairs. She starts primping and freshening up her makeup. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LAB AREA - SAME TIME </b> Louis is strapping on a proton pack, preparing to deal with Slimer once and for all. He's wearing a bicyclist's rearview mirror on a headband. <b> LOUIS </b> (to himself) Okay, Stinky, this is it. Showdown time. You and me, pal. You think you're smarter than I am? We'll see about that. (loud) Oh, hello, Pizza Man! Oh, two larges! I only ordered one. Oh, pepperoni and pineapple. My absolute favorite. I guess I'll have to eat these both by myself. <b>THE CEILING </b> Slimer pokes his head through the ceiling and scans the room hanging upside down. <b>LOUIS </b> He spots Slimer through the rearview mirror. <b> LOUIS </b> (quietly) Okay, let's boogie! He whirls around and fires a proton stream at Slimer, slicing a burning a gash across the ceiling. <b>THE STAIRS </b> Janine comes up and ducks as a bolt of energy streaks across the room and strikes the wall behind her. Slimer disappears. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed and apologetic) Oh migod! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It was an accident. <b> JANINE </b> What are you doing up here? <b> LOUIS </b> I was trying to get that smelly green thing. The guys asked me to help out. I'm like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> JANINE </b> Why would you want to be a Ghostbuster if you're already an accountant? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, no, it's just if one of the guys calls in sick or gets hurt. Louis quickly slips off the proton pack and sets it down. <b> JANINE </b> Have you made any plans yet? You know tomorrow is New Year's Eve. <b> LOUIS </b> No, I celebrate at the beginning of my corporate tax year which is March first. That way I beat the crowds. <b> JANINE </b> That's very practical. I hate going out on New Year's Eve, too. There is an awkward silence between them and Janine starts to leave. <b> JANINE </b> Well, good night, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> (on an impulse) Janine, do you feel like maybe getting something to eat on the way home? <b> JANINE </b> I'd like to, but I told Dr. Venkman I'd babysit. (seductively) Do you want to babysit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, sure, that sounds great. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> There is a KNOCK at the door and Venkman goes to answer it. He's dressed for the evening and looking very dapper. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - ENTRANCE HALL - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman opens the door and finds Stantz, Spengler and Winston standing there wearing over-the-hip rubberized waders, firemen's slickers, and miners' helmets, carrying tons of sensing devices, meters, collection jars and photographic equipment. They look like they're rigged out for a major spelunking expedition. <b> VENKMAN </b> (ushering them in) Don't tell me, let me guess. All-you-can-eat barbecue rib night at the Sizzler? <b> STANTZ </b> We're going down into the sewer system to see if we can trace the source of the psycho-reactive slime flow. We thought you might want to come along. <b> VENKMAN </b> Darn it! I wish I'd known you were going. I'm stuck with these damn dinner reservations. <b> SPENGLER </b> You know, animals and lower life forms often anticipate major disasters. Given the new magnetheric readings we could see a tremendous breeding surge in the cockroach population. <b> VENKMAN </b> Roach breeding? Sounds better and better. (calls out) Dana? The boys are going down under the sewers tonight to look for slime. Egon thinks there might even be some kind of big roach-breeding surge. Should we forget about dinner and go with them instead? Dana steps into the living room looking very beautiful. <b> STANTZ </b> Wow. Dana looks curiously at their outfits. <b> DANA </b> Hi. They nod and wave back. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray and Egon) I think we're going to have to pass on the sewer trip, boys. Let me know what you find out. <b> STANTZ </b> (on his exit) Okay, but you're missing all the fun. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Stantz, Spengler and Winston come down the stairs into the station, guided by a very old map of the underground city. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. Van Horne Station. Right where the old transit map said it would be. They cross to the edge of the platform and look into the river of slime. <b> STANTZ </b> Let's get a sounding on the depth of that flow. Stantz has a long, coiled, graduated cord with a plumb bob on the end of it attached to his utility belt. <b> STANTZ </b> Stand back. He takes the cord in his hand, swings the plumb bob over his head and casts it out into the middle of the flow. The plumb bob sinks and Spengler reads the depth. <b> SPENGLER </b> Six feet -- seven -- eight -- <b> STANTZ </b> That's it. It's on the bottom. <b> SPENGLER </b> Nine feet -- ten -- <b> WINSTON </b> Is the line sinking? <b> SPENGLER </b> No, the slime is rising. Stantz looks down and notices the slime rising over the edge of the platform and around his boots. <b> STANTZ </b> (alarmed) Let's get out of here, boys. He starts to pull out the plumb line but it seems to be stuck. Spengler tries to help, but whatever is pulling on the cord is stronger than all three of them. As their unseen adversary pulls them closer and closer to the edge, Stantz works desperately to unhook the cord from his belt but finally just unhooks the whole belt. Spengler lets go in time but Winston doesn't. He is jerked off his feet and into the slime flow. Stantz and Spengler look at each other, summon their courage and jump in after him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Dana and Venkman are sitting at a table in an elegant restaurant nibbling caviar and toasting with very expensive champagne. <b> VENKMAN </b> (very intimate) Here's to -- us. She sighs and drinks. <b> VENKMAN </b> So -- are you making any New Year's resolutions? <b> DANA </b> I want to stop getting involved with men who aren't good for me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Does that start exactly at midnight tomorrow, or could you hold off for a few days maybe? <b> DANA </b> For one night in your life, do you think it's possible for us to be completely real? <b> VENKMAN </b> All right, you want to be real? So tell me why did you dump me? <b> DANA </b> Oh, Peter, I didn't dump you. I just had to protect myself. You really weren't very good for me, you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm not even good for me. <b> DANA </b> Why do you say things like that? You're so much better than you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thank you. If I had that kind of support on a daily basis, I could definitely shape up by the turn of the century. <b> DANA </b> (already feeling the effects of the champagne) So why don't you give me a jingle in the year 2000? <b> VENKMAN </b> Let me jingle you right now. He leans over to kiss her. <b> DANA </b> Maybe I should call Janine. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry. Janine has a very special way with children. They kiss. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine is on the sofa doing her nails while Louis paces with the baby. <b> JANINE </b> (looking around) I can't believe a person could actually live like this. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the baby) So these dwarfs had a limited partnership in a small mining operation and then one day a beautiful princess came to live with them. <b> JANINE </b> It's really not a bad place. It just needs a woman's touch. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) So they bartered room and board in exchange for housekeeping services, which was a good deal for all of them because then they didn't have to withhold tax and social security, which I'm not saying is right but it's just a story, so I guess it's all right. I can finish this later if you're tired. Louis goes into the bedroom and puts the baby down. <b> JANINE </b> You're really good with children, Louis. I can tell. (as he returns) Why don't you come here and sit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Okay. He sits stiffly beside her on the sofa. <b> JANINE </b> (getting close) Motherhood is a very natural instinct for me. I'd like to have a baby myself. Wouldn't you? <b> LOUIS </b> (gulps) Tonight? <b>EXT. STREET - MANHOLE COVER - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A manhole cover is dislodged and pushed up from below. It slides away, and Winston crawls out of the manhole followed by Stantz and Spengler. They are exhausted and covered with slime. <b> WINSTON </b> (uncharacteristically angry) Nice going, Ray! What were you trying to do -- drown me? <b> STANTZ </b> (unusually mean) Look, Zeddemore, it wasn't my fault you were too stupid to drop that line. <b> WINSTON </b> (shoves him) You better watch your mouth, man, or I'll punch your lights out. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh yeah? Anytime, anytime. Just go ahead and try it. Spengler steps between them with unprecedented aggression. <b> SPENGLER </b> If you two are looking for a fight, you got one. (putting up his fists) Who wants it first? Come on, Ray. Try me, sucker. <b> STANTZ </b> (squaring off) Butt out, you pencil-necked geek. I've had it with you. They grab each other and start to tussle. Suddenly Spengler comes to his senses and pulls them apart. <b> SPENGLER </b> (forcefully) Strip! Right now! Get out of those clothes! He starts yanking off his slicker and waders. Bewildered, Stantz and Winston start doing the same. Spengler helps pull off their clothes and throws them into the open manhole. Now wearing only long underwear, they seem to return to normal. <b> WINSTON </b> What are we doing? Ray, I was ready to kill you. <b> STANTZ </b> Don't you see? It's the slime. That stuff is like pure, concentrated evil. Stantz looks around and sees that they are standing right in front of the museum. <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing right to this spot. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT ENTRANCE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The MAITRE D' looks up in surprise as Stantz, Spengler and Winston enter the restaurant wearing only long underwear. <b> MAITRE D' </b> (intercepting them) Can I help you? Stantz looks around and spots Venkman. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right, I see him. They blow right by the Maitre d' who jumps back in horror as they pass. <b>VENKMAN </b> He's just about to pour more champagne when he sees Ray, Egon and Winston coming toward him through the restaurant. <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) You should've been there, Venkman. Absolutely incredible! <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, sorry I missed it. (noting their attire) I guess you guys didn't know about the dress code here. It's really kind of a coat and tie place. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all over the city, Pete -- well, under it actually. <b> WINSTON </b> Rivers of the stuff! <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing toward the museum. He gestures excitedly and a big gob of slime flies across the room and lands on a well-dressed diner. <b> STANTZ </b> (calls out) Sorry! <b> DANA </b> Maybe we should discuss this somewhere else. Venkman notes the look of alarm on Dana's face and pulls his colleagues aside. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) Boys, listen. You're scaring the straights. Let's save this until tomorrow, okay? <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Venkman) This won't wait until tomorrow, Venkman. It's hot and it's ready to pop. <b>MAITRE D' </b> He hurries through the restaurant with two city COPS right behind him and makes straight for Venkman's table. <b> MAITRE D' </b> Arrest these men. <b> COP </b> (recognizing them) Hey! It's the Ghostbusters. You're out of uniform, gentlemen Stantz suddenly realizes how ridiculous they look. <b> STANTZ </b> (self-conscious) Uh -- well -- we had a little accident, but forget that. We have to see the mayor as soon as possible. <b> COP </b> Look, Doc, why don't you just go home. You'll get a good night's sleep and then you can give the mayor a call in the morning. Come on. He takes Stantz by the arm but Stantz resists. <b> STANTZ </b> We're not going anywhere with you. I told you we have to see the mayor now. <b> COP </b> (grabbing Stantz) I'm warning you. You can come along peaceably or -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the Cop) Hey, don't be an idiot. This is serious. <b> COP </b> (angry) Look, pal, keep this up and you're going with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, yeah? <b> COP </b> (has had enough) Yeah, let's go. You're all under arrest. The Cop catches Venkman in an armlock and starts walking him out of the restaurant. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) Finish your dessert -- it's already paid for. I'll call you. They all exit, causing a major commotion among the other diners. <b>EXT. ARMAND'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The police car is parked right behind Ecto-2. Spengler stops at the police car and confronts the cops. <b> SPENGLER </b> Look, we're not drunk and we're not crazy. This is a matter of vital importance. Venkman steps in and looks at the policemen's nametags. <b> COP </b> What are you doing? <b> VENKMAN </b> I just want to get your names right for when the mayor asks us why we didn't let him know about this sooner. The Cops look at each other, uncertain about what to do. <b> COP </b> (relenting) Okay, Doc. You want to see the mayor, you got it. Follow us. They head for their respective vehicles. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are on the sofa making out when Dana enters. They jump up and start smoothing their clothes. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed) Oh, hello, Dana. we were just -- we were -- <b> DANA </b> I know what you were doing, Louis. It's all right. <b> JANINE </b> How was your date? <b> DANA </b> Typical. Peter was arrested. Has he called? <b> LOUIS </b> No, nobody called. Dana frowns. <b> DANA </b> Is everything all right with Oscar? <b> JANINE </b> Oh, he's fine. He's such a good baby. He was a little fussy at first, but we gave him a Freach bread pizza and he went right to sleep. <b> DANA </b> (relieved) Oh, good. I'll just check on him. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana looks at Oscar sleeping peacefully on the bed. She starts to change clothes. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine aren't sure what to do. <b> LOUIS </b> Should we go? <b> JANINE </b> I don't think we should leave her alone. <b> LOUIS </b> You're right. We should stay. He grabs Janine and they start making out again. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz stands before the painting of Vigo. Vigo comes to life and repeats the litany of his power. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> (heard all this before) Yes, the scourge -- <b> VIGO </b> -- the sorrow of Moldavia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> -- the sorrow -- <b> VIGO </b> I command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (checking his watch) I await the word of Vigo. <b> VIGO </b> The season of evil begins with the birth of the new year. Bring me the child that I might live again. <b> JANOSZ </b> (abjectly humble) Lord Vigo, the mother, Dana, is fine and strong. I was wondering -- well, would it be possible -- if I bring the baby, could I have the woman? <b> VIGO </b> So be it. On this the day of darkness, she will be ours, wife to you and mother to me. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CARL SCHURZ PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Preceded by a police car, Ecto-2 enters the small park on the East River at 88th Street and disappears into an underground entrance. The CAMERA PANS UP to reveal Gracie Mansion, the residence of the Mayor of New York City. <b>INT. GRACIE MANSION - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters, now wearing police raincoats over their longjohns are ushered through the house by a butler to a set of double oak doors. The butler knocks lightly, then opens the door to reveal the MAYOR sitting in front of the fireplace in his well-appointed private study, flanked by Jack Hardemeyer, both in tuxedoes. The Ghostbusters enter. <b>INT. STUDY - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> The Mayor is impatient and a little angry at having been pulled out of his formal reception. He frowns at their bizarre attire. <b> MAYOR </b> All right -- the Ghostbusters. I'll tell you right now; I've got two hundred of the heaviest campaign contributors in the city out there eating bad roast chicken waiting for me to give the speech of my life. You've got two minutes. Make it good. <b> STANTZ </b> You get enough negative energy flowing in a dense environment like Manhattan, it starts to build up, and if we don't do something fast this whole place will blow like a frog on a hotplate. <b> WINSTON </b> Tell him about the toaster. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't think he's ready for the toaster. <b> MAYOR </b> (shaking his head) Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right. What am I supposed to do -- go on television and tell eight million people they have to be nice to each other? I'm sorry, none of this makes any sense to me, and if anything does happen we've got plenty of paid professionals to deal with it. Your two minutes are up. Good night, gentlemen. The mayor exits, leaving the Ghostbusters to Hardemeyer. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (smirking) That's quite a story. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, I think the Times might be interested, don't you? The Post might have a lot of fun with it, too. Hardemeyer's eyes go cold and calculating. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Before you go running to the newspapers with this, would you consider telling this slime thing to some people downtown? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you're talking. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - PSYCHIATRIC WARD - NIGHT (LATER) </b> An attendant opens a locked door with a wire mesh window and the Ghostbusters, in straitjackets, are led into the psych ward as Hardemeyer confers with the chief PSYCHIATRIST. <b> WINSTON </b> (protesting) I'm telling you, we're not crazy. He is! <b>HARDEMEYER </b> He laughs off the remark. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to the Psychiatrist) The mayor wants them kept under strict observation for a few days. We think they're seriously disturbed and potentially dangerous. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> We'll do whatever's necessary. Hardemeyer shakes his hand and exits as the door slams shut on the Ghostbusters. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are watching an old rerun on TV, eating popcorn, while Dana is stretched out on the other sofa. <b> DANA </b> (wishing they'd leave) You know you really don't have to stay. Peter should be back soon. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh no, we don't mind. She hears a little CRY from the nursery and sits up. <b> DANA </b> Excuse me. I think Oscar is up. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana enters and immediately notices that the crib is empty and the window is open. <b> DANA </b> (screams) Louis! Frantic now, Dana rushes to the window and looks out, as Louis and Janine come running in. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - DANA'S POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The baby is standing out on the ledge at the corner of the building, fifty feet above the street, staring off into the distance as if he's waiting for something. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana climbs out onto the ledge and starts inching slowly toward the baby. Then she stops as a miraculous apparition materializes. <b>LOUIS AND JANINE </b> They lean out the window, gaping at the apparition. <b>EXT. VENKMAN'S LEDGE - APPARITION </b> A sweet, kindly-looking English nanny appears, pushing a pram, strolling on thin air parallel to the ledge high above the ground. Her face looks remarkably like Janosz Poha's. The nanny extends her hand to the BABY who GURGLES sweetly as he reaches out to take it. <b>DANA </b> She watches in helpless horror. <b> DANA </b> (screams) No!! <b>GHOST NANNY </b> She picks up the baby and lays it gently in the pram, then turns and smiles at Dana. The smile turns to a hideous grin, then the nanny shrieks at Dana and takes off like a shot with the baby. <b>DANA </b> She watches the creature fly off with Oscar, then climbs back through the window assisted by Louis and Janine. <b> DANA </b> (resolutely) Louis, you have to find Peter and tell him what happened. <b> LOUIS </b> (confused and worried) Where're you going? <b> DANA </b> To get my baby back. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (A LITTLE LATER) </b> A taxi pulls up, Dana jumps out and rushes into the museum. The moment the door closes behind her, there is a loud THUNDERCLAP, the ground trembles and a massive amount of slime erupts from around the base of the museum and starts covering the walls, sealing her inside the building. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC - PADDED ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are in a padded cell. They are handcuffed and the cuffs are chained to thick leather belts around their waists. Venkman stands there banging his head into the padded wall while the others try to explain the situation to a skeptical Psychiatrist. <b> STANTZ </b> We think the spirit of Vigo the Carpathian is alive in a painting at the Manhattan Museum. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> I see. And are there any other paintings in the museum with bad spirits in them? <b> SPENGLER </b> (impatient) You're wasting valuable time! We have reason to believe that Vigo is drawing strength from a psychomagnetheric slime flow that's been collecting under the city. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> Yes, tell me about the slime. <b> WINSTON </b> It's potent stuff. We made a toaster dance with it, then a bathtub tried to eat his friend's baby. The psychiatrist looks at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't look at me. I think they're nuts. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Moonlight streams through the skylight above, bathing the studio in eerie white light. Oscar is lying safely on a table in front of the painting of Vigo. Dana enters cautiously and sees the baby. Seeing no one else about, she quickly sneaks down to the table and picks up the baby, hugging hin tight, greatly relieved to find him unharmed and intact. <b> JANOSZ (O.S.) </b> I knew you would come. Startled, Dana turns at the sound of his voice as Janosz steps out from behind the Vigo painting. <b> DANA </b> (defiantly) What do you want with my baby? <b> JANOSZ </b> No harm will come to the child. You might even say it's a privilege. He will be the vessel for the spirit of Vigo. And you -- well, you will be the mother of the ruler of the world. Doesn't that sound nice? <b> DANA </b> If this is what the world will be like, I don't want to live in it. <b> JANOSZ </b> (confidentially, indicating Vigo) I don't believe we have the luxury of choice. <b> DANA </b> Everybody has a choice. <b> JANOSZ </b> Not in this case, my dear. Take a look. That's not Gainsborough's Blue Boy up there. He's Vigo! <b> DANA </b> I don't care who he is. He's not taking my baby. Dana walks quickly to the door but suddenly Oscar flies out of her arms, floats across the room and lands lightly back in the cradle. <b>DANA </b> She turns and looks at Vigo, for the first time feeling his power. <b> JANOSZ </b> You will see. It's all for the best. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> It's the last day of the year and the sun is shining brightly. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC WARD - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> The Ghostbusters are sitting in the dayroom, a dingy lounge for patients in the locked ward. There is a television set, a Ping-Pong table and a few tables and chairs. Stantz is looking at the sky through the heavy wire mesh covering the windows. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. boys. It's starting. Shit-storm <b> 2000. </b> Venkman is doing occupational therapy, weaving on a little hand-loom. <b> VENKMAN </b> It better not start yet. I'm trying to finish my potholder before lunch. <b> WINSTON </b> You think all those predictions about the world coming to an end in the 1990s are true? A PATIENT at the next table joins the discussion. <b> PATIENT </b> (with certainty) 1997. My dog told me. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of dog? <b> PATIENT </b> Labrador. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shakes his head) Habitual liars. They can't help it. It's in the breed. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - EXAMINING ROOM - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Louis is pleading with his cousin, SHERMAN TULLY, a doctor on the staff at Parkview. He looks and sounds just like Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> Come on, Sherm. You're my cousin. Do this for me. I'm begging you. <b> SHERMAN </b> I can't do it, Louis. It isn't ethical. I could lose my license. <b> LOUIS </b> Why can't you just have them released? You're a doctor. <b> SHERMAN </b> I'm a dermatologist. I can't write orders on the psych ward. <b> LOUIS </b> Sherman, I've done lots of favors for you. <b> SHERMAN </b> Like what? <b> LOUIS </b> I got you out of those bad tax shelters. <b> SHERMAN </b> You were the one who got me in. <b> LOUIS </b> I fixed you up with Diane Troxler and she put out, didn't she? <b> SHERMAN </b> Yeah, I had to give her free dermabrasion for a year. Forget it, Louis. I could get in a lot of trouble. <b> LOUIS </b> I'm telling you, we're all going to be in big trouble if we don't do something fast. That ghost guy came and took my friend's baby and we got to get it back. It's just a scared little baby, Sherm. <b> SHERMAN </b> Then you should go to the police. I don't believe in any of that stuff. Sherman looks out the window. <b>EXT. SKY - SHERMAN'S POV </b> The sky begins to go dark as the sun is magically eclipsed. <b>INT. EXAMINING ROOM - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> The room goes dark. Louis switches on a lamp which casts an eerie light on his face. <b> LOUIS </b> (spooky) Do you believe it now, Sherm? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. HUDSON RIVER PIER - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> A drainpipe starts dripping slime into the river near the Cunard Line docks. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PUBLIC FOUNTAIN (59TH AND FIFTH) - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> With the Plaza Hotel in the background, the fountain starts to spout psycho-reactive slime. <b>HOTEL ENTRANCE </b> A well-heeled MAN and WOMAN step out of a limousine and walk up the steps toward the revolving door. She looks up at the sky and frowns. <b> WOMAN </b> (shrewish) I told you we should have stayed in Palm Beach. The weather here gets stranger every year. <b> MAN </b> Yes, dear. She doesn't notice it, but a small amount of slime falls on the back of her luxurious, full-length, white mink coat. The doorman nods courteously and extends a hand to help her up the stairs. <b>WOMAN </b> She yelps in pain. <b> WOMAN </b> (to the doorman) Something just bit me! The doorman looks curiously at her, then recoils in shock as her coat comes alive. MINK HEADS pop out of the thick fur, SNARLING, BARKING and YAPPING, their sharp, little teeth biting the air. Reacting quickly, the doorman yanks the coat off the woman's back, throws it to the ground and starts stomping on it as the Woman and her husband look on in horror. The coat scuttles down the steps and runs off down the street. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MIDTOWN CENTRAL POLICE PRECINCT - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The squad room is busy as DETECTIVES try to answer the flood of calls regarding the wave of supernatural events sweeping the city. <b> DETECTIVE ONE </b> (on the phone) Look, lady, of course there are dead people there. It's a cemetery ... (his face falls) They were asking you for directions? <b> DETECTIVE TWO </b> (on another phone) Was this a big dinosaur or a little dinosaur? ... Oh, just the skeleton, huh? Well, where is it now? <b> DETECTIVE THREE </b> (on the phone) Wait a second -- the park bench was chasing you? You mean, someone was chasing you in the park ... No, the bench itself was chasing you. I see -- A weary SERGEANT answers a RINGING PHONE. <b> SERGEANT </b> Manhattan Central, Flaherty speaking ... Yeah ... yeah? ... What? Who is this? ... Wait a second. He puts the caller on "Hold" and turns the LIEUTENANT. <b> SERGEANT </b> Lieutenant, I think you better talk to this guy. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> (on another call) What is it? I'm talkin' here! <b> SERGEANT </b> It's some dock supervisor down at Pier 34 on the Hudson. The guy's going nuts. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> What's the problem? <b> SERGEANT </b> (takes a deep breath) He says the Titanic just arrived. <b>INT. PORT AUTHORITY OFFICE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The dock supervisor stands there with the phone in his hand, an assistant beside him, both staring out the window at the ocean liner tied up at the pier. <b>EXT. PIER 34 - THEIR POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The name "R.M.S. Titanic" is clearly visible on the side of the huge ship. The gangplank is down and dozens of drowned passengers, sopping wet and festooned with seaweed, are disembarking while drowned porters off-load their waterlogged baggage. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER)(ECLIPSE) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside as Louis and Sherman come out of the hospital with the Ghostbusters, now wearing their standard uniforms. <b> STANTZ </b> Good work, Louis. How did you get us out? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, I pulled a few strings. I wouldn't want to say any more than that. Louis winks conspiratorially at Sherman. <b> LOUIS </b> This is my cousin Sherman. Sherm, say hello to the Ghostbusters. (sotto voce to Stantz) I promised him a ride in the car if he got you out. <b> SHERMAN </b> (to the Ghostbusters) Hi, it's really great to meet you guys. I know this sounds weird but once I had a dream that my grandfather was standing at the foot of my bed, but I knew it was impossible because he died and he started to tell me that -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ectomobile and drive off, leaving him and Louis standing at the curb. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> SHERMAN </b> I thought you were like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> LOUIS </b> I let them handle all the little stuff. I just come in on the big ones. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b>(original version of the above scene - 11/27/88) (TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: These two versions of this scene were put in my copy of the script, so I have included both of them here) <b> LOUIS </b> Actually, they still think you're crazy, but I convinced them you're not dangerous. <b> VENKMAN </b> (determined) Yeah, well guess again. <b>EXT. BELLEVUE HOSPITAL - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(MOMENTS LATER) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside and the Ghostbusters are hastily donning their standard uniforms. <b> LOUIS </b> I brought everything you asked for and I gassed up the car with Super Unleaded. It cost twenty cents more than Regular Unleaded but you get much better performance and in an old car like this that'll end up saving you money in the long run. I put it on my credit card, so you can either reimburse me or I can take it out of petty cash -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ecto-2 and drive off without him. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(LATER) </b> ECTO-2 pulls to the curb across the street from the museum. Hundreds of spectators are already there gawking at the building as the Ghostbusters jump out and gape at the sight that greets them. <b>EXT. MUSEUM THEIR POV - BUILDING </b> The building is now totally covered in a shell of psycho-reactive slime. CITY WORKMEN and FIREMEN are trying to cut their way in with blowtorches, jackhammers, power tools and the "jaws of life," but they can't even make a dent. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They size up the situation as they don their proton packs. <b> STANTZ </b> It looks like a giant Jello mold. <b> VENKMAN </b> I hate Jello. They stride manfully across the street and approach the main entrance to the museum. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the Fire Captain) Okay, give it a rest, Captain. We'll take it from here. <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> (skeptical) Be my guest. We been cutting here for three hours. What the hell's going on? You know the Titanic arrived this morning? <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, better late than never. The workmen and firemen put down their tools and fall back as the Ghostbusters draw their particle throwers. <b> SPENGLER </b> (monitoring valences) Full neutronas, maser assist. They adjust their settings and prepare to fire. <b> STANTZ </b> Throw 'em! They trigger their throwers and spray the front doors of the building with bolts of proton energy, but it has no effect on the hardened slime. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the firemen) Okay, who knows "Cumbaya?" A few of the firemen and workmen tentatively raise their hands. Venkman grabs them and lines them up at the entrance of the museum. <b> VENKMAN </b> All right. Nice and sweet -- (starts singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya -- Stantz, Spengler, Winston and the firemen sing along, reluctantly holding hands and swaying to the music. <b> ALL </b> (singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Oh, Lord, cumbaya. Stantz inspects the wall of slime with his infra-goggles and finds that they have only managed to open a hole the size of a dime. <b> STANTZ </b> Forget it. The Vienna Boys Choir couldn't get through this stuff. <b> VENKMAN </b> Good effort. Now what? Should we say supportive, nurturing things to it, Ray? <b> SPENGLER </b> It won't work. There's no way we could generate enough positive energy to crack that shell. <b> STANTZ </b> I can't believe things have gotten so bad in this city that there's no way back. Sure, it's crowded, it's dirty, it's noisy. And there are too many people who'd just as soon step on your face as look at you. But there've got to be a few sparks of sweet humanity left in this burned-out burg. We just have to mobilize it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We need something that everyone can get behind, a symbol -- His eyes fall on ECTO-2's New York State license plate which features a line drawing of the Statue of Liberty. <b> STANTZ </b> (he sees it, too) Something that appeals to the best in each and every one of us -- <b> SPENGLER </b> Something good -- <b> VENKMAN </b> And pure -- <b> WINSTON </b> And decent. <b>EXT. THE STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> There is a commotion among the crowd as the Mayor's limousine arrives with a police escort. Jack Hardemeyer steps out followed by the Mayor himself and they cross to the museum entrance. Hardemeyer, his ASSISTANT and several police BODYGUARDS confront the Ghostbusters. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Look, I've had it with you. Get your stuff together, get back in that clown car and get out of here. This is a city matter and everything's under control. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, you think so? Well, I've got news for you. You've got Dracula's brother-in-law in there and he's got my girlfriend and her kid. Around about midnight tonight, when you're partying uptown, this guy's going to come to life and start doing amateur head transplants. And that's just round one. <b> MAYOR </b> Are you telling me there're people trapped in there? <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to his assistant) This is dynamite. Call A.P., U.P.I., and C.N.N. and get them down here right away. When the police bring this kid out I want them to hand it right to the mayor and I want it all on camera. <b> STANTZ </b> Mr. Mayor, if we don't do something by midnight, you're going to go down in history as the man who let New York get sucked down into the tenth level of hell. The Mayor stops to consider the situation. <b> MAYOR </b> (to the Fire Captain) Can you get into that museum? <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> If I had a nuclear warhead, maybe. The Mayor turns to Venkman. <b> MAYOR </b> You know why all these things are happening? <b> VENKMAN </b> We tried to tell you last night, but Mr. Hard-On over here packed us off to the loony bin. Hardemeyer flips out. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> This is preposterous! You can't seriously believe all this mumbo-jumbo! It's the Twentieth Century, for crying out loud! (viciously, to Venkman) Look, mister, I don't know what this stuff is or how you got it all over the museum, but you better get it off and I mean right now! He pounds the wall of slime with his fist, and they all watch in amazement as his fist goes through the wall and he is sucked bodily through the slime curtain. Only his shoes can be seen, embedded in the slime. <b> MAYOR </b> (to Venkman) Okay, just tell me what you need. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND (NEW YORK HARBOR) - NIGHT </b> With the city skyline in the b.g., the Ghostbusters prepare their equipment. Each of them dons a makeshift backpack consisting of tanks, hoses, nozzles and an abundance of gauges, valves and regulators. Venkman looks up at the Statue of Liberty looming above them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it? <b> WINSTON </b> Wonder what? <b> VENKMAN </b> If she's naked under that toga. She's French, you know. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's nothing under that toga but 300 tons of iron and steel. Stantz is looking worried. <b> STANTZ </b> I hope we have enough stuff to do the job. <b> VENKMAN </b> Only one way to find out. (to Stantz) Ready, Teddy? They enter the statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters are working from the iron staircase that spirals straight up 100 feet inside the hollow super-structure of the statue. Spengler and Winston are busy assembling hundreds of wires connected to various relays on the interior surface of the statue. Venkman and Stantz are mounting large auditorium loudspeakers near the top of the staircase. They finish the installation, then Stantz dons one of the new backpacks and gives the order. <b> STANTZ </b> Okay, boys. Let's frost it. They begin hosing the inside of the statue with the psycho-reactive slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine watches as Louis, wearing a Ghostbuster uniform, slings a heavy proton pack onto his back. <b> JANINE </b> I'm not sure this is such a good idea? Do they know you're doing this? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, yeah, sure -- no. But there's really not much to do here and they might need some back-up at the museum. <b> JANINE </b> You're very brave, Louis. Good luck. She kisses Louis and he gets extremely self-conscious. <b> LOUIS </b> Uh -- oh -- well, I better hurry. He rushes out. <b>EXT STREET OUTSIDE FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> Louis stands on the street corner waiting for a bus. Finally, a bus pulls up, Louis climbs aboard and finds Slimer behind the wheel. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - OBSERVATION DECK - MOMENTS LATER </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are standing in the observation windows in the crown of the statue. It looks like they're on the bridge of an ocean liner, then the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the head of the statue. <b>STANTZ </b> He plugs the main cable lead into a transformer. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all yours, Pete. (checks his watch) There's not much time left. Venkman plugs the speaker cable into a Walkman and gives a downbeat. <b> VENKMAN </b> (giving the downbeat) Okay, one, two, three, four -- He hits "Play" on the Walkman and "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BOOMS from the huge SPEAKERS, amplified by the statue's vast hollow interior. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The head of the statue lurches suddenly, but the Ghostbusters cling to the rail and manage to keep their feet. <b> STANTZ </b> She's moving! <b> WINSTON </b> I've lived in New York all my life and I never visited the Statue of Liberty. Now I finally get here and we're taking her out for a walk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (reading the Giga-meter) We've got full power. Stantz picks up a Nintendo control paddle from a home video game and starts pushing the buttons. <b> VENKMAN </b> (into a microphone) Okay, Libby. Let's get it in gear. They feel a strong vibration and the statue starts to move. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. SOUTH STREET SEAPORT - NIGHT </b> New Years Eve celebrants line the riverfront, pointing and gawking at an incredible sight. <b>EXT. EAST RIVER - THEIR POV - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The statue is moving up the river almost completely submerged, only her head from the nose up is visible above the surface. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks out apprehensively. <b> WINSTON </b> How deep does it get? That water's cold and I can't swim. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's okay. I have my Senior Lifesaving card. <b> SPENGLER </b> With a water temperature of forty degrees we'd survive approximately fifteen minutes. Stantz studies a maritime navigational chart. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll keep to the middle of the channel. We're okay to 59th Street, then we'll go ashore and take First Avenue to 79th. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you kidding? We'll hit all that bridge traffic at 59th. I'm going to take 72nd straight up to Fifth. Trust me, I used to drive a cab. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RIVERFRONT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Spectators cheer wildly, inspired by the sight of the Statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz is sitting next to Dana, still wheedling her with promises and self-serving logic. <b> JANOSZ </b> Time is running out, Dana. Soon it will be midnight and the city will be mine -- and Vigo's. Well, mainly Vigo's. But we have a spectacular opportunity to make the best of our relationship. <b> DANA </b> We don't have a relationship. <b> JANOSZ </b> I know. Marry me, Dana, and together we will raise Vigo as our son. There are many perks that come with being the mother of a living god. I'm sure he will supply for us a magnificent apartment. And perhaps a car and free parking. <b> DANA </b> I hate and despise you and everything you stand for with all my heart and soul. I could never forgive what you've done to me and my child. <b> JANOSZ </b> Many marriages begin with a certain amount of distance, but after a while I believe we could learn to love each other. Think about it. <b> DANA </b> I'd rather not. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> People are jammed together shoulder to shoulder filling Times Square, watching the big Seiko clock count down the last ten minutes to midnight. Suddenly, they look down Broadway and see a magnificent sight. <b>EXT. BROADWAY - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue of Liberty is walking up Broadway approaching 42nd Street, with "Higher and Higher" BOOMING from the SPEAKERS inside. A great cheer goes up, and the crowd goes wild with joy, dancing and singing along with the MUSIC. <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS) </b> Spengler reads the Giga-meter. <b> SPENGLER </b> It's working. The positive GeV's are climbing. <b> VENKMAN </b> (patting the Statue) They love you, Lib. Keep it up. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The avenue has been closed to traffic and barricades placed, blocking all the side streets. A squadron of police motorcycles comes speeding around the corner at 72nd Street and proceeds up Fifth Avenue in the direction of the museum. Then MUSIC is heard BOOMING in the distance, the ground shakes and the Statue of Liberty comes walking around the corner onto Fifth Avenue followed by a wildly cheering throng. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters can see the museum ahead. <b> VENKMAN </b> So far so good. <b> SPENGLER </b> (worried) I'm worried. The vibrations could shake her to pieces. We should have padded her feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I don't think they make Nikes in her size. <b> VENKMAN </b> We're almost there, Lib. (to Stantz) Step on it. <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue's huge foot comes down and squashes a car. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters look down at the flattened car. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts out the window) My Fault! <b> VENKMAN </b> (shouts) She's new in town. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is painting the last of the mystical symbols on the baby's chest. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> The people still in the square start counting off the last ten seconds to midnight and the New Year. <b> CROWD </b> (chanting) Ten .. nine ... eight ... seven ... <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> A strange light spreads over the painting. As the light moves onto his face, Vigo spreads his arms wide and his upper body starts to emerge from the canvas. <b> VIGO </b> Soon my life begins. Then woe to the weak, all power to me, the world is mine. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ - NIGHT </b> The baby's body begins to glow as Vigo reaches out for it. Then suddenly a dark shadow falls across the skylight. Janosz looks up. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ'S POV - SKYLIGHT - NIGHT </b> The Statue of Liberty is looming over the skylight looking down on Janosz with an expression of righteous anger on it's face. <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Kneeling beside the museum, the statue draws back it's mighty right arm and smashes the skylight with its torch. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz retreats from the shower of broken glass as the Ghostbusters come sliding down ropes into the studio and confront Janosz with their new weapons. Quick as a flash, Dana seizes the moment, dashes across the studio and snatches the baby from Vigo's outstretched arms. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) Happy New Year. <b>INT. MUSEUM - VIGO PAINTING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Vigo bellows in rage. <b>INT. MUSEUM - STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz steps in front of the painting. <b> SPENGLER </b> Hi there. Feel free to try something stupid. Janosz sneers, trusting the invincibility of Vigo. <b> JANOSZ </b> You pitiful, miserable creatures! You dare to challenge the power of darkness? Don't you realize what you are dealing with? He's Vigo! You are like the buzzing of flies to him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (sighs) Oh, Johnny. Did you back the wrong horse. With that, the Ghostbusters fire their slime-blowers and hose Janosz from head to toe, blowing him into the corner. Then they turn to Vigo. <b>VIGO </b> He is now almost completely out of the painting, but still held from the knees down. He spits and rages at the Ghostbusters, trying to unleash his magic powers. <b>THE GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They stand fast, secure in the knowledge that Vigo's power has been neutralized by the good will of the people. <b> STANTZ </b> Vigi, Vigi, Vigi -- you have been a bad little monkey. <b> VENKMAN </b> The whole city's together on this one. We took a vote. Everybody's down on you, you know. <b> WINSTON </b> (arming his slime-blower) Say goodnight now. Suddenly Vigo grabs Stantz by the neck and holds him up as a shield. <b> SPENGLER </b> Don't shoot! You'll hit Ray! <b> STANTZ </b> (strangling) Do it! Just do it! Winston fires and hoses both Vigo and Ray. <b>VIGO </b> He bellows and drops Ray, then falls back into the painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> The paint turns liquid, melts off the canvas and runs onto the floor revealing another painting underneath it. <b>INT. MUSEUM - GHOSTBUSTERS - NIGHT (AFTER BATTLE) </b> Venkman, Spengler and Winston rush over to Ray and kneel beside him. He is completely covered with slime and motionless. <b> SPENGLER </b> (examining him) He's breathing. Winston wipes the slime off Ray's face and Ray opens his eyes. <b> WINSTON </b> Ray -- Ray -- How do you feel, man? <b> STANTZ </b> (smiles lovingly) Groovy. I've never felt better in my life. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, no. We've got to live with this? They pull him to his feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I love you guys. You're the best friends I've ever had. He hugs them each in turn, leaving them slimed as well. Venkman recoils in disgust. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey, I just had this suit cleaned. (indicating Janosz) Take care of the wiggler, will you. Venkman crosses to Dana who is snuggling the baby. She hugs Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> What is this -- a love in? (notes the symbols painted on the baby's body) Hey, sailor. I think the tattoos are a little much, don't you? He picks up the baby. <b> DANA </b> (to Venkman) I think he likes you. I think I do too. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finally came to your senses, huh? They hug and kiss. <b>SPENGLER, WINSTON AND STANTZ </b> They help Janosz to his feet. He's dazed but unhurt. <b> JANOSZ </b> (restored to normalcy) What happened? <b> STANTZ </b> (calmly) Sir, you had a violent, prolonged, transformative psychic episode. But it's over now. Want a coffee? <b> JANOSZ </b> (extremely nice) That's very kind of you. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) He's fine, Ray. Physically intact, psychomagnetherically neutral. <b> JANOSZ </b> Is that good? <b> WINSTON </b> It's where you want to be. As they exit they stop to examine the painting that was concealed by Vigo's self-portrait. <b> SPENGLER </b> Late Renaissance, I think. Caravaggio or Brunelleschi. <b> WINSTON </b> (staring at it) There's something very familiar about this painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - NEW PAINTING - NIGHT </b> It's a beautiful painting in the high-Renaissance style depicting four archangels hovering protectively over a cherubic baby. One holds a harp, one, an olive branch, the third, a book, and the last, a sword. Most remarkably, their faces bear an uncanny resemblance to Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A city bus pulls up near the museum and Louis steps off. He waves his thanks to Slimer who is behind the wheel. <b> LOUIS </b> (to Slimer) Okay, so Monday night we'll get something to eat and maybe go bowling? Can you bowl with those little arms? SLIMER GRUNTS and SLOBBERS a reply, flexing his scrawny biceps. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, I have to go save Dana. I'll see you later. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are greeted by wild cheering and applause as they come out the main entrance with Dana and the baby. Everybody starts singing "Auld Lang Syne." Louis picks his way through the celebrating crowd and finds the Ghostbusters. <b> LOUIS </b> Am I too late? <b> STANTZ </b> No, you're right on time. Stantz pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and hands it to him. <b>EXT. MUSEUM ENTRANCE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Hardemeyer staggers out of the museum covered in slime. He looks at the celebrating crowd and his eyes fill with tears. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (weepy) Happy New Year, everybody! He joins in on "Auld Lang Syne." <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The Statue of Liberty is sprawled inert on her back in the park behind the museum, her toga up over her knees. The Mayor looks nearly suicidal. The Ghostbusters stand beside him commiserating. <b> VENKMAN </b> She's all right. She's just sleeping it off. <b> MAYOR </b> (stricken) We just had it restored. <b> VENKMAN </b> This probably isn't a good time to bring this up, but the last time we did a job for the city you stiffed us. <b> STANTZ </b> (handing the Mayor an invoice) This is a bill for tonight's job. The Mayor looks at it and gasps at the amount. <b> MAYOR </b> What! This is way too much. (hands the bill back to Venkman) We won't pay. Venkman looks at the Statue. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) I think she looks pretty good here, don't you? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, and a lot easier to get to than that island. Realizing he has no alternative, the Mayor sighs and takes the bill back. <b> MAYOR </b> All right, all right. If you can wait until Monday I'll issue you a check. <b> SPENGLER </b> Sorry. No checks. Company policy. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND - DAY (WEEKS LATER) </b> The sun is shining brightly and Liberty is back on her pedestal where she belongs. The Mayor and a host of officials are commemorating her return. The Ghostbusters, Dana, Janine and Louis are there as honored guests. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking up at the statue) Pretty impressive, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> (musing) It's probably the first thing my grandparents saw when they came to this country. <b> VENKMAN </b> From where -- Neptune? <b> SPENGLER </b> They came from Ostrov in Eastern Poland. <b> VENKMAN </b> Ostrov? I've been there. Good party town. <b> STANTZ </b> (in a similarly reflective mood) My great-grandparents were Swiss. I still have the pictures they took of the statue from the boat when they arrived. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, right, you told me that. They came to America seeking other kinds of cheese, as I recall. How about you, Winston? <b> WINSTON </b> My people weren't taking any pictures from those slave ships, man. And there wasn't any Statue in Charleston Harbor to welcome them, either. What are you, Dana? <b> VENKMAN </b> Miss Blue Blood? Her family's been here since the year 12. <b> DANA </b> That's not true. It was 1620. <b> VENKMAN </b> Same difference. <b> STANTZ </b> What's your story, Pete? <b> VENKMAN </b> Me? I'm a little of everything. Some Irish, some German, some French, Dutch -- the women in my family slept around. And that's what made this country great. <b> DANA </b> That's a terrible thing to say. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what? It's a free country. (looking up at the Statue) Thanks, Lib. They all look up at the Statue. <b>EXT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - HEAD OF STATUE - DAY </b> Slimer flies out one of the observation windows, THEME MUSIC KICKS IN and the CAMERA PULLS UP and AWAY FROM the island TO a HIGH SHOT of the Statue, lower Manhattan and the shining sea beyond. <b> FADE OUT. </b> <b> THE END </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who made the original cursed videotape?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Sadako Yamamura made the tape psionically." ]	17,492	narrativeqa	en	null	a8a172aa00eb9de7d74042b9cd27d07cf537b2056b93cf62	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Where does this story take place?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Go ahead and memorize the context. Here is the context: The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "In Socrates Cell?" ]	6,591	narrativeqa	en	null	0efa676797a76ec31f8888ffea26cffe75b602ee3a38b7a2	This etext was prepared by Sue Asscher <asschers@aia.net.au> CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? To this Crito is unable or unwilling to reply. Socrates proceeds:--Suppose the Laws of Athens to come and remonstrate with him: they will ask 'Why does he seek to overturn them?' and if he replies, 'they have injured him,' will not the Laws answer, 'Yes, but was that the agreement? Has he any objection to make to them which would justify him in overturning them? Was he not brought into the world and educated by their help, and are they not his parents? He might have left Athens and gone where he pleased, but he has lived there for seventy years more constantly than any other citizen.' Thus he has clearly shown that he acknowledged the agreement, which he cannot now break without dishonour to himself and danger to his friends. Even in the course of the trial he might have proposed exile as the penalty, but then he declared that he preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his footsteps? In any well-ordered state the Laws will consider him as an enemy. Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he may be welcomed at first, and the unseemly narrative of his escape will be regarded by the inhabitants as an amusing tale. But if he offends them he will have to learn another sort of lesson. Will he continue to give lectures in virtue? That would hardly be decent. And how will his children be the gainers if he takes them into Thessaly, and deprives them of Athenian citizenship? Or if he leaves them behind, does he expect that they will be better taken care of by his friends because he is in Thessaly? Will not true friends care for them equally whether he is alive or dead? Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life and children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks agreements, and returns evil for evil, they will be angry with him while he lives; and their brethren the Laws of the world below will receive him as an enemy. Such is the mystic voice which is always murmuring in his ears. That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made against him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated in later ages. The crimes of Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides, who had been his pupils, were still recent in the memory of the now restored democracy. The fact that he had been neutral in the death-struggle of Athens was not likely to conciliate popular good-will. Plato, writing probably in the next generation, undertakes the defence of his friend and master in this particular, not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and the world at large. Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of Crito and the proposal of escape is uncertain: Plato could easily have invented far more than that (Phaedr.); and in the selection of Crito, the aged friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to Socrates, we seem to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether any one who has been subjected by the laws of his country to an unjust judgment is right in attempting to escape, is a thesis about which casuists might disagree. Shelley (Prose Works) is of opinion that Socrates 'did well to die,' but not for the 'sophistical' reasons which Plato has put into his mouth. And there would be no difficulty in arguing that Socrates should have lived and preferred to a glorious death the good which he might still be able to perform. 'A rhetorician would have had much to say upon that point.' It may be observed however that Plato never intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only to exhibit the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil in order to avoid the greatest, and to show his master maintaining in death the opinions which he had professed in his life. Not 'the world,' but the 'one wise man,' is still the paradox of Socrates in his last hours. He must be guided by reason, although her conclusions may be fatal to him. The remarkable sentiment that the wicked can do neither good nor evil is true, if taken in the sense, which he means, of moral evil; in his own words, 'they cannot make a man wise or foolish.' This little dialogue is a perfect piece of dialectic, in which granting the 'common principle,' there is no escaping from the conclusion. It is anticipated at the beginning by the dream of Socrates and the parody of Homer. The personification of the Laws, and of their brethren the Laws in the world below, is one of the noblest and boldest figures of speech which occur in Plato. CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Crito. SCENE: The Prison of Socrates. SOCRATES: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early. CRITO: Yes, certainly. SOCRATES: What is the exact time? CRITO: The dawn is breaking. SOCRATES: I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in. CRITO: He knows me because I often come, Socrates; moreover. I have done him a kindness. SOCRATES: And are you only just arrived? CRITO: No, I came some time ago. SOCRATES: Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me? CRITO: I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest as you are--indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity. SOCRATES: Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at the approach of death. CRITO: And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from repining. SOCRATES: That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour. CRITO: I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me. SOCRATES: What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die? CRITO: No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life. SOCRATES: Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a delay of a day. CRITO: Why do you think so? SOCRATES: I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship? CRITO: Yes; that is what the authorities say. SOCRATES: But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep. CRITO: And what was the nature of the vision? SOCRATES: There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates, 'The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go.' (Homer, Il.) CRITO: What a singular dream, Socrates! SOCRATES: There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think. CRITO: Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this--that I should be thought to value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused. SOCRATES: But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many? Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these things truly as they occurred. CRITO: But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their good opinion. SOCRATES: I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil; for then they would also be able to do the greatest good-- and what a fine thing this would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance. CRITO: Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only one. CRITO: Fear not--there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great cost; and as for the informers they are far from being exorbitant in their demands--a little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service, and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do not say, as you did in the court (compare Apol.), that you will have a difficulty in knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies, who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier, which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently; and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors (compare Apol.). What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your old argument about the opinions of men?--we were saying that some of them are to be regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of talking--mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help, Crito:--whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded. Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow--at least, there is no human probability of this, and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was right in maintaining this? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: The good are to be regarded, and not the bad? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are evil? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, or of one man only--his physician or trainer, whoever he may be? CRITO: Of one man only. SOCRATES: And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only, and not of the many? CRITO: Clearly so. SOCRATES: And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put together? CRITO: True. SOCRATES: And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil? CRITO: Certainly he will. SOCRATES: And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the disobedient person? CRITO: Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil. SOCRATES: Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;--there is such a principle? CRITO: Certainly there is, Socrates. SOCRATES: Take a parallel instance:--if, acting under the advice of those who have no understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is--the body? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed, which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle, whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: More honourable than the body? CRITO: Far more. SOCRATES: Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable.--'Well,' some one will say, 'but the many can kill us.' CRITO: Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer. SOCRATES: And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another proposition--that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued? CRITO: Yes, that also remains unshaken. SOCRATES: And a good life is equivalent to a just and honorable one--that holds also? CRITO: Yes, it does. SOCRATES: From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of educating one's children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death--and with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation. CRITO: I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed? SOCRATES: Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can, and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment. And now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me. CRITO: I will. SOCRATES: Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonorable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then we must do no wrong? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure no one at all? (E.g. compare Rep.) CRITO: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Again, Crito, may we do evil? CRITO: Surely not, Socrates. SOCRATES: And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many--is that just or not? CRITO: Not just. SOCRATES: For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him? CRITO: Very true. SOCRATES: Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step. CRITO: You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind. SOCRATES: Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a question:--Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the right? CRITO: He ought to do what he thinks right. SOCRATES: But if this is true, what is the application? In leaving the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just--what do you say? CRITO: I cannot tell, Socrates, for I do not know. SOCRATES: Then consider the matter in this way:--Imagine that I am about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the government come and interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you about? are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us--the laws, and the whole state, as far as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?' What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply, 'Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' Suppose I say that? CRITO: Very good, Socrates. SOCRATES: 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would answer; 'or were you to abide by the sentence of the state?' And if I were to express my astonishment at their words, the law would probably add: 'Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes--you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,--What complaint have you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us who after birth regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to train you in music and gymnastic?' Right, I should reply. 'Well then, since you were brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands?--you would not say this? And because we think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return, and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the laws speak truly, or do they not? CRITO: I think that they do. SOCRATES: Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city, may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we maintain, thrice wrong: first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;--that is what we offer, and he does neither. 'These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above all other men have acknowledged the agreement. 'There is clear proof,' they will say, 'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be supposed to love (compare Phaedr.). For you never went out of the city either to see the games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our state; we were your especial favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you; and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But you pretended that you preferred death to exile (compare Apol.), and that you were not unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true or not?' How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent? CRITO: We cannot help it, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then will they not say: 'You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt, the blind, the maimed, were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city. 'For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself, if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away from well-governed states to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will live, but how?--as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?--eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner. And where will be your fine sentiments about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to live for the sake of your children--you want to bring them up and educate them--will you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them; for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for anything, they will--to be sure they will. 'Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito.' This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say. CRITO: I have nothing to say, Socrates. SOCRATES: Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he leads. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How did Shizuko Yamamura die?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "She committed suicide." ]	17,491	narrativeqa	en	null	887b45fe14ce901239d9ec0eee625ec5f02c410b1eb426b4	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why did Bennett Landsmann need to defend Seth Lazurus in court?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "because he's a lawyer" ]	8,727	narrativeqa	en	null	62fc0808be185047c6e6ec24c916c59def5d1acd30a95861	Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net DOCTOR BY MURRAY LEINSTER Illustrated by FINLAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine February 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly the biggest thing in the universe was the very tiniest. There were suns, which were nearby, and there were stars which were so far away that no way of telling their distance had any meaning. The suns had planets, most of which did not matter, but the ones that did count had seas and continents, and the continents had cities and highways and spaceports. And people. The people paid no attention to their insignificance. They built ships which went through emptiness beyond imagining, and they landed upon planets and rebuilt them to their own liking. Suns flamed terribly, renting their impertinence, and storms swept across the planets they preëmpted, but the people built more strongly and were secure. Everything in the universe was bigger or stronger than the people, but they ignored the fact. They went about the businesses they had contrived for themselves. They were not afraid of anything until somewhere on a certain small planet an infinitesimal single molecule changed itself. It was one molecule among unthinkably many, upon one planet of one solar system among uncountable star clusters. It was not exactly alive, but it acted as if it were, in which it was like all the important matter of the cosmos. It was actually a combination of two complicated substances not too firmly joined together. When one of the parts changed, it became a new molecule. But, like the original one, it was still capable of a process called autocatalysis. It practiced that process and catalyzed other molecules into existence, which in each case were duplicates of itself. Then mankind had to take notice, though it ignored flaming suns and monstrous storms and emptiness past belief. Men called the new molecule a virus and gave it a name. They called it and its duplicates "chlorophage." And chlorophage was, to people, the most terrifying thing in the universe. * * * * * In a strictly temporary orbit around the planet Altaira, the _Star Queen_ floated, while lift-ships brought passengers and cargo up to it. The ship was too large to be landed economically at an unimportant spaceport like Altaira. It was a very modern ship and it made the Regulus-to-Cassim run, which is five hundred light-years, in only fifty days of Earthtime. Now the lift-ships were busy. There was an unusual number of passengers to board the _Star Queen_ at Altaira and an unusual number of them were women and children. The children tended to pudginess and the women had the dieted look of the wives of well-to-do men. Most of them looked red-eyed, as if they had been crying. One by one the lift-ships hooked onto the airlock of the _Star Queen_ and delivered passengers and cargo to the ship. Presently the last of them was hooked on, and the last batch of passengers came through to the liner, and the ship's doctor watched them stream past him. His air was negligent, but he was actually impatient. Like most doctors, Nordenfeld approved of lean children and wiry women. They had fewer things wrong with them and they responded better to treatment. Well, he was the doctor of the _Star Queen_ and he had much authority. He'd exerted it back on Regulus to insist that a shipment of botanical specimens for Cassim travel in quarantine--to be exact, in the ship's practically unused hospital compartment--and he was prepared to exercise authority over the passengers. He had a sheaf of health slips from the examiners on the ground below. There was one slip for each passenger. It certified that so-and-so had been examined and could safely be admitted to the _Star Queen's_ air, her four restaurants, her two swimming pools, her recreation areas and the six levels of passenger cabins the ship contained. He impatiently watched the people go by. Health slips or no health slips, he looked them over. A characteristic gait or a typical complexion tint, or even a certain lack of hair luster, could tell him things that ground physicians might miss. In such a case the passenger would go back down again. It was not desirable to have deaths on a liner in space. Of course nobody was ever refused passage because of chlorophage. If it were ever discovered, the discovery would already be too late. But the health regulations for space travel were very, very strict. He looked twice at a young woman as she passed. Despite applied complexion, there was a trace of waxiness in her skin. Nordenfeld had never actually seen a case of chlorophage. No doctor alive ever had. The best authorities were those who'd been in Patrol ships during the quarantine of Kamerun when chlorophage was loose on that planet. They'd seen beamed-up pictures of patients, but not patients themselves. The Patrol ships stayed in orbit while the planet died. Most doctors, and Nordenfeld was among them, had only seen pictures of the screens which showed the patients. * * * * * He looked sharply at the young woman. Then he glanced at her hands. They were normal. The young woman went on, unaware that for the fraction of an instant there had been the possibility of the landing of the _Star Queen_ on Altaira, and the destruction of her space drive, and the establishment of a quarantine which, if justified, would mean that nobody could ever leave Altaira again, but must wait there to die. Which would not be a long wait. A fat man puffed past. The gravity on Altaira was some five per cent under ship-normal and he felt the difference at once. But the veins at his temples were ungorged. Nordenfeld let him go by. There appeared a white-haired, space-tanned man with a briefcase under his arm. He saw Nordenfeld and lifted a hand in greeting. The doctor knew him. He stepped aside from the passengers and stood there. His name was Jensen, and he represented a fund which invested the surplus money of insurance companies. He traveled a great deal to check on the business interests of that organization. The doctor grunted, "What're you doing here? I thought you'd be on the far side of the cluster." "Oh, I get about," said Jensen. His manner was not quite normal. He was tense. "I got here two weeks ago on a Q-and-C tramp from Regulus. We were a ship load of salt meat. There's romance for you! Salt meat by the spaceship load!" The doctor grunted again. All sorts of things moved through space, naturally. The _Star Queen_ carried a botanical collection for a museum and pig-beryllium and furs and enzymes and a list of items no man could remember. He watched the passengers go by, automatically counting them against the number of health slips in his hand. "Lots of passengers this trip," said Jensen. "Yes," said the doctor, watching a man with a limp. "Why?" Jensen shrugged and did not answer. He was uneasy, the doctor noted. He and Jensen were as much unlike as two men could very well be, but Jensen was good company. A ship's doctor does not have much congenial society. The file of passengers ended abruptly. There was no one in the _Star Queen's_ airlock, but the "Connected" lights still burned and the doctor could look through into the small lift-ship from the planet down below. He frowned. He fingered the sheaf of papers. "Unless I missed count," he said annoyedly, "there's supposed to be one more passenger. I don't see--" A door opened far back in the lift-ship. A small figure appeared. It was a little girl perhaps ten years old. She was very neatly dressed, though not quite the way a mother would have done it. She wore the carefully composed expression of a child with no adult in charge of her. She walked precisely from the lift-ship into the _Star Queen's_ lock. The opening closed briskly behind her. There was the rumbling of seals making themselves tight. The lights flickered for "Disconnect" and then "All Clear." They went out, and the lift-ship had pulled away from the _Star Queen_. "There's my missing passenger," said the doctor. * * * * * The child looked soberly about. She saw him. "Excuse me," she said very politely. "Is this the way I'm supposed to go?" "Through that door," said the doctor gruffly. "Thank you," said the little girl. She followed his direction. She vanished through the door. It closed. There came a deep, droning sound, which was the interplanetary drive of the _Star Queen_, building up that directional stress in space which had seemed such a triumph when it was first contrived. The ship swung gently. It would be turning out from orbit around Altaira. It swung again. The doctor knew that its astrogators were feeling for the incredibly exact pointing of its nose toward the next port which modern commercial ship operation required. An error of fractional seconds of arc would mean valuable time lost in making port some ten light-years of distance away. The drive droned and droned, building up velocity while the ship's aiming was refined and re-refined. The drive cut off abruptly. Jensen turned white. The doctor said impatiently, "There's nothing wrong. Probably a message or a report should have been beamed down to the planet and somebody forgot. We'll go on in a minute." But Jensen stood frozen. He was very pale. The interplanetary drive stayed off. Thirty seconds. A minute. Jensen swallowed audibly. Two minutes. Three. The steady, monotonous drone began again. It continued interminably, as if while it was off the ship's head had swung wide of its destination and the whole business of lining up for a jump in overdrive had to be done all over again. Then there came that "Ping-g-g-g!" and the sensation of spiral fall which meant overdrive. The droning ceased. Jensen breathed again. The ship's doctor looked at him sharply. Jensen had been taut. Now the tensions had left his body, but he looked as if he were going to shiver. Instead, he mopped a suddenly streaming forehead. "I think," said Jensen in a strange voice, "that I'll have a drink. Or several. Will you join me?" Nordenfeld searched his face. A ship's doctor has many duties in space. Passengers can have many things wrong with them, and in the absolute isolation of overdrive they can be remarkably affected by each other. "I'll be at the fourth-level bar in twenty minutes," said Nordenfeld. "Can you wait that long?" "I probably won't wait to have a drink," said Jensen. "But I'll be there." The doctor nodded curtly. He went away. He made no guesses, though he'd just observed the new passengers carefully and was fully aware of the strict health regulations that affect space travel. As a physician he knew that the most deadly thing in the universe was chlorophage and that the planet Kamerun was only one solar system away. It had been a stop for the _Star Queen_ until four years ago. He puzzled over Jensen's tenseness and the relief he'd displayed when the overdrive field came on. But he didn't guess. Chlorophage didn't enter his mind. Not until later. * * * * * He saw the little girl who'd come out of the airlock last of all the passengers. She sat on a sofa as if someone had told her to wait there until something or other was arranged. Doctor Nordenfeld barely glanced at her. He'd known Jensen for a considerable time. Jensen had been a passenger on the _Star Queen_ half a dozen times, and he shouldn't have been upset by the temporary stoppage of an interplanetary drive. Nordenfeld divided people into two classes, those who were not and those who were worth talking to. There weren't many of the latter. Jensen was. He filed away the health slips. Then, thinking of Jensen's pallor, he asked what had happened to make the _Star Queen_ interrupt her slow-speed drive away from orbit around Altaira. The purser told him. But the purser was fussily concerned because there were so many extra passengers from Altaira. He might not be able to take on the expected number of passengers at the next stop-over point. It would be bad business to have to refuse passengers! It would give the space line a bad name. Then the air officer stopped Nordenfeld as he was about to join Jensen in the fourth-level bar. It was time for a medical inspection of the quarter-acre of Banthyan jungle which purified and renewed the air of the ship. Nordenfeld was expected to check the complex ecological system of the air room. Specifically, he was expected to look for and identify any patches of colorlessness appearing on the foliage of the jungle plants the _Star Queen_ carried through space. The air officer was discreet and Nordenfeld was silent about the ultimate reason for the inspection. Nobody liked to think about it. But if a particular kind of bleaching appeared, as if the chlorophyll of the leaves were being devoured by something too small to be seen by an optical microscope--why, that would be chlorophage. It would also be a death sentence for the _Star Queen_ and everybody in her. But the jungle passed medical inspection. The plants grew lushly in soil which periodically was flushed with hydroponic solution and then drained away again. The UV lamps were properly distributed and the different quarters of the air room were alternately lighted and darkened. And there were no colorless patches. A steady wind blew through the air room and had its excess moisture and unpleasing smells wrung out before it recirculated through the ship. Doctor Nordenfeld authorized the trimming of some liana-like growths which were developing woody tissue at the expense of leaves. The air officer also told him about the reason for the turning off of the interplanetary drive. He considered it a very curious happening. The doctor left the air room and passed the place where the little girl--the last passenger to board the _Star Queen_--waited patiently for somebody to arrange something. Doctor Nordenfeld took a lift to the fourth level and went into the bar where Jensen should be waiting. He was. He had an empty glass before him. Nordenfeld sat down and dialed for a drink. He had an indefinite feeling that something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. There are always things going wrong for a ship's doctor, though. There are so many demands on his patience that he is usually short of it. Jensen watched him sip at his drink. "A bad day?" he asked. He'd gotten over his own tension. * * * * * Nordenfeld shrugged, but his scowl deepened. "There are a lot of new passengers." He realized that he was trying to explain his feelings to himself. "They'll come to me feeling miserable. I have to tell each one that if they feel heavy and depressed, it may be the gravity-constant of the ship, which is greater than their home planet. If they feel light-headed and giddy, it may be because the gravity-constant of the ship is less than they're used to. But it doesn't make them feel better, so they come back for a second assurance. I'll be overwhelmed with such complaints within two hours." Jensen waited. Then he said casually--too casually, "Does anybody ever suspect chlorophage?" "No," said Nordenfeld shortly. Jensen fidgeted. He sipped. Then he said, "What's the news from Kamerun, anyhow?" "There isn't any," said Nordenfeld. "Naturally! Why ask?" "I just wondered," said Jensen. After a moment: "What was the last news?" "There hasn't been a message from Kamerun in two years," said Nordenfeld curtly. "There's no sign of anything green anywhere on the planet. It's considered to be--uninhabited." Jensen licked his lips. "That's what I understood. Yes." Nordenfeld drank half his drink and said unpleasantly, "There were thirty million people on Kamerun when the chlorophage appeared. At first it was apparently a virus which fed on the chlorophyll of plants. They died. Then it was discovered that it could also feed on hemoglobin, which is chemically close to chlorophyll. Hemoglobin is the red coloring matter of the blood. When the virus consumed it, people began to die. Kamerun doctors found that the chlorophage virus was transmitted by contact, by inhalation, by ingestion. It traveled as dust particles and on the feet of insects, and it was in drinking water and the air one breathed. The doctors on Kamerun warned spaceships off and the Patrol put a quarantine fleet in orbit around it to keep anybody from leaving. And nobody left. And everybody died. _And_ so did every living thing that had chlorophyll in its leaves or hemoglobin in its blood, or that needed plant or animal tissues to feed on. There's not a person left alive on Kamerun, nor an animal or bird or insect, nor a fish nor a tree, or plant or weed or blade of grass. There's no longer a quarantine fleet there. Nobody'll go there and there's nobody left to leave. But there are beacon satellites to record any calls and to warn any fool against landing. If the chlorophage got loose and was carried about by spaceships, it could kill the other forty billion humans in the galaxy, together with every green plant or animal with hemoglobin in its blood." "That," said Jensen, and tried to smile, "sounds final." "It isn't," Nordenfeld told him. "If there's something in the universe which can kill every living thing except its maker, that something should be killed. There should be research going on about the chlorophage. It would be deadly dangerous work, but it should be done. A quarantine won't stop contagion. It can only hinder it. That's useful, but not enough." Jensen moistened his lips. Nordenfeld said abruptly, "I've answered your questions. Now what's on your mind and what has it to do with chlorophage?" Jensen started. He went very pale. "It's too late to do anything about it," said Nordenfeld. "It's probably nonsense anyhow. But what is it?" Jensen stammered out his story. It explained why there were so many passengers for the _Star Queen_. It even explained his departure from Altaira. But it was only a rumor--the kind of rumor that starts up untraceably and can never be verified. This one was officially denied by the Altairan planetary government. But it was widely believed by the sort of people who usually were well-informed. Those who could sent their families up to the _Star Queen_. And that was why Jensen had been tense and worried until the liner had actually left Altaira behind. Then he felt safe. Nordenfeld's jaw set as Jensen told his tale. He made no comment, but when Jensen was through he nodded and went away, leaving his drink unfinished. Jensen couldn't see his face; it was hard as granite. And Nordenfeld, the ship's doctor of the _Star Queen_, went into the nearest bathroom and was violently sick. It was a reaction to what he'd just learned. * * * * * There were stars which were so far away that their distance didn't mean anything. There were planets beyond counting in a single star cluster, let alone the galaxy. There were comets and gas clouds in space, and worlds where there was life, and other worlds where life was impossible. The quantity of matter which was associated with life was infinitesimal, and the quantity associated with consciousness--animal life--was so much less that the difference couldn't be expressed. But the amount of animal life which could reason was so minute by comparison that the nearest ratio would be that of a single atom to a sun. Mankind, in fact, was the least impressive fraction of the smallest category of substance in the galaxy. But men did curious things. There was the cutting off of the _Star Queen's_ short-distance drive before she'd gotten well away from Altaira. There had been a lift-ship locked to the liner's passenger airlock. When the last passenger entered the big ship--a little girl--the airlocks disconnected and the lift-ship pulled swiftly away. It was not quite two miles from the _Star Queen_ when its emergency airlocks opened and spacesuited figures plunged out of it to emptiness. Simultaneously, the ports of the lift-ship glowed and almost immediately the whole plating turned cherry-red, crimson, and then orange, from unlimited heat developed within it. The lift-ship went incandescent and ruptured and there was a spout of white-hot air, and then it turned blue-white and puffed itself to nothing in metallic steam. Where it had been there was only shining gas, which cooled. Beyond it there were figures in spacesuits which tried to swim away from it. The _Star Queen's_ control room, obviously, saw the happening. The lift-ship's atomic pile had flared out of control and melted down the ship. It had developed something like sixty thousand degrees Fahrenheit when it ceased to flare. It did not blow up; it only vaporized. But the process must have begun within seconds after the lift-ship broke contact with the _Star Queen_. In automatic reaction, the man in control of the liner cut her drive and offered to turn back and pick up the spacesuited figures in emptiness. The offer was declined with almost hysterical haste. In fact, it was barely made before the other lift-ships moved in on rescue missions. They had waited. And they were picking up castaways before the _Star Queen_ resumed its merely interplanetary drive and the process of aiming for a solar system some thirty light-years away. When the liner flicked into overdrive, more than half the floating figures had been recovered, which was remarkable. It was almost as remarkable as the flare-up of the lift-ship's atomic pile. One has to know exactly what to do to make a properly designed atomic pile vaporize metal. Somebody had known. Somebody had done it. And the other lift-ships were waiting to pick up the destroyed lift-ship's crew when it happened. The matter of the lift-ship's destruction was fresh in Nordenfeld's mind when Jensen had told his story. The two items fitted together with an appalling completeness. They left little doubt or hope. * * * * * Nordenfeld consulted the passenger records and presently was engaged in conversation with the sober-faced, composed little girl on a sofa in one of the cabin levels of the _Star Queen_. "You're Kathy Brand, I believe," he said matter-of-factly. "I understand you've been having a rather bad time of it." She seemed to consider. "It hasn't been too bad," she assured him. "At least I've been seeing new things. I got dreadfully tired of seeing the same things all the time." "What things?" asked Nordenfeld. His expression was not stern now, though his inner sensations were not pleasant. He needed to talk to this child, and he had learned how to talk to children. The secret is to talk exactly as to an adult, with respect and interest. "There weren't any windows," she explained, "and my father couldn't play with me, and all the toys and books were ruined by the water. It was dreadfully tedious. There weren't any other children, you see. And presently there weren't any grownups but my father." Nordenfeld only looked more interested. He'd been almost sure ever since knowing of the lift-ship's destruction and listening to Jensen's account of the rumor the government of Altaira denied. He was horribly sure now. "How long were you in the place that hadn't any windows?" "Oh, dreadfully long!" she said. "Since I was only six years old! Almost half my life!" She smiled brightly at him. "I remember looking out of windows and even playing out-of-doors, but my father and mother said I had to live in this place. My father talked to me often and often. He was very nice. But he had to wear that funny suit and keep the glass over his face because he didn't live in the room. The glass was because he went under the water, you know." Nordenfeld asked carefully conversational-sounding questions. Kathy Brand, now aged ten, had been taken by her father to live in a big room without any windows. It hadn't any doors, either. There were plants in it, and there were bluish lights to shine on the plants, and there was a place in one corner where there was water. When her father came in to talk to her, he came up out of the water wearing the funny suit with glass over his face. He went out the same way. There was a place in the wall where she could look out into another room, and at first her mother used to come and smile at her through the glass, and she talked into something she held in her hand, and her voice came inside. But later she stopped coming. * * * * * There was only one possible kind of place which would answer Kathy's description. When she was six years old she had been put into some university's aseptic-environment room. And she had stayed there. Such rooms were designed for biological research. They were built and then made sterile of all bacterial life and afterward entered through a tank of antiseptic. Anyone who entered wore a suit which was made germ-free by its passage through the antiseptic, and he did not breathe the air of the aseptic room, but air which was supplied him through a hose, the exhaled-air hose also passing under the antiseptic outside. No germ or microbe or virus could possibly get into such a room without being bathed in corrosive fluid which would kill it. So long as there was someone alive outside to take care of her, a little girl could live there and defy even chlorophage. And Kathy Brand had done it. But, on the other hand, Kamerun was the only planet where it would be necessary, and it was the only world from which a father would land his small daughter on another planet's spaceport. There was no doubt. Nordenfeld grimly imagined someone--he would have had to be a microbiologist even to attempt it--fighting to survive and defeat the chlorophage while he kept his little girl in an aseptic-environment room. She explained quite pleasantly as Nordenfeld asked more questions. There had been other people besides her father, but for a long time there had been only him. And Nordenfeld computed that somehow she'd been kept alive on the dead planet Kamerun for four long years. Recently, though--very recently--her father told her that they were leaving. Wearing his funny, antiseptic-wetted suit, he'd enclosed her in a plastic bag with a tank attached to it. Air flowed from the tank into the bag and out through a hose that was all wetted inside. She breathed quite comfortably. It made sense. An air tank could be heated and its contents sterilized to supply germ-free--or virus-free--air. And Kathy's father took an axe and chopped away a wall of the room. He picked her up, still inside the plastic bag, and carried her out. There was nobody about. There was no grass. There were no trees. Nothing moved. Here Kathy's account was vague, but Nordenfeld could guess at the strangeness of a dead planet, to the child who barely remembered anything but the walls of an aseptic-environment room. Her father carried her to a little ship, said Kathy, and they talked a lot after the ship took off. He told her that he was taking her to a place where she could run about outdoors and play, but he had to go somewhere else. He did mysterious things which to Nordenfeld meant a most scrupulous decontamination of a small spaceship's interior and its airlock. Its outer surface would reach a temperature at which no organic material could remain uncooked. And finally, said Kathy, her father had opened a door and told her to step out and good-by, and she did, and the ship went away--her father still wearing his funny suit--and people came and asked her questions she did not understand. * * * * * Kathy's narrative fitted perfectly into the rumor Jensen said circulated among usually well-informed people on Altaira. They believed, said Jensen, that a small spaceship had appeared in the sky above Altaira's spaceport. It ignored all calls, landed swiftly, opened an airlock and let someone out, and plunged for the sky again. And the story said that radar telescopes immediately searched for and found the ship in space. They trailed it, calling vainly for it to identify itself, while it drove at top speed for Altaira's sun. It reached the sun and dived in. Nordenfeld reached the skipper on intercom vision-phone. Jensen had been called there to repeat his tale to the skipper. "I've talked to the child," said Nordenfeld grimly, "and I'm putting her into isolation quarters in the hospital compartment. She's from Kamerun. She was kept in an aseptic-environment room at some university or other. She says her father looked after her. I get an impression of a last-ditch fight by microbiologists against the chlorophage. They lost it. Apparently her father landed her on Altaira and dived into the sun. From her story, he took every possible precaution to keep her from contagion or carrying contagion with her to Altaira. Maybe he succeeded. There's no way to tell--yet." The skipper listened in silence. Jensen said thinly, "Then the story about the landing was true." "Yes. The authorities isolated her, and then shipped her off on the _Star Queen_. Your well-informed friends, Jensen, didn't know what their government was going to do!" Nordenfeld paused, and said more coldly still, "They didn't handle it right. They should have killed her, painlessly but at once. Her body should have been immersed, with everything that had touched it, in full-strength nitric acid. The same acid should have saturated the place where the ship landed and every place she walked. Every room she entered, and every hall she passed through, should have been doused with nitric and then burned. It would still not have been all one could wish. The air she breathed couldn't be recaptured and heated white-hot. But the chances for Altaira's population to go on living would be improved. Instead, they isolated her and they shipped her off with us--and thought they were accomplishing something by destroying the lift-ship that had her in an airtight compartment until she walked into the _Star Queen's_ lock!" The skipper said heavily, "Do you think she's brought chlorophage on board?" "I've no idea," said Nordenfeld. "If she did, it's too late to do anything but drive the _Star Queen_ into the nearest sun.... No. Before that, one should give warning that she was aground on Altaira. No ship should land there. No ship should take off. Altaira should be blocked off from the rest of the galaxy like Kamerun was. And to the same end result." Jensen said unsteadily; "There'll be trouble if this is known on the ship. There'll be some unwilling to sacrifice themselves." "Sacrifice?" said Nordenfeld. "They're dead! But before they lie down, they can keep everybody they care about from dying too! Would you want to land and have your wife and family die of it?" The skipper said in the same heavy voice, "What are the probabilities? You say there was an effort to keep her from contagion. What are the odds?" "Bad," said Nordenfeld. "The man tried, for the child's sake. But I doubt he managed to make a completely aseptic transfer from the room she lived in to the spaceport on Altaira. The authorities on Altaira should have known it. They should have killed her and destroyed everything she'd touched. And _still_ the odds would have been bad!" Jensen said, "But you can't do that, Nordenfeld! Not now!" "I shall take every measure that seems likely to be useful." Then Nordenfeld snapped, "Damnation, man! Do you realize that this chlorophage can wipe out the human race if it really gets loose? Do you think I'll let sentiment keep me from doing what has to be done?" He flicked off the vision-phone. * * * * * The _Star Queen_ came out of overdrive. Her skipper arranged it to be done at the time when the largest possible number of her passengers and crew would be asleep. Those who were awake, of course, felt the peculiar inaudible sensation which one subjectively translated into sound. They felt the momentary giddiness which--having no natural parallel--feels like the sensation of treading on a stair-step that isn't there, combined with a twisting sensation so it is like a spiral fall. The passengers who were awake were mostly in the bars, and the bartenders explained that the ship had shifted overdrive generators and there was nothing to it. Those who were asleep started awake, but there was nothing in their surroundings to cause alarm. Some blinked in the darkness of their cabins and perhaps turned on the cabin lights, but everything seemed normal. They turned off the lights again. Some babies cried and had to be soothed. But there was nothing except wakening to alarm anybody. Babies went back to sleep and mothers returned to their beds and--such awakenings being customary--went back to sleep also. It was natural enough. There were vague and commonplace noises, together making an indefinite hum. Fans circulated the ship's purified and reinvigorated air. Service motors turned in remote parts of the hull. Cooks and bakers moved about in the kitchens. Nobody could tell by any physical sensation that the _Star Queen_ was not in overdrive, except in the control room. There the stars could be seen. They were unthinkably remote. The ship was light-years from any place where humans lived. She did not drive. Her skipper had a family on Cassim. He would not land a plague ship which might destroy them. The executive officer had a small son. If his return meant that small son's death as well as his own, he would not return. All through the ship, the officers who had to know the situation recognized that if chlorophage had gotten into the _Star Queen_, the ship must not land anywhere. Nobody could survive. Nobody must attempt it. So the huge liner hung in the emptiness between the stars, waiting until it could be known definitely that chlorophage was aboard or that with absolute certainty it was absent. The question was up to Doctor Nordenfeld. He had isolated himself with Kathy in the ship's hospital compartment. Since the ship was built it had been used once by a grown man who developed mumps, and once by an adolescent boy who developed a raging fever which antibiotics stopped. Health measures for space travel were strict. The hospital compartment had only been used those two times. * * * * * On this voyage it had been used to contain an assortment of botanical specimens from a planet seventy light-years beyond Regulus. They were on their way to the botanical research laboratory on Cassim. As a routine precaution they'd been placed in the hospital, which could be fumigated when they were taken out. Now the doctor had piled them in one side of the compartment, which he had divided in half with a transparent plastic sheet. He stayed in that side. Kathy occupied the other. She had some flowering plants to look at and admire. They'd come from the air room and she was delighted with their coloring and beauty. But Doctor Nordenfeld had put them there as a continuing test for chlorophage. If Kathy carried that murderous virus on her person, the flowering plants would die of it--probably even before she did. It was a scrupulously scientific test for the deadly stuff. Completely sealed off except for a circulator to freshen the air she breathed, Kathy was settled with toys and picture books. It was an improvised but well-designed germproof room. The air for Kathy to breathe was sterilized before it reached her. The air she had breathed was sterilized as it left her plastic-sided residence. It should be the perfection of protection for the ship--if it was not already too late. The vision-phone buzzed. Doctor Nordenfeld stirred in his chair and flipped the switch. The _Star Queen's_ skipper looked at him out of the screen. "I've cut the overdrive," said the skipper. "The passengers haven't been told." "Very sensible," said the doctor. "When will we know?" "That we can go on living? When the other possibility is exhausted." "Then, how will we know?" asked skipper stonily. Doctor Nordenfeld ticked off the possibilities. He bent down a finger. "One, her father took great pains. Maybe he did manage an aseptic transfer from a germ-free room to Altaira. Kathy may not have been exposed to the chlorophage. If she hasn't, no bleached spots will show up on the air-room foliage or among the flowering plants in the room with her. Nobody in the crew or among the passengers will die." He bent down a second finger. "It is probably more likely that white spots will appear on the plants in the air room _and_ here, and people will start to die. That will mean Kathy brought contagion here the instant she arrived, and almost certainly that Altaira will become like Kamerun--uninhabited. In such a case we are finished." * * * * * He bent down a third finger. "Not so likely, but preferable, white spots may appear on the foliage inside the plastic with Kathy, but not in the ship's air room. In that case she was exposed, but the virus was incubating when she came on board, and only developed and spread after she was isolated. Possibly, in such a case, we can save the passengers and crew, but the ship will probably have to be melted down in space. It would be tricky, but it might be done." The skipper hesitated. "If that last happened, she--" "I will take whatever measures are necessary," said Doctor Nordenfeld. "To save your conscience, we won't discuss them. They should have been taken on Altaira." He reached over and flipped off the phone. Then he looked up and into the other part of the ship's hospital space. Kathy came out from behind a screen, where she'd made ready for bed. She was beaming. She had a large picture book under one arm and a doll under the other. "It's all right for me to have these with me, isn't it, Doctor Nordenfeld?" she asked hopefully. "I didn't have any picture books but one, and it got worn out. And my doll--it was dreadful how shabby she was!" The doctor frowned. She smiled at him. He said, "After all, picture books are made to be looked at and dolls to be played with." She skipped to the tiny hospital bed on the far side of the presumably virusproof partition. She climbed into it and zestfully arranged the doll to share it. She placed the book within easy reach. She said, "I think my father would say you were very nice, Doctor Nordenfeld, to look after me so well." "No-o-o-o," said the doctor in a detached voice. "I'm just doing what anybody ought to do." She snuggled down under the covers. He looked at his watch and shrugged. It was very easy to confuse official night with official day, in space. Everybody else was asleep. He'd been putting Kathy through tests which began with measurements of pulse and respiration and temperature and went on from there. Kathy managed them herself, under his direction. He settled down with one of the medical books he'd brought into the isolation section with him. Its title was _Decontamination of Infectious Material from Different Planets_. He read it grimly. * * * * * The time came when the _Star Queen_ should have come out of overdrive with the sun Circe blazing fiercely nearby, and a green planet with ice caps to be approached on interplanetary drive. There should have been droning, comforting drive noises to assure the passengers--who naturally could not see beyond the ship's steel walls--that they were within a mere few million miles of a world where sunshine was normal, and skies were higher than ship's ceilings, and there were fascinating things to see and do. Some of the passengers packed their luggage and put it outside their cabins to be picked up for landing. But no stewards came for it. Presently there was an explanation. The ship had run under maximum speed and the planetfall would be delayed. The passengers were disappointed but not concerned. The luggage vanished into cabins again. The _Star Queen_ floated in space among a thousand thousand million stars. Her astrogators had computed a course to the nearest star into which to drive the _Star Queen_, but it would not be used unless there was mutiny among the crew. It would be better to go in remote orbit around Circe III and give the news of chlorophage on Altaira, if Doctor Nordenfeld reported it on the ship. Time passed. One day. Two. Three. Then Jensen called the hospital compartment on vision-phone. His expression was dazed. Nordenfeld saw the interior of the control room behind Jensen. He said, "You're a passenger, Jensen. How is it you're in the control room?" Jensen moistened his lips. "The skipper thought I'd better not associate with the other passengers. I've stayed with the officers the past few days. We--the ones who know what's in prospect--we're keeping separate from the others so--nobody will let anything out by accident." "Very wise. When the skipper comes back on duty, ask him to call me. I've something interesting to tell him." "He's--checking something now," said Jensen. His voice was thin and reedy. "The--air officer reports there are white patches on the plants in the air room. They're growing. Fast. He told me to tell you. He's--gone to make sure." "No need," said Nordenfeld bitterly. He swung the vision-screen. It faced that part of the hospital space beyond the plastic sheeting. There were potted flowering plants there. They had pleased Kathy. They shared her air. And there were white patches on their leaves. "I thought," said Nordenfeld with an odd mirthless levity, "that the skipper'd be interested. It is of no importance whatever now, but I accomplished something remarkable. Kathy's father didn't manage an aseptic transfer. She brought the chlorophage with her. But I confined it. The plants on the far side of that plastic sheet show the chlorophage patches plainly. I expect Kathy to show signs of anemia shortly. I'd decided that drastic measures would have to be taken, and it looked like they might work, because I've confined the virus. It's there where Kathy is, but it isn't where I am. All the botanical specimens on my side of the sheet are untouched. The phage hasn't hit them. It is remarkable. But it doesn't matter a damn if the air room's infected. And I was so proud!" Jensen did not respond. * * * * * Nordenfeld said ironically, "Look what I accomplished! I protected the air plants on my side See? They're beautifully green! No sign of infection! It means that a man can work with chlorophage! A laboratory ship could land on Kamerun and keep itself the equivalent of an aseptic-environment room while the damned chlorophage was investigated and ultimately whipped! And it doesn't matter!" Jensen said numbly, "We can't ever make port. We ought--we ought to--" "We'll take the necessary measures," Nordenfeld told him. "Very quietly and very efficiently, with neither the crew nor the passengers knowing that Altaira sent the chlorophage on board the _Star Queen_ in the hope of banishing it from there. The passengers won't know that their own officials shipped it off with them as they tried to run away.... And I was so proud that I'd improvised an aseptic room to keep Kathy in! I sterilized the air that went in to her, and I sterilized--" Then he stopped. He stopped quite short. He stared at the air unit, set up and with two pipes passing through the plastic partition which cut the hospital space in two. He turned utterly white. He went roughly to the air machine. He jerked back its cover. He put his hand inside. Minutes later he faced back to the vision-screen from which Jensen looked apathetically at him. "Tell the skipper to call me," he said in a savage tone. "Tell him to call me instantly he comes back! Before he issues any orders at all!" He bent over the sterilizing equipment and very carefully began to disassemble it. He had it completely apart when Kathy waked. She peered at him through the plastic separation sheet. "Good morning, Doctor Nordenfeld," she said cheerfully. The doctor grunted. Kathy smiled at him. She had gotten on very good terms with the doctor, since she'd been kept in the ship's hospital. She did not feel that she was isolated. In having the doctor where she could talk to him at any time, she had much more company than ever before. She had read her entire picture book to him and discussed her doll at length. She took it for granted that when he did not answer or frowned that he was simply busy. But he was company because she could see him. Doctor Nordenfeld put the air apparatus together with an extremely peculiar expression on his face. It had been built for Kathy's special isolation by a ship's mechanic. It should sterilize the used air going into Kathy's part of the compartment, and it should sterilize the used air pushed out by the supplied fresh air. The hospital itself was an independent sealed unit, with its own chemical air freshener, and it had been divided into two. The air freshener was where Doctor Nordenfeld could attend to it, and the sterilizer pump simply shared the freshening with Kathy. But-- But the pipe that pumped air to Kathy was brown and discolored from having been used for sterilizing, and the pipe that brought air back was not. It was cold. It had never been heated. So Doctor Nordenfeld had been exposed to any contagion Kathy could spread. He hadn't been protected at all. Yet the potted plants on Kathy's side of the barrier were marked with great white splotches which grew almost as one looked, while the botanical specimens in the doctor's part of the hospital--as much infected as Kathy's could have been, by failure of the ship's mechanic to build the sterilizer to work two ways: the stacked plants, the alien plants, the strange plants from seventy light-years beyond Regulus--they were vividly green. There was no trace of chlorophage on them. Yet they had been as thoroughly exposed as Doctor Nordenfeld himself! The doctor's hands shook. His eyes burned. He took out a surgeon's scalpel and ripped the plastic partition from floor to ceiling. Kathy watched interestedly. "Why did you do that, Doctor Nordenfeld?" she asked. He said in an emotionless, unnatural voice, "I'm going to do something that it was very stupid of me not to do before. It should have been done when you were six years old, Kathy. It should have been done on Kamerun, and after that on Altaira. Now we're going to do it here. You can help me." * * * * * The _Star Queen_ had floated out of overdrive long enough to throw all distance computations off. But she swung about, and swam back, and presently she was not too far from the world where she was now many days overdue. Lift-ships started up from the planet's surface. But the _Star Queen_ ordered them back. "Get your spaceport health officer on the vision-phone," ordered the _Star Queen's_ skipper. "We've had chlorophage on board." There was panic. Even at a distance of a hundred thousand miles, chlorophage could strike stark terror into anybody. But presently the image of the spaceport health officer appeared on the _Star Queen's_ screen. "We're not landing," said Doctor Nordenfeld. "There's almost certainly an outbreak of chlorophage on Altaira, and we're going back to do something about it. It got on our ship with passengers from there. We've whipped it, but we may need some help." The image of the health officer aground was a mask of horror for seconds after Nordenfeld's last statement. Then his expression became incredulous, though still horrified. "We came on to here," said Doctor Nordenfeld, "to get you to send word by the first other ship to the Patrol that a quarantine has to be set up on Altaira, and we need to be inspected for recovery from chlorophage infection. And we need to pass on, officially, the discovery that whipped the contagion on this ship. We were carrying botanical specimens to Cassim and we discovered that they were immune to chlorophage. That's absurd, of course. Their green coloring is the same substance as in plants under Sol-type suns anywhere. They couldn't be immune to chlorophage. So there had to be something else." "Was--was there?" asked the health officer. "There was. Those specimens came from somewhere beyond Regulus. They carried, as normal symbiotes on their foliage, microörganisms unknown both on Kamerun and Altaira. The alien bugs are almost the size of virus particles, feed on virus particles, and are carried by contact, air, and so on, as readily as virus particles themselves. We discovered that those microörganisms devoured chlorophage. We washed them off the leaves of the plants, sprayed them in our air-room jungle, and they multiplied faster than the chlorophage. Our whole air supply is now loaded with an airborne antichlorophage organism which has made our crew and passengers immune. We're heading back to Altaira to turn loose our merry little bugs on that planet. It appears that they grow on certain vegetation, but they'll live anywhere there's phage to eat. We're keeping some chlorophage cultures alive so our microörganisms don't die out for lack of food!" The medical officer on the ground gasped. "Keeping phage _alive_?" * * * * * "I hope you've recorded this," said Nordenfeld. "It's rather important. This trick should have been tried on Kamerun and Altaira and everywhere else new diseases have turned up. When there's a bug on one planet that's deadly to us, there's bound to be a bug on some other planet that's deadly to it! The same goes for any pests or vermin--the principle of natural enemies. All we have to do is find the enemies!" There was more communication between the _Star Queen_ and the spaceport on Circe III, which the _Star Queen_ would not make other contact with on this trip, and presently the big liner headed back to Altaira. It was necessary for official as well as humanitarian reasons. There would need to be a health examination of the _Star Queen_ to certify that it was safe for passengers to breathe her air and eat in her restaurants and swim in her swimming pools and occupy the six levels of passenger cabins she contained. This would have to be done by a Patrol ship, which would turn up at Altaira. The _Star Queen's_ skipper would be praised by his owners for not having driven the liner into a star, and the purser would be forgiven for the confusion in his records due to off-schedule operations of the big ship, and Jensen would find in the ending of all terror of chlorophage an excellent reason to look for appreciation in the value of the investments he was checking up. And Doctor Nordenfeld.... He talked very gravely to Kathy. "I'm afraid," he told her, "that your father isn't coming back. What would you like to do?" She smiled at him hopefully. "Could I be your little girl?" she asked. Doctor Nordenfeld grunted. "Hm ... I'll think about it." But he smiled at her. She grinned at him. And it was settled. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Doctor, by Murray Leinster Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Which remarkable habit did Enoch Soames demonstrate with regard to choice of clothing?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "always wore a grey waterproof cape and a soft black hat" ]	11,202	narrativeqa	en	null	41d2d4a499eabd3034b061845ae3c279f5befd0fce60f757	Produced by Judith Boss. Enoch Soames A Memory of the Eighteen-nineties By MAX BEERBOHM When a book about the literature of the eighteen-nineties was given by Mr. Holbrook Jackson to the world, I looked eagerly in the index for Soames, Enoch. It was as I feared: he was not there. But everybody else was. Many writers whom I had quite forgotten, or remembered but faintly, lived again for me, they and their work, in Mr. Holbrook Jackson's pages. The book was as thorough as it was brilliantly written. And thus the omission found by me was an all the deadlier record of poor Soames's failure to impress himself on his decade. I dare say I am the only person who noticed the omission. Soames had failed so piteously as all that! Nor is there a counterpoise in the thought that if he had had some measure of success he might have passed, like those others, out of my mind, to return only at the historian's beck. It is true that had his gifts, such as they were, been acknowledged in his lifetime, he would never have made the bargain I saw him make--that strange bargain whose results have kept him always in the foreground of my memory. But it is from those very results that the full piteousness of him glares out. Not my compassion, however, impels me to write of him. For his sake, poor fellow, I should be inclined to keep my pen out of the ink. It is ill to deride the dead. And how can I write about Enoch Soames without making him ridiculous? Or, rather, how am I to hush up the horrid fact that he WAS ridiculous? I shall not be able to do that. Yet, sooner or later, write about him I must. You will see in due course that I have no option. And I may as well get the thing done now. In the summer term of '93 a bolt from the blue flashed down on Oxford. It drove deep; it hurtlingly embedded itself in the soil. Dons and undergraduates stood around, rather pale, discussing nothing but it. Whence came it, this meteorite? From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. Its aim? To do a series of twenty-four portraits in lithograph. These were to be published from the Bodley Head, London. The matter was urgent. Already the warden of A, and the master of B, and the Regius Professor of C had meekly "sat." Dignified and doddering old men who had never consented to sit to any one could not withstand this dynamic little stranger. He did not sue; he invited: he did not invite; he commanded. He was twenty-one years old. He wore spectacles that flashed more than any other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of ideas. He knew Whistler. He knew Daudet and the Goncourts. He knew every one in Paris. He knew them all by heart. He was Paris in Oxford. It was whispered that, so soon as he had polished off his selection of dons, he was going to include a few undergraduates. It was a proud day for me when I--I was included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; and there arose between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, and been more and more valued by me, with every passing year. At the end of term he settled in, or, rather, meteoritically into, London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever-enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other August elders who dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were already famous among the few--Aubrey Beardsley by name. With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. By him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the domino-room of the Cafe Royal. There, on that October evening--there, in that exuberant vista of gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted and pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled on marble tables, I drew a deep breath and, "This indeed," said I to myself, "is life!" (Forgive me that theory. Remember the waging of even the South African War was not yet.) It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermuth. Those who knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering slowly up and down in search of vacant tables or of tables occupied by friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted to catch Rothenstein's eye. He had twice passed our table, with a hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. He had a thin, vague beard, or, rather, he had a chin on which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but in the nineties odd apparitions were more frequent, I think, than they are now. The young writers of that era--and I was sure this man was a writer--strove earnestly to be distinct in aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat of clerical kind, but of Bohemian intention, and a gray waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I decided that "dim" was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the period. The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up his mind to pause in front of it. "You don't remember me," he said in a toneless voice. Rothenstein brightly focused him. "Yes, I do," he replied after a moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive memory. "Edwin Soames." "Enoch Soames," said Enoch. "Enoch Soames," repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough to have hit on the surname. "We met in Paris a few times when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche." "And I came to your studio once." "Oh, yes; I was sorry I was out." "But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know. I hear you're in Chelsea now." "Yes." I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like a donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to me that "hungry" was perhaps the mot juste for him; but--hungry for what? He looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him to sit down and have something to drink. Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his cape with a gesture which, had not those wings been waterproof, might have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an absinthe. "Je me tiens toujours fidele," he told Rothenstein, "a la sorciere glauque." "It is bad for you," said Rothenstein, dryly. "Nothing is bad for one," answered Soames. "Dans ce monde il n'y a ni bien ni mal." "Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?" "I explained it all in the preface to 'Negations.'" "'Negations'?" "Yes, I gave you a copy of it." "Oh, yes, of course. But, did you explain, for instance, that there was no such thing as bad or good grammar?" "N-no," said Soames. "Of course in art there is the good and the evil. But in life--no." He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak, white hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained with nicotine. "In life there are illusions of good and evil, but"--his voice trailed away to a murmur in which the words "vieux jeu" and "rococo" were faintly audible. I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his throat and said, "Parlons d'autre chose." It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was young, and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was quite five or six years older than either of us. Also--he had written a book. It was wonderful to have written a book. If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what kind of book it was to be. "My poems," he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather thought of giving the book no title at all. "If a book is good in itself--" he murmured, and waved his cigarette. Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale of a book. "If," he urged, "I went into a bookseller's and said simply, 'Have you got?' or, 'Have you a copy of?' how would they know what I wanted?" "Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover," Soames answered earnestly. "And I rather want," he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, "to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece." Rothenstein admitted that this was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the country and would be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, exclaimed at the hour, paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. Soames remained at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch. "Why were you so determined not to draw him?" I asked. "Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn't exist?" "He is dim," I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein repeated that Soames was non-existent. Still, Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had read "Negations." He said he had looked into it, "but," he added crisply, "I don't profess to know anything about writing." A reservation very characteristic of the period! Painters would not then allow that any one outside their own order had a right to any opinion about painting. This law (graven on the tablets brought down by Whistler from the summit of Fuji-yama) imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were not utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practiced them, the law tottered--the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold good. Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book without warning you at any rate that his opinion was worthless. No one is a better judge of literature than Rothenstein; but it wouldn't have done to tell him so in those days, and I knew that I must form an unaided judgment of "Negations." Not to buy a book of which I had met the author face to face would have been for me in those days an impossible act of self-denial. When I returned to Oxford for the Christmas term I had duly secured "Negations." I used to keep it lying carelessly on the table in my room, and whenever a friend took it up and asked what it was about, I would say: "Oh, it's rather a remarkable book. It's by a man whom I know." Just "what it was about" I never was able to say. Head or tail was just what I hadn't made of that slim, green volume. I found in the preface no clue to the labyrinth of contents, and in that labyrinth nothing to explain the preface. Lean near to life. Lean very near-- nearer. Life is web and therein nor warp nor woof is, but web only. It is for this I am Catholick in church and in thought, yet do let swift Mood weave there what the shuttle of Mood wills. These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which followed were less easy to understand. Then came "Stark: A Conte," about a midinette who, so far as I could gather, murdered, or was about to murder, a mannequin. It was rather like a story by Catulle Mendes in which the translator had either skipped or cut out every alternate sentence. Next, a dialogue between Pan and St. Ursula, lacking, I rather thought, in "snap." Next, some aphorisms (entitled "Aphorismata" [spelled in Greek]). Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form, and the forms had evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather the substance that eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any substance at all? It did now occur to me: suppose Enoch Soames was a fool! Up cropped a rival hypothesis: suppose _I_ was! I inclined to give Soames the benefit of the doubt. I had read "L'Apres-midi d'un faune" without extracting a glimmer of meaning; yet Mallarme, of course, was a master. How was I to know that Soames wasn't another? There was a sort of music in his prose, not indeed, arresting, but perhaps, I thought, haunting, and laden, perhaps, with meanings as deep as Mallarme's own. I awaited his poems with an open mind. And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I had had a second meeting with him. This was on an evening in January. Going into the aforesaid domino-room, I had passed a table at which sat a pale man with an open book before him. He had looked from his book to me, and I looked back over my shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognized him. I returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I said with a glance to the open book, "I see I am interrupting you," and was about to pass on, but, "I prefer," Soames replied in his toneless voice, "to be interrupted," and I obeyed his gesture that I should sit down. I asked him if he often read here. "Yes; things of this kind I read here," he answered, indicating the title of his book--"The Poems of Shelley." "Anything that you really"--and I was going to say "admire?" But I cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I had done so, for he said with unwonted emphasis, "Anything second-rate." I had read little of Shelley, but, "Of course," I murmured, "he's very uneven." "I should have thought evenness was just what was wrong with him. A deadly evenness. That's why I read him here. The noise of this place breaks the rhythm. He's tolerable here." Soames took up the book and glanced through the pages. He laughed. Soames's laugh was a short, single, and mirthless sound from the throat, unaccompanied by any movement of the face or brightening of the eyes. "What a period!" he uttered, laying the book down. And, "What a country!" he added. I asked rather nervously if he didn't think Keats had more or less held his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He admitted that there were "passages in Keats," but did not specify them. Of "the older men," as he called them, he seemed to like only Milton. "Milton," he said, "wasn't sentimental." Also, "Milton had a dark insight." And again, "I can always read Milton in the reading-room." "The reading-room?" "Of the British Museum. I go there every day." "You do? I've only been there once. I'm afraid I found it rather a depressing place. It--it seemed to sap one's vitality." "It does. That's why I go there. The lower one's vitality, the more sensitive one is to great art. I live near the museum. I have rooms in Dyott Street." "And you go round to the reading-room to read Milton?" "Usually Milton." He looked at me. "It was Milton," he certificatively added, "who converted me to diabolism." "Diabolism? Oh, yes? Really?" said I, with that vague discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own religion. "You--worship the devil?" Soames shook his head. "It's not exactly worship," he qualified, sipping his absinthe. "It's more a matter of trusting and encouraging." "I see, yes. I had rather gathered from the preface to 'Negations' that you were a--a Catholic." "Je l'etais a cette epoque. In fact, I still am. I am a Catholic diabolist." But this profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see that what was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read "Negations." His pale eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt as one who is about to be examined viva voce on the very subject in which he is shakiest. I hastily asked him how soon his poems were to be published. "Next week," he told me. "And are they to be published without a title?" "No. I found a title at last. But I sha'n't tell you what it is," as though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. "I am not sure that it wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It suggests something of the quality of the poems--strange growths, natural and wild, yet exquisite," he added, "and many-hued, and full of poisons." I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort that was his laugh, and, "Baudelaire," he said, "was a bourgeois malgre lui." France had had only one poet--Villon; "and two thirds of Villon were sheer journalism." Verlaine was "an epicier malgre lui." Altogether, rather to my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. There were "passages" in Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. But, "I," he summed up, "owe nothing to France." He nodded at me. "You'll see," he predicted. I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of "Fungoids" did, unconsciously of course, owe something to the young Parisian decadents or to the young English ones who owed something to THEM. I still think so. The little book, bought by me in Oxford, lies before me as I write. Its pale-gray buckram cover and silver lettering have not worn well. Nor have its contents. Through these, with a melancholy interest, I have again been looking. They are not much. But at the time of their publication I had a vague suspicion that they MIGHT be. I suppose it is my capacity for faith, not poor Soames's work, that is weaker than it once was. TO A YOUNG WOMAN THOU ART, WHO HAST NOT BEEN! Pale tunes irresolute And traceries of old sounds Blown from a rotted flute Mingle with noise of cymbals rouged with rust, Nor not strange forms and epicene Lie bleeding in the dust, Being wounded with wounds. For this it is That in thy counterpart Of age-long mockeries THOU HAST NOT BEEN NOR ART! There seemed to me a certain inconsistency as between the first and last lines of this. I tried, with bent brows, to resolve the discord. But I did not take my failure as wholly incompatible with a meaning in Soames's mind. Might it not rather indicate the depth of his meaning? As for the craftsmanship, "rouged with rust" seemed to me a fine stroke, and "nor not" instead of "and" had a curious felicity. I wondered who the "young woman" was and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that Soames could not have made more of it than she. Yet even now, if one doesn't try to make any sense at all of the poem, and reads it just for the sound, there is a certain grace of cadence. Soames was an artist, in so far as he was anything, poor fellow! It seemed to me, when first I read "Fungoids," that, oddly enough, the diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism seemed to be a cheerful, even a wholesome influence in his life. NOCTURNE Round and round the shutter'd Square I strolled with the Devil's arm in mine. No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there And the ring of his laughter and mine. We had drunk black wine. I scream'd, "I will race you, Master!" "What matter," he shriek'd, "to-night Which of us runs the faster? There is nothing to fear to-night In the foul moon's light!" Then I look'd him in the eyes And I laugh'd full shrill at the lie he told And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise. It was true, what I'd time and again been told: He was old--old. There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza--a joyous and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly hysterical, perhaps. But I liked the third, it was so bracingly unorthodox, even according to the tenets of Soames's peculiar sect in the faith. Not much "trusting and encouraging" here! Soames triumphantly exposing the devil as a liar, and laughing "full shrill," cut a quite heartening figure, I thought, then! Now, in the light of what befell, none of his other poems depresses me so much as "Nocturne." I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to say. They seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little to say and those who had nothing. The second class was the larger, and the words of the first were cold; insomuch that Strikes a note of modernity. . . . These tripping numbers.--"The Preston Telegraph." was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames's publisher. I had hoped that when next I met the poet I could congratulate him on having made a stir, for I fancied he was not so sure of his intrinsic greatness as he seemed. I was but able to say, rather coarsely, when next I did see him, that I hoped "Fungoids" was "selling splendidly." He looked at me across his glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at a jest. "You don't suppose I CARE, do you?" he said, with something like a snarl. I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a tradesman. I said mildly that I wasn't, either, and murmured that an artist who gave truly new and great things to the world had always to wait long for recognition. He said he cared not a sou for recognition. I agreed that the act of creation was its own reward. His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded myself as a nobody. But ah! hadn't both John Lane and Aubrey Beardsley suggested that I should write an essay for the great new venture that was afoot--"The Yellow Book"? And hadn't Henry Harland, as editor, accepted my essay? And wasn't it to be in the very first number? At Oxford I was still in statu pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much indeed a graduate now--one whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to show off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he ought to contribute to "The Yellow Book." He uttered from the throat a sound of scorn for that publication. Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland paused in the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up his hands toward the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met "that absurd creature" in Paris, and this very morning had received some poems in manuscript from him. "Has he NO talent?" I asked. "He has an income. He's all right." Harland was the most joyous of men and most generous of critics, and he hated to talk of anything about which he couldn't be enthusiastic. So I dropped the subject of Soames. The news that Soames had an income did take the edge off solicitude. I learned afterward that he was the son of an unsuccessful and deceased bookseller in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of three hundred pounds from a married aunt, and had no surviving relatives of any kind. Materially, then, he was "all right." But there was still a spiritual pathos about him, sharpened for me now by the possibility that even the praises of "The Preston Telegraph" might not have been forthcoming had he not been the son of a Preston man He had a sort of weak doggedness which I could not but admire. Neither he nor his work received the slightest encouragement; but he persisted in behaving as a personage: always he kept his dingy little flag flying. Wherever congregated the jeunes feroces of the arts, in whatever Soho restaurant they had just discovered, in whatever music-hall they were most frequently, there was Soames in the midst of them, or, rather, on the fringe of them, a dim, but inevitable, figure. He never sought to propitiate his fellow-writers, never bated a jot of his arrogance about his own work or of his contempt for theirs. To the painters he was respectful, even humble; but for the poets and prosaists of "The Yellow Book" and later of "The Savoy" he had never a word but of scorn. He wasn't resented. It didn't occur to anybody that he or his Catholic diabolism mattered. When, in the autumn of '96, he brought out (at his own expense, this time) a third book, his last book, nobody said a word for or against it. I meant, but forgot, to buy it. I never saw it, and am ashamed to say I don't even remember what it was called. But I did, at the time of its publication, say to Rothenstein that I thought poor old Soames was really a rather tragic figure, and that I believed he would literally die for want of recognition. Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for a kind heart which I didn't possess; and perhaps this was so. But at the private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I beheld a pastel portrait of "Enoch Soames, Esq." It was very like him, and very like Rothenstein to have done it. Soames was standing near it, in his soft hat and his waterproof cape, all through the afternoon. Anybody who knew him would have recognized the portrait at a glance, but nobody who didn't know him would have recognized the portrait from its bystander: it "existed" so much more than he; it was bound to. Also, it had not that expression of faint happiness which on that day was discernible, yes, in Soames's countenance. Fame had breathed on him. Twice again in the course of the month I went to the New English, and on both occasions Soames himself was on view there. Looking back, I regard the close of that exhibition as having been virtually the close of his career. He had felt the breath of Fame against his cheek--so late, for such a little while; and at its withdrawal he gave in, gave up, gave out. He, who had never looked strong or well, looked ghastly now--a shadow of the shade he had once been. He still frequented the domino-room, but having lost all wish to excite curiosity, he no longer read books there. "You read only at the museum now?" I asked, with attempted cheerfulness. He said he never went there now. "No absinthe there," he muttered. It was the sort of thing that in old days he would have said for effect; but it carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the "personality" he had striven so hard to build up, was solace and necessity now. He no longer called it "la sorciere glauque." He had shed away all his French phrases. He had become a plain, unvarnished Preston man. Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even though it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I avoided Soames because he made me feel rather vulgar. John Lane had published, by this time, two little books of mine, and they had had a pleasant little success of esteem. I was a--slight, but definite--"personality." Frank Harris had engaged me to kick up my heels in "The Saturday Review," Alfred Harmsworth was letting me do likewise in "The Daily Mail." I was just what Soames wasn't. And he shamed my gloss. Had I known that he really and firmly believed in the greatness of what he as an artist had achieved, I might not have shunned him. No man who hasn't lost his vanity can be held to have altogether failed. Soames's dignity was an illusion of mine. One day, in the first week of June, 1897, that illusion went. But on the evening of that day Soames went, too. I had been out most of the morning and, as it was too late to reach home in time for luncheon, I sought the Vingtieme. This little place--Restaurant du Vingtieme Siecle, to give it its full title--had been discovered in '96 by the poets and prosaists, but had now been more or less abandoned in favor of some later find. I don't think it lived long enough to justify its name; but at that time there it still was, in Greek Street, a few doors from Soho Square, and almost opposite to that house where, in the first years of the century, a little girl, and with her a boy named De Quincey, made nightly encampment in darkness and hunger among dust and rats and old legal parchments. The Vingtieme was but a small whitewashed room, leading out into the street at one end and into a kitchen at the other. The proprietor and cook was a Frenchman, known to us as Monsieur Vingtieme; the waiters were his two daughters, Rose and Berthe; and the food, according to faith, was good. The tables were so narrow and were set so close together that there was space for twelve of them, six jutting from each wall. Only the two nearest to the door, as I went in, were occupied. On one side sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man whom I had seen from time to time in the domino-room and elsewhere. On the other side sat Soames. They made a queer contrast in that sunlit room, Soames sitting haggard in that hat and cape, which nowhere at any season had I seen him doff, and this other, this keenly vital man, at sight of whom I more than ever wondered whether he were a diamond merchant, a conjurer, or the head of a private detective agency. I was sure Soames didn't want my company; but I asked, as it would have seemed brutal not to, whether I might join him, and took the chair opposite to his. He was smoking a cigarette, with an untasted salmi of something on his plate and a half-empty bottle of Sauterne before him, and he was quite silent. I said that the preparations for the Jubilee made London impossible. (I rather liked them, really.) I professed a wish to go right away till the whole thing was over. In vain did I attune myself to his gloom. He seemed not to hear me or even to see me. I felt that his behavior made me ridiculous in the eyes of the other man. The gangway between the two rows of tables at the Vingtieme was hardly more than two feet wide (Rose and Berthe, in their ministrations, had always to edge past each other, quarreling in whispers as they did so), and any one at the table abreast of yours was virtually at yours. I thought our neighbor was amused at my failure to interest Soames, and so, as I could not explain to him that my insistence was merely charitable, I became silent. Without turning my head, I had him well within my range of vision. I hoped I looked less vulgar than he in contrast with Soames. I was sure he was not an Englishman, but what WAS his nationality? Though his jet-black hair was en brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, who waited on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native idiom and accent. I gathered that this was his first visit to the Vingtieme; but Berthe was offhand in her manner to him: he had not made a good impression. His eyes were handsome, but, like the Vingtieme's tables, too narrow and set too close together. His nose was predatory, and the points of his mustache, waxed up behind his nostrils, gave a fixity to his smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of discomfort in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat which tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest. This waistcoat wasn't wrong merely because of the heat, either. It was somehow all wrong in itself. It wouldn't have done on Christmas morning. It would have struck a jarring note at the first night of "Hernani." I was trying to account for its wrongness when Soames suddenly and strangely broke silence. "A hundred years hence!" he murmured, as in a trance. "We shall not be here," I briskly, but fatuously, added. "We shall not be here. No," he droned, "but the museum will still be just where it is. And the reading-room just where it is. And people will be able to go and read there." He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as of actual pain contorted his features. I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He did not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, "You think I haven't minded." "Minded what, Soames?" "Neglect. Failure." "FAILURE?" I said heartily. "Failure?" I repeated vaguely. "Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. Of course you haven't been--appreciated. But what, then? Any artist who--who gives--" What I wanted to say was, "Any artist who gives truly new and great things to the world has always to wait long for recognition"; but the flattery would not out: in the face of his misery--a misery so genuine and so unmasked--my lips would not say the words. And then he said them for me. I flushed. "That's what you were going to say, isn't it?" he asked. "How did you know?" "It's what you said to me three years ago, when 'Fungoids' was published." I flushed the more. I need not have flushed at all. "It's the only important thing I ever heard you say," he continued. "And I've never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a horrible truth. But--d'you remember what I answered? I said, 'I don't care a sou for recognition.' And you believed me. You've gone on believing I'm above that sort of thing. You're shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist's faith in himself and in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy. You've never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the"--his voice broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in him. "Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn't know that people are visiting his grave, visiting his birthplace, putting up tablets to him, unveiling statues of him. A dead man can't read the books that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could come back to life THEN--just for a few hours--and go to the reading-room and READ! Or, better still, if I could be projected now, at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I'd sell myself body and soul to the devil for that! Think of the pages and pages in the catalogue: 'Soames, Enoch' endlessly--endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, biographies"-- But here he was interrupted by a sudden loud crack of the chair at the next table. Our neighbor had half risen from his place. He was leaning toward us, apologetically intrusive. "Excuse--permit me," he said softly. "I have been unable not to hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon--might I, as the phrase is, cut in?" I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a full view of Soames. "Though not an Englishman," he explained, "I know my London well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm's, too--very known to me. Your point is, who am _I_?" He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, "I am the devil." I couldn't help it; I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me; but--I laughed with increasing volume. The devil's quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro; I lay back aching; I behaved deplorably. "I am a gentleman, and," he said with intense emphasis, "I thought I was in the company of GENTLEMEN." "Don't!" I gasped faintly. "Oh, don't!" "Curious, nicht wahr?" I heard him say to Soames. "There is a type of person to whom the very mention of my name is--oh, so awfully--funny! In your theaters the dullest comedien needs only to say 'The devil!' and right away they give him 'the loud laugh what speaks the vacant mind.' Is it not so?" I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames. "I am a man of business," he said, "and always I would put things through 'right now,' as they say in the States. You are a poet. Les affaires--you detest them. So be it. But with me you will deal, eh? What you have said just now gives me furiously to hope." Soames had not moved except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat crouched forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his head just above the level of his hands, staring up at the devil. "Go on," he nodded. I had no remnant of laughter in me now. "It will be the more pleasant, our little deal," the devil went on, "because you are--I mistake not?--a diabolist." "A Catholic diabolist," said Soames. The devil accepted the reservation genially. "You wish," he resumed, "to visit now--this afternoon as-ever-is--the reading-room of the British Museum, yes? But of a hundred years hence, yes? Parfaitement. Time--an illusion. Past and future--they are as ever present as the present, or at any rate only what you call 'just round the corner.' I switch you on to any date. I project you--pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room just as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find yourself standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very minute, yes? And to stay there till closing-time? Am I right?" Soames nodded. The devil looked at his watch. "Ten past two," he said. "Closing-time in summer same then as now--seven o'clock. That will give you almost five hours. At seven o'clock--pouf!--you find yourself again here, sitting at this table. I am dining to-night dans le monde--dans le higlif. That concludes my present visit to your great city. I come and fetch you here, Mr. Soames, on my way home." "Home?" I echoed. "Be it never so humble!" said the devil, lightly. "All right," said Soames. "Soames!" I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle. The devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the table, but he paused in his gesture. "A hundred years hence, as now," he smiled, "no smoking allowed in the reading-room. You would better therefore--" Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his glass of Sauterne. "Soames!" again I cried. "Can't you"--but the devil had now stretched forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on the table-cloth. Soames's chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden in his wine-glass. There was no other trace of him. For a few moments the devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at me out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant. A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and rose from my chair. "Very clever," I said condescendingly. "But--'The Time Machine' is a delightful book, don't you think? So entirely original!" "You are pleased to sneer," said the devil, who had also risen, "but it is one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a quite other thing to be a supernatural power." All the same, I had scored. Berthe had come forth at the sound of our rising. I explained to her that Mr. Soames had been called away, and that both he and I would be dining here. It was not until I was out in the open air that I began to feel giddy. I have but the haziest recollection of what I did, where I wandered, in the glaring sunshine of that endless afternoon. I remember the sound of carpenters' hammers all along Piccadilly and the bare chaotic look of the half-erected "stands." Was it in the Green Park or in Kensington Gardens or WHERE was it that I sat on a chair beneath a tree, trying to read an evening paper? There was a phrase in the leading article that went on repeating itself in my fagged mind: "Little is hidden from this August Lady full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty." I remember wildly conceiving a letter (to reach Windsor by an express messenger told to await answer): "Madam: Well knowing that your Majesty is full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty, I venture to ask your advice in the following delicate matter. Mr. Enoch Soames, whose poems you may or may not know--" Was there NO way of helping him, saving him? A bargain was a bargain, and I was the last man to aid or abet any one in wriggling out of a reasonable obligation. I wouldn't have lifted a little finger to save Faust. But poor Soames! Doomed to pay without respite an eternal price for nothing but a fruitless search and a bitter disillusioning. Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, in the waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last decade of the next century, poring over books not yet written, and seeing and seen by men not yet born. Uncannier and odder still that to-night and evermore he would be in hell. Assuredly, truth was stranger than fiction. Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with Soames, not, indeed, to stay in the reading-room, but to sally forth for a brisk sight-seeing walk around a new London. I wandered restlessly out of the park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to imagine myself an ardent tourist from the eighteenth century. Intolerable was the strain of the slow-passing and empty minutes. Long before seven o'clock I was back at the Vingtieme. I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe appeared for a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till Mr. Soames came. A hurdy-gurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the noise of a quarrel between some Frenchmen farther up the street. Whenever the tune was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever away from it to the clock over the kitchen door. Five minutes now to the hour! I remembered that clocks in restaurants are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes on the paper. I vowed I would not look away from it again. I held it upright, at its full width, close to my face, so that I had no view of anything but it. Rather a tremulous sheet? Only because of the draft, I told myself. My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not drop them--now. I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, what, then? What else had I come for? Yet I held tight that barrier of newspaper. Only the sound of Berthe's brisk footstep from the kitchen enabled me, forced me, to drop it, and to utter: "What shall we have to eat, Soames?" "Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?" asked Berthe. "He's only--tired." I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy--and whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the table exactly as when last I had seen him. It was as though he had never moved--he who had moved so unimaginably far. Once or twice in the afternoon it had for an instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey was not to be fruitless, that perhaps we had all been wrong in our estimate of the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right was horribly clear from the look of him. But, "Don't be discouraged," I falteringly said. "Perhaps it's only that you--didn't leave enough time. Two, three centuries hence, perhaps--" "Yes," his voice came; "I've thought of that." "And now--now for the more immediate future! Where are you going to hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express from Charing Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don't go on to Paris. Stop at Calais. Live in Calais. He'd never think of looking for you in Calais." "It's like my luck," he said, "to spend my last hours on earth with an ass." But I was not offended. "And a treacherous ass," he strangely added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing on it--some sort of gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently aside. "Come, Soames, pull yourself together! This isn't a mere matter of life or death. It's a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don't mean to say you're going to wait limply here till the devil comes to fetch you." "I can't do anything else. I've no choice." "Come! This is 'trusting and encouraging' with a vengeance! This is diabolism run mad!" I filled his glass with wine. "Surely, now that you've SEEN the brute--" "It's no good abusing him." "You must admit there's nothing Miltonic about him, Soames." "I don't say he's not rather different from what I expected." "He's a vulgarian, he's a swell mobs-man, he's the sort of man who hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies' jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!" "You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?" "Then why not slip quietly out of the way?" Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did not eat, and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that any dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the capture certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. I told Soames that for the honor of the human race he ought to make some show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for him. "Besides," he said, "can't you understand that I'm in his power? You saw him touch me, didn't you? There's an end of it. I've no will. I'm sealed." I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word "sealed." I began to realize that the wine had clouded his brain. No wonder! Foodless he had gone into futurity, foodless he still was. I urged him to eat, at any rate, some bread. It was maddening to think that he, who had so much to tell, might tell nothing. "How was it all," I asked, "yonder? Come, tell me your adventures!" "They'd make first-rate 'copy,' wouldn't they?" "I'm awfully sorry for you, Soames, and I make all possible allowances; but what earthly right have you to insinuate that I should make 'copy,' as you call it, out of you?" The poor fellow pressed his hands to his forehead. "I don't know," he said. "I had some reason, I know. I'll try to remember. He sat plunged in thought. "That's right. Try to remember everything. Eat a little more bread. What did the reading-room look like?" "Much as usual," he at length muttered. "Many people there?" "Usual sort of number." "What did they look like?" Soames tried to visualize them. "They all," he presently remembered, "looked very like one another." My mind took a fearsome leap. "All dressed in sanitary woolen?" "Yes, I think so. Grayish-yellowish stuff." "A sort of uniform?" He nodded. "With a number on it perhaps--a number on a large disk of metal strapped round the left arm? D. K. F. 78,910--that sort of thing?" It was even so. "And all of them, men and women alike, looking very well cared for? Very Utopian, and smelling rather strongly of carbolic, and all of them quite hairless?" I was right every time. Soames was only not sure whether the men and women were hairless or shorn. "I hadn't time to look at them very closely," he explained. "No, of course not. But--" "They stared at ME, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of attention." At last he had done that! "I think I rather scared them. They moved away whenever I came near. They followed me about, at a distance, wherever I went. The men at the round desk in the middle seemed to have a sort of panic whenever I went to make inquiries." "What did you do when you arrived?" Well, he had gone straight to the catalogue, of course,--to the S volumes,--and had stood long before SN-SOF, unable to take this volume out of the shelf because his heart was beating so. At first, he said, he wasn't disappointed; he only thought there was some new arrangement. He went to the middle desk and asked where the catalogue of twentieth-century books was kept. He gathered that there was still only one catalogue. Again he looked up his name, stared at the three little pasted slips he had known so well. Then he went and sat down for a long time. "And then," he droned, "I looked up the 'Dictionary of National Biography,' and some encyclopedias. I went back to the middle desk and asked what was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton's book was considered the best. I looked it up in the catalogue and filled in a form for it. It was brought to me. My name wasn't in the index, but--yes!" he said with a sudden change of tone, "that's what I'd forgotten. Where's that bit of paper? Give it me back." I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the floor, and handed it to him. He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. "I found myself glancing through Nupton's book," he resumed. "Not very easy reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling. All the modern books I saw were phonetic." "Then I don't want to hear any more, Soames, please." "The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for that I mightn't have noticed my own name." "Your own name? Really? Soames, I'm VERY glad." "And yours." "No!" "I thought I should find you waiting here to-night, so I took the trouble to copy out the passage. Read it." I snatched the paper. Soames's handwriting was characteristically dim. It and the noisome spelling and my excitement made me all the slower to grasp what T. K. Nupton was driving at. The document lies before me at this moment. Strange that the words I here copy out for you were copied out for me by poor Soames just eighty-two years hence! From page 234 of "Inglish Littracher 1890-1900" bi T. K. Nupton, publishd bi th Stait, 1992. Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimed Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive in th twentith senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid an immajnari karrakter kauld "Enoch Soames"--a thurd-rait poit hoo beleevz imself a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th Devvl in auder ter no wot posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot labud sattire, but not without vallu az showing hou seriusli the yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took themselvz. Nou that th littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a departmnt of publik servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav lernt ter doo their duti without thort ov th morro. "Th laibrer iz werthi ov hiz hire" an that iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch Soameses amung us to-dai! I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I commend to my reader) I was able to master them little by little. The clearer they became, the greater was my bewilderment, my distress and horror. The whole thing was a nightmare. Afar, the great grisly background of what was in store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at the table, fixing on me a gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow whom--whom evidently--but no: whatever down-grade my character might take in coming years, I should never be such a brute as to-- Again I examined the screed. "Immajnari." But here Soames was, no more imaginary, alas! than I. And "labud"--what on earth was that? (To this day I have never made out that word.) "It's all very--baffling," I at length stammered. Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. "Are you sure," I temporized, "quite sure you copied the thing out correctly?" "Quite." "Well, then, it's this wretched Nupton who must have made--must be going to make--some idiotic mistake. Look here Soames, you know me better than to suppose that I-- After all, the name Max Beerbohm is not at all an uncommon one, and there must be several Enoch Soameses running around, or, rather, Enoch Soames is a name that might occur to any one writing a story. And I don't write stories; I'm an essayist, an observer, a recorder. I admit that it's an extraordinary coincidence. But you must see--" "I see the whole thing," said Soames, quietly. And he added, with a touch of his old manner, but with more dignity than I had ever known in him, "Parlons d'autre chose." I accepted that suggestion very promptly. I returned straight to the more immediate future. I spent most of the long evening in renewed appeals to Soames to come away and seek refuge somewhere. I remember saying at last that if indeed I was destined to write about him, the supposed "stauri" had better have at least a happy ending. Soames repeated those last three words in a tone of intense scorn. "In life and in art," he said, "all that matters is an INEVITABLE ending." "But," I urged more hopefully than I felt, "an ending that can be avoided ISN'T inevitable." "You aren't an artist," he rasped. "And you're so hopelessly not an artist that, so far from being able to imagine a thing and make it seem true, you're going to make even a true thing seem as if you'd made it up. You're a miserable bungler. And it's like my luck." I protested that the miserable bungler was not I, was not going to be I, but T. K. Nupton; and we had a rather heated argument, in the thick of which it suddenly seemed to me that Soames saw he was in the wrong: he had quite physically cowered. But I wondered why--and now I guessed with a cold throb just why--he stared so past me. The bringer of that "inevitable ending" filled the doorway. I managed to turn in my chair and to say, not without a semblance of lightness, "Aha, come in!" Dread was indeed rather blunted in me by his looking so absurdly like a villain in a melodrama. The sheen of his tilted hat and of his shirt-front, the repeated twists he was giving to his mustache, and most of all the magnificence of his sneer, gave token that he was there only to be foiled. He was at our table in a stride. "I am sorry," he sneered witheringly, "to break up your pleasant party, but--" "You don't; you complete it," I assured him. "Mr. Soames and I want to have a little talk with you. Won't you sit? Mr. Soames got nothing, frankly nothing, by his journey this afternoon. We don't wish to say that the whole thing was a swindle, a common swindle. On the contrary, we believe you meant well. But of course the bargain, such as it was, is off." The devil gave no verbal answer. He merely looked at Soames and pointed with rigid forefinger to the door. Soames was wretchedly rising from his chair when, with a desperate, quick gesture, I swept together two dinner-knives that were on the table, and laid their blades across each other. The devil stepped sharp back against the table behind him, averting his face and shuddering. "You are not superstitious!" he hissed. "Not at all," I smiled. "Soames," he said as to an underling, but without turning his face, "put those knives straight!" With an inhibitive gesture to my friend, "Mr. Soames," I said emphatically to the devil, "is a Catholic diabolist"; but my poor friend did the devil's bidding, not mine; and now, with his master's eyes again fixed on him, he arose, he shuffled past me. I tried to speak. It was he that spoke. "Try," was the prayer he threw back at me as the devil pushed him roughly out through the door--"TRY to make them know that I did exist!" In another instant I, too, was through that door. I stood staring all ways, up the street, across it, down it. There was moonlight and lamplight, but there was not Soames nor that other. Dazed, I stood there. Dazed, I turned back at length into the little room, and I suppose I paid Berthe or Rose for my dinner and luncheon and for Soames's; I hope so, for I never went to the Vingtieme again. Ever since that night I have avoided Greek Street altogether. And for years I did not set foot even in Soho Square, because on that same night it was there that I paced and loitered, long and long, with some such dull sense of hope as a man has in not straying far from the place where he has lost something. "Round and round the shutter'd Square"--that line came back to me on my lonely beat, and with it the whole stanza, ringing in my brain and bearing in on me how tragically different from the happy scene imagined by him was the poet's actual experience of that prince in whom of all princes we should put not our trust! But strange how the mind of an essayist, be it never so stricken, roves and ranges! I remember pausing before a wide door-step and wondering if perchance it was on this very one that the young De Quincey lay ill and faint while poor Ann flew as fast as her feet would carry her to Oxford Street, the "stony-hearted stepmother" of them both, and came back bearing that "glass of port wine and spices" but for which he might, so he thought, actually have died. Was this the very door-step that the old De Quincey used to revisit in homage? I pondered Ann's fate, the cause of her sudden vanishing from the ken of her boy friend; and presently I blamed myself for letting the past override the present. Poor vanished Soames! And for myself, too, I began to be troubled. What had I better do? Would there be a hue and cry--"Mysterious Disappearance of an Author," and all that? He had last been seen lunching and dining in my company. Hadn't I better get a hansom and drive straight to Scotland Yard? They would think I was a lunatic. After all, I reassured myself, London was a very large place, and one very dim figure might easily drop out of it unobserved, now especially, in the blinding glare of the near Jubilee. Better say nothing at all, I thought. AND I was right. Soames's disappearance made no stir at all. He was utterly forgotten before any one, so far as I am aware, noticed that he was no longer hanging around. Now and again some poet or prosaist may have said to another, "What has become of that man Soames?" but I never heard any such question asked. As for his landlady in Dyott Street, no doubt he had paid her weekly, and what possessions he may have had in his rooms were enough to save her from fretting. The solicitor through whom he was paid his annuity may be presumed to have made inquiries, but no echo of these resounded. There was something rather ghastly to me in the general unconsciousness that Soames had existed, and more than once I caught myself wondering whether Nupton, that babe unborn, were going to be right in thinking him a figment of my brain. In that extract from Nupton's repulsive book there is one point which perhaps puzzles you. How is it that the author, though I have here mentioned him by name and have quoted the exact words he is going to write, is not going to grasp the obvious corollary that I have invented nothing? The answer can be only this: Nupton will not have read the later passages of this memoir. Such lack of thoroughness is a serious fault in any one who undertakes to do scholar's work. And I hope these words will meet the eye of some contemporary rival to Nupton and be the undoing of Nupton. I like to think that some time between 1992 and 1997 somebody will have looked up this memoir, and will have forced on the world his inevitable and startling conclusions. And I have reason for believing that this will be so. You realize that the reading-room into which Soames was projected by the devil was in all respects precisely as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997. You realize, therefore, that on that afternoon, when it comes round, there the selfsame crowd will be, and there Soames will be, punctually, he and they doing precisely what they did before. Recall now Soames's account of the sensation he made. You may say that the mere difference of his costume was enough to make him sensational in that uniformed crowd. You wouldn't say so if you had ever seen him, and I assure you that in no period would Soames be anything but dim. The fact that people are going to stare at him and follow him around and seem afraid of him, can be explained only on the hypothesis that they will somehow have been prepared for his ghostly visitation. They will have been awfully waiting to see whether he really would come. And when he does come the effect will of course be--awful. An authentic, guaranteed, proved ghost, but; only a ghost, alas! Only that. In his first visit Soames was a creature of flesh and blood, whereas the creatures among whom he was projected were but ghosts, I take it--solid, palpable, vocal, but unconscious and automatic ghosts, in a building that was itself an illusion. Next time that building and those creatures will be real. It is of Soames that there will be but the semblance. I wish I could think him destined to revisit the world actually, physically, consciously. I wish he had this one brief escape, this one small treat, to look forward to. I never forget him for long. He is where he is and forever. The more rigid moralists among you may say he has only himself to blame. For my part, I think he has been very hardly used. It is well that vanity should be chastened; and Enoch Soames's vanity was, I admit, above the average, and called for special treatment. But there was no need for vindictiveness. You say he contracted to pay the price he is paying. Yes; but I maintain that he was induced to do so by fraud. Well informed in all things, the devil must have known that my friend would gain nothing by his visit to futurity. The whole thing was a very shabby trick. The more I think of it, the more detestable the devil seems to me. Of him I have caught sight several times, here and there, since that day at the Vingtieme. Only once, however, have I seen him at close quarters. This was a couple of years ago, in Paris. I was walking one afternoon along the rue d'Antin, and I saw him advancing from the opposite direction, overdressed as ever, and swinging an ebony cane and altogether behaving as though the whole pavement belonged to him. At thought of Enoch Soames and the myriads of other sufferers eternally in this brute's dominion, a great cold wrath filled me, and I drew myself up to my full height. But--well, one is so used to nodding and smiling in the street to anybody whom one knows that the action becomes almost independent of oneself; to prevent it requires a very sharp effort and great presence of mind. I was miserably aware, as I passed the devil, that I nodded and smiled to him. And my shame was the deeper and hotter because he, if you please, stared straight at me with the utmost haughtiness. To be cut, deliberately cut, by HIM! I was, I still am, furious at having had that happen to me. [Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions in the text; e.g., "does n't" has become "doesn't" etc.] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Enoch Soames, by Max Beerbohm Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who did Baron Conrad kill?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The story is about a young boy named Otto who lives in a castle with his father, Baron Conrad. The Baron is a robber baron who terrorizes the people in the valley below. Otto's mother dies after giving birth to him, and he is left in the care of the monks at the White Cross on the Hill, where he grows up learning about the world and its ways. When Otto is twelve years old, his father comes to take him away from the monastery and bring him back to the castle. Otto is shocked by the harsh realities of life outside the monastery and struggles to adjust to his new surroundings. He soon discovers that his father is a cruel and ruthless man who has killed many people, including a man named Baron Frederick. Otto is heartbroken and feels that he has been brought back to the castle for no good reason. He longs to return to the peaceful life of the monastery and escape the violence and cruelty of the world outside. As Otto navigates his new life in the castle, he must confront the harsh realities of his father's actions and the consequences of his own desires. The story is a coming-of-age tale that explores the complexities of growing up and the difficult choices that one must make in life. Question: What is the name of the castle where Otto lives with his father? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Baron Frederick" ]	27,737	narrativeqa	en	null	a5e44b1e2b98f80aabab5f1b8296d0fe66d53b31c1f3e332	Produced by Angus Christian OTTO OF THE SILVER HAND By Howard Pyle CONTENTS I. The Dragon's House, II. How the Baron Went Forth to Shear, III. How the Baron Came Home Shorn, IV. The White Cross on the Hill, V. How Otto Dwelt at St. Michaelsburg, VI. How Otto Lived in the Dragon's House, VII. The Red Cock Crows on Drachenhausen, VIII. In the House of the Dragon Scorner, IX. How One-eyed Hans Came to Trutz-Drachen, X. How Hans Brought Terror to the Kitchen, XI. How Otto was Saved, XII. A Ride for Life, XIII. How Baron Conrad Held the Bridge, XIV. How Otto Saw the Great Emperor, FOREWORD. Between the far away past history of the world, and that which lies near to us; in the time when the wisdom of the ancient times was dead and had passed away, and our own days of light had not yet come, there lay a great black gulf in human history, a gulf of ignorance, of superstition, of cruelty, and of wickedness. That time we call the dark or middle ages. Few records remain to us of that dreadful period in our world's history, and we only know of it through broken and disjointed fragments that have been handed down to us through the generations. Yet, though the world's life then was so wicked and black, there yet remained a few good men and women here and there (mostly in peaceful and quiet monasteries, far from the thunder and the glare of the worlds bloody battle), who knew the right and the truth and lived according to what they knew; who preserved and tenderly cared for the truths that the dear Christ taught, and lived and died for in Palestine so long ago. This tale that I am about to tell is of a little boy who lived and suffered in those dark middle ages; of how he saw both the good and the bad of men, and of how, by gentleness and love and not by strife and hatred, he came at last to stand above other men and to be looked up to by all. And should you follow the story to the end, I hope you may find it a pleasure, as I have done, to ramble through those dark ancient castles, to lie with little Otto and Brother John in the high belfry-tower, or to sit with them in the peaceful quiet of the sunny old monastery garden, for, of all the story, I love best those early peaceful years that little Otto spent in the dear old White Cross on the Hill. Poor little Otto's life was a stony and a thorny pathway, and it is well for all of us nowadays that we walk it in fancy and not in truth. I. The Dragon's House. Up from the gray rocks, rising sheer and bold and bare, stood the walls and towers of Castle Drachenhausen. A great gate-way, with a heavy iron-pointed portcullis hanging suspended in the dim arch above, yawned blackly upon the bascule or falling drawbridge that spanned a chasm between the blank stone walls and the roadway that winding down the steep rocky slope to the little valley just beneath. There in the lap of the hills around stood the wretched straw-thatched huts of the peasants belonging to the castle--miserable serfs who, half timid, half fierce, tilled their poor patches of ground, wrenching from the hard soil barely enough to keep body and soul together. Among those vile hovels played the little children like foxes about their dens, their wild, fierce eyes peering out from under a mat of tangled yellow hair. Beyond these squalid huts lay the rushing, foaming river, spanned by a high, rude, stone bridge where the road from the castle crossed it, and beyond the river stretched the great, black forest, within whose gloomy depths the savage wild beasts made their lair, and where in winter time the howling wolves coursed their flying prey across the moonlit snow and under the net-work of the black shadows from the naked boughs above. The watchman in the cold, windy bartizan or watch-tower that clung to the gray walls above the castle gateway, looked from his narrow window, where the wind piped and hummed, across the tree-tops that rolled in endless billows of green, over hill and over valley to the blue and distant slope of the Keiserberg, where, on the mountain side, glimmered far away the walls of Castle Trutz-Drachen. Within the massive stone walls through which the gaping gateway led, three great cheerless brick buildings, so forbidding that even the yellow sunlight could not light them into brightness, looked down, with row upon row of windows, upon three sides of the bleak, stone courtyard. Back of and above them clustered a jumble of other buildings, tower and turret, one high-peaked roof overtopping another. The great house in the centre was the Baron's Hall, the part to the left was called the Roderhausen; between the two stood a huge square pile, rising dizzily up into the clear air high above the rest--the great Melchior Tower. At the top clustered a jumble of buildings hanging high aloft in the windy space a crooked wooden belfry, a tall, narrow watch-tower, and a rude wooden house that clung partly to the roof of the great tower and partly to the walls. From the chimney of this crazy hut a thin thread of smoke would now and then rise into the air, for there were folk living far up in that empty, airy desert, and oftentimes wild, uncouth little children were seen playing on the edge of the dizzy height, or sitting with their bare legs hanging down over the sheer depths, as they gazed below at what was going on in the court-yard. There they sat, just as little children in the town might sit upon their father's door-step; and as the sparrows might fly around the feet of the little town children, so the circling flocks of rooks and daws flew around the feet of these air-born creatures. It was Schwartz Carl and his wife and little ones who lived far up there in the Melchior Tower, for it overlooked the top of the hill behind the castle and so down into the valley upon the further side. There, day after day, Schwartz Carl kept watch upon the gray road that ran like a ribbon through the valley, from the rich town of Gruenstaldt to the rich town of Staffenburgen, where passed merchant caravans from the one to the other--for the lord of Drachenhausen was a robber baron. Dong! Dong! The great alarm bell would suddenly ring out from the belfry high up upon the Melchior Tower. Dong! Dong! Till the rooks and daws whirled clamoring and screaming. Dong! Dong! Till the fierce wolf-hounds in the rocky kennels behind the castle stables howled dismally in answer. Dong! Dong!--Dong! Dong! Then would follow a great noise and uproar and hurry in the castle court-yard below; men shouting and calling to one another, the ringing of armor, and the clatter of horses' hoofs upon the hard stone. With the creaking and groaning of the windlass the iron-pointed portcullis would be slowly raised, and with a clank and rattle and clash of iron chains the drawbridge would fall crashing. Then over it would thunder horse and man, clattering away down the winding, stony pathway, until the great forest would swallow them, and they would be gone. Then for a while peace would fall upon the castle courtyard, the cock would crow, the cook would scold a lazy maid, and Gretchen, leaning out of a window, would sing a snatch of a song, just as though it were a peaceful farm-house, instead of a den of robbers. Maybe it would be evening before the men would return once more. Perhaps one would have a bloody cloth bound about his head, perhaps one would carry his arm in a sling; perhaps one--maybe more than one--would be left behind, never to return again, and soon forgotten by all excepting some poor woman who would weep silently in the loneliness of her daily work. Nearly always the adventurers would bring back with them pack-horses laden with bales of goods. Sometimes, besides these, they would return with a poor soul, his hands tied behind his back and his feet beneath the horse's body, his fur cloak and his flat cap wofully awry. A while he would disappear in some gloomy cell of the dungeon-keep, until an envoy would come from the town with a fat purse, when his ransom would be paid, the dungeon would disgorge him, and he would be allowed to go upon his way again. One man always rode beside Baron Conrad in his expeditions and adventures a short, deep-chested, broad-shouldered man, with sinewy arms so long that when he stood his hands hung nearly to his knees. His coarse, close-clipped hair came so low upon his brow that only a strip of forehead showed between it and his bushy, black eyebrows. One eye was blind; the other twinkled and gleamed like a spark under the penthouse of his brows. Many folk said that the one-eyed Hans had drunk beer with the Hill-man, who had given him the strength of ten, for he could bend an iron spit like a hazel twig, and could lift a barrel of wine from the floor to his head as easily as though it were a basket of eggs. As for the one-eyed Hans he never said that he had not drunk beer with the Hill-man, for he liked the credit that such reports gave him with the other folk. And so, like a half savage mastiff, faithful to death to his master, but to him alone, he went his sullen way and lived his sullen life within the castle walls, half respected, half feared by the other inmates, for it was dangerous trifling with the one-eyed Hans. II. How the Baron went Forth to Shear. Baron Conrad and Baroness Matilda sat together at their morning meal below their raised seats stretched the long, heavy wooden table, loaded with coarse food--black bread, boiled cabbage, bacon, eggs, a great chine from a wild boar, sausages, such as we eat nowadays, and flagons and jars of beer and wine, Along the board sat ranged in the order of the household the followers and retainers. Four or five slatternly women and girls served the others as they fed noisily at the table, moving here and there behind the men with wooden or pewter dishes of food, now and then laughing at the jests that passed or joining in the talk. A huge fire blazed and crackled and roared in the great open fireplace, before which were stretched two fierce, shaggy, wolfish-looking hounds. Outside, the rain beat upon the roof or ran trickling from the eaves, and every now and then a chill draught of wind would breathe through the open windows of the great black dining-hall and set the fire roaring. Along the dull-gray wall of stone hung pieces of armor, and swords and lances, and great branching antlers of the stag. Overhead arched the rude, heavy, oaken beams, blackened with age and smoke, and underfoot was a chill pavement of stone. Upon Baron Conrad's shoulder leaned the pale, slender, yellow-haired Baroness, the only one in all the world with whom the fierce lord of Drachenhausen softened to gentleness, the only one upon whom his savage brows looked kindly, and to whom his harsh voice softened with love. The Baroness was talking to her husband in a low voice, as he looked down into her pale face, with its gentle blue eyes. "And wilt thou not, then," said she, "do that one thing for me?" "Nay," he growled, in his deep voice, "I cannot promise thee never more to attack the towns-people in the valley over yonder. How else could I live an' I did not take from the fat town hogs to fill our own larder?" "Nay," said the Baroness, "thou couldst live as some others do, for all do not rob the burgher folk as thou dost. Alas! mishap will come upon thee some day, and if thou shouldst be slain, what then would come of me?" "Prut," said the Baron, "thy foolish fears" But he laid his rough, hairy hand softly upon the Baroness' head and stroked her yellow hair. "For my sake, Conrad," whispered the Baroness. A pause followed. The Baron sat looking thoughtfully down into the Baroness' face. A moment more, and he might have promised what she besought; a moment more, and he might have been saved all the bitter trouble that was to follow. But it was not to be. Suddenly a harsh sound broke the quietness of all into a confusion of noises. Dong! Dong!--it was the great alarm-bell from Melchior's Tower. The Baron started at the sound. He sat for a moment or two with his hand clinched upon the arm of his seat as though about to rise, then he sunk back into his chair again. All the others had risen tumultuously from the table, and now stood looking at him, awaiting his orders. "For my sake, Conrad," said the Baroness again. Dong! Dong! rang the alarm-bell. The Baron sat with his eyes bent upon the floor, scowling blackly. The Baroness took his hand in both of hers. "For my sake," she pleaded, and the tears filled her blue eyes as she looked up at him, "do not go this time." From the courtyard without came the sound of horses' hoofs clashing against the stone pavement, and those in the hall stood watching and wondering at this strange delay of the Lord Baron. Just then the door opened and one came pushing past the rest; it was the one-eyed Hans. He came straight to where the Baron sat, and, leaning over, whispered something into his master's ear. "For my sake," implored the Baroness again; but the scale was turned. The Baron pushed back his chair heavily and rose to his feet. "Forward!" he roared, in a voice of thunder, and a great shout went up in answer as he strode clanking down the hall and out of the open door. The Baroness covered her face with her hands and wept. "Never mind, little bird," said old Ursela, the nurse, soothingly; "he will come back to thee again as he has come back to thee before." But the poor young Baroness continued weeping with her face buried in her hands, because he had not done that thing she had asked. A white young face framed in yellow hair looked out into the courtyard from a window above; but if Baron Conrad of Drachenhausen saw it from beneath the bars of his shining helmet, he made no sign. "Forward," he cried again. Down thundered the drawbridge, and away they rode with clashing hoofs and ringing armor through the gray shroud of drilling rain. The day had passed and the evening had come, and the Baroness and her women sat beside a roaring fire. All were chattering and talking and laughing but two--the fair young Baroness and old Ursela; the one sat listening, listening, listening, the other sat with her chin resting in the palm of her hand, silently watching her young mistress. The night was falling gray and chill, when suddenly the clear notes of a bugle rang from without the castle walls. The young Baroness started, and the rosy light flashed up into her pale cheeks. "Yes, good," said old Ursela; "the red fox has come back to his den again, and I warrant he brings a fat town goose in his mouth; now we'll have fine clothes to wear, and thou another gold chain to hang about thy pretty neck." The young Baroness laughed merrily at the old woman's speech. "This time," said she, "I will choose a string of pearls like that one my aunt used to wear, and which I had about my neck when Conrad first saw me." Minute after minute passed; the Baroness sat nervously playing with a bracelet of golden beads about her wrist. "How long he stays," said she. "Yes," said Ursela; "but it is not cousin wish that holds him by the coat." As she spoke, a door banged in the passageway without, and the ring of iron footsteps sounded upon the stone floor. Clank! Clank! Clank! The Baroness rose to her feet, her face all alight. The door opened; then the flush of joy faded away and the face grew white, white, white. One hand clutched the back of the bench whereon she had been sitting, the other hand pressed tightly against her side. It was Hans the one-eyed who stood in the doorway, and black trouble sat on his brow; all were looking at him waiting. "Conrad," whispered the Baroness, at last. "Where is Conrad? Where is your master?" and even her lips were white as she spoke. The one-eyed Hans said nothing. Just then came the noise of men s voices in the corridor and the shuffle and scuffle of feet carrying a heavy load. Nearer and nearer they came, and one-eyed Hans stood aside. Six men came struggling through the doorway, carrying a litter, and on the litter lay the great Baron Conrad. The flaming torch thrust into the iron bracket against the wall flashed up with the draught of air from the open door, and the light fell upon the white face and the closed eyes, and showed upon his body armor a great red stain that was not the stain of rust. Suddenly Ursela cried out in a sharp, shrill voice, "Catch her, she falls!" It was the Baroness. Then the old crone turned fiercely upon the one-eyed Hans. "Thou fool!" she cried, "why didst thou bring him here? Thou hast killed thy lady!" "I did not know," said the one-eyed Hans, stupidly. III. How the Baron came Home Shorn. But Baron Conrad was not dead. For days he lay upon his hard bed, now muttering incoherent words beneath his red beard, now raving fiercely with the fever of his wound. But one day he woke again to the things about him. He turned his head first to the one side and then to the other; there sat Schwartz Carl and the one-eyed Hans. Two or three other retainers stood by a great window that looked out into the courtyard beneath, jesting and laughing together in low tones, and one lay upon the heavy oaken bench that stood along by the wall snoring in his sleep. "Where is your lady?" said the Baron, presently; "and why is she not with me at this time?" The man that lay upon the bench started up at the sound of his voice, and those at the window came hurrying to his bedside. But Schwartz Carl and the one-eyed Hans looked at one another, and neither of them spoke. The Baron saw the look and in it read a certain meaning that brought him to his elbow, though only to sink back upon his pillow again with a groan. "Why do you not answer me?" said he at last, in a hollow voice; then to the one-eyed Hans, "Hast no tongue, fool, that thou standest gaping there like a fish? Answer me, where is thy mistress?" "I--I do not know," stammered poor Hans. For a while the Baron lay silently looking from one face to the other, then he spoke again. "How long have I been lying here?" said he. "A sennight, my lord," said Master Rudolph, the steward, who had come into the room and who now stood among the others at the bedside. "A sennight," repeated the Baron, in a low voice, and then to Master Rudolph, "And has the Baroness been often beside me in that time?" Master Rudolph hesitated. "Answer me," said the Baron, harshly. "Not--not often," said Master Rudolph, hesitatingly. The Baron lay silent for a long time. At last he passed his hands over his face and held them there for a minute, then of a sudden, before anyone knew what he was about to do, he rose upon his elbow and then sat upright upon the bed. The green wound broke out afresh and a dark red spot grew and spread upon the linen wrappings; his face was drawn and haggard with the pain of his moving, and his eyes wild and bloodshot. Great drops of sweat gathered and stood upon his forehead as he sat there swaying slightly from side to side. "My shoes," said he, hoarsely. Master Rudolph stepped forward. "But, my Lord Baron," he began and then stopped short, for the Baron shot him such a look that his tongue stood still in his head. Hans saw that look out of his one eye. Down he dropped upon his knees and, fumbling under the bed, brought forth a pair of soft leathern shoes, which he slipped upon the Baron's feet and then laced the thongs above the instep. "Your shoulder," said the Baron. He rose slowly to his feet, gripping Hans in the stress of his agony until the fellow winced again. For a moment he stood as though gathering strength, then doggedly started forth upon that quest which he had set upon himself. At the door he stopped for a moment as though overcome by his weakness, and there Master Nicholas, his cousin, met him; for the steward had sent one of the retainers to tell the old man what the Baron was about to do. "Thou must go back again, Conrad," said Master Nicholas; "thou art not fit to be abroad." The Baron answered him never a word, but he glared at him from out of his bloodshot eyes and ground his teeth together. Then he started forth again upon his way. Down the long hall he went, slowly and laboriously, the others following silently behind him, then up the steep winding stairs, step by step, now and then stopping to lean against the wall. So he reached a long and gloomy passageway lit only by the light of a little window at the further end. He stopped at the door of one of the rooms that opened into this passage-way, stood for a moment, then he pushed it open. No one was within but old Ursela, who sat crooning over a fire with a bundle upon her knees. She did not see the Baron or know that he was there. "Where is your lady?" said he, in a hollow voice. Then the old nurse looked up with a start. "Jesu bless us," cried she, and crossed herself. "Where is your lady?" said the Baron again, in the same hoarse voice; and then, not waiting for an answer, "Is she dead?" The old woman looked at him for a minute blinking her watery eyes, and then suddenly broke into a shrill, long-drawn wail. The Baron needed to hear no more. As though in answer to the old woman's cry, a thin piping complaint came from the bundle in her lap. At the sound the red blood flashed up into the Baron's face. "What is that you have there?" said he, pointing to the bundle upon the old woman's knees. She drew back the coverings and there lay a poor, weak, little baby, that once again raised its faint reedy pipe. "It is your son," said Ursela, "that the dear Baroness left behind her when the holy angels took her to Paradise. She blessed him and called him Otto before she left us." IV. The White Cross on the Hill. Here the glassy waters of the River Rhine, holding upon its bosom a mimic picture of the blue sky and white clouds floating above, runs smoothly around a jutting point of land, St. Michaelsburg, rising from the reedy banks of the stream, sweeps up with a smooth swell until it cuts sharp and clear against the sky. Stubby vineyards covered its earthy breast, and field and garden and orchard crowned its brow, where lay the Monastery of St. Michaelsburg--"The White Cross on the Hill." There within the white walls, where the warm yellow sunlight slept, all was peaceful quietness, broken only now and then by the crowing of the cock or the clamorous cackle of a hen, the lowing of kine or the bleating of goats, a solitary voice in prayer, the faint accord of distant singing, or the resonant toll of the monastery bell from the high-peaked belfry that overlooked the hill and valley and the smooth, far-winding stream. No other sounds broke the stillness, for in this peaceful haven was never heard the clash of armor, the ring of iron-shod hoofs, or the hoarse call to arms. All men were not wicked and cruel and fierce in that dark, far-away age; all were not robbers and terror-spreading tyrants, even in that time when men's hands were against their neighbors, and war and rapine dwelt in place of peace and justice. Abbot Otto, of St. Michaelsburg, was a gentle, patient, pale-faced old man; his white hands were soft and smooth, and no one would have thought that they could have known the harsh touch of sword-hilt and lance. And yet, in the days of the Emperor Frederick--the grandson of the great Red-beard--no one stood higher in the prowess of arms than he. But all at once--for why, no man could tell--a change came over him, and in the flower of his youth and fame and growing power he gave up everything in life and entered the quiet sanctuary of that white monastery on the hill-side, so far away from the tumult and the conflict of the world in which he had lived. Some said that it was because the lady he had loved had loved his brother, and that when they were married Otto of Wolbergen had left the church with a broken heart. But such stories are old songs that have been sung before. Clatter! clatter! Jingle! jingle! It was a full-armed knight that came riding up the steep hill road that wound from left to right and right to left amid the vineyards on the slopes of St. Michaelsburg. Polished helm and corselet blazed in the noon sunlight, for no knight in those days dared to ride the roads except in full armor. In front of him the solitary knight carried a bundle wrapped in the folds of his coarse gray cloak. It was a sorely sick man that rode up the heights of St. Michaelsburg. His head hung upon his breast through the faintness of weariness and pain; for it was the Baron Conrad. He had left his bed of sickness that morning, had saddled his horse in the gray dawn with his own hands, and had ridden away into the misty twilight of the forest without the knowledge of anyone excepting the porter, who, winking and blinking in the bewilderment of his broken slumber, had opened the gates to the sick man, hardly knowing what he was doing, until he beheld his master far away, clattering down the steep bridle-path. Eight leagues had he ridden that day with neither a stop nor a stay; but now at last the end of his journey had come, and he drew rein under the shade of the great wooden gateway of St. Michaelsburg. He reached up to the knotted rope and gave it a pull, and from within sounded the answering ring of the porter's bell. By and by a little wicket opened in the great wooden portals, and the gentle, wrinkled face of old Brother Benedict, the porter, peeped out at the strange iron-clad visitor and the great black war-horse, streaked and wet with the sweat of the journey, flecked and dappled with flakes of foam. A few words passed between them, and then the little window was closed again; and within, the shuffling pat of the sandalled feet sounded fainter and fainter, as Brother Benedict bore the message from Baron Conrad to Abbot Otto, and the mail-clad figure was left alone, sitting there as silent as a statue. By and by the footsteps sounded again; there came a noise of clattering chains and the rattle of the key in the lock, and the rasping of the bolts dragged back. Then the gate swung slowly open, and Baron Conrad rode into the shelter of the White Cross, and as the hoofs of his war-horse clashed upon the stones of the courtyard within, the wooden gate swung slowly to behind him. Abbot Otto stood by the table when Baron Conrad entered the high-vaulted room from the farther end. The light from the oriel window behind the old man shed broken rays of light upon him, and seemed to frame his thin gray hairs with a golden glory. His white, delicate hand rested upon the table beside him, and upon some sheets of parchment covered with rows of ancient Greek writing which he had been engaged in deciphering. Clank! clank! clank! Baron Conrad strode across the stone floor, and then stopped short in front of the good old man. "What dost thou seek here, my son?" said the Abbot. "I seek sanctuary for my son and thy brother's grandson," said the Baron Conrad, and he flung back the folds of his cloak and showed the face of the sleeping babe. For a while the Abbot said nothing, but stood gazing dreamily at the baby. After a while he looked up. "And the child's mother," said he--"what hath she to say at this?" "She hath naught to say," said Baron Conrad, hoarsely, and then stopped short in his speech. "She is dead," said he, at last, in a husky voice, "and is with God's angels in paradise." The Abbot looked intently in the Baron's face. "So!" said he, under his breath, and then for the first time noticed how white and drawn was the Baron's face. "Art sick thyself?" he asked. "Ay," said the Baron, "I have come from death's door. But that is no matter. Wilt thou take this little babe into sanctuary? My house is a vile, rough place, and not fit for such as he, and his mother with the blessed saints in heaven." And once more Conrad of Drachenhausen's face began twitching with the pain of his thoughts. "Yes," said the old man, gently, "he shall live here," and he stretched out his hands and took the babe. "Would," said he, "that all the little children in these dark times might be thus brought to the house of God, and there learn mercy and peace, instead of rapine and war." For a while he stood looking down in silence at the baby in his arms, but with his mind far away upon other things. At last he roused himself with a start. "And thou," said he to the Baron Conrad--"hath not thy heart been chastened and softened by this? Surely thou wilt not go back to thy old life of rapine and extortion?" "Nay," said Baron Conrad, gruffly, "I will rob the city swine no longer, for that was the last thing that my dear one asked of me." The old Abbot's face lit up with a smile. "I am right glad that thy heart was softened, and that thou art willing at last to cease from war and violence." "Nay," cried the Baron, roughly, "I said nothing of ceasing from war. By heaven, no! I will have revenge!" And he clashed his iron foot upon the floor and clinched his fists and ground his teeth together. "Listen," said he, "and I will tell thee how my troubles happened. A fortnight ago I rode out upon an expedition against a caravan of fat burghers in the valley of Gruenhoffen. They outnumbered us many to one, but city swine such as they are not of the stuff to stand against our kind for a long time. Nevertheless, while the men-at-arms who guarded the caravan were staying us with pike and cross-bow from behind a tree which they had felled in front of a high bridge the others had driven the pack-horses off, so that by the time we had forced the bridge they were a league or more away. We pushed after them as hard as we were able, but when we came up with them we found that they had been joined by Baron Frederick of Trutz-Drachen, to whom for three years and more the burghers of Gruenstadt have been paying a tribute for his protection against others. Then again they made a stand, and this time the Baron Frederick himself was with them. But though the dogs fought well, we were forcing them back, and might have got the better of them, had not my horse stumbled upon a sloping stone, and so fell and rolled over upon me. While I lay there with my horse upon me, Baron Frederick ran me down with his lance, and gave me that foul wound that came so near to slaying me--and did slay my dear wife. Nevertheless, my men were able to bring me out from that press and away, and we had bitten the Trutz-Drachen dogs so deep that they were too sore to follow us, and so let us go our way in peace. But when those fools of mine brought me to my castle they bore me lying upon a litter to my wife's chamber. There she beheld me, and, thinking me dead, swooned a death-swoon, so that she only lived long enough to bless her new-born babe and name it Otto, for you, her father's brother. But, by heavens! I will have revenge, root and branch, upon that vile tribe, the Roderburgs of Trutz-Drachen. Their great-grandsire built that castle in scorn of Baron Casper in the old days; their grandsire slew my father's grandsire; Baron Nicholas slew two of our kindred; and now this Baron Frederick gives me that foul wound and kills my dear wife through my body." Here the Baron stopped short; then of a sudden, shaking his fist above his head, he cried out in his hoarse voice: "I swear by all the saints in heaven, either the red cock shall crow over the roof of Trutz-Drachen or else it shall crow over my house! The black dog shall sit on Baron Frederick's shoulders or else he shall sit on mine!" Again he stopped, and fixing his blazing eyes upon the old man, "Hearest thou that, priest?" said he, and broke into a great boisterous laugh. Abbot Otto sighed heavily, but he tried no further to persuade the other into different thoughts. "Thou art wounded," said he, at last, in a gentle voice; "at least stay here with us until thou art healed." "Nay," said the Baron, roughly, "I will tarry no longer than to hear thee promise to care for my child." "I promise," said the Abbot; "but lay aside thy armor, and rest." "Nay," said the Baron, "I go back again to-day." At this the Abbot cried out in amazement: "Sure thou, wounded man, would not take that long journey without a due stay for resting! Think! Night will be upon thee before thou canst reach home again, and the forests are beset with wolves." The Baron laughed. "Those are not the wolves I fear," said he. "Urge me no further, I must return to-night; yet if thou hast a mind to do me a kindness thou canst give me some food to eat and a flask of your golden Michaelsburg; beyond these, I ask no further favor of any man, be he priest or layman." "What comfort I can give thee thou shalt have," said the Abbot, in his patient voice, and so left the room to give the needful orders, bearing the babe with him. V. How Otto Dwelt at St. Michaelsburg. So the poor, little, motherless waif lived among the old monks at the White Cross on the hill, thriving and growing apace until he had reached eleven or twelve years of age; a slender, fair-haired little fellow, with a strange, quiet serious manner. "Poor little child!" Old Brother Benedict would sometimes say to the others, "poor little child! The troubles in which he was born must have broken his wits like a glass cup. What think ye he said to me to-day? 'Dear Brother Benedict,' said he, 'dost thou shave the hair off of the top of thy head so that the dear God may see thy thoughts the better?' Think of that now!" and the good old man shook with silent laughter. When such talk came to the good Father Abbot's ears, he smiled quietly to himself. "It may be," said he, "that the wisdom of little children flies higher than our heavy wits can follow." At least Otto was not slow with his studies, and Brother Emmanuel, who taught him his lessons, said more than once that, if his wits were cracked in other ways, they were sound enough in Latin. Otto, in a quaint, simple way which belonged to him, was gentle and obedient to all. But there was one among the Brethren of St. Michaelsburg whom he loved far above all the rest--Brother John, a poor half-witted fellow, of some twenty-five or thirty years of age. When a very little child, he had fallen from his nurse's arms and hurt his head, and as he grew up into boyhood, and showed that his wits had been addled by his fall, his family knew not what else to do with him, and so sent him off to the Monastery of St. Michaelsburg, where he lived his simple, witless life upon a sort of sufferance, as though he were a tame, harmless animal. While Otto was still a little baby, he had been given into Brother John's care. Thereafter, and until Otto had grown old enough to care for himself, poor Brother John never left his little charge, night or day. Oftentimes the good Father Abbot, coming into the garden, where he loved to walk alone in his meditations, would find the poor, simple Brother sitting under the shade of the pear-tree, close to the bee-hives, rocking the little baby in his arms, singing strange, crazy songs to it, and gazing far away into the blue, empty sky with his curious, pale eyes. Although, as Otto grew up into boyhood, his lessons and his tasks separated him from Brother John, the bond between them seemed to grow stronger rather than weaker. During the hours that Otto had for his own they were scarcely ever apart. Down in the vineyard, where the monks were gathering the grapes for the vintage, in the garden, or in the fields, the two were always seen together, either wandering hand in hand, or seated in some shady nook or corner. But most of all they loved to lie up in the airy wooden belfry; the great gaping bell hanging darkly above them, the mouldering cross-beams glimmering far up under the dim shadows of the roof, where dwelt a great brown owl that, unfrightened at their familiar presence, stared down at them with his round, solemn eyes. Below them stretched the white walls of the garden, beyond them the vineyard, and beyond that again the far shining river, that seemed to Otto's mind to lead into wonder-land. There the two would lie upon the belfry floor by the hour, talking together of the strangest things. "I saw the dear Angel Gabriel again yester morn," said Brother John. "So!" says Otto, seriously; "and where was that?" "It was out in the garden, in the old apple-tree," said Brother John. "I was walking there, and my wits were running around in the grass like a mouse. What heard I but a wonderful sound of singing, and it was like the hum of a great bee, only sweeter than honey. So I looked up into the tree, and there I saw two sparks. I thought at first that they were two stars that had fallen out of heaven; but what think you they were, little child?" "I do not know," said Otto, breathlessly. "They were angel's eyes," said Brother John; and he smiled in the strangest way, as he gazed up into the blue sky. "So I looked at the two sparks and felt happy, as one does in spring time when the cold weather is gone, and the warm sun shines, and the cuckoo sings again. Then, by-and-by, I saw the face to which the eyes belonged. First, it shone white and thin like the moon in the daylight; but it grew brighter and brighter, until it hurt one's eyes to look at it, as though it had been the blessed sun itself. Angel Gabriel's hand was as white as silver, and in it he held a green bough with blossoms, like those that grow on the thorn bush. As for his robe, it was all of one piece, and finer than the Father Abbot's linen, and shone beside like the sunlight on pure snow. So I knew from all these things that it was the blessed Angel Gabriel." "What do they say about this tree, Brother John?" said he to me. "They say it is dying, my Lord Angel," said I, "and that the gardener will bring a sharp axe and cut it down." "'And what dost thou say about it, Brother John?' said he." "'I also say yes, and that it is dying,' said I." "At that he smiled until his face shone so bright that I had to shut my eyes." "'Now I begin to believe, Brother John, that thou art as foolish as men say,' said he. 'Look, till I show thee.' And thereat I opened mine eyes again." "Then Angel Gabriel touched the dead branches with the flowery twig that he held in his hand, and there was the dead wood all covered with green leaves, and fair blossoms and beautiful apples as yellow as gold. Each smelling more sweetly than a garden of flowers, and better to the taste than white bread and honey. "'They are souls of the apples,' said the good Angel,' and they can never wither and die.' "'Then I'll tell the gardener that he shall not cut the tree down,' said I." "'No, no,' said the dear Gabriel, 'that will never do, for if the tree is not cut down here on the earth, it can never be planted in paradise.'" Here Brother John stopped short in his story, and began singing one of his crazy songs, as he gazed with his pale eyes far away into nothing at all. "But tell me, Brother John," said little Otto, in a hushed voice, "what else did the good Angel say to thee?" Brother John stopped short in his song and began looking from right to left, and up and down, as though to gather his wits. "So!" said he, "there was something else that he told me. Tschk! If I could but think now. Yes, good! This is it--'Nothing that has lived,' said he, 'shall ever die, and nothing that has died shall ever live.'" Otto drew a deep breath. "I would that I might see the beautiful Angel Gabriel sometime," said he; but Brother John was singing again and did not seem to hear what he said. Next to Brother John, the nearest one to the little child was the good Abbot Otto, for though he had never seen wonderful things with the eyes of his soul, such as Brother John's had beheld, and so could not tell of them, he was yet able to give little Otto another pleasure that no one else could give. He was a great lover of books, the old Abbot, and had under lock and key wonderful and beautiful volumes, bound in hog-skin and metal, and with covers inlaid with carved ivory, or studded with precious stones. But within these covers, beautiful as they were, lay the real wonder of the books, like the soul in the body; for there, beside the black letters and initials, gay with red and blue and gold, were beautiful pictures painted upon the creamy parchment. Saints and Angels, the Blessed Virgin with the golden oriole about her head, good St. Joseph, the three Kings; the simple Shepherds kneeling in the fields, while Angels with glories about their brow called to the poor Peasants from the blue sky above. But, most beautiful of all was the picture of the Christ Child lying in the manger, with the mild-eyed Kine gazing at him. Sometimes the old Abbot would unlock the iron-bound chest where these treasures lay hidden, and carefully and lovingly brushing the few grains of dust from them, would lay them upon the table beside the oriel window in front of his little namesake, allowing the little boy freedom to turn the leaves as he chose. Always it was one picture that little Otto sought; the Christ Child in the manger, with the Virgin, St. Joseph, the Shepherds, and the Kine. And as he would hang breathlessly gazing and gazing upon it, the old Abbot would sit watching him with a faint, half-sad smile flickering around his thin lips and his pale, narrow face. It was a pleasant, peaceful life, but by-and-by the end came. Otto was now nearly twelve years old. One bright, clear day, near the hour of noon, little Otto heard the porter's bell sounding below in the court-yard--dong! dong! Brother Emmanuel had been appointed as the boy's instructor, and just then Otto was conning his lessons in the good monk's cell. Nevertheless, at the sound of the bell he pricked up his ears and listened, for a visitor was a strange matter in that out-of-the-way place, and he wondered who it could be. So, while his wits wandered his lessons lagged. "Postera Phoeba lustrabat lampade terras," continued Brother Emmanuel, inexorably running his horny finger-nail beneath the line, "humentemque Aurora polo dimoverat umbram--" the lesson dragged along. Just then a sandaled footstep sounded without, in the stone corridor, and a light tap fell upon Brother Emmanuel's door. It was Brother Ignatius, and the Abbot wished little Otto to come to the refectory. As they crossed the court-yard Otto stared to see a group of mail-clad men-at-arms, some sitting upon their horses, some standing by the saddle-bow. "Yonder is the young baron," he heard one of them say in a gruff voice, and thereupon all turned and stared at him. A stranger was in the refectory, standing beside the good old Abbot, while food and wine were being brought and set upon the table for his refreshment; a great, tall, broad-shouldered man, beside whom the Abbot looked thinner and slighter than ever. The stranger was clad all in polished and gleaming armor, of plate and chain, over which was drawn a loose robe of gray woollen stuff, reaching to the knees and bound about the waist by a broad leathern sword-belt. Upon his arm he carried a great helmet which he had just removed from his head. His face was weather-beaten and rugged, and on lip and chin was a wiry, bristling beard; once red, now frosted with white. Brother Ignatius had bidden Otto to enter, and had then closed the door behind him; and now, as the lad walked slowly up the long room, he gazed with round, wondering blue eyes at the stranger. "Dost know who I am, Otto? said the mail-clad knight, in a deep, growling voice. "Methinks you are my father, sir," said Otto. "Aye, thou art right," said Baron Conrad, "and I am glad to see that these milk-churning monks have not allowed thee to forget me, and who thou art thyself." "An' it please you," said Otto, "no one churneth milk here but Brother Fritz; we be makers of wine and not makers of butter, at St. Michaelsburg." Baron Conrad broke into a great, loud laugh, but Abbot Otto's sad and thoughtful face lit up with no shadow of an answering smile. "Conrad," said he, turning to the other, "again let me urge thee; do not take the child hence, his life can never be your life, for he is not fitted for it. I had thought," said he, after a moment's pause, "I had thought that thou hadst meant to consecrate him--this motherless one--to the care of the Universal Mother Church." "So!" said the Baron, "thou hadst thought that, hadst thou? Thou hadst thought that I had intended to deliver over this boy, the last of the Vuelphs, to the arms of the Church? What then was to become of our name and the glory of our race if it was to end with him in a monastery? No, Drachenhausen is the home of the Vuelphs, and there the last of the race shall live as his sires have lived before him, holding to his rights by the power and the might of his right hand." The Abbot turned and looked at the boy, who was gaping in simple wide-eyed wonderment from one to the other as they spoke. "And dost thou think, Conrad," said the old man, in his gentle, patient voice, "that that poor child can maintain his rights by the strength of his right hand?" The Baron's look followed the Abbot's, and he said nothing. In the few seconds of silence that followed, little Otto, in his simple mind, was wondering what all this talk portended. Why had his father come hither to St. Michaelsburg, lighting up the dim silence of the monastery with the flash and ring of his polished armor? Why had he talked about churning butter but now, when all the world knew that the monks of St. Michaelsburg made wine. It was Baron Conrad's deep voice that broke the little pause of silence. "If you have made a milkmaid of the boy," he burst out at last, "I thank the dear heaven that there is yet time to undo your work and to make a man of him." The Abbot sighed. "The child is yours, Conrad," said he, "the will of the blessed saints be done. Mayhap if he goes to dwell at Drachenhausen he may make you the better instead of you making him the worse." Then light came to the darkness of little Otto's wonderment; he saw what all this talk meant and why his father had come hither. He was to leave the happy, sunny silence of the dear White Cross, and to go out into that great world that he had so often looked down upon from the high windy belfry on the steep hillside. VI. How Otto Lived in the Dragon's House. The gates of the Monastery stood wide open, the world lay beyond, and all was ready for departure. Baron Conrad and his men-at-arms sat foot in stirrup, the milk-white horse that had been brought for Otto stood waiting for him beside his father's great charger. "Farewell, Otto," said the good old Abbot, as he stooped and kissed the boy's cheek. "Farewell," answered Otto, in his simple, quiet way, and it brought a pang to the old man's heart that the child should seem to grieve so little at the leave-taking. "Farewell, Otto," said the brethren that stood about, "farewell, farewell." Then poor brother John came forward and took the boy's hand, and looked up into his face as he sat upon his horse. "We will meet again," said he, with his strange, vacant smile, "but maybe it will be in Paradise, and there perhaps they will let us lie in the father's belfry, and look down upon the angels in the court-yard below." "Aye," answered Otto, with an answering smile. "Forward," cried the Baron, in a deep voice, and with a clash of hoofs and jingle of armor they were gone, and the great wooden gates were shut to behind them. Down the steep winding pathway they rode, and out into the great wide world beyond, upon which Otto and brother John had gazed so often from the wooden belfry of the White Cross on the hill. "Hast been taught to ride a horse by the priests up yonder on Michaelsburg?" asked the Baron, when they had reached the level road. "Nay," said Otto; "we had no horse to ride, but only to bring in the harvest or the grapes from the further vineyards to the vintage." "Prut," said the Baron, "methought the abbot would have had enough of the blood of old days in his veins to have taught thee what is fitting for a knight to know; art not afeared?" "Nay," said Otto, with a smile, "I am not afeared." "There at least thou showest thyself a Vuelph," said the grim Baron. But perhaps Otto's thought of fear and Baron Conrad's thought of fear were two very different matters. The afternoon had passed by the time they had reached the end of their journey. Up the steep, stony path they rode to the drawbridge and the great gaping gateway of Drachenhausen, where wall and tower and battlement looked darker and more forbidding than ever in the gray twilight of the coming night. Little Otto looked up with great, wondering, awe-struck eyes at this grim new home of his. The next moment they clattered over the drawbridge that spanned the narrow black gulph between the roadway and the wall, and the next were past the echoing arch of the great gateway and in the gray gloaming of the paved court-yard within. Otto looked around upon the many faces gathered there to catch the first sight of the little baron; hard, rugged faces, seamed and weather-beaten; very different from those of the gentle brethren among whom he had lived, and it seemed strange to him that there was none there whom he should know. As he climbed the steep, stony steps to the door of the Baron's house, old Ursela came running down to meet him. She flung her withered arms around him and hugged him close to her. "My little child," she cried, and then fell to sobbing as though her heart would break. "Here is someone knoweth me," thought the little boy. His new home was all very strange and wonderful to Otto; the armors, the trophies, the flags, the long galleries with their ranges of rooms, the great hall below with its vaulted roof and its great fireplace of grotesquely carved stone, and all the strange people with their lives and thoughts so different from what he had been used to know. And it was a wonderful thing to explore all the strange places in the dark old castle; places where it seemed to Otto no one could have ever been before. Once he wandered down a long, dark passageway below the hall, pushed open a narrow, iron-bound oaken door, and found himself all at once in a strange new land; the gray light, coming in through a range of tall, narrow windows, fell upon a row of silent, motionless figures carven in stone, knights and ladies in strange armor and dress; each lying upon his or her stony couch with clasped hands, and gazing with fixed, motionless, stony eyeballs up into the gloomy, vaulted arch above them. There lay, in a cold, silent row, all of the Vuelphs who had died since the ancient castle had been built. It was the chapel into which Otto had made his way, now long since fallen out of use excepting as a burial place of the race. At another time he clambered up into the loft under the high peaked roof, where lay numberless forgotten things covered with the dim dust of years. There a flock of pigeons had made their roost, and flapped noisily out into the sunlight when he pushed open the door from below. Here he hunted among the mouldering things of the past until, oh, joy of joys! in an ancient oaken chest he found a great lot of worm-eaten books, that had belonged to some old chaplain of the castle in days gone by. They were not precious and beautiful volumes, such as the Father Abbot had showed him, but all the same they had their quaint painted pictures of the blessed saints and angels. Again, at another time, going into the court-yard, Otto had found the door of Melchior's tower standing invitingly open, for old Hilda, Schwartz Carl's wife, had come down below upon some business or other. Then upon the shaky wooden steps Otto ran without waiting for a second thought, for he had often gazed at those curious buildings hanging so far up in the air, and had wondered what they were like. Round and round and up and up Otto climbed, until his head spun. At last he reached a landing-stage, and gazing over the edge and down, beheld the stone pavement far, far below, lit by a faint glimmer of light that entered through the arched doorway. Otto clutched tight hold of the wooden rail, he had no thought that he had climbed so far. Upon the other side of the landing was a window that pierced the thick stone walls of the tower; out of the window he looked, and then drew suddenly back again with a gasp, for it was through the outer wall he peered, and down, down below in the dizzy depths he saw the hard gray rocks, where the black swine, looking no larger than ants in the distance, fed upon the refuse thrown out over the walls of the castle. There lay the moving tree-tops like a billowy green sea, and the coarse thatched roofs of the peasant cottages, round which crawled the little children like tiny human specks. Then Otto turned and crept down the stairs, frightened at the height to which he had climbed. At the doorway he met Mother Hilda. "Bless us," she cried, starting back and crossing herself, and then, seeing who it was, ducked him a courtesy with as pleasant a smile as her forbidding face, with its little deep-set eyes, was able to put upon itself. Old Ursela seemed nearer to the boy than anyone else about the castle, excepting it was his father, and it was a newfound delight to Otto to sit beside her and listen to her quaint stories, so different from the monkish tales that he had heard and read at the monastery. But one day it was a tale of a different sort that she told him, and one that opened his eyes to what he had never dreamed of before. The mellow sunlight fell through the window upon old Ursela, as she sat in the warmth with her distaff in her hands while Otto lay close to her feet upon a bear skin, silently thinking over the strange story of a brave knight and a fiery dragon that she had just told him. Suddenly Ursela broke the silence. "Little one," said she, "thou art wondrously like thy own dear mother; didst ever hear how she died?" "Nay," said Otto, "but tell me, Ursela, how it was." "Tis strange," said the old woman, "that no one should have told thee in all this time." And then, in her own fashion she related to him the story of how his father had set forth upon that expedition in spite of all that Otto's mother had said, beseeching him to abide at home; how he had been foully wounded, and how the poor lady had died from her fright and grief. Otto listened with eyes that grew wider and wider, though not all with wonder; he no longer lay upon the bear skin, but sat up with his hands clasped. For a moment or two after the old woman had ended her story, he sat staring silently at her. Then he cried out, in a sharp voice, "And is this truth that you tell me, Ursela? and did my father seek to rob the towns people of their goods?" Old Ursela laughed. "Aye," said she, "that he did and many times. Ah! me, those day's are all gone now." And she fetched a deep sigh. "Then we lived in plenty and had both silks and linens and velvets besides in the store closets and were able to buy good wines and live in plenty upon the best. Now we dress in frieze and live upon what we can get and sometimes that is little enough, with nothing better than sour beer to drink. But there is one comfort in it all, and that is that our good Baron paid back the score he owed the Trutz-Drachen people not only for that, but for all that they had done from the very first." Thereupon she went on to tell Otto how Baron Conrad had fulfilled the pledge of revenge that he had made Abbot Otto, how he had watched day after day until one time he had caught the Trutz-Drachen folk, with Baron Frederick at their head, in a narrow defile back of the Kaiserburg; of the fierce fight that was there fought; of how the Roderburgs at last fled, leaving Baron Frederick behind them wounded; of how he had kneeled before the Baron Conrad, asking for mercy, and of how Baron Conrad had answered, "Aye, thou shalt have such mercy as thou deservest," and had therewith raised his great two-handed sword and laid his kneeling enemy dead at one blow. Poor little Otto had never dreamed that such cruelty and wickedness could be. He listened to the old woman's story with gaping horror, and when the last came and she told him, with a smack of her lips, how his father had killed his enemy with his own hand, he gave a gasping cry and sprang to his feet. Just then the door at the other end of the chamber was noisily opened, and Baron Conrad himself strode into the room. Otto turned his head, and seeing who it was, gave another cry, loud and quavering, and ran to his father and caught him by the hand. "Oh, father!" he cried, "oh, father! Is it true that thou hast killed a man with thy own hand?" "Aye," said the Baron, grimly, "it is true enough, and I think me I have killed many more than one. But what of that, Otto? Thou must get out of those foolish notions that the old monks have taught thee. Here in the world it is different from what it is at St. Michaelsburg; here a man must either slay or be slain." But poor little Otto, with his face hidden in his father's robe, cried as though his heart would break. "Oh, father!" he said, again and again, "it cannot be--it cannot be that thou who art so kind to me should have killed a man with thine own hands." Then: "I wish that I were back in the monastery again; I am afraid out here in the great wide world; perhaps somebody may kill me, for I am only a weak little boy and could not save my own life if they chose to take it from me." Baron Conrad looked down upon Otto all this while, drawing his bushy eyebrows together. Once he reached out his hand as though to stroke the boy's hair, but drew it back again. Turning angrily upon the old woman, "Ursela," said he, "thou must tell the child no more such stories as these; he knowest not at all of such things as yet. Keep thy tongue busy with the old woman's tales that he loves to hear thee tell, and leave it with me to teach him what becometh a true knight and a Vuelph." That night the father and son sat together beside the roaring fire in the great ball. "Tell me, Otto," said the Baron, "dost thou hate me for having done what Ursela told thee today that I did?" Otto looked for a while into his father's face. "I know not," said he at last, in his quaint, quiet voice, "but methinks that I do not hate thee for it." The Baron drew his bushy brows together until his eyes twinkled out of the depths beneath them, then of a sudden he broke into a great loud laugh, smiting his horny palm with a smack upon his thigh. VII. The Red Cock Crows on Drachenhausen. There was a new emperor in Germany who had come from a far away Swiss castle; Count Rudolph of Hapsburg, a good, honest man with a good, honest, homely face, but bringing with him a stern sense of justice and of right, and a determination to put down the lawlessness of the savage German barons among whom he had come as Emperor. One day two strangers came galloping up the winding path to the gates of the Dragon's house. A horn sounded thin and clear, a parley was held across the chasm in the road between the two strangers and the porter who appeared at the little wicket. Then a messenger was sent running to the Baron, who presently came striding across the open court-yard to the gateway to parley with the strangers. The two bore with them a folded parchment with a great red seal hanging from it like a clot of blood; it was a message from the Emperor demanding that the Baron should come to the Imperial Court to answer certain charges that had been brought against him, and to give his bond to maintain the peace of the empire. One by one those barons who had been carrying on their private wars, or had been despoiling the burgher folk in their traffic from town to town, and against whom complaint had been lodged, were summoned to the Imperial Court, where they were compelled to promise peace and to swear allegiance to the new order of things. All those who came willingly were allowed to return home again after giving security for maintaining the peace; all those who came not willingly were either brought in chains or rooted out of their strongholds with fire and sword, and their roofs burned over their heads. Now it was Baron Conrad's turn to be summoned to the Imperial Court, for complaint had been lodged against him by his old enemy of Trutz-Drachen--Baron Henry--the nephew of the old Baron Frederick who had been slain while kneeling in the dust of the road back of the Kaiserburg. No one at Drachenhausen could read but Master Rudolph, the steward, who was sand blind, and little Otto. So the boy read the summons to his father, while the grim Baron sat silent with his chin resting upon his clenched fist and his eyebrows drawn together into a thoughtful frown as he gazed into the pale face of his son, who sat by the rude oaken table with the great parchment spread out before him. Should he answer the summons, or scorn it as he would have done under the old emperors? Baron Conrad knew not which to do; pride said one thing and policy another. The Emperor was a man with an iron hand, and Baron Conrad knew what had happened to those who had refused to obey the imperial commands. So at last he decided that he would go to the court, taking with him a suitable escort to support his dignity. It was with nearly a hundred armed men clattering behind him that Baron Conrad rode away to court to answer the imperial summons. The castle was stripped of its fighting men, and only eight remained behind to guard the great stone fortress and the little simple-witted boy. It was a sad mistake. Three days had passed since the Baron had left the castle, and now the third night had come. The moon was hanging midway in the sky, white and full, for it was barely past midnight. The high precipitous banks of the rocky road threw a dense black shadow into the gully below, and in that crooked inky line that scarred the white face of the moonlit rocks a band of some thirty men were creeping slowly and stealthily nearer and nearer to Castle Drachenhausen. At the head of them was a tall, slender knight clad in light chain armor, his head covered only by a steel cap or bascinet. Along the shadow they crept, with only now and then a faint clink or jingle of armor to break the stillness, for most of those who followed the armed knight were clad in leathern jerkins; only one or two wearing even so much as a steel breast-plate by way of armor. So at last they reached the chasm that yawned beneath the roadway, and there they stopped, for they had reached the spot toward which they had been journeying. It was Baron Henry of Trutz-Drachen who had thus come in the silence of the night time to the Dragon's house, and his visit boded no good to those within. The Baron and two or three of his men talked together in low tones, now and then looking up at the sheer wall that towered above them. "Yonder is the place, Lord Baron," said one of those who stood with him. "I have scanned every foot of the wall at night for a week past. An we get not in by that way, we get not in at all. A keen eye, a true aim, and a bold man are all that we need, and the business is done." Here again all looked upward at the gray wall above them, rising up in the silent night air. High aloft hung the wooden bartizan or watch-tower, clinging to the face of the outer wall and looming black against the pale sky above. Three great beams pierced the wall, and upon them the wooden tower rested. The middle beam jutted out beyond the rest to the distance of five or six feet, and the end of it was carved into the rude semblance of a dragon's head. "So, good," said the Baron at last; "then let us see if thy plan holds, and if Hans Schmidt's aim is true enough to earn the three marks that I have promised him. Where is the bag?" One of those who stood near handed the Baron a leathern pouch, the Baron opened it and drew out a ball of fine thread, another of twine, a coil of stout rope, and a great bundle that looked, until it was unrolled, like a coarse fish-net. It was a rope ladder. While these were being made ready, Hans Schmidt, a thick-set, low-browed, broad-shouldered archer, strung his stout bow, and carefully choosing three arrows from those in his quiver, he stuck them point downward in the earth. Unwinding the ball of thread, he laid it loosely in large loops upon the ground so that it might run easily without hitching, then he tied the end of the thread tightly around one of his arrows. He fitted the arrow to the bow and drew the feather to his ear. Twang! rang the bowstring, and the feathered messenger flew whistling upon its errand to the watch-tower. The very first shaft did the work. "Good," said Hans Schmidt, the archer, in his heavy voice, "the three marks are mine, Lord Baron." The arrow had fallen over and across the jutting beam between the carved dragon's head and the bartizan, carrying with it the thread, which now hung from above, glimmering white in the moonlight like a cobweb. The rest was an easy task enough. First the twine was drawn up to and over the beam by the thread, then the rope was drawn up by the twine, and last of all the rope ladder by the rope. There it hung like a thin, slender black line against the silent gray walls. "And now," said the Baron, "who will go first and win fifty marks for his own, and climb the rope ladder to the tower yonder?" Those around hesitated. "Is there none brave enough to venture?" said the Baron, after a pause of silence. A stout, young fellow, of about eighteen years of age, stepped forward and flung his flat leathern cap upon the ground. "I will go, my Lord Baron," said he. "Good," said the Baron, "the fifty marks are thine. And now listen, if thou findest no one in the watch-tower, whistle thus; if the watchman be at his post, see that thou makest all safe before thou givest the signal. When all is ready the others will follow thee. And now go and good luck go with thee." The young fellow spat upon his hands and, seizing the ropes, began slowly and carefully to mount the flimsy, shaking ladder. Those below held it as tight as they were able, but nevertheless he swung backward and forward and round and round as he climbed steadily upward. Once he stopped upon the way, and those below saw him clutch the ladder close to him as though dizzied by the height and the motion but he soon began again, up, up, up like some great black spider. Presently he came out from the black shadow below and into the white moonlight, and then his shadow followed him step by step up the gray wall upon his way. At last he reached the jutting beam, and there again he stopped for a moment clutching tightly to it. The next he was upon the beam, dragging himself toward the window of the bartizan just above. Slowly raising himself upon his narrow foothold he peeped cautiously within. Those watching him from be low saw him slip his hand softly to his side, and then place something between his teeth. It was his dagger. Reaching up, he clutched the window sill above him and, with a silent spring, seated himself upon it. The next moment he disappeared within. A few seconds of silence followed, then of sudden a sharp gurgling cry broke the stillness. There was another pause of silence, then a faint shrill whistle sounded from above. "Who will go next?" said the Baron. It was Hans Schmidt who stepped forward. Another followed the arch up the ladder, and another, and another. Last of all went the Baron Henry himself, and nothing was left but the rope ladder hanging from above, and swaying back and forth in the wind. That night Schwartz Carl had been bousing it over a pot of yellow wine in the pantry with his old crony, Master Rudolph, the steward; and the two, chatting and gossiping together, had passed the time away until long after the rest of the castle had been wrapped in sleep. Then, perhaps a little unsteady upon his feet, Schwartz Carl betook himself homeward to the Melchior tower. He stood for a while in the shadow of the doorway, gazing up into the pale sky above him at the great, bright, round moon, that hung like a bubble above the sharp peaks of the roofs standing black as ink against the sky. But all of a sudden he started up from the post against which he had been leaning, and with head bent to one side, stood listening breathlessly, for he too had heard that smothered cry from the watch-tower. So he stood intently, motionlessly, listening, listening; but all was silent except for the monotonous dripping of water in one of the nooks of the court-yard, and the distant murmur of the river borne upon the breath of the night air. "Mayhap I was mistaken," muttered Schwartz Carl to himself. But the next moment the silence was broken again by a faint, shrill whistle; what did it mean? Back of the heavy oaken door of the tower was Schwartz Carl's cross-bow, the portable windlass with which the bowstring was drawn back, and a pouch of bolts. Schwartz Carl reached back into the darkness, fumbling in the gloom until his fingers met the weapon. Setting his foot in the iron stirrup at the end of the stock, he wound the stout bow-string into the notch of the trigger, and carefully fitted the heavy, murderous-looking bolt into the groove. Minute after minute passed, and Schwartz Carl, holding his arbelast in his hand, stood silently waiting and watching in the sharp-cut, black shadow of the doorway, motionless as a stone statue. Minute after minute passed. Suddenly there was a movement in the shadow of the arch of the great gateway across the court-yard, and the next moment a leathern-clad figure crept noiselessly out upon the moonlit pavement, and stood there listening, his head bent to one side. Schwartz Carl knew very well that it was no one belonging to the castle, and, from the nature of his action, that he was upon no good errand. He did not stop to challenge the suspicious stranger. The taking of another's life was thought too small a matter for much thought or care in those days. Schwartz Carl would have shot a man for a much smaller reason than the suspicious actions of this fellow. The leather-clad figure stood a fine target in the moonlight for a cross-bow bolt. Schwartz Carl slowly raised the weapon to his shoulder and took a long and steady aim. Just then the stranger put his fingers to his lips and gave a low, shrill whistle. It was the last whistle that he was to give upon this earth. There was a sharp, jarring twang of the bow-string, the hiss of the flying bolt, and the dull thud as it struck its mark. The man gave a shrill, quavering cry, and went staggering back, and then fell all of a heap against the wall behind him. As though in answer to the cry, half a dozen men rushed tumultuously out from the shadow of the gateway whence the stranger had just come, and then stood in the court-yard, looking uncertainly this way and that, not knowing from what quarter the stroke had come that had laid their comrade low. But Schwartz Carl did not give them time to discover that; there was no chance to string his cumbersome weapon again; down he flung it upon the ground. "To arms!" he roared in a voice of thunder, and then clapped to the door of Melchior's tower and shot the great iron bolts with a clang and rattle. The next instant the Trutz-Drachen men were thundering at the door, but Schwartz Carl was already far up the winding steps. But now the others came pouring out from the gateway. "To the house," roared Baron Henry. Then suddenly a clashing, clanging uproar crashed out upon the night. Dong! Dong! It was the great alarm bell from Melchior's tower--Schwartz Carl was at his post. Little Baron Otto lay sleeping upon the great rough bed in his room, dreaming of the White Cross on the hill and of brother John. By and by he heard the convent bell ringing, and knew that there must be visitors at the gate, for loud voices sounded through his dream. Presently he knew that he was coming awake, but though the sunny monastery garden grew dimmer and dimmer to his sleeping sight, the clanging of the bell and the sound of shouts grew louder and louder. Then he opened his eyes. Flaming red lights from torches, carried hither and thither by people in the court-yard outside, flashed and ran along the wall of his room. Hoarse shouts and cries filled the air, and suddenly the shrill, piercing shriek of a woman rang from wall to wall; and through the noises the great bell from far above upon Melchior's tower clashed and clanged its harsh, resonant alarm. Otto sprang from his bed and looked out of the window and down upon the court-yard below. "Dear God! what dreadful thing hath happened?" he cried and clasped his hands together. A cloud of smoke was pouring out from the windows of the building across the court-yard, whence a dull ruddy glow flashed and flickered. Strange men were running here and there with flaming torches, and the now continuous shrieking of women pierced the air. Just beneath the window lay the figure of a man half naked and face downward upon the stones. Then suddenly Otto cried out in fear and horror, for, as he looked with dazed and bewildered eyes down into the lurid court-yard beneath, a savage man, in a shining breast-plate and steel cap, came dragging the dark, silent figure of a woman across the stones; but whether she was dead or in a swoon, Otto could not tell. And every moment the pulsing of that dull red glare from the windows of the building across the court-yard shone more brightly, and the glare from other flaming buildings, which Otto could not see from his window, turned the black, starry night into a lurid day. Just then the door of the room was burst open, and in rushed poor old Ursela, crazy with her terror. She flung herself down upon the floor and caught Otto around the knees. "Save me!" she cried, "save me!" as though the poor, pale child could be of any help to her at such a time. In the passageway without shone the light of torches, and the sound of loud footsteps came nearer and nearer. And still through all the din sounded continually the clash and clang and clamor of the great alarm bell. The red light flashed into the room, and in the doorway stood a tall, thin figure clad from head to foot in glittering chain armor. From behind this fierce knight, with his dark, narrow, cruel face, its deep-set eyes glistening in the light of the torches, crowded six or eight savage, low-browed, brutal men, who stared into the room and at the white-faced boy as he stood by the window with the old woman clinging to his knees and praying to him for help. "We have cracked the nut and here is the kernel," said one of them who stood behind the rest, and thereupon a roar of brutal laughter went up. But the cruel face of the armed knight never relaxed into a smile; he strode into the room and laid his iron hand heavily upon the boy's shoulder. "Art thou the young Baron Otto?" said he, in a harsh voice. "Aye," said the lad; "but do not kill me." The knight did not answer him. "Fetch the cord hither," said he, "and drag the old witch away." It took two of them to loosen poor old Ursela's crazy clutch from about her young master. Then amid roars of laughter they dragged her away, screaming and scratching and striking with her fists. They drew back Otto's arms behind his back and wrapped them round and round with a bowstring. Then they pushed and hustled and thrust him forth from the room and along the passageway, now bright with the flames that roared and crackled without. Down the steep stairway they drove him, where thrice he stumbled and fell amid roars of laughter. At last they were out into the open air of the court-yard. Here was a terrible sight, but Otto saw nothing of it; his blue eyes were gazing far away, and his lips moved softly with the prayer that the good monks of St. Michaelsburg had taught him, for he thought that they meant to slay him. All around the court-yard the flames roared and snapped and crackled. Four or five figures lay scattered here and there, silent in all the glare and uproar. The heat was so intense that they were soon forced back into the shelter of the great gateway, where the women captives, under the guard of three or four of the Trutz-Drachen men, were crowded together in dumb, bewildered terror. Only one man was to be seen among the captives, poor, old, half blind Master Rudolph, the steward, who crouched tremblingly among the women. They had set the blaze to Melchior's tower, and now, below, it was a seething furnace. Above, the smoke rolled in black clouds from the windows, but still the alarm bell sounded through all the blaze and smoke. Higher and higher the flames rose; a trickle of fire ran along the frame buildings hanging aloft in the air. A clear flame burst out at the peak of the roof, but still the bell rang forth its clamorous clangor. Presently those who watched below saw the cluster of buildings bend and sink and sway; there was a crash and roar, a cloud of sparks flew up as though to the very heavens themselves, and the bell of Melchior's tower was stilled forever. A great shout arose from the watching, upturned faces. "Forward!" cried Baron Henry, and out from the gateway they swept and across the drawbridge, leaving Drachenhausen behind them a flaming furnace blazing against the gray of the early dawning. VIII. In the House of the Dragon Scorner. Tall, narrow, gloomy room; no furniture but a rude bench a bare stone floor, cold stone walls and a gloomy ceiling of arched stone over head; a long, narrow slit of a window high above in the wall, through the iron bars of which Otto could see a small patch of blue sky and now and then a darting swallow, for an instant seen, the next instant gone. Such was the little baron's prison in Trutz-Drachen. Fastened to a bolt and hanging against the walls, hung a pair of heavy chains with gaping fetters at the ends. They were thick with rust, and the red stain of the rust streaked the wall below where they hung like a smear of blood. Little Otto shuddered as he looked at them; can those be meant for me, he thought. Nothing was to be seen but that one patch of blue sky far up in the wall. No sound from without was to be heard in that gloomy cell of stone, for the window pierced the outer wall, and the earth and its noises lay far below. Suddenly a door crashed without, and the footsteps of men were heard coming along the corridor. They stopped in front of Otto's cell; he heard the jingle of keys, and then a loud rattle of one thrust into the lock of the heavy oaken door. The rusty bolt was shot back with a screech, the door opened, and there stood Baron Henry, no longer in his armor, but clad in a long black robe that reached nearly to his feet, a broad leather belt was girdled about his waist, and from it dangled a short, heavy hunting sword. Another man was with the Baron, a heavy-faced fellow clad in a leathern jerkin over which was drawn a short coat of linked mail. The two stood for a moment looking into the room, and Otto, his pale face glimmering in the gloom, sat upon the edge of the heavy wooden bench or bed, looking back at them out of his great blue eyes. Then the two entered and closed the door behind them. "Dost thou know why thou art here?" said the Baron, in his deep, harsh voice. "Nay," said Otto, "I know not." "So?" said the Baron. "Then I will tell thee. Three years ago the good Baron Frederick, my uncle, kneeled in the dust and besought mercy at thy father's hands; the mercy he received was the coward blow that slew him. Thou knowest the story?" "Aye," said Otto, tremblingly, "I know it." "Then dost thou not know why I am here?" said the Baron. "Nay, dear Lord Baron, I know not," said poor little Otto, and began to weep. The Baron stood for a moment or two looking gloomily upon him, as the little boy sat there with the tears running down his white face. "I will tell thee," said he, at last; "I swore an oath that the red cock should crow on Drachenhausen, and I have given it to the dames. I swore an oath that no Vuelph that ever left my hands should be able to strike such a blow as thy father gave to Baron Frederick, and now I will fulfil that too. Catch the boy, Casper, and hold him." As the man in the mail shirt stepped toward little Otto, the boy leaped up from where he sat and caught the Baron about the knees. "Oh! dear Lord Baron," he cried, "do not harm me; I am only a little child, I have never done harm to thee; do not harm me." "Take him away," said the Baron, harshly. The fellow stooped, and loosening Otto's hold, in spite of his struggles and cries, carried him to the bench, against which he held him, whilst the Baron stood above him. Baron Henry and the other came forth from the cell, carefully closing the wooden door behind them. At the end of the corridor the Baron turned, "Let the leech be sent to the boy," said he. And then he turned and walked away. Otto lay upon the hard couch in his cell, covered with a shaggy bear skin. His face was paler and thinner than ever, and dark rings encircled his blue eyes. He was looking toward the door, for there was a noise of someone fumbling with the lock without. Since that dreadful day when Baron Henry had come to his cell, only two souls had visited Otto. One was the fellow who had come with the Baron that time; his name, Otto found, was Casper. He brought the boy his rude meals of bread and meat and water. The other visitor was the leech or doctor, a thin, weasand little man, with a kindly, wrinkled face and a gossiping tongue, who, besides binding wounds, bleeding, and leeching, and administering his simple remedies to those who were taken sick in the castle, acted as the Baron's barber. The Baron had left the key in the lock of the door, so that these two might enter when they chose, but Otto knew that it was neither the one nor the other whom he now heard at the door, working uncertainly with the key, striving to turn it in the rusty, cumbersome lock. At last the bolts grated back, there was a pause, and then the door opened a little way, and Otto thought that he could see someone peeping in from without. By and by the door opened further, there was another pause, and then a slender, elfish-looking little girl, with straight black hair and shining black eyes, crept noiselessly into the room. She stood close by the door with her finger in her mouth, staring at the boy where he lay upon his couch, and Otto upon his part lay, full of wonder, gazing back upon the little elfin creature. She, seeing that he made no sign or motion, stepped a little nearer, and then, after a moment's pause, a little nearer still, until, at last, she stood within a few feet of where he lay. "Art thou the Baron Otto?" said she. "Yes," answered Otto. "Prut!" said she, "and is that so! Why, I thought that thou wert a great tall fellow at least, and here thou art a little boy no older than Carl Max, the gooseherd." Then, after a little pause--"My name is Pauline, and my father is the Baron. I heard him tell my mother all about thee, and so I wanted to come here and see thee myself: Art thou sick?" "Yes," said Otto, "I am sick." "And did my father hurt thee?" "Aye," said Otto, and his eyes filled with tears, until one sparkling drop trickled slowly down his white face. Little Pauline stood looking seriously at him for a while. "I am sorry for thee, Otto," said she, at last. And then, at her childish pity, he began crying in earnest. This was only the first visit of many from the little maid, for after that she often came to Otto's prison, who began to look for her coming from day to day as the one bright spot in the darkness and the gloom. Sitting upon the edge of his bed and gazing into his face with wide open eyes, she would listen to him by the hour, as he told her of his life in that far away monastery home; of poor, simple brother John's wonderful visions, of the good Abbot's books with their beautiful pictures, and of all the monkish tales and stories of knights and dragons and heroes and emperors of ancient Rome, which brother Emmanuel had taught him to read in the crabbed monkish Latin in which they were written. One day the little maid sat for a long while silent after he had ended speaking. At last she drew a deep breath. "And are all these things that thou tellest me about the priests in their castle really true?" said she. "Yes," said Otto, "all are true." "And do they never go out to fight other priests?" "No," said Otto, "they know nothing of fighting." "So!" said she. And then fell silent in the thought of the wonder of it all, and that there should be men in the world that knew nothing of violence and bloodshed; for in all the eight years of her life she had scarcely been outside of the walls of Castle Trutz-Drachen. At another time it was of Otto's mother that they were speaking. "And didst thou never see her, Otto?" said the little girl. "Aye," said Otto, "I see her sometimes in my dreams, and her face always shines so bright that I know she is an angel; for brother John has often seen the dear angels, and he tells me that their faces always shine in that way. I saw her the night thy father hurt me so, for I could not sleep and my head felt as though it would break asunder. Then she came and leaned over me and kissed my forehead, and after that I fell asleep." "But where did she come from, Otto?" said the little girl. "From paradise, I think," said Otto, with that patient seriousness that he had caught from the monks, and that sat so quaintly upon him. "So!" said little Pauline; and then, after a pause, "That is why thy mother kissed thee when thy head ached--because she is an angel. When I was sick my mother bade Gretchen carry me to a far part of the house, because I cried and so troubled her. Did thy mother ever strike thee, Otto?" "Nay," said Otto. "Mine hath often struck me," said Pauline. One day little Pauline came bustling into Otto's cell, her head full of the news which she carried. "My father says that thy father is out in the woods somewhere yonder, back of the castle, for Fritz, the swineherd, told my father that last night he had seen a fire in the woods, and that he had crept up to it without anyone knowing. There he had seen the Baron Conrad and six of his men, and that they were eating one of the swine that they had killed and roasted. Maybe," said she, seating herself upon the edge of Otto's couch; "maybe my father will kill thy father, and they will bring him here and let him lie upon a black bed with bright candles burning around him, as they did my uncle Frederick when he was killed." "God forbid!" said Otto, and then lay for a while with his hands clasped. "Dost thou love me, Pauline?" said he, after a while. "Yes," said Pauline, "for thou art a good child, though my father says that thy wits are cracked." "Mayhap they are," said Otto, simply, "for I have often been told so before. But thou wouldst not see me die, Pauline; wouldst thou?" "Nay," said Pauline, "I would not see thee die, for then thou couldst tell me no more stories; for they told me that uncle Frederick could not speak because he was dead." "Then listen, Pauline," said Otto; "if I go not away from here I shall surely die. Every day I grow more sick and the leech cannot cure me." Here he broke down and, turning his face upon the couch, began crying, while little Pauline sat looking seriously at him. "Why dost thou cry, Otto?" said she, after a while. "Because," said he, "I am so sick, and I want my father to come and take me away from here." "But why dost thou want to go away?" said Pauline. "If thy father takes thee away, thou canst not tell me any more stories." "Yes, I can," said Otto, "for when I grow to be a man I will come again and marry thee, and when thou art my wife I can tell thee all the stories that I know. Dear Pauline, canst thou not tell my father where I am, that he may come here and take me away before I die?" "Mayhap I could do so," said Pauline, after a little while, "for sometimes I go with Casper Max to see his mother, who nursed me when I was a baby. She is the wife of Fritz, the swineherd, and she will make him tell thy father; for she will do whatever I ask of her, and Fritz will do whatever she bids him do." "And for my sake, wilt thou tell him, Pauline?" said Otto. "But see, Otto," said the little girl, "if I tell him, wilt thou promise to come indeed and marry me when thou art grown a man?" "Yes," said Otto, very seriously, "I will promise." "Then I will tell thy father where thou art," said she. "But thou wilt do it without the Baron Henry knowing, wilt thou not, Pauline?" "Yes," said she, "for if my father and my mother knew that I did such a thing, they would strike me, mayhap send me to my bed alone in the dark." IX. How One-eyed Hans came to Trutz-Drachen. Fritz, the swineherd, sat eating his late supper of porridge out of a great, coarse, wooden bowl; wife Katherine sat at the other end of the table, and the half-naked little children played upon the earthen floor. A shaggy dog lay curled up in front of the fire, and a grunting pig scratched against a leg of the rude table close beside where the woman sat. "Yes, yes," said Katherine, speaking of the matter of which they had already been talking. "It is all very true that the Drachenhausens are a bad lot, and I for one am of no mind to say no to that; all the same it is a sad thing that a simple-witted little child like the young Baron should be so treated as the boy has been; and now that our Lord Baron has served him so that he, at least, will never be able to do us 'harm, I for one say that he should not be left there to die alone in that black cell." Fritz, the swineherd, gave a grunt at this without raising his eyes from the bowl. "Yes, good," said Katherine, "I know what thou meanest, Fritz, and that it is none of my business to be thrusting my finger into the Baron's dish. But to hear the way that dear little child spoke when she was here this morn--it would have moved a heart of stone to hear her tell of all his pretty talk. Thou wilt try to let the red-beard know that that poor boy, his son, is sick to death in the black cell; wilt thou not, Fritz?" The swineherd dropped his wooden spoon into the bowl with a clatter. "Potstausand!" he cried; "art thou gone out of thy head to let thy wits run upon such things as this of which thou talkest to me? If it should come to our Lord Baron's ears he would cut the tongue from out thy head and my head from off my shoulders for it. Dost thou think I am going to meddle in such a matter as this? Listen! these proud Baron folk, with their masterful ways, drive our sort hither and thither; they beat us, they drive us, they kill us as they choose. Our lives are not as much to them as one of my black swine. Why should I trouble my head if they choose to lop and trim one another? The fewer there are of them the better for us, say I. We poor folk have a hard enough life of it without thrusting our heads into the noose to help them out of their troubles. What thinkest thou would happen to us if Baron Henry should hear of our betraying his affairs to the Red-beard?" "Nay," said Katherine, "thou hast naught to do in the matter but to tell the Red-beard in what part of the castle the little Baron lies." "And what good would that do?" said Fritz, the swineherd. "I know not," said Katherine, "but I have promised the little one that thou wouldst find the Baron Conrad and tell him that much." "Thou hast promised a mare's egg," said her husband, angrily. "How shall I find the Baron Conrad to bear a message to him, when our Baron has been looking for him in vain for two days past?" "Thou has found him once and thou mayst find him again," said Katherine, "for it is not likely that he will keep far away from here whilst his boy is in such sore need of help." "I will have nothing to do with it!" said Fritz, and he got up from the wooden block whereon he was sitting and stumped out of the house. But, then, Katherine had heard him talk in that way before, and knew, in spite of his saying "no," that, sooner or later, he would do as she wished. Two days later a very stout little one-eyed man, clad in a leathern jerkin and wearing a round leathern cap upon his head, came toiling up the path to the postern door of Trutz-Drachen, his back bowed under the burthen of a great peddler's pack. It was our old friend the one-eyed Hans, though even his brother would hardly have known him in his present guise, for, besides having turned peddler, he had grown of a sudden surprisingly fat. Rap-tap-tap! He knocked at the door with a knotted end of the crooked thorned staff upon which he leaned. He waited for a while and then knocked again--rap-tap-tap! Presently, with a click, a little square wicket that pierced the door was opened, and a woman's face peered out through the iron bars. The one-eyed Hans whipped off his leathern cap. "Good day, pretty one," said he, "and hast thou any need of glass beads, ribbons, combs, or trinkets? Here I am come all the way from Gruenstadt, with a pack full of such gay things as thou never laid eyes on before. Here be rings and bracelets and necklaces that might be of pure silver and set with diamonds and rubies, for anything that thy dear one could tell if he saw thee decked in them. And all are so cheap that thou hast only to say, 'I want them,' and they are thine." The frightened face at the window looked from right to left and from left to right. "Hush," said the girl, and laid her finger upon her lips. "There! thou hadst best get away from here, poor soul, as fast as thy legs can carry thee, for if the Lord Baron should find thee here talking secretly at the postern door, he would loose the wolf-hounds upon thee." "Prut," said one-eyed Hans, with a grin, "the Baron is too big a fly to see such a little gnat as I; but wolf-hounds or no wolf-hounds, I can never go hence without showing thee the pretty things that I have brought from the town, even though my stay be at the danger of my own hide." He flung the pack from off his shoulders as he spoke and fell to unstrapping it, while the round face of the lass (her eyes big with curiosity) peered down at him through the grated iron bars. Hans held up a necklace of blue and white beads that glistened like jewels in the sun, and from them hung a gorgeous filigree cross. "Didst thou ever see a sweeter thing than this?" said he; "and look, here is a comb that even the silversmith would swear was pure silver all the way through." Then, in a soft, wheedling voice, "Canst thou not let me in, my little bird? Sure there are other lasses besides thyself who would like to trade with a poor peddler who has travelled all the way from Gruenstadt just to please the pretty ones of Trutz-Drachen." "Nay," said the lass, in a frightened voice, "I cannot let thee in; I know not what the Baron would do to me, even now, if he knew that I was here talking to a stranger at the postern;" and she made as if she would clap to the little window in his face; but the one-eyed Hans thrust his staff betwixt the bars and so kept the shutter open. "Nay, nay," said he, eagerly, "do not go away from me too soon. Look, dear one; seest thou this necklace?" "Aye," said she, looking hungrily at it. "Then listen; if thou wilt but let me into the castle, so that I may strike a trade, I will give it to thee for thine own without thy paying a barley corn for it." The girl looked and hesitated, and then looked again; the temptation was too great. There was a noise of softly drawn bolts and bars, the door was hesitatingly opened a little way, and, in a twinkling, the one-eyed Hans had slipped inside the castle, pack and all. "The necklace," said the girl, in a frightened whisper. Hans thrust it into her hand. "It's thine," said he, "and now wilt thou not help me to a trade?" "I will tell my sister that thou art here," said she, and away she ran from the little stone hallway, carefully bolting and locking the further door behind her. The door that the girl had locked was the only one that connected the postern hail with the castle. The one-eyed Hans stood looking after her. "Thou fool!" he muttered to himself, "to lock the door behind thee. What shall I do next, I should like to know? Here am I just as badly off as I was when I stood outside the walls. Thou hussy! If thou hadst but let me into the castle for only two little minutes, I would have found somewhere to have hidden myself while thy back was turned. But what shall I do now?" He rested his pack upon the floor and stood looking about him. Built in the stone wall opposite to him, was a high, narrow fireplace without carving of any sort. As Hans' one eye wandered around the bare stone space, his glance fell at last upon it, and there it rested. For a while he stood looking intently at it, presently he began rubbing his hand over his bristling chin in a thoughtful, meditative manner. Finally he drew a deep breath, and giving himself a shake as though to arouse himself from his thoughts, and after listening a moment or two to make sure that no one was nigh, he walked softly to the fireplace, and stooping, peered up the chimney. Above him yawned a black cavernous depth, inky with the soot of years. Hans straightened himself, and tilting his leathern cap to one side, began scratching his bullet-head; at last he drew a long breath. "Yes, good," he muttered to himself; "he who jumps into the river must e'en swim the best he can. It is a vile, dirty place to thrust one's self; but I am in for it now, and must make the best of a lame horse." He settled the cap more firmly upon his head, spat upon his hands, and once more stooping in the fireplace, gave a leap, and up the chimney he went with a rattle of loose mortar and a black trickle of soot. By and by footsteps sounded outside the door. There was a pause; a hurried whispering of women's voices; the twitter of a nervous laugh, and then the door was pushed softly opens and the girl to whom the one-eyed Hans had given the necklace of blue and white beads with the filigree cross hanging from it, peeped uncertainly into the room. Behind her broad, heavy face were three others, equally homely and stolid; for a while all four stood there, looking blankly into the room and around it. Nothing was there but the peddler's knapsack lying in the middle of the floor-the man was gone. The light of expectancy slowly faded Out of the girl's face, and in its place succeeded first bewilderment and then dull alarm. "But, dear heaven," she said, "where then has the peddler man gone?" A moment or two of silence followed her speech. "Perhaps," said one of the others, in a voice hushed with awe, "perhaps it was the evil one himself to whom thou didst open the door." Again there was a hushed and breathless pause; it was the lass who had let Hans in at the postern, who next spoke. "Yes," said she, in a voice trembling with fright at what she had done, "yes, it must have been the evil one, for now I remember he had but one eye." The four girls crossed themselves, and their eyes grew big and round with the fright. Suddenly a shower of mortar came rattling down the chimney. "Ach!" cried the four, as with one voice. Bang! the door was clapped to and away they scurried like a flock of frightened rabbits. When Jacob, the watchman, came that way an hour later, upon his evening round of the castle, he found a peddler's knapsack lying in the middle of the floor. He turned it over with his pike-staff and saw that it was full of beads and trinkets and ribbons. "How came this here?" said he. And then, without waiting for the answer which he did not expect, he flung it over his shoulder and marched away with it. X. How Hans Brought Terror to the Kitchen. Hans found himself in a pretty pickle in the chimney, for the soot got into his one eye and set it to watering, and into his nose and set him to sneezing, and into his mouth and his ears and his hair. But still he struggled on, up and up; "for every chimney has a top," said Hans to himself "and I am sure to climb out somewhere or other." Suddenly he came to a place where another chimney joined the one he was climbing, and here he stopped to consider the matter at his leisure. "See now," he muttered, "if I still go upward I may come out at the top of some tall chimney-stack with no way of getting down outside. Now, below here there must be a fire-place somewhere, for a chimney does not start from nothing at all; yes, good! we will go down a while and see what we make of that." It was a crooked, zigzag road that he had to travel, and rough and hard into the bargain. His one eye tingled and smarted, and his knees and elbows were rubbed to the quick; nevertheless One-eyed Hans had been in worse trouble than this in his life. Down he went and down he went, further than he had climbed upward before. "Sure, I must be near some place or other," he thought. As though in instant answer to his thoughts, he heard the sudden sound of a voice so close beneath him that he stopped short in his downward climbing and stood as still as a mouse, with his heart in his mouth. A few inches more and he would have been discovered;--what would have happened then would have been no hard matter to foretell. Hans braced his back against one side of the chimney, his feet against the other and then, leaning forward, looked down between his knees. The gray light of the coming evening glimmered in a wide stone fireplace just below him. Within the fireplace two people were moving about upon the broad hearth, a great, fat woman and a shock-headed boy. The woman held a spit with two newly trussed fowls upon it, so that One-eyed Hans knew that she must be the cook. "Thou ugly toad," said the woman to the boy, "did I not bid thee make a fire an hour ago? and now, here there is not so much as a spark to roast the fowls withall, and they to be basted for the lord Baron's supper. Where hast thou been for all this time?" "No matter," said the boy, sullenly, as he laid the fagots ready for the lighting; "no matter, I was not running after Long Jacob, the bowman, to try to catch him for a sweetheart, as thou hast been doing." The reply was instant and ready. The cook raised her hand; "smack!" she struck and a roar from the scullion followed. "Yes, good," thought Hans, as he looked down upon them; "I am glad that the boy's ear was not on my head." "Now give me no more of thy talk," said the woman, "but do the work that thou hast been bidden." Then--"How came all this black soot here, I should like to know?" "How should I know?" snuffled the scullion, "mayhap thou wouldst blame that on me also?" "That is my doing," whispered Hans to himself; "but if they light the fire, what then becomes of me?" "See now," said the cook; "I go to make the cakes ready; if I come back and find that thou hast not built the fire, I will warm thy other ear for thee." "So," thought Hans; "then will be my time to come down the chimney, for there will be but one of them." The next moment he heard the door close and knew that the cook had gone to make the cakes ready as she said. And as he looked down he saw that the boy was bending over the bundle of fagots, blowing the spark that he had brought in upon the punk into a flame. The dry fagots began to crackle and blaze. "Now is my time," said Hans to himself. Bracing his elbows against each side of the chimney, he straightened his legs so that he might fall clear His motions loosened little shower of soot that fell rattling upon the fagots that were now beginning to blaze brightly, whereupon the boy raised his face and looked up. Hans loosened his hold upon the chimney; crash! he fell, lighting upon his feet in the midst of the burning fagots. The scullion boy tumbled backward upon the floor, where he lay upon the broad of his back with a face as white as dough and eyes and mouth agape, staring speechlessly at the frightful inky-black figure standing in the midst of the flames and smoke. Then his scattered wits came back to him. "It is the evil one," he roared. And thereupon, turning upon his side, he half rolled, half scrambled to the door. Then out he leaped and, banging it to behind him, flew down the passageway, yelling with fright and never daring once to look behind him. All the time One-eyed Hans was brushing away the sparks that clung to his clothes. He was as black as ink from head to foot with the soot from the chimney. "So far all is good," he muttered to himself, "but if I go wandering about in my sooty shoes I will leave black tracks to follow me, so there is nothing to do but e'en to go barefoot." He stooped and drawing the pointed soft leather shoes from his feet, he threw them upon the now blazing fagots, where they writhed and twisted and wrinkled, and at last burst into a flame. Meanwhile Hans lost no time; he must find a hiding-place, and quickly, if he would yet hope to escape. A great bread trough stood in the corner of the kitchen--a hopper-shaped chest with a flat lid. It was the best hiding place that the room afforded. Without further thought Hans ran to it, snatching up from the table as he passed a loaf of black bread and a bottle half full of stale wine, for he had had nothing to eat since that morning. Into the great bread trough he climbed, and drawing the lid down upon him, curled himself up as snugly as a mouse in its nest. For a while the kitchen lay in silence, but at last the sound of voices was heard at the door, whispering together in low tones. Suddenly the door was flung open and a tall, lean, lantern-jawed fellow, clad in rough frieze, strode into the room and stood there glaring with half frightened boldness around about him; three or four women and the trembling scullion crowded together in a frightened group behind him. The man was Long Jacob, the bowman; but, after all, his boldness was all wasted, for not a thread or a hair was to be seen, but only the crackling fire throwing its cheerful ruddy glow upon the wall of the room, now rapidly darkening in the falling gray of the twilight without. The fat cook's fright began rapidly to turn into anger. "Thou imp," she cried, "it is one of thy tricks," and she made a dive for the scullion, who ducked around the skirts of one of the other women and so escaped for the time; but Long Jacob wrinkled up his nose and sniffed. "Nay," said he, "me thinks that there lieth some truth in the tale that the boy hath told, for here is a vile smell of burned horn that the black one bath left behind him." It was the smell from the soft leather shoes that Hans had burned. The silence of night had fallen over the Castle of Trutz-Drachen; not a sound was heard but the squeaking of mice scurring behind the wainscoting, the dull dripping of moisture from the eaves, or the sighing of the night wind around the gables and through the naked windows of the castle. The lid of the great dough trough was softly raised, and a face, black with soot, peeped cautiously out from under it. Then little by little arose a figure as black as the face; and One-eyed Hans stepped out upon the floor, stretching and rubbing himself. "Methinks I must have slept," he muttered. "Hui, I am as stiff as a new leather doublet, and now, what next is to become of me? I hope my luck may yet stick to me, in spite of this foul black soot!" Along the middle of the front of the great hall of the castle, ran a long stone gallery, opening at one end upon the court-yard by a high flight of stone steps. A man-at-arms in breast-plate and steel cap, and bearing a long pike, paced up and down the length of this gallery, now and then stopping, leaning over the edge, and gazing up into the starry sky above; then, with a long drawn yawn, lazily turning back to the monotonous watch again. A dark figure crept out from an arched doorway at the lower part of the long straight building, and some little distance below the end gallery, but the sentry saw nothing of it, for his back was turned. As silently and as stealthily as a cat the figure crawled along by the dark shadowy wall, now and then stopping, and then again creeping slowly forward toward the gallery where the man-at-arms moved monotonously up and down. It was One-eyed Hans in his bare feet. Inch by inch, foot by foot--the black figure crawled along in the angle of the wall; inch by inch and foot by foot, but ever nearer and nearer to the long straight row of stone steps that led to the covered gallery. At last it crouched at the lowest step of the flight. Just then the sentinel upon watch came to the very end of the gallery and stood there leaning upon his spear. Had he looked down below he could not have failed to have seen One-eyed Hans lying there motionlessly; but he was gazing far away over the steep black roofs beyond, and never saw the unsuspected presence. Minute after minute passed, and the one stood there looking out into the night and the other lay crouching by the wall; then with a weary sigh the sentry turned and began slowly pacing back again toward the farther end of the gallery. Instantly the motionless figure below arose and glided noiselessly and swiftly up the flight of steps. Two rude stone pillars flanked either side of the end of the gallery. Like a shadow the black figure slipped behind one of these, flattening itself up against the wall, where it stood straight and motionless as the shadows around it. Down the long gallery came the watchman, his sword clinking loudly in the silence as he walked, tramp, tramp, tramp! clink, clank, jingle. Within three feet of the motionless figure behind the pillar he turned, and began retracing his monotonous steps. Instantly the other left the shadow of the post and crept rapidly and stealthily after him. One step, two steps the sentinel took; for a moment the black figure behind him seemed to crouch and draw together, then like a flash it leaped forward upon its victim. A shadowy cloth fell upon the man's face, and in an instant he was flung back and down with a muffled crash upon the stones. Then followed a fierce and silent struggle in the darkness, but strong and sturdy as the man was, he was no match for the almost superhuman strength of One-eyed Hans. The cloth which he had flung over his head was tied tightly and securely. Then the man was forced upon his face and, in spite of his fierce struggles, his arms were bound around and around with strong fine cord; next his feet were bound in the same way, and the task was done. Then Hans stood upon his feet, and wiped the sweat from his swarthy forehead. "Listen, brother," he whispered, and as he spoke he stooped and pressed something cold and hard against the neck of the other. "Dost thou know the feel of this? It is a broad dagger, and if thou dost contrive to loose that gag from thy mouth and makest any outcry, it shall be sheathed in thy weasand." So saying, he thrust the knife back again into its sheath, then stooping and picking up the other, he flung him across his shoulder like a sack, and running down the steps as lightly as though his load was nothing at all, he carried his burden to the arched doorway whence he had come a little while before. There, having first stripped his prisoner of all his weapons, Hans sat the man up in the angle of the wall. "So, brother;" said he, "now we can talk with more ease than we could up yonder. I will tell thee frankly why I am here; it is to find where the young Baron Otto of Drachenhausen is kept. If thou canst tell me, well and good; if not, I must e'en cut thy weasand and find me one who knoweth more. Now, canst thou tell me what I would learn, brother?" The other nodded dimly in the darkness. "That is good," said Hans, "then I will loose thy gag until thou hast told me; only bear in mind what I said concerning my dagger." Thereupon, he unbound his prisoner, and the fellow slowly rose to his feet. He shook himself and looked all about him in a heavy, bewildered fashion, as though he had just awakened from a dream. His right hand slid furtively down to his side, but the dagger-sheath was empty. "Come, brother!" said Hans, impatiently, "time is passing, and once lost can never be found again. Show me the way to the young Baron Otto or--." And he whetted the shining blade of his dagger on his horny palm. The fellow needed no further bidding; turning, he led the way, and together they were swallowed up in the yawning shadows, and again the hush of night-time lay upon the Castle of Trutz-Drachen. XI. How Otto was Saved. Little Otto was lying upon the hard couch in his cell, tossing in restless and feverish sleep; suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon him and a voice whispered in his ear, "Baron, Baron Otto, waken, rouse yourself; I am come to help you. I am One-eyed Hans." Otto was awake in an instant and raised himself upon his elbow in the darkness. "One-eyed Hans," he breathed, "One-eyed Hans; who is One-eyed Hans?" "True," said the other, "thou dost not know me. I am thy father's trusted servant, and am the only one excepting his own blood and kin who has clung to him in this hour of trouble. Yes, all are gone but me alone, and so I have come to help thee away from this vile place." "Oh, dear, good Hans! if only thou canst!" cried Otto; "if only thou canst take me away from this wicked place. Alas, dear Hans! I am weary and sick to death." And poor little Otto began to weep silently in the darkness. "Aye, aye," said Hans, gruffly, "it is no place for a little child to be. Canst thou climb, my little master? canst thou climb a knotted rope?" "Nay," said Otto, "I can never climb again! See, Hans;" and he flung back the covers from off him. "I cannot see," said Hans, "it is too dark." "Then feel, dear Hans," said Otto. Hans bent over the poor little white figure glimmering palely in the darkness. Suddenly he drew back with a snarl like an angry wolf. "Oh! the black, bloody wretches!" he cried, hoarsely; "and have they done that to thee, a little child?" "Yes," said Otto, "the Baron Henry did it." And then again he began to cry. "There, there," said Hans, roughly, "weep no more. Thou shalt get away from here even if thou canst not climb; I myself will help thee. Thy father is already waiting below the window here, and thou shalt soon be with him. There, there, cry no more." While he was speaking Hans had stripped off his peddler's leathern jacket, and there, around his body, was wrapped coil after coil of stout hempen rope tied in knots at short distances. He began unwinding the rope, and when he had done he was as thin as ever he had been before. Next he drew from the pouch that hung at his side a ball of fine cord and a leaden weight pierced by a hole, both of which he had brought with him for the use to which he now put them. He tied the lead to the end of the cord, then whirling the weight above his head, he flung it up toward the window high above. Twice the piece of lead fell back again into the room; the third time it flew out between the iron bars carrying the cord with it. Hans held the ball in his hand and paid out the string as the weight carried it downward toward the ground beneath. Suddenly the cord stopped running. Hans jerked it and shook it, but it moved no farther. "Pray heaven, little child," said he, "that it hath reached the ground, for if it hath not we are certainly lost." "I do pray," said Otto, and he bowed his head. Then, as though in answer to his prayer, there came a twitch upon the cord. "See," said Hans, "they have heard thee up above in heaven; it was thy father who did that." Quickly and deftly he tied the cord to the end of the knotted rope; then he gave an answering jerk upon the string. The next moment the rope was drawn up to the window and down the outside by those below. Otto lay watching the rope as it crawled up to the window and out into the night like a great snake, while One-eyed Hans held the other end lest it should be drawn too far. At last it stopped. "Good," muttered Hans, as though to himself. "The rope is long enough." He waited for a few minutes and then, drawing upon the rope and finding that it was held from below, he spat upon his hands and began slowly climbing up to the window above. Winding his arm around the iron bars of the grating that guarded it, he thrust his hand into the pouch that hung by his side, and drawing forth a file, fell to work cutting through all that now lay between Otto and liberty. It was slow, slow work, and it seemed to Otto as though Hans would never finish his task, as lying upon his hard couch he watched that figure, black against the sky, bending over its work. Now and then the file screeched against the hard iron, and then Hans would cease for a moment, but only to begin again as industriously as ever. Three or four times he tried the effects of his work, but still the iron held. At last he set his shoulder against it, and as Otto looked he saw the iron bend. Suddenly there was a sharp crack, and a piece of the grating went flying out into the night. Hans tied the rope securely about the stump of the stout iron bar that yet remained, and then slid down again into the room below. "My little lord," said he, "dost thou think that if I carry thee, thou wilt be able and strong enough to cling to my neck?" "Aye," said Otto, "methinks I will be able to do that." "Then come," said Hans. He stooped as he spoke, and gently lifting Otto from his rude and rugged bed he drew his broad leathern belt around them both, buckling it firmly and securely. "It does not hurt thee?" said he. "Not much," whispered Otto faintly. Then Hans spat upon his hands, and began slowly climbing the rope. They reached the edge of the window and there they rested for a moment, and Otto renewed his hold around the neck of the faithful Hans. "And now art thou ready?" said Hans "Aye," said Otto. "Then courage," said Hans, and he turned and swung his leg over the abyss below. The next moment they were hanging in mid-air. Otto looked down and gave a gasp. "The mother of heaven bless us," he whispered, and then closed his eyes, faint and dizzy at the sight of that sheer depth beneath. Hans said nothing, but shutting his teeth and wrapping his legs around the rope, he began slowly descending, hand under hand. Down, down, down he went, until to Otto, with his eyes shut and his head leaning upon Hans' shoulder, it seemed as though it could never end. Down, down, down. Suddenly he felt Hans draw a deep breath; there was a slight jar, and Otto opened his eyes; Hans was standing upon the ground. A figure wrapped in a dark cloak arose from the shadow of the wall, and took Otto in its arms. It was Baron Conrad. "My son--my little child!" he cried, in a choked, trembling voice, and that was all. And Otto pressed his cheek against his father's and began crying. Suddenly the Baron gave a sharp, fierce cry. "Dear Heaven!" he cried; "what have they done to thee?" But poor little Otto could not answer. "Oh!" gasped the Baron, in a strangled voice, "my little child! my little child!" And therewith he broke down, and his whole body shook with fierce, dry sobs; for men in those days did not seek to hide their grief as they do now, but were fierce and strong in the expression of that as of all else. "Never mind, dear father," whispered Otto; "it did not hurt me so very much," and he pressed his lips against his father's cheek. Little Otto had but one hand. XII. A Ride For Life. But not yet was Otto safe, and all danger past and gone by. Suddenly, as they stood there, the harsh clangor of a bell broke the silence of the starry night above their heads, and as they raised their faces and looked up, they saw lights flashing from window to window. Presently came the sound of a hoarse voice shouting something that, from the distance, they could not understand. One-eyed Hans smote his hand upon his thigh. Look said he, "here is what comes of having a soft heart in one's bosom. I overcame and bound a watchman up yonder, and forced him to tell me where our young Baron lay. It was on my mind to run my knife into him after he had told me every thing, but then, bethinking how the young Baron hated the thought of bloodshed, I said to myself, 'No, Hans, I will spare the villain's life.' See now what comes of being merciful; here, by hook or by crook, the fellow has loosed himself from his bonds, and brings the whole castle about our ears like a nest of wasps." "We must fly," said the Baron; "for nothing else in the world is left me, now that all have deserted me in this black time of trouble, excepting these six faithful ones." His voice was bitter, bitter, as he spoke; then stooping, he raised Otto in his arms, and bearing him gently, began rapidly descending the rocky slope to the level road that ran along the edge of the hill beneath. Close behind him followed the rest; Hans still grimed with soot and in his bare feet. A little distance from the road and under the shade of the forest trees, seven horses stood waiting. The Baron mounted upon his great black charger, seating little Otto upon the saddle in front of him. "Forward!" he cried, and away they clattered and out upon the road. Then--"To St. Michaelsburg," said Baron Conrad, in his deep voice, and the horses' heads were turned to the westward, and away they galloped through the black shadows of the forest, leaving Trutz-Drachen behind them. But still the sound of the alarm bell rang through the beating of the horses' hoofs, and as Hans looked over his shoulder, he saw the light of torches flashing hither and thither along the outer walls in front of the great barbican. In Castle Trutz-Drachen all was confusion and uproar: flashing torches lit up the dull gray walls; horses neighed and stamped, and men shouted and called to one another in the bustle of making ready. Presently Baron Henry came striding along the corridor clad in light armor, which he had hastily donned when roused from his sleep by the news that his prisoner had escaped. Below in the courtyard his horse was standing, and without waiting for assistance, he swung himself into the saddle. Then away they all rode and down the steep path, armor ringing, swords clanking, and iron-shod hoofs striking sparks of fire from the hard stones. At their head rode Baron Henry; his triangular shield hung over his shoulder, and in his hand he bore a long, heavy, steel-pointed lance with a pennant flickering darkly from the end. At the high-road at the base of the slope they paused, for they were at a loss to know which direction the fugitives had taken; a half a score of the retainers leaped from their horses, and began hurrying about hither and thither, and up and down, like hounds searching for the lost scent, and all the time Baron Henry sat still as a rock in the midst of the confusion. Suddenly a shout was raised from the forest just beyond the road; they had come upon the place where the horses had been tied. It was an easy matter to trace the way that Baron Conrad and his followers had taken thence back to the high-road, but there again they were at a loss. The road ran straight as an arrow eastward and westward--had the fugitives taken their way to the east or to the west? Baron Henry called his head-man, Nicholas Stein, to him, and the two spoke together for a while in an undertone. At last the Baron's lieutenant reined his horse back, and choosing first one and then another, divided the company into two parties. The baron placed himself at the head of one band and Nicholas Stein at the head of the other. "Forward!" he cried, and away clattered the two companies of horsemen in opposite directions. It was toward the westward that Baron Henry of Trutz-Drachen rode at the head of his men. The early springtide sun shot its rays of misty, yellow light across the rolling tops of the forest trees where the little birds were singing in the glory of the May morning. But Baron Henry and his followers thought nothing of the beauty of the peaceful day, and heard nothing of the multitudinous sound of the singing birds as, with a confused sound of galloping hoofs, they swept along the highway, leaving behind them a slow-curling, low-trailing cloud of dust. As the sun rose more full and warm, the misty wreaths began to dissolve, until at last they parted and rolled asunder like a white curtain and there, before the pursuing horsemen, lay the crest of the mountain toward which they were riding, and up which the road wound steeply. "Yonder they are," cried a sudden voice behind Baron Henry of Trutz-Drachen, and at the cry all looked upward. Far away upon the mountain-side curled a cloud of dust, from the midst of which came the star-like flash of burnished armor gleaming in the sun. Baron Henry said never a word, but his lips curled in a grim smile. And as the mist wreaths parted One-eyed Hans looked behind and down into the leafy valley beneath. "Yonder they come," said he. "They have followed sharply to gain so much upon us, even though our horses are wearied with all the travelling we have done hither and yon these five days past. How far is it, Lord Baron, from here to Michaelsburg?" "About ten leagues," said the Baron, in a gloomy voice. Hans puckered his mouth as though to whistle, but the Baron saw nothing of it, for he was gazing straight before him with a set and stony face. Those who followed him looked at one another, and the same thought was in the mind of each--how long would it be before those who pursued would close the distance between them? When that happened it meant death to one and all. They reached the crest of the hill, and down they dashed upon the other side; for there the road was smooth and level as it sloped away into the valley, but it was in dead silence that they rode. Now and then those who followed the Baron looked back over their shoulders. They had gained a mile upon their pursuers when the helmeted heads rose above the crest of the mountain, but what was the gain of a mile with a smooth road between them, and fresh horses to weary ones? On they rode and on they rode. The sun rose higher and higher, and hotter and hotter. There was no time to rest and water their panting horses. Only once, when they crossed a shallow stretch of water, the poor animals bent their heads and caught a few gulps from the cool stream, and the One-eyed Hans washed a part of the soot from his hands and face. On and on they rode; never once did the Baron Conrad move his head or alter that steadfast look as, gazing straight before him, he rode steadily forward along the endless stretch of road, with poor little Otto's yellow head and white face resting against his steel-clad shoulder--and St. Michaelsburg still eight leagues away. A little rise of ground lay before them, and as they climbed it, all, excepting the baron, turned their heads as with one accord and looked behind them. Then more than one heart failed, for through the leaves of the trees below, they caught the glint of armor of those who followed--not more than a mile away. The next moment they swept over the crest, and there, below them, lay the broad shining river, and nearer a tributary stream spanned by a rude, narrow, three-arched, stone bridge where the road crossed the deep, slow-moving water. Down the slope plodded the weary horses, and so to the bridge-head. "Halt," cried the baron suddenly, and drew rein. The others stood bewildered. What did he mean to do? He turned to Hans and his blue eyes shone like steel. "Hans," said he, in his deep voice, "thou hast served me long and truly; wilt thou for this one last time do my bidding?" "Aye," said Hans, briefly. "Swear it," said the Baron. "I swear it," said Hans, and he drew the sign of the cross upon his heart. "That is good," said the Baron, grimly. "Then take thou this child, and with the others ride with all the speed that thou canst to St. Michaelsburg. Give the child into the charge of the Abbot Otto. Tell him how that I have sworn fealty to the Emperor, and what I have gained thereby--my castle burnt, my people slain, and this poor, simple child, my only son, mutilated by my enemy. "And thou, my Lord Baron?" said Hans. "I will stay here," said the Baron, quietly, "and keep back those who follow as long as God will give me grace so to do." A murmur of remonstrance rose among the faithful few who were with him, two of whom were near of kin. But Conrad of Drachenhausen turned fiercely upon them. "How now," said he, "have I fallen so low in my troubles that even ye dare to raise your voices against me? By the good Heaven, I will begin my work here by slaying the first man who dares to raise word against my bidding." Then he turned from them. "Here, Hans," said he, "take the boy; and remember, knave, what thou hast sworn." He pressed Otto close to his breast in one last embrace. "My little child," he murmured, "try not to hate thy father when thou thinkest of him hereafter, even though he be hard and bloody as thou knowest." But with his suffering and weakness, little Otto knew nothing of what was passing; it was only as in a faint flickering dream that he lived in what was done around him. "Farewell, Otto," said the Baron, but Otto's lips only moved faintly in answer. His father kissed him upon either cheek. "Come, Hans," said he, hastily, "take him hence;" and he loosed Otto's arms from about his neck. Hans took Otto upon the saddle in front of him. "Oh! my dear Lord Baron," said he, and then stopped with a gulp, and turned his grotesquely twitching face aside. "Go," said the Baron, harshly, "there is no time to lose in woman's tears." "Farewell, Conrad! farewell, Conrad!" said his two kinsmen, and coming forward they kissed him upon the cheek then they turned and rode away after Hans, and Baron Conrad was left alone to face his mortal foe. XIII. How Baron Conrad Held the Bridge. As the last of his followers swept around the curving road and was lost to sight, Baron Conrad gave himself a shake, as though to drive away the thoughts that lay upon him. Then he rode slowly forward to the middle of the bridge, where he wheeled his horse so as to face his coming enemies. He lowered the vizor of his helmet and bolted it to its place, and then saw that sword and dagger were loose in the scabbard and easy to draw when the need for drawing should arise. Down the steep path from the hill above swept the pursuing horsemen. Down the steep path to the bridge-head and there drew rein; for in the middle of the narrow way sat the motionless, steel-clad figure upon the great war-horse, with wide, red, panting nostrils, and body streaked with sweat and flecked with patches of foam. One side of the roadway of the bridge was guarded by a low stone wall; the other side was naked and open and bare to the deep, slow-moving water beneath. It was a dangerous place to attack a desperate man clad in armor of proof. "Forward!" cried Baron Henry, but not a soul stirred in answer, and still the iron-clad figure sat motionless and erect upon the panting horse. "How," cried the Baron Henry, "are ye afraid of one man? Then follow me!" and he spurred forward to the bridge-head. But still no one moved in answer, and the Lord of Trutz-Drachen reined back his horse again. He wheeled his horse and glared round upon the stolid faces of his followers, until his eyes seemed fairly to blaze with passion beneath the bars of his vizor. Baron Conrad gave a roar of laughter. "How now," he cried; "are ye all afraid of one man? Is there none among ye that dares come forward and meet me? I know thee, Baron Henry thou art not afraid to cut off the hand of a little child. Hast thou not now the courage to face the father?" Baron Henry gnashed his teeth with rage as he glared around upon the faces of his men-at-arms. Suddenly his eye lit upon one of them. "Ha! Carl Spigler," he cried, "thou hast thy cross-bow with thee;--shoot me down yonder dog! Nay," he said, "thou canst do him no harm under his armor; shoot the horse upon which he sits." Baron Conrad heard the speech. "Oh! thou coward villain!" he cried, "stay; do not shoot the good horse. I will dismount and fight ye upon foot." Thereupon, armed as he was, he leaped clashing from his horse and turning the animal's head, gave it a slap upon the flank. The good horse first trotted and then walked to the further end of the bridge, where it stopped and began cropping at the grass that grew beside the road. "Now then!" cried Baron Henry, fiercely, "now then, ye cannot fear him, villains! Down with him! forward!" Slowly the troopers spurred their horses forward upon the bridge and toward that one figure that, grasping tightly the great two-handed sword, stood there alone guarding the passage. Then Baron Conrad whirled the great blade above his head, until it caught the sunlight and flashed again. He did not wait for the attack, but when the first of the advancing horsemen had come within a few feet of him, he leaped with a shout upon them. The fellow thrust at him with his lance, and the Baron went staggering a few feet back, but instantly he recovered himself and again leaped forward. The great sword flashed in the air, whistling; it fell, and the nearest man dropped his lance, clattering, and with a loud, inarticulate cry, grasped the mane of his horse with both hands. Again the blade whistled in the air, and this time it was stained with red. Again it fell, and with another shrill cry the man toppled headlong beneath the horse's feet. The next instant they were upon him, each striving to strike at the one figure, to ride him down, or to thrust him down with their lances. There was no room now to swing the long blade, but holding the hilt in both hands, Baron Conrad thrust with it as though it were a lance, stabbing at horse or man, it mattered not. Crowded upon the narrow roadway of the bridge, those who attacked had not only to guard themselves against the dreadful strokes of that terrible sword, but to keep their wounded horses (rearing and mad with fright) from toppling bodily over with them into the water beneath. Presently the cry was raised, "Back! back!" And those nearest the Baron began reining in their horses. "Forward!" roared Baron Henry, from the midst of the crowd; but in spite of his command, and even the blows that he gave, those behind were borne back by those in front, struggling and shouting, and the bridge was cleared again excepting for three figures that lay motionless upon the roadway, and that one who, with the brightness of his armor dimmed and stained, leaned panting against the wall of the bridge. The Baron Henry raged like a madman. Gnashing his teeth together, he rode back a little way; then turning and couching his lance, he suddenly clapped spurs to his horse, and the next instant came thundering down upon his solitary enemy. Baron Conrad whirled his sword in the air, as he saw the other coming like a thunderbolt upon him; he leaped aside, and the lance passed close to him. As it passed he struck, and the iron point flew from the shaft of the spear at the blow, and fell clattering upon the stone roadway of the bridge. Baron Henry drew in his horse until it rested upon its haunches, then slowly reined it backward down the bridge, still facing his foe, and still holding the wooden stump of the lance in his hand. At the bridge-head he flung it from him. "Another lance!" he cried, hoarsely. One was silently reached to him and he took it, his hand trembling with rage. Again he rode to a little distance and wheeled his horse; then, driving his steel spurs into its quivering side, he came again thundering down upon the other. Once more the terrible sword whirled in the air and fell, but this time the lance was snatched to one side and the blow fell harmlessly. The next instant, and with a twitch of the bridle-rein, the horse struck full and fair against the man. Conrad of Drachenhausen was whirled backward and downward, and the cruel iron hoofs crashed over his prostrate body, as horse and man passed with a rush beyond him and to the bridge-head beyond. A shout went up from those who stood watching. The next moment the prostrate figure rose and staggered blindly to the side of the bridge, and stood leaning against the stone wall. At the further end of the bridge Baron Henry had wheeled his horse. Once again he couched lance, and again he drove down upon his bruised and wounded enemy. This time the lance struck full and fair, and those who watched saw the steel point pierce the iron breast-plate and then snap short, leaving the barbed point within the wound. Baron Conrad sunk to his knees and the Roderburg, looming upon his horse above him, unsheathed his sword to finish the work he had begun. Then those who stood looking on saw a wondrous thing happen: the wounded man rose suddenly to his feet, and before his enemy could strike he leaped, with a great and bitter cry of agony and despair, upon him as he sat in the saddle above. Henry of Trutz-Drachen grasped at his horse's mane, but the attack was so fierce, so sudden, and so unexpected that before he could save himself he was dragged to one side and fell crashing in his armor upon the stone roadway of the bridge. "The dragon! the dragon!" roared Baron Conrad, in a voice of thunder, and with the energy of despair he dragged his prostrate foe toward the open side of the bridge. "Forward!" cried the chief of the Trutz-Drachen men, and down they rode upon the struggling knights to the rescue of their master in this new danger. But they were too late. There was a pause at the edge of the bridge, for Baron Henry had gained his feet and, stunned and bewildered as he was by the suddenness of his fall, he was now struggling fiercely, desperately. For a moment they stood swaying backward and forward, clasped in one another's arms, the blood from the wounded man's breast staining the armor of both. The moment passed and then, with a shower of stones and mortar from beneath their iron-shod heels, they toppled and fell; there was a thunderous splash in the water below, and as the men-at-arms came hurrying up and peered with awe-struck faces over the parapet of the bridge, they saw the whirling eddies sweep down with the current of the stream, a few bubbles rise to the surface of the water, and then--nothing; for the smooth river flowed onward as silently as ever. Presently a loud voice burst through the awed hush that followed. It came from William of Roderburg, Baron Henry's kinsman. "Forward!" he cried. A murmur of voices from the others was all the answer that he received. "Forward!" cried the young man again, "the boy and those with him are not so far away but that we might yet catch up with them." Then one of the men spoke up in answer--a man with a seamed, weather-beaten face and crisp grizzled hair. "Nay," said he, "our Lord Baron is gone, and this is no quarrel of ours; here be four of us that are wounded and three I misdoubt that are dead; why should we follow further only to suffer more blows for no gain?" A growl of assent rose from those that stood around, and William of Roderburg saw that nothing more was to be done by the Trutz-Dragons that day. XIV. How Otto Saw the Great Emperor. Through weakness and sickness and faintness, Otto had lain in a half swoon through all that long journey under the hot May sun. It was as in a dreadful nightmare that he had heard on and on and on that monotonous throbbing of galloping hoofs upon the ground; had felt that last kiss that his father had given him upon his cheek. Then the onward ride again, until all faded away into a dull mist and he knew no more. When next he woke it was with the pungent smell of burned vinegar in his nostrils and with the feeling of a cool napkin bathing his brow. He opened his eyes and then closed them again, thinking he must have been in a dream, for he lay in his old room at the peaceful monastery of the White Cross on the hill; the good Father Abbot sat near by, gazing upon his face with the old absent student look, Brother John sat in the deep window seat also gazing at him, and Brother Theodore, the leech of the monastery, sat beside him bathing his head. Beside these old familiar faces were the faces of those who had been with him in that long flight; the One-eyed Hans, old Master Nicholas his kinsman, and the others. So he closed his eyes, thinking that maybe it was all a dream. But the sharp throbbing of the poor stump at his wrist soon taught him that he was still awake. "Am I then really home in St. Michaelsburg again?" he murmured, without unclosing his eyes. Brother Theodore began snuffling through his nose; there was a pause. "Yes," said the old Abbot at last, and his gentle voice trembled as he spoke; "yes, my dear little child, thou art back again in thine own home; thou hast not been long out in the great world, but truly thou hast had a sharp and bitter trial of it." "But they will not take me away again, will they?" said Otto quickly, unclosing his blue eyes. "Nay," said the Abbot, gently; "not until thou art healed in body and art ready and willing to go." Three months and more had passed, and Otto was well again; and now, escorted by One-eyed Hans and those faithful few who had clung to the Baron Conrad through his last few bitter days, he was riding into the quaint old town of Nurnburg; for the Emperor Rudolph was there at that time, waiting for King Ottocar of Bohemia to come thither and answer the imperial summons before the Council, and Otto was travelling to the court. As they rode in through the gates of the town, Otto looked up at the high-peaked houses with their overhanging gables, the like of which he had never seen before, and he stared with his round blue eyes at seeing them so crowded together along the length of the street. But most of all he wondered at the number of people that passed hither and thither, jostling each other in their hurry, and at the tradesmen's booths opening upon the street with the wonderful wares hanging within; armor at the smiths, glittering ornaments at the goldsmiths, and rich fabrics of silks and satins at the mercers. He had never seen anything so rich and grand in all of his life, for little Otto had never been in a town before. "Oh! look," he cried, "at that wonderful lady; see, holy father! sure the Emperor's wife can be no finer than that lady." The Abbot smiled. "Nay, Otto," said he, "that is but a burgher's wife or daughter; the ladies at the Emperor's court are far grander than such as she." "So!" said Otto, and then fell silent with wonder. And now, at last the great moment had come when little Otto with his own eyes was to behold the mighty Emperor who ruled over all the powerful kingdoms of Germany and Austria, and Italy and Bohemia, and other kingdoms and principalities and states. His heart beat so that he could hardly speak as, for a moment, the good Abbot who held him by the hand stopped outside of the arrased doorway to whisper some last instructions into his ear. Then they entered the apartment. It was a long, stone-paved room. The floor was covered with rich rugs and the walls were hung with woven tapestry wherein were depicted knights and ladies in leafy gardens and kings and warriors at battle. A long row of high glazed windows extended along the length of the apartment, flooding it with the mellow light of the autumn day. At the further end of the room, far away, and standing by a great carved chimney place wherein smouldered the remains of a fire, stood a group of nobles in gorgeous dress of velvet and silks, and with glittering golden chains hung about their necks. One figure stood alone in front of the great yawning fireplace. His hands were clasped behind him, and his look bent thoughtfully upon the floor. He was dressed only in a simple gray robe without ornament or adornment, a plain leathern belt girded his waist, and from it hung a sword with a bone hilt encased in a brown leathern scabbard. A noble stag-hound lay close behind him, curled up upon the floor, basking in the grateful warmth of the fire. As the Father Abbot and Otto drew near he raised his head and looked at them. It was a plain, homely face that Otto saw, with a wrinkled forehead and a long mouth drawn down at the corners. It was the face of a good, honest burgher burdened with the cares of a prosperous trade. "Who can he be," thought Otto, "and why does the poor man stand there among all the great nobles?" But the Abbot walked straight up to him and kneeled upon the floor, and little Otto, full of wonder, did the same. It was the great Emperor Rudolph. "Who have we here," said the Emperor, and he bent his brow upon the Abbot and the boy. "Sire," said Abbot Otto, "we have humbly besought you by petition, in the name of your late vassal, Baron Conrad of Vuelph of Drachenhausen, for justice to this his son, the Baron Otto, whom, sire, as you may see, hath been cruelly mutilated at the hands of Baron Henry of Roderburg of Trutz-Drachen. He hath moreover been despoiled of his lands, his castle burnt, and his household made prisoner." The Emperor frowned until the shaggy eyebrows nearly hid the keen gray twinkle of the eyes beneath. "Yes," said he, "I do remember me of that petition, and have given it consideration both in private and in council." He turned to the group of listening nobles. "Look," said he, "at this little child marred by the inhumanity and the cruelty of those robber villains. By heavens! I will put down their lawless rapine, if I have to give every castle from the north to the south to the flames and to the sword." Then turning to Otto again, "Poor little child," said he, "thy wrongs shall be righted, and so far as they are able, those cruel Roderburgs shall pay thee penny for penny, and grain for grain, for what thou hast lost; and until such indemnity hath been paid the family of the man who wrought this deed shall be held as surety." Little Otto looked up in the kind, rugged face above him. "Nay, Lord Emperor," said he, in his quaint, quiet way, "there are but two in the family--the mother and the daughter--and I have promised to marry the little girl when she and I are old enough; so, if you please, I would not have harm happen to her." The Emperor continued to look down at the kneeling boy, and at last he gave a short, dry laugh. "So be it," said he, "thy plan is not without its wisdom. Mayhap it is all for the best that the affair should be ended thus peacefully. The estates of the Roderburgs shall be held in trust for thee until thou art come of age; otherwise it shall be as thou hast proposed, the little maiden shall be taken into ward under our own care. And as to thee--art thou willing that I should take thee under my own charge in the room of thy father, who is dead?" "Aye," said Otto, simply, "I am willing, for it seems to me that thou art a good man." The nobles who stood near smiled at the boy's speech. As for the Emperor, he laughed outright. "I give thee thanks, my Lord Baron," said he; "there is no one in all my court who has paid me greater courtesy than that." So comes the end of our tale. But perhaps you may like to know what happened afterward, for no one cares to leave the thread of a story without tying a knot in it. Eight years had passed, and Otto grew up to manhood in the Emperor's court, and was with him through war and peace. But he himself never drew sword or struck a blow, for the right hand that hung at his side was of pure silver, and the hard, cold fingers never closed. Folks called him "Otto of the Silver Hand," but perhaps there was another reason than that for the name that had been given him, for the pure, simple wisdom that the old monks of the White Cross on the hill had taught him, clung to him through all the honors that the Emperor bestowed upon his favorite, and as he grew older his words were listened to and weighed by those who were high in Council, and even by the Emperor himself. And now for the end of all. One day Otto stood uncertainly at the doorway of a room in the imperial castle, hesitating before he entered; and yet there was nothing so very dreadful within, only one poor girl whose heart fluttered more than his. Poor little Pauline, whom he had not seen since that last day in the black cell at Trutz-Drachen. At last he pushed aside the hangings and entered the room. She was sitting upon a rude bench beside the window, looking at him out of her great, dark eyes. He stopped short and stood for a moment confused and silent; for he had no thought in his mind but of the little girl whom he had last seen, and for a moment he stood confused before the fair maiden with her great, beautiful dark eyes. She on her part beheld a tall, slender youth with curling, golden hair, one hand white and delicate, the other of pure and shining silver. He came to her and took her hand and set it to his lips, and all that she could do was to gaze with her great, dark eyes upon the hero of whom she had heard so many talk; the favorite of the Emperor; the wise young Otto of the Silver Hand. Afterword The ruins of Drachenhausen were rebuilt, for the walls were as sound as ever, though empty and gaping to the sky; but it was no longer the den of a robber baron for beneath the scutcheon over the great gate was carved a new motto of the Vuelphs; a motto which the Emperor Rudolph himself had given: "Manus argentea quam manus ferrea melior est." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Otto of the Silver Hand, by Howard Pyle Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How is Mary initially educated?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "She educates herself using books and the natural world." ]	23,312	narrativeqa	en	null	cf6cd2d8526658bac5ee4a39bc0237021c54eec652d27d1b	E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Janet Blenkinship, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/) Transcriber's note: The author is Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-1797). MARY, A Fiction L'exercice des plus sublimes vertus éleve et nourrit le génie. ROUSSEAU. London, Printed for J. Johnson, St. Paul's Church-Yard. MDCCLXXXVIII ADVERTISEMENT. In delineating the Heroine of this Fiction, the Author attempts to develop a character different from those generally portrayed. This woman is neither a Clarissa, a Lady G----, nor a[A] Sophie.--It would be vain to mention the various modifications of these models, as it would to remark, how widely artists wander from nature, when they copy the originals of great masters. They catch the gross parts; but the subtile spirit evaporates; and not having the just ties, affectation disgusts, when grace was expected to charm. Those compositions only have power to delight, and carry us willing captives, where the soul of the author is exhibited, and animates the hidden springs. Lost in a pleasing enthusiasm, they live in the scenes they represent; and do not measure their steps in a beaten track, solicitous to gather expected flowers, and bind them in a wreath, according to the prescribed rules of art. These chosen few, wish to speak for themselves, and not to be an echo--even of the sweetest sounds--or the reflector of the most sublime beams. The[B] paradise they ramble in, must be of their own creating--or the prospect soon grows insipid, and not varied by a vivifying principle, fades and dies. In an artless tale, without episodes, the mind of a woman, who has thinking powers is displayed. The female organs have been thought too weak for this arduous employment; and experience seems to justify the assertion. Without arguing physically about _possibilities_--in a fiction, such a being may be allowed to exist; whose grandeur is derived from the operations of its own faculties, not subjugated to opinion; but drawn by the individual from the original source. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Rousseau.] [Footnote B: I here give the Reviewers an opportunity of being very witty about the Paradise of Fools, &c.] MARY CHAP. I. Mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who married Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that stamp. She carefully attended to the _shews_ of things, and her opinions, I should have said prejudices, were such as the generality approved of. She was educated with the expectation of a large fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of her attendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she never imagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions of her own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, and the years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments, without having any taste for them. When she was first introduced into the polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wished to be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in a more distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, and promised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool,) as in duty bound. While they resided in London, they lived in the usual fashionable style, and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when they wooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful country, where Nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around; for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved, and sought amusement in country sports. He hunted in the morning, and after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not enliven, it is not necessary to say which a _gourmand_ would give the preference to. Their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely more agreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor. Her voice was but the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, so relaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing. Many such noughts are there in the female world! yet she had a good opinion of her own merit,--truly, she said long prayers,--and sometimes read her Week's Preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarly called _hell_, the regions below; but whether her's was a mounting spirit, I cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet would have been proper for her, when she left her _material_ part in this world, let metaphysicians settle; I have nothing to say to her unclothed spirit. As she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her French waiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications, and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes from the glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodily dissipation, novels. I say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rational one can find no employment in polite circles. The glare of lights, the studied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at the shrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses. When she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, she tried another. The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and some other interesting tales were perused with eagerness. Nothing could be more natural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking than the views of the human heart. What delicate struggles! and uncommonly pretty turns of thought! The picture that was found on a bramble-bush, the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by the upper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait.--Fatal image!--It planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent a new kind of a knight-errant into the world. But even this was nothing to the catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornet settling on the sleeping lover's face. What a _heart-rending_ accident! She planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; but there was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered it with her tears.--Alas! Alas! If my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me credit for genius, I would go on and tell them such tales as would force the sweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautiful cheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, &c. &c. Nay, I would make it so interesting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser to settle the curls himself, and not interrupt her. She had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who shared her bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day. These she watched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmest caresses. This fondness for animals was not that kind of _attendrissement_ which makes a person take pleasure in providing for the subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded from vanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest French expressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attuned by tenderness. She was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that is, she did not make any actual _faux pas_; she feared the world, and was indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, she read all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had she thought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as she accompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them by the clear light of the moon. She wondered her husband did not stay at home. She was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze her hand, and look unutterable things? Gentle reader, I will tell thee; they neither of them felt what they could not utter. I will not pretend to say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of those feelings which are not easily analyzed. CHAP. II. In due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following year a daughter. After the mother's throes she felt very few sentiments of maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and she played with her dogs. Want of exercise prevented the least chance of her recovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on a consumption, to which her constitution tended. Her children all died in their infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of the son, as he was remarkably handsome. For years she divided her time between the sofa, and the card-table. She thought not of death, though on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her station occur to her as necessary. Her children were left in the nursery; and when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the awkward thing away. To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a house without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and she scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old house-keeper told her stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read. Her mother talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and, in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French. As she had learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in her way. Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and learned to think. She had heard of a separate state, and that angels sometimes visited this earth. She would sit in a thick wood in the park, and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them to tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweet and touching. Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was glad that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself about them. She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband was very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness, and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart through life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her own.--She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when she was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse. Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which she imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and confidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new world. Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious distress. She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concluded animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice of man; but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year after year rolled on, her mother still vegetating. A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her great attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child while she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the first began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every part of it. The impression that this accident made was indelible. As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to exert herself, her health would soon be re-established. In general he treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and visibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she could not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from the gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of it, she was pinched by hunger. She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner was she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the slave of compassion. CHAP. III. Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune; and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a distant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just at this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they took no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her natural disposition was very different. She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb; and now she had another motive to actuate her. As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend, mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their intercourse more agreeable. Young people are mostly fond of scribbling; Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend's letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes. As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits were fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain on account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter. Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these consequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, she found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the offspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran to her with delight, and not perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann's countenance, she has shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressions seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility. She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all reflection. In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and exercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her own unsettled mind. CHAP. IV. Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were, literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested, and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river. Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea. This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there. When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observe the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, she admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in existence, and darted into futurity. One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. A clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple of Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost. At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure. In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had not animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones which look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving more light to the beholders than they receive themselves. Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or comforted them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent, that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less interested observer. In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read, and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became a part of her mind. Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her Creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were mostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted to contemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think of the voice that could still the tumultuous deep. These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out those which the soil would have a tendency to nurse. Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination has strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity. Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, _conversing_ with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her own composing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end her various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth, which afterwards more fully unfolded itself. She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under the influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with redoubled force. Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her ecstacies arose from genius. She was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; and perusing the scriptures, and discussing some points of doctrine which puzzled her, she would sit up half the night, her favourite time for employing her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through a glass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectual researches, is one of the trials of a probationary state. But her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and she eagerly desired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor. The night before the important day, when she was to take on herself her baptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on her meditations, and found her not exhausted by her watching. The orient pearls were strewed around--she hailed the morn, and sung with wild delight, Glory to God on high, good will towards men. She was indeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternal preservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; and the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthly passions made it grow languid. These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the luxuriant shoots restrained by culture. The servants and the poor adored her. In order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, she practiced the most rigid oeconomy, and had such power over her appetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered them so entirely, that when her understanding or affections had an object, she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment. This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the passions. We will now enter on the more active field of life. CHAP. V. A few months after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was attacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach the school. She was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her of consequence, and did not call her _the child_. Proper masters were sent for; she was taught to dance, and an extraordinary master procured to perfect her in that most necessary of all accomplishments. A part of the estate she was to inherit had been litigated, and the heir of the person who still carried on a Chancery suit, was only two years younger than our heroine. The fathers, spite of the dispute, frequently met, and, in order to settle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle, determined to quash it by a marriage, and, by uniting the two estates, to preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their different claims. While this important matter was settling, Mary was otherwise employed. Ann's mother's resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty, made hasty strides to catch them in his clutches. Ann had not fortitude enough to brave such accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm was lodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. She denied herself every little comfort; things that would be no sacrifice when a person is well, are absolutely necessary to alleviate bodily pain, and support the animal functions. There were many elegant amusements, that she had acquired a relish for, which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; but these her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of relaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil he taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination, and that taste invigorated love. Poverty, and all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother's abode; and she, though a good sort of a woman, was not calculated to banish, by her trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was lost. This ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, a delicacy so truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold her without wishing to chase her sorrows away. She was timid and irresolute, and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to make her reflect. In every thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty, that caught her attention. And in composition, the polish of style, and harmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius, or abstracted speculations. She often wondered at the books Mary chose, who, though she had a lively imagination, would frequently study authors whose works were addressed to the understanding. This liking taught her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herself, even when under the influence of the most violent passions. Ann's misfortunes and ill health were strong ties to bind Mary to her; she wished so continually to have a home to receive her in, that it drove every other desire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tender schemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she longed most ardently to put them in practice. Fondly as she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whose decline was so imperceptible, that they were not aware of her approaching dissolution. The physician, however, observing the most alarming symptoms; her husband was apprised of her immediate danger; and then first mentioned to her his designs with respect to his daughter. She approved of them; Mary was sent for; she was not at home; she had rambled to visit Ann, and found her in an hysteric fit. The landlord of her little farm had sent his agent for the rent, which had long been due to him; and he threatened to seize the stock that still remained, and turn them out, if they did not very shortly discharge the arrears. As this man made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of the person to whom he was deputy, little was to be expected from his forbearance. All this was told to Mary--and the mother added, she had many other creditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch from them all that had been saved out of the wreck. "I could bear all," she cried; "but what will become of my children? Of this child," pointing to the fainting Ann, "whose constitution is already undermined by care and grief--where will she go?"--Mary's heart ceased to beat while she asked the question--She attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds died away. Before she had recovered herself, her father called himself to enquire for her; and desired her instantly to accompany him home. Engrossed by the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walked silently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours to live; and before she could return him any answer, informed her that they had both determined to marry her to Charles, his friend's son; he added, the ceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witness of it; for such a desire she had expressed with childish eagerness. Overwhelmed by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, with a vacant stare, fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longer a sense; they conveyed no ideas to the brain. As she drew near the house, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension of thought, a thousand darted into her mind,--her dying mother,--her friend's miserable situation,--and an extreme horror at taking--at being forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the reluctance, which arises from a prior attachment. She loved Ann better than any one in the world--to snatch her from the very jaws of destruction--she would have encountered a lion. To have this friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect to her family, would it not be superlative bliss? Full of these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they then fled at the sight of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; it feebly pressed her's. "My child," said the languid mother: the words reached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accents denoting affection; "My child, I have not always treated you with kindness--God forgive me! do you?"--Mary's tears strayed in a disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve the fluttering tenant. "I forgive you!" said she, in a tone of astonishment. The clergyman came in to read the service for the sick, and afterwards the marriage ceremony was performed. Mary stood like a statue of Despair, and pronounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and then ran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms. Her husband set off for the continent the same day, with a tutor, to finish his studies at one of the foreign universities. Ann was sent for to console her, not on account of the departure of her new relation, a boy she seldom took any notice of, but to reconcile her to her fate; besides, it was necessary she should have a female companion, and there was not any maiden aunt in the family, or cousin of the same class. CHAP. VI. Mary was allowed to pay the rent which gave her so much uneasiness, and she exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to succour the family; but the utmost she could obtain was a small sum very inadequate to the purpose, to enable the poor woman to carry into execution a little scheme of industry near the metropolis. Her intention of leaving that part of the country, had much more weight with him, than Mary's arguments, drawn from motives of philanthropy and friendship; this was a language he did not understand; expressive of occult qualities he never thought of, as they could not be seen or felt. After the departure of her mother, Ann still continued to languish, though she had a nurse who was entirely engrossed by the desire of amusing her. Had her health been re-established, the time would have passed in a tranquil, improving manner. During the year of mourning they lived in retirement; music, drawing, and reading, filled up the time; and Mary's taste and judgment were both improved by contracting a habit of observation, and permitting the simple beauties of Nature to occupy her thoughts. She had a wonderful quickness in discerning distinctions and combining ideas, that at the first glance did not appear to be similar. But these various pursuits did not banish all her cares, or carry off all her constitutional black bile. Before she enjoyed Ann's society, she imagined it would have made her completely happy: she was disappointed, and yet knew not what to complain of. As her friend could not accompany her in her walks, and wished to be alone, for a very obvious reason, she would return to her old haunts, retrace her anticipated pleasures--and wonder how they changed their colour in possession, and proved so futile. She had not yet found the companion she looked for. Ann and she were not congenial minds, nor did she contribute to her comfort in the degree she expected. She shielded her from poverty; but this was only a negative blessing; when under the pressure it was very grievous, and still more so were the apprehensions; but when exempt from them, she was not contented. Such is human nature, its laws were not to be inverted to gratify our heroine, and stop the progress of her understanding, happiness only flourished in paradise--we cannot taste and live. Another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. Ann had a hectic cough, and many unfavourable prognostics: Mary then forgot every thing but the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery would have made her happy. Her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only read books of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended in vanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what she could not prevent. As her mind expanded, her marriage appeared a dreadful misfortune; she was sometimes reminded of the heavy yoke, and bitter was the recollection! In one thing there seemed to be a sympathy between them, for she wrote formal answers to his as formal letters. An extreme dislike took root in her mind; the found of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all, listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame. She would then catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness, as if to save her from sinking into an opening grave. CHAP. VII. It was the will of Providence that Mary should experience almost every species of sorrow. Her father was thrown from his horse, when his blood was in a very inflammatory state, and the bruises were very dangerous; his recovery was not expected by the physical tribe. Terrified at seeing him so near death, and yet so ill prepared for it, his daughter sat by his bed, oppressed by the keenest anguish, which her piety increased. Her grief had nothing selfish in it; he was not a friend or protector; but he was her father, an unhappy wretch, going into eternity, depraved and thoughtless. Could a life of sensuality be a preparation for a peaceful death? Thus meditating, she passed the still midnight hour by his bedside. The nurse fell asleep, nor did a violent thunder storm interrupt her repose, though it made the night appear still more terrific to Mary. Her father's unequal breathing alarmed her, when she heard a long drawn breath, she feared it was his last, and watching for another, a dreadful peal of thunder struck her ears. Considering the separation of the soul and body, this night seemed sadly solemn, and the hours long. Death is indeed a king of terrors when he attacks the vicious man! The compassionate heart finds not any comfort; but dreads an eternal separation. No transporting greetings are anticipated, when the survivors also shall have finished their course; but all is black!--the grave may truly be said to receive the departed--this is the sting of death! Night after night Mary watched, and this excessive fatigue impaired her own health, but had a worse effect on Ann; though she constantly went to bed, she could not rest; a number of uneasy thoughts obtruded themselves; and apprehensions about Mary, whom she loved as well as her exhausted heart could love, harassed her mind. After a sleepless, feverish night she had a violent fit of coughing, and burst a blood-vessel. The physician, who was in the house, was sent for, and when he left the patient, Mary, with an authoritative voice, insisted on knowing his real opinion. Reluctantly he gave it, that her friend was in a critical state; and if she passed the approaching winter in England, he imagined she would die in the spring; a season fatal to consumptive disorders. The spring!--Her husband was then expected.--Gracious Heaven, could she bear all this. In a few days her father breathed his last. The horrid sensations his death occasioned were too poignant to be durable: and Ann's danger, and her own situation, made Mary deliberate what mode of conduct she should pursue. She feared this event might hasten the return of her husband, and prevent her putting into execution a plan she had determined on. It was to accompany Ann to a more salubrious climate. CHAP. VIII. I mentioned before, that Mary had never had any particular attachment, to give rise to the disgust that daily gained ground. Her friendship for Ann occupied her heart, and resembled a passion. She had had, indeed, several transient likings; but they did not amount to love. The society of men of genius delighted her, and improved her faculties. With beings of this class she did not often meet; it is a rare genus; her first favourites were men past the meridian of life, and of a philosophic turn. Determined on going to the South of France, or Lisbon; she wrote to the man she had promised to obey. The physicians had said change of air was necessary for her as well as her friend. She mentioned this, and added, "Her comfort, almost her existence, depended on the recovery of the invalid she wished to attend; and that should she neglect to follow the medical advice she had received, she should never forgive herself, or those who endeavoured to prevent her." Full of her design, she wrote with more than usual freedom; and this letter was like most of her others, a transcript of her heart. "This dear friend," she exclaimed, "I love for her agreeable qualities, and substantial virtues. Continual attention to her health, and the tender office of a nurse, have created an affection very like a maternal one--I am her only support, she leans on me--could I forsake the forsaken, and break the bruised reed--No--I would die first! I must--I will go." She would have added, "you would very much oblige me by consenting;" but her heart revolted--and irresolutely she wrote something about wishing him happy.--"Do I not wish all the world well?" she cried, as she subscribed her name--It was blotted, the letter sealed in a hurry, and sent out of her sight; and she began to prepare for her journey. By the return of the post she received an answer; it contained some common-place remarks on her romantic friendship, as he termed it; "But as the physicians advised change of air, he had no objection." CHAP. IX. There was nothing now to retard their journey; and Mary chose Lisbon rather than France, on account of its being further removed from the only person she wished not to see. They set off accordingly for Falmouth, in their way to that city. The journey was of use to Ann, and Mary's spirits were raised by her recovered looks--She had been in despair--now she gave way to hope, and was intoxicated with it. On ship-board Ann always remained in the cabin; the sight of the water terrified her: on the contrary, Mary, after she was gone to bed, or when she fell asleep in the day, went on deck, conversed with the sailors, and surveyed the boundless expanse before her with delight. One instant she would regard the ocean, the next the beings who braved its fury. Their insensibility and want of fear, she could not name courage; their thoughtless mirth was quite of an animal kind, and their feelings as impetuous and uncertain as the element they plowed. They had only been a week at sea when they hailed the rock of Lisbon, and the next morning anchored at the castle. After the customary visits, they were permitted to go on shore, about three miles from the city; and while one of the crew, who understood the language, went to procure them one of the ugly carriages peculiar to the country, they waited in the Irish convent, which is situated close to the Tagus. Some of the people offered to conduct them into the church, where there was a fine organ playing; Mary followed them, but Ann preferred staying with a nun she had entered into conversation with. One of the nuns, who had a sweet voice, was singing; Mary was struck with awe; her heart joined in the devotion; and tears of gratitude and tenderness flowed from her eyes. My Father, I thank thee! burst from her--words were inadequate to express her feelings. Silently, she surveyed the lofty dome; heard unaccustomed sounds; and saw faces, strange ones, that she could not yet greet with fraternal love. In an unknown land, she considered that the Being she adored inhabited eternity, was ever present in unnumbered worlds. When she had not any one she loved near her, she was particularly sensible of the presence of her Almighty Friend. The arrival of the carriage put a stop to her speculations; it was to conduct them to an hotel, fitted up for the reception of invalids. Unfortunately, before they could reach it there was a violent shower of rain; and as the wind was very high, it beat against the leather curtains, which they drew along the front of the vehicle, to shelter themselves from it; but it availed not, some of the rain forced its way, and Ann felt the effects of it, for she caught cold, spite of Mary's precautions. As is the custom, the rest of the invalids, or lodgers, sent to enquire after their health; and as soon as Ann left her chamber, in which her complaints seldom confined her the whole day, they came in person to pay their compliments. Three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; the one a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other an invalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. They entered into conversation immediately. People who meet in a strange country, and are all together in a house, soon get acquainted, without the formalities which attend visiting in separate houses, where they are surrounded by domestic friends. Ann was particularly delighted at meeting with agreeable society; a little hectic fever generally made her low-spirited in the morning, and lively in the evening, when she wished for company. Mary, who only thought of her, determined to cultivate their acquaintance, as she knew, that if her mind could be diverted, her body might gain strength. They were all musical, and proposed having little concerts. One of the gentlemen played on the violin, and the other on the german-flute. The instruments were brought in, with all the eagerness that attends putting a new scheme in execution. Mary had not said much, for she was diffident; she seldom joined in general conversations; though her quickness of penetration enabled her soon to enter into the characters of those she conversed with; and her sensibility made her desirous of pleasing every human creature. Besides, if her mind was not occupied by any particular sorrow, or study, she caught reflected pleasure, and was glad to see others happy, though their mirth did not interest her. This day she was continually thinking of Ann's recovery, and encouraging the cheerful hopes, which though they dissipated the spirits that had been condensed by melancholy, yet made her wish to be silent. The music, more than the conversation, disturbed her reflections; but not at first. The gentleman who played on the german-flute, was a handsome, well-bred, sensible man; and his observations, if not original, were pertinent. The other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and played a little Scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of the instrument, that Mary started, and looking at him with more attention than she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong lines of genius. His manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which is often found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered his opinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice. When the concert was over, they all retired to their apartments. Mary always slept with Ann, as she was subject to terrifying dreams; and frequently in the night was obliged to be supported, to avoid suffocation. They chatted about their new acquaintance in their own apartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion. CHAP. X. Every day almost they saw their new acquaintance; and civility produced intimacy. Mary sometimes left her friend with them; while she indulged herself in viewing new modes of life, and searching out the causes which produced them. She had a metaphysical turn, which inclined her to reflect on every object that passed by her; and her mind was not like a mirror, which receives every floating image, but does not retain them: she had not any prejudices, for every opinion was examined before it was adopted. The Roman Catholic ceremonies attracted her attention, and gave rise to conversations when they all met; and one of the gentlemen continually introduced deistical notions, when he ridiculed the pageantry they all were surprised at observing. Mary thought of both the subjects, the Romish tenets, and the deistical doubts; and though not a sceptic, thought it right to examine the evidence on which her faith was built. She read Butler's Analogy, and some other authors: and these researches made her a christian from conviction, and she learned charity, particularly with respect to sectaries; saw that apparently good and solid arguments might take their rise from different points of view; and she rejoiced to find that those she should not concur with had some reason on their side. CHAP. XI. When I mentioned the three ladies, I said they were fashionable women; and it was all the praise, as a faithful historian, I could bestow on them; the only thing in which they were consistent. I forgot to mention that they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. The daughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the mother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her. They were people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancient family, the title had descended to a very remote branch--a branch they took care to be intimate with; and servilely copied the Countess's airs. Their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerning propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which always hamper weak people. What will the world say? was the first thing that was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had not done before. Or what would the Countess do on such an occasion? And when this question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered without the trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads. This same Countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a most harmonic dance around her. After this account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds had received very little cultivation. They were taught French, Italian, and Spanish; English was their vulgar tongue. And what did they learn? Hamlet will tell you--words--words. But let me not forget that they squalled Italian songs in the true _gusto_. Without having any seeds sown in their understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work, they were brought out of their nursery, or the place they were secluded in, to prevent their faces being common; like blazing stars, to captivate Lords. They were pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another, occasioned the disorder which required change of air. The mother, if we except her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature; and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciously adhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, some trivial points of ceremony, as a matter of the last importance; of which she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionable world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do to the sun. It appears to me that every creature has some notion--or rather relish, of the sublime. Riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime of weak minds:--These images fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls. One afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, Ann was so ill, that Mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending the tea-table. The apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, with a look of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name was Henry, and said; "Though people of the first fashion are frequently at places of this kind, intimate with they know not who; yet I do not choose that my daughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with any one she would blush to know elsewhere. It is only on that account, for I never suffer her to be with any one but in my company," added she, sitting more erect; and a smile of self-complacency dressed her countenance. "I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune." "Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a romantic creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the large fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard the Countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much admired; but she is married." She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who picked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls. "She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed, and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise it. The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses like the sweet south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears almost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had taken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine she had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this welcome guest.--And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety, that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid. No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look, to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered the room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken words, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed, "I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, what a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they, "have you not a husband?" Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. A delicate sense of propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered reason.--Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyes followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange behaviour. CHAP. XII. The physician was sent for; his prescription afforded Ann a little temporary relief; and they again joined the circle. Unfortunately, the weather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confined them to the house. Ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when they sat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and, but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away in listless indolence. The bad weather had had as ill an effect on Henry as on Ann. He was frequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy would of itself have attracted Mary's notice, if she had not found his conversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group. When she conversed with him, all the faculties of her soul unfolded themselves; genius animated her expressive countenance and the most graceful, unaffected gestures gave energy to her discourse. They frequently discussed very important subjects, while the rest were singing or playing cards, nor were they observed for doing so, as Henry, whom they all were pleased with, in the way of gallantry shewed them all more attention than her. Besides, as there was nothing alluring in her dress or manner, they never dreamt of her being preferred to them. Henry was a man of learning; he had also studied mankind, and knew many of the intricacies of the human heart, from having felt the infirmities of his own. His taste was just, as it had a standard--Nature, which he observed with a critical eye. Mary could not help thinking that in his company her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. She increased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved. He was also a pious man; his rational religious sentiments received warmth from his sensibility; and, except on very particular occasions, kept it in proper bounds; these sentiments had likewise formed his temper; he was gentle, and easily to be intreated. The ridiculous ceremonies they were every day witness to, led them into what are termed grave subjects, and made him explain his opinions, which, at other times, he was neither ashamed of, nor unnecessarily brought forward to notice. CHAP. XIII. When the weather began to clear up, Mary sometimes rode out alone, purposely to view the ruins that still remained of the earthquake: or she would ride to the banks of the Tagus, to feast her eyes with the sight of that magnificent river. At other times she would visit the churches, as she was particularly fond of seeing historical paintings. One of these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party descanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soon adverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters in which they should wish to be drawn. Mary did not fix on one--when Henry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "I would give the world for your picture, with the expression I have seen in your face, when you have been supporting your friend." This delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her heart. She then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--for whom was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, so strongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown away--given in with an estate. As Mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her thoughts were employed about the objects around her. She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. She saw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers may fall from the lips without purifying the heart. They who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers, or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainly allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfish principles; how then can they be called good? The pattern of all goodness went about _doing_ good. Wrapped up in themselves, the nuns only thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of intrigues were carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts were fixed: Such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that were servile or laborious. In short, when they could be neither wives nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations? In these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of grief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step. The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow, the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart. She will find that those affections that have once been called forth and strengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, by disappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrode the heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for which there is no specific. The community at large Mary disliked; but pitied many of them whose private distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were the same things with her. The exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and dignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but never mean or cunning. CHAP. XIV. The Portuguese are certainly the most uncivilized nation in Europe. Dr. Johnson would have said, "They have the least mind.". And can such serve their Creator in spirit and in truth? No, the gross ritual of Romish ceremonies is all they can comprehend: they can do penance, but not conquer their revenge, or lust. Religion, or love, has never humanized their hearts; they want the vital part; the mere body worships. Taste is unknown; Gothic finery, and unnatural decorations, which they term ornaments, are conspicuous in their churches and dress. Reverence for mental excellence is only to be found in a polished nation. Could the contemplation of such a people gratify Mary's heart? No: she turned disgusted from the prospects--turned to a man of refinement. Henry had been some time ill and low-spirited; Mary would have been attentive to any one in that situation; but to him she was particularly so; she thought herself bound in gratitude, on account of his constant endeavours to amuse Ann, and prevent her dwelling on the dreary prospect before her, which sometimes she could not help anticipating with a kind of quiet despair. She found some excuse for going more frequently into the room they all met in; nay, she avowed her desire to amuse him: offered to read to him, and tried to draw him into amusing conversations; and when she was full of these little schemes, she looked at him with a degree of tenderness that she was not conscious of. This divided attention was of use to her, and prevented her continually thinking of Ann, whose fluctuating disorder often gave rise to false hopes. A trifling thing occurred now which occasioned Mary some uneasiness. Her maid, a well-looking girl, had captivated the clerk of a neighbouring compting-house. As the match was an advantageous one, Mary could not raise any objection to it, though at this juncture it was very disagreeable to her to have a stranger about her person. However, the girl consented to delay the marriage, as she had some affection for her mistress; and, besides, looked forward to Ann's death as a time of harvest. Henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gave Mary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interested about him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which the purity of her heart made her never wish to restrain. The only visible return he made was not obvious to common observers. He would sometimes fix his eyes on her, and take them off with a sigh that was coughed away; or when he was leisurely walking into the room, and did not expect to see her, he would quicken his steps, and come up to her with eagerness to ask some trivial question. In the same style, he would try to detain her when he had nothing to say--or said nothing. Ann did not take notice of either his or Mary's behaviour, nor did she suspect that he was a favourite, on any other account than his appearing neither well nor happy. She had often seen that when a person was unfortunate, Mary's pity might easily be mistaken for love, and, indeed, it was a temporary sensation of that kind. Such it was--why it was so, let others define, I cannot argue against instincts. As reason is cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this may have given rise to the assertion, "That as judgment improves, genius evaporates." CHAP. XV. One morning they set out to visit the aqueduct; though the day was very fine when they left home, a very heavy shower fell before they reached it; they lengthened their ride, the clouds dispersed, and the sun came from behind them uncommonly bright. Mary would fain have persuaded Ann not to have left the carriage; but she was in spirits, and obviated all her objections, and insisted on walking, tho' the ground was damp. But her strength was not equal to her spirits; she was soon obliged to return to the carriage so much fatigued, that she fainted, and remained insensible a long time. Henry would have supported her; but Mary would not permit him; her recollection was instantaneous, and she feared sitting on the damp ground might do him a material injury: she was on that account positive, though the company did not guess the cause of her being so. As to herself, she did not fear bodily pain; and, when her mind was agitated, she could endure the greatest fatigue without appearing sensible of it. When Ann recovered, they returned slowly home; she was carried to bed, and the next morning Mary thought she observed a visible change for the worse. The physician was sent for, who pronounced her to be in the most imminent danger. All Mary's former fears now returned like a torrent, and carried every other care away; she even added to her present anguish by upbraiding herself for her late tranquillity--it haunted her in the form of a crime. The disorder made the most rapid advances--there was no hope!--Bereft of it, Mary again was tranquil; but it was a very different kind of tranquillity. She stood to brave the approaching storm, conscious she only could be overwhelmed by it. She did not think of Henry, or if her thoughts glanced towards him, it was only to find fault with herself for suffering a thought to have strayed from Ann.--Ann!--this dear friend was soon torn from her--she died suddenly as Mary was assisting her to walk across the room.--The first string was severed from her heart--and this "slow, sudden-death" disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable to reflect, or even to feel her misery. The body was stolen out of the house the second night, and Mary refused to see her former companions. She desired her maid to conclude her marriage, and request her intended husband to inform her when the first merchantman was to leave the port, as the packet had just sailed, and she determined not to stay in that hated place any longer than was absolutely necessary. She then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid a parade of grief--her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not to admit of increase or softening. She was right; the sight of them did not affect her, or turn the stream of her sullen sorrow; the black wave rolled along in the same course, it was equal to her where she cast her eyes; all was impenetrable gloom. CHAP. XVI. Soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry, requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: she consented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. She ran eagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his countenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed hers seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unable to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death; but her conversation was incoherent. She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest. Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!" Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart." "I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store." "Impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that she was in love with misery. He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took very little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined: and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations, rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in order to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me: these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I was witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution is naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain some dominion over my passions. At least," added he, stifling a sigh, "over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection only renders the tender ones more tyrannic. "I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--the object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion has pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and pursuits.--I am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin I tell the sorrows I now confide with thee. The object I loved forfeited my esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequently delighted to form a creature that I could love, that could convey to my soul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conception of." He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a listening attitude, continued his little narrative. "I kept up an irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance and ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I hastened to comfort her--and was a comfort to her. "My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness. But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain. No: I have frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts; and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant. "I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending this winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had before visited the Continent." He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with the most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her friendship? If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the fate of a darling child, than he did in her's." Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that she in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant. Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it: accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection. Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. He had exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had succeeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself for defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt on Henry's misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fate was a balm to her sick mind. She did not reason on the subject; but she felt he was attached to her: lost in this delirium, she never asked herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to; nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thought with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an affection for her, and that person she admired--had a friendship for. He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by accident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His child, what an association of ideas! If I had had a father, such a father!--She could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves. Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul. Lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry's account of himself; till she actually thought she would tell Ann--a bitter recollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she begged forgiveness of her. By these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to bed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not refresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her waking train of thoughts. One instant she was supporting her dying mother; then Ann was breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her. The unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell the truth, she thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spirits in motion: but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell her that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could be accommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger on board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on that account--Mary did not want a companion. As she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first vessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for the lonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of the first fair wind. She had too much strength of mind to waver in her determination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old wounds, and made them bleed afresh. What was she to do? where go? Could she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her--her soul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the world by such mock heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!" There is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while, stills the tumult of passion. Mary's mind had been thrown off its poise; her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but less regular. She forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth, and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the first serious thought: when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to render life bearable she gave way to fancy--this was madness. In a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was very tempestuous--what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every other trifling--it was not the contending elements, but _herself_ she feared! CHAP. XVII. In order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she went out in a carriage. The day was fine; but all nature was to her a universal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she could not. She passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill she got out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did not avoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed glad to contend with it, or rather walk against it. Exhausted she returned to the carriage was soon at home, and in the old room. Henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before her complexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire. He was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and he owned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormant tenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by the present happiness of seeing, of hearing him. Once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, to depart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow; should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus she thought, and insensibly grew more calm. The Ladies prevailed on her to spend the evening with them; but she retired very early to rest, and sat on the side of her bed several hours, then threw herself on it, and waited for the dreaded to-morrow. CHAP. XVIII. The ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that she was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at the Custom-house. Henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary called up all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from the females her internal struggles. She durst not encounter Henry's glances when she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, she knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began to laugh she could not stop herself. Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such benignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and, the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained silent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn. Henry began. "You are going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind is not in a state to be left to its own operations--yet I cannot, dissuade you; if I attempted to do it, I should ill deserve the title I wish to merit. I only think of your happiness; could I obey the strongest impulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to England; but such a step might endanger your future peace." Mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explained her situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that he trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me to love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did she not fix on Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and if Ann had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some remote corner to have escaped from him. "I intend," said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall I hear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine," replied Mary. "I am well, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the most precarious state." She then mentioned her intention of going to Ann's relations. "I am her representative, I have duties to fulfil for her: during my voyage I have time enough for reflection; though I think I have already determined." "Be not too hasty, my child," interrupted Henry; "far be it from me to persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thy future life may probably take its colour from thy present mode of conduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the object you now shun may appear in a different light." He paused. "In advising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary." She only answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary--yet they can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite a part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form my taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies, and make me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives its stamp to the rest--because I am capable of loving one, I have that kind of charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked. Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly we may ascend." She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface them but death--No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be created afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted from my Ann--I could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--I could not bear to think that time could wear away an affection that was founded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt to persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose from certain modifications of it." "Dear enthusiastic creature," whispered Henry, "how you steal into my soul." She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me to adore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that he only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder strokes to them. I knew I am in some degree under the influence of a delusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am _of subtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of the imagination point to futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause in nature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule? have I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will they never be gratified? shall I never be happy? My feelings do not accord with the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of bliss, it will be the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great part of our happiness. "With these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? can I listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits, and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I wish to please--one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I am bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could I consider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awful day of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience does not smite me, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approve of what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I brave His presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary to conviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could the world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed against the feeling heart! "Riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me to sit down and enjoy them--I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I do, what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good, an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me for eternity--when I no longer see through a glass darkly I shall not reason about, but _feel_ in what happiness consists." Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and that these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well digested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour, and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He was startled, if not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestures were all persuasive. Some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue; it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in a cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary to reveal it? He wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; she knew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, or rest satisfied with any inferior gratification. When passion first enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after, and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out. CHAP. XIX. Two days passed away without any particular conversation; Henry, trying to be indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. The conflict was too violent for his present state of health; the spirit was willing, but the body suffered; he lost his appetite, and looked wretchedly; his spirits were calmly low--the world seemed to fade away--what was that world to him that Mary did not inhabit; she lived not for him. He was mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dear prop she had sunk into the grave of her lost--long-loved friend;--his attention snatched her from despair. Inscrutable are the ways of Heaven! The third day Mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the wind continued in the same point, they should set sail the next evening. She tried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not useless she appeared less agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyage with composure. On great occasions she was generally calm and collected, her resolution would brace her unstrung nerves; but after the victory she had no triumph; she would sink into a state of moping melancholy, and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was over. The morning of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone with Henry only a few moments, and an awkward kind of formality made them slip away without their having said much to each other. Henry was afraid to discover his passion, or give any other name to his regard but friendship; yet his anxious solicitude for her welfare was ever breaking out-while she as artlessly expressed again and again, her fears with respect to his declining health. "We shall soon meet," said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; she caught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not knowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room. When she was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The few precious moments I have thus thrown away may never return," she thought-the reflection led to misery. She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She could not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her more than can be well conceived. The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For a while the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry, though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his own. "My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this spot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah! no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement! Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?" Ann occupied her until they reached the ship. The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the last;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of parting with him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she looked round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time. She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole which was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. On this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable to close her eyes. A small taper made the darkness visible; and the third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment. "Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling winds and dashing waves;--on no human support can I rest--when not lost to hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to them. How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it over--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will only be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.--Yet surely, I am not alone!" Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them. "Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to be composed--to forget my Henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawn across in an agony. CHAP. XX. The mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her some refreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness or civility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted: peevishly she desired him not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when her heart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink. After drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into a death-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, on the contrary, she awoke languid and stupid. The wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had she struggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever, which sometimes gave her false spirits. The winds then became very tempestuous, the Great Deep was troubled, and all the passengers appalled. Mary then left her bed, and went on deck, to survey the contending elements: the scene accorded with the present state of her soul; she thought in a few hours I may go home; the prisoner may be released. The vessel rose on a wave and descended into a yawning gulph--Not slower did her mounting soul return to earth, for--Ah! her treasure and her heart was there. The squalls rattled amongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then die away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with a tremendous roar. In a little vessel in the midst of such a storm she was not dismayed; she felt herself independent. Just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help of a glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, drifted about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm. Mary's thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink of destruction. They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed the trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loud cries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and with ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launched their boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of the sea. Stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched the boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view--she ceased to breathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again. At last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and Mary caught the poor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them in thanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to still the raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour. Amongst the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when she was hauled on board: Mary undressed her, and when she had recovered, and soothed her, left her to enjoy the rest she required to recruit her strength, which fear had quite exhausted. She returned again to view the angry deep; and when she gazed on its perturbed state, she thought of the Being who rode on the wings of the wind, and stilled the noise of the sea; and the madness of the people--He only could speak peace to her troubled spirit! she grew more calm; the late transaction had gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself. One of the sailors, happening to say to another, "that he believed the world was going to be at an end;" this observation led her into a new train of thoughts: some of Handel's sublime compositions occurred to her, and she sung them to the grand accompaniment. The Lord God Omnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever!--Why then did she fear the sorrows that were passing away, when she knew that He would bind up the broken-hearted, and receive those who came out of great tribulation. She retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book that was now her only confident. It was after midnight. "At this solemn hour, the great day of judgment fills my thoughts; the day of retribution, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed; when all worldly distinctions will fade away, and be no more seen. I have not words to express the sublime images which the bare contemplation of this awful day raises in my mind. Then, indeed, the Lord Omnipotent will reign, and He will wipe the tearful eye, and support the trembling heart--yet a little while He hideth his face, and the dun shades of sorrow, and the thick clouds of folly separate us from our God; but when the glad dawn of an eternal day breaks, we shall know even as we are known. Here we walk by faith, and not by sight; and we have this alternative, either to enjoy the pleasures of life which are but for a season, or look forward to the prize of our high calling, and with fortitude, and that wisdom which is from above, endeavour to bear the warfare of life. We know that many run the race; but he that striveth obtaineth the crown of victory. Our race is an arduous one! How many are betrayed by traitors lodged in their own breasts, who wear the garb of Virtue, and are so near akin; we sigh to think they should ever lead into folly, and slide imperceptibly into vice. Surely any thing like happiness is madness! Shall probationers of an hour presume to pluck the fruit of immortality, before they have conquered death? it is guarded, when the great day, to which I allude, arrives, the way will again be opened. Ye dear delusions, gay deceits, farewel! and yet I cannot banish ye for ever; still does my panting soul push forward, and live in futurity, in the deep shades o'er which darkness hangs.--I try to pierce the gloom, and find a resting-place, where my thirst of knowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object to fix them. Every thing material must change; happiness and this fluctating principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, and happiness,--what are ye? How shall I grasp the mighty and fleeting conceptions ye create?" After writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of the Father of Spirits; and slept in peace. CHAP. XXI. Mary rose early, refreshed by the seasonable rest, and went to visit the poor woman, whom she found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard that she had lately buried her husband, a common sailor; and that her only surviving child had been washed over-board the day before. Full of her own danger, she scarcely thought of her child till that was over; and then she gave way to boisterous emotions. Mary endeavoured to calm her at first, by sympathizing with her; and she tried to point out the only solid source of comfort but in doing this she encountered many difficulties; she found her grossly ignorant, yet she did not despair: and as the poor creature could not receive comfort from the operations of her own mind, she laboured to beguile the hours, which grief made heavy, by adapting her conversation to her capacity. There are many minds that only receive impressions through the medium of the senses: to them did Mary address herself; she made her some presents, and promised to assist her when they should arrive in England. This employment roused her out of her late stupor, and again set the faculties of her soul in motion; made the understanding contend with the imagination, and the heart throbbed not so irregularly during the contention. How short-lived was the calm! when the English coast was descried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor.--She was to visit and comfort the mother of her lost friend--And where then should she take up her residence? These thoughts suspended the exertions of her understanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarming apprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude. CHAP. XXII. In England then landed the forlorn wanderer. She looked round for some few moments--her affections were not attracted to any particular part of the Island. She knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to which she was going: the mass of buildings appeared to her a huge body without an informing soul. As she passed through the streets in an hackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. She met some women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors, made her shrink into herself, and exclaim, are these my fellow creatures! Detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up the river in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she saw vulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first time such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight.--Forgetting her own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view of innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and could not bear to see her own species sink below them. In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the mother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did not resemble Ann. To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the unfortunate mother of her loss. The poor woman, oppressed by it, and her many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all her past misfortunes, and present cares. The heavy tale lasted until midnight, and the impression it made on Mary's mind was so strong, that it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things. She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging, and relieved her present necessities. A few days were spent in a kind of listless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thought of returning home. She had hitherto treated her with the greatest respect, and concealed her wonder at Mary's choosing a remote room in the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as if she intended living in it. Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probable she would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she could not have talked of her passion to any human creature. She deliberated, and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living with her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--Not live with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could not answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more? I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave. CHAP. XXIII. Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more intimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want of education. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind. One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she resided in, caught her eye. She accosted him; in a confused manner, he informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the bread he could not earn. Mary desired to be conducted to his habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tattered shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth; round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of festivity. It was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or singing indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yet she had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On the floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the broken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children, all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes, exhibited none of the charms of childhood. Some were fighting, and others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary was petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and, regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch, and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want. Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband for a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a shop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of horror and satisfaction. She visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary to her expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesome food had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw her rising as it were from the grave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of it till she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such an alarming progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but the disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; and Mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the crisis, the symptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, without regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low: she wanted a tender nurse. For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the woman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto supported her; as her finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try to earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse. Two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from Henry. He was sick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and all the people ungrateful. She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she wrote in her book another fragment: "Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude, disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel joy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly susceptible of misery? It is true, I have experienced the most rapturous emotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, which only serves to shew my present misery--yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and my brain--why dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why do thoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappear leave such deep traces? I could almost wish for the madman's happiness, and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe. "Oh! reason, thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when I most need thy assistance! Canst thou not calm this internal tumult, and drive away the death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me,--a sadness surely very nearly allied to despair. I am now the prey of apathy--I could wish for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimes illumined my path; I had a pursuit; but now _it visits not my haunts forlorn_. Too well have I loved my fellow creatures! I have been wounded by ingratitude; from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth. "When overwhelmed by sorrow, I have met unkindness; I looked for some one to have pity on me; but found none!--The healing balm of sympathy is denied; I weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my cheeks. I have not the medicine of life, the dear chimera I have so often chased, a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! dost thou ever visit thy poor Mary? Refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep, to see her struggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which corrode her small portion of comfort!" She could not write any more; she wished herself far distant from all human society; a thick gloom spread itself over her mind: but did not make her forget the very beings she wished to fly from. She sent for the poor woman she found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herself and children, and buy some furniture for a little hut, in a large garden, the master of which agreed to employ her husband, who had been bred a gardener. Mary promised to visit the family, and see their new abode when she was able to go out. CHAP. XXIV. Mary still continued weak and low, though it was spring, and all nature began to look gay; with more than usual brightness the sun shone, and a little robin which she had cherished during the winter sung one of his best songs. The family were particularly civil this fine morning, and tried to prevail on her to walk out. Any thing like kindness melted her; she consented. Softer emotions banished her melancholy, and she directed her steps to the habitation she had rendered comfortable. Emerging out of a dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when she had last walked out, snow covered the ground, and bleak winds pierced her through and through: now the hedges were green, the blossoms adorned the trees, and the birds sung. She reached the dwelling, without being much exhausted and while she rested there, observed the children sporting on the grass, with improved complexions. The mother with tears thanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. Mary's tears flowed not only from sympathy, but a complication of feelings and recollections the affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again to play, and reanimated nature. She observed the change in herself, tried to account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapsody on sensibility. "Sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul is susceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it last unmixed, we might form some conjecture of the bliss of those paradisiacal days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion of reason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction. "It is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us to relish the sublime touches of the poet, and the painter; it is this, which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed with tenderness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of a good action. The same effect we experience in the spring, when we hail the returning sun, and the consequent renovation of nature; when the flowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice of music is heard in the land. Softened by tenderness; the soul is disposed to be virtuous. Is any sensual gratification to be compared to that of feelings the eves moistened after having comforted the unfortunate? "Sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but these raptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by what strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of nature escape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections.--But it is only to be felt; it escapes discussion." She then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which was rendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian of life, of polished manners, and dazzling wit. He endeavoured to draw Mary out, and succeeded; she entered into conversation, and some of her artless flights of genius struck him with surprise; he found she had a capacious mind, and that her reason was as profound as her imagination was lively. She glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light of truth. Her expressive countenance shewed what passed in her mind, and her tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicity never threw a shade over her words or actions. Mary found him a man of learning; and the exercise of her understanding would frequently make her forget her griefs, when nothing else could, except benevolence. This man had known the mistress of the house in her youth; good nature induced him to visit her; but when he saw Mary he had another inducement. Her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivation of mind, roused his curiosity; but her dignified manners had such an effect on him, he was obliged to suppress it. He knew men, as well as books; his conversation was entertaining and improving. In Mary's company he doubted whether heaven was peopled with spirits masculine; and almost forgot that he had called the sex "the pretty play things that render life tolerable." He had been the slave of beauty, the captive of sense; love he ne'er had felt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it made the body appear lovely in his eyes. He was humane, despised meanness; but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a useful member of society. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any solid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, or rather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him to hunt down pleasure, he was discontented. Mary observed his character, and wrote down a train of reflections, which these observations led her to make; these reflections received a tinge from her mind; the present state of it, was that kind of painful quietness which arises from reason clouded by disgust; she had not yet learned to be resigned; vague hopes agitated her. "There are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as you dissipate one, another overspreads it. Of this kind are our reasonings concerning happiness; till we are obliged to cry out with the Apostle, _That it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive in what it could consist_, or how satiety could be prevented. Man seems formed for action, though the passions are seldom properly managed; they are either so languid as not to serve as a spur, or else so violent, as to overleap all bounds. "Every individual has its own peculiar trials; and anguish, in one shape or other, visits every heart. Sensibility produces flights of virtue; and not curbed by reason, is on the brink of vice talking, and even thinking of virtue. "Christianity can only afford just principles to govern the wayward feelings and impulses of the heart: every good disposition runs wild, if not transplanted into this soil; but how hard is it to keep the heart diligently, though convinced that the issues of life depend on it. "It is very difficult to discipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcile him to the weakness, the inconsistency of his understanding; and a still more laborious task for him to conquer his passions, and learn to seek content, instead of happiness. Good dispositions, and virtuous propensities, without the light of the Gospel, produce eccentric characters: comet-like, they are always in extremes; while revelation resembles the laws of attraction, and produces uniformity; but too often is the attraction feeble; and the light so obscured by passion, as to force the bewildered soul to fly into void space, and wander in confusion." CHAP. XXV. A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: the servant waited for an answer. Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry; she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his sailing in the first packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquiries were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were expressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as it stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and illness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--she read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt by--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. She wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her the next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of his letter. Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run before to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come; certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret. To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were sung; the books they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a hundred times.--Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she was trying to decypher Chinese characters. After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the street door opened. At last he came, and she who had been counting the hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped the approaching interview. With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful presentiment stilled the internal conflict. She caught his hand, and looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!" "I am very far from well; but it matters not," added he with a smile of resignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is a tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee." Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. She enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought experience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she was sure he would soon recover. She would then look in his face, to see if he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. She tried to avoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise of visiting her the next day. Her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herself to think that she feared an event she could not name. She still saw his pale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she tried to retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed. Henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fade away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck behind? These thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as if to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all was not well there. Out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrival of a letter from her husband; it came to Lisbon after her departure: Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver it himself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced a conversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution took its rise almost equally from benevolence and love. She could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: her fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informed her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master, and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to visit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground, where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the masquerades, and such burlesque amusements. These instances of folly relieved Mary, in some degree reconciled her to herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced something like a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when she reflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to the seemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination, however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, or force us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and that the most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties, refines our affections, and enables us to be useful. One reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty; her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power of comforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy. Heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of His benevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to her own inclinations? These suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion, increased her misery. One moment she was a heroine, half determined to bear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--and tenderness possessed her whole soul. Some instances of Henry's affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her. CHAP. XXVI. Henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of the following week; but still Mary kept up some little formality, a certain consciousness restrained her; and Henry did not enter on the subject which he found she wished to avoid. In the course of conversation, however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain a place in one of the public offices for Ann's brother, as the family were again in a declining way. Henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the following week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whom he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would infallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety. Mary could not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused her face; her blood eloquently spoke. She delighted to receive benefits through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them from Henry was exquisite pleasure. As the summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his fixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him. He could not think of going far off, but chose a little village on the banks of the Thames, near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his mother. They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his violin, and Mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them. She pleased his mother; she inchanted him. It was an advantage to Mary that friendship first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of humanity:--and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one sprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it. The last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black, and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness that had prevailed previous to it. The thunder roared; and the oars plying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a not unpleasing sound. Mary drew still nearer Henry; she wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him.--She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind--he felt them; threw his arm round her waist--and they enjoyed the luxury of wretchedness.--As they touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry was wet; with eager anxiety she cried, What shall I do!--this day will kill thee, and I shall not die with thee! This accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured him, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to--perhaps it was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. In vain did Mary try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! Henry every day grew worse and worse. CHAP. XXVII. Oppressed by her foreboding fears, her sore mind was hurt by new instances of ingratitude: disgusted with the family, whose misfortunes had often disturbed her repose, and lost in anticipated sorrow, she rambled she knew not where; when turning down a shady walk, she discovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. She saw Henry sitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden-gate, and she sat down by him. "I did not," said he, "expect to see thee this evening, my dearest Mary; but I was thinking of thee. Heaven has endowed thee with an uncommon portion of fortitude, to support one of the most affectionate hearts in the world. This is not a time for disguise; I know I am dear to thee--and my affection for thee is twisted with every fibre of my heart.--I loved thee ever since I have been acquainted with thine: thou art the being my fancy has delighted to form; but which I imagined existed only there! In a little while the shades of death will encompass me--ill-fated love perhaps added strength to my disease, and smoothed the rugged path. Try, my love, to fulfil thy destined course--try to add to thy other virtues patience. I could have wished, for thy sake, that we could have died together--or that I could live to shield thee from the assaults of an unfeeling world! Could I but offer thee an asylum in these arms--a faithful bosom, in which thou couldst repose all thy griefs--" He pressed her to it, and she returned the pressure--he felt her throbbing heart. A mournful silence ensued! when he resumed the conversation. "I wished to prepare thee for the blow--too surely do I feel that it will not be long delayed! The passion I have nursed is so pure, that death cannot extinguish it--or tear away the impression thy virtues have made on my soul. I would fain comfort thee--" "Talk not of comfort," interrupted Mary, "it will be in heaven with thee and Ann--while I shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!"--She grasped his hand. "There we shall meet, my love, my Mary, in our Father's--" His voice faultered; he could not finish the sentence; he was almost suffocated--they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walked slowly to the garden-gate (Mary would not go into the house); they could not say farewel when they reached it--and Mary hurried down the lane; to spare Henry the pain of witnessing her emotions. When she lost sight of the house she sat down on the ground, till it grew late, thinking of all that had passed. Full of these thoughts, she crept along, regardless of the descending rain; when lifting up her eyes to heaven, and then turning them wildly on the prospects around, without marking them; she only felt that the scene accorded with her present state of mind. It was the last glimmering of twilight, with a full moon, over which clouds continually flitted. Where am I wandering, God of Mercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what a labyrinth am I lost! What miseries have I already encountered--and what a number lie still before me. Her thoughts flew rapidly to something. I could be happy listening to him, soothing his cares.--Would he not smile upon me--call me his own Mary? I am not his--said she with fierceness--I am a wretch! and she heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were running into confusion. Wherefore am I made thus? Vain are my efforts--I cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness.--Yet I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction. She looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters.--No where could she find rest. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is not my abiding place--may I not too go home! Ah! no. Is this complying with my Henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to associate with his? Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. She felt the rain, and turned to her solitary home. Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers. Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten to draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre; the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked; her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one object. Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the Window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's scene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe, were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these arms shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world." The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy; but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated. Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the remnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to come after that? CHAP. XXVIII. Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother called on her. "My son is worse to-day," said she, "I come to request you to spend not only this day, but a week or two with me.--Why should I conceal any thing from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and, in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when I shall be childless. I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked thus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a widow--may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?" This new instance of Henry's disinterested affection, Mary felt most forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth the wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forced tears from her, by saying, "I deserve this blow; my partial fondness made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect, perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous Heaven has made my crime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss my child--my only child!" When they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; but during the short ride, the mother related several instances of Henry's goodness of heart. Mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the display of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human nature prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a more genial clime. CHAP. XXIX. She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declared he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certain he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by opiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sigh did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. She would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of hope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head where she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--she could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven be done. While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him believe he was resigned, than really to be so. She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which was to extend beyond the grave. She did so, and received comfort from it; she rose above her misery. His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyes appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for his last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent emotion. The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time only attended to Mary--Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience increased her sorrow; she whispered him, "Thy mother weeps, disregarded by thee; oh! comfort her!--My mother, thy son blesses thee.--" The oppressed parent left the room. And Mary _waited_ to see him die. She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened his eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gave a look--it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted? Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not a complete wretch! The words almost choked her. He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. At last, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up. Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die in her arms. Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its prison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last sigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, she calmly cried. The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light from an opened window discovered the pale face. She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained the body. Every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful rapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. She sat till midnight.--Then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, and desired those who watched the body to retire. She knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame the dictates of despair.--She prayed most ardently to be supported, and dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she had committed the spirit she almost adored--again--and again,--she prayed wildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--her head swum--she sunk-- CHAP. XXX. Three months after, her only friend, the mother of her lost Henry began to be alarmed, at observing her altered appearance; and made her own health a pretext for travelling. These complaints roused Mary out of her torpid state; she imagined a new duty now forced her to exert herself--a duty love made sacred!-- They went to Bath, from that to Bristol; but the latter place they quickly left; the sight of the sick that resort there, they neither of them could bear. From Bristol they flew to Southampton. The road was pleasant--yet Mary shut her eyes;--or if they were open, green fields and commons, passed in quick succession, and left no more traces behind than if they had been waves of the sea. Some time after they were settled at Southampton, they met the man who took so much notice of Mary, soon after her return to England. He renewed his acquaintance; he was really interested in her fate, as he had heard her uncommon story; besides, he knew her husband; knew him to be a good-natured, weak man. He saw him soon after his arrival in his native country, and prevented his hastening to enquire into the reasons of Mary's strange conduct. He desired him not to be too precipitate, if he ever wished to possess an invaluable treasure. He was guided by him, and allowed him to follow Mary to Southampton, and speak first to her friend. This friend determined to trust to her native strength of mind, and informed her of the circumstance; but she overrated it: Mary was not able, for a few days after the intelligence, to fix on the mode of conduct she ought now to pursue. But at last she conquered her disgust, and wrote her _husband_ an account of what had passed since she had dropped his correspondence. He came in person to answer the letter. Mary fainted when he approached her unexpectedly. Her disgust returned with additional force, in spite of previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed on to promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year, travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her. The time too quickly elapsed, and she gave him her hand--the struggle was almost more than she could endure. She tried to appear calm; time mellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husband would take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantly feel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, that the earth would open and swallow her. CHAP. XXXI. Mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; but her nerves were not to be restored to their former state. She then retired to her house in the country, established manufactories, threw the estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this way to dissipate care, and banish unavailing regret. She visited the sick, supported the old, and educated the young. These occupations engrossed her mind; but there were hours when all her former woes would return and haunt her.--Whenever she did, or said, any thing she thought Henry would have approved of--she could not avoid thinking with anguish, of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed to her heart--a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence and religion could not fill. The latter taught her to struggle for resignation; and the former rendered life supportable. Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments of solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind--She thought she was hastening to that world _where there is neither marrying_, nor giving in marriage. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What religion supported Dave during Jim's trial?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "The Baptist's supported Dave. " ]	14,762	narrativeqa	en	null	923329f49e6ae0c9f11914e9b90d01a64bc74f6c0dd663bd	Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress) [Transcriber's Note: A few obvious typo's in stage directions have been fixed, though nothing in the dialogue has been changed.] THE MULE-BONE A COMEDY OF NEGRO LIFE IN THREE ACTS BY LANGSTON HUGHES and ZORA HURSTON CHARACTERS JIM WESTON: Guitarist, Methodist, slightly arrogant, agressive, somewhat self-important, ready with his tongue. DAVE CARTER: Dancer, Baptist, soft, happy-go-lucky character, slightly dumb and unable to talk rapidly and wittily. DAISY TAYLOR: Methodist, domestic servant, plump, dark and sexy, self-conscious of clothes and appeal, fickle. JOE CLARK: The Mayor, storekeeper and postmaster, arrogant, ignorant and powerful in a self-assertive way, large, fat man, Methodist. ELDER SIMMS: Methodist minister, newcomer in town, ambitious, small and fly, but not very intelligent. ELDER CHILDERS: Big, loose-jointed, slow spoken but not dumb. Long resident in the town, calm and sure of himself. KATIE CARTER: Dave's aunt, little old wizened dried-up lady. MRS. HATTIE CLARK: The Mayor's wife, fat and flabby mulatto high-pitched voice. THE MRS. REV. SIMMS: Large and agressive. THE MRS. REV. Just a wife who thinks of details. CHILDERS: LUM BOGER: Young town marshall about twenty, tall, gangly, with big flat feet, liked to show off in public. TEET MILLER: Village vamp who is jealous of DAISY. LIGE MOSELY: A village wag. WALTER THOMAS: Another village wag. ADA LEWIS: A promiscuous lover. DELLA LEWIS: Baptist, poor housekeeper, mother of ADA. BOOTSIE PITTS: A local vamp. MRS. DILCIE ANDERSON: Village housewife, Methodist. WILLIE NIXON: Methodist, short runt. ACT I SETTING: The raised porch of JOE CLARK'S Store and the street in front. Porch stretches almost completely across the stage, with a plank bench at either end. At the center of the porch three steps leading from street. Rear of porch, center, door to the store. On either side are single windows on which signs, at left, "POST OFFICE", and at right, "GENERAL STORE" are painted. Soap boxes, axe handles, small kegs, etc., on porch on which townspeople sit and lounge during action. Above the roof of the porch the "false front", or imitation second story of the shop is seen with large sign painted across it "JOE CLARK'S GENERAL STORE". Large kerosine street lamp on post at right in front of porch. Saturday afternoon and the villagers are gathered around the store. Several men sitting on boxes at edge of porch chewing sugar cane, spitting tobacco juice, arguing, some whittling, others eating peanuts. During the act the women all dressed up in starched dresses parade in and out of store. People buying groceries, kids playing in the street, etc. General noise of conversation, laughter and children shouting. But when the curtain rises there is momentary lull for cane-chewing. At left of porch four men are playing cards on a soap box, and seated on the edge of the porch at extreme right two children are engaged in a checker game, with the board on the floor between them. When the curtain goes up the following characters are discovered on the porch: MAYOR JOE CLARK, the storekeeper; DEACON HAMBO; DEACON GOODWIN; Old Man MATT BRAZZLE; WILL CODY; SYKES JONES; LUM BOGER, the young town marshall; LIGE MOSELY and WALTER THOMAS, two village wags; TOM NIXON and SAM MOSELY, and several others, seated on boxes, kegs, benches and floor of the porch. TONY TAYLOR is sitting on steps of porch with empty basket. MRS. TAYLOR comes out with her arms full of groceries, empties them into basket and goes back in store. All the men are chewing sugar cane earnestly with varying facial expressions. The noise of the breaking and sucking of cane can be clearly heard in the silence. Occasionally the laughter and shouting of children is heard nearby off stage. HAMBO: (To BRAZZLE) Say, Matt, gimme a jint or two of dat green cane--dis ribbon cane is hard. LIGE: Yeah, and you ain't got de chears in yo' parlor you useter have. HAMBO: Dat's all right, Lige, but I betcha right now wid dese few teeth I got I kin eat up more cane'n you kin grow. LIGE: I know you kin and that's de reason I ain't going to tempt you. But youse gettin' old in lots of ways--look at dat bald-head--just as clean as my hand. (Exposes his palm). HAMBO: Don't keer if it tis--I don't want nothin'--not even hair--between me and God. (General laughter--LIGE joins in as well. Cane chewing keeps up. Silence for a moment.) (Off stage a high shrill voice can be heard calling:) VOICE: Sister Mosely, Oh, Sister Mosely! (A pause) Miz Mosely! (Very irritated) Oh, Sister Mattie! You hear me out here--you just won't answer! VOICE OF MRS. MOSELY: Whoo-ee ... somebody calling me? VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (Angrily) Never mind now--you couldn't come when I called you. I don't want yo' lil ole weasley turnip greens. (Silence) MATT BRAZZLE: Sister Roberts is en town agin! If she was mine, I'll be hen-fired if I wouldn't break her down in de lines (loins)--good as dat man is to her! HAMBO: I wish she was mine jes' one day--de first time she open her mouf to beg _anybody_, I'd lam her wid lightning. JOE CLARK: I God, Jake Roberts buys mo' rations out dis store than any man in dis town. I don't see to my Maker whut she do wid it all.... Here she come.... (ENTER MRS. JAKE ROBERTS, a heavy light brown woman with a basket on her arm. A boy about ten walks beside her carrying a small child about a year old straddle of his back. Her skirts are sweeping the ground. She walks up to the step, puts one foot upon the steps and looks forlornly at all the men, then fixes her look on JOE CLARK.) MRS. ROBERTS: Evenin', Brother Mayor. CLARK: Howdy do, Mrs. Roberts. How's yo' husband? MRS. ROBERTS: (Beginning her professional whine): He ain't much and I ain't much and my chillun is poly. We ain't got 'nough to eat! Lawd, Mr. Clark, gimme a lil piece of side meat to cook us a pot of greens. CLARK: Aw gwan, Sister Roberts. You got plenty bacon home. Last week Jake bought.... MRS. ROBERTS: (Frantically) Lawd, Mist' Clark, how long you think dat lil piece of meat last me an' my chillun? Lawd, me and my chillun is _hongry_! God knows, Jake don't fee-eed me! (MR. CLARK sits unmoved. MRS. ROBERTS advances upon him) Mist' Clark! CLARK: I God, woman, don't keep on after me! Every time I look, youse round here beggin' for everything you see. LIGE: And whut she don't see she whoops for it just de same. MRS. ROBERTS: (In dramatic begging pose) Mist' Clark! Ain't you boin' do nuthin' for me? And you see me and my poor chillun is starvin'.... CLARK: (Exasperated rises) I God, woman, a man can't git no peace wid somebody like you in town. (He goes angrily into the store followed by MRS. ROBERTS. The boy sits down on the edge of the porch sucking the baby's thumb.) VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: A piece 'bout dis wide.... VOICE OF CLARK: I God, naw! Yo' husband done bought you plenty meat, nohow. VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (In great anguish) Ow! Mist' Clark! Don't you cut dat lil tee-ninchy piece of meat for me and my chillun! (Sound of running feet inside the store.) I ain't a going to tetch it! VOICE OF CLARK: Well, don't touch it then. That's all you'll git outa me. VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (Calmer) Well, hand it chear den. Lawd, me and my chillun is _so_ hongry.... Jake don't fee-eed me. (She re-enters by door of store with the slab of meat in her hand and an outraged look on her face. She gazes all about her for sympathy.) Lawd, me and my poor chillun is _so_ hongry ... and some folks has _every_thing and they's so _stingy_ and gripin'.... Lawd knows, Jake don't fee-eed me! (She exits right on this line followed by the boy with the baby on his back.) (All the men gaze behind her, then at each other and shake their heads.) HAMBO: Poor Jak.... I'm really sorry for dat man. If she was mine I'd beat her till her ears hung down like a Georgy mule. WALTER THOMAS: I'd beat her till she smell like onions. LIGE: I'd romp on her till she slack like lime. NIXON: I'd stomp her till she rope like okra. VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (Off stage right) Lawd, Miz Lewis, you goin' give me dat lil han'ful of greens for me and my chillun. Why dat ain't a eye-full. I ought not to take 'em ... but me and my chillun is _so_ hongry.... Some folks is so stingy and gripin'! Lawd knows, Tony don't _feed_ me! (The noise of cane-chewing is heard again. Enter JOE LINDSAY left with a gun over his shoulder and the large leg bone of a mule in the other hand. He approaches the step wearily.) HAMBO: Well, did you git any partridges, Joe? JOE: (Resting his gun and seating himself) Nope, but I made de feathers fly. HAMBO: I don't see no birds. JOE: Oh, the feathers flew off on de birds. LIGE: I don't see nothin' but dat bone. Look lak you done kilt a cow and et 'im raw out in de woods. JOE: Don't y'all know dat hock-bone? WALTER: How you reckon we gointer know every hock-bone in Orange County sight unseen? JOE: (Standing the bone up on the floor of the porch) Dis is a hock-bone of Brazzle's ole yaller mule. (General pleased interest. Everybody wants to touch it.) BRAZZLE: (Coming forward) Well, sir! (Takes bone in both hands and looks up and down the length of it) If 'tain't my ole mule! This sho was one hell of a mule, too. He'd fight every inch in front of de plow ... he'd turn over de mowing machine ... run away wid de wagon ... and you better not look like you wanter _ride_ 'im! LINDSAY: (Laughing) Yeah, I 'member seein' you comin' down de road just so ... (He limps wid one hand on his buttocks) one day. BRAZZLE: Dis mule was so evil he used to try to bite and kick when I'd go in de stable to feed 'im. WALTER: He was too mean to git fat. He was so skinny you could do a week's washing on his ribs for a washboard and hang 'em up on his hip-bones to dry. LIGE: I 'member one day, Brazzle, you sent yo' boy to Winter Park after some groceries wid a basket. So here he went down de road ridin' dis mule wid dis basket on his arm.... Whut you reckon dat ole contrary mule done when he got to dat crooked place in de road going round Park Lake? He turnt right round and went through de handle of dat basket ... wid de boy still up on his back. (General laughter) BRAZZLE: Yeah, he up and died one Sat'day just for spite ... but he was too contrary to lay down on his side like a mule orter and die decent. Naw, he made out to lay down on his narrer contracted back and die wid his feets sticking straight up in de air just so. (He gets down on his back and illustrates.) We drug him out to de swamp wid 'im dat way, didn't we, Hambo? JOE CLARK: I God, Brazzle, we all seen it. Didn't we all go to de draggin' out? More folks went to yo' mule's draggin' out than went to last school closing.... Bet there ain't been a thing right in mule-hell for four years. HAMBO: Been dat long since he been dead? CLARK: I God, yes. He died de week after I started to cutting' dat new ground. (The bone is passing from hand to hand. At last a boy about twelve takes it. He has just walked up and is proudly handling the bone when a woman's voice is heard off stage right.) VOICE: Senator! Senator!! Oh, you Senator? BOY: (Turning displeased mutters) Aw, shux. (Loudly) Ma'm? VOICE: If you don't come here you better! SENATOR: Yes ma'am. (He drops bone on ground down stage and trots off frowning.) Soon as we men git to doing something dese wimmen.... (Exits, right.) (Enter TEET and BOOTSIE left, clean and primped in voile dresses just alike. They speak diffidently and enter store. The men admire them casually.) LIGE: Them girls done turned out to be right good-looking. WALTER: Teet ain't as pretty now as she was a few years back. She used to be fat as a butter ball wid legs just like two whiskey-kegs. She's too skinny since she got her growth. CODY: Ain't none of 'em pretty as dat Miss Daisy. God! She's pretty as a speckled pup. LIGE: But she was sho nuff ugly when she was little ... little ole hard black knot. She sho has changed since she been away up North. If she ain't pretty now, there ain't a hound dog in Georgy. (Re-enter SENATOR BAILEY and stops on the steps. He addresses JOE CLARK.) SENATOR: Mist' Clark.... HAMBO: (To Senator) Ain't you got no manners? We all didn't sleep wid you last night. SENATOR: (Embarrassed) Good evening, everybody. ALL THE MEN: Good evening, son, boy, Senator, etc. SENATOR: Mist' Clark, mama said is Daisy been here dis evenin'? JOE CLARK: Ain't laid my eyes on her. Ain't she working over in Maitland? SENATOR: Yessuh ... but she's off today and mama sent her down here to get de groceries. JOE CLARK: Well, tell yo' ma I ain't seen her. SENATOR: Well, she say to tell you when she come, to tell her ma say she better git home and dat quick. JOE CLARK: I will. (Exit BOY right.) LIGE: Bet she's off somewhere wid Dave or Jim. WALTER: I don't bet it ... I know it. She's got them two in de go-long. (Re-enter TEET and BOOTSIE from store. TEET has a letter and BOOTSIE two or three small parcels. The men look up with interest as they come out on the porch.) WALTER: (Winking) Whut's dat you got, Teet ... letter from Dave? TEET: (Flouncing) Naw indeed! It's a letter from my B-I-T-sweetie! (Rolls her eyes and hips.) WALTER: (Winking) Well, ain't Dave yo' B-I-T-sweetie? I thought y'all was 'bout to git married. Everywhere I looked dis summer 'twas you and Dave, Bootsie and Jim. I thought all of y'all would've done jumped over de broomstick by now. TEET: (Flourishing letter) Don't tell it to me ... tell it to the ever-loving Mr. Albert Johnson way over in Apopka. BOOTSIE: (Rolling her eyes) Oh, tell 'em 'bout the ever-loving Mr. Jimmy Cox from Altamont. Oh, I can't stand to see my baby lose. HAMBO: It's lucky y'all girls done got some more fellers, cause look like Daisy done treed both Jim and Dave at once, or they done treed here one. TEET: Let her have 'em ... nobody don't keer. They don't handle de "In God we trust" lak my Johnson. He's head bellman at de hotel. BOOTSIE: Mr. Cox got money's grandma and old grandpa change. (The girls exit huffily.) LINDSAY: (To HAMBO, pseudo-seriously) You oughtn't tease dem gals lak dat. HAMBO: Oh, I laks to see gals all mad. But dem boys is crazy sho nuff. Before Daisy come back here they both had a good-looking gal a piece. Now they 'bout to fall out and fight over half a gal a piece. Neither one won't give over and let de other one have her. LIGE: And she ain't thinking too much 'bout no one man. (Looks off left.) Here she come now. God! She got a mean walk on her! WALTER: Yeah, man. She handles a lot of traffic! Oh, mama, throw it in de river ... papa'll come git it! LINDSAY: Aw, shut up, you married men! LIGE: Man don't go blind cause he gits married, do he? (Enter DAISY hurriedly. Stops at step a moment. She is dressed in sheer organdie, white shoes and stockings.) DAISY: Good evening, everybody. (Walks up on the porch.) ALL THE MEN: (Very pleasantly) Good evening, Miss Daisy. DAISY: (To CLARK) Mama sent me after some meal and flour and some bacon and sausage oil. CLARK: Senator been here long time ago hunting you. DAISY: (Frightened) Did he? Oo ... Mist' Clark, hurry up and fix it for me. (She starts on in the store.) LINDSAY: (Giving her his seat) You better wait here, Daisy. (WALTER kicks LIGE to call his attention to LINDSAY'S attitude) It's powerful hot in dat store. Lemme run fetch 'em out to you. LIGE: (To LINDSAY) _Run!_ Joe Lindsay, you ain't been able to run since de big bell rung. Look at dat gray beard. LINDSAY: Thank God, I ain't gray all over. I'm just as good a man right now as any of you young 'uns. (He hurries on into the store.) WALTER: Daisy, where's yo' two body guards? It don't look natural to see you thout nary one of 'em. DAISY: (Archly) I ain't got no body guards. I don't know what you talkin' about. LIGE: Aw, don' try to come dat over us, Daisy. You know who we talkin' 'bout all right ... but if you want me to come out flat footed ... where's Jim and Dave? DAISY: Ain't they playin' somewhere for de white folks? LIGE: (To WALTER) Will you listen at dis gal, Walter? (To DAISY) When I ain't been long seen you and Dave going down to de Lake. DAISY: (Frightened) Don't y'all run tell mama where I been. WALTER: Well, you tell us which one you laks de best and we'll wipe our mouf (Gesture) and say nothin'. Dem boys been de best of friends all they life, till both of 'em took after you ... then good-bye, Katy bar de door! DAISY: (Affected innocence) Ain't they still playin' and dancin' together? LIGE: Yeah, but that's 'bout all they do 'gree on these days. That's de way it is wid men, young and old.... I don't keer how long they been friends and how thick they been ... a woman kin come between 'em. David and Jonather never would have been friends so long if Jonather had of been any great hand wid de wimmen. You ain't never seen no two roosters that likes one another. DAISY: I ain't tried to break 'em up. WALTER: Course you ain't. You don't have to. All two boys need to do is to git stuck on de same girl and they done broke up ... _right now_! Wimmen is something can't be divided equal. (Re-enter JOE LINDSAY and CLARK with the groceries. DAISY jumps up and grabs the packages.) LIGE: (To DAISY) Want some of us ... me ... to go long and tote yo' things for you? DAISY: (Nervously) Naw, mama is riding her high horse today. Long as I been gone it wouldn't do for me to come walking up wid nobody. (She exits hurriedly right.) (All the men watch her out of sight in silence.) CLARK: (Sighing) I God, know whut Daisy puts me in de mind of? HAMBO: No, what? (They all lean together.) CLARK: I God, a great big mango ... a sweet smell, you know, Th a strong flavor, but not something you could mash up like a strawberry. Something with a body to it. (General laughter, but not obscene.) HAMBO: (Admiringly) Joe Clark! I didn't know you had it in you! (MRS. CLARK enters from store door and they all straighten up guiltily) CLARK: (Angrily to his wife) Now whut do you want? I God, the minute I set down, here you come.... MRS. CLARK: Somebody want a stamp, Jody. You know you don't 'low me to bove wid de post office. (HE rises sullenly and goes inside the store.) BRAZZLE: Say, Hambo, I didn't see you at our Sunday School picnic. HAMBO: (Slicing some plug-cut tobacco) Nope, wan't there dis time. WALTER: Looka here, Hambo. Y'all Baptist carry dis close-communion business too far. If a person ain't half drownded in de lake and half et up by alligators, y'all think he ain't baptized, so you can't take communion wid him. Now I reckon you can't even drink lemonade and eat chicken perlow wid us. HAMBO: My Lord, boy, youse just _full_ of words. Now, in de first place, if this year's picnic was lak de one y'all had last year ... you ain't had no lemonade for us Baptists to turn down. You had a big ole barrel of rain water wid about a pound of sugar in it and one lemon cut up over de top of it. LIGE: Man, you sho kin mold 'em! WALTER: Well, I went to de Baptist picnic wid my mouf all set to eat chicken, when lo and behold y'all had chitlings! Do Jesus! LINDSAY: Hold on there a minute. There was plenty chicken at dat picnic, which I do know is right. WALTER: Only chicken I seen was half a chicken yo' pastor musta tried to swaller whole cause he was choked stiff as a board when I come long ... wid de whole deacon's board beating him in de back, trying to knock it out his throat. LIGE: Say, dat puts me in de mind of a Baptist brother that was crazy 'bout de preachers and de preacher was crazy 'bout feeding his face. So his son got tired of trying to beat dese stump-knockers to de grub on the table, so one day he throwed out some slams 'bout dese preachers. Dat made his old man mad, so he tole his son to git out. He boy ast him "Where must I go, papa?" He says, "Go on to hell I reckon ... I don't keer where you go." So de boy left and was gone seven years. He come back one cold, windy night and rapped on de door. "Who dat?" de old man ast him "It's me, Jack." De old man opened de door, so glad to see his son agin, and tole Jack to come in. He did and looked all round de place. Seven or eight preachers was sitting round de fire eatin' and drinkin'. "Where you been all dis time, Jack?" de old man ast him. "I been to hell," Jack tole him. "Tell us how it is down there, Jack." "Well," he says, "It's just like it is here ... you cain't git to de fire for de preachers." HAMBO: Boy, you kin lie just like de cross-ties from Jacksonville to Key West. De presidin' elder must come round on his circuit teaching y'all how to tell 'em, cause you couldn't lie dat good just natural. WALTER: Can't nobody beat Baptist folks lying ... and I ain't never found out how come you think youse so important. LINDSAY: Ain't we got de finest and de biggest church? Macedonia Baptist will hold more folks than any two buildings in town. LIGE: Thass right, y'all got a heap more church than you got members to go in it. HAMBO: Thass all right ... y'all ain't got neither de church nor de members. Everything that's had in this town got to be held in our church. (Re-enter JOE CLARK.) CLARK: What you-all talkin'? HAMBO: Come on out, Tush Hawg, lemme beat you some checkers. I'm tired of fending and proving wid dese boys ain't got no hair on they chest yet. CLARK: I God, you mean you gointer get beat. You can't handle me ... I'm a tush hawg. HAMBO: Well, I'm going to draw dem tushes right now. (To two small boys using checker board on edge of porch.) Here you chilluns, let de Mayor and me have that board. Go on out an' play an' give us grown folks a little peace. (The children go down stage and call out:) SMALL BOY: Hey, Senator. Hey, Marthy. Come on let's play chick-me, chick-me, cranie-crow. CHILD'S VOICE: (Off stage) All right! Come on, Jessie! (Enter several children, led by SENATOR, and a game begins in front of the store as JOE CLARK and HAMBO play checkers.) JOE CLARK: I God! Hambo, you can't play no checkers. HAMBO: (As they seat themselves at the check board) Aw, man, if you wasn't de Mayor I'd beat you all de time. (The children get louder and louder, drowning out the men's voices.) SMALL GIRL: I'm gointer be de hen. BOY: And I'm gointer be de hawk. Lemme git maself a stick to mark wid. (The boy who is the hawk squats center stage with a short twig in his hand. The largest girl lines up the other children behind her.) GIRL: (Mother Hen) (Looking back over her flock): Y'all ketch holt of one 'Nother's clothes so de hawk can't git yuh. (They do.) You all straight now? CHILDREN: Yeah. (The march around the hawk commences.) HEN AND CHICKS: Chick mah chick mah craney crow Went to de well to wash ma toe When I come back ma chick was gone What time, ole witch? HAWK: (Making a tally on the ground) One! HEN AND CHICKS: (Repeat song and march.) HAWK: (Scoring again) Two! (Can be repeated any number of times.) HAWK: Four. (He rises and imitates a hawk flying and trying to catch a chicken. Calling in a high voice:) Chickee. HEN: (Flapping wings to protect her young) My chickens sleep. HAWK: Chickee. (During all this the hawk is feinting and darting in his efforts to catch a chicken, and the chickens are dancing defensively, the hen trying to protect them.) HEN: My chicken's sleep. HAWK: I shall have a chick. HEN: You shan't have a chick. HAWK: I'm goin' home. (Flies off) HEN: Dere's de road. HAWK: My pot's a boilin'. HEN: Let it boil. HAWK: My guts a growlin'. HEN: Let 'em growl. HAWK: I must have a chick. HEN: You shan't have n'airn. HAWK: My mama's sick. HEN: Let her die. HAWK: Chickie! HEN: My chicken's sleep. (HAWK darts quickly around the hen and grabs a chicken and leads him off and places his captive on his knees at the store porch. After a brief bit of dancing he catches another, then a third, etc.) HAMBO: (At the checker board, his voice rising above the noise of the playing children, slapping his sides jubilantly) Ha! Ha! I got you now. Go ahead on and move, Joe Clark ... jus' go ahead on and move. LOUNGERS: (Standing around two checker players) Ol' Deacon's got you now. ANOTHER VOICE: Don't see how he can beat the Mayor like that. ANOTHER VOICE: Got him in the Louisville loop. (These remarks are drowned by the laughter of the playing children directly in front of the porch. MAYOR JOE CLARK disturbed in his concentration on the checkers and peeved at being beaten suddenly turns toward the children, throwing up his hands.) CLARK: Get on 'way from here, you limbs of Satan, making all that racket so a man can't hear his ears. Go on, go on! (THE MAYOR looks about excitedly for the town marshall. Seeing him playing cards on the other side of porch, he bellows:) Lum Boger, whyn't you git these kids away from here! What kind of a marshall is you? All this passle of young'uns around here under grown people's feet, creatin' disorder in front of my store. (LUM BOGER puts his cards down lazily, comes down stage and scatters the children away. One saucy little girl refuses to move.) LUM BOGER: Why'nt you go on away from here, Matilda? Didn't you hear me tell you-all to move? LITTLE MATILDA: (Defiantly) I ain't goin' nowhere. You ain't none of my mama. (Jerking herself free from him as LUM touches her.) My mama in the store and she told me to wait out here. So take that, ol' Lum. LUM BOGER: You impudent little huzzy, you! You must smell yourself ... youse so fresh. MATILDA: The wind musta changed and you smell your own top lip. LUM BOGER: Don't make me have to grab you and take you down a buttonhole lower. MATILDA: (Switching her little head) Go ahead on and grab me. You sho can't kill me, and if you kill me, you sho can't eat me. (She marches into the store.) SENATOR: (Derisively from behind stump) Ol' dumb Lum! Hey! Hey! (LITTLE BOY at edge of stage thumbs his nose at the marshall.) (LUM lumbers after the small boy. Both exit.) HAMBO: (To CLARK who has been thinking all this while what move to make) You ain't got but one move ... go ahead on and make it. What's de matter, Mayor? CLARK: (Moving his checker) Aw, here. HAMBO: (Triumphant) Now! Look at him, boys. I'm gonna laugh in notes. (Laughing to the scale and jumping a checker each time) Do, sol, fa, me, lo ... one! (Jumping another checker) La, sol, fa, me, do ... two! (Another jump.) Do sol, re, me, lo ... three! (Jumping a third.) Lo sol, fa, me, re ... four! (The crowd begins to roar with laughter. LUM BOGER returns, looking on. Children come drifting back again playing chick-me-chick-me-cranie crow.) VOICE: Oh, ha! Done got the ol' tush hog. ANOTHER VOICE: Thought you couldn't be beat, Brother Mayor? CLARK: (Peeved, gets up and goes into the store mumbling) Oh, I coulda beat you if I didn't have this store on my mind. Saturday afternoon and I got work to do. Lum, ain't I told you to keep them kids from playin' right in front of this store? (LUM makes a pass at the nearest half-grown boy. The kids dart around him teasingly.) ANOTHER VOICE: Eh, heh.... Hambo done run him on his store ... done run the ol' coon in his hole. ANOTHER VOICE: That ain't good politics, Hambo, beatin' the Mayor. ANOTHER VOICE: Well, Hambo, you don't got to be so hard at checkers, come on let's see what you can do with de cards. Lum Boger there got his hands full nursin' the chilluns. ANOTHER VOICE: (At the table) We ain't playin' for money, nohow, Deacon. We just playin' a little Florida Flip. HAMBO: Ya all can't play no Florida Flip. When I was a sinner there wasn't a man in this state could beat me playin' that game. But I'm a deacon in Macedonia Baptist now and I don't bother with the cards no more. VOICE AT CARD TABLE: All right, then, come on here Tony (To man with basket on steps.) let me catch your jack. TAYLOR: (Looking toward door) I don't reckon I got time. I guess my wife gonna get through buying out that store some time or other and want to go home. OLD MAN: (On opposite side of porch from card game) I bet my wife would know better than expect me to sit around and wait for her with a basket. Whyn't you tell her to tote it on home herself? TAYLOR: (Sighing and shaking his head.) Eh, Lawd! VOICE AT CARD TABLE: Look like we can't get nobody to come into this game. Seem like everybody's scared a us. Come on back here, Lum, and take your hand. (LUM makes a final futile gesture at the children.) LUM: Ain't I tole you little haitians to stay away from here? (CHILDREN scatter teasingly only to return to their play in front of the store later on. LUM comes up on the porch and re-joins the card game. Just as he gets seated, MRS. CLARK comes to the door of the store and calls him.) MRS. CLARK: (Drawlingly) Columbus! LUM: (Wearily) Ma'am? MRS. CLARK: De Mayor say for you to go round in de back yard and tie up old lady Jackson's mule what's trampin' aup all de tomatoes in my garden. LUM: All right. (Leaving card game.) Wait till I come back, folkses. LIGE: Oh, hum! (Yawning and putting down the deck of cards) Lum's sho a busy marshall. Say, ain't Dave and Jim been round here yet? I feel kinder like hearin' a little music 'bout now. BOY: Naw, they ain't been here today. You-all know they ain't so thick nohow as they was since Daisy Bailey come back and they started runnin' after her. WOMAN: You mean since she started runnin' after them, the young hussy. MRS. CLARK: (In doorway) She don't mean 'em no good. WALTER: That's a shame, ain't it now? (Enter LUM from around back of store. He jumps on the porch and takes his place at the card box.) LUM: (To the waiting players) All right, boys! Turn it on and let the bad luck happen. LIGE: My deal. (He begins shuffling the cards with an elaborate fan-shape movement.) VOICE AT TABLE: Look out there, Lige, you shuffling mighty lot. Don't carry the cub to us. LIGE: Aw, we ain't gonna cheat you ... we gonna beat you. (He slams down the cards for LUM BOGER to cut.) Wanta cut 'em? LUM: No, ain't no need of cutting a rabbit out when you can twist him out. Deal 'em. (LIGE deals out the cards.) CLARK'S VOICE: (Inside the store) You, Mattie! (MRS. CLARK, who has been standing in the DOE, quickly turns and goes inside.) LIGE: Y-e-e-e! Spades! (The game is started.) LUM: Didn't snatch that jack, did you? LIGE: Aw, no, ain't snatched no jack. Play. WALTER: (LUM'S partner) Well, here it is, partner. What you want me to play for you? LUM: Play jus' like I'm in New York, partner. But we gotta try to catch that jack. LIGE: (Threateningly) Stick out your hand and draw back a nub. (WALTER THOMAS plays.) WALTER: I'm playin' a diamond for you, partner. LUM: I done tole you you ain't got no partner. LIGE: Heh, Heh! Partner, we got 'em. Pull off wid your king. Dey got to play 'em. (When that trick is turned, triumphantly:) Didn't I tell you, partner? (Stands on his feet and slams down with his ace violently) Now, come up under this ace. Aw, hah, look at ol' low, partner. I knew I was gonna catch 'em. (When LUM plays) Ho, ho, there goes the queen.... Now, the jack's a gentleman.... Now, I'm playin' my knots. (Everybody plays and the hand is ended.) Partner, high, low, jack and the game and four. WALTER: Give me them cards. I believe you-all done give me the cub that time. Look at me ... this is Booker T Washington dealing these cards. (Shuffles cards grandly and gives them to LIGE to cut.) Wanta cut 'em? LIGE: Yeah, cut 'em and shoot 'em. I'd cut behind my ma. (He cuts the cards.) WALTER: (Turning to player at left, FRANK, LIGE'S partner) What you saying, Frank? FRANK: I'm beggin'. (LIGE is trying to peep at cards.) WALTER: (Turning to LIGE) Stop peepin' at them cards, Lige. (To FRANK) Did you say you was beggin' or standin'? FRANK: I'm beggin'. WALTER: Get up off your knees. Go ahead and tell 'em I sent you. FRANK: Well, that makes us four. WALTER: I don't care if you is. (Pulls a quarter out of his pocket and lays it down on the box.) Twenty-five cents says I know the best one. Let's go. (Everybody puts down a quarter.) FRANK: What you want me to play for you partner? LIGE: Play me a club. (The play goes around to dealer, WALTER, who gets up and takes the card off the top of the deck and slams it down on the table.) WALTER: Get up ol' deuce of deamonds and gallop off with your load. (TO LUM) Partner, how many times you seen the deck? LUM: Two times. WALTER: Well, then I'm gonna pull off, partner. Watch this ol' queen. (Everyone plays) Ha! Ha! Wash day and no soap. (Takes the jack of diamonds and sticks him up on his forehead. Stands up on his feet.) Partner, I'm dumping to you ... play your king. (When it comes to his play LUM, too, stands up. The others get up and they, too, excitedly slam their cards down.) Now, come on in this kitchen and let me splice that cabbage! (He slams down the ace of diamonds. Pats the jack on his for head, sings:) Hey, hey, back up, jenny, get your load. (Talking) Dump to that jack, boys, dump to it. High, low, jack and the game and four. One to go. We're four wid you, boys. LIGE: Yeah, but you-all playin' catch-up. FRANK: Gimme them cards ... lemme deal some. LIGE: Frank, now you really got responsibility on you. They's got one game on us. FRANK: Aw, man, I'm gonna deal 'em up a mess. This deal's in the White House. (He shuffles and puts the cards down for WALTER to cut.) Cut 'em. WALTER: Nope, I never cut green timber. (FRANK deals and turns the card up.) FRANK: Hearts, boys. (He turns up an ace.) LUM: Aw, you snatched that ace, nigger. WALTER: Yeah, they done carried the cub to us, partner. LIGE: Oh, he didn't do no such a thing. That ace was turned fair. We jus' too hard for you ... we eats our dinner out a the blacksmith shop. WALTER: Aw, you all cheatin'. You know it wasn't fair. FRANK: Aw, shut up, you all jus' whoopin' and hollerin' for nothin'. Tryin' to bully the game. (FRANK and LIGE rise and shake hands grandly.) LIGE: Mr. Hoover, you sho is a noble president. We done stuck these niggers full of cobs. They done got scared to play us. LIGE (?) Scared to play you? Get back down to this table, let me spread my mess. LOUNGER: Yonder comes Elder Simms. You all better squat that rabbit. They'll be having you all up in the church for playin' cards. (FRANK grabs up the cards and puts them in his pocket quickly. Everybody picks up the money and looks unconcerned as the preacher enters. Enter ELDER SIMMS with his two prim-looking little children by the hand.) ELDER SIMMS: How do, children. Right warm for this time in November, ain't it? VOICE: Yes sir, Reverend, sho is. How's Sister Simms? SIMMS: She's feelin' kinda po'ly today. (Goes on in store with his children) VOICE: (Whispering loudly) Don't see how that great big ole powerful woman could be sick. Look like she could go bear huntin' with her fist. ANOTHER VOICE: She look jus' as good as you-all's Baptist pastor's wife. Pshaw, you ain't seen no big woman, nohow, man. I seen one once so big she went to whip her little boy and he run up under her belly and hid six months 'fore she could find him. ANOTHER VOICE: Well, I knowed a woman so little that she had to get up on a soap box to look over a grain of sand. (REV. SIMMS comes out of store, each child behind him sucking a stick of candy.) SIMMS: (To his children) Run on home to your mother and don't get dirty on the way. (The two children start primly off down the street but just out of sight one of them utters a loud cry.) SIMMS'S CHILD: (Off stage) Papa, papa. Nunkie's trying to lick my candy. SIMMS: I told you to go on and leave them other children alone. VOICE ON PORCH: (Kidding) Lum, whyn't you tend to your business. (TOWN MARSHALL rises and shoos the children off again.) LUM: You all varmints leave them nice chillun alone. LIGE: (Continuing the lying on porch) Well, you all done seen so much, but I bet you ain't never seen a snake as big as the one I saw when I was a boy up in middle Georgia. He was so big couldn't hardly move his self. He laid in one spot so long he growed moss on him and everybody thought he was a log, till one day I set down on him and went to sleep, and when I woke up that snake done crawled to Florida. (Loud laughter.) FRANK: (Seriously) Layin' all jokes aside though now, you all remember that rattlesnake I killed last year was almost as big as that Georgia snake. VOICE: How big, you say it was, Frank? FRANK: Maybe not quite as big as that, but jus' about fourteen feet. VOICE: (Derisively) Gimme that lyin' snake. That snake wasn't but four foot long when you killed him last year and you done growed him ten feet in a year. ANOTHER VOICE: Well, I don't know about that. Some of the snakes around here is powerful long. I went out in my front yard yesterday right after the rain and killed a great big ol' cottonmouth. SIMMS: This sho is a snake town. I certainly can't raise no chickens for 'em. They kill my little biddies jus' as fast as they hatch out. And yes ... if I hadn't cut them weeds out of the street in front of my parsonage, me or some of my folks woulda been snake-bit right at our front door. (To whole crowd) Whyn't you all cut down these weeds and clean up these streets? HAMBO: Well, the Mayor ain't said nothin' 'bout it. SIMMS: When the folks misbehaves in this town I think they oughta lock 'em up in a jail and make 'em work their fine out on the streets, then these weeds would be cut down. VOICE: How we gonna do that when we ain't got no jail? SIMMS: Well, you sho needs a jail ... you-all needs a whole lot of improvements round this town. I ain't never pastored no town so way-back as this one here. CLARK: (Who has lately emerged from the store, fanning himself, overhears this last remark and bristles up) What's that you say 'bout this town? SIMMS: I say we needs some improvements here in this town ... that's what. CLARK: (In a powerful voice) And what improvements you figgers we needs? SIMMS: A whole heap. Now, for one thing we really does need a jail, Mayor. We oughta stop runnin' these people out of town that misbehaves, and lock 'em up. Others towns has jails, everytown I ever pastored had a jail. Don't see how come we can't have one. CLARK: (Towering angrily above the preacher) Now, wait a minute, Simms. Don't you reckon the man who knows how to start a town knows how to run it? I paid two hundred dollars out of this right hand for this land and walked out here and started this town befo' you was born. I ain't like some of you new niggers, come here when grapes' ripe. I was here to cut new ground, and I been Mayor ever since. SIMMS: Well, there ain't no sense in no one man stayin' Mayor all the time. CLARK: Well, it's my town and I can be mayor jus' as long as I want to. It was me that put this town on the map. SIMMS: What map you put it on, Joe Clark? I ain't seen it on no map. CLARK: (Indignant) I God! Listen here, Elder Simms. If you don't like the way I run this town, just' take your flat feets right on out and git yonder crost the woods. You ain't been here long enough to say nothin' nohow. HAMBO: (From a nail keg) Yeah, you Methodist niggers always telling people how to run things. TAYLOR: (Practically unheard by the others) We do so know how to run things, don't we? Ain't Brother Mayor a Methodist, and ain't the school-teacher a ...? (His remarks are drowned out by the others.) SIMMS: No, we don't like the way you're runnin' things. Now looka here, (Pointing at the Marshall) You got that lazy Lum Boger here for marshall and he ain't old enough to be dry behind his ears yet ... and all these able-bodied means in this town! You won't 'low nobody else to run a store 'ceptin' you. And looka yonder (happening to notice the street light) only street lamp in town, you got in front of your place. (Indignantly) We pay the taxes and you got the lamp. VILLAGER: Don't you-all fuss now. How come you two always yam-yamming at each other? CLARK: How come this fly-by-night Methodist preacher over here ... ain't been here three months ... tries to stand up on my store porch and tries to tell me how to run my town? (MATTIE CLARK, the Mayor's wife, comes timidly to the door, wiping her hands on her apron.) Ain't no man gonna tell me how to run my town. I God, I 'lected myself in and I'm gonna run it. (Turns and sees wife standing in door. Commandingly.) I God, Mattie, git on back in there and wait on that store! MATTIE: (Timidly) Jody, somebody else wantin' stamps. CLARK: I God, woman, what good is you? Gwan, git in. Look like between women and preachers a man can't have no peace. (Exit CLARK.) SIMMS: (Continuing his argument) Now, when I pastored in Jacksonville you oughta see what kinda jails they got there.... LOUNGER: White folks needs jails. We colored folks don't need no jail. ANOTHER VILLAGER: Yes, we do, too. Elder Simms is right.... (The argument becomes a hubbub of voices.) TAYLOR: (Putting down his basket) Now, I tell you a jail.... MRS. TAYLOR: (Emerging from the store door, arms full of groceries, looking at her husband) Yeah, and if you don't shut up and git these rations home I'm gonna be worse on you than a jail and six judges. Pickup that basket and let's go. (TONY meekly picks up the basket and he and his wife exit as the sound of an approaching guitar is heard off stage.) (Two carelessly dressed, happy-go-lucky fellows enter together. One is fingering a guitar without playing any particular tune, and the other has his hat cocked over his eyes in a burlesque, dude-like manner. There are casual greetings.) WALTER: Hey, there, bums, how's tricks? LIGE: What yo' sayin', boys? HAMBO: Good evenin' sons. LIGE: How did you-all make out this evenin', boys? JIM: Oh, them white folks at the party shelled out right well. Kept Dave busy pickin' it up. How much did we make today, Dave? DAVE: (Striking his pocket) I don't know, boy, but feels right heavy here. Kept me pickin' up money just like this.... (As JIM picks a few dance chords, Dave gives a dance imitation of how he picked up the coins from the ground as the white folks threw them.) We count it after while. Woulda divided up with you already if you hadn't left me when you seen Daisy comin' by. Let's sit down on the porch and rest now. LIGE: She sho is lookin' stylish and pretty since she come back with her white folks from up North. Wearin' the swellest clothes. And that coal-black hair of hers jus' won't quit. MATTIE CLARK: (In doorway) I don't see what the mens always hanging after Daisy Taylor for. CLARK: (Turning around on the porch) I God, you back here again. Who's tendin' that store? (MATTIE disappears inside.) DAVE: Well, she always did look like new money to me when she was here before. JIM: Well, that's all you ever did get was a look. DAVE: That's all you know! I bet I get more than that now. JIM: You might git it but I'm the man to use it. I'm a bottom fish. DAVE: Aw, man. You musta been walking round here fast asleep when Daisy was in this county last. You ain't seen de go I had with her. JIM: No, I ain't seen it. Bet you didn't have no letter from her while she been away. DAVE: Bet you didn't neither. JIM: Well, it's just cause she can't write. If she knew how to scratch with a pencil I'd had a ton of 'em. DAVE: Shaw, man! I'd had a post office full of 'em. OLD WOMAN: You-all ought to be shame, carrying on over a brazen heifer like Daisy Taylor. Jus' cause she's been up North and come back, I reckon you cutting de fool sho 'nough now. She ain't studying none of you-all nohow. All she wants is what you got in your pocket. JIM: I likes her but she won't git nothin' outa me. She never did. I wouldn't give a poor consumpted cripple crab a crutch to cross the River Jurdon. DAVE: I know I ain't gonna give no woman nothin'. I wouldn't give a dog a doughnut if he treed a terrapin. LIGE: Youse a cottontail dispute ... both of you. You'd give her anything you got. You'd give her Georgia with a fence 'round it. OLD MAN: Yeah, and she'd take it, too. LINDSAY: Don't distriminate the woman like that. That ain't nothing but hogism. Ain't nothin' the matter with Daisy, she's all right. (Enter TEETS and BOOTSIE tittering coyly and switching themselves.) BOOTSIE: Is you seen my mama? OLD WOMAN: You know you ain't lookin' for no mama. Jus' come back down here to show your shape and fan around awhile. (BOOTSIE and TEETS going into the store.) BOOTSIE & TEETS: No, we ain't. We'se come to get our mail. OLD WOMAN: (After girls enter store) Why don't you all keep up some attention to these nice girls here, Bootsie and Teets. They wants to marry. DAVE: Aw, who thinkin' 'bout marryin' now? They better stay home and eat their own pa's rations. I gotta buy myself some shoes. JIM: The woman I'm gonna marry ain't born yet and her maw is dead. (GIRLS come out giggling and exit.) (JIM begins to strum his guitar lightly at first as the talk goes on.) CLARK: (To DAVE and JIM) Two of the finest gals that ever lived and friendly jus' like you-all is. You two boys better take 'em back and stop them shiftless ways. HAMBO: Yeah, hurry up and do somethin'! I wants to taste a piece yo' weddin' cake. JIM: (Embarrassed but trying to be jocular) Whut you trying to rush me up so fast?... Look at Will Cody here (Pointing to little man on porch) he been promising to bring his already wife down for two months ... and nair one of us ain't seen her yet. DAVE: Yeah, how you speck me to haul in a brand new wife when he can't lead a wagon-broke wife eighteen miles? Me, I'm going git one soon's Cody show me his'n. (General sly laughter at CODY'S expense.) WALTER: (Snaps his fingers and pretends to remember something) Thass right, Cody. I been intending to tell you.... I know where you kin buy a ready-built house for you and yo' wife. (Calls into the store.) Hey, Clark, cime on out here and tell Cody 'bout dat Bradley house. (To CODY.) I know you wants to git a place of yo' own so you kin settle down. HAMBO: He done moved so much since he been here till every time he walk out in his back yeard his chickens lay down and cross they legs. LINDSAY: Cody, I thought you tole us you was going up to Sanford to bring dat 'oman down here last Sat'day. LIGE: That ain't de way he tole me 'bout it. Look, fellers, (Getting up and putting one hand on his hips and one finger of the other hand against his chin coquettishly) Where you reckon I'll be next Sat'day night?... Sittin' up side of Miz Cody. (Great burst of laughter.) SYKES JONES: (Laughing) Know what de folks tole me in Sanford? Dat was another man's wife. (Guffaws.) CODY: (Feebly) Aw, you don't know whut you talkin' bout. JONES: Naw, I don't know, but de folks in Sanford does. (Laughing) Dey tell me when dat lady's husband come home Sat'day night, ole Cody jumped out de window. De man grabbed his old repeater and run out in de yard to head him off. When Cody seen him come round de corner de house (Gesture) he flopped his wings and flew up on de fence. De man thowed dat shotgun dead on him. (Laughs) Den, man! Cody flopped his wings lak a buzzard (Gesture) and sailed on off. De man dropped to his knees lak dis (Gesture of kneeling on one knee and taking aim) Die! die! die! (Supposedly sound of shots as the gun is moved in a circle following the course of Cody's supposed flight) Cody just flew right on off and lit on a hill two miles off. Then, man! (Gesture of swift flight) In ten minutes he was back here in Eatonville and in he bed. WALTER: I passed there and seen his house shakin', but I didn't know how come. HAMBO: Aw, leave de boy alone.... If you don't look out some of y'all going to have to break his record. LIGE: I'm prepared to break it now. (General laughter.) JIM: Well, anyhow, I don't want to marry and leave Dave ... yet awhile. (Picking a chord.) DAVE: And I ain't gonna leave Jim. We been palling around together ever since we hollered titty mama, ain't we, boy? JIM: Sho is. (Music of the guitar increases in volume. DAVE shuffles a few steps and the two begin to sing.) JIM: Rabbit on the log. I ain't got no dog. How am I gonna git him? God knows. DAVE: Rabbit on the log. Ain't got no dog. Shoot him with my rifle Bam! Bam! (Some of the villagers join in song and others get up and march around the porch in time with the music. BOOTSIE and TEETS re-enter, TEETS sticking her letter down the neck of her blouse. JOE LINDSAY grabs TEETS and WALTER THOMAS grabs BOOTSIE. There is dancing, treating and general jollification. Little children dance the parse-me-la. The music fills the air just as the sun begins to go down. Enter DAISY TAYLOR coming down the road toward the store.) CLARK: (Bawls out from the store porch) I God, there's Daisy again. (Most of the dancing stops, the music slows down and then stops completely. DAVE and JIM greet DAISY casually as she approaches the porch.) JIM: Well, Daisy, we knows you, too. DAVE: Gal, youse jus' as pretty as a speckled pup. DAISY: (Giggling) I see you two boys always playin' and singin' together. That music sounded right good floating down the road. JIM: Yeah, child, we'se been playin' for the white folks all week. We'se playin' for the colored now. DAVE: (Showing off, twirling his dancing feet) Yeah, we're standin' on our abstract and livin' on our income. OLD MAN: Um-ump, but they ain't never workin'. Just round here playing as usual. JIM: Some folks think you ain't workin' lessen you smellin' a mule. (He sits back down on box and picks at his guitar.) Think you gotta be beatin' a man to his barn every mornin'. VOICE: Glad to be round home with we-all again, ain't you Daisy? DAISY: Is I glad? I jus' got off special early this evenin' to come over here and see everybody. I was kinda 'fraid sundown would catch me 'fore I got round that lake. Don't know how I'm gonna walk back to my workin' place in the dark by muself. DAVE: Don't no girl as good-lookin' as you is have to go home by herself tonight. JIM: No, cause I'm here. DAVE: (To DAISY) Don't you trust yourself round that like wid all them 'gators and moccasins with that nigger there, Daisy (Pointing at JIM) He's jus' full of rabbit blood. What you need is a real man ... with good feet. (Cutting a dance step.) DAISY: I ain't thinking 'bout goin' home yet. I'm goin' in the store. JIM: What you want in the store? DAISY: I want some gum. DAVE: (Starting toward door) Girl, you don't have to go in there to git no gum. I'll go in there and buy you a carload of gum. What kind you want? DAISY: Bubble gum. (DAVE goes in the store with his hand in his pocket. The sun is setting and the twilight deepens.) JIM: (Pulling package out of his pocket and laughing) Here your gum, baby. What it takes to please the ladies, I totes it. I don't have to go get it, like Dave. What you gimme for it? DAISY: A bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck. (She embraces JIM playfully. He hands her the gum, patting his shoulder as he sits on box.) Oh, thank you. Youse a ready man. JIM: Yeah, there's a lot of good parts to me. You can have West Tampa if you want it. DAISY: You always was a nice quiet boy, Jim. DAVE: (Emerging from the store with a package of gum) Here's your gum, Daisy. JIM: Oh, youse late. She's done got gum now. Chaw that yourself. DAVE: (Slightly peeved and surprised) Hunh, you mighty fast here now with Daisy but you wasn't that fast gettin' out of that white man's chicken house last week. JIM: Who you talkin' 'bout? DAVE: Hoo-oo? (Facetiously) You ain't no owl. Your feet don't fit no limb. JIM: Aw, nigger, hush. DAVE: Aw, hush, yourself. (He walks away for a minute as DAISY turns to meet some newcomers. DAVE throws his package of gum down on the ground. It breaks and several children scramble for the pieces. An old man, very drunk, carrying an empty jug enters on left and staggers tipsily across stage.) (MAYOR JOE CLARK emerges from the store and looks about for his marshall.) CLARK: (Bellowing) Lum Boger! LUM BOGER: (Eating a stalk of cane) Yessir! CLARK: I God, Lum, take your lazy self off that keg and go light that town lamp. All summer long you eatin' up my melon, and all winter long you chawin' up my cane. What you think this town is payin' you for? Laying round here doin' nothin'? Can't you see it's gettin' dark? (LUM BOGER rises lazily and takes the soap box down stage, stands on it to light the lamp, discovers no oil in it and goes in store. In a few moments he comes out of store, fills the lamp and lights it.) DAISY: (Coming back toward JIM) Ain't you all gonna play and sing a little somethin' for me? I ain't heard your all's music much for so long. JIM: Play anything you want, Daisy. Don't make no difference what 'tis I can pick it. Where's that old coon, Dave? (Looking around for his partner.) LIGE: (Calling Dave, who is leaning against post at opposite end of porch) Come here, an' get warmed up for Daisy. DAVE: Aw, ma throat's tired. JIM: Leave the baby be. DAISY: Come on, sing a little, Dave. DAVE: (Going back toward Jim) Well, seeing who's asking ... all right. What song yo like, Daisy? DAISY: Um-m. Lemme think. VOICE ON PORCH: "Got on the train, didn't have no fare". DAISY: (Gaily) Yes, that one. That's a good one. JIM: (Begins to tune up. DAVE touches Daisy's hand.) VOICE: (In fun) Hunh, you all wouldn't play at the hall last week when we asked you. VOICE OF SPITEFUL OLD WOMAN: Daisy wasn't here then. ANOTHER VOICE: (Teasingly) All you got to do to some men is to shake a skirt tail in their face and they goes off their head. DAVE: (To JIM who is still tuning up) Come if you're comin' boy, let's go if you gwine. (The full melody of the guitar comes out in a lively, old-fashioned tune.) VOICE: All right now, boys, do it for Daisy jus' as good as you do for dem white folks over in Maitland. DAVE & JIM: (Beginning to sing) Got on the train, Didn't have no fare, But I rode some, I rode some. Got on the train, Didn't have no fare, But I rode some, But I rode some. Got on the train, Didn't have no fare, Conductor asked me what I'm doin' there, But I rode some! Grabbed me by the neck And led me to the door. But I rode some, But I rode some. Grabbed me by the neck And led me to the door. But I rode some, But I rode some. Grabbed me by the neck, And led me to the door. Rapped me cross the head with a forty-four, But I rode some. First thing I saw in jail Was a pot of peas. But I rode some, But I rode some. First thing I saw in jail Was a pot of peas. But I rode some, But I rode some. The peas was good, The meat was fat, Fell in love with the chain gang jus' for that, But I rode some. (DAVE acts out the song in dancing pantomime and when it ends there are shouts and general exclamations of approval from the crowd.) VOICES: I don't blame them white folks for goin' crazy 'bout that.... OLD MAN: Oh, when I was a young boy I used to swing the gals round on that piece. DAISY: (TO JIM) Seem like your playin' gits better and better. DAVE: (Quickly) And how 'bout my singin'? (Everybody laughs.) VOICES IN THE CROWD: Ha! Ha! Ol' Dave's gittin' jealous when she speaks o' Jim. JIM: (To DAVE, in fun) Ain't nothin' to it but my playin'. You ain't got no singin' voice. If that's singin', God's a gopher. DAVE: (Half-seriously) My singin' is a whole lot better'n your playin'. You jus' go along and fram. The reason why the white folks gives us money is cause I'm singin'. JIM: Yeah? DAVE: And you can't dance. VOICE IN THE CROWD: You oughta dance. Big as your feet is, Dave. DAISY: (Diplomatically) Both of you all is wonderful and I would like to see Dave dance a little. DAVE: There now, I told you. What did I tell you. (To JIM) Stop woofing and pick a little tune there so that I can show Daisy somethin'. JIM: Pick a tune? I bet if you fool with me I'll pick your bones jus' like a buzzard did the rabbit. You can't sing and now you wants to dance. DAVE: Yeah, and I'll lam your head. Come on and play, good-for-nothing. JIM: All right, then. You say you can dance ... show these people what you can do. But don't bring that little stuff I been seein' you doin' all these years. (JIM plays and DAVE dances, various members of the crowd keep time with their hands and feet, DAISY looks on enjoying herself immensely.) DAISY: (As DAVE cuts a very fancy step) I ain't seen nothin' like this up North. Dave you sho hot. (As DAVE cuts a more complicated step the crowd applauds, but just as the show begins to get good, suddenly JIM stops playing.) DAVE: (Surprised) What's the matter, buddy? JIM: (Envious of the attention DAVE has been getting from DAISY, disgustedly) Oh, nigger, I'm tired of seein' you cut the fool. 'Sides that, I been playin' all afternoon for the white folks. DAISY: But I though you was playin' for me now, Jim. JIM: Yeah, I'd play all night long for you, but I'm gettin' sick of Dave round here showin' off. Let him git somethin' and play for himself if he can. (An OLD MAN with a lighted lantern enters.) DAISY: (Coyly) Well, honey, play some more for me, then, and don't mind Dave. I reckon he done danced enough. Play me "Shake That Thing". OLD MAN WITH LANTERN: Sho, you ain't stopped, is you, boy? Music sound mighty good floatin' down that dark road. OLD WOMAN: Yeah, Jim, go on play a little more. Don't get to acting so niggerish this evening. DAVE: Aw, let the ol' darky alone. Nobody don't want to hear him play, nohow. I know I don't. JIM: Well, I'm gonna play. (And he begins to pick "Shake That Thing". TEETS and BOOTSIE begin to dance with LIGE MOSELY and FRANK WARRICK. As the tune gets good, DAVE cannot resist the music either.) DAVE: Old nigger's eveil but he sho can play. (He begins to do a few steps by himself, then twirls around in front of DAISY and approaches her. DAISY, overcome by the music, begins to step rhythmically toward DAVE and together they dance unobserved by JIM, absorbed in picking his guitar.) DAISY: Look here, baby, at this new step I learned up North. DAVE: You can show me anything, sugar lump. DAISY: Hold me tight now. (But just as they begin the new movement JIM notices DAISY and DAVE. He stops playing again and lays his guitar down.) VOICES IN THE CROWD: (Disgustedly) Aw, come on, Jim.... You must be jealous.... JIM: No, I ain't jealous. I jus' get tired of seein' that ol' nigger clownin' all the time. DAVE: (Laughing and pointing to JIM on porch) Look at that mad baby. Take that lip up off the ground. Got your mouth stuck out jus' because some one is enjoying themselves. (He comes up and pushes JIM playfully.) JIM: You better go head and let me alone. (TO DAISY) Come here, Daisy! LIGE: That's just what I say. Niggers can't have no fun without someone getting mad ... specially over a woman. JIM: I ain't mad.... Daisy, 'scuse me, honey, but that fool, Dave.... DAVE: I ain't mad neither.... Jim always tryin' to throw off on me. But you can't joke him. DAISY: (Soothingly) Aw, now, now! JIM: You ain't jokin'. You means that, nigger. And if you tryin' to get hot, first thing, you can pull of my blue shirt you put on this morning. DAVE: Youse a got that wrong. I ain't got on no shirt of yours. JIM: Yes, you is got on my shirt, too. Don't tell me you ain't got on my shirt. DAVE: Well, even if I is, you can just lift your big plantations out of my shoes. You can just foot it home barefooted. JIM: You try to take any shoes offa me! LIGE: (Pacifying them) Aw, there ain't no use of all that. What you all want to start this quarreling for over a little jokin'. JIM: Nobody's quarreling.... I'm just playin' a little for Daisy and Dave's out there clownin' with her. CLARK: (In doorway) I ain't gonna have no fussin' round my store, no way. Shut up, you all. JIM: Well, Mayor Clark, I ain't mad with him. We'se been friends all our lives. He's slept in my bed and wore my clothes and et my grub.... DAVE: I et your grub? And many time as you done laid down with your belly full of my grandma's collard greens. You done et my meat and bread a whole lot more times than I et your stewed fish-heads. JIM: I'd rather eat stewed fish-heads than steal out of other folkses houses so much till you went to sleep on the roost and fell down one night and broke up the settin' hen. (Loud laughter from the crowd) DAVE: Youse a liar if you say I stole anybody's chickens. I didn't have to. But you ... 'fore you started goin' around with me, playin' that little box of yours, you was so hungry you had the white mouth. If it wasn't for these white folks throwin' _me_ money for _my_ dancin', you would be thin as a whisper right now. JIM: (Laughing sarcastically) Your dancin'! You been leapin' around here like a tailless monkey in a wash pot for a long time and nobody was payin' no 'tention to you, till I come along playing. LINDSAY: Boys, boys, that ain't no way for friends to carry on. DAISY: Well, if you all gonna keep up this quarrelin' and carryin' on I'm goin' home. 'Bout time for me to be gittin' back to my white folks anyhow. It's dark now. I'm goin', even if I have to go by myself. I shouldn't a stopped by here nohow. JIM: (Stopping his quarrel) You ain't gonna go home by yourself. I'm goin' with you. DAVE: (Singing softly) It may be so, I don't know. But it sounds to me Like a lie. WALTER: Dave ain't' got as much rabbit blood as folks thought. DAVE: Tell 'em 'bout me. (Turns to DAISY) Won't you choose a treat on me, Miss Daisy, 'fore we go? DAISY: (Coyly) Yessir, thank you. I wants a drink of soda water. (DAVE pulls his hat down over his eyes, whirls around and offers his arm to DAISY. They strut into the store, DAVE gazing contemptuously at JIM as he passes. Crowd roars with laughter, much to the embarrassment of JIM.) LIGE: Ol' fast Dave jus' runnin' the hog right over you, Jim. WALTER: Thought you was such a hot man. LUM BOGER: Want me to go in there and put Daisy under arrest and bring her to you? JIM: (Sitting down on the edge of porch with one foot on the step and lights a cigarette pretending not to be bothered.) Aw, I'll get her when I want her. Let him treat her, but see who struts around that lake and down the railroad with her by and by. (DAVE and DAISY emerge from the store, each holding a bottle of red soda pop and laughing together. As they start down the steps DAVE accidentally steps on JIM's outstretched foot. JIM jumps up and pushes DAVE back, causing him to spill the red soda all over his white shirt front.) JIM: Stay off my foot, you big ox. DAVE: Well, you don't have to wet me all up, do you, and me in company? Why don't you put your damn foot in your pocket? DAISY: (Wiping DAVE'S shirt front with her handkerchief) Aw, ain't that too bad. JIM: (To DAVE) Well, who's shirt did I wet? It's mine, anyhow, ain't it? DAVE: (Belligerently) Well, if it's your shirt, then you come take it off me. I'm tired of your lip. JIM: Well, I will. DAVE: Well, put your fist where you lip is. (Pushing DAISY aside.) DAISY: (Frightened) I want to go home. Now, don't you all boys fight. (JIM attempts to come up the steps. DAVE pushes him back and he stumbles and falls in the dust. General excitement as the crowd senses a fight.) LITTLE BOY: (On the edge of crowd) Fight, fight, you're no kin. Kill one another, won't be no sin. Fight, fight, you're no kin. (JIM jumps up and rushes for DAVE as the latter starts down the steps. DAVE meets him with his fist squarely in the face and causes him to step backward, confused.) DAISY: (Still on porch, half crying) Aw, my Lawd! I want to go home. (General hubbub, women's cries of "Don't let 'em fight." "Why don't somebody stop 'em?" "What kind of men is you all, sit there and let them boys fight like that." Men's voices urging the fight: "Aw, let 'em fight." "Go for him, Dave." "Slug him, Jim." JIM makes another rush toward the steps. He staggers DAVE. DAVE knocks JIM sprawling once more. This time JIM grabs the mule bone as he rises, rushes DAVE, strikes DAVE over the head with it and knocks him out. DAVE falls prone on his back. There is great excitement.) OLD WOMAN: (Screams) Lawdy, is he kilt? (Several men rush to the fallen man.) VOICE: Run down to the pump and get a dipper o' water. CLARK: (To his wife in door) Mattie, come out of that store with a bottle of witch hazely oil quick as you can. Jim Weston, I'm gonna arrest you for this. You Lum Boger. Where is that marshall? Lum Boger! (LUM BOGER detaches himself from the crowd.) Arrest Jim. LUM: (Grabs JIM'S arm, relieves him of the mule bone and looks helplessly at the Mayor.) Now I got him arrested, what's I going to do with him? CLARK: Lock him up back yonder in my barn till Monday when we'll have the trial in de Baptist Church. LINDSAY: Yeah, just like all the rest of them Methodists ... always tryin' to take undercurrents on people. WALTER: Ain't no worse then some of you Baptists, nohow. You all don't run this town. We got jus' as much to say as you have. CLARK: (Angrily to both men) Shut up! Done had enough arguing in front of my place. (To LUM BOGER) Take that boy on and lock him up in my barn. And save that mule bone for evidence. (LUM BOGER leads JIM off toward the back of the store. A crowd follows him. Other men and women are busy applying restoratives to DAVE. DAISY stands alone, unnoticed in the center of the stage.) DAISY: (Worriedly) Now, who's gonna take me home? :::: CURTAIN:::: ACT TWO SCENE I SETTING: Village street scene; huge oak tree upstage center; a house or two on back drop. When curtain goes up, Sister LUCY TAYLOR is seen standing under the tree. She is painfully spelling it out. (Enter SISTER THOMAS, a younger woman (In her thirties) at left.) SISTER THOMAS: Evenin', Sis Taylor. SISTER TAYLOR: Evenin'. (Returns to the notice) SISTER THOMAS: Whut you doin'? Readin' dat notice Joe Clark put up 'bout de meeting? (Approaches tree) SISTER TAYLOR: Is dat whut it says? I ain't much on readin' since I had my teeth pulled out. You know if you pull out dem eye teeth you ruins' yo' eye sight. (Turns back to notice) Whut it say? SISTER THOMAS: (Reading notice) "The trial of Jim Weston for assault and battery on Dave Carter wid a dangerous weapon will be held at Macedonia Baptist Church on Monday, November 10, at three o'clock. All are welcome. By order of J. Clark, Mayor of Eatonville, Florida." (Turning to SISTER TAYLOR) Hit's makin' on to three now. SISTER TAYLOR: You mean it's right _now_. (Looks up at sun to tell time) Lemme go git ready to be at de trial 'cause I'm sho goin' to be there an' I ain't goin' to bite my tongue neither. SISTER THOMAS: I done went an' crapped a mess of collard greens for supper. I better go put 'em on 'cause Lawd knows when we goin' to git outa there an' my husband is one of them dat's gointer eat don't keer whut happen. I bet if judgment day was to happen tomorrow he'd speck I orter fix him a bucket to carry long. (She moves to exit, right) SISTER TAYLOR: All men favors they guts, chile. But what you think of all dis mess they got goin' on round here? SISTER THOMAS: I just think it's a sin an' a shame befo' de livin' justice de way dese Baptis' niggers is runnin' round here carryin' on. SISTER TAYLOR: Oh, they been puttin' out the brags ever since Sat'day night 'bout whut they gointer do to Jim. They thinks they runs this town. They tell me Rev. CHILDERS preached a sermon on it yistiddy. SISTER THOMAS: Lawd help us! He can't preach an' he look like 10 cents worth of have-mercy let lone gittin' up dere tryin' to throw slams at us. Now all Elder Simms done wuz to explain to us our rights ... whut you think 'bout Joe Clarke runnin' round here takin' up for these ole Baptist niggers? SISTER TAYLOR: De puzzle-gut rascal ... we oughter have him up in conference an' put him out de Methdis' faith. He don't b'long in there--wanter tun dat boy outa town for nothin'. SISTER THOMAS: But we all know how come he so hot to law Jim outa town--hit's to dig de foundation out from under Elder Simms. SISTER TAYLOR: Whut he wants do dat for? SISTER THOMAS: 'Cause he wants to be a God-know-it-all an' a God-do-it-all an' Simms is de onliest one in this town whut will buck up to him. (Enter SISTER JONES, walking leisurely) SISTER JONES: Hello, Hoyt, hello, Lucy. SISTER TAYLOR: Goin' to de meetin'? SISTER JONES: Done got my clothes on de line an' I'm bound to be dere. SISTER THOMAS: Gointer testify for Jim? SISTER JONES: Naw, I reckon--don't make such difference to me which way de drop fall.... 'Tain't neither one of 'em much good. SISTER TAYLOR: I know it. I know it, Ida. But dat ain't de point. De crow we wants to pick is: Is we gointer set still an' let dese Baptist tell us when to plant an' when to pluck up? SISTER JONES: Dat is something to think about when you come to think 'bout it. (Starts to move on) Guess I better go ahead--see y'all later an tell you straighter. (Enter ELDER SIMMS, right, walking fast, Bible under his arm, almost collides with SISTER JONES as she exits.) SIMMS: Oh, 'scuse me, Sister Jones. (She nods and smiles and exits.) How you do, Sister Taylor, Sister Thomas. BOTH: Good evenin', Elder. SIMMS: Sho is a hot day. SISTER TAYLOR: Yeah, de bear is walkin' de earth lak a natural man. SISTER THOMAS: Reverend, look like you headed de wrong way. It's almost time for de trial an' youse all de dependence we got. SIMMS: I know it. I'm tryin' to find de marshall so we kin go after Jim. I wants a chance to talk wid him a minute before court sets. SISTER TAYLOR: Y'think he'll come clear? SIMMS: (Proudly) I _know_ it! (Shakes the Bible) I'm goin' to law 'em from Genesis to Revelation. SISTER THOMAS: Give it to 'em, Elder. Wear 'em out! SIMMS: We'se liable to havea new Mayor when all dis dust settle. Well, I better scuffle on down de road. (Exits, left.) SISTER THOMAS: Lord, lemme gwan home an' put dese greens on. (Looks off stage left) Here come Mayor Clark now, wid his belly settin' out in front of him like a cow catcher! His name oughter be Mayor Belly. SISTER TAYLOR: (Arms akimbo) Jus' look at him! Tryin' to look like a jigadier Breneral. (Enter CLARK hot and perspiring. They look at him coldly.) CLARK: I God, de bear got me! (Silence for a moment) How y'all feelin', ladies? SISTER TAYLOR: Brother Mayor, I ain't one of these folks dat bite my tongue an' bust my gall--whut's inside got to come out! I can't see to my rest why you cloakin' in wid dese Baptist buzzards 'ginst yo' own church. MAYOR CLARK: I ain't cloakin' in wid _none_. I'm de Mayor of dis whole town I stands for de right an' ginst de wrong--I don't keer who it kill or cure. SISTER THOMAS: You think it's right to be runnin' dat boy off for nothin'? CLARK: I God! You call knockin' a man in de head wid a mule bone nothin'? 'Nother thin; I done missed nine of my best-layin' hens. I ain't sayin' Jim got 'em, but different people has tole me he burries a powerful lot of feathers in his back yard. I God, I'm a ruint man! (He starts towards the right exit, but LUM BOGER enters right.) I God, Lum, I been lookin' for you all day. It's almost three o'clock. (Hands him a key from his ring) Take dis key an' go fetch Jim Weston on to de church. LUM: Have you got yo' gavel from de lodge-room? CLARK: I God, that's right, Lum. I'll go get it from de lodge room whilst you go git de bone an' de prisoner. Hurry up! You walk like dead lice droppin' off you. (He exits right while LUM crosses stage towards left.) SISTER TAYLOR: Lum, Elder Simms been huntin' you--he's gone on down 'bout de barn. (She gestures) LUM BOGER: I reckon I'll overtake him. (Exit left.) SISTER THOMAS: I better go put dese greens on. My husband will kill me if he don't find no supper ready. Here come Mrs. Blunt. She oughter feel like a penny's worth of have-mercy wid all dis stink behind her daughter. SISTER TAYLOR: Chile, some folks don't keer. They don't raise they chillun; they drags 'em up. God knows if dat Daisy wuz mine, I'd throw her down an' put a hundred lashes on her back wid a plow-line. Here she come in de store Sat'day night (Acts coy and coquettish, burlesques DAISY'S walk) a wringing and a twisting! (Enter MRS. BLUNT, left.) MRS. BLUNT: How y'all sisters? SISTER THOMAS: Very well, Miz Blunt, how you? MRS. BLUNT: Oh, so-so. MRS. TAYLOR: I'm kickin', but not high. MRS. BLUNT: Well, thank God you still on prayin' ground an' in a Bible country. Me, I ain't so many today. De niggers got my Daisy's name all mixed up in dis mess. MRS. TAYLOR: You musn't mind dat, Sister Blunt. People jus' _will_ talk. They's talkin' in New York an' they's talkin' in Georgy an' they's talkin' in Italy. SISTER THOMAS: Chile, if you talk folkses talk, they'll have you in de graveyard or in Chattahoochee one. You can't pay no 'tention to talk. MRS. BLUNT: Well, I know one thing. De man or women, chick or child, grizzly or gray, that tells me to my face anything wrong 'bout _my_ chile, I'm goin' to take _my_ fist (Rolls up right sleeve and gestures with right fist) and knock they teeth down they throat. (She looks ferocious) 'Case y'all know I raised my Daisy right round my feet till I let her go up north last year wid them white folks. I'd ruther her to be in de white folks' kitchen than walkin' de streets like some of dese girls round here. If I do say so, I done raised a lady. She can't help it if all dese mens get stuck on her. MRS. TAYLOR: You'se tellin' de truth, Sister Blunt. That's whut I always say: Don't confidence dese niggers. Do, they'll sho put you in de street. MRS. THOMAS: Naw indeed, never syndicate wid niggers. Do, they will distriminate you. They'll be an _anybody_. You goin' to de trial, ain't you? MRS. BLUNT: Just as sho as you snore. An' they better leave Daisy's name outa dis, too. I done told her and told her to come straight home from her work. Naw, she had to stop by dat store and skin her gums back wid dem trashy niggers. She better not leave them white folks today to come traipsin' over here scornin' her name all up wid dis nigger mess. Do, I'll kill her. No daughter of mine ain't goin' to do as she please, long as she live under de sound of my voice. (She crosses to right.) MRS. THOMAS: That's right, Sister Blunt. I glory in yo' spunk. Lord, I better go put on my supper. (As MRS. BLUNT exits, right, REV. CHILDERS enters left with DAVE and DEACON LINDSAY and SISTER LEWIS. Very hostile glances from SISTERS THOMAS and TAYLOR toward the others.) CHILDERS: Good evenin', folks. (SISTERS THOMAS and TAYLOR just grunt. MRS. THOMAS moves a step or two towards exit. Flirts her skirts and exits.) LINDSAY: (Angrily) Whut's de matter, y'all? Cat got yo' tongue? MRS. TAYLOR: More matter than you kin scatter all over Cincinnatti. LINDSAY: Go 'head on, Lucy Taylor. Go 'head on. You know a very little of yo' sugar sweetens my coffee. Go 'head on. Everytime you lift yo' arm you smell like a nest of yellow hammers. MRS. TAYLOR: Go 'head on yo'self. Yo' head look like it done wore out three bodies. Talkin' 'bout _me_ smellin'--you smell lak a nest of grand daddies yo'self. LINDSAY: Aw rock on down de road, 'oman. Ah, don't wantuh change words wid yuh. Youse too ugly. MRS. TAYLOR: You ain't nobody's pretty baby, yo'self. You so ugly I betcha yo' wife have to spread uh sheet over yo' head tuh let sleep slip up on yuh. LINDSAY: (Threatening) You better git way from me while you able. I done tole you I don't wanter break a breath wid you. It's uh whole heap better tuh walk off on yo' own legs than it is to be toted off. I'm tired of yo' achin' round here. You fool wid me now an' I'll knock you into doll rags, Tony or no Tony. MRS. TAYLOR: (Jumping up in his face) Hit me? Hit me! I dare you tuh hit me. If you take dat dare, you'll steal uh hawg an' eat his hair. LINDSAY: Lemme gwan down to dat church befo' you make me stomp you. (He exits, right.) MRS. TAYLOR: You mean you'll _git_ stomped. Ah'm goin' to de trial, too. De nex trial gointer be _me_ for kickin' some uh you Baptist niggers around. (A great noise is heard off stage left. The angry and jeering voices of children. MRS. TAYLOR looks off left and takes a step or two towards left exit as the noise comes nearer.) VOICE OF ONE CHILD: Tell her! Tell her! Turn her up and smell her. Yo' mama ain't got nothin' to do wid me. MRS. TAYLOR: (Hollering off left) You lil Baptis' haitians leave them chillun alone. If you don't, you better! (Enter about ten children struggling and wrestling in a bunch. MRS. TAYLOR looks about on the ground for a stick to strike the children with.) VOICE OF CHILD: Hey! Hey! He's skeered tuh knock it off. Coward! MRS. TAYLOR: If y'all don't git on home! SASSY LITTLE GIRL: (Standing akimbo) I know you better not touch me, do my mama will 'tend to you. MRS. TAYLOR: (Making as if to strike her.) Shet up you nasty lil heifer, sassin' me! You ain't half raised. (The little girl shakes herself at MRS. TAYLOR and is joined by two or three others.) MRS. TAYLOR: (Walkin' towards right exit.) I'm goin' on down to de church an' tell yo' mammy. But she ain't been half raised herself. (She exits right with several children making faces behind her.) ONE BOY: (To sassy GIRL) Aw, haw! Y'all ol' Baptis' ain't got no bookcase in yo' chuch. We went there one day an' I saw uh soda cracker box settin' up in de corner so I set down on it. (Pointing at sassy GIRL) Know what ole Mary Ella say? (Jeering laughter) Willie, you git up off our library! Haw! Haw! MARY ELLA: Y'all ole Meth'dis' ain't got no window panes in yo' ole church. ANOTHER GIRL: (Takes center of stand, hands akimbo and shakes her hips) I don't keer whut y'all say, I'm a Meth'dis' bred an' uh Meth'dis' born an' when I'm dead there'll be uh Meth'dis' gone. MARY ELLA: (Snaps fingers under other girl's nose and starts singing. Several join her.) Oh Baptis', Baptis' is my name My name's written on high I got my lick in de Baptis' church Gointer eat up de Meth'dis' pie. (The Methodist children jeer and make faces. The Baptist camp make faces back; for a full minute there is silence while each camp tries to outdo the other in face making. The Baptist makes the last face.) METHODIST BOY: Come on, less us don't notice 'em. Less gwan down to de church an' hear de trial. MARY ELLA: Y'all ain't de onliest ones kin go. We goin', too. WILLIE: Aw, haw! Copy cats! (Makes face) Dat's right. Follow on behind us lak uh puppy dog tail. (They start walking toward right exit, switching their clothes behind.) Dat's right. Follow on behind us lak uh puppy dog tail. (They start walking toward right exit, switching their clothes behind.) (Baptist children stage a rush and struggle to get in front of the Methodists. They finally succeed in flinging some of the Methodist children to the ground and some behind them and walk towards right exit haughtily switching their clothes.) WILLIE: (Whispers to his crowd) Less go round by Mosely's lot an' beat 'em there! OTHERS: All right! WILLIE: (Yellin' to Baptists) We wouldn't walk behind no ole Baptists! (The Methodists turn and walk off towards left exit, switching their clothes as the Baptists are doing.) SLOW CURTAIN End of Project Gutenberg's The Mule-Bone:, by Zora Hurston and Langston Hughes Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who does Vane write about in her letter?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Louis Leverett" ]	13,954	narrativeqa	en	null	ba016e084e6954d21521889759d81e159d1977cbf2b3354a	Transcribed from the 1887 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk. Proofing by Andy McLauchan and David Stapleton. A BUNDLE OF LETTERS by Henry James CHAPTER I FROM MISS MIRANDA MOPE, IN PARIS, TO MRS. ABRAHAM C. MOPE, AT BANGOR, MAINE. September 5th, 1879. My dear mother--I have kept you posted as far as Tuesday week last, and, although my letter will not have reached you yet, I will begin another before my news accumulates too much. I am glad you show my letters round in the family, for I like them all to know what I am doing, and I can't write to every one, though I try to answer all reasonable expectations. But there are a great many unreasonable ones, as I suppose you know--not yours, dear mother, for I am bound to say that you never required of me more than was natural. You see you are reaping your reward: I write to you before I write to any one else. There is one thing, I hope--that you don't show any of my letters to William Platt. If he wants to see any of my letters, he knows the right way to go to work. I wouldn't have him see one of these letters, written for circulation in the family, for anything in the world. If he wants one for himself, he has got to write to me first. Let him write to me first, and then I will see about answering him. You can show him this if you like; but if you show him anything more, I will never write to you again. I told you in my last about my farewell to England, my crossing the Channel, and my first impressions of Paris. I have thought a great deal about that lovely England since I left it, and all the famous historic scenes I visited; but I have come to the conclusion that it is not a country in which I should care to reside. The position of woman does not seem to me at all satisfactory, and that is a point, you know, on which I feel very strongly. It seems to me that in England they play a very faded-out part, and those with whom I conversed had a kind of depressed and humiliated tone; a little dull, tame look, as if they were used to being snubbed and bullied, which made me want to give them a good shaking. There are a great many people--and a great many things, too--over here that I should like to perform that operation upon. I should like to shake the starch out of some of them, and the dust out of the others. I know fifty girls in Bangor that come much more up to my notion of the stand a truly noble woman should take, than those young ladies in England. But they had a most lovely way of speaking (in England), and the men are _remarkably handsome_. (You can show this to William Platt, if you like.) I gave you my first impressions of Paris, which quite came up to my expectations, much as I had heard and read about it. The objects of interest are extremely numerous, and the climate is remarkably cheerful and sunny. I should say the position of woman here was considerably higher, though by no means coming up to the American standard. The manners of the people are in some respects extremely peculiar, and I feel at last that I am indeed in _foreign parts_. It is, however, a truly elegant city (very superior to New York), and I have spent a great deal of time in visiting the various monuments and palaces. I won't give you an account of all my wanderings, though I have been most indefatigable; for I am keeping, as I told you before, a most _exhaustive_ journal, which I will allow you the _privilege_ of reading on my return to Bangor. I am getting on remarkably well, and I must say I am sometimes surprised at my universal good fortune. It only shows what a little energy and common-sense will accomplish. I have discovered none of these objections to a young lady travelling in Europe by herself of which we heard so much before I left, and I don't expect I ever shall, for I certainly don't mean to look for them. I know what I want, and I always manage to get it. I have received a great deal of politeness--some of it really most pressing, and I have experienced no drawbacks whatever. I have made a great many pleasant acquaintances in travelling round (both ladies and gentlemen), and had a great many most interesting talks. I have collected a great deal of information, for which I refer you to my journal. I assure you my journal is going to be a splendid thing. I do just exactly as I do in Bangor, and I find I do perfectly right; and at any rate, I don't care if I don't. I didn't come to Europe to lead a merely conventional life; I could do that at Bangor. You know I never _would_ do it at Bangor, so it isn't likely I am going to make myself miserable over here. So long as I accomplish what I desire, and make my money hold out, I shall regard the thing as a success. Sometimes I feel rather lonely, especially in the evening; but I generally manage to interest myself in something or in some one. In the evening I usually read up about the objects of interest I have visited during the day, or I post up my journal. Sometimes I go to the theatre; or else I play the piano in the public parlour. The public parlour at the hotel isn't much; but the piano is better than that fearful old thing at the Sebago House. Sometimes I go downstairs and talk to the lady who keeps the books--a French lady, who is remarkably polite. She is very pretty, and always wears a black dress, with the most beautiful fit; she speaks a little English; she tells me she had to learn it in order to converse with the Americans who come in such numbers to this hotel. She has given me a great deal of information about the position of woman in France, and much of it is very encouraging. But she has told me at the same time some things that I should not like to write to you (I am hesitating even about putting them into my journal), especially if my letters are to be handed round in the family. I assure you they appear to talk about things here that we never think of mentioning at Bangor, or even of thinking about. She seems to think she can tell me everything, because I told her I was travelling for general culture. Well, I _do_ want to know so much that it seems sometimes as if I wanted to know everything; and yet there are some things that I think I don't want to know. But, as a general thing, everything is intensely interesting; I don't mean only everything that this French lady tells me, but everything I see and hear for myself. I feel really as if I should gain all I desire. I meet a great many Americans, who, as a general thing, I must say, are not as polite to me as the people over here. The people over here--especially the gentlemen--are much more what I should call _attentive_. I don't know whether Americans are more _sincere_; I haven't yet made up my mind about that. The only drawback I experience is when Americans sometimes express surprise that I should be travelling round alone; so you see it doesn't come from Europeans. I always have my answer ready; "For general culture, to acquire the languages, and to see Europe for myself;" and that generally seems to satisfy them. Dear mother, my money holds out very well, and it _is_ real interesting. CHAPTER II FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. September 16th. Since I last wrote to you I have left that hotel, and come to live in a French family. It's a kind of boarding-house combined with a kind of school; only it's not like an American hoarding-house, nor like an American school either. There are four or five people here that have come to learn the language--not to take lessons, but to have an opportunity for conversation. I was very glad to come to such a place, for I had begun to realise that I was not making much progress with the French. It seemed to me that I should feel ashamed to have spent two months in Paris, and not to have acquired more insight into the language. I had always heard so much of French conversation, and I found I was having no more opportunity to practise it than if I had remained at Bangor. In fact, I used to hear a great deal more at Bangor, from those French Canadians that came down to cut the ice, than I saw I should ever hear at that hotel. The lady that kept the books seemed to want so much to talk to me in English (for the sake of practice, too, I suppose), that I couldn't bear to let her know I didn't like it. The chambermaid was Irish, and all the waiters were German, so that I never heard a word of French spoken. I suppose you might hear a great deal in the shops; only, as I don't buy anything--I prefer to spend my money for purposes of culture--I don't have that advantage. I have been thinking some of taking a teacher, but I am well acquainted with the grammar already, and teachers always keep you bothering over the verbs. I was a good deal troubled, for I felt as if I didn't want to go away without having, at least, got a general idea of French conversation. The theatre gives you a good deal of insight, and as I told you in my last, I go a good deal to places of amusement. I find no difficulty whatever in going to such places alone, and am always treated with the politeness which, as I told you before, I encounter everywhere. I see plenty of other ladies alone (mostly French), and they generally seem to be enjoying themselves as much as I. But at the theatre every one talks so fast that I can scarcely make out what they say; and, besides, there are a great many vulgar expressions which it is unnecessary to learn. But it was the theatre, nevertheless, that put me on the track. The very next day after I wrote to you last I went to the Palais Royal, which is one of the principal theatres in Paris. It is very small, but it is very celebrated, and in my guide-book it is marked with _two stars_, which is a sign of importance attached only to _first-class_ objects of interest. But after I had been there half an hour I found I couldn't understand a single word of the play, they gabbled it off so fast, and they made use of such peculiar expressions. I felt a good deal disappointed and troubled--I was afraid I shouldn't gain all I had come for. But while I was thinking it over--thinking what I _should_ do--I heard two gentlemen talking behind me. It was between the acts, and I couldn't help listening to what they said. They were talking English, but I guess they were Americans. "Well," said one of them, "it all depends on what you are after. I'm French; that's what I'm after." "Well," said the other, "I'm after Art." "Well," said the first, "I'm after Art too; but I'm after French most." Then, dear mother, I am sorry to say the second one swore a little. He said, "Oh, damn French!" "No, I won't damn French," said his friend. "I'll acquire it--that's what I'll do with it. I'll go right into a family." "What family'll you go into?" "Into some French family. That's the only way to do--to go to some place where you can talk. If you're after Art, you want to stick to the galleries; you want to go right through the Louvre, room by room; you want to take a room a day, or something of that sort. But, if you want to acquire French, the thing is to look out for a family. There are lots of French families here that take you to board and teach you. My second cousin--that young lady I told you about--she got in with a crowd like that, and they booked her right up in three months. They just took her right in and they talked to her. That's what they do to you; they set you right down and they talk _at_ you. You've got to understand them; you can't help yourself. That family my cousin was with has moved away somewhere, or I should try and get in with them. They were very smart people, that family; after she left, my cousin corresponded with them in French. But I mean to find some other crowd, if it takes a lot of trouble!" I listened to all this with great interest, and when he spoke about his cousin I was on the point of turning around to ask him the address of the family that she was with; but the next moment he said they had moved away; so I sat still. The other gentleman, however, didn't seem to be affected in the same way as I was. "Well," he said, "you may follow up that if you like; I mean to follow up the pictures. I don't believe there is ever going to be any considerable demand in the United States for French; but I can promise you that in about ten years there'll be a big demand for Art! And it won't be temporary either." That remark may be very true, but I don't care anything about the demand; I want to know French for its own sake. I don't want to think I have been all this while without having gained an insight . . . The very next day, I asked the lady who kept the books at the hotel whether she knew of any family that could take me to board and give me the benefit of their conversation. She instantly threw up her hands, with several little shrill cries (in their French way, you know), and told me that her dearest friend kept a regular place of that kind. If she had known I was looking out for such a place she would have told me before; she had not spoken of it herself, because she didn't wish to injure the hotel by being the cause of my going away. She told me this was a charming family, who had often received American ladies (and others as well) who wished to follow up the language, and she was sure I should be delighted with them. So she gave me their address, and offered to go with me to introduce me. But I was in such a hurry that I went off by myself; and I had no trouble in finding these good people. They were delighted to receive me, and I was very much pleased with what I saw of them. They seemed to have plenty of conversation, and there will be no trouble about that. I came here to stay about three days ago, and by this time I have seen a great deal of them. The price of board struck me as rather high; but I must remember that a quantity of conversation is thrown in. I have a very pretty little room--without any carpet, but with seven mirrors, two clocks, and five curtains. I was rather disappointed after I arrived to find that there are several other Americans here for the same purpose as myself. At least there are three Americans and two English people; and also a German gentleman. I am afraid, therefore, our conversation will be rather mixed, but I have not yet time to judge. I try to talk with Madame de Maisonrouge all I can (she is the lady of the house, and the _real_ family consists only of herself and her two daughters). They are all most elegant, interesting women, and I am sure we shall become intimate friends. I will write you more about them in my next. Tell William Platt I don't care what he does. CHAPTER III FROM MISS VIOLET RAY, IN PARIS, TO MISS AGNES RICH, IN NEW YORK. September 21st. We had hardly got here when father received a telegram saying he would have to come right back to New York. It was for something about his business--I don't know exactly what; you know I never understand those things, never want to. We had just got settled at the hotel, in some charming rooms, and mother and I, as you may imagine, were greatly annoyed. Father is extremely fussy, as you know, and his first idea, as soon as he found he should have to go back, was that we should go back with him. He declared he would never leave us in Paris alone, and that we must return and come out again. I don't know what he thought would happen to us; I suppose he thought we should be too extravagant. It's father's theory that we are always running up bills, whereas a little observation would show him that we wear the same old _rags_ FOR MONTHS. But father has no observation; he has nothing but theories. Mother and I, however, have, fortunately, a great deal of _practice_, and we succeeded in making him understand that we wouldn't budge from Paris, and that we would rather be chopped into small pieces than cross that dreadful ocean again. So, at last, he decided to go back alone, and to leave us here for three months. But, to show you how fussy he is, he refused to let us stay at the hotel, and insisted that we should go into a _family_. I don't know what put such an idea into his head, unless it was some advertisement that he saw in one of the American papers that are published here. There are families here who receive American and English people to live with them, under the pretence of teaching them French. You may imagine what people they are--I mean the families themselves. But the Americans who choose this peculiar manner of seeing Paris must be actually just as bad. Mother and I were horrified, and declared that main force should not remove us from the hotel. But father has a way of arriving at his ends which is more efficient than violence. He worries and fusses; he "nags," as we used to say at school; and, when mother and I are quite worn out, his triumph is assured. Mother is usually worn out more easily than I, and she ends by siding with father; so that, at last, when they combine their forces against poor little me, I have to succumb. You should have heard the way father went on about this "family" plan; he talked to every one he saw about it; he used to go round to the banker's and talk to the people there--the people in the post-office; he used to try and exchange ideas about it with the waiters at the hotel. He said it would be more safe, more respectable, more economical; that I should perfect my French; that mother would learn how a French household is conducted; that he should feel more easy, and five hundred reasons more. They were none of them good, but that made no difference. It's all humbug, his talking about economy, when every one knows that business in America has completely recovered, that the prostration is all over, and that immense fortunes are being made. We have been economising for the last five years, and I supposed we came abroad to reap the benefits of it. As for my French, it is quite as perfect as I want it to be. (I assure you I am often surprised at my own fluency, and, when I get a little more practice in the genders and the idioms, I shall do very well in this respect.) To make a long story short, however, father carried his point, as usual; mother basely deserted me at the last moment, and, after holding out alone for three days, I told them to do with me what they pleased! Father lost three steamers in succession by remaining in Paris to argue with me. You know he is like the schoolmaster in Goldsmith's "Deserted Village"--"e'en though vanquished, he would argue still." He and mother went to look at some seventeen families (they had got the addresses somewhere), while I retired to my sofa, and would have nothing to do with it. At last they made arrangements, and I was transported to the establishment from which I now write you. I write you from the bosom of a Parisian menage--from the depths of a second-rate boarding-house. Father only left Paris after he had seen us what he calls comfortably settled here, and had informed Madame de Maisonrouge (the mistress of the establishment--the head of the "family") that he wished my French pronunciation especially attended to. The pronunciation, as it happens, is just what I am most at home in; if he had said my genders or my idioms there would have been some sense. But poor father has no tact, and this defect is especially marked since he has been in Europe. He will be absent, however, for three months, and mother and I shall breathe more freely; the situation will be less intense. I must confess that we breathe more freely than I expected, in this place, where we have been for about a week. I was sure, before we came, that it would prove to be an establishment of the _lowest description_; but I must say that, in this respect, I am agreeably disappointed. The French are so clever that they know even how to manage a place of this kind. Of course it is very disagreeable to live with strangers, but as, after all, if I were not staying with Madame de Maisonrouge I should not be living in the Faubourg St. Germain, I don't know that from the point of view of exclusiveness it is any great loss to be here. Our rooms are very prettily arranged, and the table is remarkably good. Mamma thinks the whole thing--the place and the people, the manners and customs--very amusing; but mamma is very easily amused. As for me, you know, all that I ask is to be let alone, and not to have people's society forced upon me. I have never wanted for society of my own choosing, and, so long as I retain possession of my faculties, I don't suppose I ever shall. As I said, however, the place is very well managed, and I succeed in doing as I please, which, you know, is my most cherished pursuit. Madame de Maisonrouge has a great deal of tact--much more than poor father. She is what they call here a belle femme, which means that she is a tall, ugly woman, with style. She dresses very well, and has a great deal of talk; but, though she is a very good imitation of a lady, I never see her behind the dinner-table, in the evening, smiling and bowing, as the people come in, and looking all the while at the dishes and the servants, without thinking of a _dame de comptoir_ blooming in a corner of a shop or a restaurant. I am sure that, in spite of her fine name, she was once a _dame de comptoir_. I am also sure that, in spite of her smiles and the pretty things she says to every one, she hates us all, and would like to murder us. She is a hard, clever Frenchwoman, who would like to amuse herself and enjoy her Paris, and she must be bored to death at passing all her time in the midst of stupid English people who mumble broken French at her. Some day she will poison the soup or the _vin rouge_; but I hope that will not be until after mother and I shall have left her. She has two daughters, who, except that one is decidedly pretty, are meagre imitations of herself. The "family," for the rest, consists altogether of our beloved compatriots, and of still more beloved Englanders. There is an Englishman here, with his sister, and they seem to be rather nice people. He is remarkably handsome, but excessively affected and patronising, especially to us Americans; and I hope to have a chance of biting his head off before long. The sister is very pretty, and, apparently, very nice; but, in costume, she is Britannia incarnate. There is a very pleasant little Frenchman--when they are nice they are charming--and a German doctor, a big blonde man, who looks like a great white bull; and two Americans, besides mother and me. One of them is a young man from Boston,--an aesthetic young man, who talks about its being "a real Corot day," etc., and a young woman--a girl, a female, I don't know what to call her--from Vermont, or Minnesota, or some such place. This young woman is the most extraordinary specimen of artless Yankeeism that I ever encountered; she is really too horrible. I have been three times to Clementine about your underskirt, etc. CHAPTER IV FROM LOUIS LEVERETT, IN PARIS, TO HARVARD TREMONT, IN BOSTON. September 25th. My dear Harvard--I have carried out my plan, of which I gave you a hint in my last, and I only regret that I should not have done it before. It is human nature, after all, that is the most interesting thing in the world, and it only reveals itself to the truly earnest seeker. There is a want of earnestness in that life of hotels and railroad trains, which so many of our countrymen are content to lead in this strange Old World, and I was distressed to find how far I, myself; had been led along the dusty, beaten track. I had, however, constantly wanted to turn aside into more unfrequented ways; to plunge beneath the surface and see what I should discover. But the opportunity had always been missing; somehow, I never meet those opportunities that we hear about and read about--the things that happen to people in novels and biographies. And yet I am always on the watch to take advantage of any opening that may present itself; I am always looking out for experiences, for sensations--I might almost say for adventures. The great thing is to _live_, you know--to feel, to be conscious of one's possibilities; not to pass through life mechanically and insensibly, like a letter through the post-office. There are times, my dear Harvard, when I feel as if I were really capable of everything--capable _de tout_, as they say here--of the greatest excesses as well as the greatest heroism. Oh, to be able to say that one has lived--_qu'on a vecu_, as they say here--that idea exercises an indefinable attraction for me. You will, perhaps, reply, it is easy to say it; but the thing is to make people believe you! And, then, I don't want any second-hand, spurious sensations; I want the knowledge that leaves a trace--that leaves strange scars and stains and reveries behind it! But I am afraid I shock you, perhaps even frighten you. If you repeat my remarks to any of the West Cedar Street circle, be sure you tone them down as your discretion will suggest. For yourself; you will know that I have always had an intense desire to see something of _real French life_. You are acquainted with my great sympathy with the French; with my natural tendency to enter into the French way of looking at life. I sympathise with the artistic temperament; I remember you used sometimes to hint to me that you thought my own temperament too artistic. I don't think that in Boston there is any real sympathy with the artistic temperament; we tend to make everything a matter of right and wrong. And in Boston one can't _live--on ne peut pas vivre_, as they say here. I don't mean one can't reside--for a great many people manage that; but one can't live aesthetically--I may almost venture to say, sensuously. This is why I have always been so much drawn to the French, who are so aesthetic, so sensuous. I am so sorry that Theophile Gautier has passed away; I should have liked so much to go and see him, and tell him all that I owe him. He was living when I was here before; but, you know, at that time I was travelling with the Johnsons, who are not aesthetic, and who used to make me feel rather ashamed of my artistic temperament. If I had gone to see the great apostle of beauty, I should have had to go clandestinely--_en cachette_, as they say here; and that is not my nature; I like to do everything frankly, freely, _naivement, au grand jour_. That is the great thing--to be free, to be frank, to be _naif_. Doesn't Matthew Arnold say that somewhere--or is it Swinburne, or Pater? When I was with the Johnsons everything was superficial; and, as regards life, everything was brought down to the question of right and wrong. They were too didactic; art should never be didactic; and what is life but an art? Pater has said that so well, somewhere. With the Johnsons I am afraid I lost many opportunities; the tone was gray and cottony, I might almost say woolly. But now, as I tell you, I have determined to take right hold for myself; to look right into European life, and judge it without Johnsonian prejudices. I have taken up my residence in a French family, in a real Parisian house. You see I have the courage of my opinions; I don't shrink from carrying out my theory that the great thing is to _live_. You know I have always been intensely interested in Balzac, who never shrank from the reality, and whose almost _lurid_ pictures of Parisian life have often haunted me in my wanderings through the old wicked-looking streets on the other side of the river. I am only sorry that my new friends--my French family--do not live in the old city--_au coeur du vieux Paris_, as they say here. They live only in the Boulevard Haussman, which is less picturesque; but in spite of this they have a great deal of the Balzac tone. Madame de Maisonrouge belongs to one of the oldest and proudest families in France; but she has had reverses which have compelled her to open an establishment in which a limited number of travellers, who are weary of the beaten track, who have the sense of local colour--she explains it herself; she expresses it so well--in short, to open a sort of boarding-house. I don't see why I should not, after all, use that expression, for it is the correlative of the term _pension bourgeoise_, employed by Balzac in the _Pere Goriot_. Do you remember the _pension bourgeoise_ of Madame Vauquer _nee_ de Conflans? But this establishment is not at all like that: and indeed it is not at all _bourgeois_; there is something distinguished, something aristocratic, about it. The Pension Vauquer was dark, brown, sordid, _graisseuse_; but this is in quite a different tone, with high, clear, lightly-draped windows, tender, subtle, almost morbid, colours, and furniture in elegant, studied, reed-like lines. Madame de Maisonrouge reminds me of Madame Hulot--do you remember "la belle Madame Hulot?"--in _Les Barents Pauvres_. She has a great charm; a little artificial, a little fatigued, with a little suggestion of hidden things in her life; but I have always been sensitive to the charm of fatigue, of duplicity. I am rather disappointed, I confess, in the society I find here; it is not so local, so characteristic, as I could have desired. Indeed, to tell the truth, it is not local at all; but, on the other hand, it is cosmopolitan, and there is a great advantage in that. We are French, we are English, we are American, we are German; and, I believe, there are some Russians and Hungarians expected. I am much interested in the study of national types; in comparing, contrasting, seizing the strong points, the weak points, the point of view of each. It is interesting to shift one's point of view--to enter into strange, exotic ways of looking at life. The American types here are not, I am sorry to say, so interesting as they might be, and, excepting myself; are exclusively feminine. We are _thin_, my dear Harvard; we are pale, we are sharp. There is something meagre about us; our line is wanting in roundness, our composition in richness. We lack temperament; we don't know how to live; _nous ne savons pas vivre_, as they say here. The American temperament is represented (putting myself aside, and I often think that my temperament is not at all American) by a young girl and her mother, and another young girl without her mother--without her mother or any attendant or appendage whatever. These young girls are rather curious types; they have a certain interest, they have a certain grace, but they are disappointing too; they don't go far; they don't keep all they promise; they don't satisfy the imagination. They are cold, slim, sexless; the physique is not generous, not abundant; it is only the drapery, the skirts and furbelows (that is, I mean in the young lady who has her mother) that are abundant. They are very different: one of them all elegance, all expensiveness, with an air of high fashion, from New York; the other a plain, pure, clear-eyed, straight-waisted, straight-stepping maiden from the heart of New England. And yet they are very much alike too--more alike than they would care to think themselves for they eye each other with cold, mistrustful, deprecating looks. They are both specimens of the emancipated young American girl--practical, positive, passionless, subtle, and knowing, as you please, either too much or too little. And yet, as I say, they have a certain stamp, a certain grace; I like to talk with them, to study them. The fair New Yorker is, sometimes, very amusing; she asks me if every one in Boston talks like me--if every one is as "intellectual" as your poor correspondent. She is for ever throwing Boston up at me; I can't get rid of Boston. The other one rubs it into me too; but in a different way; she seems to feel about it as a good Mahommedan feels toward Mecca, and regards it as a kind of focus of light for the whole human race. Poor little Boston, what nonsense is talked in thy name! But this New England maiden is, in her way, a strange type: she is travelling all over Europe alone--"to see it," she says, "for herself." For herself! What can that stiff slim self of hers do with such sights, such visions! She looks at everything, goes everywhere, passes her way, with her clear quiet eyes wide open; skirting the edge of obscene abysses without suspecting them; pushing through brambles without tearing her robe; exciting, without knowing it, the most injurious suspicions; and always holding her course, passionless, stainless, fearless, charmless! It is a little figure in which, after all, if you can get the right point of view, there is something rather striking. By way of contrast, there is a lovely English girl, with eyes as shy as violets, and a voice as sweet! She has a sweet Gainsborough head, and a great Gainsborough hat, with a mighty plume in front of it, which makes a shadow over her quiet English eyes. Then she has a sage-green robe, "mystic, wonderful," all embroidered with subtle devices and flowers, and birds of tender tint; very straight and tight in front, and adorned behind, along the spine, with large, strange, iridescent buttons. The revival of taste, of the sense of beauty, in England, interests me deeply; what is there in a simple row of spinal buttons to make one dream--to _donnor a rever_, as they say here? I think that a great aesthetic renascence is at hand, and that a great light will be kindled in England, for all the world to see. There are spirits there that I should like to commune with; I think they would understand me. This gracious English maiden, with her clinging robes, her amulets and girdles, with something quaint and angular in her step, her carriage something mediaeval and Gothic, in the details of her person and dress, this lovely Evelyn Vane (isn't it a beautiful name?) is deeply, delightfully picturesque. She is much a woman--elle _est bien femme_, as they say here; simpler, softer, rounder, richer than the young girls I spoke of just now. Not much talk--a great, sweet silence. Then the violet eye--the very eye itself seems to blush; the great shadowy hat, making the brow so quiet; the strange, clinging, clutching, pictured raiment! As I say, it is a very gracious, tender type. She has her brother with her, who is a beautiful, fair-haired, gray-eyed young Englishman. He is purely objective; and he, too, is very plastic. CHAPTER V FROM MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER. September 26th. You must not be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it is not because I am in any trouble, but because I am getting on so well. If I were in any trouble I don't think I should write to you; I should just keep quiet and see it through myself. But that is not the case at present and, if I don't write to you, it is because I am so deeply interested over here that I don't seem to find time. It was a real providence that brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, I am able to do much good work. I wonder how I find the time for all I do; but when I think that I have only got a year in Europe, I feel as if I wouldn't sacrifice a single hour. The obstacles I refer to are the disadvantages I have in learning French, there being so many persons around me speaking English, and that, as you may say, in the very bosom of a French family. It seems as if you heard English everywhere; but I certainly didn't expect to find it in a place like this. I am not discouraged, however, and I talk French all I can, even with the other English boarders. Then I have a lesson every day from Miss Maisonrouge (the elder daughter of the lady of the house), and French conversation every evening in the salon, from eight to eleven, with Madame herself, and some friends of hers that often come in. Her cousin, Mr. Verdier, a young French gentleman, is fortunately staying with her, and I make a point of talking with him as much as possible. I have _extra private lessons_ from him, and I often go out to walk with him. Some night, soon, he is to accompany me to the opera. We have also a most interesting plan of visiting all the galleries in Paris together. Like most of the French, he converses with great fluency, and I feel as if I should really gain from him. He is remarkably handsome, and extremely polite--paying a great many compliments, which, I am afraid, are not always _sincere_. When I return to Bangor I will tell you some of the things he has said to me. I think you will consider them extremely curious, and very beautiful _in their way_. The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) is often remarkably brilliant, and I often wish that you, or some of the Bangor folks, could be there to enjoy it. Even though you couldn't understand it I think you would like to hear the way they go on; they seem to express so much. I sometimes think that at Bangor they don't express enough (but it seems as if over there, there was less to express). It seems as if; at Bangor, there were things that folks never _tried_ to say; but here, I have learned from studying French that you have no idea what you _can_ say, before you try. At Bangor they seem to give it up beforehand; they don't make any effort. (I don't say this in the least for William Platt, _in particular_.) I am sure I don't know what they will think of me when I get back. It seems as if; over here, I had learned to come out with everything. I suppose they will think I am not sincere; but isn't it more sincere to come out with things than to conceal them? I have become very good friends with every one in the house--that is (you see, I _am_ sincere), with _almost_ every one. It is the most interesting circle I ever was in. There's a girl here, an American, that I don't like so much as the rest; but that is only because she won't let me. I should like to like her, ever so much, because she is most lovely and most attractive; but she doesn't seem to want to know me or to like me. She comes from New York, and she is remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most delicate features; she is also remarkably elegant--in this respect would bear comparison with any one I have seen over here. But it seems as if she didn't want to recognise me or associate with me; as if she wanted to make a difference between us. It is like people they call "haughty" in books. I have never seen any one like that before--any one that wanted to make a difference; and at first I was right down interested, she seemed to me so like a proud young lady in a novel. I kept saying to myself all day, "haughty, haughty," and I wished she would keep on so. But she did keep on; she kept on too long; and then I began to feel hurt. I couldn't think what I have done, and I can't think yet. It's as if she had got some idea about me, or had heard some one say something. If some girls should behave like that I shouldn't make any account of it; but this one is so refined, and looks as if she might be so interesting if I once got to know her, that I think about it a good deal. I am bound to find out what her reason is--for of course she has got some reason; I am right down curious to know. I went up to her to ask her the day before yesterday; I thought that was the best way. I told her I wanted to know her better, and would like to come and see her in her room--they tell me she has got a lovely room--and that if she had heard anything against me, perhaps she would tell me when I came. But she was more distant than ever, and she just turned it off; said that she had never heard me mentioned, and that her room was too small to receive visitors. I suppose she spoke the truth, but I am sure she has got some reason, all the same. She has got some idea, and I am bound to find out before I go, if I have to ask everybody in the house. I _am_ right down curious. I wonder if she doesn't think me refined--or if she had ever heard anything against Bangor? I can't think it is that. Don't you remember when Clara Barnard went to visit New York, three years ago, how much attention she received? And you know Clara _is_ Bangor, to the soles of her shoes. Ask William Platt--so long as he isn't a native--if he doesn't consider Clara Barnard refined. Apropos, as they say here, of refinement, there is another American in the house--a gentleman from Boston--who is just crowded with it. His name is Mr. Louis Leverett (such a beautiful name, I think), and he is about thirty years old. He is rather small, and he looks pretty sick; he suffers from some affection of the liver. But his conversation is remarkably interesting, and I delight to listen to him--he has such beautiful ideas. I feel as if it were hardly right, not being in French; but, fortunately, he uses a great many French expressions. It's in a different style from the conversation of Mr. Verdier--not so complimentary, but more intellectual. He is intensely fond of pictures, and has given me a great many ideas about them which I should never have gained without him; I shouldn't have known where to look for such ideas. He thinks everything of pictures; he thinks we don't make near enough of them. They seem to make a good deal of them here; but I couldn't help telling him the other day that in Bangor I really don't think we do. If I had any money to spend I would buy some and take them back, to hang up. Mr. Leverett says it would do them good--not the pictures, but the Bangor folks. He thinks everything of the French, too, and says we don't make nearly enough of _them_. I couldn't help telling him the other day that at any rate they make enough of themselves. But it is very interesting to hear him go on about the French, and it is so much gain to me, so long as that is what I came for. I talk to him as much as I dare about Boston, but I do feel as if this were right down wrong--a stolen pleasure. I can get all the Boston culture I want when I go back, if I carry out my plan, my happy vision, of going there to reside. I ought to direct all my efforts to European culture now, and keep Boston to finish off. But it seems as if I couldn't help taking a peep now and then, in advance--with a Bostonian. I don't know when I may meet one again; but if there are many others like Mr. Leverett there, I shall be certain not to want when I carry out my dream. He is just as full of culture as he can live. But it seems strange how many different sorts there are. There are two of the English who I suppose are very cultivated too; but it doesn't seem as if I could enter into theirs so easily, though I try all I can. I do love their way of speaking, and sometimes I feel almost as if it would be right to give up trying to learn French, and just try to learn to speak our own tongue as these English speak it. It isn't the things they say so much, though these are often rather curious, but it is in the way they pronounce, and the sweetness of their voice. It seems as if they must _try_ a good deal to talk like that; but these English that are here don't seem to try at all, either to speak or do anything else. They are a young lady and her brother. I believe they belong to some noble family. I have had a good deal of intercourse with them, because I have felt more free to talk to them than to the Americans--on account of the language. It seems as if in talking with them I was almost learning a new one. I never supposed, when I left Bangor, that I was coming to Europe to learn _English_! If I do learn it, I don't think you will understand me when I get back, and I don't think you'll like it much. I should be a good deal criticised if I spoke like that at Bangor. However, I verily believe Bangor is the most critical place on earth; I have seen nothing like it over here. Tell them all I have come to the conclusion that they are _a great deal too fastidious_. But I was speaking about this English young lady and her brother. I wish I could put them before you. She is lovely to look at; she seems so modest and retiring. In spite of this, however, she dresses in a way that attracts great attention, as I couldn't help noticing when one day I went out to walk with her. She was ever so much looked at; but she didn't seem to notice it, until at last I couldn't help calling attention to it. Mr. Leverett thinks everything of it; he calls it the "costume of the future." I should call it rather the costume of the past--you know the English have such an attachment to the past. I said this the other day to Madame do Maisonrouge--that Miss Vane dressed in the costume of the past. _De l'an passe, vous voulez dire_? said Madame, with her little French laugh (you can get William Platt to translate this, he used to tell me he knew so much French). You know I told you, in writing some time ago, that I had tried to get some insight into the position of woman in England, and, being here with Miss Vane, it has seemed to me to be a good opportunity to get a little more. I have asked her a great deal about it; but she doesn't seem able to give me much information. The first time I asked her she told me the position of a lady depended upon the rank of her father, her eldest brother, her husband, etc. She told me her own position was very good, because her father was some relation--I forget what--to a lord. She thinks everything of this; and that proves to me that the position of woman in her country cannot be satisfactory; because, if it were, it wouldn't depend upon that of your relations, even your nearest. I don't know much about lords, and it does try my patience (though she is just as sweet as she can live) to hear her talk as if it were a matter of course that I should. I feel as if it were right to ask her as often as I can if she doesn't consider every one equal; but she always says she doesn't, and she confesses that she doesn't think she is equal to "Lady Something-or-other," who is the wife of that relation of her father. I try and persuade her all I can that she is; but it seems as if she didn't want to be persuaded; and when I ask her if Lady So-and-so is of the same opinion (that Miss Vane isn't her equal), she looks so soft and pretty with her eyes, and says, "Of course she is!" When I tell her that this is right down bad for Lady So-and-so, it seems as if she wouldn't believe me, and the only answer she will make is that Lady So-and-so is "extremely nice." I don't believe she is nice at all; if she were nice, she wouldn't have such ideas as that. I tell Miss Vane that at Bangor we think such ideas vulgar; but then she looks as though she had never heard of Bangor. I often want to shake her, though she _is_ so sweet. If she isn't angry with the people who make her feel that way, I am angry for her. I am angry with her brother too, for she is evidently very much afraid of him, and this gives me some further insight into the subject. She thinks everything of her brother, and thinks it natural that she should be afraid of him, not only physically (for this _is_ natural, as he is enormously tall and strong, and has very big fists), but morally and intellectually. She seems unable, however, to take in any argument, and she makes me realise what I have often heard--that if you are timid nothing will reason you out of it. Mr. Vane, also (the brother), seems to have the same prejudices, and when I tell him, as I often think it right to do, that his sister is not his subordinate, even if she does think so, but his equal, and, perhaps in some respects his superior, and that if my brother, in Bangor, were to treat me as he treates this poor young girl, who has not spirit enough to see the question in its true light, there would be an indignation, meeting of the citizens to protest against such an outrage to the sanctity of womanhood--when I tell him all this, at breakfast or dinner, he bursts out laughing so loud that all the plates clatter on the table. But at such a time as this there is always one person who seems interested in what I say--a German gentleman, a professor, who sits next to me at dinner, and whom I must tell you more about another time. He is very learned, and has a great desire for information; he appreciates a great many of my remarks, and after dinner, in the salon, he often comes to me to ask me questions about them. I have to think a little, sometimes, to know what I did say, or what I do think. He takes you right up where you left off; and he is almost as fond of discussing things as William Platt is. He is splendidly educated, in the German style, and he told me the other day that he was an "intellectual broom." Well, if he is, he sweeps clean; I told him that. After he has been talking to me I feel as if I hadn't got a speck of dust left in my mind anywhere. It's a most delightful feeling. He says he's an observer; and I am sure there is plenty over here to observe. But I have told you enough for to-day. I don't know how much longer I shall stay here; I am getting on so fast that it sometimes seems as if I shouldn't need all the time I have laid out. I suppose your cold weather has promptly begun, as usual; it sometimes makes me envy you. The fall weather here is very dull and damp, and I feel very much as if I should like to be braced up. CHAPTER VI FROM MISS EVELYN VANE, IN PARIS, TO THE LADY AUGUSTA FLEMING, AT BRIGHTON. Paris, September 30th. Dear Lady Augusta--I am afraid I shall not be able to come to you on January 7th, as you kindly proposed at Homburg. I am so very, very sorry; it is a great disappointment to me. But I have just heard that it has been settled that mamma and the children are coming abroad for a part of the winter, and mamma wishes me to go with them to Hyeres, where Georgina has been ordered for her lungs. She has not been at all well these three months, and now that the damp weather has begun she is very poorly indeed; so that last week papa decided to have a consultation, and he and mamma went with her up to town and saw some three or four doctors. They all of them ordered the south of France, but they didn't agree about the place; so that mamma herself decided for Hyeres, because it is the most economical. I believe it is very dull, but I hope it will do Georgina good. I am afraid, however, that nothing will do her good until she consents to take more care of herself; I am afraid she is very wild and wilful, and mamma tells me that all this month it has taken papa's positive orders to make her stop in-doors. She is very cross (mamma writes me) about coming abroad, and doesn't seem at all to mind the expense that papa has been put to--talks very ill-naturedly about losing the hunting, etc. She expected to begin to hunt in December, and wants to know whether anybody keeps hounds at Hyeres. Fancy a girl wanting to follow the hounds when her lungs are so bad! But I daresay that when she gets there she will he glad enough to keep quiet, as they say that the heat is intense. It may cure Georgina, but I am sure it will make the rest of us very ill. Mamma, however, is only going to bring Mary and Gus and Fred and Adelaide abroad with her; the others will remain at Kingscote until February (about the 3d), when they will go to Eastbourne for a month with Miss Turnover, the new governess, who has turned out such a very nice person. She is going to take Miss Travers, who has been with us so long, but who is only qualified for the younger children, to Hyeres, and I believe some of the Kingscote servants. She has perfect confidence in Miss T.; it is only a pity she has such an odd name. Mamma thought of asking her if she would mind taking another when she came; but papa thought she might object. Lady Battledown makes all her governesses take the same name; she gives 5 pounds more a year for the purpose. I forget what it is she calls them; I think it's Johnson (which to me always suggests a lady's maid). Governesses shouldn't have too pretty a name; they shouldn't have a nicer name than the family. I suppose you heard from the Desmonds that I did not go back to England with them. When it began to be talked about that Georgina should be taken abroad, mamma wrote to me that I had better stop in Paris for a month with Harold, so that she could pick me up on their way to Hyeres. It saves the expense of my journey to Kingscote and back, and gives me the opportunity to "finish" a little in French. You know Harold came here six weeks ago, to get up his French for those dreadful examinations that he has to pass so soon. He came to live with some French people that take in young men (and others) for this purpose; it's a kind of coaching place, only kept by women. Mamma had heard it was very nice; so she wrote to me that I was to come and stop here with Harold. The Desmonds brought me and made the arrangement, or the bargain, or whatever you call it. Poor Harold was naturally not at all pleased; but he has been very kind, and has treated me like an angel. He is getting on beautifully with his French; for though I don't think the place is so good as papa supposed, yet Harold is so immensely clever that he can scarcely help learning. I am afraid I learn much less, but, fortunately, I have not to pass an examination--except if mamma takes it into her head to examine me. But she will have so much to think of with Georgina that I hope this won't occur to her. If it does, I shall be, as Harold says, in a dreadful funk. This is not such a nice place for a girl as for a young man, and the Desmonds thought it _exceedingly odd_ that mamma should wish me to come here. As Mrs. Desmond said, it is because she is so very unconventional. But you know Paris is so very amusing, and if only Harold remains good- natured about it, I shall be content to wait for the caravan (that's what he calls mamma and the children). The person who keeps the establishment, or whatever they call it, is rather odd, and _exceedingly foreign_; but she is wonderfully civil, and is perpetually sending to my door to see if I want anything. The servants are not at all like English servants, and come bursting in, the footman (they have only one) and the maids alike, at all sorts of hours, in the _most sudden way_. Then when one rings, it is half an hour before they come. All this is very uncomfortable, and I daresay it will be worse at Hyeres. There, however, fortunately, we shall have our own people. There are some very odd Americans here, who keep throwing Harold into fits of laughter. One is a dreadful little man who is always sitting over the fire, and talking about the colour of the sky. I don't believe he ever saw the sky except through the window--pane. The other day he took hold of my frock (that green one you thought so nice at Homburg) and told me that it reminded him of the texture of the Devonshire turf. And then he talked for half an hour about the Devonshire turf; which I thought such a very extraordinary subject. Harold says he is mad. It is very strange to be living in this way with people one doesn't know. I mean that one doesn't know as one knows them in England. The other Americans (beside the madman) are two girls, about my own age, one of whom is rather nice. She has a mother; but the mother is always sitting in her bedroom, which seems so very odd. I should like mamma to ask them to Kingscote, but I am afraid mamma wouldn't like the mother, who is rather vulgar. The other girl is rather vulgar too, and is travelling about quite alone. I think she is a kind of schoolmistress; but the other girl (I mean the nicer one, with the mother) tells me she is more respectable than she seems. She has, however, the most extraordinary opinions--wishes to do away with the aristocracy, thinks it wrong that Arthur should have Kingscote when papa dies, etc. I don't see what it signifies to her that poor Arthur should come into the property, which will be so delightful--except for papa dying. But Harold says she is mad. He chaffs her tremendously about her radicalism, and he is so immensely clever that she can't answer him, though she is rather clever too. There is also a Frenchman, a nephew, or cousin, or something, of the person of the house, who is extremely nasty; and a German professor, or doctor, who eats with his knife and is a great bore. I am so very sorry about giving up my visit. I am afraid you will never ask me again. CHAPTER VII FROM LEON VERDIER, IN PARIS, TO PROSPER GOBAIN, AT LILLE. September 28th. My Dear Prosper--It is a long time since I have given you of my news, and I don't know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to your affectionate memory. I suppose it is that when we are happy the mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our exaltations and depressions, and _je t'eu ai trop dit, dans le bon temps, mon gros Prosper_, and you always listened to me too imperturbably, with your pipe in your mouth, your waistcoat unbuttoned, for me not to feel that I can count upon your sympathy to-day. _Nous en sommes nous flanquees des confidences_--in those happy days when my first thought in seeing an adventure _poindre a l'horizon_ was of the pleasure I should have in relating it to the great Prosper. As I tell thee, I am happy; decidedly, I am happy, and from this affirmation I fancy you can construct the rest. Shall I help thee a little? Take three adorable girls . . . three, my good Prosper--the mystic number--neither more nor less. Take them and place thy insatiable little Leon in the midst of them! Is the situation sufficiently indicated, and do you apprehend the motives of my felicity? You expected, perhaps, I was going to tell you that I had made my fortune, or that the Uncle Blondeau had at last decided to return into the breast of nature, after having constituted me his universal legatee. But I needn't remind you that women are always for something in the happiness of him who writes to thee--for something in his happiness, and for a good deal more in his misery. But don't let me talk of misery now; time enough when it comes; _ces demoiselles_ have gone to join the serried ranks of their amiable predecessors. Excuse me--I comprehend your impatience. I will tell you of whom _ces demoiselles_ consist. You have heard me speak of my _cousine_ de Maisonrouge, that grande _belle femme_, who, after having married, _en secondes_ noces--there had been, to tell the truth, some irregularity about her first union--a venerable relic of the old noblesse of Poitou, was left, by the death of her husband, complicated by the indulgence of expensive tastes on an income of 17,000 francs, on the pavement of Paris, with two little demons of daughters to bring up in the path of virtue. She managed to bring them up; my little cousins are rigidly virtuous. If you ask me how she managed it, I can't tell you; it's no business of mine, and, _a fortiori_ none of yours. She is now fifty years old (she confesses to thirty-seven), and her daughters, whom she has never been able to marry, are respectively twenty-seven and twenty-three (they confess to twenty and to seventeen). Three years ago she had the thrice-blessed idea of opening a sort of _pension_ for the entertainment and instruction of the blundering barbarians who come to Paris in the hope of picking up a few stray particles of the language of Voltaire--or of Zola. The idea _lui a porte bonheur_; the shop does a very good business. Until within a few months ago it was carried on by my cousins alone; but lately the need of a few extensions and embellishments has caused itself to be felt. My cousin has undertaken them, regardless of expense; she has asked me to come and stay with her--board and lodging gratis--and keep an eye on the grammatical eccentricities of her _pensionnaires_. I am the extension, my good Prosper; I am the embellishment! I live for nothing, and I straighten up the accent of the prettiest English lips. The English lips are not all pretty, heaven knows, but enough of them are so to make it a gaining bargain for me. Just now, as I told you, I am in daily conversation with three separate pairs. The owner of one of them has private lessons; she pays extra. My cousin doesn't give me a sou of the money; but I make bold, nevertheless, to say that my trouble is remunerated. But I am well, very well, with the proprietors of the two other pairs. One of them is a little Anglaise, of about twenty--a little _figure de keepsake_; the most adorable miss that you ever, or at least that I ever beheld. She is decorated all over with beads and bracelets and embroidered dandelions; but her principal decoration consists of the softest little gray eyes in the world, which rest upon you with a profundity of confidence--a confidence that I really feel some compunction in betraying. She has a tint as white as this sheet of paper, except just in the middle of each cheek, where it passes into the purest and most transparent, most liquid, carmine. Occasionally this rosy fluid overflows into the rest of her face--by which I mean that she blushes--as softly as the mark of your breath on the window-pane. Like every Anglaise, she is rather pinched and prim in public; but it is very easy to see that when no one is looking _elle ne demande qu'a se laisser aller_! Whenever she wants it I am always there, and I have given her to understand that she can count upon me. I have reason to believe that she appreciates the assurance, though I am bound in honesty to confess that with her the situation is a little less advanced than with the others. _Que voulez-vous_? The English are heavy, and the Anglaises move slowly, that's all. The movement, however, is perceptible, and once this fact is established I can let the pottage simmer. I can give her time to arrive, for I am over-well occupied with her _concurrentes_. _Celles-ci_ don't keep me waiting, _par exemple_! These young ladies are Americans, and you know that it is the national character to move fast. "All right--go ahead!" (I am learning a great deal of English, or, rather, a great deal of American.) They go ahead at a rate that sometimes makes it difficult for me to keep up. One of them is prettier than the other; but this hatter (the one that takes the private lessons) is really _une file prodigieuse_. _Ah, par exemple, elle brule ses vais-seux cella-la_! She threw herself into my arms the very first day, and I almost owed her a grudge for having deprived me of that pleasure of gradation, of carrying the defences, one by one, which is almost as great as that of entering the place. Would you believe that at the end of exactly twelve minutes she gave me a rendezvous? It is true it was in the Galerie d'Apollon, at the Louvre; but that was respectable for a beginning, and since then we have had them by the dozen; I have ceased to keep the account. _Non, c'est une file qui me depasse_. The little one (she has a mother somewhere, out of sight, shut up in a closet or a trunk) is a good deal prettier, and, perhaps, on that account _elle y met plus de facons_. She doesn't knock about Paris with me by the hour; she contents herself with long interviews in the _petit salon_, with the curtains half-drawn, beginning at about three o'clock, when every one is _a la promenade_. She is admirable, this little one; a little too thin, the bones rather accentuated, but the detail, on the whole, most satisfactory. And you can say anything to her. She takes the trouble to appear not to understand, but her conduct, half an hour afterwards, reassures you completely--oh, completely! However, it is the tall one, the one of the private lessons, that is the most remarkable. These private lessons, my good Prosper, are the most brilliant invention of the age, and a real stroke of genius on the part of Miss Miranda! They also take place in the _petit salon_, but with the doors tightly closed, and with explicit directions to every one in the house that we are not to be disturbed. And we are not, my good Prosper; we are not! Not a sound, not a shadow, interrupts our felicity. My _cousine_ is really admirable; the shop deserves to succeed. Miss Miranda is tall and rather flat; she is too pale; she hasn't the adorable _rougeurs_ of the little Anglaise. But she has bright, keen, inquisitive eyes, superb teeth, a nose modelled by a sculptor, and a way of holding up her head and looking every one in the face, which is the most finished piece of impertinence I ever beheld. She is making the _tour du monde_ entirely alone, without even a soubrette to carry the ensign, for the purpose of seeing for herself _a quoi s'en tenir sur les hommes et les choses--on les hommes_ particularly. _Dis donc_, Prosper, it must be a _drole de pays_ over there, where young persons animated by this ardent curiosity are manufactured! If we should turn the tables, some day, thou and I, and go over and see it for ourselves. It is as well that we should go and find them _chez elles_, as that they should come out here after us. _Dis donc, mon gras Prosper_ . . . CHAPTER VIII FROM DR. RUDOLF STAUB, IN PARIS, TO DR. JULIUS HIRSCH, AT GOTTINGEN. My dear brother in Science--I resume my hasty notes, of which I sent you the first instalment some weeks ago. I mentioned then that I intended to leave my hotel, not finding it sufficiently local and national. It was kept by a Pomeranian, and the waiters, without exception, were from the Fatherland. I fancied myself at Berlin, Unter den Linden, and I reflected that, having taken the serious step of visiting the head-quarters of the Gallic genius, I should try and project myself; as much as possible, into the circumstances which are in part the consequence and in part the cause of its irrepressible activity. It seemed to me that there could be no well-grounded knowledge without this preliminary operation of placing myself in relations, as slightly as possible modified by elements proceeding from a different combination of causes, with the spontaneous home-life of the country. I accordingly engaged a room in the house of a lady of pure French extraction and education, who supplements the shortcomings of an income insufficient to the ever-growing demands of the Parisian system of sense- gratification, by providing food and lodging for a limited number of distinguished strangers. I should have preferred to have my room alone in the house, and to take my meals in a brewery, of very good appearance, which I speedily discovered in the same street; but this arrangement, though very lucidly proposed by myself; was not acceptable to the mistress of the establishment (a woman with a mathematical head), and I have consoled myself for the extra expense by fixing my thoughts upon the opportunity that conformity to the customs of the house gives me of studying the table-manners of my companions, and of observing the French nature at a peculiarly physiological moment, the moment when the satisfaction of the _taste_, which is the governing quality in its composition, produces a kind of exhalation, an intellectual transpiration, which, though light and perhaps invisible to a superficial spectator, is nevertheless appreciable by a properly adjusted instrument. I have adjusted my instrument very satisfactorily (I mean the one I carry in my good square German head), and I am not afraid of losing a single drop of this valuable fluid, as it condenses itself upon the plate of my observation. A prepared surface is what I need, and I have prepared my surface. Unfortunately here, also, I find the individual native in the minority. There are only four French persons in the house--the individuals concerned in its management, three of whom are women, and one a man. This preponderance of the feminine element is, however, in itself characteristic, as I need not remind you what an abnormally--developed part this sex has played in French history. The remaining figure is apparently that of a man, but I hesitate to classify him so superficially. He appears to me less human than simian, and whenever I hear him talk I seem to myself to have paused in the street to listen to the shrill clatter of a hand-organ, to which the gambols of a hairy _homunculus_ form an accompaniment. I mentioned to you before that my expectation of rough usage, in consequence of my German nationality, had proved completely unfounded. No one seems to know or to care what my nationality is, and I am treated, on the contrary, with the civility which is the portion of every traveller who pays the bill without scanning the items too narrowly. This, I confess, has been something of a surprise to me, and I have not yet made up my mind as to the fundamental cause of the anomaly. My determination to take up my abode in a French interior was largely dictated by the supposition that I should be substantially disagreeable to its inmates. I wished to observe the different forms taken by the irritation that I should naturally produce; for it is under the influence of irritation that the French character most completely expresses itself. My presence, however, does not appear to operate as a stimulus, and in this respect I am materially disappointed. They treat me as they treat every one else; whereas, in order to be treated differently, I was resigned in advance to be treated worse. I have not, as I say, fully explained to myself this logical contradiction; but this is the explanation to which I tend. The French are so exclusively occupied with the idea of themselves, that in spite of the very definite image the German personality presented to them by the war of 1870, they have at present no distinct apprehension of its existence. They are not very sure that there are any Germans; they have already forgotten the convincing proofs of the fact that were presented to them nine years ago. A German was something disagreeable, which they determined to keep out of their conception of things. I therefore think that we are wrong to govern ourselves upon the hypothesis of the _revanche_; the French nature is too shallow for that large and powerful plant to bloom in it. The English-speaking specimens, too, I have not been willing to neglect the opportunity to examine; and among these I have paid special attention to the American varieties, of which I find here several singular examples. The two most remarkable are a young man who presents all the characteristics of a period of national decadence; reminding me strongly of some diminutive Hellenised Roman of the third century. He is an illustration of the period of culture in which the faculty of appreciation has obtained such a preponderance over that of production that the latter sinks into a kind of rank sterility, and the mental condition becomes analogous to that of a malarious bog. I learn from him that there is an immense number of Americans exactly resembling him, and that the city of Boston, indeed, is almost exclusively composed of them. (He communicated this fact very proudly, as if it were greatly to the credit of his native country; little perceiving the truly sinister impression it made upon me.) What strikes one in it is that it is a phenomenon to the best of my knowledge--and you know what my knowledge is--unprecedented and unique in the history of mankind; the arrival of a nation at an ultimate stage of evolution without having passed through the mediate one; the passage of the fruit, in other words, from crudity to rottenness, without the interposition of a period of useful (and ornamental) ripeness. With the Americans, indeed, the crudity and the rottenness are identical and simultaneous; it is impossible to say, as in the conversation of this deplorable young man, which is one and which is the other; they are inextricably mingled. I prefer the talk of the French _homunculus_; it is at least more amusing. It is interesting in this manner to perceive, so largely developed, the germs of extinction in the so-called powerful Anglo-Saxon family. I find them in almost as recognisable a form in a young woman from the State of Maine, in the province of New England, with whom I have had a good deal of conversation. She differs somewhat from the young man I just mentioned, in that the faculty of production, of action, is, in her, less inanimate; she has more of the freshness and vigour that we suppose to belong to a young civilisation. But unfortunately she produces nothing but evil, and her tastes and habits are similarly those of a Roman lady of the lower Empire. She makes no secret of them, and has, in fact, elaborated a complete system of licentious behaviour. As the opportunities she finds in her own country do not satisfy her, she has come to Europe "to try," as she says, "for herself." It is the doctrine of universal experience professed with a cynicism that is really most extraordinary, and which, presenting itself in a young woman of considerable education, appears to me to be the judgment of a society. Another observation which pushes me to the same induction--that of the premature vitiation of the American population--is the attitude of the Americans whom I have before me with regard to each other. There is another young lady here, who is less abnormally developed than the one I have just described, but who yet bears the stamp of this peculiar combination of incompleteness and effeteness. These three persons look with the greatest mistrust and aversion upon each other; and each has repeatedly taken me apart and assured me, secretly, that he or she only is the real, the genuine, the typical American. A type that has lost itself before it has been fixed--what can you look for from this? Add to this that there are two young Englanders in the house, who hate all the Americans in a lump, making between them none of the distinctions and favourable comparisons which they insist upon, and you will, I think, hold me warranted in believing that, between precipitate decay and internecine enmities, the English-speaking family is destined to consume itself; and that with its decline the prospect of general pervasiveness, to which I alluded above, will brighten for the deep-lunged children of the Fatherland! CHAPTER IX MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER. October 22d Dear Mother--I am off in a day or two to visit some new country; I haven't yet decided which. I have satisfied myself with regard to France, and obtained a good knowledge of the language. I have enjoyed my visit to Madame de Maisonrouge deeply, and feel as if I were leaving a circle of real friends. Everything has gone on beautifully up to the end, and every one has been as kind and attentive as if I were their own sister, especially Mr. Verdier, the French gentleman, from whom I have gained more than I ever expected (in six weeks), and with whom I have promised to correspond. So you can imagine me dashing off the most correct French letters; and, if you don't believe it, I will keep the rough draft to show you when I go back. The German gentleman is also more interesting, the more you know him; it seems sometimes as if I could fairly drink in his ideas. I have found out why the young lady from New York doesn't like me! It is because I said one day at dinner that I admired to go to the Louvre. Well, when I first came, it seemed as if I _did_ admire everything! Tell William Platt his letter has come. I knew he would have to write, and I was bound I would make him! I haven't decided what country I will visit yet; it seems as if there were so many to choose from. But I shall take care to pick out a good one, and to meet plenty of fresh experiences. Dearest mother, my money holds out, and it _is_ most interesting! Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What are some important themes mentioned in this story?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The story is about a young boy named Otto who lives in a castle with his father, Baron Conrad. The Baron is a robber baron who terrorizes the people in the valley below. Otto's mother dies after giving birth to him, and he is left in the care of the monks at the White Cross on the Hill, where he grows up learning about the world and its ways. When Otto is twelve years old, his father comes to take him away from the monastery and bring him back to the castle. Otto is shocked by the harsh realities of life outside the monastery and struggles to adjust to his new surroundings. He soon discovers that his father is a cruel and ruthless man who has killed many people, including a man named Baron Frederick. Otto is heartbroken and feels that he has been brought back to the castle for no good reason. He longs to return to the peaceful life of the monastery and escape the violence and cruelty of the world outside. As Otto navigates his new life in the castle, he must confront the harsh realities of his father's actions and the consequences of his own desires. The story is a coming-of-age tale that explores the complexities of growing up and the difficult choices that one must make in life. Question: What is the name of the castle where Otto lives with his father? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Be responsible,keep your word and be wise and peaceful." ]	27,741	narrativeqa	en	null	787d7fce3ea3a5afc996204942227e91ad057b882c3d3633	Produced by Angus Christian OTTO OF THE SILVER HAND By Howard Pyle CONTENTS I. The Dragon's House, II. How the Baron Went Forth to Shear, III. How the Baron Came Home Shorn, IV. The White Cross on the Hill, V. How Otto Dwelt at St. Michaelsburg, VI. How Otto Lived in the Dragon's House, VII. The Red Cock Crows on Drachenhausen, VIII. In the House of the Dragon Scorner, IX. How One-eyed Hans Came to Trutz-Drachen, X. How Hans Brought Terror to the Kitchen, XI. How Otto was Saved, XII. A Ride for Life, XIII. How Baron Conrad Held the Bridge, XIV. How Otto Saw the Great Emperor, FOREWORD. Between the far away past history of the world, and that which lies near to us; in the time when the wisdom of the ancient times was dead and had passed away, and our own days of light had not yet come, there lay a great black gulf in human history, a gulf of ignorance, of superstition, of cruelty, and of wickedness. That time we call the dark or middle ages. Few records remain to us of that dreadful period in our world's history, and we only know of it through broken and disjointed fragments that have been handed down to us through the generations. Yet, though the world's life then was so wicked and black, there yet remained a few good men and women here and there (mostly in peaceful and quiet monasteries, far from the thunder and the glare of the worlds bloody battle), who knew the right and the truth and lived according to what they knew; who preserved and tenderly cared for the truths that the dear Christ taught, and lived and died for in Palestine so long ago. This tale that I am about to tell is of a little boy who lived and suffered in those dark middle ages; of how he saw both the good and the bad of men, and of how, by gentleness and love and not by strife and hatred, he came at last to stand above other men and to be looked up to by all. And should you follow the story to the end, I hope you may find it a pleasure, as I have done, to ramble through those dark ancient castles, to lie with little Otto and Brother John in the high belfry-tower, or to sit with them in the peaceful quiet of the sunny old monastery garden, for, of all the story, I love best those early peaceful years that little Otto spent in the dear old White Cross on the Hill. Poor little Otto's life was a stony and a thorny pathway, and it is well for all of us nowadays that we walk it in fancy and not in truth. I. The Dragon's House. Up from the gray rocks, rising sheer and bold and bare, stood the walls and towers of Castle Drachenhausen. A great gate-way, with a heavy iron-pointed portcullis hanging suspended in the dim arch above, yawned blackly upon the bascule or falling drawbridge that spanned a chasm between the blank stone walls and the roadway that winding down the steep rocky slope to the little valley just beneath. There in the lap of the hills around stood the wretched straw-thatched huts of the peasants belonging to the castle--miserable serfs who, half timid, half fierce, tilled their poor patches of ground, wrenching from the hard soil barely enough to keep body and soul together. Among those vile hovels played the little children like foxes about their dens, their wild, fierce eyes peering out from under a mat of tangled yellow hair. Beyond these squalid huts lay the rushing, foaming river, spanned by a high, rude, stone bridge where the road from the castle crossed it, and beyond the river stretched the great, black forest, within whose gloomy depths the savage wild beasts made their lair, and where in winter time the howling wolves coursed their flying prey across the moonlit snow and under the net-work of the black shadows from the naked boughs above. The watchman in the cold, windy bartizan or watch-tower that clung to the gray walls above the castle gateway, looked from his narrow window, where the wind piped and hummed, across the tree-tops that rolled in endless billows of green, over hill and over valley to the blue and distant slope of the Keiserberg, where, on the mountain side, glimmered far away the walls of Castle Trutz-Drachen. Within the massive stone walls through which the gaping gateway led, three great cheerless brick buildings, so forbidding that even the yellow sunlight could not light them into brightness, looked down, with row upon row of windows, upon three sides of the bleak, stone courtyard. Back of and above them clustered a jumble of other buildings, tower and turret, one high-peaked roof overtopping another. The great house in the centre was the Baron's Hall, the part to the left was called the Roderhausen; between the two stood a huge square pile, rising dizzily up into the clear air high above the rest--the great Melchior Tower. At the top clustered a jumble of buildings hanging high aloft in the windy space a crooked wooden belfry, a tall, narrow watch-tower, and a rude wooden house that clung partly to the roof of the great tower and partly to the walls. From the chimney of this crazy hut a thin thread of smoke would now and then rise into the air, for there were folk living far up in that empty, airy desert, and oftentimes wild, uncouth little children were seen playing on the edge of the dizzy height, or sitting with their bare legs hanging down over the sheer depths, as they gazed below at what was going on in the court-yard. There they sat, just as little children in the town might sit upon their father's door-step; and as the sparrows might fly around the feet of the little town children, so the circling flocks of rooks and daws flew around the feet of these air-born creatures. It was Schwartz Carl and his wife and little ones who lived far up there in the Melchior Tower, for it overlooked the top of the hill behind the castle and so down into the valley upon the further side. There, day after day, Schwartz Carl kept watch upon the gray road that ran like a ribbon through the valley, from the rich town of Gruenstaldt to the rich town of Staffenburgen, where passed merchant caravans from the one to the other--for the lord of Drachenhausen was a robber baron. Dong! Dong! The great alarm bell would suddenly ring out from the belfry high up upon the Melchior Tower. Dong! Dong! Till the rooks and daws whirled clamoring and screaming. Dong! Dong! Till the fierce wolf-hounds in the rocky kennels behind the castle stables howled dismally in answer. Dong! Dong!--Dong! Dong! Then would follow a great noise and uproar and hurry in the castle court-yard below; men shouting and calling to one another, the ringing of armor, and the clatter of horses' hoofs upon the hard stone. With the creaking and groaning of the windlass the iron-pointed portcullis would be slowly raised, and with a clank and rattle and clash of iron chains the drawbridge would fall crashing. Then over it would thunder horse and man, clattering away down the winding, stony pathway, until the great forest would swallow them, and they would be gone. Then for a while peace would fall upon the castle courtyard, the cock would crow, the cook would scold a lazy maid, and Gretchen, leaning out of a window, would sing a snatch of a song, just as though it were a peaceful farm-house, instead of a den of robbers. Maybe it would be evening before the men would return once more. Perhaps one would have a bloody cloth bound about his head, perhaps one would carry his arm in a sling; perhaps one--maybe more than one--would be left behind, never to return again, and soon forgotten by all excepting some poor woman who would weep silently in the loneliness of her daily work. Nearly always the adventurers would bring back with them pack-horses laden with bales of goods. Sometimes, besides these, they would return with a poor soul, his hands tied behind his back and his feet beneath the horse's body, his fur cloak and his flat cap wofully awry. A while he would disappear in some gloomy cell of the dungeon-keep, until an envoy would come from the town with a fat purse, when his ransom would be paid, the dungeon would disgorge him, and he would be allowed to go upon his way again. One man always rode beside Baron Conrad in his expeditions and adventures a short, deep-chested, broad-shouldered man, with sinewy arms so long that when he stood his hands hung nearly to his knees. His coarse, close-clipped hair came so low upon his brow that only a strip of forehead showed between it and his bushy, black eyebrows. One eye was blind; the other twinkled and gleamed like a spark under the penthouse of his brows. Many folk said that the one-eyed Hans had drunk beer with the Hill-man, who had given him the strength of ten, for he could bend an iron spit like a hazel twig, and could lift a barrel of wine from the floor to his head as easily as though it were a basket of eggs. As for the one-eyed Hans he never said that he had not drunk beer with the Hill-man, for he liked the credit that such reports gave him with the other folk. And so, like a half savage mastiff, faithful to death to his master, but to him alone, he went his sullen way and lived his sullen life within the castle walls, half respected, half feared by the other inmates, for it was dangerous trifling with the one-eyed Hans. II. How the Baron went Forth to Shear. Baron Conrad and Baroness Matilda sat together at their morning meal below their raised seats stretched the long, heavy wooden table, loaded with coarse food--black bread, boiled cabbage, bacon, eggs, a great chine from a wild boar, sausages, such as we eat nowadays, and flagons and jars of beer and wine, Along the board sat ranged in the order of the household the followers and retainers. Four or five slatternly women and girls served the others as they fed noisily at the table, moving here and there behind the men with wooden or pewter dishes of food, now and then laughing at the jests that passed or joining in the talk. A huge fire blazed and crackled and roared in the great open fireplace, before which were stretched two fierce, shaggy, wolfish-looking hounds. Outside, the rain beat upon the roof or ran trickling from the eaves, and every now and then a chill draught of wind would breathe through the open windows of the great black dining-hall and set the fire roaring. Along the dull-gray wall of stone hung pieces of armor, and swords and lances, and great branching antlers of the stag. Overhead arched the rude, heavy, oaken beams, blackened with age and smoke, and underfoot was a chill pavement of stone. Upon Baron Conrad's shoulder leaned the pale, slender, yellow-haired Baroness, the only one in all the world with whom the fierce lord of Drachenhausen softened to gentleness, the only one upon whom his savage brows looked kindly, and to whom his harsh voice softened with love. The Baroness was talking to her husband in a low voice, as he looked down into her pale face, with its gentle blue eyes. "And wilt thou not, then," said she, "do that one thing for me?" "Nay," he growled, in his deep voice, "I cannot promise thee never more to attack the towns-people in the valley over yonder. How else could I live an' I did not take from the fat town hogs to fill our own larder?" "Nay," said the Baroness, "thou couldst live as some others do, for all do not rob the burgher folk as thou dost. Alas! mishap will come upon thee some day, and if thou shouldst be slain, what then would come of me?" "Prut," said the Baron, "thy foolish fears" But he laid his rough, hairy hand softly upon the Baroness' head and stroked her yellow hair. "For my sake, Conrad," whispered the Baroness. A pause followed. The Baron sat looking thoughtfully down into the Baroness' face. A moment more, and he might have promised what she besought; a moment more, and he might have been saved all the bitter trouble that was to follow. But it was not to be. Suddenly a harsh sound broke the quietness of all into a confusion of noises. Dong! Dong!--it was the great alarm-bell from Melchior's Tower. The Baron started at the sound. He sat for a moment or two with his hand clinched upon the arm of his seat as though about to rise, then he sunk back into his chair again. All the others had risen tumultuously from the table, and now stood looking at him, awaiting his orders. "For my sake, Conrad," said the Baroness again. Dong! Dong! rang the alarm-bell. The Baron sat with his eyes bent upon the floor, scowling blackly. The Baroness took his hand in both of hers. "For my sake," she pleaded, and the tears filled her blue eyes as she looked up at him, "do not go this time." From the courtyard without came the sound of horses' hoofs clashing against the stone pavement, and those in the hall stood watching and wondering at this strange delay of the Lord Baron. Just then the door opened and one came pushing past the rest; it was the one-eyed Hans. He came straight to where the Baron sat, and, leaning over, whispered something into his master's ear. "For my sake," implored the Baroness again; but the scale was turned. The Baron pushed back his chair heavily and rose to his feet. "Forward!" he roared, in a voice of thunder, and a great shout went up in answer as he strode clanking down the hall and out of the open door. The Baroness covered her face with her hands and wept. "Never mind, little bird," said old Ursela, the nurse, soothingly; "he will come back to thee again as he has come back to thee before." But the poor young Baroness continued weeping with her face buried in her hands, because he had not done that thing she had asked. A white young face framed in yellow hair looked out into the courtyard from a window above; but if Baron Conrad of Drachenhausen saw it from beneath the bars of his shining helmet, he made no sign. "Forward," he cried again. Down thundered the drawbridge, and away they rode with clashing hoofs and ringing armor through the gray shroud of drilling rain. The day had passed and the evening had come, and the Baroness and her women sat beside a roaring fire. All were chattering and talking and laughing but two--the fair young Baroness and old Ursela; the one sat listening, listening, listening, the other sat with her chin resting in the palm of her hand, silently watching her young mistress. The night was falling gray and chill, when suddenly the clear notes of a bugle rang from without the castle walls. The young Baroness started, and the rosy light flashed up into her pale cheeks. "Yes, good," said old Ursela; "the red fox has come back to his den again, and I warrant he brings a fat town goose in his mouth; now we'll have fine clothes to wear, and thou another gold chain to hang about thy pretty neck." The young Baroness laughed merrily at the old woman's speech. "This time," said she, "I will choose a string of pearls like that one my aunt used to wear, and which I had about my neck when Conrad first saw me." Minute after minute passed; the Baroness sat nervously playing with a bracelet of golden beads about her wrist. "How long he stays," said she. "Yes," said Ursela; "but it is not cousin wish that holds him by the coat." As she spoke, a door banged in the passageway without, and the ring of iron footsteps sounded upon the stone floor. Clank! Clank! Clank! The Baroness rose to her feet, her face all alight. The door opened; then the flush of joy faded away and the face grew white, white, white. One hand clutched the back of the bench whereon she had been sitting, the other hand pressed tightly against her side. It was Hans the one-eyed who stood in the doorway, and black trouble sat on his brow; all were looking at him waiting. "Conrad," whispered the Baroness, at last. "Where is Conrad? Where is your master?" and even her lips were white as she spoke. The one-eyed Hans said nothing. Just then came the noise of men s voices in the corridor and the shuffle and scuffle of feet carrying a heavy load. Nearer and nearer they came, and one-eyed Hans stood aside. Six men came struggling through the doorway, carrying a litter, and on the litter lay the great Baron Conrad. The flaming torch thrust into the iron bracket against the wall flashed up with the draught of air from the open door, and the light fell upon the white face and the closed eyes, and showed upon his body armor a great red stain that was not the stain of rust. Suddenly Ursela cried out in a sharp, shrill voice, "Catch her, she falls!" It was the Baroness. Then the old crone turned fiercely upon the one-eyed Hans. "Thou fool!" she cried, "why didst thou bring him here? Thou hast killed thy lady!" "I did not know," said the one-eyed Hans, stupidly. III. How the Baron came Home Shorn. But Baron Conrad was not dead. For days he lay upon his hard bed, now muttering incoherent words beneath his red beard, now raving fiercely with the fever of his wound. But one day he woke again to the things about him. He turned his head first to the one side and then to the other; there sat Schwartz Carl and the one-eyed Hans. Two or three other retainers stood by a great window that looked out into the courtyard beneath, jesting and laughing together in low tones, and one lay upon the heavy oaken bench that stood along by the wall snoring in his sleep. "Where is your lady?" said the Baron, presently; "and why is she not with me at this time?" The man that lay upon the bench started up at the sound of his voice, and those at the window came hurrying to his bedside. But Schwartz Carl and the one-eyed Hans looked at one another, and neither of them spoke. The Baron saw the look and in it read a certain meaning that brought him to his elbow, though only to sink back upon his pillow again with a groan. "Why do you not answer me?" said he at last, in a hollow voice; then to the one-eyed Hans, "Hast no tongue, fool, that thou standest gaping there like a fish? Answer me, where is thy mistress?" "I--I do not know," stammered poor Hans. For a while the Baron lay silently looking from one face to the other, then he spoke again. "How long have I been lying here?" said he. "A sennight, my lord," said Master Rudolph, the steward, who had come into the room and who now stood among the others at the bedside. "A sennight," repeated the Baron, in a low voice, and then to Master Rudolph, "And has the Baroness been often beside me in that time?" Master Rudolph hesitated. "Answer me," said the Baron, harshly. "Not--not often," said Master Rudolph, hesitatingly. The Baron lay silent for a long time. At last he passed his hands over his face and held them there for a minute, then of a sudden, before anyone knew what he was about to do, he rose upon his elbow and then sat upright upon the bed. The green wound broke out afresh and a dark red spot grew and spread upon the linen wrappings; his face was drawn and haggard with the pain of his moving, and his eyes wild and bloodshot. Great drops of sweat gathered and stood upon his forehead as he sat there swaying slightly from side to side. "My shoes," said he, hoarsely. Master Rudolph stepped forward. "But, my Lord Baron," he began and then stopped short, for the Baron shot him such a look that his tongue stood still in his head. Hans saw that look out of his one eye. Down he dropped upon his knees and, fumbling under the bed, brought forth a pair of soft leathern shoes, which he slipped upon the Baron's feet and then laced the thongs above the instep. "Your shoulder," said the Baron. He rose slowly to his feet, gripping Hans in the stress of his agony until the fellow winced again. For a moment he stood as though gathering strength, then doggedly started forth upon that quest which he had set upon himself. At the door he stopped for a moment as though overcome by his weakness, and there Master Nicholas, his cousin, met him; for the steward had sent one of the retainers to tell the old man what the Baron was about to do. "Thou must go back again, Conrad," said Master Nicholas; "thou art not fit to be abroad." The Baron answered him never a word, but he glared at him from out of his bloodshot eyes and ground his teeth together. Then he started forth again upon his way. Down the long hall he went, slowly and laboriously, the others following silently behind him, then up the steep winding stairs, step by step, now and then stopping to lean against the wall. So he reached a long and gloomy passageway lit only by the light of a little window at the further end. He stopped at the door of one of the rooms that opened into this passage-way, stood for a moment, then he pushed it open. No one was within but old Ursela, who sat crooning over a fire with a bundle upon her knees. She did not see the Baron or know that he was there. "Where is your lady?" said he, in a hollow voice. Then the old nurse looked up with a start. "Jesu bless us," cried she, and crossed herself. "Where is your lady?" said the Baron again, in the same hoarse voice; and then, not waiting for an answer, "Is she dead?" The old woman looked at him for a minute blinking her watery eyes, and then suddenly broke into a shrill, long-drawn wail. The Baron needed to hear no more. As though in answer to the old woman's cry, a thin piping complaint came from the bundle in her lap. At the sound the red blood flashed up into the Baron's face. "What is that you have there?" said he, pointing to the bundle upon the old woman's knees. She drew back the coverings and there lay a poor, weak, little baby, that once again raised its faint reedy pipe. "It is your son," said Ursela, "that the dear Baroness left behind her when the holy angels took her to Paradise. She blessed him and called him Otto before she left us." IV. The White Cross on the Hill. Here the glassy waters of the River Rhine, holding upon its bosom a mimic picture of the blue sky and white clouds floating above, runs smoothly around a jutting point of land, St. Michaelsburg, rising from the reedy banks of the stream, sweeps up with a smooth swell until it cuts sharp and clear against the sky. Stubby vineyards covered its earthy breast, and field and garden and orchard crowned its brow, where lay the Monastery of St. Michaelsburg--"The White Cross on the Hill." There within the white walls, where the warm yellow sunlight slept, all was peaceful quietness, broken only now and then by the crowing of the cock or the clamorous cackle of a hen, the lowing of kine or the bleating of goats, a solitary voice in prayer, the faint accord of distant singing, or the resonant toll of the monastery bell from the high-peaked belfry that overlooked the hill and valley and the smooth, far-winding stream. No other sounds broke the stillness, for in this peaceful haven was never heard the clash of armor, the ring of iron-shod hoofs, or the hoarse call to arms. All men were not wicked and cruel and fierce in that dark, far-away age; all were not robbers and terror-spreading tyrants, even in that time when men's hands were against their neighbors, and war and rapine dwelt in place of peace and justice. Abbot Otto, of St. Michaelsburg, was a gentle, patient, pale-faced old man; his white hands were soft and smooth, and no one would have thought that they could have known the harsh touch of sword-hilt and lance. And yet, in the days of the Emperor Frederick--the grandson of the great Red-beard--no one stood higher in the prowess of arms than he. But all at once--for why, no man could tell--a change came over him, and in the flower of his youth and fame and growing power he gave up everything in life and entered the quiet sanctuary of that white monastery on the hill-side, so far away from the tumult and the conflict of the world in which he had lived. Some said that it was because the lady he had loved had loved his brother, and that when they were married Otto of Wolbergen had left the church with a broken heart. But such stories are old songs that have been sung before. Clatter! clatter! Jingle! jingle! It was a full-armed knight that came riding up the steep hill road that wound from left to right and right to left amid the vineyards on the slopes of St. Michaelsburg. Polished helm and corselet blazed in the noon sunlight, for no knight in those days dared to ride the roads except in full armor. In front of him the solitary knight carried a bundle wrapped in the folds of his coarse gray cloak. It was a sorely sick man that rode up the heights of St. Michaelsburg. His head hung upon his breast through the faintness of weariness and pain; for it was the Baron Conrad. He had left his bed of sickness that morning, had saddled his horse in the gray dawn with his own hands, and had ridden away into the misty twilight of the forest without the knowledge of anyone excepting the porter, who, winking and blinking in the bewilderment of his broken slumber, had opened the gates to the sick man, hardly knowing what he was doing, until he beheld his master far away, clattering down the steep bridle-path. Eight leagues had he ridden that day with neither a stop nor a stay; but now at last the end of his journey had come, and he drew rein under the shade of the great wooden gateway of St. Michaelsburg. He reached up to the knotted rope and gave it a pull, and from within sounded the answering ring of the porter's bell. By and by a little wicket opened in the great wooden portals, and the gentle, wrinkled face of old Brother Benedict, the porter, peeped out at the strange iron-clad visitor and the great black war-horse, streaked and wet with the sweat of the journey, flecked and dappled with flakes of foam. A few words passed between them, and then the little window was closed again; and within, the shuffling pat of the sandalled feet sounded fainter and fainter, as Brother Benedict bore the message from Baron Conrad to Abbot Otto, and the mail-clad figure was left alone, sitting there as silent as a statue. By and by the footsteps sounded again; there came a noise of clattering chains and the rattle of the key in the lock, and the rasping of the bolts dragged back. Then the gate swung slowly open, and Baron Conrad rode into the shelter of the White Cross, and as the hoofs of his war-horse clashed upon the stones of the courtyard within, the wooden gate swung slowly to behind him. Abbot Otto stood by the table when Baron Conrad entered the high-vaulted room from the farther end. The light from the oriel window behind the old man shed broken rays of light upon him, and seemed to frame his thin gray hairs with a golden glory. His white, delicate hand rested upon the table beside him, and upon some sheets of parchment covered with rows of ancient Greek writing which he had been engaged in deciphering. Clank! clank! clank! Baron Conrad strode across the stone floor, and then stopped short in front of the good old man. "What dost thou seek here, my son?" said the Abbot. "I seek sanctuary for my son and thy brother's grandson," said the Baron Conrad, and he flung back the folds of his cloak and showed the face of the sleeping babe. For a while the Abbot said nothing, but stood gazing dreamily at the baby. After a while he looked up. "And the child's mother," said he--"what hath she to say at this?" "She hath naught to say," said Baron Conrad, hoarsely, and then stopped short in his speech. "She is dead," said he, at last, in a husky voice, "and is with God's angels in paradise." The Abbot looked intently in the Baron's face. "So!" said he, under his breath, and then for the first time noticed how white and drawn was the Baron's face. "Art sick thyself?" he asked. "Ay," said the Baron, "I have come from death's door. But that is no matter. Wilt thou take this little babe into sanctuary? My house is a vile, rough place, and not fit for such as he, and his mother with the blessed saints in heaven." And once more Conrad of Drachenhausen's face began twitching with the pain of his thoughts. "Yes," said the old man, gently, "he shall live here," and he stretched out his hands and took the babe. "Would," said he, "that all the little children in these dark times might be thus brought to the house of God, and there learn mercy and peace, instead of rapine and war." For a while he stood looking down in silence at the baby in his arms, but with his mind far away upon other things. At last he roused himself with a start. "And thou," said he to the Baron Conrad--"hath not thy heart been chastened and softened by this? Surely thou wilt not go back to thy old life of rapine and extortion?" "Nay," said Baron Conrad, gruffly, "I will rob the city swine no longer, for that was the last thing that my dear one asked of me." The old Abbot's face lit up with a smile. "I am right glad that thy heart was softened, and that thou art willing at last to cease from war and violence." "Nay," cried the Baron, roughly, "I said nothing of ceasing from war. By heaven, no! I will have revenge!" And he clashed his iron foot upon the floor and clinched his fists and ground his teeth together. "Listen," said he, "and I will tell thee how my troubles happened. A fortnight ago I rode out upon an expedition against a caravan of fat burghers in the valley of Gruenhoffen. They outnumbered us many to one, but city swine such as they are not of the stuff to stand against our kind for a long time. Nevertheless, while the men-at-arms who guarded the caravan were staying us with pike and cross-bow from behind a tree which they had felled in front of a high bridge the others had driven the pack-horses off, so that by the time we had forced the bridge they were a league or more away. We pushed after them as hard as we were able, but when we came up with them we found that they had been joined by Baron Frederick of Trutz-Drachen, to whom for three years and more the burghers of Gruenstadt have been paying a tribute for his protection against others. Then again they made a stand, and this time the Baron Frederick himself was with them. But though the dogs fought well, we were forcing them back, and might have got the better of them, had not my horse stumbled upon a sloping stone, and so fell and rolled over upon me. While I lay there with my horse upon me, Baron Frederick ran me down with his lance, and gave me that foul wound that came so near to slaying me--and did slay my dear wife. Nevertheless, my men were able to bring me out from that press and away, and we had bitten the Trutz-Drachen dogs so deep that they were too sore to follow us, and so let us go our way in peace. But when those fools of mine brought me to my castle they bore me lying upon a litter to my wife's chamber. There she beheld me, and, thinking me dead, swooned a death-swoon, so that she only lived long enough to bless her new-born babe and name it Otto, for you, her father's brother. But, by heavens! I will have revenge, root and branch, upon that vile tribe, the Roderburgs of Trutz-Drachen. Their great-grandsire built that castle in scorn of Baron Casper in the old days; their grandsire slew my father's grandsire; Baron Nicholas slew two of our kindred; and now this Baron Frederick gives me that foul wound and kills my dear wife through my body." Here the Baron stopped short; then of a sudden, shaking his fist above his head, he cried out in his hoarse voice: "I swear by all the saints in heaven, either the red cock shall crow over the roof of Trutz-Drachen or else it shall crow over my house! The black dog shall sit on Baron Frederick's shoulders or else he shall sit on mine!" Again he stopped, and fixing his blazing eyes upon the old man, "Hearest thou that, priest?" said he, and broke into a great boisterous laugh. Abbot Otto sighed heavily, but he tried no further to persuade the other into different thoughts. "Thou art wounded," said he, at last, in a gentle voice; "at least stay here with us until thou art healed." "Nay," said the Baron, roughly, "I will tarry no longer than to hear thee promise to care for my child." "I promise," said the Abbot; "but lay aside thy armor, and rest." "Nay," said the Baron, "I go back again to-day." At this the Abbot cried out in amazement: "Sure thou, wounded man, would not take that long journey without a due stay for resting! Think! Night will be upon thee before thou canst reach home again, and the forests are beset with wolves." The Baron laughed. "Those are not the wolves I fear," said he. "Urge me no further, I must return to-night; yet if thou hast a mind to do me a kindness thou canst give me some food to eat and a flask of your golden Michaelsburg; beyond these, I ask no further favor of any man, be he priest or layman." "What comfort I can give thee thou shalt have," said the Abbot, in his patient voice, and so left the room to give the needful orders, bearing the babe with him. V. How Otto Dwelt at St. Michaelsburg. So the poor, little, motherless waif lived among the old monks at the White Cross on the hill, thriving and growing apace until he had reached eleven or twelve years of age; a slender, fair-haired little fellow, with a strange, quiet serious manner. "Poor little child!" Old Brother Benedict would sometimes say to the others, "poor little child! The troubles in which he was born must have broken his wits like a glass cup. What think ye he said to me to-day? 'Dear Brother Benedict,' said he, 'dost thou shave the hair off of the top of thy head so that the dear God may see thy thoughts the better?' Think of that now!" and the good old man shook with silent laughter. When such talk came to the good Father Abbot's ears, he smiled quietly to himself. "It may be," said he, "that the wisdom of little children flies higher than our heavy wits can follow." At least Otto was not slow with his studies, and Brother Emmanuel, who taught him his lessons, said more than once that, if his wits were cracked in other ways, they were sound enough in Latin. Otto, in a quaint, simple way which belonged to him, was gentle and obedient to all. But there was one among the Brethren of St. Michaelsburg whom he loved far above all the rest--Brother John, a poor half-witted fellow, of some twenty-five or thirty years of age. When a very little child, he had fallen from his nurse's arms and hurt his head, and as he grew up into boyhood, and showed that his wits had been addled by his fall, his family knew not what else to do with him, and so sent him off to the Monastery of St. Michaelsburg, where he lived his simple, witless life upon a sort of sufferance, as though he were a tame, harmless animal. While Otto was still a little baby, he had been given into Brother John's care. Thereafter, and until Otto had grown old enough to care for himself, poor Brother John never left his little charge, night or day. Oftentimes the good Father Abbot, coming into the garden, where he loved to walk alone in his meditations, would find the poor, simple Brother sitting under the shade of the pear-tree, close to the bee-hives, rocking the little baby in his arms, singing strange, crazy songs to it, and gazing far away into the blue, empty sky with his curious, pale eyes. Although, as Otto grew up into boyhood, his lessons and his tasks separated him from Brother John, the bond between them seemed to grow stronger rather than weaker. During the hours that Otto had for his own they were scarcely ever apart. Down in the vineyard, where the monks were gathering the grapes for the vintage, in the garden, or in the fields, the two were always seen together, either wandering hand in hand, or seated in some shady nook or corner. But most of all they loved to lie up in the airy wooden belfry; the great gaping bell hanging darkly above them, the mouldering cross-beams glimmering far up under the dim shadows of the roof, where dwelt a great brown owl that, unfrightened at their familiar presence, stared down at them with his round, solemn eyes. Below them stretched the white walls of the garden, beyond them the vineyard, and beyond that again the far shining river, that seemed to Otto's mind to lead into wonder-land. There the two would lie upon the belfry floor by the hour, talking together of the strangest things. "I saw the dear Angel Gabriel again yester morn," said Brother John. "So!" says Otto, seriously; "and where was that?" "It was out in the garden, in the old apple-tree," said Brother John. "I was walking there, and my wits were running around in the grass like a mouse. What heard I but a wonderful sound of singing, and it was like the hum of a great bee, only sweeter than honey. So I looked up into the tree, and there I saw two sparks. I thought at first that they were two stars that had fallen out of heaven; but what think you they were, little child?" "I do not know," said Otto, breathlessly. "They were angel's eyes," said Brother John; and he smiled in the strangest way, as he gazed up into the blue sky. "So I looked at the two sparks and felt happy, as one does in spring time when the cold weather is gone, and the warm sun shines, and the cuckoo sings again. Then, by-and-by, I saw the face to which the eyes belonged. First, it shone white and thin like the moon in the daylight; but it grew brighter and brighter, until it hurt one's eyes to look at it, as though it had been the blessed sun itself. Angel Gabriel's hand was as white as silver, and in it he held a green bough with blossoms, like those that grow on the thorn bush. As for his robe, it was all of one piece, and finer than the Father Abbot's linen, and shone beside like the sunlight on pure snow. So I knew from all these things that it was the blessed Angel Gabriel." "What do they say about this tree, Brother John?" said he to me. "They say it is dying, my Lord Angel," said I, "and that the gardener will bring a sharp axe and cut it down." "'And what dost thou say about it, Brother John?' said he." "'I also say yes, and that it is dying,' said I." "At that he smiled until his face shone so bright that I had to shut my eyes." "'Now I begin to believe, Brother John, that thou art as foolish as men say,' said he. 'Look, till I show thee.' And thereat I opened mine eyes again." "Then Angel Gabriel touched the dead branches with the flowery twig that he held in his hand, and there was the dead wood all covered with green leaves, and fair blossoms and beautiful apples as yellow as gold. Each smelling more sweetly than a garden of flowers, and better to the taste than white bread and honey. "'They are souls of the apples,' said the good Angel,' and they can never wither and die.' "'Then I'll tell the gardener that he shall not cut the tree down,' said I." "'No, no,' said the dear Gabriel, 'that will never do, for if the tree is not cut down here on the earth, it can never be planted in paradise.'" Here Brother John stopped short in his story, and began singing one of his crazy songs, as he gazed with his pale eyes far away into nothing at all. "But tell me, Brother John," said little Otto, in a hushed voice, "what else did the good Angel say to thee?" Brother John stopped short in his song and began looking from right to left, and up and down, as though to gather his wits. "So!" said he, "there was something else that he told me. Tschk! If I could but think now. Yes, good! This is it--'Nothing that has lived,' said he, 'shall ever die, and nothing that has died shall ever live.'" Otto drew a deep breath. "I would that I might see the beautiful Angel Gabriel sometime," said he; but Brother John was singing again and did not seem to hear what he said. Next to Brother John, the nearest one to the little child was the good Abbot Otto, for though he had never seen wonderful things with the eyes of his soul, such as Brother John's had beheld, and so could not tell of them, he was yet able to give little Otto another pleasure that no one else could give. He was a great lover of books, the old Abbot, and had under lock and key wonderful and beautiful volumes, bound in hog-skin and metal, and with covers inlaid with carved ivory, or studded with precious stones. But within these covers, beautiful as they were, lay the real wonder of the books, like the soul in the body; for there, beside the black letters and initials, gay with red and blue and gold, were beautiful pictures painted upon the creamy parchment. Saints and Angels, the Blessed Virgin with the golden oriole about her head, good St. Joseph, the three Kings; the simple Shepherds kneeling in the fields, while Angels with glories about their brow called to the poor Peasants from the blue sky above. But, most beautiful of all was the picture of the Christ Child lying in the manger, with the mild-eyed Kine gazing at him. Sometimes the old Abbot would unlock the iron-bound chest where these treasures lay hidden, and carefully and lovingly brushing the few grains of dust from them, would lay them upon the table beside the oriel window in front of his little namesake, allowing the little boy freedom to turn the leaves as he chose. Always it was one picture that little Otto sought; the Christ Child in the manger, with the Virgin, St. Joseph, the Shepherds, and the Kine. And as he would hang breathlessly gazing and gazing upon it, the old Abbot would sit watching him with a faint, half-sad smile flickering around his thin lips and his pale, narrow face. It was a pleasant, peaceful life, but by-and-by the end came. Otto was now nearly twelve years old. One bright, clear day, near the hour of noon, little Otto heard the porter's bell sounding below in the court-yard--dong! dong! Brother Emmanuel had been appointed as the boy's instructor, and just then Otto was conning his lessons in the good monk's cell. Nevertheless, at the sound of the bell he pricked up his ears and listened, for a visitor was a strange matter in that out-of-the-way place, and he wondered who it could be. So, while his wits wandered his lessons lagged. "Postera Phoeba lustrabat lampade terras," continued Brother Emmanuel, inexorably running his horny finger-nail beneath the line, "humentemque Aurora polo dimoverat umbram--" the lesson dragged along. Just then a sandaled footstep sounded without, in the stone corridor, and a light tap fell upon Brother Emmanuel's door. It was Brother Ignatius, and the Abbot wished little Otto to come to the refectory. As they crossed the court-yard Otto stared to see a group of mail-clad men-at-arms, some sitting upon their horses, some standing by the saddle-bow. "Yonder is the young baron," he heard one of them say in a gruff voice, and thereupon all turned and stared at him. A stranger was in the refectory, standing beside the good old Abbot, while food and wine were being brought and set upon the table for his refreshment; a great, tall, broad-shouldered man, beside whom the Abbot looked thinner and slighter than ever. The stranger was clad all in polished and gleaming armor, of plate and chain, over which was drawn a loose robe of gray woollen stuff, reaching to the knees and bound about the waist by a broad leathern sword-belt. Upon his arm he carried a great helmet which he had just removed from his head. His face was weather-beaten and rugged, and on lip and chin was a wiry, bristling beard; once red, now frosted with white. Brother Ignatius had bidden Otto to enter, and had then closed the door behind him; and now, as the lad walked slowly up the long room, he gazed with round, wondering blue eyes at the stranger. "Dost know who I am, Otto? said the mail-clad knight, in a deep, growling voice. "Methinks you are my father, sir," said Otto. "Aye, thou art right," said Baron Conrad, "and I am glad to see that these milk-churning monks have not allowed thee to forget me, and who thou art thyself." "An' it please you," said Otto, "no one churneth milk here but Brother Fritz; we be makers of wine and not makers of butter, at St. Michaelsburg." Baron Conrad broke into a great, loud laugh, but Abbot Otto's sad and thoughtful face lit up with no shadow of an answering smile. "Conrad," said he, turning to the other, "again let me urge thee; do not take the child hence, his life can never be your life, for he is not fitted for it. I had thought," said he, after a moment's pause, "I had thought that thou hadst meant to consecrate him--this motherless one--to the care of the Universal Mother Church." "So!" said the Baron, "thou hadst thought that, hadst thou? Thou hadst thought that I had intended to deliver over this boy, the last of the Vuelphs, to the arms of the Church? What then was to become of our name and the glory of our race if it was to end with him in a monastery? No, Drachenhausen is the home of the Vuelphs, and there the last of the race shall live as his sires have lived before him, holding to his rights by the power and the might of his right hand." The Abbot turned and looked at the boy, who was gaping in simple wide-eyed wonderment from one to the other as they spoke. "And dost thou think, Conrad," said the old man, in his gentle, patient voice, "that that poor child can maintain his rights by the strength of his right hand?" The Baron's look followed the Abbot's, and he said nothing. In the few seconds of silence that followed, little Otto, in his simple mind, was wondering what all this talk portended. Why had his father come hither to St. Michaelsburg, lighting up the dim silence of the monastery with the flash and ring of his polished armor? Why had he talked about churning butter but now, when all the world knew that the monks of St. Michaelsburg made wine. It was Baron Conrad's deep voice that broke the little pause of silence. "If you have made a milkmaid of the boy," he burst out at last, "I thank the dear heaven that there is yet time to undo your work and to make a man of him." The Abbot sighed. "The child is yours, Conrad," said he, "the will of the blessed saints be done. Mayhap if he goes to dwell at Drachenhausen he may make you the better instead of you making him the worse." Then light came to the darkness of little Otto's wonderment; he saw what all this talk meant and why his father had come hither. He was to leave the happy, sunny silence of the dear White Cross, and to go out into that great world that he had so often looked down upon from the high windy belfry on the steep hillside. VI. How Otto Lived in the Dragon's House. The gates of the Monastery stood wide open, the world lay beyond, and all was ready for departure. Baron Conrad and his men-at-arms sat foot in stirrup, the milk-white horse that had been brought for Otto stood waiting for him beside his father's great charger. "Farewell, Otto," said the good old Abbot, as he stooped and kissed the boy's cheek. "Farewell," answered Otto, in his simple, quiet way, and it brought a pang to the old man's heart that the child should seem to grieve so little at the leave-taking. "Farewell, Otto," said the brethren that stood about, "farewell, farewell." Then poor brother John came forward and took the boy's hand, and looked up into his face as he sat upon his horse. "We will meet again," said he, with his strange, vacant smile, "but maybe it will be in Paradise, and there perhaps they will let us lie in the father's belfry, and look down upon the angels in the court-yard below." "Aye," answered Otto, with an answering smile. "Forward," cried the Baron, in a deep voice, and with a clash of hoofs and jingle of armor they were gone, and the great wooden gates were shut to behind them. Down the steep winding pathway they rode, and out into the great wide world beyond, upon which Otto and brother John had gazed so often from the wooden belfry of the White Cross on the hill. "Hast been taught to ride a horse by the priests up yonder on Michaelsburg?" asked the Baron, when they had reached the level road. "Nay," said Otto; "we had no horse to ride, but only to bring in the harvest or the grapes from the further vineyards to the vintage." "Prut," said the Baron, "methought the abbot would have had enough of the blood of old days in his veins to have taught thee what is fitting for a knight to know; art not afeared?" "Nay," said Otto, with a smile, "I am not afeared." "There at least thou showest thyself a Vuelph," said the grim Baron. But perhaps Otto's thought of fear and Baron Conrad's thought of fear were two very different matters. The afternoon had passed by the time they had reached the end of their journey. Up the steep, stony path they rode to the drawbridge and the great gaping gateway of Drachenhausen, where wall and tower and battlement looked darker and more forbidding than ever in the gray twilight of the coming night. Little Otto looked up with great, wondering, awe-struck eyes at this grim new home of his. The next moment they clattered over the drawbridge that spanned the narrow black gulph between the roadway and the wall, and the next were past the echoing arch of the great gateway and in the gray gloaming of the paved court-yard within. Otto looked around upon the many faces gathered there to catch the first sight of the little baron; hard, rugged faces, seamed and weather-beaten; very different from those of the gentle brethren among whom he had lived, and it seemed strange to him that there was none there whom he should know. As he climbed the steep, stony steps to the door of the Baron's house, old Ursela came running down to meet him. She flung her withered arms around him and hugged him close to her. "My little child," she cried, and then fell to sobbing as though her heart would break. "Here is someone knoweth me," thought the little boy. His new home was all very strange and wonderful to Otto; the armors, the trophies, the flags, the long galleries with their ranges of rooms, the great hall below with its vaulted roof and its great fireplace of grotesquely carved stone, and all the strange people with their lives and thoughts so different from what he had been used to know. And it was a wonderful thing to explore all the strange places in the dark old castle; places where it seemed to Otto no one could have ever been before. Once he wandered down a long, dark passageway below the hall, pushed open a narrow, iron-bound oaken door, and found himself all at once in a strange new land; the gray light, coming in through a range of tall, narrow windows, fell upon a row of silent, motionless figures carven in stone, knights and ladies in strange armor and dress; each lying upon his or her stony couch with clasped hands, and gazing with fixed, motionless, stony eyeballs up into the gloomy, vaulted arch above them. There lay, in a cold, silent row, all of the Vuelphs who had died since the ancient castle had been built. It was the chapel into which Otto had made his way, now long since fallen out of use excepting as a burial place of the race. At another time he clambered up into the loft under the high peaked roof, where lay numberless forgotten things covered with the dim dust of years. There a flock of pigeons had made their roost, and flapped noisily out into the sunlight when he pushed open the door from below. Here he hunted among the mouldering things of the past until, oh, joy of joys! in an ancient oaken chest he found a great lot of worm-eaten books, that had belonged to some old chaplain of the castle in days gone by. They were not precious and beautiful volumes, such as the Father Abbot had showed him, but all the same they had their quaint painted pictures of the blessed saints and angels. Again, at another time, going into the court-yard, Otto had found the door of Melchior's tower standing invitingly open, for old Hilda, Schwartz Carl's wife, had come down below upon some business or other. Then upon the shaky wooden steps Otto ran without waiting for a second thought, for he had often gazed at those curious buildings hanging so far up in the air, and had wondered what they were like. Round and round and up and up Otto climbed, until his head spun. At last he reached a landing-stage, and gazing over the edge and down, beheld the stone pavement far, far below, lit by a faint glimmer of light that entered through the arched doorway. Otto clutched tight hold of the wooden rail, he had no thought that he had climbed so far. Upon the other side of the landing was a window that pierced the thick stone walls of the tower; out of the window he looked, and then drew suddenly back again with a gasp, for it was through the outer wall he peered, and down, down below in the dizzy depths he saw the hard gray rocks, where the black swine, looking no larger than ants in the distance, fed upon the refuse thrown out over the walls of the castle. There lay the moving tree-tops like a billowy green sea, and the coarse thatched roofs of the peasant cottages, round which crawled the little children like tiny human specks. Then Otto turned and crept down the stairs, frightened at the height to which he had climbed. At the doorway he met Mother Hilda. "Bless us," she cried, starting back and crossing herself, and then, seeing who it was, ducked him a courtesy with as pleasant a smile as her forbidding face, with its little deep-set eyes, was able to put upon itself. Old Ursela seemed nearer to the boy than anyone else about the castle, excepting it was his father, and it was a newfound delight to Otto to sit beside her and listen to her quaint stories, so different from the monkish tales that he had heard and read at the monastery. But one day it was a tale of a different sort that she told him, and one that opened his eyes to what he had never dreamed of before. The mellow sunlight fell through the window upon old Ursela, as she sat in the warmth with her distaff in her hands while Otto lay close to her feet upon a bear skin, silently thinking over the strange story of a brave knight and a fiery dragon that she had just told him. Suddenly Ursela broke the silence. "Little one," said she, "thou art wondrously like thy own dear mother; didst ever hear how she died?" "Nay," said Otto, "but tell me, Ursela, how it was." "Tis strange," said the old woman, "that no one should have told thee in all this time." And then, in her own fashion she related to him the story of how his father had set forth upon that expedition in spite of all that Otto's mother had said, beseeching him to abide at home; how he had been foully wounded, and how the poor lady had died from her fright and grief. Otto listened with eyes that grew wider and wider, though not all with wonder; he no longer lay upon the bear skin, but sat up with his hands clasped. For a moment or two after the old woman had ended her story, he sat staring silently at her. Then he cried out, in a sharp voice, "And is this truth that you tell me, Ursela? and did my father seek to rob the towns people of their goods?" Old Ursela laughed. "Aye," said she, "that he did and many times. Ah! me, those day's are all gone now." And she fetched a deep sigh. "Then we lived in plenty and had both silks and linens and velvets besides in the store closets and were able to buy good wines and live in plenty upon the best. Now we dress in frieze and live upon what we can get and sometimes that is little enough, with nothing better than sour beer to drink. But there is one comfort in it all, and that is that our good Baron paid back the score he owed the Trutz-Drachen people not only for that, but for all that they had done from the very first." Thereupon she went on to tell Otto how Baron Conrad had fulfilled the pledge of revenge that he had made Abbot Otto, how he had watched day after day until one time he had caught the Trutz-Drachen folk, with Baron Frederick at their head, in a narrow defile back of the Kaiserburg; of the fierce fight that was there fought; of how the Roderburgs at last fled, leaving Baron Frederick behind them wounded; of how he had kneeled before the Baron Conrad, asking for mercy, and of how Baron Conrad had answered, "Aye, thou shalt have such mercy as thou deservest," and had therewith raised his great two-handed sword and laid his kneeling enemy dead at one blow. Poor little Otto had never dreamed that such cruelty and wickedness could be. He listened to the old woman's story with gaping horror, and when the last came and she told him, with a smack of her lips, how his father had killed his enemy with his own hand, he gave a gasping cry and sprang to his feet. Just then the door at the other end of the chamber was noisily opened, and Baron Conrad himself strode into the room. Otto turned his head, and seeing who it was, gave another cry, loud and quavering, and ran to his father and caught him by the hand. "Oh, father!" he cried, "oh, father! Is it true that thou hast killed a man with thy own hand?" "Aye," said the Baron, grimly, "it is true enough, and I think me I have killed many more than one. But what of that, Otto? Thou must get out of those foolish notions that the old monks have taught thee. Here in the world it is different from what it is at St. Michaelsburg; here a man must either slay or be slain." But poor little Otto, with his face hidden in his father's robe, cried as though his heart would break. "Oh, father!" he said, again and again, "it cannot be--it cannot be that thou who art so kind to me should have killed a man with thine own hands." Then: "I wish that I were back in the monastery again; I am afraid out here in the great wide world; perhaps somebody may kill me, for I am only a weak little boy and could not save my own life if they chose to take it from me." Baron Conrad looked down upon Otto all this while, drawing his bushy eyebrows together. Once he reached out his hand as though to stroke the boy's hair, but drew it back again. Turning angrily upon the old woman, "Ursela," said he, "thou must tell the child no more such stories as these; he knowest not at all of such things as yet. Keep thy tongue busy with the old woman's tales that he loves to hear thee tell, and leave it with me to teach him what becometh a true knight and a Vuelph." That night the father and son sat together beside the roaring fire in the great ball. "Tell me, Otto," said the Baron, "dost thou hate me for having done what Ursela told thee today that I did?" Otto looked for a while into his father's face. "I know not," said he at last, in his quaint, quiet voice, "but methinks that I do not hate thee for it." The Baron drew his bushy brows together until his eyes twinkled out of the depths beneath them, then of a sudden he broke into a great loud laugh, smiting his horny palm with a smack upon his thigh. VII. The Red Cock Crows on Drachenhausen. There was a new emperor in Germany who had come from a far away Swiss castle; Count Rudolph of Hapsburg, a good, honest man with a good, honest, homely face, but bringing with him a stern sense of justice and of right, and a determination to put down the lawlessness of the savage German barons among whom he had come as Emperor. One day two strangers came galloping up the winding path to the gates of the Dragon's house. A horn sounded thin and clear, a parley was held across the chasm in the road between the two strangers and the porter who appeared at the little wicket. Then a messenger was sent running to the Baron, who presently came striding across the open court-yard to the gateway to parley with the strangers. The two bore with them a folded parchment with a great red seal hanging from it like a clot of blood; it was a message from the Emperor demanding that the Baron should come to the Imperial Court to answer certain charges that had been brought against him, and to give his bond to maintain the peace of the empire. One by one those barons who had been carrying on their private wars, or had been despoiling the burgher folk in their traffic from town to town, and against whom complaint had been lodged, were summoned to the Imperial Court, where they were compelled to promise peace and to swear allegiance to the new order of things. All those who came willingly were allowed to return home again after giving security for maintaining the peace; all those who came not willingly were either brought in chains or rooted out of their strongholds with fire and sword, and their roofs burned over their heads. Now it was Baron Conrad's turn to be summoned to the Imperial Court, for complaint had been lodged against him by his old enemy of Trutz-Drachen--Baron Henry--the nephew of the old Baron Frederick who had been slain while kneeling in the dust of the road back of the Kaiserburg. No one at Drachenhausen could read but Master Rudolph, the steward, who was sand blind, and little Otto. So the boy read the summons to his father, while the grim Baron sat silent with his chin resting upon his clenched fist and his eyebrows drawn together into a thoughtful frown as he gazed into the pale face of his son, who sat by the rude oaken table with the great parchment spread out before him. Should he answer the summons, or scorn it as he would have done under the old emperors? Baron Conrad knew not which to do; pride said one thing and policy another. The Emperor was a man with an iron hand, and Baron Conrad knew what had happened to those who had refused to obey the imperial commands. So at last he decided that he would go to the court, taking with him a suitable escort to support his dignity. It was with nearly a hundred armed men clattering behind him that Baron Conrad rode away to court to answer the imperial summons. The castle was stripped of its fighting men, and only eight remained behind to guard the great stone fortress and the little simple-witted boy. It was a sad mistake. Three days had passed since the Baron had left the castle, and now the third night had come. The moon was hanging midway in the sky, white and full, for it was barely past midnight. The high precipitous banks of the rocky road threw a dense black shadow into the gully below, and in that crooked inky line that scarred the white face of the moonlit rocks a band of some thirty men were creeping slowly and stealthily nearer and nearer to Castle Drachenhausen. At the head of them was a tall, slender knight clad in light chain armor, his head covered only by a steel cap or bascinet. Along the shadow they crept, with only now and then a faint clink or jingle of armor to break the stillness, for most of those who followed the armed knight were clad in leathern jerkins; only one or two wearing even so much as a steel breast-plate by way of armor. So at last they reached the chasm that yawned beneath the roadway, and there they stopped, for they had reached the spot toward which they had been journeying. It was Baron Henry of Trutz-Drachen who had thus come in the silence of the night time to the Dragon's house, and his visit boded no good to those within. The Baron and two or three of his men talked together in low tones, now and then looking up at the sheer wall that towered above them. "Yonder is the place, Lord Baron," said one of those who stood with him. "I have scanned every foot of the wall at night for a week past. An we get not in by that way, we get not in at all. A keen eye, a true aim, and a bold man are all that we need, and the business is done." Here again all looked upward at the gray wall above them, rising up in the silent night air. High aloft hung the wooden bartizan or watch-tower, clinging to the face of the outer wall and looming black against the pale sky above. Three great beams pierced the wall, and upon them the wooden tower rested. The middle beam jutted out beyond the rest to the distance of five or six feet, and the end of it was carved into the rude semblance of a dragon's head. "So, good," said the Baron at last; "then let us see if thy plan holds, and if Hans Schmidt's aim is true enough to earn the three marks that I have promised him. Where is the bag?" One of those who stood near handed the Baron a leathern pouch, the Baron opened it and drew out a ball of fine thread, another of twine, a coil of stout rope, and a great bundle that looked, until it was unrolled, like a coarse fish-net. It was a rope ladder. While these were being made ready, Hans Schmidt, a thick-set, low-browed, broad-shouldered archer, strung his stout bow, and carefully choosing three arrows from those in his quiver, he stuck them point downward in the earth. Unwinding the ball of thread, he laid it loosely in large loops upon the ground so that it might run easily without hitching, then he tied the end of the thread tightly around one of his arrows. He fitted the arrow to the bow and drew the feather to his ear. Twang! rang the bowstring, and the feathered messenger flew whistling upon its errand to the watch-tower. The very first shaft did the work. "Good," said Hans Schmidt, the archer, in his heavy voice, "the three marks are mine, Lord Baron." The arrow had fallen over and across the jutting beam between the carved dragon's head and the bartizan, carrying with it the thread, which now hung from above, glimmering white in the moonlight like a cobweb. The rest was an easy task enough. First the twine was drawn up to and over the beam by the thread, then the rope was drawn up by the twine, and last of all the rope ladder by the rope. There it hung like a thin, slender black line against the silent gray walls. "And now," said the Baron, "who will go first and win fifty marks for his own, and climb the rope ladder to the tower yonder?" Those around hesitated. "Is there none brave enough to venture?" said the Baron, after a pause of silence. A stout, young fellow, of about eighteen years of age, stepped forward and flung his flat leathern cap upon the ground. "I will go, my Lord Baron," said he. "Good," said the Baron, "the fifty marks are thine. And now listen, if thou findest no one in the watch-tower, whistle thus; if the watchman be at his post, see that thou makest all safe before thou givest the signal. When all is ready the others will follow thee. And now go and good luck go with thee." The young fellow spat upon his hands and, seizing the ropes, began slowly and carefully to mount the flimsy, shaking ladder. Those below held it as tight as they were able, but nevertheless he swung backward and forward and round and round as he climbed steadily upward. Once he stopped upon the way, and those below saw him clutch the ladder close to him as though dizzied by the height and the motion but he soon began again, up, up, up like some great black spider. Presently he came out from the black shadow below and into the white moonlight, and then his shadow followed him step by step up the gray wall upon his way. At last he reached the jutting beam, and there again he stopped for a moment clutching tightly to it. The next he was upon the beam, dragging himself toward the window of the bartizan just above. Slowly raising himself upon his narrow foothold he peeped cautiously within. Those watching him from be low saw him slip his hand softly to his side, and then place something between his teeth. It was his dagger. Reaching up, he clutched the window sill above him and, with a silent spring, seated himself upon it. The next moment he disappeared within. A few seconds of silence followed, then of sudden a sharp gurgling cry broke the stillness. There was another pause of silence, then a faint shrill whistle sounded from above. "Who will go next?" said the Baron. It was Hans Schmidt who stepped forward. Another followed the arch up the ladder, and another, and another. Last of all went the Baron Henry himself, and nothing was left but the rope ladder hanging from above, and swaying back and forth in the wind. That night Schwartz Carl had been bousing it over a pot of yellow wine in the pantry with his old crony, Master Rudolph, the steward; and the two, chatting and gossiping together, had passed the time away until long after the rest of the castle had been wrapped in sleep. Then, perhaps a little unsteady upon his feet, Schwartz Carl betook himself homeward to the Melchior tower. He stood for a while in the shadow of the doorway, gazing up into the pale sky above him at the great, bright, round moon, that hung like a bubble above the sharp peaks of the roofs standing black as ink against the sky. But all of a sudden he started up from the post against which he had been leaning, and with head bent to one side, stood listening breathlessly, for he too had heard that smothered cry from the watch-tower. So he stood intently, motionlessly, listening, listening; but all was silent except for the monotonous dripping of water in one of the nooks of the court-yard, and the distant murmur of the river borne upon the breath of the night air. "Mayhap I was mistaken," muttered Schwartz Carl to himself. But the next moment the silence was broken again by a faint, shrill whistle; what did it mean? Back of the heavy oaken door of the tower was Schwartz Carl's cross-bow, the portable windlass with which the bowstring was drawn back, and a pouch of bolts. Schwartz Carl reached back into the darkness, fumbling in the gloom until his fingers met the weapon. Setting his foot in the iron stirrup at the end of the stock, he wound the stout bow-string into the notch of the trigger, and carefully fitted the heavy, murderous-looking bolt into the groove. Minute after minute passed, and Schwartz Carl, holding his arbelast in his hand, stood silently waiting and watching in the sharp-cut, black shadow of the doorway, motionless as a stone statue. Minute after minute passed. Suddenly there was a movement in the shadow of the arch of the great gateway across the court-yard, and the next moment a leathern-clad figure crept noiselessly out upon the moonlit pavement, and stood there listening, his head bent to one side. Schwartz Carl knew very well that it was no one belonging to the castle, and, from the nature of his action, that he was upon no good errand. He did not stop to challenge the suspicious stranger. The taking of another's life was thought too small a matter for much thought or care in those days. Schwartz Carl would have shot a man for a much smaller reason than the suspicious actions of this fellow. The leather-clad figure stood a fine target in the moonlight for a cross-bow bolt. Schwartz Carl slowly raised the weapon to his shoulder and took a long and steady aim. Just then the stranger put his fingers to his lips and gave a low, shrill whistle. It was the last whistle that he was to give upon this earth. There was a sharp, jarring twang of the bow-string, the hiss of the flying bolt, and the dull thud as it struck its mark. The man gave a shrill, quavering cry, and went staggering back, and then fell all of a heap against the wall behind him. As though in answer to the cry, half a dozen men rushed tumultuously out from the shadow of the gateway whence the stranger had just come, and then stood in the court-yard, looking uncertainly this way and that, not knowing from what quarter the stroke had come that had laid their comrade low. But Schwartz Carl did not give them time to discover that; there was no chance to string his cumbersome weapon again; down he flung it upon the ground. "To arms!" he roared in a voice of thunder, and then clapped to the door of Melchior's tower and shot the great iron bolts with a clang and rattle. The next instant the Trutz-Drachen men were thundering at the door, but Schwartz Carl was already far up the winding steps. But now the others came pouring out from the gateway. "To the house," roared Baron Henry. Then suddenly a clashing, clanging uproar crashed out upon the night. Dong! Dong! It was the great alarm bell from Melchior's tower--Schwartz Carl was at his post. Little Baron Otto lay sleeping upon the great rough bed in his room, dreaming of the White Cross on the hill and of brother John. By and by he heard the convent bell ringing, and knew that there must be visitors at the gate, for loud voices sounded through his dream. Presently he knew that he was coming awake, but though the sunny monastery garden grew dimmer and dimmer to his sleeping sight, the clanging of the bell and the sound of shouts grew louder and louder. Then he opened his eyes. Flaming red lights from torches, carried hither and thither by people in the court-yard outside, flashed and ran along the wall of his room. Hoarse shouts and cries filled the air, and suddenly the shrill, piercing shriek of a woman rang from wall to wall; and through the noises the great bell from far above upon Melchior's tower clashed and clanged its harsh, resonant alarm. Otto sprang from his bed and looked out of the window and down upon the court-yard below. "Dear God! what dreadful thing hath happened?" he cried and clasped his hands together. A cloud of smoke was pouring out from the windows of the building across the court-yard, whence a dull ruddy glow flashed and flickered. Strange men were running here and there with flaming torches, and the now continuous shrieking of women pierced the air. Just beneath the window lay the figure of a man half naked and face downward upon the stones. Then suddenly Otto cried out in fear and horror, for, as he looked with dazed and bewildered eyes down into the lurid court-yard beneath, a savage man, in a shining breast-plate and steel cap, came dragging the dark, silent figure of a woman across the stones; but whether she was dead or in a swoon, Otto could not tell. And every moment the pulsing of that dull red glare from the windows of the building across the court-yard shone more brightly, and the glare from other flaming buildings, which Otto could not see from his window, turned the black, starry night into a lurid day. Just then the door of the room was burst open, and in rushed poor old Ursela, crazy with her terror. She flung herself down upon the floor and caught Otto around the knees. "Save me!" she cried, "save me!" as though the poor, pale child could be of any help to her at such a time. In the passageway without shone the light of torches, and the sound of loud footsteps came nearer and nearer. And still through all the din sounded continually the clash and clang and clamor of the great alarm bell. The red light flashed into the room, and in the doorway stood a tall, thin figure clad from head to foot in glittering chain armor. From behind this fierce knight, with his dark, narrow, cruel face, its deep-set eyes glistening in the light of the torches, crowded six or eight savage, low-browed, brutal men, who stared into the room and at the white-faced boy as he stood by the window with the old woman clinging to his knees and praying to him for help. "We have cracked the nut and here is the kernel," said one of them who stood behind the rest, and thereupon a roar of brutal laughter went up. But the cruel face of the armed knight never relaxed into a smile; he strode into the room and laid his iron hand heavily upon the boy's shoulder. "Art thou the young Baron Otto?" said he, in a harsh voice. "Aye," said the lad; "but do not kill me." The knight did not answer him. "Fetch the cord hither," said he, "and drag the old witch away." It took two of them to loosen poor old Ursela's crazy clutch from about her young master. Then amid roars of laughter they dragged her away, screaming and scratching and striking with her fists. They drew back Otto's arms behind his back and wrapped them round and round with a bowstring. Then they pushed and hustled and thrust him forth from the room and along the passageway, now bright with the flames that roared and crackled without. Down the steep stairway they drove him, where thrice he stumbled and fell amid roars of laughter. At last they were out into the open air of the court-yard. Here was a terrible sight, but Otto saw nothing of it; his blue eyes were gazing far away, and his lips moved softly with the prayer that the good monks of St. Michaelsburg had taught him, for he thought that they meant to slay him. All around the court-yard the flames roared and snapped and crackled. Four or five figures lay scattered here and there, silent in all the glare and uproar. The heat was so intense that they were soon forced back into the shelter of the great gateway, where the women captives, under the guard of three or four of the Trutz-Drachen men, were crowded together in dumb, bewildered terror. Only one man was to be seen among the captives, poor, old, half blind Master Rudolph, the steward, who crouched tremblingly among the women. They had set the blaze to Melchior's tower, and now, below, it was a seething furnace. Above, the smoke rolled in black clouds from the windows, but still the alarm bell sounded through all the blaze and smoke. Higher and higher the flames rose; a trickle of fire ran along the frame buildings hanging aloft in the air. A clear flame burst out at the peak of the roof, but still the bell rang forth its clamorous clangor. Presently those who watched below saw the cluster of buildings bend and sink and sway; there was a crash and roar, a cloud of sparks flew up as though to the very heavens themselves, and the bell of Melchior's tower was stilled forever. A great shout arose from the watching, upturned faces. "Forward!" cried Baron Henry, and out from the gateway they swept and across the drawbridge, leaving Drachenhausen behind them a flaming furnace blazing against the gray of the early dawning. VIII. In the House of the Dragon Scorner. Tall, narrow, gloomy room; no furniture but a rude bench a bare stone floor, cold stone walls and a gloomy ceiling of arched stone over head; a long, narrow slit of a window high above in the wall, through the iron bars of which Otto could see a small patch of blue sky and now and then a darting swallow, for an instant seen, the next instant gone. Such was the little baron's prison in Trutz-Drachen. Fastened to a bolt and hanging against the walls, hung a pair of heavy chains with gaping fetters at the ends. They were thick with rust, and the red stain of the rust streaked the wall below where they hung like a smear of blood. Little Otto shuddered as he looked at them; can those be meant for me, he thought. Nothing was to be seen but that one patch of blue sky far up in the wall. No sound from without was to be heard in that gloomy cell of stone, for the window pierced the outer wall, and the earth and its noises lay far below. Suddenly a door crashed without, and the footsteps of men were heard coming along the corridor. They stopped in front of Otto's cell; he heard the jingle of keys, and then a loud rattle of one thrust into the lock of the heavy oaken door. The rusty bolt was shot back with a screech, the door opened, and there stood Baron Henry, no longer in his armor, but clad in a long black robe that reached nearly to his feet, a broad leather belt was girdled about his waist, and from it dangled a short, heavy hunting sword. Another man was with the Baron, a heavy-faced fellow clad in a leathern jerkin over which was drawn a short coat of linked mail. The two stood for a moment looking into the room, and Otto, his pale face glimmering in the gloom, sat upon the edge of the heavy wooden bench or bed, looking back at them out of his great blue eyes. Then the two entered and closed the door behind them. "Dost thou know why thou art here?" said the Baron, in his deep, harsh voice. "Nay," said Otto, "I know not." "So?" said the Baron. "Then I will tell thee. Three years ago the good Baron Frederick, my uncle, kneeled in the dust and besought mercy at thy father's hands; the mercy he received was the coward blow that slew him. Thou knowest the story?" "Aye," said Otto, tremblingly, "I know it." "Then dost thou not know why I am here?" said the Baron. "Nay, dear Lord Baron, I know not," said poor little Otto, and began to weep. The Baron stood for a moment or two looking gloomily upon him, as the little boy sat there with the tears running down his white face. "I will tell thee," said he, at last; "I swore an oath that the red cock should crow on Drachenhausen, and I have given it to the dames. I swore an oath that no Vuelph that ever left my hands should be able to strike such a blow as thy father gave to Baron Frederick, and now I will fulfil that too. Catch the boy, Casper, and hold him." As the man in the mail shirt stepped toward little Otto, the boy leaped up from where he sat and caught the Baron about the knees. "Oh! dear Lord Baron," he cried, "do not harm me; I am only a little child, I have never done harm to thee; do not harm me." "Take him away," said the Baron, harshly. The fellow stooped, and loosening Otto's hold, in spite of his struggles and cries, carried him to the bench, against which he held him, whilst the Baron stood above him. Baron Henry and the other came forth from the cell, carefully closing the wooden door behind them. At the end of the corridor the Baron turned, "Let the leech be sent to the boy," said he. And then he turned and walked away. Otto lay upon the hard couch in his cell, covered with a shaggy bear skin. His face was paler and thinner than ever, and dark rings encircled his blue eyes. He was looking toward the door, for there was a noise of someone fumbling with the lock without. Since that dreadful day when Baron Henry had come to his cell, only two souls had visited Otto. One was the fellow who had come with the Baron that time; his name, Otto found, was Casper. He brought the boy his rude meals of bread and meat and water. The other visitor was the leech or doctor, a thin, weasand little man, with a kindly, wrinkled face and a gossiping tongue, who, besides binding wounds, bleeding, and leeching, and administering his simple remedies to those who were taken sick in the castle, acted as the Baron's barber. The Baron had left the key in the lock of the door, so that these two might enter when they chose, but Otto knew that it was neither the one nor the other whom he now heard at the door, working uncertainly with the key, striving to turn it in the rusty, cumbersome lock. At last the bolts grated back, there was a pause, and then the door opened a little way, and Otto thought that he could see someone peeping in from without. By and by the door opened further, there was another pause, and then a slender, elfish-looking little girl, with straight black hair and shining black eyes, crept noiselessly into the room. She stood close by the door with her finger in her mouth, staring at the boy where he lay upon his couch, and Otto upon his part lay, full of wonder, gazing back upon the little elfin creature. She, seeing that he made no sign or motion, stepped a little nearer, and then, after a moment's pause, a little nearer still, until, at last, she stood within a few feet of where he lay. "Art thou the Baron Otto?" said she. "Yes," answered Otto. "Prut!" said she, "and is that so! Why, I thought that thou wert a great tall fellow at least, and here thou art a little boy no older than Carl Max, the gooseherd." Then, after a little pause--"My name is Pauline, and my father is the Baron. I heard him tell my mother all about thee, and so I wanted to come here and see thee myself: Art thou sick?" "Yes," said Otto, "I am sick." "And did my father hurt thee?" "Aye," said Otto, and his eyes filled with tears, until one sparkling drop trickled slowly down his white face. Little Pauline stood looking seriously at him for a while. "I am sorry for thee, Otto," said she, at last. And then, at her childish pity, he began crying in earnest. This was only the first visit of many from the little maid, for after that she often came to Otto's prison, who began to look for her coming from day to day as the one bright spot in the darkness and the gloom. Sitting upon the edge of his bed and gazing into his face with wide open eyes, she would listen to him by the hour, as he told her of his life in that far away monastery home; of poor, simple brother John's wonderful visions, of the good Abbot's books with their beautiful pictures, and of all the monkish tales and stories of knights and dragons and heroes and emperors of ancient Rome, which brother Emmanuel had taught him to read in the crabbed monkish Latin in which they were written. One day the little maid sat for a long while silent after he had ended speaking. At last she drew a deep breath. "And are all these things that thou tellest me about the priests in their castle really true?" said she. "Yes," said Otto, "all are true." "And do they never go out to fight other priests?" "No," said Otto, "they know nothing of fighting." "So!" said she. And then fell silent in the thought of the wonder of it all, and that there should be men in the world that knew nothing of violence and bloodshed; for in all the eight years of her life she had scarcely been outside of the walls of Castle Trutz-Drachen. At another time it was of Otto's mother that they were speaking. "And didst thou never see her, Otto?" said the little girl. "Aye," said Otto, "I see her sometimes in my dreams, and her face always shines so bright that I know she is an angel; for brother John has often seen the dear angels, and he tells me that their faces always shine in that way. I saw her the night thy father hurt me so, for I could not sleep and my head felt as though it would break asunder. Then she came and leaned over me and kissed my forehead, and after that I fell asleep." "But where did she come from, Otto?" said the little girl. "From paradise, I think," said Otto, with that patient seriousness that he had caught from the monks, and that sat so quaintly upon him. "So!" said little Pauline; and then, after a pause, "That is why thy mother kissed thee when thy head ached--because she is an angel. When I was sick my mother bade Gretchen carry me to a far part of the house, because I cried and so troubled her. Did thy mother ever strike thee, Otto?" "Nay," said Otto. "Mine hath often struck me," said Pauline. One day little Pauline came bustling into Otto's cell, her head full of the news which she carried. "My father says that thy father is out in the woods somewhere yonder, back of the castle, for Fritz, the swineherd, told my father that last night he had seen a fire in the woods, and that he had crept up to it without anyone knowing. There he had seen the Baron Conrad and six of his men, and that they were eating one of the swine that they had killed and roasted. Maybe," said she, seating herself upon the edge of Otto's couch; "maybe my father will kill thy father, and they will bring him here and let him lie upon a black bed with bright candles burning around him, as they did my uncle Frederick when he was killed." "God forbid!" said Otto, and then lay for a while with his hands clasped. "Dost thou love me, Pauline?" said he, after a while. "Yes," said Pauline, "for thou art a good child, though my father says that thy wits are cracked." "Mayhap they are," said Otto, simply, "for I have often been told so before. But thou wouldst not see me die, Pauline; wouldst thou?" "Nay," said Pauline, "I would not see thee die, for then thou couldst tell me no more stories; for they told me that uncle Frederick could not speak because he was dead." "Then listen, Pauline," said Otto; "if I go not away from here I shall surely die. Every day I grow more sick and the leech cannot cure me." Here he broke down and, turning his face upon the couch, began crying, while little Pauline sat looking seriously at him. "Why dost thou cry, Otto?" said she, after a while. "Because," said he, "I am so sick, and I want my father to come and take me away from here." "But why dost thou want to go away?" said Pauline. "If thy father takes thee away, thou canst not tell me any more stories." "Yes, I can," said Otto, "for when I grow to be a man I will come again and marry thee, and when thou art my wife I can tell thee all the stories that I know. Dear Pauline, canst thou not tell my father where I am, that he may come here and take me away before I die?" "Mayhap I could do so," said Pauline, after a little while, "for sometimes I go with Casper Max to see his mother, who nursed me when I was a baby. She is the wife of Fritz, the swineherd, and she will make him tell thy father; for she will do whatever I ask of her, and Fritz will do whatever she bids him do." "And for my sake, wilt thou tell him, Pauline?" said Otto. "But see, Otto," said the little girl, "if I tell him, wilt thou promise to come indeed and marry me when thou art grown a man?" "Yes," said Otto, very seriously, "I will promise." "Then I will tell thy father where thou art," said she. "But thou wilt do it without the Baron Henry knowing, wilt thou not, Pauline?" "Yes," said she, "for if my father and my mother knew that I did such a thing, they would strike me, mayhap send me to my bed alone in the dark." IX. How One-eyed Hans came to Trutz-Drachen. Fritz, the swineherd, sat eating his late supper of porridge out of a great, coarse, wooden bowl; wife Katherine sat at the other end of the table, and the half-naked little children played upon the earthen floor. A shaggy dog lay curled up in front of the fire, and a grunting pig scratched against a leg of the rude table close beside where the woman sat. "Yes, yes," said Katherine, speaking of the matter of which they had already been talking. "It is all very true that the Drachenhausens are a bad lot, and I for one am of no mind to say no to that; all the same it is a sad thing that a simple-witted little child like the young Baron should be so treated as the boy has been; and now that our Lord Baron has served him so that he, at least, will never be able to do us 'harm, I for one say that he should not be left there to die alone in that black cell." Fritz, the swineherd, gave a grunt at this without raising his eyes from the bowl. "Yes, good," said Katherine, "I know what thou meanest, Fritz, and that it is none of my business to be thrusting my finger into the Baron's dish. But to hear the way that dear little child spoke when she was here this morn--it would have moved a heart of stone to hear her tell of all his pretty talk. Thou wilt try to let the red-beard know that that poor boy, his son, is sick to death in the black cell; wilt thou not, Fritz?" The swineherd dropped his wooden spoon into the bowl with a clatter. "Potstausand!" he cried; "art thou gone out of thy head to let thy wits run upon such things as this of which thou talkest to me? If it should come to our Lord Baron's ears he would cut the tongue from out thy head and my head from off my shoulders for it. Dost thou think I am going to meddle in such a matter as this? Listen! these proud Baron folk, with their masterful ways, drive our sort hither and thither; they beat us, they drive us, they kill us as they choose. Our lives are not as much to them as one of my black swine. Why should I trouble my head if they choose to lop and trim one another? The fewer there are of them the better for us, say I. We poor folk have a hard enough life of it without thrusting our heads into the noose to help them out of their troubles. What thinkest thou would happen to us if Baron Henry should hear of our betraying his affairs to the Red-beard?" "Nay," said Katherine, "thou hast naught to do in the matter but to tell the Red-beard in what part of the castle the little Baron lies." "And what good would that do?" said Fritz, the swineherd. "I know not," said Katherine, "but I have promised the little one that thou wouldst find the Baron Conrad and tell him that much." "Thou hast promised a mare's egg," said her husband, angrily. "How shall I find the Baron Conrad to bear a message to him, when our Baron has been looking for him in vain for two days past?" "Thou has found him once and thou mayst find him again," said Katherine, "for it is not likely that he will keep far away from here whilst his boy is in such sore need of help." "I will have nothing to do with it!" said Fritz, and he got up from the wooden block whereon he was sitting and stumped out of the house. But, then, Katherine had heard him talk in that way before, and knew, in spite of his saying "no," that, sooner or later, he would do as she wished. Two days later a very stout little one-eyed man, clad in a leathern jerkin and wearing a round leathern cap upon his head, came toiling up the path to the postern door of Trutz-Drachen, his back bowed under the burthen of a great peddler's pack. It was our old friend the one-eyed Hans, though even his brother would hardly have known him in his present guise, for, besides having turned peddler, he had grown of a sudden surprisingly fat. Rap-tap-tap! He knocked at the door with a knotted end of the crooked thorned staff upon which he leaned. He waited for a while and then knocked again--rap-tap-tap! Presently, with a click, a little square wicket that pierced the door was opened, and a woman's face peered out through the iron bars. The one-eyed Hans whipped off his leathern cap. "Good day, pretty one," said he, "and hast thou any need of glass beads, ribbons, combs, or trinkets? Here I am come all the way from Gruenstadt, with a pack full of such gay things as thou never laid eyes on before. Here be rings and bracelets and necklaces that might be of pure silver and set with diamonds and rubies, for anything that thy dear one could tell if he saw thee decked in them. And all are so cheap that thou hast only to say, 'I want them,' and they are thine." The frightened face at the window looked from right to left and from left to right. "Hush," said the girl, and laid her finger upon her lips. "There! thou hadst best get away from here, poor soul, as fast as thy legs can carry thee, for if the Lord Baron should find thee here talking secretly at the postern door, he would loose the wolf-hounds upon thee." "Prut," said one-eyed Hans, with a grin, "the Baron is too big a fly to see such a little gnat as I; but wolf-hounds or no wolf-hounds, I can never go hence without showing thee the pretty things that I have brought from the town, even though my stay be at the danger of my own hide." He flung the pack from off his shoulders as he spoke and fell to unstrapping it, while the round face of the lass (her eyes big with curiosity) peered down at him through the grated iron bars. Hans held up a necklace of blue and white beads that glistened like jewels in the sun, and from them hung a gorgeous filigree cross. "Didst thou ever see a sweeter thing than this?" said he; "and look, here is a comb that even the silversmith would swear was pure silver all the way through." Then, in a soft, wheedling voice, "Canst thou not let me in, my little bird? Sure there are other lasses besides thyself who would like to trade with a poor peddler who has travelled all the way from Gruenstadt just to please the pretty ones of Trutz-Drachen." "Nay," said the lass, in a frightened voice, "I cannot let thee in; I know not what the Baron would do to me, even now, if he knew that I was here talking to a stranger at the postern;" and she made as if she would clap to the little window in his face; but the one-eyed Hans thrust his staff betwixt the bars and so kept the shutter open. "Nay, nay," said he, eagerly, "do not go away from me too soon. Look, dear one; seest thou this necklace?" "Aye," said she, looking hungrily at it. "Then listen; if thou wilt but let me into the castle, so that I may strike a trade, I will give it to thee for thine own without thy paying a barley corn for it." The girl looked and hesitated, and then looked again; the temptation was too great. There was a noise of softly drawn bolts and bars, the door was hesitatingly opened a little way, and, in a twinkling, the one-eyed Hans had slipped inside the castle, pack and all. "The necklace," said the girl, in a frightened whisper. Hans thrust it into her hand. "It's thine," said he, "and now wilt thou not help me to a trade?" "I will tell my sister that thou art here," said she, and away she ran from the little stone hallway, carefully bolting and locking the further door behind her. The door that the girl had locked was the only one that connected the postern hail with the castle. The one-eyed Hans stood looking after her. "Thou fool!" he muttered to himself, "to lock the door behind thee. What shall I do next, I should like to know? Here am I just as badly off as I was when I stood outside the walls. Thou hussy! If thou hadst but let me into the castle for only two little minutes, I would have found somewhere to have hidden myself while thy back was turned. But what shall I do now?" He rested his pack upon the floor and stood looking about him. Built in the stone wall opposite to him, was a high, narrow fireplace without carving of any sort. As Hans' one eye wandered around the bare stone space, his glance fell at last upon it, and there it rested. For a while he stood looking intently at it, presently he began rubbing his hand over his bristling chin in a thoughtful, meditative manner. Finally he drew a deep breath, and giving himself a shake as though to arouse himself from his thoughts, and after listening a moment or two to make sure that no one was nigh, he walked softly to the fireplace, and stooping, peered up the chimney. Above him yawned a black cavernous depth, inky with the soot of years. Hans straightened himself, and tilting his leathern cap to one side, began scratching his bullet-head; at last he drew a long breath. "Yes, good," he muttered to himself; "he who jumps into the river must e'en swim the best he can. It is a vile, dirty place to thrust one's self; but I am in for it now, and must make the best of a lame horse." He settled the cap more firmly upon his head, spat upon his hands, and once more stooping in the fireplace, gave a leap, and up the chimney he went with a rattle of loose mortar and a black trickle of soot. By and by footsteps sounded outside the door. There was a pause; a hurried whispering of women's voices; the twitter of a nervous laugh, and then the door was pushed softly opens and the girl to whom the one-eyed Hans had given the necklace of blue and white beads with the filigree cross hanging from it, peeped uncertainly into the room. Behind her broad, heavy face were three others, equally homely and stolid; for a while all four stood there, looking blankly into the room and around it. Nothing was there but the peddler's knapsack lying in the middle of the floor-the man was gone. The light of expectancy slowly faded Out of the girl's face, and in its place succeeded first bewilderment and then dull alarm. "But, dear heaven," she said, "where then has the peddler man gone?" A moment or two of silence followed her speech. "Perhaps," said one of the others, in a voice hushed with awe, "perhaps it was the evil one himself to whom thou didst open the door." Again there was a hushed and breathless pause; it was the lass who had let Hans in at the postern, who next spoke. "Yes," said she, in a voice trembling with fright at what she had done, "yes, it must have been the evil one, for now I remember he had but one eye." The four girls crossed themselves, and their eyes grew big and round with the fright. Suddenly a shower of mortar came rattling down the chimney. "Ach!" cried the four, as with one voice. Bang! the door was clapped to and away they scurried like a flock of frightened rabbits. When Jacob, the watchman, came that way an hour later, upon his evening round of the castle, he found a peddler's knapsack lying in the middle of the floor. He turned it over with his pike-staff and saw that it was full of beads and trinkets and ribbons. "How came this here?" said he. And then, without waiting for the answer which he did not expect, he flung it over his shoulder and marched away with it. X. How Hans Brought Terror to the Kitchen. Hans found himself in a pretty pickle in the chimney, for the soot got into his one eye and set it to watering, and into his nose and set him to sneezing, and into his mouth and his ears and his hair. But still he struggled on, up and up; "for every chimney has a top," said Hans to himself "and I am sure to climb out somewhere or other." Suddenly he came to a place where another chimney joined the one he was climbing, and here he stopped to consider the matter at his leisure. "See now," he muttered, "if I still go upward I may come out at the top of some tall chimney-stack with no way of getting down outside. Now, below here there must be a fire-place somewhere, for a chimney does not start from nothing at all; yes, good! we will go down a while and see what we make of that." It was a crooked, zigzag road that he had to travel, and rough and hard into the bargain. His one eye tingled and smarted, and his knees and elbows were rubbed to the quick; nevertheless One-eyed Hans had been in worse trouble than this in his life. Down he went and down he went, further than he had climbed upward before. "Sure, I must be near some place or other," he thought. As though in instant answer to his thoughts, he heard the sudden sound of a voice so close beneath him that he stopped short in his downward climbing and stood as still as a mouse, with his heart in his mouth. A few inches more and he would have been discovered;--what would have happened then would have been no hard matter to foretell. Hans braced his back against one side of the chimney, his feet against the other and then, leaning forward, looked down between his knees. The gray light of the coming evening glimmered in a wide stone fireplace just below him. Within the fireplace two people were moving about upon the broad hearth, a great, fat woman and a shock-headed boy. The woman held a spit with two newly trussed fowls upon it, so that One-eyed Hans knew that she must be the cook. "Thou ugly toad," said the woman to the boy, "did I not bid thee make a fire an hour ago? and now, here there is not so much as a spark to roast the fowls withall, and they to be basted for the lord Baron's supper. Where hast thou been for all this time?" "No matter," said the boy, sullenly, as he laid the fagots ready for the lighting; "no matter, I was not running after Long Jacob, the bowman, to try to catch him for a sweetheart, as thou hast been doing." The reply was instant and ready. The cook raised her hand; "smack!" she struck and a roar from the scullion followed. "Yes, good," thought Hans, as he looked down upon them; "I am glad that the boy's ear was not on my head." "Now give me no more of thy talk," said the woman, "but do the work that thou hast been bidden." Then--"How came all this black soot here, I should like to know?" "How should I know?" snuffled the scullion, "mayhap thou wouldst blame that on me also?" "That is my doing," whispered Hans to himself; "but if they light the fire, what then becomes of me?" "See now," said the cook; "I go to make the cakes ready; if I come back and find that thou hast not built the fire, I will warm thy other ear for thee." "So," thought Hans; "then will be my time to come down the chimney, for there will be but one of them." The next moment he heard the door close and knew that the cook had gone to make the cakes ready as she said. And as he looked down he saw that the boy was bending over the bundle of fagots, blowing the spark that he had brought in upon the punk into a flame. The dry fagots began to crackle and blaze. "Now is my time," said Hans to himself. Bracing his elbows against each side of the chimney, he straightened his legs so that he might fall clear His motions loosened little shower of soot that fell rattling upon the fagots that were now beginning to blaze brightly, whereupon the boy raised his face and looked up. Hans loosened his hold upon the chimney; crash! he fell, lighting upon his feet in the midst of the burning fagots. The scullion boy tumbled backward upon the floor, where he lay upon the broad of his back with a face as white as dough and eyes and mouth agape, staring speechlessly at the frightful inky-black figure standing in the midst of the flames and smoke. Then his scattered wits came back to him. "It is the evil one," he roared. And thereupon, turning upon his side, he half rolled, half scrambled to the door. Then out he leaped and, banging it to behind him, flew down the passageway, yelling with fright and never daring once to look behind him. All the time One-eyed Hans was brushing away the sparks that clung to his clothes. He was as black as ink from head to foot with the soot from the chimney. "So far all is good," he muttered to himself, "but if I go wandering about in my sooty shoes I will leave black tracks to follow me, so there is nothing to do but e'en to go barefoot." He stooped and drawing the pointed soft leather shoes from his feet, he threw them upon the now blazing fagots, where they writhed and twisted and wrinkled, and at last burst into a flame. Meanwhile Hans lost no time; he must find a hiding-place, and quickly, if he would yet hope to escape. A great bread trough stood in the corner of the kitchen--a hopper-shaped chest with a flat lid. It was the best hiding place that the room afforded. Without further thought Hans ran to it, snatching up from the table as he passed a loaf of black bread and a bottle half full of stale wine, for he had had nothing to eat since that morning. Into the great bread trough he climbed, and drawing the lid down upon him, curled himself up as snugly as a mouse in its nest. For a while the kitchen lay in silence, but at last the sound of voices was heard at the door, whispering together in low tones. Suddenly the door was flung open and a tall, lean, lantern-jawed fellow, clad in rough frieze, strode into the room and stood there glaring with half frightened boldness around about him; three or four women and the trembling scullion crowded together in a frightened group behind him. The man was Long Jacob, the bowman; but, after all, his boldness was all wasted, for not a thread or a hair was to be seen, but only the crackling fire throwing its cheerful ruddy glow upon the wall of the room, now rapidly darkening in the falling gray of the twilight without. The fat cook's fright began rapidly to turn into anger. "Thou imp," she cried, "it is one of thy tricks," and she made a dive for the scullion, who ducked around the skirts of one of the other women and so escaped for the time; but Long Jacob wrinkled up his nose and sniffed. "Nay," said he, "me thinks that there lieth some truth in the tale that the boy hath told, for here is a vile smell of burned horn that the black one bath left behind him." It was the smell from the soft leather shoes that Hans had burned. The silence of night had fallen over the Castle of Trutz-Drachen; not a sound was heard but the squeaking of mice scurring behind the wainscoting, the dull dripping of moisture from the eaves, or the sighing of the night wind around the gables and through the naked windows of the castle. The lid of the great dough trough was softly raised, and a face, black with soot, peeped cautiously out from under it. Then little by little arose a figure as black as the face; and One-eyed Hans stepped out upon the floor, stretching and rubbing himself. "Methinks I must have slept," he muttered. "Hui, I am as stiff as a new leather doublet, and now, what next is to become of me? I hope my luck may yet stick to me, in spite of this foul black soot!" Along the middle of the front of the great hall of the castle, ran a long stone gallery, opening at one end upon the court-yard by a high flight of stone steps. A man-at-arms in breast-plate and steel cap, and bearing a long pike, paced up and down the length of this gallery, now and then stopping, leaning over the edge, and gazing up into the starry sky above; then, with a long drawn yawn, lazily turning back to the monotonous watch again. A dark figure crept out from an arched doorway at the lower part of the long straight building, and some little distance below the end gallery, but the sentry saw nothing of it, for his back was turned. As silently and as stealthily as a cat the figure crawled along by the dark shadowy wall, now and then stopping, and then again creeping slowly forward toward the gallery where the man-at-arms moved monotonously up and down. It was One-eyed Hans in his bare feet. Inch by inch, foot by foot--the black figure crawled along in the angle of the wall; inch by inch and foot by foot, but ever nearer and nearer to the long straight row of stone steps that led to the covered gallery. At last it crouched at the lowest step of the flight. Just then the sentinel upon watch came to the very end of the gallery and stood there leaning upon his spear. Had he looked down below he could not have failed to have seen One-eyed Hans lying there motionlessly; but he was gazing far away over the steep black roofs beyond, and never saw the unsuspected presence. Minute after minute passed, and the one stood there looking out into the night and the other lay crouching by the wall; then with a weary sigh the sentry turned and began slowly pacing back again toward the farther end of the gallery. Instantly the motionless figure below arose and glided noiselessly and swiftly up the flight of steps. Two rude stone pillars flanked either side of the end of the gallery. Like a shadow the black figure slipped behind one of these, flattening itself up against the wall, where it stood straight and motionless as the shadows around it. Down the long gallery came the watchman, his sword clinking loudly in the silence as he walked, tramp, tramp, tramp! clink, clank, jingle. Within three feet of the motionless figure behind the pillar he turned, and began retracing his monotonous steps. Instantly the other left the shadow of the post and crept rapidly and stealthily after him. One step, two steps the sentinel took; for a moment the black figure behind him seemed to crouch and draw together, then like a flash it leaped forward upon its victim. A shadowy cloth fell upon the man's face, and in an instant he was flung back and down with a muffled crash upon the stones. Then followed a fierce and silent struggle in the darkness, but strong and sturdy as the man was, he was no match for the almost superhuman strength of One-eyed Hans. The cloth which he had flung over his head was tied tightly and securely. Then the man was forced upon his face and, in spite of his fierce struggles, his arms were bound around and around with strong fine cord; next his feet were bound in the same way, and the task was done. Then Hans stood upon his feet, and wiped the sweat from his swarthy forehead. "Listen, brother," he whispered, and as he spoke he stooped and pressed something cold and hard against the neck of the other. "Dost thou know the feel of this? It is a broad dagger, and if thou dost contrive to loose that gag from thy mouth and makest any outcry, it shall be sheathed in thy weasand." So saying, he thrust the knife back again into its sheath, then stooping and picking up the other, he flung him across his shoulder like a sack, and running down the steps as lightly as though his load was nothing at all, he carried his burden to the arched doorway whence he had come a little while before. There, having first stripped his prisoner of all his weapons, Hans sat the man up in the angle of the wall. "So, brother;" said he, "now we can talk with more ease than we could up yonder. I will tell thee frankly why I am here; it is to find where the young Baron Otto of Drachenhausen is kept. If thou canst tell me, well and good; if not, I must e'en cut thy weasand and find me one who knoweth more. Now, canst thou tell me what I would learn, brother?" The other nodded dimly in the darkness. "That is good," said Hans, "then I will loose thy gag until thou hast told me; only bear in mind what I said concerning my dagger." Thereupon, he unbound his prisoner, and the fellow slowly rose to his feet. He shook himself and looked all about him in a heavy, bewildered fashion, as though he had just awakened from a dream. His right hand slid furtively down to his side, but the dagger-sheath was empty. "Come, brother!" said Hans, impatiently, "time is passing, and once lost can never be found again. Show me the way to the young Baron Otto or--." And he whetted the shining blade of his dagger on his horny palm. The fellow needed no further bidding; turning, he led the way, and together they were swallowed up in the yawning shadows, and again the hush of night-time lay upon the Castle of Trutz-Drachen. XI. How Otto was Saved. Little Otto was lying upon the hard couch in his cell, tossing in restless and feverish sleep; suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon him and a voice whispered in his ear, "Baron, Baron Otto, waken, rouse yourself; I am come to help you. I am One-eyed Hans." Otto was awake in an instant and raised himself upon his elbow in the darkness. "One-eyed Hans," he breathed, "One-eyed Hans; who is One-eyed Hans?" "True," said the other, "thou dost not know me. I am thy father's trusted servant, and am the only one excepting his own blood and kin who has clung to him in this hour of trouble. Yes, all are gone but me alone, and so I have come to help thee away from this vile place." "Oh, dear, good Hans! if only thou canst!" cried Otto; "if only thou canst take me away from this wicked place. Alas, dear Hans! I am weary and sick to death." And poor little Otto began to weep silently in the darkness. "Aye, aye," said Hans, gruffly, "it is no place for a little child to be. Canst thou climb, my little master? canst thou climb a knotted rope?" "Nay," said Otto, "I can never climb again! See, Hans;" and he flung back the covers from off him. "I cannot see," said Hans, "it is too dark." "Then feel, dear Hans," said Otto. Hans bent over the poor little white figure glimmering palely in the darkness. Suddenly he drew back with a snarl like an angry wolf. "Oh! the black, bloody wretches!" he cried, hoarsely; "and have they done that to thee, a little child?" "Yes," said Otto, "the Baron Henry did it." And then again he began to cry. "There, there," said Hans, roughly, "weep no more. Thou shalt get away from here even if thou canst not climb; I myself will help thee. Thy father is already waiting below the window here, and thou shalt soon be with him. There, there, cry no more." While he was speaking Hans had stripped off his peddler's leathern jacket, and there, around his body, was wrapped coil after coil of stout hempen rope tied in knots at short distances. He began unwinding the rope, and when he had done he was as thin as ever he had been before. Next he drew from the pouch that hung at his side a ball of fine cord and a leaden weight pierced by a hole, both of which he had brought with him for the use to which he now put them. He tied the lead to the end of the cord, then whirling the weight above his head, he flung it up toward the window high above. Twice the piece of lead fell back again into the room; the third time it flew out between the iron bars carrying the cord with it. Hans held the ball in his hand and paid out the string as the weight carried it downward toward the ground beneath. Suddenly the cord stopped running. Hans jerked it and shook it, but it moved no farther. "Pray heaven, little child," said he, "that it hath reached the ground, for if it hath not we are certainly lost." "I do pray," said Otto, and he bowed his head. Then, as though in answer to his prayer, there came a twitch upon the cord. "See," said Hans, "they have heard thee up above in heaven; it was thy father who did that." Quickly and deftly he tied the cord to the end of the knotted rope; then he gave an answering jerk upon the string. The next moment the rope was drawn up to the window and down the outside by those below. Otto lay watching the rope as it crawled up to the window and out into the night like a great snake, while One-eyed Hans held the other end lest it should be drawn too far. At last it stopped. "Good," muttered Hans, as though to himself. "The rope is long enough." He waited for a few minutes and then, drawing upon the rope and finding that it was held from below, he spat upon his hands and began slowly climbing up to the window above. Winding his arm around the iron bars of the grating that guarded it, he thrust his hand into the pouch that hung by his side, and drawing forth a file, fell to work cutting through all that now lay between Otto and liberty. It was slow, slow work, and it seemed to Otto as though Hans would never finish his task, as lying upon his hard couch he watched that figure, black against the sky, bending over its work. Now and then the file screeched against the hard iron, and then Hans would cease for a moment, but only to begin again as industriously as ever. Three or four times he tried the effects of his work, but still the iron held. At last he set his shoulder against it, and as Otto looked he saw the iron bend. Suddenly there was a sharp crack, and a piece of the grating went flying out into the night. Hans tied the rope securely about the stump of the stout iron bar that yet remained, and then slid down again into the room below. "My little lord," said he, "dost thou think that if I carry thee, thou wilt be able and strong enough to cling to my neck?" "Aye," said Otto, "methinks I will be able to do that." "Then come," said Hans. He stooped as he spoke, and gently lifting Otto from his rude and rugged bed he drew his broad leathern belt around them both, buckling it firmly and securely. "It does not hurt thee?" said he. "Not much," whispered Otto faintly. Then Hans spat upon his hands, and began slowly climbing the rope. They reached the edge of the window and there they rested for a moment, and Otto renewed his hold around the neck of the faithful Hans. "And now art thou ready?" said Hans "Aye," said Otto. "Then courage," said Hans, and he turned and swung his leg over the abyss below. The next moment they were hanging in mid-air. Otto looked down and gave a gasp. "The mother of heaven bless us," he whispered, and then closed his eyes, faint and dizzy at the sight of that sheer depth beneath. Hans said nothing, but shutting his teeth and wrapping his legs around the rope, he began slowly descending, hand under hand. Down, down, down he went, until to Otto, with his eyes shut and his head leaning upon Hans' shoulder, it seemed as though it could never end. Down, down, down. Suddenly he felt Hans draw a deep breath; there was a slight jar, and Otto opened his eyes; Hans was standing upon the ground. A figure wrapped in a dark cloak arose from the shadow of the wall, and took Otto in its arms. It was Baron Conrad. "My son--my little child!" he cried, in a choked, trembling voice, and that was all. And Otto pressed his cheek against his father's and began crying. Suddenly the Baron gave a sharp, fierce cry. "Dear Heaven!" he cried; "what have they done to thee?" But poor little Otto could not answer. "Oh!" gasped the Baron, in a strangled voice, "my little child! my little child!" And therewith he broke down, and his whole body shook with fierce, dry sobs; for men in those days did not seek to hide their grief as they do now, but were fierce and strong in the expression of that as of all else. "Never mind, dear father," whispered Otto; "it did not hurt me so very much," and he pressed his lips against his father's cheek. Little Otto had but one hand. XII. A Ride For Life. But not yet was Otto safe, and all danger past and gone by. Suddenly, as they stood there, the harsh clangor of a bell broke the silence of the starry night above their heads, and as they raised their faces and looked up, they saw lights flashing from window to window. Presently came the sound of a hoarse voice shouting something that, from the distance, they could not understand. One-eyed Hans smote his hand upon his thigh. Look said he, "here is what comes of having a soft heart in one's bosom. I overcame and bound a watchman up yonder, and forced him to tell me where our young Baron lay. It was on my mind to run my knife into him after he had told me every thing, but then, bethinking how the young Baron hated the thought of bloodshed, I said to myself, 'No, Hans, I will spare the villain's life.' See now what comes of being merciful; here, by hook or by crook, the fellow has loosed himself from his bonds, and brings the whole castle about our ears like a nest of wasps." "We must fly," said the Baron; "for nothing else in the world is left me, now that all have deserted me in this black time of trouble, excepting these six faithful ones." His voice was bitter, bitter, as he spoke; then stooping, he raised Otto in his arms, and bearing him gently, began rapidly descending the rocky slope to the level road that ran along the edge of the hill beneath. Close behind him followed the rest; Hans still grimed with soot and in his bare feet. A little distance from the road and under the shade of the forest trees, seven horses stood waiting. The Baron mounted upon his great black charger, seating little Otto upon the saddle in front of him. "Forward!" he cried, and away they clattered and out upon the road. Then--"To St. Michaelsburg," said Baron Conrad, in his deep voice, and the horses' heads were turned to the westward, and away they galloped through the black shadows of the forest, leaving Trutz-Drachen behind them. But still the sound of the alarm bell rang through the beating of the horses' hoofs, and as Hans looked over his shoulder, he saw the light of torches flashing hither and thither along the outer walls in front of the great barbican. In Castle Trutz-Drachen all was confusion and uproar: flashing torches lit up the dull gray walls; horses neighed and stamped, and men shouted and called to one another in the bustle of making ready. Presently Baron Henry came striding along the corridor clad in light armor, which he had hastily donned when roused from his sleep by the news that his prisoner had escaped. Below in the courtyard his horse was standing, and without waiting for assistance, he swung himself into the saddle. Then away they all rode and down the steep path, armor ringing, swords clanking, and iron-shod hoofs striking sparks of fire from the hard stones. At their head rode Baron Henry; his triangular shield hung over his shoulder, and in his hand he bore a long, heavy, steel-pointed lance with a pennant flickering darkly from the end. At the high-road at the base of the slope they paused, for they were at a loss to know which direction the fugitives had taken; a half a score of the retainers leaped from their horses, and began hurrying about hither and thither, and up and down, like hounds searching for the lost scent, and all the time Baron Henry sat still as a rock in the midst of the confusion. Suddenly a shout was raised from the forest just beyond the road; they had come upon the place where the horses had been tied. It was an easy matter to trace the way that Baron Conrad and his followers had taken thence back to the high-road, but there again they were at a loss. The road ran straight as an arrow eastward and westward--had the fugitives taken their way to the east or to the west? Baron Henry called his head-man, Nicholas Stein, to him, and the two spoke together for a while in an undertone. At last the Baron's lieutenant reined his horse back, and choosing first one and then another, divided the company into two parties. The baron placed himself at the head of one band and Nicholas Stein at the head of the other. "Forward!" he cried, and away clattered the two companies of horsemen in opposite directions. It was toward the westward that Baron Henry of Trutz-Drachen rode at the head of his men. The early springtide sun shot its rays of misty, yellow light across the rolling tops of the forest trees where the little birds were singing in the glory of the May morning. But Baron Henry and his followers thought nothing of the beauty of the peaceful day, and heard nothing of the multitudinous sound of the singing birds as, with a confused sound of galloping hoofs, they swept along the highway, leaving behind them a slow-curling, low-trailing cloud of dust. As the sun rose more full and warm, the misty wreaths began to dissolve, until at last they parted and rolled asunder like a white curtain and there, before the pursuing horsemen, lay the crest of the mountain toward which they were riding, and up which the road wound steeply. "Yonder they are," cried a sudden voice behind Baron Henry of Trutz-Drachen, and at the cry all looked upward. Far away upon the mountain-side curled a cloud of dust, from the midst of which came the star-like flash of burnished armor gleaming in the sun. Baron Henry said never a word, but his lips curled in a grim smile. And as the mist wreaths parted One-eyed Hans looked behind and down into the leafy valley beneath. "Yonder they come," said he. "They have followed sharply to gain so much upon us, even though our horses are wearied with all the travelling we have done hither and yon these five days past. How far is it, Lord Baron, from here to Michaelsburg?" "About ten leagues," said the Baron, in a gloomy voice. Hans puckered his mouth as though to whistle, but the Baron saw nothing of it, for he was gazing straight before him with a set and stony face. Those who followed him looked at one another, and the same thought was in the mind of each--how long would it be before those who pursued would close the distance between them? When that happened it meant death to one and all. They reached the crest of the hill, and down they dashed upon the other side; for there the road was smooth and level as it sloped away into the valley, but it was in dead silence that they rode. Now and then those who followed the Baron looked back over their shoulders. They had gained a mile upon their pursuers when the helmeted heads rose above the crest of the mountain, but what was the gain of a mile with a smooth road between them, and fresh horses to weary ones? On they rode and on they rode. The sun rose higher and higher, and hotter and hotter. There was no time to rest and water their panting horses. Only once, when they crossed a shallow stretch of water, the poor animals bent their heads and caught a few gulps from the cool stream, and the One-eyed Hans washed a part of the soot from his hands and face. On and on they rode; never once did the Baron Conrad move his head or alter that steadfast look as, gazing straight before him, he rode steadily forward along the endless stretch of road, with poor little Otto's yellow head and white face resting against his steel-clad shoulder--and St. Michaelsburg still eight leagues away. A little rise of ground lay before them, and as they climbed it, all, excepting the baron, turned their heads as with one accord and looked behind them. Then more than one heart failed, for through the leaves of the trees below, they caught the glint of armor of those who followed--not more than a mile away. The next moment they swept over the crest, and there, below them, lay the broad shining river, and nearer a tributary stream spanned by a rude, narrow, three-arched, stone bridge where the road crossed the deep, slow-moving water. Down the slope plodded the weary horses, and so to the bridge-head. "Halt," cried the baron suddenly, and drew rein. The others stood bewildered. What did he mean to do? He turned to Hans and his blue eyes shone like steel. "Hans," said he, in his deep voice, "thou hast served me long and truly; wilt thou for this one last time do my bidding?" "Aye," said Hans, briefly. "Swear it," said the Baron. "I swear it," said Hans, and he drew the sign of the cross upon his heart. "That is good," said the Baron, grimly. "Then take thou this child, and with the others ride with all the speed that thou canst to St. Michaelsburg. Give the child into the charge of the Abbot Otto. Tell him how that I have sworn fealty to the Emperor, and what I have gained thereby--my castle burnt, my people slain, and this poor, simple child, my only son, mutilated by my enemy. "And thou, my Lord Baron?" said Hans. "I will stay here," said the Baron, quietly, "and keep back those who follow as long as God will give me grace so to do." A murmur of remonstrance rose among the faithful few who were with him, two of whom were near of kin. But Conrad of Drachenhausen turned fiercely upon them. "How now," said he, "have I fallen so low in my troubles that even ye dare to raise your voices against me? By the good Heaven, I will begin my work here by slaying the first man who dares to raise word against my bidding." Then he turned from them. "Here, Hans," said he, "take the boy; and remember, knave, what thou hast sworn." He pressed Otto close to his breast in one last embrace. "My little child," he murmured, "try not to hate thy father when thou thinkest of him hereafter, even though he be hard and bloody as thou knowest." But with his suffering and weakness, little Otto knew nothing of what was passing; it was only as in a faint flickering dream that he lived in what was done around him. "Farewell, Otto," said the Baron, but Otto's lips only moved faintly in answer. His father kissed him upon either cheek. "Come, Hans," said he, hastily, "take him hence;" and he loosed Otto's arms from about his neck. Hans took Otto upon the saddle in front of him. "Oh! my dear Lord Baron," said he, and then stopped with a gulp, and turned his grotesquely twitching face aside. "Go," said the Baron, harshly, "there is no time to lose in woman's tears." "Farewell, Conrad! farewell, Conrad!" said his two kinsmen, and coming forward they kissed him upon the cheek then they turned and rode away after Hans, and Baron Conrad was left alone to face his mortal foe. XIII. How Baron Conrad Held the Bridge. As the last of his followers swept around the curving road and was lost to sight, Baron Conrad gave himself a shake, as though to drive away the thoughts that lay upon him. Then he rode slowly forward to the middle of the bridge, where he wheeled his horse so as to face his coming enemies. He lowered the vizor of his helmet and bolted it to its place, and then saw that sword and dagger were loose in the scabbard and easy to draw when the need for drawing should arise. Down the steep path from the hill above swept the pursuing horsemen. Down the steep path to the bridge-head and there drew rein; for in the middle of the narrow way sat the motionless, steel-clad figure upon the great war-horse, with wide, red, panting nostrils, and body streaked with sweat and flecked with patches of foam. One side of the roadway of the bridge was guarded by a low stone wall; the other side was naked and open and bare to the deep, slow-moving water beneath. It was a dangerous place to attack a desperate man clad in armor of proof. "Forward!" cried Baron Henry, but not a soul stirred in answer, and still the iron-clad figure sat motionless and erect upon the panting horse. "How," cried the Baron Henry, "are ye afraid of one man? Then follow me!" and he spurred forward to the bridge-head. But still no one moved in answer, and the Lord of Trutz-Drachen reined back his horse again. He wheeled his horse and glared round upon the stolid faces of his followers, until his eyes seemed fairly to blaze with passion beneath the bars of his vizor. Baron Conrad gave a roar of laughter. "How now," he cried; "are ye all afraid of one man? Is there none among ye that dares come forward and meet me? I know thee, Baron Henry thou art not afraid to cut off the hand of a little child. Hast thou not now the courage to face the father?" Baron Henry gnashed his teeth with rage as he glared around upon the faces of his men-at-arms. Suddenly his eye lit upon one of them. "Ha! Carl Spigler," he cried, "thou hast thy cross-bow with thee;--shoot me down yonder dog! Nay," he said, "thou canst do him no harm under his armor; shoot the horse upon which he sits." Baron Conrad heard the speech. "Oh! thou coward villain!" he cried, "stay; do not shoot the good horse. I will dismount and fight ye upon foot." Thereupon, armed as he was, he leaped clashing from his horse and turning the animal's head, gave it a slap upon the flank. The good horse first trotted and then walked to the further end of the bridge, where it stopped and began cropping at the grass that grew beside the road. "Now then!" cried Baron Henry, fiercely, "now then, ye cannot fear him, villains! Down with him! forward!" Slowly the troopers spurred their horses forward upon the bridge and toward that one figure that, grasping tightly the great two-handed sword, stood there alone guarding the passage. Then Baron Conrad whirled the great blade above his head, until it caught the sunlight and flashed again. He did not wait for the attack, but when the first of the advancing horsemen had come within a few feet of him, he leaped with a shout upon them. The fellow thrust at him with his lance, and the Baron went staggering a few feet back, but instantly he recovered himself and again leaped forward. The great sword flashed in the air, whistling; it fell, and the nearest man dropped his lance, clattering, and with a loud, inarticulate cry, grasped the mane of his horse with both hands. Again the blade whistled in the air, and this time it was stained with red. Again it fell, and with another shrill cry the man toppled headlong beneath the horse's feet. The next instant they were upon him, each striving to strike at the one figure, to ride him down, or to thrust him down with their lances. There was no room now to swing the long blade, but holding the hilt in both hands, Baron Conrad thrust with it as though it were a lance, stabbing at horse or man, it mattered not. Crowded upon the narrow roadway of the bridge, those who attacked had not only to guard themselves against the dreadful strokes of that terrible sword, but to keep their wounded horses (rearing and mad with fright) from toppling bodily over with them into the water beneath. Presently the cry was raised, "Back! back!" And those nearest the Baron began reining in their horses. "Forward!" roared Baron Henry, from the midst of the crowd; but in spite of his command, and even the blows that he gave, those behind were borne back by those in front, struggling and shouting, and the bridge was cleared again excepting for three figures that lay motionless upon the roadway, and that one who, with the brightness of his armor dimmed and stained, leaned panting against the wall of the bridge. The Baron Henry raged like a madman. Gnashing his teeth together, he rode back a little way; then turning and couching his lance, he suddenly clapped spurs to his horse, and the next instant came thundering down upon his solitary enemy. Baron Conrad whirled his sword in the air, as he saw the other coming like a thunderbolt upon him; he leaped aside, and the lance passed close to him. As it passed he struck, and the iron point flew from the shaft of the spear at the blow, and fell clattering upon the stone roadway of the bridge. Baron Henry drew in his horse until it rested upon its haunches, then slowly reined it backward down the bridge, still facing his foe, and still holding the wooden stump of the lance in his hand. At the bridge-head he flung it from him. "Another lance!" he cried, hoarsely. One was silently reached to him and he took it, his hand trembling with rage. Again he rode to a little distance and wheeled his horse; then, driving his steel spurs into its quivering side, he came again thundering down upon the other. Once more the terrible sword whirled in the air and fell, but this time the lance was snatched to one side and the blow fell harmlessly. The next instant, and with a twitch of the bridle-rein, the horse struck full and fair against the man. Conrad of Drachenhausen was whirled backward and downward, and the cruel iron hoofs crashed over his prostrate body, as horse and man passed with a rush beyond him and to the bridge-head beyond. A shout went up from those who stood watching. The next moment the prostrate figure rose and staggered blindly to the side of the bridge, and stood leaning against the stone wall. At the further end of the bridge Baron Henry had wheeled his horse. Once again he couched lance, and again he drove down upon his bruised and wounded enemy. This time the lance struck full and fair, and those who watched saw the steel point pierce the iron breast-plate and then snap short, leaving the barbed point within the wound. Baron Conrad sunk to his knees and the Roderburg, looming upon his horse above him, unsheathed his sword to finish the work he had begun. Then those who stood looking on saw a wondrous thing happen: the wounded man rose suddenly to his feet, and before his enemy could strike he leaped, with a great and bitter cry of agony and despair, upon him as he sat in the saddle above. Henry of Trutz-Drachen grasped at his horse's mane, but the attack was so fierce, so sudden, and so unexpected that before he could save himself he was dragged to one side and fell crashing in his armor upon the stone roadway of the bridge. "The dragon! the dragon!" roared Baron Conrad, in a voice of thunder, and with the energy of despair he dragged his prostrate foe toward the open side of the bridge. "Forward!" cried the chief of the Trutz-Drachen men, and down they rode upon the struggling knights to the rescue of their master in this new danger. But they were too late. There was a pause at the edge of the bridge, for Baron Henry had gained his feet and, stunned and bewildered as he was by the suddenness of his fall, he was now struggling fiercely, desperately. For a moment they stood swaying backward and forward, clasped in one another's arms, the blood from the wounded man's breast staining the armor of both. The moment passed and then, with a shower of stones and mortar from beneath their iron-shod heels, they toppled and fell; there was a thunderous splash in the water below, and as the men-at-arms came hurrying up and peered with awe-struck faces over the parapet of the bridge, they saw the whirling eddies sweep down with the current of the stream, a few bubbles rise to the surface of the water, and then--nothing; for the smooth river flowed onward as silently as ever. Presently a loud voice burst through the awed hush that followed. It came from William of Roderburg, Baron Henry's kinsman. "Forward!" he cried. A murmur of voices from the others was all the answer that he received. "Forward!" cried the young man again, "the boy and those with him are not so far away but that we might yet catch up with them." Then one of the men spoke up in answer--a man with a seamed, weather-beaten face and crisp grizzled hair. "Nay," said he, "our Lord Baron is gone, and this is no quarrel of ours; here be four of us that are wounded and three I misdoubt that are dead; why should we follow further only to suffer more blows for no gain?" A growl of assent rose from those that stood around, and William of Roderburg saw that nothing more was to be done by the Trutz-Dragons that day. XIV. How Otto Saw the Great Emperor. Through weakness and sickness and faintness, Otto had lain in a half swoon through all that long journey under the hot May sun. It was as in a dreadful nightmare that he had heard on and on and on that monotonous throbbing of galloping hoofs upon the ground; had felt that last kiss that his father had given him upon his cheek. Then the onward ride again, until all faded away into a dull mist and he knew no more. When next he woke it was with the pungent smell of burned vinegar in his nostrils and with the feeling of a cool napkin bathing his brow. He opened his eyes and then closed them again, thinking he must have been in a dream, for he lay in his old room at the peaceful monastery of the White Cross on the hill; the good Father Abbot sat near by, gazing upon his face with the old absent student look, Brother John sat in the deep window seat also gazing at him, and Brother Theodore, the leech of the monastery, sat beside him bathing his head. Beside these old familiar faces were the faces of those who had been with him in that long flight; the One-eyed Hans, old Master Nicholas his kinsman, and the others. So he closed his eyes, thinking that maybe it was all a dream. But the sharp throbbing of the poor stump at his wrist soon taught him that he was still awake. "Am I then really home in St. Michaelsburg again?" he murmured, without unclosing his eyes. Brother Theodore began snuffling through his nose; there was a pause. "Yes," said the old Abbot at last, and his gentle voice trembled as he spoke; "yes, my dear little child, thou art back again in thine own home; thou hast not been long out in the great world, but truly thou hast had a sharp and bitter trial of it." "But they will not take me away again, will they?" said Otto quickly, unclosing his blue eyes. "Nay," said the Abbot, gently; "not until thou art healed in body and art ready and willing to go." Three months and more had passed, and Otto was well again; and now, escorted by One-eyed Hans and those faithful few who had clung to the Baron Conrad through his last few bitter days, he was riding into the quaint old town of Nurnburg; for the Emperor Rudolph was there at that time, waiting for King Ottocar of Bohemia to come thither and answer the imperial summons before the Council, and Otto was travelling to the court. As they rode in through the gates of the town, Otto looked up at the high-peaked houses with their overhanging gables, the like of which he had never seen before, and he stared with his round blue eyes at seeing them so crowded together along the length of the street. But most of all he wondered at the number of people that passed hither and thither, jostling each other in their hurry, and at the tradesmen's booths opening upon the street with the wonderful wares hanging within; armor at the smiths, glittering ornaments at the goldsmiths, and rich fabrics of silks and satins at the mercers. He had never seen anything so rich and grand in all of his life, for little Otto had never been in a town before. "Oh! look," he cried, "at that wonderful lady; see, holy father! sure the Emperor's wife can be no finer than that lady." The Abbot smiled. "Nay, Otto," said he, "that is but a burgher's wife or daughter; the ladies at the Emperor's court are far grander than such as she." "So!" said Otto, and then fell silent with wonder. And now, at last the great moment had come when little Otto with his own eyes was to behold the mighty Emperor who ruled over all the powerful kingdoms of Germany and Austria, and Italy and Bohemia, and other kingdoms and principalities and states. His heart beat so that he could hardly speak as, for a moment, the good Abbot who held him by the hand stopped outside of the arrased doorway to whisper some last instructions into his ear. Then they entered the apartment. It was a long, stone-paved room. The floor was covered with rich rugs and the walls were hung with woven tapestry wherein were depicted knights and ladies in leafy gardens and kings and warriors at battle. A long row of high glazed windows extended along the length of the apartment, flooding it with the mellow light of the autumn day. At the further end of the room, far away, and standing by a great carved chimney place wherein smouldered the remains of a fire, stood a group of nobles in gorgeous dress of velvet and silks, and with glittering golden chains hung about their necks. One figure stood alone in front of the great yawning fireplace. His hands were clasped behind him, and his look bent thoughtfully upon the floor. He was dressed only in a simple gray robe without ornament or adornment, a plain leathern belt girded his waist, and from it hung a sword with a bone hilt encased in a brown leathern scabbard. A noble stag-hound lay close behind him, curled up upon the floor, basking in the grateful warmth of the fire. As the Father Abbot and Otto drew near he raised his head and looked at them. It was a plain, homely face that Otto saw, with a wrinkled forehead and a long mouth drawn down at the corners. It was the face of a good, honest burgher burdened with the cares of a prosperous trade. "Who can he be," thought Otto, "and why does the poor man stand there among all the great nobles?" But the Abbot walked straight up to him and kneeled upon the floor, and little Otto, full of wonder, did the same. It was the great Emperor Rudolph. "Who have we here," said the Emperor, and he bent his brow upon the Abbot and the boy. "Sire," said Abbot Otto, "we have humbly besought you by petition, in the name of your late vassal, Baron Conrad of Vuelph of Drachenhausen, for justice to this his son, the Baron Otto, whom, sire, as you may see, hath been cruelly mutilated at the hands of Baron Henry of Roderburg of Trutz-Drachen. He hath moreover been despoiled of his lands, his castle burnt, and his household made prisoner." The Emperor frowned until the shaggy eyebrows nearly hid the keen gray twinkle of the eyes beneath. "Yes," said he, "I do remember me of that petition, and have given it consideration both in private and in council." He turned to the group of listening nobles. "Look," said he, "at this little child marred by the inhumanity and the cruelty of those robber villains. By heavens! I will put down their lawless rapine, if I have to give every castle from the north to the south to the flames and to the sword." Then turning to Otto again, "Poor little child," said he, "thy wrongs shall be righted, and so far as they are able, those cruel Roderburgs shall pay thee penny for penny, and grain for grain, for what thou hast lost; and until such indemnity hath been paid the family of the man who wrought this deed shall be held as surety." Little Otto looked up in the kind, rugged face above him. "Nay, Lord Emperor," said he, in his quaint, quiet way, "there are but two in the family--the mother and the daughter--and I have promised to marry the little girl when she and I are old enough; so, if you please, I would not have harm happen to her." The Emperor continued to look down at the kneeling boy, and at last he gave a short, dry laugh. "So be it," said he, "thy plan is not without its wisdom. Mayhap it is all for the best that the affair should be ended thus peacefully. The estates of the Roderburgs shall be held in trust for thee until thou art come of age; otherwise it shall be as thou hast proposed, the little maiden shall be taken into ward under our own care. And as to thee--art thou willing that I should take thee under my own charge in the room of thy father, who is dead?" "Aye," said Otto, simply, "I am willing, for it seems to me that thou art a good man." The nobles who stood near smiled at the boy's speech. As for the Emperor, he laughed outright. "I give thee thanks, my Lord Baron," said he; "there is no one in all my court who has paid me greater courtesy than that." So comes the end of our tale. But perhaps you may like to know what happened afterward, for no one cares to leave the thread of a story without tying a knot in it. Eight years had passed, and Otto grew up to manhood in the Emperor's court, and was with him through war and peace. But he himself never drew sword or struck a blow, for the right hand that hung at his side was of pure silver, and the hard, cold fingers never closed. Folks called him "Otto of the Silver Hand," but perhaps there was another reason than that for the name that had been given him, for the pure, simple wisdom that the old monks of the White Cross on the hill had taught him, clung to him through all the honors that the Emperor bestowed upon his favorite, and as he grew older his words were listened to and weighed by those who were high in Council, and even by the Emperor himself. And now for the end of all. One day Otto stood uncertainly at the doorway of a room in the imperial castle, hesitating before he entered; and yet there was nothing so very dreadful within, only one poor girl whose heart fluttered more than his. Poor little Pauline, whom he had not seen since that last day in the black cell at Trutz-Drachen. At last he pushed aside the hangings and entered the room. She was sitting upon a rude bench beside the window, looking at him out of her great, dark eyes. He stopped short and stood for a moment confused and silent; for he had no thought in his mind but of the little girl whom he had last seen, and for a moment he stood confused before the fair maiden with her great, beautiful dark eyes. She on her part beheld a tall, slender youth with curling, golden hair, one hand white and delicate, the other of pure and shining silver. He came to her and took her hand and set it to his lips, and all that she could do was to gaze with her great, dark eyes upon the hero of whom she had heard so many talk; the favorite of the Emperor; the wise young Otto of the Silver Hand. Afterword The ruins of Drachenhausen were rebuilt, for the walls were as sound as ever, though empty and gaping to the sky; but it was no longer the den of a robber baron for beneath the scutcheon over the great gate was carved a new motto of the Vuelphs; a motto which the Emperor Rudolph himself had given: "Manus argentea quam manus ferrea melior est." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Otto of the Silver Hand, by Howard Pyle Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What happens to Tomoko?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Tomoko reveals that they watched a video tape with several friends a week ago and received a strange call after watching it. Tomoko is killed while Masami watches." ]	17,490	narrativeqa	en	null	040a455faa539cf124460b1b37165be70269fc8b8a9a0c60	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What was the description of the teens faces when they died?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Their faces twisted in fear." ]	17,497	narrativeqa	en	null	19ec182d75e69f6f85cc7a4fa8f9ca22b124800bc8736b1d	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who was the final raid in the story on?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "The Sinsings" ]	27,510	narrativeqa	en	null	86d2cd2994feadad471854df8ce765545fe6bab1cee02259	Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net ARMAGEDDON--2419 A.D. _By Philip Francis Nowlan_ _Here, once more, is a real scientifiction story plus. It is a story which will make the heart of many readers leap with joy._ _We have rarely printed a story in this magazine that for scientific interest, as well as suspense, could hold its own with this particular story. We prophesy that this story will become more valuable as the years go by. It certainly holds a number of interesting prophecies, of which no doubt, many will come true. For wealth of science, it will be hard to beat for some time to come. It is one of those rare stories that will bear reading and re-reading many times._ _This story has impressed us so favorably, that we hope the author may be induced to write a sequel to it soon._ Foreword Elsewhere I have set down, for whatever interest they have in this, the 25th Century, my personal recollections of the 20th Century. Now it occurs to me that my memoirs of the 25th Century may have an equal interest 500 years from now--particularly in view of that unique perspective from which I have seen the 25th Century, entering it as I did, in one leap across a gap of 492 years. This statement requires elucidation. There are still many in the world who are not familiar with my unique experience. Five centuries from now there may be many more, especially if civilization is fated to endure any worse convulsions than those which have occurred between 1975 A.D. and the present time. I should state therefore, that I, Anthony Rogers, am, so far as I know, the only man alive whose normal span of eighty-one years of life has been spread over a period of 573 years. To be precise, I lived the first twenty-nine years of my life between 1898 and 1927; the other fifty-two since 2419. The gap between these two, a period of nearly five hundred years, I spent in a state of suspended animation, free from the ravages of katabolic processes, and without any apparent effect on my physical or mental faculties. When I began my long sleep, man had just begun his real conquest of the air in a sudden series of transoceanic flights in airplanes driven by internal combustion motors. He had barely begun to speculate on the possibilities of harnessing sub-atomic forces, and had made no further practical penetration into the field of ethereal pulsations than the primitive radio and television of that day. The United States of America was the most powerful nation in the world, its political, financial, industrial and scientific influence being supreme; and in the arts also it was rapidly climbing into leadership. I awoke to find the America I knew a total wreck--to find Americans a hunted race in their own land, hiding in the dense forests that covered the shattered and leveled ruins of their once magnificent cities, desperately preserving, and struggling to develop in their secret retreats, the remnants of their culture and science--and the undying flame of their sturdy independence. World domination was in the hands of Mongolians and the center of world power lay in inland China, with Americans one of the few races of mankind unsubdued--and it must be admitted in fairness to the truth, not worth the trouble of subduing in the eyes of the Han Airlords who ruled North America as titular tributaries of the Most Magnificent. For they needed not the forests in which the Americans lived, nor the resources of the vast territories these forests covered. With the perfection to which they had reduced the synthetic production of necessities and luxuries, their remarkable development of scientific processes and mechanical accomplishment of work, they had no economic need for the forests, and no economic desire for the enslaved labor of an unruly race. They had all they needed for their magnificently luxurious and degraded scheme of civilization, within the walls of the fifteen cities of sparkling glass they had flung skyward on the sites of ancient American centers, into the bowels of the earth underneath them, and with relatively small surrounding areas of agriculture. Complete domination of the air rendered communication between these centers a matter of ease and safety. Occasional destructive raids on the waste lands were considered all that was necessary to keep the "wild" Americans on the run within the shelter of their forests, and prevent their becoming a menace to the Han civilization. But nearly three hundred years of easily maintained security, the last century of which had been nearly sterile in scientific, social and economic progress, had softened and devitalized the Hans. It had likewise developed, beneath the protecting foliage of the forest, the growth of a vigorous new American civilization, remarkable in the mobility and flexibility of its organization, in its conquest of almost insuperable obstacles, in the development and guarding of its industrial and scientific resources, all in anticipation of that "Day of Hope" to which it had been looking forward for generations, when it would be strong enough to burst from the green chrysalis of the forests, soar into the upper air lanes and destroy the yellow incubus. At the time I awoke, the "Day of Hope" was almost at hand. I shall not attempt to set forth a detailed history of the Second War of Independence, for that has been recorded already by better historians than I am. Instead I shall confine myself largely to the part I was fortunate enough to play in this struggle and in the events leading up to it. [Illustration: Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance.] It all resulted from my interest in radioactive gases. During the latter part of 1927 my company, the American Radioactive Gas Corporation, had been keeping me busy investigating reports of unusual phenomena observed in certain abandoned coal mines near the Wyoming Valley, in Pennsylvania. With two assistants and a complete equipment of scientific instruments, I began the exploration of a deserted working in a mountainous district, where several weeks before, a number of mining engineers had reported traces of carnotite[1] and what they believed to be radioactive gases. Their report was not without foundation, it was apparent from the outset, for in our examination of the upper levels of the mine, our instruments indicated a vigorous radioactivity. [1] A hydrovanadate of uranium, and other metals; used as a source of radium compounds. On the morning of December 15th, we descended to one of the lowest levels. To our surprise, we found no water there. Obviously it had drained off through some break in the strata. We noticed too that the rock in the side walls of the shaft was soft, evidently due to the radioactivity, and pieces crumbled under foot rather easily. We made our way cautiously down the shaft, when suddenly the rotted timbers above us gave way. I jumped ahead, barely escaping the avalanche of coal and soft rock, but my companions, who were several paces behind me, were buried under it, and undoubtedly met instant death. I was trapped. Return was impossible. With my electric torch I explored the shaft to its end, but could find no other way out. The air became increasingly difficult to breathe, probably from the rapid accumulation of the radioactive gas. In a little while my senses reeled and I lost consciousness. When I awoke, there was a cool and refreshing circulation of air in the shaft. I had no thought that I had been unconscious more than a few hours, although it seems that the radioactive gas had kept me in a state of suspended animation for something like 500 years. My awakening, I figured out later, had been due to some shifting of the strata which reopened the shaft and cleared the atmosphere in the working. This must have been the case, for I was able to struggle back up the shaft over a pile of debris, and stagger up the long incline to the mouth of the mine, where an entirely different world, overgrown with a vast forest and no visible sign of human habitation, met my eyes. I shall pass over the days of mental agony that followed in my attempt to grasp the meaning of it all. There were times when I felt that I was on the verge of insanity. I roamed the unfamiliar forest like a lost soul. Had it not been for the necessity of improvising traps and crude clubs with which to slay my food, I believe I should have gone mad. Suffice it to say, however, that I survived this psychic crisis. I shall begin my narrative proper with my first contact with Americans of the year 2419 A.D. CHAPTER I Floating Men My first glimpse of a human being of the 25th Century was obtained through a portion of woodland where the trees were thinly scattered, with a dense forest beyond. I had been wandering along aimlessly, and hopelessly, musing over my strange fate, when I noticed a figure that cautiously backed out of the dense growth across the glade. I was about to call out joyfully, but there was something furtive about the figure that prevented me. The boy's attention (for it seemed to be a lad of fifteen or sixteen) was centered tensely on the heavy growth of trees from which he had just emerged. He was clad in rather tight-fitting garments entirely of green, and wore a helmet-like cap of the same color. High around his waist he wore a broad, thick belt, which bulked up in the back across the shoulders, into something of the proportions of a knapsack. As I was taking in these details, there came a vivid flash and heavy detonation, like that of a hand grenade, not far to the left of him. He threw up an arm and staggered a bit in a queer, gliding way; then he recovered himself and slipped cautiously away from the place of the explosion, crouching slightly, and still facing the denser part of the forest. Every few steps he would raise his arm, and point into the forest with something he held in his hand. Wherever he pointed there was a terrific explosion, deeper in among the trees. It came to me then that he was shooting with some form of pistol, though there was neither flash nor detonation from the muzzle of the weapon itself. After firing several times, he seemed to come to a sudden resolution, and turning in my general direction, leaped--to my amazement sailing through the air between the sparsely scattered trees in such a jump as I had never in my life seen before. That leap must have carried him a full fifty feet, although at the height of his arc, he was not more than ten or twelve feet from the ground. When he alighted, his foot caught in a projecting root, and he sprawled gently forward. I say "gently" for he did not crash down as I expected him to do. The only thing I could compare it with was a slow-motion cinema, although I had never seen one in which horizontal motions were registered at normal speed and only the vertical movements were slowed down. Due to my surprise, I suppose my brain did not function with its normal quickness, for I gazed at the prone figure for several seconds before I saw the blood that oozed out from under the tight green cap. Regaining my power of action, I dragged him out of sight back of the big tree. For a few moments I busied myself in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The wound was not a deep one. My companion was more dazed than hurt. But what of the pursuers? I took the weapon from his grasp and examined it hurriedly. It was not unlike the automatic pistol to which I was accustomed, except that it apparently fired with a button instead of a trigger. I inserted several fresh rounds of ammunition into its magazine from my companion's belt, as rapidly as I could, for I soon heard, near us, the suppressed conversation of his pursuers. There followed a series of explosions round about us, but none very close. They evidently had not spotted our hiding place, and were firing at random. I waited tensely, balancing the gun in my hand, to accustom myself to its weight and probable throw. Then I saw a movement in the green foliage of a tree not far away, and the head and face of a man appeared. Like my companion, he was clad entirely in green, which made his figure difficult to distinguish. But his face could be seen clearly. It was an evil face, and had murder in it. That decided me. I raised the gun and fired. My aim was bad, for there was no kick in the gun, as I had expected, and I hit the trunk of the tree several feet below him. It blew him from his perch like a crumpled bit of paper, and he _floated_ down to the ground, like some limp, dead thing, gently lowered by an invisible hand. The tree, its trunk blown apart by the explosion, crashed down. There followed another series of explosions around us. These guns we were using made no sound in the firing, and my opponents were evidently as much at sea as to my position as I was to theirs. So I made no attempt to reply to their fire, contenting myself with keeping a sharp lookout in their general direction. And patience had its reward. Very soon I saw a cautious movement in the top of another tree. Exposing myself as little as possible, I aimed carefully at the tree trunk and fired again. A shriek followed the explosion. I heard the tree crash down; then a groan. There was silence for a while. Then I heard a faint sound of boughs swishing. I shot three times in its direction, pressing the button as rapidly as I could. Branches crashed down where my shells had exploded, but there was no body. Then I saw one of them. He was starting one of those amazing leaps from the bough of one tree to another, about forty feet away. I threw up my gun impulsively and fired. By now I had gotten the feel of the weapon, and my aim was good. I hit him. The "bullet" must have penetrated his body and exploded. For one moment I saw him flying through the air. Then the explosion, and he had vanished. He never finished his leap. It was annihilation. How many more of them there were I don't know. But this must have been too much for them. They used a final round of shells on us, all of which exploded harmlessly, and shortly after I heard them swishing and crashing away from us through the tree tops. Not one of them descended to earth. Now I had time to give some attention to my companion. She was, I found, a girl, and not a boy. Despite her bulky appearance, due to the peculiar belt strapped around her body high up under the arms, she was very slender, and very pretty. There was a stream not far away, from which I brought water and bathed her face and wound. Apparently the mystery of these long leaps, the monkey-like ability to jump from bough to bough, and of the bodies that floated gently down instead of falling, lay in the belt. The thing was some sort of anti-gravity belt that almost balanced the weight of the wearer, thereby tremendously multiplying the propulsive power of the leg muscles, and the lifting power of the arms. When the girl came to, she regarded me as curiously as I did her, and promptly began to quiz me. Her accent and intonation puzzled me a lot, but nevertheless we were able to understand each other fairly well, except for certain words and phrases. I explained what had happened while she lay unconscious, and she thanked me simply for saving her life. "You are a strange exchange," she said, eying my clothing quizzically. Evidently she found it mirth provoking by contrast with her own neatly efficient garb. "Don't you understand what I mean by 'exchange?' I mean ah--let me see--a stranger, somebody from some other gang. What gang do you belong to?" (She pronounced it "gan," with only a suspicion of a nasal sound.) I laughed. "I'm not a gangster," I said. But she evidently did not understand this word. "I don't belong to any gang," I explained, "and never did. Does everybody belong to a gang nowadays?" "Naturally," she said, frowning. "If you don't belong to a gang, where and how do you live? Why have you not found and joined a gang? How do you eat? Where do you get your clothing?" "I've been eating wild game for the past two weeks," I explained, "and this clothing I--er--ah--." I paused, wondering how I could explain that it must be many hundred years old. In the end I saw I would have to tell my story as well as I could, piecing it together with my assumptions as to what had happened. She listened patiently; incredulously at first, but with more confidence as I went on. When I had finished, she sat thinking for a long time. "That's hard to believe," she said, "but I believe it." She looked me over with frank interest. "Were you married when you slipped into unconsciousness down in that mine?" she asked me suddenly. I assured her I had never married. "Well, that simplifies matters," she continued. "You see, if you were technically classed as a family man, I could take you back only as an invited exchange and I, being unmarried, and no relation of yours, couldn't do the inviting." CHAPTER II The Forest Gangs She gave me a brief outline of the very peculiar social and economic system under which her people lived. At least it seemed very peculiar from my 20th Century viewpoint. I learned with amazement that exactly 492 years had passed over my head as I lay unconscious in the mine. Wilma, for that was her name, did not profess to be a historian, and so could give me only a sketchy outline of the wars that had been fought, and the manner in which such radical changes had come about. It seemed that another war had followed the First World War, in which nearly all the European nations had banded together to break the financial and industrial power of America. They succeeded in their purpose, though they were beaten, for the war was a terrific one, and left America, like themselves, gasping, bleeding and disorganized, with only the hollow shell of a victory. This opportunity had been seized by the Russian Soviets, who had made a coalition with the Chinese, to sweep over all Europe and reduce it to a state of chaos. America, industrially geared to world production and the world trade, collapsed economically, and there ensued a long period of stagnation and desperate attempts at economic reconstruction. But it was impossible to stave off war with the Mongolians, who by now had subjugated the Russians, and were aiming at a world empire. In about 2109, it seems, the conflict was finally precipitated. The Mongolians, with overwhelming fleets of great airships, and a science that far outstripped that of crippled America, swept in over the Pacific and Atlantic Coasts, and down from Canada, annihilating American aircraft, armies and cities with their terrific _disintegrator_ rays. These rays were projected from a machine not unlike a searchlight in appearance, the reflector of which, however, was not material substance, but a complicated balance of interacting electronic forces. This resulted in a terribly destructive beam. Under its influence, material substance melted into "nothingness"; i. e., into electronic vibrations. It destroyed all then known substances, from air to the most dense metals and stone. They settled down to the establishment of what became known as the Han dynasty in America, as a sort of province in their World Empire. Those were terrible days for the Americans. They were hunted like wild beasts. Only those survived who finally found refuge in mountains, canyons and forests. Government was at an end among them. Anarchy prevailed for several generations. Most would have been eager to submit to the Hans, even if it meant slavery. But the Hans did not want them, for they themselves had marvelous machinery and scientific process by which all difficult labor was accomplished. Ultimately they stopped their active search for, and annihilation of, the widely scattered groups of now savage Americans. So long as they remained hidden in their forests, and did not venture near the great cities the Hans had built, little attention was paid to them. Then began the building of the new American civilization. Families and individuals gathered together in clans or "gangs" for mutual protection. For nearly a century they lived a nomadic and primitive life, moving from place to place, in desperate fear of the casual and occasional Han air raids, and the terrible disintegrator ray. As the frequency of these raids decreased, they began to stay permanently in given localities, organizing upon lines which in many respects were similar to those of the military households of the Norman feudal barons, except that instead of gathering together in castles, their defense tactics necessitated a certain scattering of living quarters for families and individuals. They lived virtually in the open air, in the forests, in green tents, resorting to camouflage tactics that would conceal their presence from air observers. They dug underground factories and laboratories, that they might better be shielded from the electrical detectors of the Hans. They tapped the radio communication lines of the Hans, with crude instruments at first; better ones later on. They bent every effort toward the redevelopment of science. For many generations they labored as unseen, unknown scholars of the Hans, picking up their knowledge piecemeal, as fast as they were able to. During the earlier part of this period, there were many deadly wars fought between the various gangs, and occasional courageous but childishly futile attacks upon the Hans, followed by terribly punitive raids. But as knowledge progressed, the sense of American brotherhood redeveloped. Reciprocal arrangements were made among the gangs over constantly increasing areas. Trade developed to a certain extent, as between one gang and another. But the interchange of knowledge became more important than that of goods, as skill in the handling of synthetic processes developed. Within the gang, an economy was developed that was a compromise between individual liberty and a military socialism. The right of private property was limited practically to personal possessions, but private privileges were many, and sacredly regarded. Stimulation to achievement lay chiefly in the winning of various kinds of leadership and prerogatives, and only in a very limited degree in the hope of owning anything that might be classified as "wealth," and nothing that might be classified as "resources." Resources of every description, for military safety and efficiency, belonged as a matter of public interest to the community as a whole. In the meantime, through these many generations, the Hans had developed a luxury economy, and with it the perfection of gilded vice and degradation. The Americans were regarded as "wild men of the woods." And since they neither needed nor wanted the woods or the wild men, they treated them as beasts, and were conscious of no human brotherhood with them. As time went on, and synthetic processes of producing foods and materials were further developed, less and less ground was needed by the Hans for the purposes of agriculture, and finally, even the working of mines was abandoned when it became cheaper to build up metal from electronic vibrations than to dig them out of the ground. The Han race, devitalized by its vices and luxuries, with machinery and scientific processes to satisfy its every want, with virtually no necessity of labor, began to assume a defensive attitude toward the Americans. And quite naturally, the Americans regarded the Hans with a deep, grim hatred. Conscious of individual superiority as men, knowing that latterly they were outstripping the Hans in science and civilization, they longed desperately for the day when they should be powerful enough to rise and annihilate the Yellow Blight that lay over the continent. At the time of my awakening, the gangs were rather loosely organized, but were considering the establishment of a special military force, whose special business it would be to harry the Hans and bring down their air ships whenever possible without causing general alarm among the Mongolians. This force was destined to become the nucleus of the national force, when the Day of Retribution arrived. But that, however, did not happen for ten years, and is another story. [Illustration: On the left of the illustration is a Han girl, and on the right is an American girl, who, like all of her race, is equipped with an inertron belt and a rocket gun.] Wilma told me she was a member of the Wyoming Gang, which claimed the entire Wyoming Valley as its territory, under the leadership of Boss Hart. Her mother and father were dead, and she was unmarried, so she was not a "family member." She lived in a little group of tents known as Camp 17, under a woman Camp Boss, with seven other girls. Her duties alternated between military or police scouting and factory work. For the two-week period which would end the next day, she had been on "air patrol." This did not mean, as I first imagined, that she was flying, but rather that she was on the lookout for Han ships over this outlying section of the Wyoming territory, and had spent most of her time perched in the tree tops scanning the skies. Had she seen one she would have fired a "drop flare" several miles off to one side, which would ignite when it was floating vertically toward the earth, so that the direction or point from which it had been fired might not be guessed by the airship and bring a blasting play of the disintegrator ray in her vicinity. Other members of the air patrol would send up rockets on seeing hers, until finally a scout equipped with an ultrophone, which, unlike the ancient radio, operated on the ultronic ethereal vibrations, would pass the warning simultaneously to the headquarters of the Wyoming Gang and other communities within a radius of several hundred miles, not to mention the few American rocket ships that might be in the air, and which instantly would duck to cover either through forest clearings or by flattening down to earth in green fields where their coloring would probably protect them from observation. The favorite American method of propulsion was known as "_rocketing_." The _rocket_ is what I would describe, from my 20th Century comprehension of the matter, as an extremely powerful gas blast, atomically produced through the stimulation of chemical action. Scientists of today regard it as a childishly simple reaction, but by that very virtue, most economical and efficient. But tomorrow, she explained, she would go back to work in the cloth plant, where she would take charge of one of the synthetic processes by which those wonderful substitutes for woven fabrics of wool, cotton and silk are produced. At the end of another two weeks, she would be back on military duty again, perhaps at the same work, or maybe as a "contact guard," on duty where the territory of the Wyomings merged with that of the Delawares, or the "Susquannas" (Susquehannas) or one of the half dozen other "gangs" in that section of the country which I knew as Pennsylvania and New York States. Wilma cleared up for me the mystery of those flying leaps which she and her assailants had made, and explained in the following manner, how the inertron belt balances weight: "_Jumpers_" were in common use at the time I "awoke," though they were costly, for at that time _inertron_ had not been produced in very great quantity. They were very useful in the forest. They were belts, strapped high under the arms, containing an amount of inertron adjusted to the wearer's weight and purposes. In effect they made a man weigh as little as he desired; two pounds if he liked. "_Floaters_" are a later development of "_jumpers_"--rocket motors encased in _inertron_ blocks and strapped to the back in such a way that the wearer floats, when drifting, facing slightly downward. With his motor in operation, he moves like a diver, headforemost, controlling his direction by twisting his body and by movements of his outstretched arms and hands. Ballast weights locked in the front of the belt adjust weight and lift. Some men prefer a few ounces of weight in floating, using a slight motor thrust to overcome this. Others prefer a buoyance balance of a few ounces. The inadvertent dropping of weight is not a serious matter. The motor thrust always can be used to descend. But as an extra precaution, in case the motor should fail, for any reason, there are built into every belt a number of detachable sections, one or more of which can be discarded to balance off any loss in weight. "But who were your assailants," I asked, "and why were you attacked?" Her assailants, she told me, were members of an outlaw gang, referred to as "Bad Bloods," a group which for several generations had been under the domination of conscienceless leaders who tried to advance the interests of their clan by tactics which their neighbors had come to regard as unfair, and who in consequence had been virtually boycotted. Their purpose had been to slay her near the Delaware frontier, making it appear that the crime had been committed by Delaware scouts and thus embroil the Delawares and Wyomings in acts of reprisal against each other, or at least cause suspicions. Fortunately they had not succeeded in surprising her, and she had been successful in dodging them for some two hours before the shooting began, at the moment when I arrived on the scene. "But we must not stay here talking," Wilma concluded. "I have to take you in, and besides I must report this attack right away. I think we had better slip over to the other side of the mountain. Whoever is on that post will have a phone, and I can make a direct report. But you'll have to have a belt. Mine alone won't help much against our combined weights, and there's little to be gained by jumping heavy. It's almost as bad as walking." After a little search, we found one of the men I had killed, who had floated down among the trees some distance away and whose belt was not badly damaged. In detaching it from his body, it nearly got away from me and shot up in the air. Wilma caught it, however, and though it reinforced the lift of her own belt so that she had to hook her knee around a branch to hold herself down, she saved it. I climbed the tree and, with my weight added to hers, we floated down easily. CHAPTER III Life in the 25th Century We were delayed in starting for quite a while since I had to acquire a few crude ideas about the technique of using these belts. I had been sitting down, for instance, with the belt strapped about me, enjoying an ease similar to that of a comfortable armchair; when I stood up with a natural exertion of muscular effort, I shot ten feet into the air, with a wild instinctive thrashing of arms and legs that amused Wilma greatly. But after some practice, I began to get the trick of gauging muscular effort to a minimum of vertical and a maximum of horizontal. The correct form, I found, was in a measure comparable to that of skating. I found, also, that in forest work particularly the arms and hands could be used to great advantage in swinging along from branch to branch, so prolonging leaps almost indefinitely at times. In going up the side of the mountain, I found that my 20th Century muscles did have an advantage, in spite of lack of skill with the belt, and since the slopes were very sharp, and most of our leaps were upward, I could have distanced Wilma easily. But when we crossed the ridge and descended, she outstripped me with her superior technique. Choosing the steepest slopes, she would crouch in the top of a tree, and propel herself outward, literally diving until, with the loss of horizontal momentum, she would assume a more upright position and float downward. In this manner she would sometimes cover as much as a quarter of a mile in a single leap, while I leaped and scrambled clumsily behind, thoroughly enjoying the novel sensation. Half way down the mountain, we saw another green-clad figure leap out above the tree tops toward us. The three of us perched on an outcropping of rock from which a view for many miles around could be had, while Wilma hastily explained her adventure and my presence to her fellow guard; whose name was Alan. I learned later that this was the modern form of Helen. "You want to report by phone then, don't you?" Alan took a compact packet about six inches square from a holster attached to her belt and handed it to Wilma. So far as I could see, it had no special receiver for the ear. Wilma merely threw back a lid, as though she were opening a book, and began to talk. The voice that came back from the machine was as audible as her own. She was queried closely as to the attack upon her, and at considerable length as to myself, and I could tell from the tone of that voice that its owner was not prepared to take me at my face value as readily as Wilma had. For that matter, neither was the other girl. I could realize it from the suspicious glances she threw my way, when she thought my attention was elsewhere, and the manner in which her hand hovered constantly near her gun holster. Wilma was ordered to bring me in at once, and informed that another scout would take her place on the other side of the mountain. So she closed down the lid of the phone and handed it back to Alan, who seemed relieved to see us departing over the tree tops in the direction of the camps. We had covered perhaps ten miles, in what still seemed to me a surprisingly easy fashion, when Wilma explained, that from here on we would have to keep to the ground. We were nearing the camps, she said, and there was always the possibility that some small Han scoutship, invisible high in the sky, might catch sight of us through a projectoscope and thus find the general location of the camps. Wilma took me to the Scout office, which proved to be a small building of irregular shape, conforming to the trees around it, and substantially constructed of green sheet-like material. I was received by the assistant Scout Boss, who reported my arrival at once to the historical office, and to officials he called the Psycho Boss and the History Boss, who came in a few minutes later. The attitude of all three men was at first polite but skeptical, and Wilma's ardent advocacy seemed to amuse them secretly. For the next two hours I talked, explained and answered questions. I had to explain, in detail, the manner of my life in the 20th Century and my understanding of customs, habits, business, science and the history of that period, and about developments in the centuries that had elapsed. Had I been in a classroom, I would have come through the examination with a very poor mark, for I was unable to give any answer to fully half of their questions. But before long I realized that the majority of these questions were designed as traps. Objects, of whose purpose I knew nothing, were casually handed to me, and I was watched keenly as I handled them. In the end I could see both amazement and belief begin to show in the faces of my inquisitors, and at last the Historical and Psycho Bosses agreed openly that they could find no flaw in my story or reactions, and that unbelievable as it seemed, my story must be accepted as genuine. They took me at once to Big Boss Hart. He was a portly man with a "poker face." He would probably have been the successful politician even in the 20th Century. They gave him a brief outline of my story and a report of their examination of me. He made no comment other than to nod his acceptance of it. Then he turned to me. "How does it feel?" he asked. "Do we look funny to you?" "A bit strange," I admitted. "But I'm beginning to lose that dazed feeling, though I can see I have an awful lot to learn." "Maybe we can learn some things from you, too," he said. "So you fought in the First World War. Do you know, we have very little left in the way of records of the details of that war, that is, the precise conditions under which it was fought, and the tactics employed. We forgot many things during the Han terror, and--well, I think you might have a lot of ideas worth thinking over for our raid masters. By the way, now that you're here, and can't go back to your own century, so to speak, what do you want to do? You're welcome to become one of us. Or perhaps you'd just like to visit with us for a while, and then look around among the other gangs. Maybe you'd like some of the others better. Don't make up your mind now. We'll put you down as an exchange for a while. Let's see. You and Bill Hearn ought to get along well together. He's Camp Boss of Number 34 when he isn't acting as Raid Boss or Scout Boss. There's a vacancy in his camp. Stay with him and think things over as long as you want to. As soon as you make up your mind to anything, let me know." We all shook hands, for that was one custom that had not died out in five hundred years, and I set out with Bill Hearn. Bill, like all the others, was clad in green. He was a big man. That is, he was about my own height, five feet eleven. This was considerably above the average now, for the race had lost something in stature, it seemed, through the vicissitudes of five centuries. Most of the women were a bit below five feet, and the men only a trifle above this height. For a period of two weeks Bill was to confine himself to camp duties, so I had a good chance to familiarize myself with the community life. It was not easy. There were so many marvels to absorb. I never ceased to wonder at the strange combination of rustic social life and feverish industrial activity. At least, it was strange to me. For in my experience, industrial development meant crowded cities, tenements, paved streets, profusion of vehicles, noise, hurrying men and women with strained or dull faces, vast structures and ornate public works. Here, however, was rustic simplicity, apparently isolated families and groups, living in the heart of the forest, with a quarter of a mile or more between households, a total absence of crowds, no means of conveyance other than the belts called jumpers, almost constantly worn by everybody, and an occasional rocket ship, used only for longer journeys, and underground plants or factories that were to my mind more like laboratories and engine rooms; many of them were excavations as deep as mines, with well finished, lighted and comfortable interiors. These people were adepts at camouflage against air observation. Not only would their activity have been unsuspected by an airship passing over the center of the community, but even by an enemy who might happen to drop through the screen of the upper branches to the floor of the forest. The camps, or household structures, were all irregular in shape and of colors that blended with the great trees among which they were hidden. There were 724 dwellings or "camps" among the Wyomings, located within an area of about fifteen square miles. The total population was 8,688, every man, woman and child, whether member or "exchange," being listed. The plants were widely scattered through the territory also. Nowhere was anything like congestion permitted. So far as possible, families and individuals were assigned to living quarters, not too far from the plants or offices in which their work lay. All able-bodied men and women alternated in two-week periods between military and industrial service, except those who were needed for household work. Since working conditions in the plants and offices were ideal, and everybody thus had plenty of healthy outdoor activity in addition, the population was sturdy and active. Laziness was regarded as nearly the greatest of social offenses. Hard work and general merit were variously rewarded with extra privileges, advancement to positions of authority, and with various items of personal equipment for convenience and luxury. In leisure moments, I got great enjoyment from sitting outside the dwelling in which I was quartered with Bill Hearn and ten other men, watching the occasional passers-by, as with leisurely, but swift movements, they swung up and down the forest trail, rising from the ground in long almost-horizontal leaps, occasionally swinging from one convenient branch overhead to another before "sliding" back to the ground farther on. Normal traveling pace, where these trails were straight enough, was about twenty miles an hour. Such things as automobiles and railroad trains (the memory of them not more than a month old in my mind) seemed inexpressibly silly and futile compared with such convenience as these belts or jumpers offered. Bill suggested that I wander around for several days, from plant to plant, to observe and study what I could. The entire community had been apprised of my coming, my rating as an "exchange" reaching every building and post in the community, by means of ultronic broadcast. Everywhere I was welcomed in an interested and helpful spirit. I visited the plants where ultronic vibrations were isolated from the ether and through slow processes built up into sub-electronic, electronic and atomic forms into the two great synthetic elements, ultron and inertron. I learned something, superficially at least, of the processes of combined chemical and mechanical action through which were produced the various forms of synthetic cloth. I watched the manufacture of the machines which were used at locations of construction to produce the various forms of building materials. But I was particularly interested in the munitions plants and the rocket-ship shops. Ultron is a solid of great molecular density and moderate elasticity, which has the property of being 100 percent conductive to those pulsations known as light, electricity and heat. Since it is completely permeable to light vibrations, it is therefore _absolutely invisible and non-reflective_. Its magnetic response is almost, but not quite, 100 percent also. It is therefore very heavy under normal conditions but extremely responsive to the _repellor_ or anti-gravity rays, such as the Hans use as "_legs_" for their airships. Inertron is the second great triumph of American research and experimentation with ultronic forces. It was developed just a few years before my awakening in the abandoned mine. It is a synthetic element, built up, through a complicated heterodyning of ultronic pulsations, from "infra-balanced" sub-ionic forms. It is completely inert to both electric and magnetic forces in all the orders above the _ultronic_; that is to say, the _sub-electronic_, the _electronic_, the _atomic_ and the _molecular_. In consequence it has a number of amazing and valuable properties. One of these is _the total lack of weight_. Another is a total lack of heat. It has no molecular vibration whatever. It reflects 100 percent of the heat and light impinging upon it. It does not feel cold to the touch, of course, since it will not absorb the heat of the hand. It is a solid, very dense in molecular structure despite its lack of weight, of great strength and considerable elasticity. It is a perfect shield against the disintegrator rays. [Illustration: Setting his rocket gun for a long-distance shot.] Rocket guns are very simple contrivances so far as the mechanism of launching the bullet is concerned. They are simple light tubes, closed at the rear end, with a trigger-actuated pin for piercing the thin skin at the base of the cartridge. This piercing of the skin starts the chemical and atomic reaction. The entire cartridge leaves the tube under its own power, at a very easy initial velocity, just enough to insure accuracy of aim; so the tube does not have to be of heavy construction. The bullet increases in velocity as it goes. It may be solid or explosive. It may explode on contact or on time, or a combination of these two. Bill and I talked mostly of weapons, military tactics and strategy. Strangely enough he had no idea whatever of the possibilities of the barrage, though the tremendous effect of a "curtain of fire" with such high-explosive projectiles as these modern rocket guns used was obvious to me. But the barrage idea, it seemed, has been lost track of completely in the air wars that followed the First World War, and in the peculiar guerilla tactics developed by Americans in the later period of operations from the ground against Han airships, and in the gang wars which, until a few generations ago I learned, had been almost continuous. "I wonder," said Bill one day, "if we couldn't work up some form of barrage to spring on the Bad Bloods. The Big Boss told me today that he's been in communication with the other gangs, and all are agreed that the Bad Bloods might as well be wiped out for good. That attempt on Wilma Deering's life and their evident desire to make trouble among the gangs, has stirred up every community east of the Alleghenies. The Boss says that none of the others will object if we go after them. So I imagine that before long we will. Now show me again how you worked that business in the Argonne forest. The conditions ought to be pretty much the same." I went over it with him in detail, and gradually we worked out a modified plan that would be better adapted to our more powerful weapons, and the use of jumpers. "It will be easy," Bill exulted. "I'll slide down and talk it over with the Boss tomorrow." During the first two weeks of my stay with the Wyomings, Wilma Deering and I saw a great deal of each other. I naturally felt a little closer friendship for her, in view of the fact that she was the first human being I saw after waking from my long sleep; her appreciation of my saving her life, though I could not have done otherwise than I did in that matter, and most of all my own appreciation of the fact that she had not found it as difficult as the others to believe my story, operated in the same direction. I could easily imagine my story must have sounded incredible. It was natural enough too, that she should feel an unusual interest in me. In the first place, I was her personal discovery. In the second, she was a girl of studious and reflective turn of mind. She never got tired of my stories and descriptions of the 20th Century. The others of the community, however, seemed to find our friendship a bit amusing. It seemed that Wilma had a reputation for being cold toward the opposite sex, and so others, not being able to appreciate some of her fine qualities as I did, misinterpreted her attitude, much to their own delight. Wilma and I, however, ignored this as much as we could. CHAPTER IV A Han Air Raid There was a girl in Wilma's camp named Gerdi Mann, with whom Bill Hearn was desperately in love, and the four of us used to go around a lot together. Gerdi was a distinct type. Whereas Wilma had the usual dark brown hair and hazel eyes that marked nearly every member of the community, Gerdi had red hair, blue eyes and very fair skin. She has been dead many years now, but I remember her vividly because she was a throwback in physical appearance to a certain 20th Century type which I have found very rare among modern Americans; also because the four of us were engaged one day in a discussion of this very point, when I obtained my first experience of a Han air raid. We were sitting high on the side of a hill overlooking the valley that teemed with human activity, invisible beneath its blanket of foliage. The other three, who knew of the Irish but vaguely and indefinitely, as a race on the other side of the globe, which, like ourselves, had succeeded in maintaining a precarious and fugitive existence in rebellion against the Mongolian domination of the earth, were listening with interest to my theory that Gerdi's ancestors of several hundred years ago must have been Irish. I explained that Gerdi was an Irish type, evidently a throwback, and that her surname might well have been McMann, or McMahan, and still more anciently "mac Mathghamhain." They were interested too in my surmise that "Gerdi" was the same name as that which had been "Gerty" or "Gertrude" in the 20th Century. In the middle of our discussion, we were startled by an alarm rocket that burst high in the air, far to the north, spreading a pall of red smoke that drifted like a cloud. It was followed by others at scattered points in the northern sky. "A Han raid!" Bill exclaimed in amazement. "The first in seven years!" "Maybe it's just one of their ships off its course," I ventured. "No," said Wilma in some agitation. "That would be green rockets. Red means only one thing, Tony. They're sweeping the countryside with their dis beams. Can you see anything, Bill?" "We had better get under cover," Gerdi said nervously. "The four of us are bunched here in the open. For all we know they may be twelve miles up, out of sight, yet looking at us with a projecto'." Bill had been sweeping the horizon hastily with his glass, but apparently saw nothing. "We had better scatter, at that," he said finally. "It's orders, you know. See!" He pointed to the valley. Here and there a tiny human figure shot for a moment above the foliage of the treetops. "That's bad," Wilma commented, as she counted the jumpers. "No less than fifteen people visible, and all clearly radiating from a central point. Do they want to give away our location?" The standard orders covering air raids were that the population was to scatter individually. There should be no grouping, or even pairing, in view of the destructiveness of the disintegrator rays. Experience of generations had proved that if this were done, and everybody remained hidden beneath the tree screens, the Hans would have to sweep mile after mile of territory, foot by foot, to catch more than a small percentage of the community. Gerdi, however, refused to leave Bill, and Wilma developed an equal obstinacy against quitting my side. I was inexperienced at this sort of thing, she explained, quite ignoring the fact that she was too; she was only thirteen or fourteen years old at the time of the last air raid. However, since I could not argue her out of it, we leaped together about a quarter of a mile to the right, while Bill and Gerdi disappeared down the hillside among the trees. Wilma and I both wanted a point of vantage from which we might overlook the valley and the sky to the north, and we found it near the top of the ridge, where, protected from visibility by thick branches, we could look out between the tree trunks, and get a good view of the valley. No more rockets went up. Except for a few of those warning red clouds, drifting lazily in a blue sky, there was no visible indication of man's past or present existence anywhere in the sky or on the ground. Then Wilma gripped my arm and pointed. I saw it; away off in the distance; looking like a phantom dirigible airship, in its coat of low-visibility paint, a bare spectre. "Seven thousand feet up," Wilma whispered, crouching close to me. "Watch." The ship was about the same shape as the great dirigibles of the 20th Century that I had seen, but without the suspended control car, engines, propellors, rudders or elevating planes. As it loomed rapidly nearer, I saw that it was wider and somewhat flatter than I had supposed. Now I could see the repellor rays that held the ship aloft, like searchlight beams faintly visible in the bright daylight (and still faintly visible to the human eye at night). Actually, I had been informed by my instructors, there were two rays; the visible one generated by the ship's apparatus, and directed toward the ground as a beam of "carrier" impulses; and the true repellor ray, the complement of the other in one sense, induced by the action of the "carrier" and reacting in a concentrating upward direction from the mass of the earth, becoming successively electronic, atomic and finally molecular, in its nature, according to various ratios of distance between earth mass and "carrier" source, until, in the last analysis, the ship itself actually is supported on an upward rushing column of air, much like a ball continuously supported on a fountain jet. The raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum. The ship was operating two disintegrator rays, though only in a casual, intermittent fashion. But whenever they flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them. When later I inspected the scars left by these rays I found them some five feet deep and thirty feet wide, the exposed surfaces being lava-like in texture, but of a pale, iridescent, greenish hue. No systematic use of the rays was made by the ship, however, until it reached a point over the center of the valley--the center of the community's activities. There it came to a sudden stop by shooting its repellor beams sharply forward and easing them back gradually to the vertical, holding the ship floating and motionless. Then the work of destruction began systematically. Back and forth traveled the destroying rays, ploughing parallel furrows from hillside to hillside. We gasped in dismay, Wilma and I, as time after time we saw it plough through sections where we knew camps or plants were located. "This is awful," she moaned, a terrified question in her eyes. "How could they know the location so exactly, Tony? Did you see? They were never in doubt. They stalled at a predetermined spot--and--and it was exactly the right spot." We did not talk of what might happen if the rays were turned in our direction. We both knew. We would simply disintegrate in a split second into mere scattered electronic vibrations. Strangely enough, it was this self-reliant girl of the 25th Century, who clung to me, a relatively primitive man of the 20th, less familiar than she with the thought of this terrifying possibility, for moral support. We knew that many of our companions must have been whisked into absolute non-existence before our eyes in these few moments. The whole thing paralyzed us into mental and physical immobility for I do not know how long. It couldn't have been long, however, for the rays had not ploughed more than thirty of their twenty-foot furrows or so across the valley, when I regained control of myself, and brought Wilma to herself by shaking her roughly. "How far will this rocket gun shoot, Wilma?" I demanded, drawing my pistol. "It depends on your rocket, Tony. It will take even the longest range rocket, but you could shoot more accurately from a longer tube. But why? You couldn't penetrate the shell of that ship with rocket force, even if you could reach it." I fumbled clumsily with my rocket pouch, for I was excited. I had an idea I wanted to try; a "hunch" I called it, forgetting that Wilma could not understand my ancient slang. But finally, with her help, I selected the longest range explosive rocket in my pouch, and fitted it to my pistol. "It won't carry seven thousand feet, Tony," Wilma objected. But I took aim carefully. It was another thought that I had in my mind. The supporting repellor ray, I had been told, became molecular in character at what was called a logarithmic level of five (below that it was a purely electronic "flow" or pulsation between the source of the "carrier" and the average mass of the earth). Below that level if I could project my explosive bullet into this stream where it began to carry material substance upward, might it not rise with the air column, gathering speed and hitting the ship with enough impact to carry it through the shell? It was worth trying anyhow. Wilma became greatly excited, too, when she grasped the nature of my inspiration. Feverishly I looked around for some formation of branches against which I could rest the pistol, for I had to aim most carefully. At last I found one. Patiently I sighted on the hulk of the ship far above us, aiming at the far side of it, at such an angle as would, so far as I could estimate, bring my bullet path through the forward repellor beam. At last the sights wavered across the point I sought and I pressed the button gently. For a moment we gazed breathlessly. Suddenly the ship swung bow down, as on a pivot, and swayed like a pendulum. Wilma screamed in her excitement. "Oh, Tony, you hit it! You hit it! Do it again; bring it down!" We had only one more rocket of extreme range between us, and we dropped it three times in our excitement in inserting it in my gun. Then, forcing myself to be calm by sheer will power, while Wilma stuffed her little fist into her mouth to keep from shrieking, I sighted carefully again and fired. In a flash, Wilma had grasped the hope that this discovery of mine might lead to the end of the Han domination. The elapsed time of the rocket's invisible flight seemed an age. Then we saw the ship falling. It seemed to plunge lazily, but actually it fell with terrific acceleration, turning end over end, its disintegrator rays, out of control, describing vast, wild arcs, and once cutting a gash through the forest less than two hundred feet from where we stood. The crash with which the heavy craft hit the ground reverberated from the hills--the momentum of eighteen or twenty thousand tons, in a sheer drop of seven thousand feet. A mangled mass of metal, it buried itself in the ground, with poetic justice, in the middle of the smoking, semi-molten field of destruction it had been so deliberately ploughing. The silence, the vacuity of the landscape, was oppressive, as the last echoes died away. Then far down the hillside, a single figure leaped exultantly above the foliage screen. And in the distance another, and another. In a moment the sky was punctured by signal rockets. One after another the little red puffs became drifting clouds. "Scatter! Scatter!" Wilma exclaimed. "In half an hour there'll be an entire Han fleet here from Nu-yok, and another from Bah-flo. They'll get this instantly on their recordographs and location finders. They'll blast the whole valley and the country for miles beyond. Come, Tony. There's no time for the gang to rally. See the signals. We've got to jump. Oh, I'm so proud of you!" Over the ridge we went, in long leaps toward the east, the country of the Delawares. From time to time signal rockets puffed in the sky. Most of them were the "red warnings," the "scatter" signals. But from certain of the others, which Wilma identified as Wyoming rockets, she gathered that whoever was in command (we did not know whether the Boss was alive or not) was ordering an ultimate rally toward the south, and so we changed our course. It was a great pity, I thought, that the clan had not been equipped throughout its membership with ultrophones, but Wilma explained to me, that not enough of these had been built for distribution as yet, although general distribution had been contemplated within a couple of months. We traveled far before nightfall overtook us, trying only to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the valley. When gathering dusk made jumping too dangerous, we sought a comfortable spot beneath the trees, and consumed part of our emergency rations. It was the first time I had tasted the stuff--a highly nutritive synthetic substance called "concentro," which was, however, a bit bitter and unpalatable. But as only a mouthful or so was needed, it did not matter. Neither of us had a cloak, but we were both thoroughly tired and happy, so we curled up together for warmth. I remember Wilma making some sleepy remark about our mating, as she cuddled up, as though the matter were all settled, and my surprise at my own instant acceptance of the idea, for I had not consciously thought of her that way before. But we both fell asleep at once. In the morning we found little time for love making. The practical problem facing us was too great. Wilma felt that the Wyoming plan must be to rally in the Susquanna territory, but she had her doubts about the wisdom of this plan. In my elation at my success in bringing down the Han ship, and my newly found interest in my charming companion, who was, from my viewpoint of another century, at once more highly civilized and yet more primitive than myself, I had forgotten the ominous fact that the Han ship I had destroyed must have known the exact location of the Wyoming Works. This meant, to Wilma's logical mind, either that the Hans had perfected new instruments as yet unknown to us, or that somewhere, among the Wyomings or some other nearby gang, there were traitors so degraded as to commit that unthinkable act of trafficking in information with the Hans. In either contingency, she argued, other Han raids would follow, and since the Susquannas had a highly developed organization and more than usually productive plants, the next raid might be expected to strike them. But at any rate it was clearly our business to get in touch with the other fugitives as quickly as possible, so in spite of muscles that were sore from the excessive leaping of the day before, we continued on our way. We traveled for only a couple of hours when we saw a multi-colored rocket in the sky, some ten miles ahead of us. "Bear to the left, Tony," Wilma said, "and listen for the whistle." "Why?" I asked. "Haven't they given you the rocket code yet?" she replied. "That's what the green, followed by yellow and purple means; to concentrate five miles east of the rocket position. You know the rocket position itself might draw a play of disintegrator beams." It did not take us long to reach the neighborhood of the indicated rallying, though we were now traveling beneath the trees, with but an occasional leap to a top branch to see if any more rocket smoke was floating above. And soon we heard a distant whistle. We found about half the Gang already there, in a spot where the trees met high above a little stream. The Big Boss and Raid Bosses were busy reorganizing the remnants. We reported to Boss Hart at once. He was silent, but interested, when he heard our story. "You two stick close to me," he said, adding grimly, "I'm going back to the valley at once with a hundred picked men, and I'll need you." CHAPTER V Setting the Trap Inside of fifteen minutes we were on our way. A certain amount of caution was sacrificed for the sake of speed, and the men leaped away either across the forest top, or over open spaces of ground, but concentration was forbidden. The Big Boss named the spot on the hillside as the rallying point. "We'll have to take a chance on being seen, so long as we don't group," he declared, "at least until within five miles of the rallying spot. From then on I want every man to disappear from sight and to travel under cover. And keep your ultrophones open, and tuned on ten-four-seven-six." Wilma and I had received our battle equipment from the Gear boss. It consisted of a long-gun, a hand-gun, with a special case of ammunition constructed of inertron, which made the load weigh but a few ounces, and a short sword. This gear we strapped over each other's shoulders, on top of our jumping belts. In addition, we each received an ultrophone, and a light inertron blanket rolled into a cylinder about six inches long by two or three in diameter. This fabric was exceedingly thin and light, but it had considerable warmth, because of the mixture of inertron in its composition. [Illustration: The Han raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum.... Whenever the disintegrator rays flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them.] "This looks like business," Wilma remarked to me with sparkling eyes. (And I might mention a curious thing here. The word "business" had survived from the 20th Century American vocabulary, but not with any meaning of "industry" or "trade," for such things being purely community activities were spoken of as "work" and "clearing." Business simply meant fighting, and that was all.) "Did you bring all this equipment from the valley?" I asked the Gear Boss. "No," he said. "There was no time to gather anything. All this stuff we cleared from the Susquannas a few hours ago. I was with the Boss on the way down, and he had me jump on ahead and arrange it. But you two had better be moving. He's beckoning you now." Hart was about to call us on our phones when we looked up. As soon as we did so, he leaped away, waving us to follow closely. He was a powerful man, and he darted ahead in long, swift, low leaps up the banks of the stream, which followed a fairly straight course at this point. By extending ourselves, however, Wilma and I were able to catch up to him. As we gradually synchronized our leaps with his, he outlined to us, between the grunts that accompanied each leap, his plan of action. "We have to start the big business--unh--sooner or later," he said. "And if--unh--the Hans have found any way of locating our positions--unh--it's time to start now, although the Council of Bosses--unh--had intended waiting a few years until enough rocket ships have been--unh--built. But no matter what the sacrifice--unh--we can't afford to let them get us on the run--unh--. We'll set a trap for the yellow devils in the--unh--valley if they come back for their wreckage--unh--and if they don't, we'll go rocketing for some of their liners--unh--on the Nu-yok, Clee-lan, Si-ka-ga course. We can use--unh--that idea of yours of shooting up the repellor--unh--beams. Want you to give us a demonstration." With further admonition to follow him closely, he increased his pace, and Wilma and I were taxed to our utmost to keep up with him. It was only in ascending the slopes that my tougher muscles overbalanced his greater skill, and I was able to set the pace for him, as I had for Wilma. We slept in greater comfort that night, under our inertron blankets, and were off with the dawn, leaping cautiously to the top of the ridge overlooking the valley which Wilma and I had left. The Boss scanned the sky with his ultroscope, patiently taking some fifteen minutes to the task, and then swung his phone into use, calling the roll and giving the men their instructions. His first order was for us all to slip our ear and chest discs into permanent position. These ultrophones were quite different from the one used by Wilma's companion scout the day I saved her from the vicious attack of the bandit Gang. That one was contained entirely in a small pocket case. These, with which we were now equipped, consisted of a pair of ear discs, each a separate and self-contained receiving set. They slipped into little pockets over our ears in the fabric helmets we wore, and shut out virtually all extraneous sounds. The chest discs were likewise self-contained sending sets, strapped to the chest a few inches below the neck and actuated by the vibrations from the vocal cords through the body tissues. The total range of these sets was about eighteen miles. Reception was remarkably clear, quite free from the static that so marked the 20th Century radios, and of a strength in direct proportion to the distance of the speaker. The Boss' set was triple powered, so that his orders would cut in on any local conversations, which were indulged in, however, with great restraint, and only for the purpose of maintaining contacts. I marveled at the efficiency of this modern method of battle communication in contrast to the clumsy signaling devices of more ancient times; and also at other military contrasts in which the 20th and 25th Century methods were the reverse of each other in efficiency. These modern Americans, for instance, knew little of hand to hand fighting, and nothing, naturally, of trench warfare. Of barrages they were quite ignorant, although they possessed weapons of terrific power. And until my recent flash of inspiration, no one among them, apparently, had ever thought of the scheme of shooting a rocket into a repellor beam and letting the beam itself hurl it upward into the most vital part of the Han ship. Hart patiently placed his men, first giving his instructions to the campmasters, and then remaining silent, while they placed the individuals. In the end, the hundred men were ringed about the valley, on the hillsides and tops, each in a position from which he had a good view of the wreckage of the Han ship. But not a man had come in view, so far as I could see, in the whole process. The Boss explained to me that it was his idea that he, Wilma and I should investigate the wreck. If Han ships should appear in the sky, we would leap for the hillsides. I suggested to him to have the men set up their long-guns trained on an imaginary circle surrounding the wreck. He busied himself with this after the three of us leaped down to the Han ship, serving as a target himself, while he called on the men individually to aim their pieces and lock them in position. In the meantime Wilma and I climbed into the wreckage, but did not find much. Practically all of the instruments and machinery had been twisted out of all recognizable shape, or utterly destroyed by the ship's disintegrator rays which apparently had continued to operate in the midst of its warped remains for some moments after the crash. It was unpleasant work searching the mangled bodies of the crew. But it had to be done. The Han clothing, I observed, was quite different from that of the Americans, and in many respects more like the garb to which I had been accustomed in the earlier part of my life. It was made of synthetic fabrics like silks, loose and comfortable trousers of knee length, and sleeveless shirts. No protection, except that against drafts, was needed, Wilma explained to me, for the Han cities were entirely enclosed, with splendid arrangements for ventilation and heating. These arrangements of course were equally adequate in their airships. The Hans, indeed, had quite a distaste for unshaded daylight, since their lighting apparatus diffused a controlled amount of violet rays, making the unmodified sunlight unnecessary for health, and undesirable for comfort. Since the Hans did not have the secret of inertron, none of them wore anti-gravity belts. Yet in spite of the fact that they had to bear their own full weights at all times, they were physically far inferior to the Americans, for they lived lives of degenerative physical inertia, having machinery of every description for the performance of all labor, and convenient conveyances for any movement of more than a few steps. Even from the twisted wreckage of this ship I could see that seats, chairs and couches played an extremely important part in their scheme of existence. But none of the bodies were overweight. They seemed to have been the bodies of men in good health, but muscularly much underdeveloped. Wilma explained to me that they had mastered the science of gland control, and of course dietetics, to the point where men and women among them not uncommonly reached the age of a hundred years with arteries and general health in splendid condition. I did not have time to study the ship and its contents as carefully as I would have liked, however. Time pressed, and it was our business to discover some clue to the deadly accuracy with which the ship had spotted the Wyoming Works. The Boss had hardly finished his arrangements for the ring barrage, when one of the scouts on an eminence to the north, announced the approach of seven Han ships, spread out in a great semi-circle. Hart leaped for the hillside, calling to us to do likewise, but Wilma and I had raised the flaps of our helmets and switched off our "speakers" for conversation between ourselves, and by the time we discovered what had happened, the ships were clearly visible, so fast were they approaching. "Jump!" we heard the Boss order, "Deering to the north. Rogers to the east." But Wilma looked at me meaningly and pointed to where the twisted plates of the ship, projecting from the ground, offered a shelter. "Too late, Boss," she said. "They'd see us. Besides I think there's something here we ought to look at. It's probably their magnetic graph." "You're signing your death warrant," Hart warned. "We'll risk it," said Wilma and I together. "Good for you," replied the Boss. "Take command then, Rogers, for the present. Do you all know his voice, boys?" A chorus of assent rang in our ears, and I began to do some fast thinking as the girl and I ducked into the twisted mass of metal. "Wilma, hunt for that record," I said, knowing that by the simple process of talking I could keep the entire command continuously informed as to the situation. "On the hillsides, keep your guns trained on the circles and stand by. On the hilltops, how many of you are there? Speak in rotation from Bald Knob around to the east, north, west." In turn the men called their names. There were twenty of them. I assigned them by name to cover the various Han ships, numbering the latter from left to right. "Train your rockets on their repellor rays about three-quarters of the way up, between ships and ground. Aim is more important than elevation. Follow those rays with your aim continuously. Shoot when I tell you, not before. Deering has the record. The Hans probably have not seen us, or at least think there are but two of us in the valley, since they're settling without opening up disintegrators. Any opinions?" My ear discs remained silent. "Deering and I remain here until they land and debark. Stand by and keep alert." Rapidly and easily the largest of the Han ships settled to the earth. Three scouted sharply to the south, rising to a higher level. The others floated motionless about a thousand feet above. Peeping through a small fissure between two plates, I saw the vast hulk of the ship come to rest full on the line of our prospective ring barrage. A door clanged open a couple of feet from the ground, and one by one the crew emerged. CHAPTER VI The "Wyoming Massacre" "They're coming out of the ship." I spoke quietly, with my hand over my mouth, for fear they might hear me. "One--two--three--four, five--six--seven--eight--nine. That seems to be all. Who knows how many men a ship like that is likely to carry?" "About ten, if there are no passengers," replied one of my men, probably one of those on the hillside. "How are they armed?" I asked. "Just knives," came the reply. "They never permit hand-rays on the ships. Afraid of accidents. Have a ruling against it." "Leave them to us then," I said, for I had a hastily formed plan in my mind. "You, on the hillsides, take the ships above. Abandon the ring target. Divide up in training on those repellor rays. You, on the hilltops, all train on the repellors of the ships to the south. Shoot at the word, but not before. "Wilma, crawl over to your left where you can make a straight leap for the door in that ship. These men are all walking around the wreck in a bunch. When they're on the far side, I'll give the word and you leap through that door in one bound. I'll follow. Maybe we won't be seen. We'll overpower the guard inside, but don't shoot. We may escape being seen by both this crew and ships above. They can't see over this wreck." It was so easy that it seemed too good to be true. The Hans who had emerged from the ship walked round the wreckage lazily, talking in guttural tones, keenly interested in the wreck, but quite unsuspicious. At last they were on the far side. In a moment they would be picking their way into the wreck. "Wilma, leap!" I almost whispered the order. The distance between Wilma's hiding place and the door in the side of the Han ship was not more than fifteen feet. She was already crouched with her feet braced against a metal beam. Taking the lift of that wonderful inertron belt into her calculation, she dove headforemost, like a green projectile, through the door. I followed in a split second, more clumsily, but no less speedily, bruising my shoulder painfully, as I ricocheted from the edge of the opening and brought up sliding against the unconscious girl; for she evidently had hit her head against the partition within the ship into which she had crashed. We had made some noise within the ship. Shuffling footsteps were approaching down a well lit gangway. "Any signs we have been observed?" I asked my men on the hillsides. "Not yet," I heard the Boss reply. "Ships overhead still standing. No beams have been broken out. Men on ground absorbed in wreck. Most of them have crawled into it out of sight." "Good," I said quickly. "Deering hit her head. Knocked out. One or more members of the crew approaching. We're not discovered yet. I'll take care of them. Stand a bit longer, but be ready." I think my last words must have been heard by the man who was approaching, for he stopped suddenly. I crouched at the far side of the compartment, motionless. I would not draw my sword if there were only one of them. He would be a weakling, I figured, and I should easily overcome him with my bare hands. Apparently reassured at the absence of any further sound, a man came around a sort of bulkhead--and I leaped. I swung my legs up in front of me as I did so, catching him full in the stomach and knocked him cold. I ran forward along the keel gangway, searching for the control room. I found it well up in the nose of the ship. And it was deserted. What could I do to jam the controls of the ships that would not register on the recording instruments of the other ships? I gazed at the mass of controls. Levers and wheels galore. In the center of the compartment, on a massively braced universal joint mounting, was what I took for the repellor generator. A dial on it glowed and a faint hum came from within its shielding metallic case. But I had no time to study it. Above all else, I was afraid that some automatic telephone apparatus existed in the room, through which I might be heard on the other ships. The risk of trying to jam the controls was too great. I abandoned the idea and withdrew softly. I would have to take a chance that there was no other member of the crew aboard. I ran back to the entrance compartment. Wilma still lay where she had slumped down. I heard the voices of the Hans approaching. It was time to act. The next few seconds would tell whether the ships in the air would try or be able to melt us into nothingness. I spoke. "Are you boys all ready?" I asked, creeping to a position opposite the door and drawing my hand-gun. Again there was a chorus of assent. "Then on the count of three, shoot up those repellor rays--all of them--and for God's sake, don't miss." And I counted. I think my "three" was a bit weak. I know it took all the courage I had to utter it. For an agonizing instant nothing happened, except that the landing party from the ship strolled into my range of vision. Then startled, they turned their eyes upward. For an instant they stood frozen with horror at whatever they saw. One hurled his knife at me. It grazed my cheek. Then a couple of them made a break for the doorway. The rest followed. But I fired pointblank with my hand-gun, pressing the button as fast as I could and aiming at their feet to make sure my explosive rockets would make contact and do their work. The detonations of my rockets were deafening. The spot on which the Hans stood flashed into a blinding glare. Then there was nothing there except their torn and mutilated corpses. They had been fairly bunched, and I got them all. I ran to the door, expecting any instant to be hurled into infinity by the sweep of a disintegrator ray. Some eighth of a mile away I saw one of the ships crash to earth. A disintegrator ray came into my line of vision, wavered uncertainly for a moment and then began to sweep directly toward the ship in which I stood. But it never reached it. Suddenly, like a light switched off, it shot to one side, and a moment later another vast hulk crashed to earth. I looked out, then stepped out on the ground. The only Han ships in the sky were two of the scouts to the south which were hanging perpendicularly, and sagging slowly down. The others must have crashed down while I was deafened by the sound of the explosion of my own rockets. Somebody hit the other repellor ray of one of the two remaining ships and it fell out of sight beyond a hilltop. The other, farther away, drifted down diagonally, its disintegrator ray playing viciously over the ground below it. I shouted with exultation and relief. "Take back the command, Boss!" I yelled. His commands, sending out jumpers in pursuit of the descending ship, rang in my ears, but I paid no attention to them. I leaped back into the compartment of the Han ship and knelt beside my Wilma. Her padded helmet had absorbed much of the blow, I thought; otherwise, her skull might have been fractured. "Oh, my head!" she groaned, coming to as I lifted her gently in my arms and strode out in the open with her. "We must have won, dearest, did we?" "We most certainly did," I reassured her. "All but one crashed and that one is drifting down toward the south; we've captured this one we're in intact. There was only one member of the crew aboard when we dove in." [Illustration: As the American leaped, he swung his legs up in front of him, catching the Han full in the stomach.] Less than an hour afterward the Big Boss ordered the outfit to tune in ultrophones on three-twenty-three to pick up a translated broadcast of the Han intelligence office in Nu-yok from the Susquanna station. It was in the form of a public warning and news item, and read as follows: "This is Public Intelligence Office, Nu-yok, broadcasting warning to navigators of private ships, and news of public interest. The squadron of seven ships, which left Nu-yok this morning to investigate the recent destruction of the GK-984 in the Wyoming Valley, has been destroyed by a series of mysterious explosions similar to those which wrecked the GK-984. "The phones, viewplates, and all other signaling devices of five of the seven ships ceased operating suddenly at approximately the same moment, about seven-four-nine." (According to the Han system of reckoning time, seven and forty-nine one hundredths after midnight.) "After violent disturbances the location finders went out of operation. Electroactivity registers applied to the territory of the Wyoming Valley remain dead. "The Intelligence Office has no indication of the kind of disaster which overtook the squadron except certain evidences of explosive phenomena similar to those in the case of the GK-984, which recently went dead while beaming the valley in a systematic effort to wipe out the works and camps of the tribesmen. The Office considers, as obvious, the deduction that the tribesmen have developed a new, and as yet undetermined, technique of attack on airships, and has recommended to the Heaven-Born that immediate and unlimited authority be given the Navigation Intelligence Division to make an investigation of this technique and develop a defense against it. "In the meantime it urges that private navigators avoid this territory in particular, and in general hold as closely as possible to the official inter-city routes, which now are being patrolled by the entire force of the Military Office, which is beaming the routes generously to a width of ten miles. The Military Office reports that it is at present considering no retaliatory raids against the tribesmen. With the Navigation Intelligence Division, it holds that unless further evidence of the nature of the disaster is developed in the near future, the public interest will be better served, and at smaller cost of life, by a scientific research than by attempts at retaliation, which may bring destruction on all ships engaging therein. So unless further evidence actually is developed, or the Heaven-Born orders to the contrary, the Military will hold to a defensive policy. "Unofficial intimations from Lo-Tan are to the effect that the Heaven-Council has the matter under consideration. "The Navigation Intelligence Office permits the broadcast of the following condensation of its detailed observations: "The squadron proceeded to a position above the Wyoming Valley where the wreck of the GK-984 was known to be, from the record of its location finder before it went dead recently. There the bottom projectoscope relays of all ships registered the wreck of the GK-984. Teleprojectoscope views of the wreck and the bowl of the valley showed no evidence of the presence of tribesmen. Neither ship registers nor base registers showed any indication of electroactivity except from the squadron itself. On orders from the Base Squadron Commander, the LD-248, LK-745 and LG-25 scouted southward at 3,000 feet. The GK-43, GK-981 and GK-220 stood above at 2,500 feet, and the GK-18 landed to permit personal inspection of the wreck by the science committee. The party debarked, leaving one man on board in the control cabin. He set all projectoscopes at universal focus except RB-3," (this meant the third projectoscope from the bow of the ship, on the right-hand side of the lower deck) "with which he followed the landing group as it walked around the wreck. "The first abnormal phenomenon recorded by any of the instruments at Base was that relayed automatically from projectoscope RB-4 of the GK-18, which as the party disappeared from view in back of the wreck, recorded two green missiles of roughly cylindrical shape, projected from the wreckage into the landing compartment of the ship. At such close range these were not clearly defined, owing to the universal focus at which the projectoscope was set. The Base Captain of GK-18 at once ordered the man in the control room to investigate, and saw him leave the control room in compliance with this order. An instant later confused sounds reached the control-room electrophone, such as might be made by a man falling heavily, and footsteps reapproached the control room, a figure entering and leaving the control room hurriedly. The Base Captain now believes, and the stills of the photorecord support his belief, that this was not the crew member who had been left in the control room. Before the Base Captain could speak to him he left the room, nor was any response given to the attention signal the Captain flashed throughout the ship. "At this point projectoscope RB-3 of the ship now out of focus control, dimly showed the landing party walking back toward the ship. RB-4 showed it more clearly. Then on both these instruments, a number of blinding explosives in rapid succession were seen and the electrophone relays registered terrific concussions; the ship's electronic apparatus and projectoscopes apparatus went dead. "Reports of the other ships' Base Observers and Executives, backed by the photorecords, show the explosions as taking place in the midst of the landing party as it returned, evidently unsuspicious, to the ship. Then in rapid succession they indicate that terrific explosions occurred inside and outside the three ships standing above close to their rep-ray generators, and all signals from these ships thereupon went dead. "Of the three ships scouting to the south, the LD-248 suffered an identical fate, at the same moment. Its records add little to the knowledge of the disaster. But with the LK-745 and the LG-25 it was different. "The relay instruments of the LK-745 indicated the destruction by an explosion of the rear rep-ray generator, and that the ship hung stern down for a short space, swinging like a pendulum. The forward viewplates and indicators did not cease functioning, but their records are chaotic, except for one projectoscope still, which shows the bowl of the valley, and the GK-981 falling, but no visible evidence of tribesmen. The control-room viewplate is also a chaotic record of the ship's crew tumbling and falling to the rear wall. Then the forward rep-ray generator exploded, and all signals went dead. "The fate of the LG-25 was somewhat similar, except that this ship hung nose down, and drifted on the wind southward as it slowly descended out of control. "As its control room was shattered, verbal report from its Action Captain was precluded. The record of the interior rear viewplate shows members of the crew climbing toward the rear rep-ray generator in an attempt to establish manual control of it, and increase the lift. The projectoscope relays, swinging in wide arcs, recorded little of value except at the ends of their swings. One of these, from a machine which happened to be set in telescopic focus, shows several views of great value in picturing the falls of the other ships, and all of the rear projectoscope records enable the reconstruction in detail of the pendulum and torsional movements of the ship, and its sag toward the earth. But none of the views showing the forest below contain any indication of tribesmen's presence. A final explosion put this ship out of commission at a height of 1,000 feet, and at a point four miles S. by E. of the center of the valley." The message ended with a repetition of the warning to other airmen to avoid the valley. CHAPTER VII Incredible Treason After receiving this report, and reassurances of support from the Big Bosses of the neighboring Gangs, Hart determined to reestablish the Wyoming Valley community. A careful survey of the territory showed that it was only the northern sections and slopes that had been "beamed" by the first Han ship. The synthetic-fabrics plant had been partially wiped out, though the lower levels underground had not been reached by the dis ray. The forest screen above it, however, had been annihilated, and it was determined to abandon it, after removing all usable machinery and evidences of the processes that might be of interest to the Han scientists, should they return to the valley in the future. The ammunition plant, and the rocket-ship plant, which had just been about to start operation at the time of the raid, were intact, as were the other important plants. Hart brought the Camboss up from the Susquanna Works, and laid out new camp locations, scattering them farther to the south, and avoiding ground which had been seared by the Han beams and the immediate locations of the Han wrecks. During this period, a sharp check was kept upon Han messages, for the phone plant had been one of the first to be put in operation, and when it became evident that the Hans did not intend any immediate reprisals, the entire membership of the community was summoned back, and normal life was resumed. Wilma and I had been married the day after the destruction of the ships, and spent this intervening period in a delightful honeymoon, camping high in the mountains. On our return, we had a camp of our own, of course. We were assigned to location 1017. And as might be expected, we had a great deal of banter over which one of us was Camp Boss. The title stood after my name on the Big Boss' records, and those of the Big Camboss, of course, but Wilma airily held that this meant nothing at all--and generally succeeded in making me admit it whenever she chose. I found myself a full-fledged member of the Gang now, for I had elected to search no farther for a permanent alliance, much as I would have liked to familiarize myself with this 25th Century life in other sections of the country. The Wyomings had a high morale, and had prospered under the rule of Big Boss Hart for many years. But many of the gangs, I found, were badly organized, lacked strong hands in authority, and were rife with intrigue. On the whole, I thought I would be wise to stay with a group which had already proved its friendliness, and in which I seemed to have prospects of advancement. Under these modern social and economic conditions, the kind of individual freedom to which I had been accustomed in the 20th Century was impossible. I would have been as much of a nonentity in every phase of human relationship by attempting to avoid alliances, as any man of the 20th Century would have been politically, who aligned himself with no political party. This entire modern life, it appeared to me, judging from my ancient viewpoint, was organized along what I called "political" lines. And in this connection, it amused me to notice how universal had become the use of the word "boss." The leader, the person in charge or authority over anything, was a "boss." There was as little formality in his relations with his followers as there was in the case of the 20th Century political boss, and the same high respect paid him by his followers as well as the same high consideration by him of their interests. He was just as much of an autocrat, and just as much dependent upon the general popularity of his actions for the ability to maintain his autocracy. The sub-boss who could not command the loyalty of his followers was as quickly deposed, either by them or by his superiors, as the ancient ward leader of the 20th Century who lost control of his votes. As society was organized in the 20th Century, I do not believe the system could have worked in anything but politics. I tremble to think what would have happened, had the attempt been made to handle the A. E. F. this way during the First World War, instead of by that rigid military discipline and complete assumption of the individual as a mere standardized cog in the machine. But owing to the centuries of desperate suffering the people had endured at the hands of the Hans, there developed a spirit of self-sacrifice and consideration for the common good that made the scheme applicable and efficient in all forms of human co-operation. I have a little heresy about all this, however. My associates regard the thought with as much horror as many worthy people of the 20th Century felt in regard to any heretical suggestion that the original outline of government as laid down in the First Constitution did not apply as well to 20th Century conditions as to those of the early 19th. In later years, I felt that there was a certain softening of moral fiber among the people, since the Hans had been finally destroyed with all their works; and Americans have developed a new luxury economy. I have seen signs of the reawakening of greed, of selfishness. The eternal cycle seems to be at work. I fear that slowly, though surely, private wealth is reappearing, codes of inflexibility are developing; they will be followed by corruption, degradation; and in the end some cataclysmic event will end this era and usher in a new one. All this, however, is wandering afar from my story, which concerns our early battles against the Hans, and not our more modern problems of self-control. Our victory over the seven Han ships had set the country ablaze. The secret had been carefully communicated to the other gangs, and the country was agog from one end to the other. There was feverish activity in the ammunition plants, and the hunting of stray Han ships became an enthusiastic sport. The results were disastrous to our hereditary enemies. From the Pacific Coast came the report of a great transpacific liner of 75,000 tons "lift" being brought to earth from a position of invisibility above the clouds. A dozen Sacramentos had caught the hazy outlines of its rep rays approaching them, head-on, in the twilight, like ghostly pillars reaching into the sky. They had fired rockets into it with ease, whereas they would have had difficulty in hitting it if it had been moving at right angles to their position. They got one rep ray. The other was not strong enough to hold it up. It floated to earth, nose down, and since it was unarmed and unarmored, they had no difficulty in shooting it to pieces and massacring its crew and passengers. It seemed barbarous to me. But then I did not have centuries of bitter persecution in my blood. From the Jersey Beaches we received news of the destruction of a Nu-yok-A-lan-a liner. The Sand-snipers, practically invisible in their sand-colored clothing, and half buried along the beaches, lay in wait for days, risking the play of dis beams along the route, and finally registering four hits within a week. The Hans discontinued their service along this route, and as evidence that they were badly shaken by our success, sent no raiders down the Beaches. It was a few weeks later that Big Boss Hart sent for me. "Tony," he said, "There are two things I want to talk to you about. One of them will become public property in a few days, I think. We aren't going to get any more Han ships by shooting up their repellor rays unless we use much larger rockets. They are wise to us now. They're putting armor of great thickness in the hulls of their ships below the rep-ray machines. Near Bah-flo this morning a party of Eries shot one without success. The explosions staggered her, but did not penetrate. As near as we can gather from their reports, their laboratories have developed a new alloy of great tensile strength and elasticity which nevertheless lets the rep rays through like a sieve. Our reports indicate that the Eries' rockets bounced off harmlessly. Most of the party was wiped out as the dis rays went into action on them. "This is going to mean real business for all of the gangs before long. The Big Bosses have just held a national ultrophone council. It was decided that America must organize on a national basis. The first move is to develop sectional organization by Zones. I have been made Superboss of the Mid-Atlantic Zone. "We're in for it now. The Hans are sure to launch reprisal expeditions. If we're to save the race we must keep them away from our camps and plants. I'm thinking of developing a permanent field force, along the lines of the regular armies of the 20th Century you told me about. Its business will be twofold: to carry the warfare as much as possible to the Hans, and to serve as a decoy, to keep their attention from our plants. I'm going to need your help in this. "The other thing I wanted to talk to you about is this: Amazing and impossible as it seems, there is a group, or perhaps an entire gang, somewhere among us, that is betraying us to the Hans. It may be the Bad Bloods, or it may be one of those gangs who live near one of the Han cities. You know, a hundred and fifteen or twenty years ago there were certain of these people's ancestors who actually degraded themselves by mating with the Hans, sometimes even serving them as slaves, in the days before they brought all their service machinery to perfection. "There is such a gang, called the Nagras, up near Bah-flo, and another in Mid-Jersey that men call the Pineys. But I hardly suspect the Pineys. There is little intelligence among them. They wouldn't have the information to give the Hans, nor would they be capable of imparting it. They're absolute savages." "Just what evidence is there that anybody has been clearing information to the Hans?" I asked. "Well," he replied, "first of all there was that raid upon us. That first Han ship knew the location of our plants exactly. You remember it floated directly into position above the valley and began a systematic beaming. Then, the Hans quite obviously have learned that we are picking up their electrophone waves, for they've gone back to their old, but extremely accurate, system of directional control. But we've been getting them for the past week by installing automatic re-broadcast units along the scar paths. This is what the Americans called those strips of country directly under the regular ship routes of the Hans, who as a matter of precaution frequently blasted them with their dis beams to prevent the growth of foliage which might give shelter to the Americans. But they've been beaming those paths so hard, it looks as though they even had information of this strategy. And in addition, they've been using code. Finally, we've picked up three of their messages in which they discuss, with some nervousness, the existence of our 'mysterious' ultrophone." "But they still have no knowledge of the nature and control of ultronic activity?" I asked. "No," said the Big Boss thoughtfully, "they don't seem to have a bit of information about it." "Then it's quite clear," I ventured, "that whoever is 'clearing' us to them is doing it piecemeal. It sounds like a bit of occasional barter, rather than an out-and-out alliance. They're holding back as much information as possible for future bartering, perhaps." "Yes," Hart said, "and it isn't information the Hans are giving in return, but some form of goods, or privilege. The trick would be to locate the goods. I guess I'll have to make a personal trip around among the Big Bosses." CHAPTER VIII The Han City This conversation set me thinking. All of the Han electrophone inter-communication had been an open record to the Americans for a good many years, and the Hans were just finding it out. For centuries they had not regarded us as any sort of a menace. Unquestionably it had never occurred to them to secrete their own records. Somewhere in Nu-yok or Bah-flo, or possibly in Lo-Tan itself, the record of this traitorous transaction would be more or less openly filed. If we could only get at it! I wondered if a raid might not be possible. Bill Hearn and I talked it over with our Han-affairs Boss and his experts. There ensued several days of research, in which the Han records of the entire decade were scanned and analyzed. In the end they picked out a mass of detail, and fitted it together into a very definite picture of the great central filing office of the Hans in Nu-yok, where the entire mass of official records was kept, constantly available for instant projectoscoping to any of the city's offices, and of the system by which the information was filed. The attempt began to look feasible, though Hart instantly turned the idea down when I first presented it to him. It was unthinkable, he said. Sheer suicide. But in the end I persuaded him. "I will need," I said, "Blash, who is thoroughly familiar with the Han library system; Bert Gaunt, who for years has specialized on their military offices; Bill Barker, the ray specialist, and the best swooper pilot we have." _Swoopers_ are one-man and two-man ships, developed by the Americans, with skeleton backbones of inertron (during the war painted green for invisibility against the green forests below) and "bellies" of clear ultron. "That will be Mort Gibbons," said Hart. "We've only got three swoopers left, Tony, but I'll risk one of them if you and the others will voluntarily risk your existences. But mind, I won't urge or order one of you to go. I'll spread the word to every Plant Boss at once to give you anything and everything you need in the way of equipment." When I told Wilma of the plan, I expected her to raise violent and tearful objections, but she didn't. She was made of far sterner stuff than the women of the 20th Century. Not that she couldn't weep as copiously or be just as whimsical on occasion; but she wouldn't weep for the same reasons. She just gave me an unfathomable look, in which there seemed to be a bit of pride, and asked eagerly for the details. I confess I was somewhat disappointed that she could so courageously risk my loss, even though I was amazed at her fortitude. But later I was to learn how little I knew her then. We were ready to slide off at dawn the next morning. I had kissed Wilma good-bye at our camp, and after a final conference over our plans, we boarded our craft and gently glided away over the tree tops on a course, which, after crossing three routes of the Han ships, would take us out over the Atlantic, off the Jersey coast, whence we would come up on Nu-yok from the ocean. Twice we had to nose down and lie motionless on the ground near a route while Han ships passed. Those were tense moments. Had the green back of our ship been observed, we would have been disintegrated in a second. But it wasn't. Once over the water, however, we climbed in a great spiral, ten miles in diameter, until our altimeter registered ten miles. Here Gibbons shut off his rocket motor, and we floated, far above the level of the Atlantic liners, whose course was well to the north of us anyhow, and waited for nightfall. Then Gibbons turned from his control long enough to grin at me. "I have a surprise for you, Tony," he said, throwing back the lid of what I had supposed was a big supply case. And with a sigh of relief, Wilma stepped out of the case. "If you 'go into zero' (a common expression of the day for being annihilated by the disintegrator ray), you don't think I'm going to let you go alone, do you, Tony? I couldn't believe my ears last night when you spoke of going without me, until I realized that you are still five hundred years behind the times in lots of ways. Don't you know, dear heart, that you offered me the greatest insult a husband could give a wife? You didn't, of course." The others, it seemed, had all been in on the secret, and now they would have kidded me unmercifully, except that Wilma's eyes blazed dangerously. At nightfall, we maneuvered to a position directly above the city. This took some time and calculation on the part of Bill Barker, who explained to me that he had to determine our point by ultronic bearings. The slightest resort to an electronic instrument, he feared, might be detected by our enemies' locators. In fact, we did not dare bring our swooper any lower than five miles for fear that its capacity might be reflected in their instruments. Finally, however, he succeeded in locating above the central tower of the city. "If my calculations are as much as ten feet off," he remarked with confidence, "I'll eat the tower. Now the rest is up to you, Mort. See what you can do to hold her steady. No--here, watch this indicator--the red beam, not the green one. See--if you keep it exactly centered on the needle, you're O.K. The width of the beam represents seventeen feet. The tower platform is fifty feet square, so we've got a good margin to work on." For several moments we watched as Gibbons bent over his levers, constantly adjusting them with deft touches of his fingers. After a bit of wavering, the beam remained centered on the needle. "Now," I said, "let's drop." I opened the trap and looked down, but quickly shut it again when I felt the air rushing out of the ship into the rarefied atmosphere in a torrent. Gibbons literally yelled a protest from his instrument board. "I forgot," I mumbled. "Silly of me. Of course, we'll have to drop out of compartment." The compartment, to which I referred, was similar to those in some of the 20th Century submarines. We all entered it. There was barely room for us to stand, shoulder to shoulder. With some struggles, we got into our special air helmets and adjusted the pressure. At our signal, Gibbons exhausted the air in the compartment, pumping it into the body of the ship, and as the little signal light flashed, Wilma threw open the hatch. Setting the ultron-wire reel, I climbed through, and began to slide down gently. We all had our belts on, of course, adjusted to a weight balance of but a few ounces. And the five-mile reel of ultron wire that was to be our guide, was of gossamer fineness, though, anyway, I believe it would have lifted the full weight of the five of us, so strong and tough was this invisible metal. As an extra precaution, since the wire was of the purest metal, and therefore totally invisible, even in daylight, we all had our belts hooked on small rings that slid down the wire. I went down with the end of the wire. Wilma followed a few feet above me, then Barker, Gaunt and Blash. Gibbons, of course, stayed behind to hold the ship in position and control the paying out of the line. We all had our ultrophones in place inside our air helmets, and so could converse with one another and with Gibbons. But at Wilma's suggestion, although we would have liked to let the Big Boss listen in, we kept them adjusted to short-range work, for fear that those who had been clearing with the Hans, and against whom we were on a raid for evidence, might also pick up our conversation. We had no fear that the Hans would hear us. In fact, we had the added advantage that, even after we landed, we could converse freely without danger of their hearing our voices through our air helmets. For a while I could see nothing below but utter darkness. Then I realized, from the feel of the air as much as from anything, that we were sinking through a cloud layer. We passed through two more cloud layers before anything was visible to us. Then there came under my gaze, about two miles below, one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen; the soft, yet brilliant, radiance of the great Han city of Nu-yok. Every foot of its structural members seemed to glow with a wonderful incandescence, tower piled up on tower, and all built on the vast base-mass of the city, which, so I had been told, sheered upward from the surface of the rivers to a height of 728 levels. The city, I noticed with some surprise, did not cover anything like the same area as the New York of the 20th Century. It occupied, as a matter of fact, only the lower half of Manhattan Island, with one section straddling the East River, and spreading out sufficiently over what once had been Brooklyn, to provide berths for the great liners and other air craft. Straight beneath my feet was a tiny dark patch. It seemed the only spot in the entire city that was not aflame with radiance. This was the central tower, in the top floors of which were housed the vast library of record files and the main projectoscope plant. "You can shoot the wire now," I ultrophoned Gibbons, and let go the little weighted knob. It dropped like a plummet, and we followed with considerable speed, but braking our descent with gloved hands sufficiently to see whether the knob, on which a faint light glowed as a signal for ourselves, might be observed by any Han guard or night prowler. Apparently it was not, and we again shot down with accelerated speed. We landed on the roof of the tower without any mishap, and fortunately for our plan, in darkness. Since there was nothing above it on which it would have been worth while to shed illumination, or from which there was any need to observe it, the Hans had neglected to light the tower roof, or indeed to occupy it at all. This was the reason we had selected it as our landing place. As soon as Gibbons had our word, he extinguished the knob light, and the knob, as well as the wire, became totally invisible. At our ultrophoned word, he would light it again. "No gun play now," I warned. "Swords only, and then only if absolutely necessary." Closely bunched, and treading as lightly as only inertron-belted people could, we made our way cautiously through a door and down an inclined plane to the floor below, where Gaunt and Blash assured us the military offices were located. Twice Barker cautioned us to stop as we were about to pass in front of mirror-like "windows" in the passage wall, and flattening ourselves to the floor, we crawled past them. "Projectoscopes," he said. "Probably on automatic record only, at this time of night. Still, we don't want to leave any records for them to study after we're gone." "Were you ever here before?" I asked. "No," he replied, "but I haven't been studying their electrophone communications for seven years without being able to recognize these machines when I run across them." CHAPTER IX The Fight in the Tower So far we had not laid eyes on a Han. The tower seemed deserted. Blash and Gaunt, however, assured me that there would be at least one man on "duty" in the military offices, though he would probably be asleep, and two or three in the library proper and the projectoscope plant. "We've got to put them out of commission," I said. "Did you bring the 'dope' cans, Wilma?" "Yes," she said, "two for each. Here," and she distributed them. We were now two levels below the roof, and at the point where we were to separate. I did not want to let Wilma out of my sight, but it was necessary. According to our plan, Barker was to make his way to the projectoscope plant, Blash and I to the library, and Wilma and Gaunt to the military office. Blash and I traversed a long corridor, and paused at the great arched doorway of the library. Cautiously we peered in. Seated at three great switchboards were library operatives. Occasionally one of them would reach lazily for a lever, or sleepily push a button, as little numbered lights winked on and off. They were answering calls for electrograph and viewplate records on all sorts of subjects from all sections of the city. I apprised my companions of the situation. "Better wait a bit," Blash added. "The calls will lessen shortly." Wilma reported an officer in the military office sound asleep. "Give him the can, then," I said. Barker was to do nothing more than keep watch in the projectoscope plant, and a few moments later he reported himself well concealed, with a splendid view of the floor. "I think we can take a chance now," Blash said to me, and at my nod, he opened the lid of his dope can. Of course, the fumes did not affect us, through our helmets. They were absolutely without odor or visibility, and in a few seconds the librarians were unconscious. We stepped into the room. There ensued considerable cautious observation and experiment on the part of Gaunt, working from the military office, and Blash in the library; while Wilma and I, with drawn swords and sharply attuned microphones, stood guard, and occasionally patrolled nearby corridors. "I hear something approaching," Wilma said after a bit, with excitement in her voice. "It's a soft, gliding sound." "That's an elevator somewhere," Barker cut in from the projectoscope floor. "Can you locate it? I can't hear it." "It's to the east of me," she replied. "And to my west," said I, faintly catching it. "It's between us, Wilma, and nearer you than me. Be careful. Have you got any information yet, Blash and Gaunt?" "Getting it now," one of them replied. "Give us two minutes more." "Keep at it then," I said. "We'll guard." The soft, gliding sound ceased. "I think it's very close to me," Wilma almost whispered. "Come closer, Tony. I have a feeling something is going to happen. I've never known my nerves to get taut like this without reason." In some alarm, I launched myself down the corridor in a great leap toward the intersection whence I knew I could see her. In the middle of my leap my ultrophone registered her gasp of alarm. The next instant I glided to a stop at the intersection to see Wilma backing toward the door of the military office, her sword red with blood, and an inert form on the corridor floor. Two other Hans were circling to either side of her with wicked-looking knives, while a third evidently a high officer, judging by the resplendence of his garb tugged desperately to get an electrophone instrument out of a bulky pocket. If he ever gave the alarm, there was no telling what might happen to us. I was at least seventy feet away, but I crouched low and sprang with every bit of strength in my legs. It would be more correct to say that I dived, for I reached the fellow head on, with no attempt to draw my legs beneath me. Some instinct must have warned him, for he turned suddenly as I hurtled close to him. But by this time I had sunk close to the floor, and had stiffened myself rigidly, lest a dragging knee or foot might just prevent my reaching him. I brought my blade upward and over. It was a vicious slash that laid him open, bisecting him from groin to chin, and his dead body toppled down on me, as I slid to a tangled stop. The other two startled, turned. Wilma leaped at one and struck him down with a side slash. I looked up at this instant, and the dazed fear on his face at the length of her leap registered vividly. The Hans knew nothing of our inertron belts, it seemed, and these leaps and dives of ours filled them with terror. As I rose to my feet, a gory mess, Wilma, with a poise and speed which I found time to admire even in this crisis, again leaped. This time she dove head first as I had done and, with a beautifully executed thrust, ran the last Han through the throat. Uncertainly, she scrambled to her feet, staggered queerly, and then sank gently prone on the corridor. She had fainted. At this juncture, Blash and Gaunt reported with elation that they had the record we wanted. "Back to the roof, everybody!" I ordered, as I picked Wilma up in my arms. With her inertron belt, she felt as light as a feather. Gaunt joined me at once from the military office, and at the intersection of the corridor, we came upon Blash waiting for us. Barker, however, was not in evidence. "Where are you, Barker?" I called. "Go ahead," he replied. "I'll be with you on the roof at once." We came out in the open without any further mishap, and I instructed Gibbons in the ship to light the knob on the end of the ultron wire. It flashed dully a few feet away from us. Just how he had maneuvered the ship to keep our end of the line in position, without its swinging in a tremendous arc, I have never been able to understand. Had not the night been an unusually still one, he could not have checked the initial pendulum-like movements. As it was, there was considerable air current at certain of the levels, and in different directions too. But Gibbons was an expert of rare ability and sensitivity in the handling of a rocket ship, and he managed, with the aid of his delicate instruments, to sense the drifts almost before they affected the fine ultron wire, and to neutralize them with little shifts in the position of the ship. Blash and Gaunt fastened their rings to the wire, and I hooked my own and Wilma's on, too. But on looking around, I found Barker was still missing. "Barker, come!" I called. "We're waiting." "Coming!" he replied, and indeed, at that instant, his figure appeared up the ramp. He chuckled as he fastened his ring to the wire, and said something about a little surprise he had left for the Hans. "Don't reel in the wire more than a few hundred feet," I instructed Gibbons. "It will take too long to wind it in. We'll float up, and when we're aboard, we can drop it." In order to float up, we had to dispense with a pound or two of weight apiece. We hurled our swords from us, and kicked off our shoes as Gibbons reeled up the line a bit, and then letting go of the wire, began to hum upward on our rings with increasing velocity. The rush of air brought Wilma to, and I hastily explained to her that we had been successful. Receding far below us now, I could see our dully shining knob swinging to and fro in an ever widening arc, as it crossed and recrossed the black square of the tower roof. As an extra precaution, I ordered Gibbons to shut off the light, and to show one from the belly of the ship, for so great was our speed now, that I began to fear we would have difficulty in checking ourselves. We were literally falling upward, and with terrific acceleration. Fortunately, we had several minutes in which to solve this difficulty, which none of us, strangely enough, had foreseen. It was Gibbons who found the answer. "You'll be all right if all of you grab the wire tight when I give the word," he said. "First I'll start reeling it in at full speed. You won't get much of a jar, and then I'll decrease its speed again gradually, and its weight will hold you back. Are you ready? One--two--three!" We all grabbed tightly with our gloved hands as he gave the word. We must have been rising a good bit faster than he figured, however, for it wrenched our arms considerably, and the maneuver set up a sickening pendulum motion. For a while all we could do was swing there in an arc that may have been a quarter of a mile across, about three and a half miles above the city, and still more than a mile from our ship. Gibbons skilfully took up the slack as our momentum pulled up the line. Then at last we had ourselves under control again, and continued our upward journey, checking our speed somewhat with our gloves. There was not one of us who did not breathe a big sigh of relief when we scrambled through the hatch safely into the ship again, cast off the ultron line and slammed the trap shut. Little realizing that we had a still more terrible experience to go through, we discussed the information Blash and Gaunt had between them extracted from the Han records, and the advisability of ultrophoning Hart at once. CHAPTER X The Walls of Hell The traitors were, it seemed, a degenerate gang of Americans, located a few miles north of Nu-yok on the wooded banks of the Hudson, the Sinsings. They had exchanged scraps of information to the Hans in return for several old repellor-ray machines, and the privilege of tuning in on the Han electronic power broadcast for their operation, provided their ships agreed to subject themselves to the orders of the Han traffic office, while aloft. The rest wanted to ultrophone their news at once, since there was always danger that we might never get back to the gang with it. I objected, however. The Sinsings would be likely to pick up our message. Even if we used the directional projector, they might have scouts out to the west and south in the big inter-gang stretches of country. They would flee to Nu-yok and escape the punishment they merited. It seemed to be vitally important that they should not, for the sake of example to other weak groups among the American gangs, as well as to prevent a crisis in which they might clear more vital information to the enemy. "Out to sea again," I ordered Gibbons. "They'll be less likely to look for us in that direction." "Easy, Boss, easy," he replied. "Wait until we get up a mile or two more. They must have discovered evidences of our raid by now, and their dis-ray wall may go in operation any moment." Even as he spoke, the ship lurched downward and to one side. "There it is!" he shouted. "Hang on, everybody. We're going to nose straight up!" And he flipped the rocket-motor control wide open. Looking through one of the rear ports, I could see a nebulous, luminous ring, and on all sides the atmosphere took on a faint iridescence. We were almost over the destructive range of the disintegrator-ray wall, a hollow cylinder of annihilation shooting upward from a solid ring of generators surrounding the city. It was the main defense system of the Hans, which had never been used except in periodic tests. They may or may not have suspected that an American rocket ship was within the cylinder; probably they had turned on their generators more as a precaution to prevent any reaching a position above the city. But even at our present great height, we were in great danger. It was a question how much we might have been harmed by the rays themselves, for their effective range was not much more than seven or eight miles. The greater danger lay in the terrific downward rush of air within the cylinder to replace that which was being burned into nothingness by the continual play of the disintegrators. The air fell into the cylinder with the force of a gale. It would be rushing toward the wall from the outside with terrific force also, but, naturally, the effect was intensified on the interior. Our ship vibrated and trembled. We had only one chance of escape--to fight our way well above the current. To drift down with it meant ultimately, and inevitably, to be sucked into the destruction wall at some lower level. But very gradually and jerkily our upward movement, as shown on the indicators, began to increase, and after an hour of desperate struggle we were free of the maelstrom and into the rarefied upper levels. The terror beneath us was now invisible through several layers of cloud formations. Gibbons brought the ship back to an even keel, and drove her eastward into one of the most brilliantly gorgeous sunrises I have ever seen. We described a great circle to the south and west, in a long easy dive, for he had cut out his rocket motors to save them as much as possible. We had drawn terrifically on their fuel reserves in our battle with the elements. For the moment, the atmosphere below cleared, and we could see the Jersey coast far beneath, like a great map. "We're not through yet," remarked Gibbons suddenly, pointing at his periscope, and adjusting it to telescopic focus. "A Han ship, and a 'drop ship' at that--and he's seen us. If he whips that beam of his on us, we're done." I gazed, fascinated, at the viewplate. What I saw was a cigar-shaped ship not dissimilar to our own in design, and from the proportional size of its ports, of about the same size as our swoopers. We learned later that they carried crews, for the most part of not more than three or four men. They had streamline hulls and tails that embodied universal-jointed double fish-tail rudders. In operation they rose to great heights on their powerful repellor rays, then gathered speed either by a straight nose dive, or an inclined dive in which they sometimes used the repellor ray slanted at a sharp angle. He was already above us, though several miles to the north. He could, of course, try to get on our tail and "spear" us with his beam as he dropped at us from a great height. Suddenly his beam blazed forth in a blinding flash, whipping downward slowly to our right. He went through a peculiar corkscrew-like evolution, evidently maneuvering to bring his beam to bear on us with a spiral motion. Gibbons instantly sent our ship into a series of evolutions that must have looked like those of a frightened hen. Alternately, he used the forward and the reverse rocket blasts, and in varying degree. We fluttered, we shot suddenly to right and left, and dropped like a plummet in uncertain movements. But all the time the Han scout dropped toward us, determinedly whipping the air around us with his beam. Once it sliced across beneath us, not more than a hundred feet, and we dropped with a jar into the pocket formed by the destruction of the air. He had dropped to within a mile of us, and was coming with the speed of a projectile, when the end came. Gibbons always swore it was sheer luck. Maybe it was, but I like pilots who are lucky that way. In the midst of a dizzy, fluttering maneuver of our own, with the Han ship enlarging to our gaze with terrifying rapidity, and its beam slowly slicing toward us in what looked like certain destruction within the second, I saw Gibbons' fingers flick at the lever of his rocket gun and a split second later the Han ship flew apart like a clay pigeon. We staggered, and fluttered crazily for several moments while Gibbons struggled to bring our ship into balance, and a section of about four square feet in the side of the ship near the stern slowly crumbled like rusted metal. His beam actually had touched us, but our explosive rocket had got him a thousandth of a second sooner. Part of our rudder had been annihilated, and our motor damaged. But we were able to swoop gently back across Jersey, fortunately crossing the ship lanes without sighting any more Han craft, and finally settling to rest in the little glade beneath the trees, near Hart's camp. CHAPTER XI The New Boss We had ultrophoned our arrival and the Big Boss himself, surrounded by the Council, was on hand to welcome us and learn our news. In turn we were informed that during the night a band of raiding Bad Bloods, disguised under the insignia of the Altoonas, a gang some distance to the west of us, had destroyed several of our camps before our people had rallied and driven them off. Their purpose, evidently, had been to embroil us with the Altoonas, but fortunately, one of our exchanges recognized the Bad Blood leader, who had been slain. The Big Boss had mobilized the full raiding force of the Gang, and was on the point of heading an expedition for the extermination of the Bad Bloods. I looked around the grim circle of the sub-bosses, and realized the fate of America, at this moment, lay in their hands. Their temper demanded the immediate expenditure of our full effort in revenging ourselves for this raid. But the strategic exigencies, to my mind, quite clearly demanded the instant and absolute extermination of the Sinsings. It might be only a matter of hours, for all we knew, before these degraded people would barter clues to the American ultronic secrets to the Hans. "How large a force have we?" I asked Hart. "Every man and maid who can be spared," he replied. "That gives us seven hundred married and unmarried men, and three hundred girls, more than the entire Bad Blood Gang. Every one is equipped with belts, ultrophones, rocket guns and swords, and all fighting mad." I meditated how I might put the matter to these determined men, and was vaguely conscious that they were awaiting my words. Finally I began to speak. I do not remember to this day just what I said. I talked calmly, with due regard for their passion, but with deep conviction. I went over the information we had collected, point by point, building my case logically, and painting a lurid picture of the danger impending in that half-alliance between the Sinsings and the Hans of Nu-yok. I became impassioned, culminating, I believe, with a vow to proceed single-handed against the hereditary enemies of our race, "if the Wyomings were blindly set on placing a gang feud ahead of honor and duty and the hopes of all America." As I concluded, a great calm came over me, as of one detached. I had felt much the same way during several crises in the First World War. I gazed from face to face, striving to read their expressions, and in a mood to make good my threat without any further heroics, if the decision was against me. But it was Hart who sensed the temper of the Council more quickly than I did, and looked beyond it into the future. He arose from the tree trunk on which he had been sitting. "That settles it," he said, looking around the ring. "I have felt this thing coming on for some time now. I'm sure the Council agrees with me that there is among us a man more capable than I, to boss the Wyoming Gang, despite his handicap of having had all too short a time in which to familiarize himself with our modern ways and facilities. Whatever I can do to support his effective leadership, at any cost, I pledge myself to do." As he concluded, he advanced to where I stood, and taking from his head the green-crested helmet that constituted his badge of office, to my surprise he placed it in my mechanically extended hand. The roar of approval that went up from the Council members left me dazed. Somebody ultrophoned the news to the rest of the Gang, and even though the earflaps of my helmet were turned up, I could hear the cheers with which my invisible followers greeted me, from near and distant hillsides, camps and plants. My first move was to make sure that the Phone Boss, in communicating this news to the members of the Gang, had not re-broadcast my talk nor mentioned my plan of shifting the attack from the Bad Bloods to the Sinsings. I was relieved by his assurance that he had not, for it would have wrecked the whole plan. Everything depended upon our ability to surprise the Sinsings. So I pledged the Council and my companions to secrecy, and allowed it to be believed that we were about to take to the air and the trees against the Bad Bloods. That outfit must have been badly scared, the way they were "burning" the ether with ultrophone alibis and propaganda for the benefit of the more distant gangs. It was their old game, and the only method by which they had avoided extermination long ago from their immediate neighbors--these appeals to the spirit of American brotherhood, addressed to gangs too far away to have had the sort of experience with them that had fallen to our lot. I chuckled. Here was another good reason for the shift in my plans. Were we actually to undertake the exterminations of the Bad Bloods at once, it would have been a hard job to convince some of the gangs that we had not been precipitate and unjustified. Jealousies and prejudices existed. There were gangs which would give the benefit of the doubt to the Bad Bloods, rather than to ourselves, and the issue was now hopelessly beclouded with the clever lies that were being broadcast in an unceasing stream. But the extermination of the Sinsings would be another thing. In the first place, there would be no warning of our action until it was all over, I hoped. In the second place, we would have indisputable proof, in the form of their rep-ray ships and other paraphernalia, of their traffic with the Hans; and the state of American prejudice, at the time of which I write held trafficking with the Hans a far more heinous thing than even a vicious gang feud. I called an executive session of the Council at once. I wanted to inventory our military resources. I created a new office on the spot, that of "Control Boss," and appointed Ned Garlin to the post, turning over his former responsibility as Plants Boss to his assistant. I needed someone, I felt, to tie in the records of the various functional activities of the campaign, and take over from me the task of keeping the records of them up to the minute. I received reports from the bosses of the ultrophone unit, and those of food, transportation, fighting gear, chemistry, electronic activity and electrophone intelligence, ultroscopes, air patrol and contact guard. My ideas for the campaign, of course, were somewhat tinged with my 20th Century experience, and I found myself faced with the task of working out a staff organization that was a composite of the best and most easily applied principles of business and military efficiency, as I knew them from the viewpoint of immediate practicality. What I wanted was an organization that would be specialized, functionally, not as that indicated above, but from the angles of: intelligence as to the Sinsings' activities; intelligence as to Han activities; perfection of communication with my own units; co-operation of field command; and perfect mobilization of emergency supplies and resources. It took several hours of hard work with the Council to map out the plan. First we assigned functional experts and equipment to each "Division" in accordance with its needs. Then these in turn were reassigned by the new Division Bosses to the Field Commands as needed, or as Independent or Headquarters Units. The two intelligence divisions were named the White and the Yellow, indicating that one specialized on the American enemy and the other on the Mongolians. The division in charge of our own communications, the assignment of ultrophone frequencies and strengths, and the maintenance of operators and equipment, I called "Communications." I named Bill Hearn to the post of Field Boss, in charge of the main or undetached fighting units, and to the Resources Division, I assigned all responsibility for what few aircraft we had; and all transportation and supply problems, I assigned to "Resources." The functional bosses stayed with this division. We finally completed our organization with the assignment of liaison representatives among the various divisions as needed. Thus I had a "Headquarters Staff" composed of the Division Bosses who reported directly to Ned Garlin as Control Boss, or to Wilma as my personal assistant. And each of the Division Bosses had a small staff of his own. In the final summing up of our personnel and resources, I found we had roughly a thousand "troops," of whom some three hundred and fifty were, in what I called the Service Divisions, the rest being in Bill Hearn's Field Division. This latter number, however, was cut down somewhat by the assignment of numerous small units to detached service. Altogether, the actual available fighting force, I figured, would number about five hundred, by the time we actually went into action. We had only six small swoopers, but I had an ingenious plan in my mind, as the result of our little raid on Nu-yok, that would make this sufficient, since the reserves of inertron blocks were larger than I expected to find them. The Resources Division, by packing its supply cases a bit tight, or by slipping in extra blocks of inertron, was able to reduce each to a weight of a few ounces. These easily could be floated and towed by the swoopers in any quantity. Hitched to ultron lines, it would be a virtual impossibility for them to break loose. The entire personnel, of course, was supplied with jumpers, and if each man and girl was careful to adjust balances properly, the entire number could also be towed along through the air, grasping wires of ultron, swinging below the swoopers, or stringing out behind them. There would be nothing tiring about this, because the strain would be no greater than that of carrying a one or two pound weight in the hand, except for air friction at high speeds. But to make doubly sure that we should lose none of our personnel, I gave strict orders that the belts and tow lines should be equipped with rings and hooks. So great was the efficiency of the fundamental organization and discipline of the Gang, that we got under way at nightfall. One by one the swoopers eased into the air, each followed by its long train or "kite-tail" of humanity and supply cases hanging lightly from its tow line. For convenience, the tow lines were made of an alloy of ultron which, unlike the metal itself, is visible. At first these "tails" hung downward, but as the ships swung into formation and headed eastward toward the Bad Blood territory, gathering speed, they began to string out behind. And swinging low from each ship on heavily weighted lines, ultroscope, ultrophone, and straight-vision observers keenly scanned the countryside, while intelligence men in the swoopers above bent over their instrument boards and viewplates. Leaving Control Boss Ned Garlin temporarily in charge of affairs, Wilma and I dropped a weighted line from our ship, and slid down about half way to the under lookouts, that is to say, about a thousand feet. The sensation of floating swiftly through the air like this, in the absolute security of one's confidence in the inertron belt, was one of never-ending delight to me. We reascended into the swooper as the expedition approached the territory of the Bad Bloods, and directed the preparations for the bombardment. It was part of my plan to appear to carry out the attack as originally planned. About fifteen miles from their camps our ships came to a halt and maintained their positions for a while with the idling blasts of their rocket motors, to give the ultroscope operators a chance to make a thorough examination of the territory below us, for it was very important that this next step in our program should be carried out with all secrecy. At length they reported the ground below us entirely clear of any appearance of human occupation, and a gun unit of long-range specialists was lowered with a dozen rocket guns, equipped with special automatic devices that the Resources Division had developed at my request, a few hours before our departure. These were aiming and timing devices. After calculating the range, elevation and rocket charges carefully, the guns were left, concealed in a ravine, and the men were hauled up into the ship again. At the predetermined hour, those unmanned rocket guns would begin automatically to bombard the Bad Bloods' hillsides, shifting their aim and elevation slightly with each shot, as did many of our artillery pieces in the First World War. In the meantime, we turned south about twenty miles, and grounded, waiting for the bombardment to begin before we attempted to sneak across the Han ship lane. I was relying for security on the distraction that the bombardment might furnish the Han observers. It was tense work waiting, but the affair went through as planned, our squadron drifting across the route high enough to enable the ships' tails of troops and supply cases to clear the ground. In crossing the second ship route, out along the Beaches of Jersey, we were not so successful in escaping observation. A Han ship came speeding along at a very low elevation. We caught it on our electronic location and direction finders, and also located it with our ultroscopes, but it came so fast and so low that I thought it best to remain where we had grounded the second time, and lie quiet, rather than get under way and cross in front of it. The point was this. While the Hans had no such devices as our ultroscopes, with which we could see in the dark (within certain limitations of course), and their electronic instruments would be virtually useless in uncovering our presence, since all but natural electronic activities were carefully eliminated from our apparatus, except electrophone receivers (which are not easily spotted), the Hans did have some very highly sensitive sound devices which operated with great efficiency in calm weather, so far as sounds emanating from the air were concerned. But the "ground roar" greatly confused their use of these instruments in the location of specific sounds floating up from the surface of the earth. This ship must have caught some slight noise of ours, however, in its sensitive instruments, for we heard its electronic devices go into play, and picked up the routine report of the noise to its Base Ship Commander. But from the nature of the conversation, I judged they had not identified it, and were, in fact, more curious about the detonations they were picking up now from the Bad Blood lands some sixty miles or so to the west. Immediately after this ship had shot by, we took the air again, and following much the same route that I had taken the previous night, climbed in a long semi-circle out over the ocean, swung toward the north and finally the west. We set our course, however, for the Sinsings' land north of Nu-yok, instead of for the city itself. CHAPTER XII The Finger of Doom As we crossed the Hudson River, a few miles north of the city, we dropped several units of the Yellow Intelligence Division, with full instrumental equipment. Their apparatus cases were nicely balanced at only a few ounces weight each, and the men used their chute capes to ease their drops. We recrossed the river a little distance above and began dropping White Intelligence units and a few long and short range gun units. Then we held our position until we began to get reports. Gradually we ringed the territory of the Sinsings, our observation units working busily and patiently at their locators and scopes, both aloft and aground, until Garlin finally turned to me with the remark: "The map circle is complete now, Boss. We've got clear locations all the way around them." "Let me see it," I replied, and studied the illuminated viewplate map, with its little overlapping circles of light that indicated spots proved clear of the enemy by ultroscopic observation. I nodded to Bill Hearn. "Go ahead now, Hearn," I said, "and place your barrage men." He spoke into his ultrophone, and three of the ships began to glide in a wide ring around the enemy territory. Every few seconds, at the word from his Unit Boss, a gunner would drop off the wire, and slipping the clasp of his chute cape, drift down into the darkness below. Bill formed two lines, parallel to and facing the river, and enclosing the entire territory of the enemy between them. Above and below, straddling the river, were two defensive lines. These latter were merely to hold their positions. The others were to close in toward each other, pushing a high-explosive barrage five miles ahead of them. When the two barrages met, both lines were to switch to short-vision-range barrage and continue to close in on any of the enemy who might have drifted through the previous curtain of fire. In the meantime Bill kept his reserves, a picked corps of a hundred men (the same that had accompanied Hart and myself in our fight with the Han squadron) in the air, divided about equally among the "kite-tails" of four ships. A final roll call, by units, companies, divisions and functions, established the fact that all our forces were in position. No Han activity was reported, and no Han broadcasts indicated any suspicion of our expedition. Nor was there any indication that the Sinsings had any knowledge of the fate in store for them. The idling of rep-ray generators was reported from the center of their camp, obviously those of the ships the Hans had given them--the price of their treason to their race. Again I gave the word, and Hearn passed on the order to his subordinates. Far below us, and several miles to the right and left, the two barrage lines made their appearance. From the great height to which we had risen, they appeared like lines of brilliant, winking lights, and the detonations were muffled by the distances into a sort of rumbling, distant thunder. Hearn and his assistants were very busy: measuring, calculating, and snapping out ultrophone orders to unit commanders that resulted in the straightening of lines and the closing of gaps in the barrage. The White Division Boss reported the utmost confusion in the Sinsing organization. They were, as might be expected, an inefficient, loosely disciplined gang, and repeated broadcasts for help to neighboring gangs. Ignoring the fact that the Mongolians had not used explosives for many generations, they nevertheless jumped at the conclusion that they were being raided by the Hans. Their frantic broadcasts persisted in this thought, despite the nervous electrophonic inquiries of the Hans themselves, to whom the sound of the battle was evidently audible, and who were trying to locate the trouble. At this point, the swooper I had sent south toward the city went into action as a diversion, to keep the Hans at home. Its "kite-tail" loaded with long-range gunners, using the most highly explosive rockets we had, hung invisible in the darkness of the sky and bombarded the city from a distance of about five miles. With an entire city to shoot at, and the object of creating as much commotion therein as possible, regardless of actual damage, the gunners had no difficulty in hitting the mark. I could see the glow of the city and the stabbing flashes of exploding rockets. In the end, the Hans, uncertain as to what was going on, fell back on a defensive policy, and shot their "hell cylinder," or wall of upturned disintegrator rays into operation. That, of course, ended our bombardment of them. The rays were a perfect defense, disintegrating our rockets as they were reached. If they had not sent out ships before turning on the rays, and if they had none within sufficient radius already in the air, all would be well. I queried Garlin on this, but he assured me Yellow Intelligence reported no indications of Han ships nearer than 800 miles. This would probably give us a free hand for a while, since most of their instruments recorded only imperfectly or not at all, through the death wall. Requisitioning one of the viewplates of the headquarters ship, and the services of an expert operator, I instructed him to focus on our lines below. I wanted a close-up of the men in action. He began to manipulate his controls and chaotic shadows moved rapidly across the plate, fading in and out of focus, until he reached an adjustment that gave me a picture of the forest floor, apparently 100 feet wide, with the intervening branches and foliage of the trees appearing like shadows that melted into reality a few feet above the ground. I watched one man setting up his long-gun with skillful speed. His lips pursed slightly as though he were whistling, as he adjusted the tall tripod on which the long tube was balanced. Swiftly he twirled the knobs controlling the aim and elevation of his piece. Then, lifting a belt of ammunition from the big box, which itself looked heavy enough to break down the spindly tripod, he inserted the end of it in the lock of his tube and touched the proper combination of buttons. Then he stepped aside, and occupied himself with peering carefully through the trees ahead. Not even a tremor shook the tube, but I knew that at intervals of something less than a second, it was discharging small projectiles which, traveling under their own continuously reduced power, were arching into the air, to fall precisely five miles ahead and explode with the force of eight-inch shells, such as we used in the First World War. Another gunner, fifty feet to the right of him, waved a hand and called out something to him. Then, picking up his own tube and tripod, he gauged the distance between the trees ahead of him, and the height of their lowest branches, and bending forward a bit, flexed his muscles and leaped lightly, some twenty-five feet. Another leap took him another twenty feet or so, where he began to set up his piece. I ordered my observer then to switch to the barrage itself. He got a close focus on it, but this showed little except a continuous series of blinding flashes, which, from the viewplate, lit up the entire interior of the ship. An eight-hundred-foot focus proved better. I had thought that some of our French and American artillery of the 20th Century had achieved the ultimate in mathematical precision of fire, but I had never seen anything to equal the accuracy of that line of terrific explosions as it moved steadily forward, mowing down trees as a scythe cuts grass (or used to 500 years ago), literally churning up the earth and the splintered, blasted remains of the forest giants, to a depth of from ten to twenty feet. By now the two curtains of fire were nearing each other, lines of vibrant, shimmering, continuous, brilliant destruction, inevitably squeezing the panic-stricken Sinsings between them. Even as I watched, a group of them, who had been making a futile effort to get their three rep-ray machines into the air, abandoned their efforts, and rushed forth into the milling mob. I queried the Control Boss sharply on the futility of this attempt of theirs, and learned that the Hans, apparently in doubt as to what was going on, had continued to "play safe," and broken off their power broadcast, after ordering all their own ships east of the Alleghenies to the ground, for fear these ships they had traded to the Sinsings might be used against them. Again I turned to my viewplate, which was still focussed on the central section of the Sinsing works. The confusion of the traitors was entirely that of fear, for our barrage had not yet reached them. Some of them set up their long-guns and fired at random over the barrage line, then gave it up. They realized that they had no target to shoot at, no way of knowing whether our gunners were a few hundred feet or several miles beyond it. Their ultrophone men, of whom they did not have many, stood around in tense attitudes, their helmet phones strapped around their ears, nervously fingering the tuning controls at their belts. Unquestionably they must have located some of our frequencies, and overheard many of our reports and orders. But they were confused and disorganized. If they had an Ultrophone Boss they evidently were not reporting to him in an organized way. They were beginning to draw back now before our advancing fire. With intermittent desperation, they began to shoot over our barrage again, and the explosions of their rockets flashed at widely scattered points beyond. A few took distance "pot shots." Oddly enough it was our own forces that suffered the first casualties in the battle. Some of these distance shots by chance registered hits, while our men were under strict orders not to exceed their barrage distances. Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance. The two barrage lines were not more than five hundred feet apart when the Sinsings resorted to tactics we had not foreseen. We noticed first that they began to lighten themselves by throwing away extra equipment. A few of them in their excitement threw away too much, and shot suddenly into the air. Then a scattering few floated up gently, followed by increasing numbers, while still others, preserving a weight balance, jumped toward the closing barrages and leaped high, hoping to clear them. Some succeeded. We saw others blown about like leaves in a windstorm, to crumple and drift slowly down, or else to fall into the barrage, their belts blown from their bodies. However, it was not part of our plan to allow a single one of them to escape and find his way to the Hans. I quickly passed the word to Bill Hearn to have the alternate men in his line raise their barrages and heard him bark out a mathematical formula to the Unit Bosses. We backed off our ships as the explosions climbed into the air in stagger formation until they reached a height of three miles. I don't believe any of the Sinsings who tried to float away to freedom succeeded. But we did know later, that a few who leaped the barrage got away and ultimately reached Nu-yok. It was those who managed to jump the barrage who gave us the most trouble. With half of our long-guns turned aloft, I foresaw we would not have enough to establish successive ground barrages and so ordered the barrage back two miles, from which positions our "curtains" began to close in again, this time, however, gauged to explode, not on contact, but thirty feet in the air. This left little chance for the Sinsings to leap either over or under it. Gradually, the two barrages approached each other until they finally met, and in the grey dawn the battle ended. Our own casualties amounted to forty-seven men in the ground forces, eighteen of whom had been slain in hand to hand fighting with the few of the enemy who managed to reach our lines, and sixty-two in the crew and "kite-tail" force of swooper No. 4, which had been located by one of the enemy's ultroscopes and brought down with long-gun fire. Since nearly every member of the Sinsing Gang had, so far as we knew, been killed, we considered the raid a great success. It had, however, a far greater significance than this. To all of us who took part in the expedition, the effectiveness of our barrage tactics definitely established a confidence in our ability to overcome the Hans. As I pointed out to Wilma: "It has been my belief all along, dear, that the American explosive rocket is a far more efficient weapon than the disintegrator ray of the Hans, once we can train all our gangs to use it systematically and in co-ordinated fashion. As a weapon in the hands of a single individual, shooting at a mark in direct line of vision, the rocket-gun is inferior in destructive power to the dis ray, except as its range may be a little greater. The trouble is that to date it has been used only as we used our rifles and shot guns in the 20th Century. The possibilities of its use as artillery, in laying barrages that advance along the ground, or climb into the air, are tremendous. "The dis ray inevitably reveals its source of emanation. The rocket gun does not. The dis ray can reach its target only in a straight line. The rocket may be made to travel in an arc, over intervening obstacles, to an unseen target. "Nor must we forget that our ultronists now are promising us a perfect shield against the dis ray in inertron." "I tremble though, Tony dear, when I think of the horrors that are ahead of us. The Hans are clever. They will develop defenses against our new tactics. And they are sure to mass against us not only the full force of their power in America, but the united forces of the World Empire. They are a cowardly race in one sense, but clever as the very Devils in Hell, and inheritors of a calm, ruthless, vicious persistency." "Nevertheless," I prophesied, "the Finger of Doom points squarely at them today, and unless you and I are killed in the struggle, we shall live to see America blast the Yellow Blight from the face of the Earth." THE END. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ August 1928. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of Project Gutenberg's Armageddon--2419 A.D., by Philip Francis Nowlan Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who leaves Chicago with him?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and create your cheat sheet. Here is the context: DAYS OF HEAVEN by Terry Malick REVISED: 6/2/76 SETTING The story is set in Texas just before the First World War. CAST OF CHARACTERS BILL: A young man from Chicago following the harvest. ABBY: The beautiful young woman he loves. CHUCK: The owner of a vast wheat ranch ("bonanza") in the Texas Panhandle. URSULA: Abby's younger sister, a reckless child of14. BENSON: The bonanza foreman, an enemy of the newcomers. MISS CARTER: Chief domestic at the Belvedere, Chuck's home. McLEAN: Chuck's accountant. GEORGE: A young pilot who interests Ursula. A PREACHER, A DOCTOR, AN ORGANIST, VARIOUS HARVEST HANDS, LAWMEN, VAUDEVILLIANS, etc. "Troops of nomads swept over the country at harvest time like a visitation of locusts, reckless young fellows, handsome, profane, licentious, given to drink, powerful but inconstant workmen, quarrelsome and difficult to manage at all times. They came in the season when work was plenty and wages high. They dressed well, in their own peculiar fashion, and made much of their freedom to come and go." "HAMLIN GARLAND, Boy Life on the Prairie (1899)" DAYS OF HEAVEN by Terry Malick REVISED: 6/2/76 SETTING The story is set in Texas just before the First World War. CAST OF CHARACTERS BILL: A young man from Chicago following the harvest. ABBY: The beautiful young woman he loves. CHUCK: The owner of a vast wheat ranch ("bonanza") in the Texas Panhandle. URSULA: Abby's younger sister, a reckless child of14. BENSON: The bonanza foreman, an enemy of the newcomers. MISS CARTER: Chief domestic at the Belvedere, Chuck's home. McLEAN: Chuck's accountant. GEORGE: A young pilot who interests Ursula. A PREACHER, A DOCTOR, AN ORGANIST, VARIOUS HARVEST HANDS, LAWMEN, VAUDEVILLIANS, etc. "Troops of nomads swept Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "His girlfriend Abby and her sister Linda." ]	31,691	narrativeqa	en	null	b03244c8cc2681df1008d27c974d81415336396dff81f06d	<html> <head> <LINK rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="style.css" title="style1"> <b> </b><META http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <script> <b><!-- </b>if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href <b>// --> </b></script> </HEAD> <title>DAYS OF HEAVEN by Terry Malick REVISED: 6/2/76</title> </head> <body> </p><p><p ID="act">DAYS OF HEAVEN" </p><p><p ID="act">by Terry Malick </p><p><p ID="act">REVISED: 6/2/76 </p><p><p ID="act">SETTING The story is set in Texas just before the First World War. </p><p><p ID="act">CAST OF CHARACTERS BILL: A young man from Chicago following the harvest. ABBY: The beautiful young woman he loves. CHUCK: The owner of a vast wheat ranch ("bonanza") in the Texas Panhandle. URSULA: Abby's younger sister, a reckless child of14. BENSON: The bonanza foreman, an enemy of the newcomers. MISS CARTER: Chief domestic at the Belvedere, Chuck's home. McLEAN: Chuck's accountant. GEORGE: A young pilot who interests Ursula. A PREACHER, A DOCTOR, AN ORGANIST, VARIOUS HARVEST HANDS, LAWMEN, VAUDEVILLIANS, etc. </p><p><p ID="act">"Troops of nomads swept over the country at harvest time like a visitation of locusts, reckless young fellows, handsome, profane, licentious, given to drink, powerful but inconstant workmen, quarrelsome and difficult to manage at all times. They came in the season when work was plenty and wages high. They dressed well, in their own peculiar fashion, and made much of their freedom to come and go." </p><p><p ID="act">"They told of the city, and sinister and poisonous jungles all cities seemed in their stories. They were scarred with battles. They came from the far-away and unknown, and passed on to the north, mysterious as the flight of locusts, leaving the people of Sun Prairie quite as ignorant of their real names and characters as upon the first day of their coming." Hamlin Garland, Boy Life on the Prairie (1899) </b></I> </p><p><p ID="act">DAYS OF HEAVEN </p><p><p ID="slug">1 INT. CHICAGO MILL - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">WORKERS in a dark Chicago mill pound molten iron out in flaming sheets. The year is 1916. </p><p><p ID="slug">2 EXT. MILL </p><p><p ID="act">BILL, a handsome young man from the slums, and his brother STEVE sit outside on their lunch break talking with an older man named BLACKIE. By the look of his flashy clothes Blackie is not a worker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">Listen, if I ever seen a tit, this here's a tit. You understand? Candy. My kid sister could do this one. Pure fucking candy'd melt in your hand. Don't take brains. Just a set of rocks. I told you this already. </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Blackie, you told me it was going to snow in the winter, I'd go out and bet against it. You know? <P ID="spkdir">(to Bill) <P ID="dia">There is nothing, nothing in the world, dumber than a dumb guinea. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">Okay, all right, fine. Why should I be doing favors for a guy that isn't doing me any favors? I must be losing my grip. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I got to give it to you, though. Couple of guys look like you just rolled in on a wagonload of chickens. You ever get laid? </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Sure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">Without a lot of talk, I mean? 'Cause I'm beginning to understand these guys, go down the hotel, pick something up for a couple of bucks. It's clean, and you know what you're in for. </p><p><p ID="slug">3 EXT. ALLEY </p><p><p ID="act">Sam the Collector's GANG swaggers around in the alley behind a textile plant. ONE of them has filed his teeth down to points and stuck diamonds in between them. ANOTHER wears big suspenders. Sam and Bill appear to know one another. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Hey, Billy, you made a mistake. You made somebody mad. Nothing personal, okay? It's just gotta be done. You made a mistake. Happens in the best of families. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I paid you everything I have. Search me. The rest he gets next week. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Listen, what happens if I don't do this? I gotta leave town? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I could do something, you know. You guys wanta do something to me, I know who to tell about it. You guys ought to think about that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">You maybe already did something. Maybe that's why you're here, on account of you already done something. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I haven't done anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Then you're all right, Billy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAZOR TEETH <P ID="dia">You got nothing to worry about. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SAM <P ID="dia">Cut it out, Billy, all right? You know what can happen to a guy that doesn't wanta do what people tell him? You know. So don't give us a lot of trouble. You're liable to get everybody all pissed off. </p><p><p ID="act">Sam, a busy man, checks his watch. </p><p><p ID="slug">4 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill puts his hand on the ground. Sam drops a keg of roofing nails on it and, his work done, leaves with his gang. Bill sobs with pain. </p><p><p ID="slug">5 EXT. LOT BEYOND MILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Steve drag a safe by a rope through a vacant lot beyond the mill. Blackie walks behind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BLACKIE <P ID="dia">You know what I'm doing with my end? Buy a boat. Get that? I had a boat. I had a nice apartment, I had a boat. Margie don't like that. We got to have a house. "I can't afford no house," I said. She says, "Sell the boat." I didn't want to sell my boat. I didn't want to buy the house. I sell the boat, I buy the house. Nine years we had the house, eight of them she's after me, we should get another boat. I give up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Same as always, I do all the work, you gripe about it. Suddenly FOUR POLICEMEN surprise them from ambush. Bill lets go of the rope and starts to run. Steve does not give up immediately, however, and they shoot him down. Bill picks up Steve's gun and fires back. Three of the Policemen go chasing after Blackie, whom they soon bring to heel. The FOURTH stays behind taking potshots at Bill while he attends to Steve. </p><p><p ID="slug">6 TIGHT ON STEVE </p><p><p ID="act">Steve, badly wounded, is about to die. </p><p><P ID="speaker">STEVE <P ID="dia">Run. Get out of here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(weeping) <P ID="dia">I love you so much. Why didn't you run. Don't die. Steve dies. Bullets kick up dust around him. He takes off running. One of the bullets has caught him in the shoulder. </p><p><p ID="slug">7 INT. SEWER </p><p><p ID="act">ABBY, a beautiful woman in her late twenties, attends to Bill's wounds in a big vaulted sewer. Her sister URSULA, a reckless girl of14, stands watch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(weeping) <P ID="dia">They shot the shit out of him. My brother. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Hold still, or I can't do anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I love you, Abby. You're so good to me. Remember how much fun we had, on the roof... </p><p><p ID="slug">8 EXT. ROOF - MATTE SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby flirt on the root of a tenement, happily in love. The city stretches out behind them. </p><p><p ID="slug">9 INT. BED - QUICK CUT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby lies shivering with fever. Bill spoons hot soup into her mouth. Ursula rolls paper flowers for extra change. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="spkdir">(continuing) <P ID="dia">... even when you were sick and I was in the mill. </p><p><p ID="slug">10 INT. MILL - QUICK CUT (VARIOUS ANGLES OF OTHER WORKERS) </p><p><p ID="act">Bill works in the glow of a blast furnace. He does not seem quite in place with the rest of the workers. A pencil moustache lends a desired gentlemanliness to his appearance. He looks fallen on hard times, without ever having known any better--like Chaplin, an immigrant lost in the heartless city, with dim hopes for a better way of life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">I won't let you go back in the mill. People die in there. I'm a man, and I can look out for you. </p><p><p ID="slug">11 EXT. SIDING OUTSIDE MILL </p><p><p ID="act">Along a railroad spur outside the mill, Abby and Ursula glean bits of coal that have fallen from the tenders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">We're going west. Things gotta be better out there. </p><p><p ID="slug">12 EXT. TENEMENT </p><p><p ID="act">A POLICEMAN, looking for Bill, roughs Abby up behind the tenement where they live. Suddenly Bill runs out from a doorway and slams him over the head with a clay pitcher full of water. </p><p><P ID="speaker">POLICEMAN <P ID="dia">What'd you do? </p><p><p ID="act">Bill shrugs, then hits him again, knocking him unconscious, when he reaches for a gun. Abby calls Ursula and they take off running, Bill stopping only to collect some of their laundry off a clothesline. </p><p><p ID="slug">13 EXT. FREIGHT YARDS </p><p><p ID="act">They hop a freight train. </p><p><p ID="slug">14 CREDITS (OVER EXISTING PHOTOS) </p><p><p ID="act">The CREDITS run over black and white photos of the Chicago they are leaving behind. Pigs roam the gutters. Street urchins smoke cigar butts under a stairway. A blind man hawks stale bread. Dirty children play around a dripping hydrant. Laundry hangs out to dry on tenement fire escapes. Police look for a thief under a bridge. Irish gangs stare at the camera, curious how they will look. The CREDITS end. </p><p><p ID="slug">15 EXT. MOVING TRAIN </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Bill sit atop a train racing through the wheat country of the Texas Panhandle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I like the sunshine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Everybody does. They laugh. She is dressed in men's clothes, her hair tucked up under a cap. They are sharing a bottle of wine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I never wanted to fall in love with you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nobody asked you to. </p><p><p ID="act">He draws her toward him. She pulls away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter? A while ago you said I was irresistible. I still am. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That was then. </p><p><p ID="act">She pushes her nose up against his chest and sniffs around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You playing mousie again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I love how nice and hard your shoulders are. And your hair is light. You're not a soft, greasy guy that puts bay rum on every night. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I love it when you've been drinking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're not greasy, Bill. You have any idea what that means? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Kind of. </p><p><p ID="act">They share the boxcar with a crowd of other HARVEST HANDS. Ursula is among them, also dressed like a man. Bill gestures out at the landscape. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Look at all that space. Oweee! We should've done this a long time ago. It's just us and the road now, Abby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We're all still together, though. That's all I care about. </p><p><p ID="slug">16 EXT. JERKWATER </p><p><p ID="act">The train slows down to take on water. The hands jump off. Each carries his "bindle"-- a blanket and a few personal effects wrapped in canvas. TOUGHS with ax handles are on hand to greet them. The harvesters speak a Babel of tongues, from German to Uzbek to Swedish. Only English is rare. Some retain odd bits of their national costumes, they are pathetic figures, lonely and dignified and so far from home. Others, in split shoes and sockless feet, are tramps. Most are honest workers, though, here to escape the summer heat in the factories of the East. They dress inappropriately for farm work, in the latest fashions. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Elbow room! Oweee! Give me a chance and I'm going to dance! </p><p><p ID="act">Bill struts around with a Napoleonic air, in a white Panama hat and gaiters, taking in the vista. Under his arm he carries a sword cane with a pearl handle. It pleases him, in this small way, to set himself apart from the rest of toiling humanity. He wants it known that he was born to greater things. </p><p><p ID="slug">17 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill comes upon a BIG MAN whose face is covered with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Good, very good. Where you from, mister? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG MAN <P ID="dia">Cleveland. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Like to see the other guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Bill helps him to his feet and dusts him off. A TOUGH walks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">TOUGH <P ID="dia">You doing this shit? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Then keep it moving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Oh yeah? Who're you? The Tough hits Bill across the head with his ax handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">TOUGH <P ID="dia">Name is Morrison. Bill looks around to see whether Abby has seen this. She hasn't. He walks dizzily off down the tracks. </p><p><p ID="slug">18 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">He takes Abby by the arm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What happened to your ear? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nothing. She is a sultry beauty--emancipated, full of bright hopes and a zest for life. Her costume does not fool the men. Wherever she goes they ogle her insolently. <b>EXT. WAGONS </b>The FOREMEN of the surrounding farms wait by their wagons to carry the workers off. A flag pole is planted by each wagon. Those who do not speak English negotiate their wages on a blackboard. BENSON, a leathery man of fifty, bellows through a megaphone. In the background a NEWCOMER to the harvest talks with a VETERAN. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Shockers! Four more and I'm leaving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How much you paying? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Man can make three dollars a day, he wants to work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who're you kidding? Bill mills around. They have no choice but to accept his offer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Sackers! Abby steps up. Benson takes her for a young man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">You ever sacked before? </p><p><p ID="act">She nods. </p><p><p ID="act">Transcriber's Note: the following seven lines of dialogue between the NEWCOMER and the VETERAN runs concurrent with the previous six lines of dialogue between Benson and Bill and Abby. In the original script they are typed in two columns running side-by-side down the page. </p><p><p ID="act">*** </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How's the pussy up there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">VETERAN <P ID="dia">Not good. Where you from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Detroit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VETERAN <P ID="dia">How's the pussy up there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Good. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">The guys tough out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">VETERAN (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Not so tough. How about up there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">NEWCOMER (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Tough. <b>* </b></p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">When's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Last year. He waves her on. Abby nods at Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're making a mistake, you pass this kid up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Get on. He snaps his fingers at her. Bill climbs up ahead of the women. Anger makes him extremely polite. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You don't need to say it like that. Benson ignores this remark but dislikes Bill from the first. </p><p><p ID="slug">20 EXT. PLAINS </p><p><p ID="act">Benson's wagons roll across the plains toward the Razumihin, a "bonanza" or wheat ranch of spectacular dimensions, its name spelled out in whitewashed rocks on the side of a hill. </p><p><p ID="slug">21 EXT. BONANZA GATES (NEAR SIGN) </p><p><p ID="act">The wagons pass under a large arch, set in the middle of nowhere, like the gates to a vanished kingdom. Goats peer down from on top. Bill looks at Abby and raises his eyebrows. </p><p><p ID="slug">22 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">At the center of the bonanza, amid a tawny sea of grain, stands a gay Victorian house, three stories tall. Where most farm houses stand more sensibly on low ground, protected from the elements, "The Belvedere" occupies the highest ridge around, commanding the view and esteem of all. Filigrees of gingerbread adorn the eaves. Cottonwood saplings, six feet high, have recently been planted in the front. Peacocks fuss about the yard. There is a lawn swing and a flagpole, used like a ship's mast for signaling distant parts of the bonanza. A wind generator supplies electric power. A white picket fence surrounds the house, though its purpose is unclear; where the prairie leaves off and the yard begins is impossible to tell. Bison drift over the hills like boats on the ocean. Bill shouts at the nearest one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Yo, Beevo! </p><p><p ID="slug">23 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">CHUCK ARTUNOV, the owner--a man of great reserve and dignity, still a bachelor--stands on the front porch of the Belvedere high above, observing the new arrivals. </p><p><p ID="slug">24 EXT. DORMITORY </p><p><p ID="act">Benson drops the hands off at the dormitory, a hundred yards below, a plain clapboard building with a ceiling of exposed joists. Ursula sees Chuck watching them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Whose place is that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">The owner's. Don't none of you go up around his place. First one that does is fired. I'm warning you right now. </p><p><p ID="act">In the warm July weather most of the hands forsake the dorm to spread their bedrolls around a strawpile or in the hayloft of the nearby barn. </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Bill slip off to share a cigarette. Ursula tags behind. </p><p><p ID="slug">25 EXT. ROCK </p><p><p ID="act">Bill lifts a big rock. Abby applauds. Ursula kneels down behind him. Abby pushes him over backwards. </p><p><p ID="slug">26 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula gasps as Abby tumbles off the roof of the barn and falls through the air screaming: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Urs! She lands in a straw pile. </p><p><p ID="slug">27 TIGHT ON ABBY AND BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill takes Abby by the hands, spins her around until she is thoroughly dizzy, then grasps her across the chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Ready? She giggles her consent. He crushes her in a bear hug until she is just on the verge of passing out, then lets her go. She sinks to the grass, in a daze of sweet intoxication. </p><p><p ID="slug">28 EXT. LANTERN - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill looks deeply into Abby's eyes by the light of a lantern that night. They have made a shallow cut on their thumbs and press them together mixing their blood like children. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're all I've got, Abby. No, really, everything I ever had is a complete piece of garbage except you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know. They laugh. He bends to kiss her. She pulls away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Sometimes I think you don't like men. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">As individuals? Very seldom. She kisses him lovingly. </p><p><p ID="slug">29 EXT. WHEAT FIELDS - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">The sun peers over the horizon. The wheat makes a sound like a waterfall. It stretches for as far as the eye can see. A PREACHER has come out, in a cassock and surplice, to offer prayers of thanksgiving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PREACHER <P ID="dia">"... that your days may be multiplied, and the days of your children, in the land which the Lord swore unto your fathers to give them, as the days of' heaven upon the earth." The harvesters spit and rub their hands as they wait for the dew to burn off. They have slept in their coats. The dawn has a raw edge, even in summer. </p><p><p ID="slug">30 TIGHT ON WHEAT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks to see if the wheat is ready to harvest. He shakes the heads; they make a sound like paper. He snaps off a handful, rolls them between his palms, blows away the chaff and pinches the kernels that remain to make sure they have grown properly hard. Tiny sounds are magnified in the early morning stillness: grasshoppers snapping through the air, a cough, a distant hawk. He pops the kernels into his mouth, chews them up, and rolls the wad around in his mouth. Satisfied, he spits it out and gives a nod. The Preacher begins a prayer of thanksgiving. Two ACOLYTES flank him, one with a smoking censer, the other with a crucifix. All repeat the "Amen." Benson makes a tugging signal with his arm. A Case tractor--forty tons of iron, steam-driven, as big and as powerful as a locomotive--blasts its whistle. This is the moment they have been waiting all year for. </p><p><p ID="slug">31 OTHER FIELDS - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">A SIGNALMAN with two hand flags passes the message on from the crest of a nearby hill. In the far-flung fields of the bonanza other tractors answer as other crews set to work. Abby and Bill join in, Bill reaping the wheat with a mowing machine called a binder, Abby propping the bound sheaves together to make bunches or "shocks." A cloud of chaff rises over the field, melting the sun down to a cold red bulb. Abby is well turned out, in a boater and string tie, as though she were planning any moment to leave for a picnic. Bill, too, dresses with an eye to flashy fashion: Tight dark trousers, a silk handkerchief stuck in the back pocket with a copy of the Police Gazette, low-top calfskin boots with high heels and pointed toes, a shirt with ruffled cuffs, and a big signet ring. While at work he wears a white smock over all this to keep the chaff off. It gives him the air more of a researcher than a worker. The harvesters itch madly as the chaff gets into their clothes. The shocks, full of briars, cut their hands; smut and rust make the cuts sting like fire. Nobody talks. From time to time they raise a chant. Ursula, plucking chickens by the cookhouse--a shack on wheels-- steals a key chain from an unwatched coat. Benson follows the reapers around the field in a buggy. He keeps their hours, chides loafers, checks the horses, etc. The harvesters are city people. Few of them are trained to farming. Most--Abby and Bill are no exception--have contempt for it and anybody dull enough to practice it. Tight control is therefore exercised to see that the machines are not damaged. Where the others loaf whenever Benson's back is turned, Bill works like a demon, as a point of pride. </p><p><p ID="slug">32 CHUCK AND BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Lightning shivers through the clouds along the horizon. Chuck looks concerned. Benson consults a windsock. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Should miss us. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">They must be having trouble over there, though. Abby, passing by, lifts her hat to wipe her face. As she does her hair falls out of the crown. Women are rare in the harvest fields. One so beautiful is unprecedented. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I didn't know we had any women on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="spkdir">(surprised) <P ID="dia">I thought she was a boy. Should I get rid of her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><p ID="slug">33 MONTAGE </p><p><p ID="act">A COOK stands on the horizon waving a white flag at the end of a fishing pole. Ursula bounds through the wheat blowing a horn. Benson consults the large clock strapped to the back of his buggy, then fires a smoke pistol in the air. Their faces black with chaff, the hands fall out in silence. They shuffle across the field toward the cookhouse, keeping their feet close to the ground to avoid being spiked by the stubble. </p><p><p ID="slug">34 EXT. COOKHOUSE - STUBBLE FIELD IN B.G. </p><p><p ID="act">The COOKS, Orientals in homburgs, serve from planks thrown across sawhorses. The hands cuff and push each other around as they wash up. The water, brought up fresh in wagons from the wells, makes them gasp. An ice wagon and a fire truck are parked nearby. Most sit on the ground to eat, under awnings or beach umbrellas dotted around the field like toadstools. The Belvedere is visible miles away on the horizon. Bill is carrying Abby's lunch to her when a loutish DUTCH MAN makes a crack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DUTCHMAN <P ID="dia">Your sister keep you warm at night? Bill throws a plate of stew at him and they are quickly in a fight. No fists are used, just food. The others pull them apart. Bill storms away, flicking mashed potatoes off his shirt. </p><p><p ID="slug">35 EXT. GRAIN WAGON - STUBBLE FIELD IN B.G. </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby sit by themselves in the shade of a grain wagon. Demoralized, Abby soaks her hands in a pail of bran water. Bill inspects them anxiously. They are swollen and cracked from the morning's work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I ran a stubble under my nail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Didn't you ever learn how to take care of yourself? I told you to keep the gloves on. What can I do if you don't listen? Bill presses her wrists against his cheek, ashamed that he can do nothing to shield her from such indignities. In the b.g. a MAN with a fungo bat hits flies to SOME MEN with baseball gloves. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You can't keep on like this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What else can we do? She nods at the others. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Anyway, if they can, I can too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That bunch? Don't compare yourself to them. She flexes her fingers. They seem lame. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You drop off this weak. I can make enough for us both. It was a crime to bring you out here. Somebody like you. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Right now, what I'm doing, I'm just dragging you down. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Maybe you should go back to Chicago. We've got enough for a ticket, and I can send you what I make. He seems a little surprised when she does not reject this idea out of hand. Perhaps he fears that if she ever did go back, he might never see her again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter? She begins to cry. He takes her in his arms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know how you feel, honey. Things won't always be this way. I promise. </p><p><p ID="slug">36 ABBY AND BILL - CHUCK'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">The men knock out their pipes as Benson's whistle summons them back to their stations. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Tick tockl Tick tock! Nothing moving but the clock! Bill pulls Abby to her feet. He sees the Dutchman he fought with and shoots him the finger. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You better be careful. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Of him? He's just a. sack of shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Stop it! He's liable to see you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I want him to. He's the one better be careful. </p><p><p ID="slug">37 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks on. Something about her captivates hint, not so much her beauty--which only makes her seem beyond his reach--as the way she takes it utterly for granted. </p><p><p ID="slug">38 MONTAGE (DISSOLVES) </p><p><p ID="act">The work goes on through the afternoon. The pace is stern and incessant, and for a reason: a storm could rise at any moment and sweep the crops flat, or a dry wind shrivel them up. A series of dissolves gives the sense of many days passing. Iany moment and sweep the crops flat, or a dry wind shrivel them up.Animals--snakes and gophers, rabbits and foxes--dart through the field into the deep of the wheat, not realizing their sanctuary is growing ever smaller as the reapers make their rounds. The moment will come when they will every one be killed with rakes and flails. The wheat changes colors in the wind, like velvet. As the sun drops toward the horizon a dew sets, making the straw hard to cut. Benson fires his pistol. A vine of smoke sinks lazily through the sky. As the workers move off, the fields grow vast and inhospitable. Oil wells can be seen here and there amid the grain. </p><p><p ID="slug">39 EXT. ABBY'S ROW </p><p><p ID="act">Bill helps Abby finish up a row. Thousands of shocks stretch out in the distance. Benson comes up behind her, making a spray of the stalks that she missed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">You must've passed over a dozen bushels here. I'm docking you three dollars. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? That's not fair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Then leave. You're fired. Abby is speechless. Bill squeezes the small rubber ball which he carries around to improve his grip and swallows his pride. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Wait a minute. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">You want to stay? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Then shut up and get back to work. Benson leaves. Abby covers Bill's embarrassment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I guess he meant it. She turns her back to him and goes about picking up the sheaf Benson threw down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He did. Ask him. If you can't sing or dance, what do you do in this world? You might as well forget it. Ising or dance, what do you do this world? You might as wellu rorget it. </p><p><p ID="slug">40 EXT. STOCK POND - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Their day's work done, the men swim naked in a stock pond. Their faces are black, their bodies white as a baby's. A retriever plunges through the water fetching sticks. </p><p><p ID="slug">41 EXT. ROAD - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Some bowl with their hats on in a dusty road and argue in Italian. </p><p><p ID="slug">42 EXT. BELVEDERE - DOCTOR'S WAGON - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">A physician's wagon stands in front of the Belvedere. Bill hunts nervously through it for medicine to soothe Abby's hands. Not knowing quite what to look for, he sniffs whatever catches his eye. Suddenly the front door opens and Chuck steps out with a DOCTOR, a stooped old man in a black frock coat. Bill, surprised, crouches behind the wheel. As they draw closer their conversation becomes faintly audible. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How long you give it? DOCTOR (o.s.) Could be next month. Could be a year. Hard to say. Anyway, I'm sorry. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Got to happen sometime. They shake hands </p><p><p ID="slug">43 NEW ANGLE - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">The Doctor snaps his whip at the horses. Bill grabs holdI The Doctor snaps his whip at the horses. Bill grabs hold of the back of the wagon and lets it drag him away from the Belvedere.the Belvedere. - </p><p><p ID="slug">44 EXT. BARN - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula and Abby case the barn for dinner. Abby points at a pair of peacocks strutting by, nods to Ursula and puts a finger over her lips. Ursula, with a giggle, followsone while Abby stalks the other. </p><p><p ID="slug">45 EXT. RAPESEED FIELD - SERIES OF ANGLES - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">The peacock, a resplendent white, leads Abby through a bright yellow rapeseed field. It keeps just out of reach, as though it were enticing her on. as though it were enticing her on.'U All at once she looks up with a start. Chuck is standing in front of her, dressed in his habitual black. The Belvedere rises behind him like a castle in a fairy tale. She remembers Benson's warning that this is forbidden ground. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(afraid) <P ID="dia">I forgot where I was. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Don't worry. Where you from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Chicago. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">We hardly ever see a woman on the harvest. There is a small rip in the side of her shirt, which the camera observes with Chuck. She pulls her sweater over it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You like the work? <P ID="spkdir">(she shrugs) <P ID="dia">Where do you go from here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Wyoming and places. I've never been up that way. You think I'll like it? He shrugs. Shy at first, she begins to open up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That dog belongs to you that was running around here? That little pointer? <P ID="spkdir">(he nods) <P ID="dia">What's his name </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Buster. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He seems like a good dog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I think so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He came over and tried to eat my bread from lunch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Maybe I should keep him penned up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(smiling) <P ID="dia">You asking me? </p><p><p ID="slug">46 EXT. SPIT - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds Ursula roasting a peacock on a spit. She has arranged some of its tail feathers in her hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're getting prettier every day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Aren't you sweet! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Depends how people are with me. Where's Abby? I found her something. He holds out a jar of salve. Ursula shrugs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">She mention anything to you about going back? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What? Ursula has no idea what he is talking about. </p><p><p ID="slug">47 EXT. STRAW STACK - MAGIC HOURMost of the workers are fast asleep around the strawplU </p><p><p ID="act">Most of the workers are fast asleep around the strawpile, their bodies radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. A few stay up late to shoot dice in the back of a wagon. </p><p><p ID="slug">48 EXT. SEPARATE STACK - MAGIC HOUR </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Bill have laid their bedrolls out by a stack away from the others. A fire burns nearby. Abby look at the stars. Bill shines his shoes. The straw is fragrant as thyme. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I've had it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're tired, that's all. I'm going to find you another blanket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No, it's not that. I'm not tired. I just can't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't you want to be with me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know I do. It's just that, well, I'm not a bum, Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know. I told you though, this is only for a while. Then we're going to New York.Then we're New York. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">And after that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Then we're there. Then we get fixed up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You mean spend one night in a flophouse and start looking for work. They are silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You should go back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">And leave you? I couldn't do that. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Someday, when I'm dying, I'd like somebody to ask me if I still see life the same way as before--and I'd like them to write down what I say. It might be interesting.I Suddenly they look around. The chief domestic at the Belvedere, a churlish lady named MISS CARTER, stands above them with a salver of fruit and roast fowl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(suspicious) <P ID="dia">What's going on? Who sent it? She nods up toward the Belvedere and sets it down.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What for? She withdraws with a shrug. She does not appear to relish this duty. Bill watches her walk back to the buggy she came down in. Benson waits beside it.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(to Abby) <P ID="dia">She's the kind wouldn't tell you if your coat was on fire.U </p><p><p ID="slug">49 NEW ANGLE - MAGIC HOURI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby, with the look of a child that has wandered into aI magic world, digs in. Bill looks on, suspicious of the_ motives behind this generosity. </p><p><p ID="slug">50 EXT. FIELD WITH OIL WELL - URSULA'S THEME - MAGIC HOUR </p><p><p ID="act">A bank of clouds moves across the moon. Ursula roams the fields, keen with unsatisfied intelligence. The stubble hisses as a hot wind blows up from the South, driving bits of grain into her face like sleet. From time to time she does a cartwheel. Equipment cools in the fields. Little jets of steam escape the boilers of the tractors.Ursula stops in front of a donkey well. It nods up and down in ceaseless agreement, pumping up riches from deep in the earth. </p><p><p ID="slug">51 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW - MAGIC HOUR </p><p><p ID="act">The camera moves through the bedroom window to find Chuck asleep on his pillow. The wind taps the curtain into the room. </p><p><p ID="slug">52 EXT. FATHER IN CHAIR - QUICK CUT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck dreams of a Biblical figure with a long plaited room.U52EXT. Chuck dreams of a Biblical figure with a long plaited beard, in a frock coat and Astrakhan hat, sitting in a_ chair on the open prairie, guarding his land with a brace of guns. This man will later be identified as his FATHER. </p><p><p ID="slug">53 EXT. FIELDS - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The next day Benson yells through a megaphone from atop a stool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Hold your horses!I The huge tractors start up with a bang. Despite Benson's warning a team of Percherons breaks free. Threshing, the separating of the wheat from the chaff, has begun. </p><p><p ID="slug">54 EXT. SEPARATOR - SERIES OF ANGLESI </p><p><p ID="act">Sixty foot belts connect the tractors to the separating machines, huge rattletrap devices that shell the wheat out at deafening volume. Benson tosses bundles down the hissing maw, squirts oil into the gears, tightens belts, chews out a MAN who's sliced a hand on the driveshaft, etc. Bill works on the straw pile at the back of the machine, in a soft rain of chaff, spreading it out with a pitchfork. Ursula helps stoke the tractor with coal and water. When nothing is required of her she sneaks off to burrow in the straw. Gingerbread on the eaves of the tractors gives them a Victorian appearance. Tall flags mark their position in the field. Abby moves quickly, without a moment's rest, sewing up the sacks of grain as they are measured out at the bottom of the separator. A clowning WORKER comes up and smells herU like a flower. </p><p><p ID="slug">55 EXT. GRAIN ELEVATORSU </p><p><p ID="act">Fully laden wagons set off toward distant grain elevators.U </p><p><p ID="slug">56 EXT. COUCH ON RIDGE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and McLEAN, his accountant, sit on a ridge away from the chaff, in the shade of a beach umbrella. Chuck keeps track of operations through a telescope. Our last view of Abby, we realize, was from his POV. A plush Empire couch has been drawn up for his to rest in. At a table beside it, McLean computes the yield. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">This must be wrong. No, dammit, nineteen bushels an acre. Chuck sails his hat out in the stubble with a whoop. McLean leans over his adding machine, cackling like a thief. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">Say it goes at fifty-five cents a bushel, that means a profit of four dollars and seventy-five cents per acre. Multiply by twenty thousand and you're talking over six figures.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Big year. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">Your biggest ever. This could make you the richest man in thePanhandle. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You ought to get out while you're this far ahead. You'll never do better. I mean it. You have nothing to gain by staying.U nothing to gain by staying. I </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I want to expand. I want to run this land clear to the Oklahoma border. Next spring I will. </p><p><P ID="speaker">McLEAN <P ID="dia">And gamble everything?U <P ID="spkdir">(he nods)I <P ID="dia">You're crazy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I been out here all my life. Selling this place would be like cutting my heart out. This is the only home I ever had. ThisI is where I belong. Besides, I don't want to live in town. I couldn't take my dogs.I </p><p><p ID="slug">57 CHUCK'S POV - TELESCOPE MATTE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck takes another look at Abby through the telescope. <b>25 </b></p><p><p ID="slug">58 EXT. BUGGY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill drinks from the water barrel at the back of Benson'sU buggy, his eyes fixed on Chuck's distan </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Big place here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">The President's going to pay a visit next time he comes West.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Got a smoke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">No.I Bill puts his hat back on. He keeps wet cottonwood leaves in the crown to cool himself off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why's that guy dragging an expensive piece of furniture out here? Reason I ask is he's going to ruin thefinish and have to strip it.I Benson hesitates, uncertain whether he might be divulging a confidence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">He's not well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter with him?I Benson immediately regrets having spoken so freely. He checks his watch to suggest Bill should get back to work. This uneasiness confirms Bill's sense that Chuck is gravely ill. </p><p><p ID="slug">59 EXT. SEPARATOR - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby is sewing up her last sacks by the separator that evening when Chuck walks up, still in the flush of McLean's good news. The others have finished and left to wash up. He sits down and helps her. Shy and upright, he does not know quite how to behave with a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Probably be all done tomorrow. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You still plan on going North? She nods and draws her last stitch. Chuck musters his courage. It must be now or never. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Reason I ask is maybe you'd like to stay on. Be easier than now. There's hardly any work after harvest. The pay is just as good, though. Better in fact. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why're you offering me this? My honest face? Chuck takes a moment to compose his reply. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I've watched you work. Think about it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Maybe I will. She backs off toward Bill, who is waiting in the distance. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Who's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(hesitant) <P ID="dia">My brother. Chuck nods. </p><p><p ID="slug">60 NEW ANGLE - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">She joins Bill. He gives her a melon, wanting to pick up her spirits. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This is all I could find. You feeling better? <P ID="spkdir">(she shrugs) <P ID="dia">What'd he want? They look at each other. </p><p><p ID="slug">61 EXT. RIVER - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">As Bill and Abby bathe in the river that evening, he tells her what he seems to have learned about Chuck's state of health. Down the way Ursula sits under a tree playing a guitar. Otherwise they are alone. They all wear bathing suits, Bill a shirt as well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILLU <P ID="dia">It must be something wrong with his lungs. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">He doesn't have any family, either.his lungs.I <P ID="spkdir">(pause)I </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">So what? Bill shrugs. Does he have to draw her a picture? A shy, virginal light has descended over the world. Cranes peer at them from the tamarack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Tell him you'll stay. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What for? Bill is wondering what might happen if Chuck got interested enough to marry her. Isn't he soon to die, leaving a vast inheritance that will otherwise go to waste? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know I love you, don't you? ABBY Yes. Abby guesses what is going through his mind, and it shocks her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Oh, Bill! He takes her into his arms, full of emotion.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What else can we really do? I know how you feel, but we keepon this way, in five years we'll be washed up. He catches a stick drifting by and throws it further down stream. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You ever think about all those ladies parading up and downU Michigan Avenue? Bunch of whores! You're better than anyI of them. You ever think how they got where they are? He wants to breathe hope into her. He thinks of himself as responding to what she needs and secretly wants. When she does not answer he gives up with a sigh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Let's forget it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know what you mean, though. He takes her hand, with fresh hope of convincing her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We weren't meant to end up like this. At least you weren't. You could be something. I've heard you sing. You have a lot of fine qualities that need to come out. Ursula, too. What.U kind of people is she meeting up with, riding the rods? The girl's never had a clean shot-- never will. She oughta be in school. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(nodding) <P ID="dia">You wouldn't say this if you really loved me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">But I do. You know I do. This just shows how much. We're shitI out of luck, Abby. People need luck. What're you crying about? Oh, don't tell me. I already know. All on account of your unhappy life and all that stuff. Well, we gotta do something about it, honey. We can't expect anybody else to. Abby runs into the woods.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Always the lady! Well, you don't know how things work in this country. This is why every hunkie I ever met is going nowhere. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Why do you want to make me feel worse than I already do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (CONT'D) <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You people get hold of the guy that's passing out dough, giveI him my name, would you? I'd appreciate it. </p><p><p ID="slug">62 TIGHT ON BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill skims rocks off the water to calm himself down. HeI feels that somehow he did not get to say what he wanted to.U </p><p><p ID="slug">63 EXT. WOODS BY RIVER </p><p><p ID="act">Abby is dressing in the cool woven shade of the woods when Ursula, her face caked with a mask of river mud, jumps from the bushes with a shriek, scaring the wits out of her sister. </p><p><p ID="slug">64 EXT. BELVEDERE - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">On their way home they pass the Belvedere. A single light burns on the second floor. Abby picks cornflowers to put in her hair. Bill runs his hand down her back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why're you touching me that way? He shrugs. Muffled by the walls of the house, above the cries of the peafowl, they can faintly hear Chuck singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He's singing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He can't be too sick if he's singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He might be singing to God. They look at each other and smile. It does not appear that she has held what he said by the river against him. Bill stands for a moment and looks up at the Belvedere before passing on. </p><p><p ID="slug">65 EXT. SEPARATOR, LAST SHEAVES, RATS </p><p><p ID="act">Work goes on the next day. As they near the last sheaves of unthreshed grain, hundreds of rats burst out of hiding. The harvesters go after them with shovels and stones. The dogs chase down the ones that escape. </p><p><p ID="slug">66 BENSON AND CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Benson and Chuck smile at each other. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">We should be done around four. They improvise a chat about past harvests. Years of shared hardship have drawn them close. Chuck trails off in the middle of a reminiscence. Something else weighing on his mind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(shyly) <P ID="dia">You put her on the slowest machine? Benson nods.U </p><p><p ID="slug">67 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">The threshing is done. A bundle is pitched into the separator backwards, snapping it abruptly to a stop. The drive belt whips along the ground like a mad snake. </p><p><p ID="slug">68 EXT. PAYROLL TABLEI </p><p><p ID="act">All hands line up at the payroll table. McLean gives out their wages in twists of newspaper. Chuck and Benson shake their hands. </p><p><p ID="slug">69 TIGHT ON BILL AND SORROWFUL MAN </p><p><p ID="act">A SORROWFUL MAN shows Bill a picture of a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">SORROWFUL MAN <P ID="dia">And I let somebody like that get away from me. Redhead. Lost her to a guy named Ed. Just let it happen. Should've gone out there outside the city limits and shot him. I just about did, too. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">If you're knocking yourself out like this, I hope it's for a woman. And I hope she's good looking. You understand? </p><p><p ID="slug">70 TIGHT ON ABBY AND URSULAI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby snatches a cigarette out of Ursula's mouth, takes a drag and throws it away. When Ursula goes to pick it up, she stamps it out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't spend a cent of that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Why don't you leave me alone?U </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm not going to sit around and watch you throw your life away. Nobody's going to look at you twice if you've got nothing to your name. Ursula dislikes meddlesome adults. She takes out a pouch of tobacco to roll another cigarette. Abby swats it out of her hand and chases her off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want me to cut a switch? </p><p><p ID="slug">71 SERIES OF ANGLES - FESTIVITIES - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">There are feats of strength and prowess as workers from the many fields of the bonanza join to celebrate the harvest home: boxing, wrestling, barrel jumping, rooster bouts, bear hugs, "Crack the Whip" and nut fights. Two tractors, joined by a heavy chain, vie to see which can outpull the other. Chuck lifts the back wheel of the separator off the ground; Benson replies by holding an anvil at arm's length; they tease each other about showing off. A GYMNAST does flips. They all seem happy as kids on holiday. </p><p><p ID="slug">72 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Ursula share a cigarette. Ursula tries on his sunglasses. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">We going to stay? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">If she wants to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You'd rather go?_ Bill, after a moment's thought, shrugs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">She's the one has to say. You put aspirin in this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">No. She hands back his sunglasses. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Keep them. </p><p><p ID="slug">73 EXT. MUD PIT - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Two TEAMS of harvesters have a tug of war. The losers are dragged through a pit of mud. Cradling handfuls of slime, they chase the winners off into the dusk. </p><p><p ID="slug">74 BILL AND ABBY - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds Abby sitting off by herself, wanting no part of the festivities. This is the first time since their arrival in Texas we have seen her wearing a dress. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Sunny Jim, look at this. My first ice cream in six months. And the lady even asks do I want sprinkles on top, thank you. Big, deep dish of ice cream. You couldn't pay me to leave this place, Got you one, too. You should've heard the line I had to give her, though. Oowee! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Good, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Great. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Now you're trying to coax me. You never used to act like this. Bill throws down the bowls of ice cream. In the distance, some MEN compete at throwing a sledge hammer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">For as long as I can remember, people been giving me a hard time about one thing or another. Don't you start in, too! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want to turn me into a whore? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We don't have to decide anything final now. Just if we're going to stay. You never have to touch him if you don't feel like it. Minute you get fed up, we take off. Worst that can happen is we had it soft for a while. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Something's made you mean. She walks off, uncertain what Bill really wants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Or else we can forget it. I'm not going to spend the whole afternoon on this, though. That I'm not going to do. </p><p><p ID="slug">75 ISOLATED ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck watches from a distance, fearful that tonight may be the last he will ever see of her.U </p><p><p ID="slug">76 TGHT ON ABBY, EFFIGY, MARS, ETC.I </p><p><p ID="act">The harvesters shape and dress the final sheaf as a woman. The LAST of them to finish that day carries the effigy at the end of the pole to the Belvedere. His mates follow behind, jeering and throwing dirt clods at him.U Aby watches. We sense that anything she sees mightI figure in her decision.U Mars hangs low and red in the western sky._ </p><p><p ID="slug">77 URSULA AND DRUNK </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula is looking at her figure in a pocket mirror whenU a DRUNK appears behind her.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">DRUNK <P ID="dia">See what happens to you? Little shit. Get out there and make that big money and don't spend time dicking around. </p><p><p ID="slug">78 EXT. PIT OF COALS - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">A feast is laid on. ONE PERSON rolls a flaming wheel down a hill. ANOTHER sets off a string of firecrackers. GERMANS pelt each other with spareribs. Ursula spears hogsheads out of a pit of hot coals. The YOUNGER MEN tease her. She is too much of a tomboy to interest any of thm seriously. The effigy sits off in a chair by itself. <b>1 </b></p><p><p ID="slug">79 TIGHT ON ABBY AND CHUCK - DUSKChuck awaits Abby's answer.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There's a problem. I have to keep my baby sister with me. Someday_ my baby sister with me. Someday I'm going to save up enough, see, and send her to school. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">My brother, too. I can't leave him.I Abby fears she has asked too much. Chuck hesitates, but only to suggest he still has the prudence he long since has abandoned. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">There's work for them, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><p ID="slug">80 EXT. BONFIRE - DUSK. </p><p><p ID="act">A bonfire burns like a huge eye in the vat of the prairie night. The band strikes up a reel. Chuck and Abby lead the dancing off, as though to celebrate their agreement. Their giant shadows dance with them. Soon the other harvesters join in. </p><p><p ID="slug">81 TIGHT ON BILL - DUSKU </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches Abby dance--it almost seems in farewell to their innocence. After a moment he turns off into the night.I </p><p><p ID="slug">82 MONTAGE - NIGHT_ </p><p><p ID="act">The effigy is held over the flame at the end of a pole until it catches fire. The harvesters prance around in the dark, trading it from hand to hand. The MUSICIANS, drunk and happy, bow their hearts out. </p><p><p ID="slug">83 TIGHT ON BILL - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">While the others pursue their merriment, Bill walks the fields by himself, trembling with grief and indecision. Dawn is breaking. The eastern sky glows like a forge. Suddenly he comes upon a wolf. He catches his breath. The wolf stares back at him for a moment, then turns and pads off into the stubble. </p><p><p ID="slug">84 EXT. RAILROAD TRACKS - DAWNEEXT. RAILROAD TRACKS - DAWNU </p><p><p ID="act">Early the next morning the HARVESTERS wander by the hundreds down to the railroad tracks to catch a train for the North, where the crops are just now coming into maturity. A subtle feeling of sadness pervades the group. Bill gives his sword cane away to a MAN who seems to have admired it. The MAN offers him money, but he declines it. </p><p><p ID="slug">85 EXT. TRAIN - URSULA AND JOHN - LATER </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula says goodbye to her favorite, a redhead named JOHN. She is hoarse, as always. </p><p><P ID="speaker">JOHN <P ID="dia">Why don't you come with us? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">They won't let me. So when am I going to see you again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">JOHN <P ID="dia">Maybe in Cheyenne. She nods okay. They both know they will never see each other again. On a sudden impulse she gives him a love note. </p><p><P ID="speaker">JOHN <P ID="dia">What's this? She takes it back immediately, but he snatches it away from her and, after a brief, giggling scuffle, hops aboard the train, now picking up speed. Ursula runs along behind, cursing and throwing rocks at him. </p><p><p ID="slug">86 TIGHT ON BILL AND ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby look on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I told her, "none of my business Urs, I just hope you're not rolling around with some redhead is all." She looks me over. "Why?" she says, "What've you guys got that redheads don't?" I pity that kid. Ursula runs up and throws herself tearfully into Abby's arms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the matter? What'd he do? Bill starts off after the train. </p><p><p ID="slug">87 EXT.-"SHEEP POWER" </p><p><p ID="act">Abby tends a washing machine driven by a sheep on a treadmill. Chuck watches from the front steps of the Belvedere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm just about done with this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">So what's next? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Next? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There's nothing else you want done? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Not that I can think of. Not right now. Miss Carter, the housekeeper, steps out on the porch and pours a bucket of milk into a cream separator. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How about the cream? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">She takes care of that. He nods at Miss Carter, who conspicuously lets the screen door clap shut as she goes back inside. She misses no opportunity to express her disdain for these newcomers. She and Benson are the only employees seen at the Belvedere. Several dozen others have stayed on after the harvest but they keep to their quarters down at the dorm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You mean I'm done for today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(uncomfortably) <P ID="dia">Something else might come up. In truth, Chuck does not want to see Abby degraded by menial labor, considering her more a guest than an employee. They look at each other. Abby does not know quite what to make of him </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Well, I'm going back to the dorm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCKU <P ID="dia">Is everything okay down there? In the way of accommodations, I mean.U She nods and waves goodbye.I </p><p><p ID="slug">88 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Down by the barn Bill teaches Chuck how to shoot dice. Chuck feigns interest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I like to gamble, and I like to win. I make no bones about it. Got to where the guys on Throop Street wouldn't even lag pennies with me on account of I was such a winner. I'm starting out level with you, you understand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Have you ever been in trouble with the law? Bill looks around. Abby would think it impolitic of him to speak so openly with Chuck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILLI <P ID="dia">Nothing they could make stick. My problem has always been not having the education. I bullshitted my way into school. They gave me a test. It was ridiculous. I got in fights. Ended up paying for a window. They threw me out. Don't blame them either. Still, I wanted to make something of myself. I mean, guys look at you across a desk, you know what they're thinking. So I went in the mill. Couldn't wait to get in there. Begin at seven, got to have a smile on your face. Didn't work out, though. No matter what you do, sometimes things just don't go right. It gets to you after a while. It gives you that feeling, "Oh hell, what's the use?" <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">My dad told me, forget what the people around you are doing. You got enough to worry about without considering what somebody else does. Otherwise you get fouled up. He used to say (tapping his temple) "All you got is this." Only one day you wake up, find you're not the smartest guy in the world, never going to come up with the big score. I really believed when I was growing up that somehow I would. I worked like a bastard in that mill. I felt all right about it, though. I felt that somewhere along the line somebody would see I had that special gleam. "Hey, you, come over here." So then I'd go. They are silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCKI <P ID="dia">You seem close to your sister._ </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Yeah. We've been together since we were kids. You like her, don't you? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">She likes you, too. Chuck looks down, feeling transparent in the pleasure he takes at this news. </p><p><p ID="slug">89 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">The camera moves back to reveal Abby listening in from the other side of the barn. Her eyes are full of tears. How can Bill prize her so lightly? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Don't get the wrong idea, though. </p><p><p ID="slug">90 ISOLATED ON BILL - LATERI </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sits on the ground reading his Police Gazette. Abby walks up and without a word of explanation, slaps him. He jumps up and protests but quickly tapers off. She turns on her heel and leaves.U Bill sits down feeling misunderstood and abused. Does she think all this pleases him? <b>1 </b></p><p><p ID="slug">91 EXT. FAIRY RINGS (PRAIRIE) </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, out for a stroll with Abby and Ursula, shows them a fairy ring--a colony of mushrooms growing in a circle thirty feet across. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I heard you farmers were big and dumb. You aren't so big. Where do they learn how to? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">They're so darling! Can you eat them? Chuck nods. Abby snaps the mushrooms off flush at the ground. The music underscores this moment. She smiles at Chuck as she eats the dark earthy flesh. </p><p><p ID="slug">92 EXT. POST </p><p><p ID="act">They pitch rocks at a post and exchange intimacies. Abby has grown more lively. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know sometimes I think there might have been a mixup at the hospital where I. was born and that I could actually be the interesting daughter of some big financier. Nobody would actually know.I <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Are you in love with me, Chuck, or why are you always so nervous? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(Stumbling) <P ID="dia">Maybe I am. I must be. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why? On account of something I've done? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Because you're so beautiful. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What a nice thing to say. Look, I hit it. Did you see? She goes right on with their game, as though she attached no great importance to his momentous declaration. </p><p><p ID="slug">93 TIGHT ON CHUCK AND ABBY - LATERI </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck takes Abby's hand for the first time. Abby, startled, gives him a gentle smile, then lets go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What about my shoes? Aren't they pretty?U94EXT. SWING </p><p><p ID="slug">94 EXT. SWING </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sits in a swing and plays a clarinet. The music flows out across the fields like a night breeze from the city. Abby, passing by, glowers at him, as though to ask if things are going along to his satisfaction. </p><p><p ID="slug">95 ASTRONOMICAL SIGHTS (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">Jupiter, the Crab Nebula, the canals of Mars, etc. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">It turns out that people might have built them. Does that surprise you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.)U <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><p ID="slug">96 EXT. RIDGE - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">They are on a ridge opposite the Belvedere looking at the heavens through Chuck's telescope. Abby tingles with a sense of wonder. Chuck has opened a whole new world to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know so much! Would you bring my sister up here and tell her some of this stuff? </p><p><p ID="slug">97 EXT. FATHER'S GRAVE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Nearby the grave of Chuck's father stands in helpless witness to Abby's deception. A cottonwood tree rises against the cold blue sky, still as a statue. </p><p><p ID="slug">98 TIGHT ON BOOK - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">A hand turns the pages of a book from Chuck's childhood. The text and VOICE reading it are in Russian, the picture of Russian wood folk and animals. </p><p><p ID="slug">99 EXT. VIRGIN PRAIRIE - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck's father rushes around marking off his property with stakes. </p><p><p ID="slug">100 EXT. UNFINISHED SOD HOUSE - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, ten years old, scours up the blade of a scythe. Family effects -- a big green stove, a bird cage, a table stacked with melons and a mirror--stand waiting in front of their half-finished sod house. We see no sign of Chuck's mother. </p><p><p ID="slug">101 EXT. PLOWED FIELD - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">A plow folds back the earth. The roots of the prairie grass twang like harp strings. The plowing done, his father sows the seed. Poverty requires that for a harrow he drag a tree branch in back of his ox. Over his shoulder he carries a rifle. Chuck blows a horn to chase the blackbirds off the seed. A scarecrow is rigged to his back, to make him more intimidating. </p><p><p ID="slug">102 CHUCK AND FATHER - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck's father has caught smallpox. His face is covered with sores. Chuck wants to embrace him, but the father wards him off with a long stick as he passes on some last instructions in Russian. </p><p><p ID="slug">103 EXT. RIVER - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">The father stands on a ledge above the river, filling his pockets with rocks to weight him down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (V.0.) <P ID="dia">My father caught smallpox when I was eleven. I fished him out of the river and buried him myself. </p><p><p ID="slug">104 EXT. SAND BAR - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck drags his father's drowned body across a sand bar with a rope. </p><p><p ID="slug">105 EXT. FATHER'S GRAVE - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck heaps the last bit of earth on his father's grave. The stove stands as a marker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">So who raised you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Nobody. Did it myself. </p><p><p ID="slug">106 CHUCK AS BOY - WITH COYOTE, INDIANS - FLASHBACK </p><p><p ID="act">Famished, Chuck eats from the carcass of a coyote. Some INDIANS watch him from a ridge. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">From the time you were a kid? How? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Worked hard, didn't fool around. I never saw a city. Never had time. All I ever did is work. He digs a post hole with a shovel twice his size. </p><p><p ID="slug">107 PAN OVER HILLS-DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">The camera pans across Chuck's vast domain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">I gave my life to that land. But what do I really have now? It'll still be here when I'm gone. It won't remember me. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'd give it all up for you. I could make you happy, too, I think-if only you'd trust me. The camera settles on Ursula, playing with a dog on a seesaw Chuck has built her, then begins to move again, to a long shot of Chuck and Abby on the ridge by the telescope. Chuck is proposing. </p><p><p ID="slug">108 EXT. DORM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby has told him of the proposal. Bill broods over an unlit cigarette. Is this a great blessing or a great misfortune which has befallen them? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He's asked me to marry him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I never really thought he would. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I thought you wanted me to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Before I did. You cold? Abby is shivering. Bill takes off his jacket and slips it over her shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you thinking? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We've never done anything like this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who'd know but you and me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nobody. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's it, Ab. That's all that matters, isn't it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You talk like it was all right. It would be a crime. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">But to give him what he wants more than anything? Two, threeI months of sunshine? He'll never get to enjoy his money anyway. What're you talking about? We'd be showing him the first good times of his life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Maybe you're right. At each hint of consent from Abby, Bill feels he must press on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know what they're going to stick on his tombstone? "Born like a fool, worked like a mule." Two lines. Abby cannot say the proposal is devoid of principle. The idea of easing Chuck's imminent death gives them just the shade of a good motive. This would be a trade. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What makes you think we're just talking about a couple of months?U </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Listen, the man's got one foot on a banana peel and the other on a roller skate. What can I say? We'll be gone before theI President shows up. He straightens his coat and smooths back his hair, to make her smile, without success. BILL Hey, I know how you feel. II Hey, I know how you feel. I feel just as bad. Like I was sticking an icepick in my heart. Makes me sick just to think about it! heart. Makes me sick just to </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I held out a long time. I could've taken the first guy with a gold watch, but I held out. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told myself that when I found somebody, I'd stick by him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know. We're in quicksand, though. We stand around, it's going to suck us down like everybody else. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Somewhere along the line you have to make a sacrifice. Lots of people want to sit back and take a piece without doing nothing. He waits to see how she will respond. Half of him wants her to turn him down flat. Abby is bewildered. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Have I ever complained? Have I said anything that would make you think... </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You don't have to. I hate it when I see you stooped over and them looking at your ass like you were a whore. I personally feel ashamed! I want to take a .45 and let somebody have it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">We got to look on the bright side of this, Ab. Year from today we got a Chinese butler and no shit from anybody. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Some people need more'n they have, some have more'n they need. It's just a matter of getting us all together. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't even know if I believe what I'm saying, though. I feel like we're on the edge of a big cliff. Abby looks at the ground for a moment, then nods. </p><p><p ID="slug">109 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck lies in bed, daydreaning. </p><p><p ID="slug">110 TIGHT ON ABBY AND URSULA </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula decorates Abby's hair with flowers and tells her how pretty she looks. </p><p><p ID="slug">111 EXT. RIVER BANK </p><p><p ID="act">The wedding takes place along the river. The Preacher has come back with his ACOLYTES. A chest of drawers serves as the altar. Benson is the best man--a joyless one. Ursula bounces around in a beautiful gown, looking for the first time like a young woman. The BAND practically outnumbers the guests: ELDERS from the local Mennonites, the MAYORS of a few surrounding towns decked out in sashes and medals, etc. </p><p><p ID="slug">112 TIGHT ON ABBY AND BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill kisses the bride on the cheek. Each believes she is going through with this for the other's sake. They whisper back and forth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know what this means, don't you? <P ID="spkdir">(he nods) <P ID="dia">We won't ever let each other down, will we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I love you more than ever. I always will. I couldn't do this unless I loved you. </p><p><p ID="slug">113 SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">The Acolytes ring an angelus bell. Chuck slips a sapphire on her finger. The Preacher, with outstretched arms, reminds them all that they are witness to a great event. </p><p><p ID="slug">114 SKY - ABBY'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Abby, frightened, looks off at the rolling sky, wondering how all thislooks in the sight of heaven. </p><p><p ID="slug">115 INT. BEDROOM - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">From her pillow, Abby watches Chuck shyly enter the bedroom He comes over and sits down beside her </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're wonderful. She is silent for a moment. The wind moans in the rafter </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No. But I wish I were. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Listen. It sounds like the ocean. They smile at each other. </p><p><p ID="slug">116 EXT. BELVEDERE - DUSKI </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches the lights go out in the Belvedere. A lump rises to his throat. How exactly did this happen? He sets his jaw, vowing not to give way to weakness or jealousy. This is the price they have to pay for a lasting happiness. </p><p><p ID="slug">117 TIGHT ON ABBY, CHUCK, ETC. </p><p><p ID="act">The next morning the newlyweds set off on their honeymoon. Chuck tells Bill to move his things from the dorm into the Belvedere. Abby, a basket of cucumbers under her arm, waves goodbye, angling her wrist so that Bill and Ursula can see the diamond bracelet Chuck has given her. </p><p><p ID="slug">118 EXT. PRAIRIEI </p><p><p ID="act">They steer out across the prairie in a1912 Overland auto. Ursula runs after them, slaps the back fender and hops around on one foot, pretending the other was run over. Abby laughs. She knows this stunt. When they are gone Ursula turns fiercely on Bill.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I hate you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What for? Don't be any more of a pain in the neck than you gotta be, okay? She swings at him with her fist. He pushes her away._ </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You think I like this? I'm doing it for her! </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You scum. Bill slaps her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Still think so? She throws a rock at him and runs off. He catches her, repenting of his meanness. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I know you can't understand this, but there's nothing I want except good things for Abby and you. Go ahead and hit me back. She hesitates a second, then slaps him as hard as she can. Blood glistens on his lip. He does not say a word in protest. She looks at the wound, horrified, then throws her arms tight around him. </p><p><p ID="slug">119 EXT. PIERI </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Chuck disembark from a paddleboat steamer at a pier along the river. Chuck looks excited. </p><p><p ID="slug">120 EXT. YELLOWSTONE POOL </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and Abby have gone to Yellowstone Park for their honeymoon. Abby wades in a pool, wreathed by mists from the underworld. She carries a parasol to protect her from the sun. The trees in the vicinity are bare of leaves. </p><p><p ID="slug">121 EXT. ANTLERS - FREEZE FRAME </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck kneels with a box camera to photograph a large pair of antlers lying on the ground. </p><p><p ID="slug">122 SERIES OF STILLS (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">This photo becomes the first in a series from their Yellowstone trip: fishermen displaying sensational catches by a river, buggies vying with early autos on rutted roads, the giant Beaupre who stood eight feet tall, etc. Each of the pictures bears a caption. Together they make a little story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">We saw grizzly bears and a boar. The bears scared me the most. They eat garbage. <P ID="spkdir">(whispering) <P ID="dia">I was so lonesome. I missed you. </p><p><p ID="slug">123 TIGHT ON BILL AND ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby kiss, renewing old ties.U </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There was a mountain partly made of glass, too, but we didn't get to see it. And a petrified tree. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We'll go back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Can we? Because there's a whole lot I didn't get to see. Bill straightens up. Chuck sits down on Abby's other side. </p><p><p ID="slug">124 EXT. DINNER TABLE UNDER NETI </p><p><p ID="act">They are having dinner on the lawn in front of the Belvedere. A fine mesh net is spread above them like a tent to keep the insects out. Ursula sits on Bill's lap. He puts a hand up the back of her shirt and they play as though she were a ventriloquist's dummy. </p><p><p ID="slug">125 TIGHT ON RABBIT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill displays a rabbit which he trained in their absence to perform a card trick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (o.s.) <P ID="dia">I have you now, Ed. Only thing that can beat me is the ace of spades. (His name's Ed..) Her name's Abigail. Hungarian name. <P ID="spkdir">(mumbling) <P ID="dia">Andrew drew Ann. Ann drew Andrew. From the whole of a spread deck it picks the ace of spades. </p><p><p ID="slug">126 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Chuck applaud. Ursula cranks up the victrola and puts on a record. Bill strokes the rabbit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know why I like him? He minds his business and isn't full of baloney. Chuck turns to Abby and, for nearly the first time, smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He's funny. Bill holds a plate up for Abby to see. Limoges china. Abby rolls her eyes and spits out a cherry pit. They eat like pigs, with no respect for bourgeois manners. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You have any talents, Chuck? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No, but I admire people who do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That's not so. He can do a duck. Show them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Stand back. Get the women and children someplace safe. Chuck, feeling it would be wrong not to enter the spirit of the occasion, does his imitation. The likeness is astonishing. Abby wipes a bit of food off his chin with her napkin. Bill drums on the table with his spoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You saw how modest he was? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How'd you get along so long without a woman? Chuck shrugs. Ursula makes a gesture as though to say by masturbating. Chuck does not see it. Billy laughs. Abby slaps her. The rabbit jumps out of the way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't you ever behave that way at table! <P ID="spkdir">(to Chuck) <P ID="dia">She's adopted. I had nothing to do with her upbringing. I'd trade her off for a yellow dog. <P ID="spkdir">(to Ursula) <P ID="dia">Now eat. You want to starve to death? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">That's what you'd like. Abby, overcome with impatience, throws her food to the dogs. Ursula catches a grasshopper and holds it out to Chuck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You give me a quarter to eat this hopper? Chuck does not reply. She pops it into her mouth anyway, enjoying his look of shock. Bill throws down his fork. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">All right, okay, nobody's hungry anymore. What's the worst thing you ever did, Chuck? Besides missing church and that kind of stuff. Chuck thinks about this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Once I turned a man out in the middle of winter, without a cent of pay. For all I know he froze. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">If you went that far, he must've deserved it. What else? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He didn't. I fired him out of resentment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Well, you're the boss, right? That's how it works. Got to make decisions on the spot. Anyway, this guy-what's his name?--if I know his kind, which I do, he's probably doing okay for himself, got a hand in somebody else's pocket for a change. Is that all? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">All I can think of right now. How about yourself? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(to Abby) <P ID="dia">He wants to know. I'm not going to count setting Blackie's on fire either. He had it coming. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL (con't) <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Once I punched a guy while he was asleep. Chuck looks surprised. Bill glances at Abby, worried that he might have said too much. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I was just kidding. Actually a guy I know did, though. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Maybe he did it to you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Yeah. I think so. Chuck gets up to ring for Miss Carter. Bill looks him up and down. Chuck, though older, is physically more imposing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Can I have the rabbit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Get serious. I can win money with him. She licks his ear. He laughs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I want that bunny. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You still believe in Santa Claus. Bill closes his eyes as he feels the soft fur of the rabbit. Ursula looks around to make sure Chuck is gone, then wings a roll at Bill. It bounces off his forehead. He retaliates with a pat of butter. </p><p><p ID="slug">127 BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Benson watches from another hill. He finds his displacement by these newcomers a humiliating injustice. </p><p><p ID="slug">128 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck returns to the table and draws Bill aside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Almost forgot. Here's your pay. Bill takes the envelope Chuck holds out. Then, in a spasm of conscience, he gives it back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">hat's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I got no right to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why? Bill is momentarily at a loss for words. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I haven't worked hard enough to deserve it. I been goofing off.I </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Don't be silly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Give it to charity or something. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Don't worry. I always know to look out for myself, because ifI I don't, who will? See what I'm driving at? Chuck sees a sense of honor at work in Bill here, and though he considers the gesture misguided and a little grand, admires him for it. </p><p><p ID="slug">129 EXT. BASESU </p><p><p ID="act">They play a game with big lace pillows for bases. The rules are unintelligible. </p><p><p ID="slug">130 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill is expert at throwing knives. As the others watch, he goes into a big windup and pins a playing card to the side of the house.U Everyone seems happy and congenial. They have reached some kind of plateau. Chuck's ignorance of the ruse does not cause the others to treat him with less respect. They seem themselves almost to have forgotten it. </p><p><p ID="slug">131 BILL AND ABBY'S POV - LATERU </p><p><p ID="act">Benson collects the bases, a job he doubtless feels is beneath him. The Doctor's wagon, unmistakable even at such a great distance, thunders away from the Belvedere. </p><p><p ID="slug">132 TIGHT ON BILL AND ABBYU </p><p><p ID="act">Bill and Abby, waiting for Chuck to join them for a swim,U look questioningly at each other.S </p><p><p ID="slug">133 EXT. RIVER </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula, in her bathing suit, jumps from a ledge above the river. She holds a big umbrella over her to see if it will act as a parachute. Bill and Chuck have a water fight. Abby wades in the shallows with a parasol. </p><p><p ID="slug">134 TIGHT ON ABBY AND URSULA - LATER </p><p><p ID="act">Abby is teaching Ursula how to kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Too like a mule. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="spkdir">(trying again) <P ID="dia">What about that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It's got to be--how should I say?-- more relaxed. They laugh and kiss again. </p><p><p ID="slug">135 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Farther up the slope Bill and Chuck wring out their bathing suits. Bill, thinking of the Doctor's visit, puts a hand on Chuck's shoulder. This time Chuck does not stiffen or ease it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You okay? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Sure. Why? Bill shrugs, beaming with admiration for this man who does not burden others with his secrets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I appreciate everything you've done for Abby. I really do. You've given her all the things she always deserved. I got to admit you have. Chuck looks off, embarrassed but oddly pleased. Bill snatches up a handful of weeds and smells them. <b>. </b></p><p><p ID="slug">136 CRANE SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">Returning home they portray the movements of the sun, earth and moon relative to each other. Abby is the sun and keeps up a steady pace across the prairie. Chuck, the earth, circles her at a trot, giving instructions. Bill, with the most strenuous role of all--the moon-- runs around Chuck while he circles Abby. </p><p><p ID="slug">137 EXT. PRAIRIE - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">They play golf on the infinite fairway of the prairie. Bill and Abby make a team against Chuck and Ursula. Nightingales call out like mermaids from the sea. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You liking it here? <P ID="spkdir">(she nods) <P ID="dia">Feel good? <P ID="spkdir">(she nods) <P ID="dia">Feels good to feel good. He smiles, satisfied that he has done well by her, and lets a new ball slip down his pant leg to replace the one he played. </p><p><p ID="slug">138 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula, meanwhile, grinds Abby's ball into the dirt with the heel of her boot. She winks at Chuck. Chuck smiles back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's your mother like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Her? Like somebody that just got hit on the head. She used to pray for me. Rosary, the stations, everything. "Hey, Ma," I tell her, "I ain't crippled." They don't know, though. They say you're in trouble. They don't know. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">My dad, the same way. Thought the world owed him a living. He drowned in Lake Michigan. </p><p><p ID="slug">139 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">They walk home. Bill stays behind to work on his strokes. Ursula sends the dogs after the balls. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You shag them, not those dogs. They might choke or run off with them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Who made you the boss? Shag them yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Listen, some day all this is going to be mine. Or half is. Somebody like that, you want to get on his good side, not give him a lot of gas. You want to do what he says. He steps off a few paces of his future kingdom and draws a deep breath. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This reminds me of where I came from. I left when I was six. That's when I met your sister. He looks at the land with a new sense of reverence. He snatches up a handful of grass and rolls it between his palms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can't wait to go back to Chicago, bring them down for a visit. Blackie and them. There's a lot of satisfaction in showing up people who thought you'd never amount to anything. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'd really like to see this place run right. I got a lot of ideas I'd like to try out. </p><p><p ID="slug">140 BILL'S POV AND TIGHT ON BILL </p><p><p ID="act">In the distance he sees Chuck put his arm on Abby's waist and whisper something in her ear. This intimacy rubs him the wrong way. He gives his clubs to Ursula and starts after them. </p><p><p ID="slug">141 INT. KITCHEN </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds them in the kitchen. Chuck goes into the other room to look for something. Abby lifts the cigarette out of Bill's mouth, takes a drag and does a French inhale. Bill kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nobody's all bad, are they? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I met a few I was wrong on, then. Suddenly they hear Chuck's footsteps. They pull back just in time, Abby returning the cigarette to him behind her back. They chat as though nothing had happened. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I have a headache. I probably should've worn a hat. Abby rolls her eyes at this improvisation. No sooner does Chuck turn his back than Bill's hand darts out to touch her breast. He snatches it away a moment before Chuck turns back. Together they walk into the living room. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You ever see anybody out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Not after harvest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How often do you get into town? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Once or twice a year. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're kidding. He must be kidding. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why do I need to? Bill catches Abby's eyes. He frowns at the idea of being cooped up with this Mormon all winter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Relaxation. Look at the girls. Opportunity to see how other folks live. Chuck looks at him blankly. None of these reasons seems to carry much weight for him. Bill turns to Abby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Somebody is nuts. I don't know whether it's him or me, but somebody is definitely nuts. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why don't I fix tea? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Maybe I should help you. He follows her back into the kitchen, where he starts to kiss her. She pushes him away and turns to making the tea. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're worse than an Airedale. <P ID="spkdir">(raising her voice) <P ID="dia">You want jasmine or mint? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Mint. Bill lifts up the back of her dress and looks under it, testing the breadth of his license. She slaps it back down. He lifts it again, standing on his right to. She glowers at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't do that. <P ID="spkdir">(calling to Chuck) <P ID="dia">How much sugar? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why not? I'm just seeing what kind of material it's made of. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">One spoonful. Bill walks around absentmindedly, inspecting Chuck's things, stealing whatever catches his fancy. A book, a paperweight, a bell--things he does not really want and has no use for. His conscience is clear, however; the sacrifices they are making excuse these little sins. As Chuck walks in, Bill has pocketed a candlestick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Where's the candlestick? Chuck shrugs. Bill gives Abby a cold look and goes outside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He's a strange one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(nodding) <P ID="dia">Once he named his shoes like they were pets. It was a joke, I guess. </p><p><p ID="slug">142 EXT. WELL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill drops the candlestick down the well, stands for a moment, then punches the bucket with his fist. He looks up. Benson has seen him. </p><p><p ID="slug">143 EXT. SAPLINGS AGAINST WINDOW - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Outside the saplings thrash in the wind. </p><p><p ID="slug">144 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby wakes up with a gasp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I had a dream. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What about? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Was something after you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I forgot it already. </p><p><p ID="slug">145 AERIAL SHOT (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">The camera falls through the clouds as though in a lost fragment of Abby's dreams. </p><p><p ID="slug">146 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Benson sulks by the barn. Chuck approaches him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You come down here a lot, don't you? Always when you're mad. You never change. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">It might not be my place to say this, sir, but I don't think they're honest people. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He gets on your nerves, doesn't he? He always has. <P ID="spkdir">(cutting in) <P ID="dia">Now don't say something you're going to regret. <b>. </b></p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Why should I regret it? I think they're a pair of scam artists, sir. Let me tell you what I've seen, and you judge for yourself. Chuck, who of course has seen the same things and more, raises a hand to silence him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Maybe you'd be happier taking over the north end till spring. I don't say this in anger. We've been together a long time, and I've always felt about you like, well, close. It just might work out better is all. Less friction. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Don't believe me, then. You shouldn't. But why not check it out, sir? Hire a detective in Chicago. It won't cost much. What's there to lose? Chuck's brow darkens as Benson goes on. For a moment we glimpse the anger that would be unleashed if ever he woke up. Somewhere he already knows the truth but refuses to acknowledge it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're talking about my wife. And so Chuck, too, becomes an accomplice in the scheme. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Maybe I better pack my things. Benson turns and walks off. Chuck watches him go, ashamed at himself. What has this man done but a friend's duty? </p><p><p ID="slug">147 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby sits at the dresser in the master bedroom. Bill walks in through the door and tries Chuck's hat on for size. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you doing in here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Just walked in through the door, like any other white man. On the bureau he finds a pistol. He aims it out the window. All this will soon be theirs! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Smith and Wesson. You ought to see one of these plow into a watermelon. She holds a hairbrush out for him to see. He looks it over and gives it back without comment. He finds a stain on the tabletop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Somebody's been staining this fake inlay with a water glass. Actually I don't blame them. He walks around trying out more of Chuck's appurtenances. Abby, caught up, models a shawl before an imaginary mirror. She blows a kiss at herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't say I did that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">The bed should be over next to the window. Where the view is. Bill is already making plans for life after Chuck's demise. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Maybe we build on a balcony. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">First the birds go. The peacocks are crowing outside. They burst out laughing. Bill checks the mussed bedsheets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">That doesn't concern you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why not? <P ID="spkdir">(no reply) <P ID="dia">Look, I know you've got urges. It wouldn't be right if you didn't. Abby stands up, angry. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You think I enjoy it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Lower your voice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You act like it's harder on you than me! I never want to talk about this again. Bill, consoled, holds an eyelet blouse against the light. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I bet he enjoys looking at you in this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I thought you liked it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">He likes it, too, is what I'm saying. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Well, it's the style. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I see. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What do you want me to wear in this heat? A blanket? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's your problem. Abby puts on her wedding bracelet and admires it. Bill softens at the sight of her beauty, properly adorned. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I told you someday we'd be living in style. When this whole thing is over I'm going to buy you a necklace with diamonds as big as that. He holds out the tip of his little finger. They laugh, as though they suddenly felt the absurdity of all this make-believe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're cute. Maybe a shade too cute. She touches his face sympathetically, as though to say that she knows the pain this was causing him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">This is terrible for us both. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Abby? They jump as Chuck calls up from downstairs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Down in a minute. She kisses Bill. </p><p><p ID="slug">148 EXT. BACK DOOR OF BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sneaks out the back door of' the Belvedere, only to find Benson drinking at the well. They look at each other in silence for a moment. Benson's horse stands beside him, a suitcase fixed to the saddle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">I know what you're doing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">That boy's like a son to me. Don't you forget it. I know what you're doing. Benson gets on his horse, turns and rides off. Miss Carter waves goodbye from the side of the house. She and Bill exchange a look. </p><p><p ID="slug">149 EXT. FRONT PORCH </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds the others around front. Abby lolls in the hammock writing in her diary and eating a peach. Ursula plays the guitar. Little by little the newcomers have done the house over from the austere structure that it was. Living room furniture has been moved out onto the front lawn and there arranged as though by a child. Goats sleep on the divan. Archery targets hang from the side of the house. The porch is covered with a striped awning, bird cages and twirls of bunting. Everywhere an atmosphere of drunken ease prevails. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nice fall day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Wish I'd said that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(to Abby) <P ID="dia">Watcha doing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Eating a green peach. 'Spect to die any minute. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Listen, I had a great idea. Let's spend Christmas in Chicago. Break up the old routine. Rhino's never been to a baseball game or a horse race. I know guys one month off the boat that have. Don't even speak the English language, but they eat it right up. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You're just a young guy, Rhino; you oughta be running around raising hell. No offense to the little woman. He bows apologetically to Abby. She pinches a dead leaf off a plant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Abby says that in the poor section people eat cats. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did you, sis? Well, there's always something doing. I can't begin to tell you. State and Madison? Mmmm. Lights everywhere. You'd love it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">It can be rough, though. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Rough? Listen, you can't walk down the street without somebody reaching in your pocket! You've got to keep your coat like this and poke them away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Bill got shot once. The bullet's still in him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Doctor said he took it out, but I never saw it. Hurt like a bastard. You got no idea how it hurt. Suddenly he worries this might discourage Chuck from going. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">They won't mess with you, though. Big fella like you. I can see it now. He offers a taste of the talk Chuck is like to provoke on the street corners. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">"Hey, hey, hey. Who's this here, fresh out of the African Jungle, moving down the sidewalk with a whowhowho, taking ten feet at a step and making all the virgins run for cover? Why, it's Big Rhino, the King of Beasts. He walks, he talks, he sucks up chalk." Bill steps back and sees, as though for the first time, how imposing Chuck really is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You are big, aren't you? Sunny Jim! You must've had a real moose for an old lady. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Take it easy. But Chuck holds none of this against him. He knows it comes from respect. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">So what do you say? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What a sorry outfit! Bunch of old ladies. You better stay behind. Your mammas'd probably get upset. But when the time comes, I'm out of here. Hit the road, Toad! Ursula passes the sandwiches around until there is just one left, Miss Carter's. While the others are talking, she scoops up a handful of dirt and pours it into the middle. Bill, lighting a cigarette, notices Chuck's hand on Abby's. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Ever seen a match burn twice? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No. Bill blows out the match and touches Chuck's hand with the hot ember, causing him to yank it away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's old. Chuck starts to cough. Bill looks at Abby, then whips the handkerchief out of his pocket and puts it over his nose, as though to keep from getting Chuck's germs. Miss Carter's face goes blank as she bites into her sandwich. She jumps up and rushes back into the house. Chuck frowns. Bill glares at Ursula, then turns to Chuck and, referring to the dead prairie grass which runs through the front yard right up to the house, continues: </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You ever thought of putting in some fescue here? Some fescue grass? Of course, it might not take in this soil. Chuck stands up and winds a stole, a long religious scarf, around his neck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You ready? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I still have a little of this sore throat. Where you going, though? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">To kill a hog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's the necktie for? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Or does it just come in handy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Keeps the stain of guilt off. Chuck nods goodbye and walks off, taking a stool with him. Bill sighs with admiration. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I try and try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What a splendid person! I've never met anybody like him! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Splendid people make you nervous. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">They do! I breathe a sigh of relief when they step outside the room. Bill puts on his boater and opens a copy of the Police Gazette. They are silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">A guy ate a brick on a bet. Must of busted it up first with a hammer. Guy in New York City. Where else? <P ID="spkdir">(Jumping up) <P ID="dia">Anybody want to bet me I can't stick this knife in that post? Nobody takes him up on this. Abby leafs through the Sears catalogue, her mind dancing with visions of splendor. </p><p><p ID="slug">150 TIGHT ON CATALOGUE </p><p><p ID="act">Pictured. in the catalogue are bath oils and corsets and feathered hats. A grasshopper is perched on the page among them, its eyes blank and dumb. </p><p><p ID="slug">151 TIGHT ON ROSE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches her run her finger slowly around the closed heart of a rose. Suddenly they both look at each other. They have heard the squeals, faint but unmistakable, of a hog being led to slaughter. </p><p><p ID="slug">152 TIGHT ON STOOL - QUICK CUT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck has tied the hog's feet to the inverted legs of the stool. </p><p><p ID="slug">153 OTHER QUICK CUTS </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula, off by herself, skips rope. A flag on the pole by the front gate snaps in the breeze. From the branch of a lone tree the hog dangles by its hocks into the mouth of a barrel. </p><p><p ID="slug">154 EXT. BELVEDERE - ABBY'S POV FROM SECOND FLOOR WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">Miss Carter storms down the hill with her bags. Fed up, she is leaving the bonanza. Chuck tries in vain to appease her. She keeps walking, out the front gate and into the prairie on a straight course for the railroad tracks. Chuck will now be alone at the Belvedere with the newcomers and no other point of reference. </p><p><p ID="slug">155 EXT. CLOTHES LINE </p><p><p ID="act">Later that afternoon, Bill catches sight of Abby's underthings rustling on the clothes line. </p><p><p ID="slug">156 INT. STAIRS </p><p><p ID="act">That evening he watches her from behind as she climbs the stairs to join Chuck at their bedroom door. She nods goodnight, sensing the jealousy that is growing in him. </p><p><p ID="slug">157 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks impatiently through a drawer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I can't find anything around here. Last week it was my gloves; this week my talc. What's going on? He stands and watches Abby get ready for bed. She fills him with a deep adoration. He feels that in the tulip of her mouth at last he has found heaven. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're beautiful. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You don't think my skin's too fair? He comes up behind her and touches her long hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're smart, too, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know what the Magna Carta is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Can I help you brush it out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Not right now. She is cold to discourage false expectations in him--and because she feels that she at least owes Bill this. Chuck, however, assumes the fault must be his own. His naivete about women, and the world in general, protects the conspirators--and protects him, too, for he glimpses enough of the truth not to want to know any more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What makes you so distant with me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Distant? I don't mean to be. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You know what I'm talking about, though. You aren't that way with your brother. </p><p><p ID="slug">158 INT.ATTIC </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, eavesdropping in the attic above them, surveys Chuck's dusty heirlooms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">It must be something I'm doing. I wish you'd tell me what, though. </p><p><p ID="slug">159 INT. BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">These gentle endearments, so rarely heard from Bill, stir her deeply. She throws herself in his arms. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Oh, Chuck I Please forgive me. Does it mean anything that I'm sorry? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(pleased) <P ID="dia">But I don't blame you. Did I make it sound that way? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You should. You have a right to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">It's just that sometimes I feel I don't know you well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You don't. It's true. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I think you love me better than before, though. She rubs her cheek against his hands. Daily she feels warmer toward him. How much of this is love, how much respect or devotion, even she cannot say. </p><p><p ID="slug">160 TIGHT ON BILL - LATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The night throbs with crickets. Bill cracks open the bedroom door. Chuck lies asleep in a shaft of moonlight next to Abby. He hesitates a moment, but a strange compulsion drives him on. He has never done anything so dangerous, or had so little idea why. </p><p><p ID="slug">161 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby wakes up to find him staring her in the face. He kisses her. Chuck stirs. Abby signals they should go outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">162 EXT. BELVEDERE - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They sneak out of the Belvedere. The night is warm. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're no good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Mmmm. But I love you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I can't stand it any more. This is just so cruel. We're both no good. I've got to get drunk with you, Bill. You know what I mean? Drunk. Bill wags a bottle. The dogs, awakened, bay from the kennel. They wait a moment to see if a light will go on in the house, then dart off toward the fields. A plaster lawn dwarf seems to watch them go. </p><p><p ID="slug">163 EXT. FIELDS - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They run through the fields, hand in hand, laughing and flirting. The moon makes Abby's nightgown a ghostly white. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We can never do this again, though. Okay? It really is too dangerous. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This one night. He toes a sodden old shoe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Hey, I found a shoe. </p><p><p ID="slug">164 SHOE, COYOTES, SCARECROW - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The shoe gleams in the moonlight. Coyotes yelp from the hilltops. A scarecrow spreads its arms against the sky. The waving fields of wheat have given way to vast reaches of cleanly shaven stubble, stained with purple morning glories. Odd, large stakes are planted among them. </p><p><p ID="slug">165 NEW ANGLE - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You want me to spin you around? She nods okay. He takes her by the hands and spins her around the way he used to--until they go reeling off, too dizzy to stand. </p><p><p ID="slug">166 EXT. RIVER BANK - DAY FOR NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They lie by the river looking at the great dome of stars. Bill wants to believe things are the same between them as before. So does Abby--but she knows better. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Suppose we woke up tomorrow and it was a thousand years ago. I mean, with all we know? Electricity, the telephone, radio, that kind of stuff. They'd never figure out how we came up with it all. Maybe they'd kill us. She looks at him, and they laugh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You sleepy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">This is the first time we slept together in a while, Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You like it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Of course. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Kiss me, then. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It's so sweet to be able to kiss you when I want to. </p><p><p ID="slug">167 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Before the marriage his lovemaking was gentle and soft. Now it has a brutal air, as though he were asserting his right to her for the last time. </p><p><p ID="slug">168 TIGHT ON ABBY - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">Dawn is breaking. Abby jumps to her feet, alarmed. They have slept too long. </p><p><p ID="slug">169 EXT. BELVEDERE - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">They have run back to the Belvedere. It seems they are safe until Chuck appears on the porch, yawning and stretching. Bill drops to the ground while Abby goes ahead. Abby appears at one side of the house while Bill steals around the other. Luckily, they have come up from the back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Abby! I've been looking all over for you. Where have you been? While she distracts Chuck, Bill slips back in the house. It has been a close call. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Watching the ducks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Didn't you sleep well? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><p ID="slug">170 TIGHT ON ABBY (DISSOLVE TO PAGE, THEN TO URSULA) </p><p><p ID="act">Abby looks sympathetically at Chuck. Her face dissolves into a page of her diary and from there to Ursula, balancing an egg on her fingertip. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Chuck saw Ursula balance an egg. He begged her to repeat this trick, but she wouldn't. </p><p><p ID="slug">171 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck tries to reduplicate Ursula's feat. Abby, amused, reaches out and touches his face. We wonder if, despite herself, she might be falling in love with him. </p><p><p ID="slug">172 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill watches the Doctor walk out the front door and down the steps to his wagon. Chuck follows, smiling. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">The Doctor came. Chuck looked pleased for a change. </p><p><p ID="slug">173 EXT. PRAIRIE - BILL'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">The Doctor's wagon rolls off across the prairie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Tomorrow the President passes through. Plans have changed, and he can't stop. </p><p><p ID="slug">174 EXT. RAILROAD TRACKS - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">They have come down to the railroad tracks to watch the President pass through. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">We should have brought a flag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Does she have time to ride back and get it? Abby and Bill hold hands. Chuck by now is accustomed to such displays. They seem, however, to make Abby increasingly uncomfortable. </p><p><p ID="slug">175 MOVING TRAIN - THEIR POVS </p><p><p ID="act">The train bursts past at twenty yards, its great light rolling like a lunatic eye. Bill's heart pounds with excitement. Chuck holds Abby by the waist. Ursula waves a handkerchief... They cannot make out anything specific in the windows, but there is the sense of people going more important places, getting on with the serious business of their lives - while out here they stagnate. Dimly visible, on the back platform of the caboose, a MAN in a frock coat salutes them with his cane. The train has quickly vanished into the declining sun. Everything is quiet again. Ursula rushes up the grade to collect some pennies she laid on the tracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Did you see him wave? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He was shorter than I expected. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How do you know it was him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I saw! He had a hat on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You didn't understand my question. They walk back to the buggy. Ursula holds up a dead snake she found on the tracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You know what I'm going to do with this? Take it home and put it in vinegar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That was the President, shortie. Wake up. Bill watches Chuck help Abby into the buggy. She is laughing about something or other. His hand lingers for a moment on hers. She does not brush it aside, as once she might have, but to Bill's dismay, presses it against her breast. Chuck seems to have breathed a hope into her that he, Bill, was never able to. </p><p><p ID="slug">176 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Ursula race across the fields trying to fly a kite. Ursula rides a tiny Shetland pony. Just as the wind lifts the kite away, they run into Bill. He sits by himself observing a spear of grass. Abby drops off. Ursula rides off over the hill with the kite, leaving her alone with Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You look deep in thought. She touches his cheek. He brushes her hand away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There's nothing wrong? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you so mad about then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who said I was mad? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Can't I be alone once in a while without everybody getting all worked up? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're the only person getting worked up. Some buffalo appear on the crest of the next hill. Abby looks at them. They do not seem quite part of this world but mythical, like minotaurs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Chuck says they're good for the grass. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Stop giving me that look. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You can't keep your hands off him these days. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I haven't touched him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How about the other night? I saw you, Abby. The other night by the tracks? If only you wouldn't lie! Really, there's some things about you I'm never going to understand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I forgot. Anyway it doesn't matter. What are you doing, always trying to trap me? Bill paces around, disgusted with himself and the whole situation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can't stand it any more. It's just too degrading. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">You and him. Why do I have to spell it out? I thought it would be all over in a month or two. Guy might go another five years. We've got to clear out, Abby. They stare at each other in silence for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why stop now? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">We've come this far. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You heard me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why stay? Go ahead and tell me! I'm standing here. Bill trembles with shock and anger. The buffalo cast aware glances at them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want us to lose everything? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm telling you I can't stand it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're weak then. What about all I've been through? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">And what about him? It would be the worst thing we could do. Worse than anything so far. It would break his heart. Bill is silent for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You're getting to like him, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It would kill him. Leaving now would be just cruel. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Would it? So what's it matter to somebody in his shape? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">In fact you're just leaving us one way out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you talking about? Murdering him? Ursula comes riding over the hill, without the kite. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You watch and see. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I had to let it go. One of them started following me, and I threw a rock at him. I had a bunch stored in my pocket. They take off running after her. </p><p><p ID="slug">177 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">As they approach the Belvedere, Bill sees Chuck standing on the front steps. Suddenly angry, he draws Abby to him and in plain view kisses her on the lips. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He can see you! Bill nods; he knows. Abby runs ahead, angry and alarmed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't you believe in being honest? </p><p><p ID="slug">178 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby bounds up the steps. Chuck has bent his mind to understand all this as mere sibling love, but here is the greatest test so far. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Aren't you going to kiss me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Today's my birthday. Chuck gives her a kiss, glad to put aside his suspicions. </p><p><p ID="slug">179 TIGHT ON POINTERS, QUAIL AND PHEASANTS </p><p><p ID="act">Tails level, their noses thrust high in the air, a pair of pointers prance through the high uplands grass, following a scent like sailors taking in a rope. Pheasants and quail tremble in their coveys, their eyes big with fear. </p><p><p ID="slug">180 EXT. UPLANDS </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck has taken Bill out bird-hunting. They wear heavy canvas leggings and carry shotguns. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did you ever tell Abby the buffalo help keep up the grass? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I think so. Why? Bill shrugs. Chuck welcomes this opportunity to speak of his wife. He considers Bill a good friend, in fact the only person with whom he can talk about delicate matters. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I want to get her something nice for Christmas. Bill, who means to kill Chuck the first chance he gets, forgets this intention for a moment to give him advice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(thoughtfully) <P ID="dia">She likes to draw. Maybe some paints. Nothing too expensive-- she might want to exchange it. Maybe a coat. She likes to show off sometimes. She's sweet that way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I wish I knew how to make her happy. Nothing I do really seems to. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's how they are. They like to make you work for it. I couldn't ever figure out why. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Sometimes you can't go wrong, though. You know that one Abby showed you a picture of? Elizabeth? I took her cherry. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I know. You told me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Actually, I didn't, but I could have. The point I'm making is you've got to understand how they operate. Get them thinking you can take it or leave it, you're usually okay. Suddenly the dogs stop rigid, on point. At Chuck's hiss they sink into the grass. Bill looks at Chuck's exposed back. Nobody would know. It could be made to seem like a hunting accident. He cocks the hammer of his shotgun. His heart pounds wildly. Chuck talks in a low voice to the dogs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">All right, put them up, girl. The dogs rise and inch toward the birds, as slowly as the minute hand of a clock. All at once the quail explode out of hiding. Bill jumps at the noise. Chuck fires twice. Two birds fall. The retriever notes where. Chuck turns around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why aren't you shooting? I left you those two on the left. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">They caught me off guard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You have to keep your gun up. Chuck walks ahead. The music builds a mood of tension. Bill takes a practice shot into the ground. Bill looks around. There is nobody in sight. He turns the sights on Chuck's back. It would be simple enough. Though only twenty feet away, he closes the gap, to make sure he does not miss. Chuck whistles the scattered birds back to their covey. "Pheo! Pheo!" Soon, faint and far away, comes a reply-the sweet, pathetic whistle of the quail lost in a forest of grass. The mother bird utters a low "all is well." One by one, near and far, the note is taken up, and they begin to return. Bill holds his breath. His finger moves inside the trigger guard. He only has to squeeze a fraction of an inch. Three more birds shoot out of the grass. Chuck fires. At first we think Bill has, but he cannot stoop this low. He does not have the heart. Disgusted, he throws his gun on the ground. Both barrels go off. Chuck snaps around, startled and concerned. Bill is shaking like a leaf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? What are you so upset about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">They surprised me again. Chuck sends a retriever after the fallen birds, then--in an unprecedented gesture-he puts his arm over Bill's shoulder to comfort him, like an older brother. </p><p><p ID="slug">181 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">They return home, the day's kill slung over the back of a Shetland pony. </p><p><p ID="slug">182 EXT. BACK YARD </p><p><p ID="act">They sit on stools in the back yard plucking the birds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You like to box? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I never have. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Just wondering. I got a pair of gloves I brought with me. Bill feels oddly better, as though Chuck had backed down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Abby bought me this at Yellowstone. Chuck shows Bill his knife. Bill reads a name off the handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">That's what she calls you? 'Chickie?' He gets up, his nostrils flaring with anger. Chuck thinks this indignance is on his behalf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Doesn't bother me. Should it? Bill throws down the pheasant he was plucking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't let her fool you, too. She warms up to whoever says please and thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's the matter? Bill, still angry at himself, considers telling him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You really want to know? He would like Chuck to know the truth but does not want theresponsibility for revealing it. He must find out by accident. Luckily they are interrupted as Ursula runs up, pointing over her shoulder. A pair of three-wing airplanes sputters into view low overhead. One seems to be having engine trouble. </p><p><p ID="slug">183 EXT. FIELD NEAR BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">The planes set down in a nearby field. "Toto's Flying Circus" is emblazoned on the wings. </p><p><p ID="slug">184 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Five PEOPLE clamber out, members of a seedy vaudeville troupe. They swagger around, filthy with oil from the backwash of the props, looking more like convicts than entertainers. Their LEADER is an excitable Levantine. <b>LEADER </b>How long it take to fix? Very mooch time! Now look where you hab stuck us. Salaupe! You forget who I aim! Bill, Abby and Ursula approach the aircraft with the greatest caution, like the Indians at Cortez's ships. </p><p><p ID="slug">185 EXT. SCREEN - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A JUGGLER and a SNAKE CHARMER perform first separately, then jointly as a slap act. A DOUBLE TALKER weaves sentences of absolute nonsense. After a moment a black and white image appears over his face and he drops out of sight. The troupe is putting on a show to earn its supper. ONE of them stands behind the viewers -- Abby and Bill, Chuck and Ursula -- cranking a carbide projector by hand. A silent movie appears on the screen, full of extraordinary pratfalls, disappearances and other tricks of the early cinema. Chuck has never seen anything remotely like this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How'd they do that? Where'd he go? There must be a wire. Etc. He steps forward to inspect the screen, actually just a sheet hung along a clothesline, to see whether the image is coming from behind. Bill and Abby sit rapt as children, nostalgic for Chicago. </p><p><p ID="slug">186 EXT. DINNER TABLE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula serves dinner. She is excited by the visitors' city ways. They are bored with her, all except the youngest, GEORGE, a young pilot in a white scarf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">We never hear a thing out here. It's like being on a boat in the middle of a lake. You see things going on, but way far away, with no voices. <b>GEORGE </b>Maybe time to clear out. George puts his hand on hers. She snatches it away. <b>GEORGE </b>What's the matter? Aren't I your type or something? The Doubletalker pokes his fork into a pudding. A balloon, concealed beneath the surface, explodes to general delight. Down the table Abby and Bill chat with the Leader. <b>LEADER </b>You do not understand, sir. I am saddled with asses, yaays? I, who once played the Albert Hall </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You. hear that? He called me 'sir.' In their gaiety he carelessly puts a hand on Abby's leg. </p><p><p ID="slug">187 TIGHT ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks on from the shadows, no longer just puzzled but angry. He has watched them behave this way a dozen times before, but tonight, with other people around, he must see it more directly. </p><p><p ID="slug">188 EXT. STRAW STACK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">George tells Ursula a joke. She dissolves in giggles before he can finish, as though amazed at his power to dispense illusion. </p><p><p ID="slug">189 INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, alone in the darkened living room, calms himself down by breathing through a rubber mask into a respirator. Joyful noises reach him from outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">190 CHUCK'S POV - NEXT MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">The next morning Chuck looks down out his bedroom window. The troupe is packing to leave. Still troubled, he walks to the bed and and stands over Abby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's going on, Abby? She does not respond. He yanks the sheet off. She is wearing a nightgown. She looks up and frowns. This is the first time she has ever seen him this way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You know what I mean. Between you and Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I have no idea..... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">Something's not right, and I want to know what. Abby jumps out of bed and assumes the offensive. She has no other choice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Say it out loud. What're you worried about? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Incest? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">It just doesn't look right. I don't know how brothers and sisters carry on where you come from, but... </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">Did you ever have a brother. Then who are you to judge? Maybe if you had, you'd understand. Anyway, times have changed while you've been stuck out in this weed patch. We're ********************line missing************** She puts on a robe and walks out. Her last argument has worked best. Chuck never imagined he was in step with the times. </p><p><p ID="slug">191 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby slips out the front door. She looks around to make sure that Chuck is not watching her, then heads off to find Bill. The vaudevillians gorge themselves on last night's leftovers, steal flowers from the flower beds, etc. ONE sits off by himself, playing a French horn. </p><p><p ID="slug">192 EXT. DORM </p><p><p ID="act">She finds Bill by the dorm throwing a switchblade in the ground, a toothbrush in his mouth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I have to talk to you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Look what I traded off those clowns. For a bushel of corn! She draws him by the arm behind a wall. She is trembling with fear. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Chuck is suspicious. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Chickie you mean? So what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Really. This is the first time he's ever been like this. I'm scared. All this flatters Chuck in a way Bill does not like. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What for? Why're you so worried what he thinks? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He could kill us. I want to live a long time, okay? I just got started and I like it. Bill shrugs, as though to say he can handle whatever Chuck can dish out and a little more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You might take a little responsibility here. You got us into all this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did I? Well, it never would've come up if you hadn't led him on. Led Chickie on! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Is that the best you can do? Knowing you it probably is. You've made a mess of our lives, okay. Don't pretend it was my fault. Bill combs his hair to calm himself down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why's this guy still hanging on like a goddamn snapping turtle? Because of you. Boy, this was a great idea. Right up there with Lincoln going down to the theater, see what's on! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Keep your voice down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't give me that. When a guy's getting screwed, he's got a right to holler. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You're such a fool! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I heard what you said. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Then why'd you ask? Oh, how did I ever get mixed up with you? Abby, in terror of Chuck's finding out, cannot understand why Bill seems to care so little. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You've gone sweet on him. You have, haven't you? Abby hesitates. Bill throws his knife away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I admire him. He's a good man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Broad shoulders. I know. Very high morals. Why can't he talk faster? It's like waiting for a hen to lay an egg. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You wouldn't understand, though. He's not like you. You don't know how people feel. You only think of yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's going on between us, Abby? Think about that. If you figure it out, tell me, will you? I'd appreciate it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Lord, but you do come on! You talking like this, used to play around right under his nose. Somebody I met in a bar, remember? Or maybe you walked in, thought it was a church. Well, I've had it.I'm clearing out. You understand? They look at each other for a moment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Go ahead. This is not what he expected to hear. But now his pride requires that he face the truth and not back down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Okay. He looks at her for a moment. He cannot be dealt with this way. He turns and walks off. </p><p><p ID="slug">193 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula flirts with George. He slips a hand inside her blouse. She bats it away. </p><p><p ID="slug">194 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">Bill stands on the ground below the master bedroom. Chuck leans out the window above him. Peacocks roost on the balcony, beneath the telescope. The vaudevillians are loading up their planes. Abby watches from the porch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm going away for a while. They're giving me a lift. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What for? He shrugs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm wearing one of your shirts. Let me take it off for you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Never mind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I got my own. Just wasn't any clean today. Bill takes off the shirt, drapes it over a post and walks off, hurt and angry, but with a sad dignity. Chuck is not entirely sorry to see him go, nor is Abby; she knows that he is getting out just in time. One more episode like last night's and the fuse would hit the powder. </p><p><p ID="slug">195 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill gives Ursula his money. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We get split up for any reason, you spend that on school. </p><p><p ID="slug">196 EXT. PRAIRIE </p><p><p ID="act">The vaudevillians are ready to take off. Bill boards the plane which George is piloting, wondering if today's break with Abby is real or just in anger, a necessary gesture. With him he carries his only possessions, a bindle and his trick rabbit. Abby, Chuck and Ursula look on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What's eating him? Abby shrugs and walks down to Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Why aren't we going with him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What for? To sleep in boxcars? </p><p><p ID="slug">197 AIRPLANES </p><p><p ID="act">The planes set their wheels in the furrows, rev their engines and wobble off into the sky. Ursula waves goodbye to George. </p><p><p ID="slug">198 EXT. PLAINS UNDER SNOW - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Winter has come. Snow falls across the breadth of the plains, on the river and the dark sleeping fields. </p><p><p ID="slug">199 EXT. SLEIGH (OR ICE BOAT) - SNOW </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and Abby skim over the snow in a gaily painted sleigh (or ice boat). She is wrapped up snug in a buffalo robe, her feet on a hot brick. Pigs forage along the fences. </p><p><p ID="slug">200 INT. CAVE </p><p><p ID="act">They inspect a cave with a kerosene lantern. Blocks of ice, covered with burlap and sawdust, cool shelves of preserves. Abby drops a stone into a dark pit. Two seconds pass before it hits the bottom. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Probably that's the first noise down there for thousands of years. She speaks as though she had done it a favor. He puts his hand on hers. She presses it against her chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You ever wish you could turn your heart off for a second and see what happened? </p><p><p ID="slug">201 OTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Views of backlit gems, stalactites, salamanders in their cold dark pools, hidden springs and other mysteries of nature. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Maybe nothing would. They round a corner and come upon an underground waterfall. It flows out of darkness back into darkness. </p><p><p ID="slug">202 INT. FORGE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, meanwhile, stands in a line of panting, sweating IMMIGRANTS. On their shoulders they carry the huge barrel of a cannon. With a grunt they drive it into the fiery mouth of a forge. </p><p><p ID="slug">203 EXT. CITY STREET </p><p><p ID="act">Bill stands on the corner of a big city street, stamping his feet against the cold. He tries to catch a pigeon with some bread crumbs under a box propped up by a stick, but just as he pulls the string to drop the trap it darts out of the way. </p><p><p ID="slug">204 BILL AND YOUNG GIRL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill has an improvised conversation with a YOUNG GIRL who has run away from home. He asks her where she comes from, whom she belongs to, etc. She tells him of her hopes, then passes on. Bill gives her all the money in his pocket. </p><p><p ID="slug">205 MONTAGE </p><p><p ID="act">Enthralled, Abby surveys the wonders of Babylon and Nineveh in a book about the Near East. Ursula sits with a world globe, taking a geography lesson from a traveling TUTOR. No doubt this was Abby's idea. Abby copies from a small plaster model of a Roman bust. She wants painfully to improve herself. </p><p><p ID="slug">206 EXT. FROZEN LAKE -NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Chuck skate around a bonfire on a frozen prairie lake, carrying torches to guide them through the dark. </p><p><p ID="slug">207 INT. CHICAGO FLOPHOUSE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sits in a cold flophouse trying to write a letter. After a moment he wads it up and throws it away. </p><p><p ID="slug">208 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Abby, Ursula and Chuck are on a walk outside the Belvedere. The snow is gone. Abby's hands are stuffed in a chinchilla muff. All at once they hear a distant noise like the whoops of an Indian war party. It seems mysteriously to come from every hilltop. Abby turns to Chuck with a puzzled look. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Prairie chickens. That means winter's broken. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Really? Where are they? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You hardly ever see them. They stand and listen to the birds. There is a sense of the earth stirring back to life. Abby breathes in with a wild joy and hugs Chuck tightly by the waist. </p><p><p ID="slug">209 EXT. TENEMENT HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">Bill is talking with a FRIEND in the hallway of a tenement. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can't seem to get my mind on anything. I thought, when I came off that place, boy, they'd better get all the women out of town that day, you know? Somewhere safe. But you know what I do? I sleep, nothing but sleep. A PANHANDLER approaches them with a hard-luck story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FRIEND <P ID="dia">Okay, here's a quarter, but give me some entertainment, okay? Not this old song and dance. While the Panhandler performs, Bill looks around. Two POLICEMEN have appeared in the entryway talking with the LANDLADY. Bill edges out the back door and down the steps, as though they might be after him. He walks briskly down the alley without looking back. </p><p><p ID="slug">210 TIGHT ON CHUCK (DISSOLVE TO DIARY) </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck holds a handful of seed under his nose. His heart stirs at the dark, mellow smell. Into this dissolves an image of Abby writing in her diary. </p><p><p ID="slug">211 EXT. FIELD </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck swings a barometer round and round, checking the weather. Two Case tractors pitch across a field like boats on a rolling sea. Long plumes of smoke wind off behind them. Each tows a fourteen-gang plow. A third tractor follows, putting in the seed. Ursula chases a flock of blackbirds off with a big rattle. Every acre of ground for as far as the eye can see is under cultivation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">They put in the wheat the other day. This will be the biggest year ever. There was a scare when a locust turned up. Luckily it wasn't the bad kind. </p><p><p ID="slug">212 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">The plows have turned up a hibernating locust. Chuck stands by the tractor, inspecting it under a magnifying glass. The creature nestles like a fossil in the black earth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">They sleep in the ground for seventeen years, then crawl up around the end of May and spend a week flying around before they die. Chuck kicks up the dirt around the plow, looking for others. Benson, back from exile, looks concerned. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Nothing to worry about. Just shows the land is good. </p><p><p ID="slug">213 SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Various wonders of the prairie: a charred tree, a huge mastodon bone, a flowering bush, a pelican, the rusted hulk of an ancient machine, etc. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">How strange this new world is! You walk out in the morning sometimes to find a lake rippling where the day before solid land was. </p><p><p ID="slug">214 EXT. STONE BOAT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck has laid out the outline of a 50-foot boat in whitewashed stones. He walks around the imaginary deck showing Abby where the cabins will be. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Chuck wants to build a boat and take us off to Java, which he's never seen. </p><p><p ID="slug">215 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula goes out to the fields with an organist named JOEY whom Chuck has hired to play for the crops. He and Ursula seem to hit it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Last month he brought in a kid to play the organ. He claims it helps the crops grow. Personally I doubt it. </p><p><p ID="slug">216 EXT. MIDDLE OF FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">They have brought an organ out into the middle of the fields. Ursula pumps up the bellows. Joey sits in front of the keyboard and shoots his cuffs. His fingers strike the keys. </p><p><p ID="slug">217 CLOUDS, CLOSEUPS OF PLANTS - TIME LAPSE PHOTOGRAPHY (STOCK) </p><p><p ID="act">Clouds build in huge toadstools. Thunder rolls across the plains. A rain begins to fall. The music seems to work a magic on the crops, to draw them forth. The seeds germinate in the darkness of the soil. Water finds its way down. Roots, tiny hairs at first, spread and grow. </p><p><p ID="slug">218 DOLLS, TIGHT ANGLES ON THEIR FACES </p><p><p ID="act">Rude dolls fixed at the ends of pointed sticks--agricultural fetishes that Chuck's father brought with him from the Old World--stand around the field to join in aiding the crops. </p><p><p ID="slug">219 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Flags and bunting adorn the porch for Independence Day. Ursula sets off some fireworks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Time has flown, and once again harvest is near. </p><p><p ID="slug">220 EXT. GREEN FIELDS(TRIFFIDS) </p><p><p ID="act">The bald earth has, as though by a mystery, become a sheet of grain, its green already fading to gold. The music dies away, replaced by the whirr of summer crickets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">It will be a year that we have been here. The camera holds and holds on the fields until in their vacant depths, we begin to sense the presence of a deep malevolence, still biding its time but growing every minute. Seagulls--like strange emissaries from another world--glide back and forth over the fields in search of grasshoppers. </p><p><p ID="slug">221 INT. LANTERN - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula takes curling irons from the chimney of a lantern where she has set them to heat, and applies them to Abby hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Suppose I never fall in love, Abby? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Don't be silly. Everybody does. What do you think all those songs are about? You need to be careful, though, and not throw it away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Throw what away? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You know, your chances. It's too hard to explain to a little squirrel like you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">That sounded just like Bill. Don't you miss him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Sometimes. From her tone, however, we sense that she finds it easier with him gone. </p><p><p ID="slug">222 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby whispers something to Chuck in bed that evening. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You ever said that to anybody else? She giggles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're lying, aren't you? Well, go right on lying. The camera moves to the window, beneath the eave. Outside, peacocks strut back and forth. </p><p><p ID="slug">223 EXT. MUDDY ROAD </p><p><p ID="act">Bill rides an Indian motorcycle along a muddy road back to the bonanza. His rabbit is strapped to the back. He stops for a moment to look at the new fields. </p><p><p ID="slug">224 EXT. BELVEDERE - BILL'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Abby sings to herself as she beats out a carpet. Bill appears on the ridge behind her. Hope leaves him like a ghost. She looks happily settled into a new life with Chuck. All at once she turns around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Bill! She rushes up and embraces him, but her warmth just seems a tease to Bill. She is different. She looks different. The tutors and tailors Chuck has brought in over the winter have given her more polish. Her hair is nicely coiffed. Where she used to dress in cotton shirtwaists, she wears crinolines now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How's everybody been? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Including me? Okay. Gee, you look good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Thanks. And Chuck? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Still the same. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Actually I didn't mean it that way. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I came back to help out with the harvest. He feels humiliated at not having a stronger excuse. But he loves her. He aches with love. He hoped their last fight was just another storm in the romance. Evidently it was more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I thought about you a lot. Wrote you a letter, but it was no good, so I tore it up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How'd you come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Train. He looks her up and down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nice dress. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm glad you like it. He admires her garden. His familiar cockiness vanishes as little by little he sees the old feeling is not there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">This is new, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">The daffodils were already here, but I put in the rest. You really do like them? At a shriek from Ursula, Bill turns around. She runs into his arms, and covers him with kisses. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I've missed you! I thought about you every day. You should've written. Did Abby show you what she got? Abby scowls at Ursula. With no choice but to show him, she opens the top button of her blouse and draws out a diamond necklace. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(apologetically) <P ID="dia">For Christmas. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Plus a music box. He spoils her. Why don't they spoil me, too? <P ID="spkdir">(whispering) <P ID="dia">You oughta be glad you didn't have to spend the winter. You would've gone crazy. </p><p><p ID="slug">225 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">The winter's peace is gone. Abby is sick with fear. Now that she loves Chuck, too, she can never again be honest with Bill. The truth of her feelings would crush him. Moreover, there's no telling how he might react. He could ruin everything, even get them killed. </p><p><p ID="slug">226 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck looks on from behind the bedroom window. </p><p><p ID="slug">227 EXT. DINNER TABLE </p><p><p ID="act">They dine in awkward silence. Benson has joined them. Abby, for all her winter's polish, still eats with the back of her knife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">How was Chicago? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Great. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How's everybody doing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Okay. They are silent for a moment. Bill senses that nobody except Ursula is really glad to see him back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How's Blackie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Still hasn't wised up. Know what I mean? He asked how you were doing, though. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told him. Ran into Sam, too. He'd been in a fight. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Oh yeah? Bill can see that her interest is only polite. He knows that he should turn around and leave, but he cannot. The sight of him with his confidence gone is painful to behold. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">His nose was like this. He pushes his nose to one side. Ursula and Abby laugh. </p><p><p ID="slug">228 EXT. STOCK POND </p><p><p ID="act">Bill plants willow slips in the soft earth by the stock pond. Ursula orders a dog around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Look at this dog mind me. Sit! You've got to say it like hitting a nail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Has she asked you anything about me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">No. Ursula flirts with him, running the shoots along his back. She waits to see what he will do. He gets up and after a short chase catches her. He holds her at arm's length for a moment, then kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What'd you do that for? Bill wonders himself. To get revenge on Abby? He touches her breast. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why not? </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Cause there's nothing there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I can be the judge of that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Then ask first. He kisses her neck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nobody has to know but us chickens. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What do I have to say to convince you? You tell me, I'll say it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What makes you think I would? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Nothing. She giggles and kisses him back. But guilt has caught up with him. He cannot go ahead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What's the matter? No reply. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Maybe it would be wrong. <P ID="spkdir">(disappointed) <P ID="dia">You still love her, don't you? Bill hums a rock off toward the horizon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I should've gone in the church, like my father was after me to. </p><p><p ID="slug">229 BILL'S POV - OUTSIDE THE BELVEDERE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck and Abby sit in their cozy living room playing Parcheesi. The sound of their voices is muffled. The camera draws back to reveal Bill outside the window, watching. She is comfortable with Chuck now. Apparently, he has lost his place in her heart. He wants to rush in and drag her away. </p><p><p ID="slug">230 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Later that night he stands under the bedroom window and wonders at the meaning of the shadows that flicker across the ceiling. After a moment he withdraws into the darkness. </p><p><p ID="slug">231 EXT. SMALL PRAIRIE TOWN (DUCK LAKE) </p><p><p ID="act">Bill has brought Abby into a nearby town to make some purchases. Dressed in a chauffeur's gown and goggles, he sits against the fender of the Overland watching her move from store to store. Ursula is with her. The TOWNSPEOPLE all speak German. Their peasant costumes are freely mixed with Western dress. The signs are old German script. Two MEN carry a huge bulb through the street, to put atop a church. </p><p><p ID="slug">232 OVERLAND AUTO </p><p><p ID="act">Abby walks up with Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Listen, I'm going to stay and go back with the laundry wagon. Abby looks at Bill, then nods okay. Ursula runs off. Bill opens the door, and she gets in. </p><p><p ID="slug">233 EXT. ROAD OUTSIDE TOWN (DUCK LAKE) </p><p><p ID="act">They are stopped on the road a hundred yards outside the town. Abby smokes as Bill checks the radiator. Something in his behavior leads us to suspect he may have staged this stop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How you been doing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Me? Fine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">We don't talk so much these days. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I know. She knows what he wants. She cannot give it anymore. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I said a lot of stupid things before I went off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(politely) <P ID="dia">I forgot about it already. Bill, trying his best to make peace with her, cannot help seeing that she would like to keep things as they are--and not because she harbors any grudge. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You've forgiven me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">There was nothing to forgive. He holds a bottle of liquor out to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you worried about? She takes a swig. He laughs. She laughs back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">So how'm I doing with you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Fine. He takes her hand and holds it like a trapped bird. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's happened? She shrugs, disengaging her hand to brush aside her hair. She is painfully aware of his suffering but doesn't have the heart to tell him how it all is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I probably ought to leave. I will. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Already? You just got here. She hasn't really contradicted him. He leans forward as though to kiss her. She lets him. She wishes that she could give herself to him, but she doesn't know what is right. Then, a sudden impulse of panic, she gets up and backs away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Where you going? He reaches out to catch her. She breaks away and starts to run. He walks quickly after her, cutting off any escape toward the town. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why'd you have to come back? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I'm not going to hurt you. I only want to talk with you. She stops and hides her face in her hands. He gently pulls them away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I didn't come back to make trouble for you. I guess we were fooling each other to think it could last. I mean, What was I offering youanyhow? A ride to the bottom. Looking at you now, in the right clothes and everything, I see how crazy I was and--well, I understand. It's okay. I sort of cut my own throat, actually. Her eyes close and her legs give in. Bill lets her go and backs off a step in surprise. She sinks to the ground, as though in a trance. </p><p><p ID="slug">234 TIGHT ON BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, taken by surprise, goes up and kneels down beside her. He looks to see that she is okay. He picks a fox-tail out of her hair. Her dress has worked up toward her knees. He pulls it back down. He wants to caress her face but hesitates. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">How'd we let it happen, Abby? We were so happy once. Why didn't we starve? I love you so much. What have1 done? You're so beautiful. What have I done? He touches his lips for a fraction of a second to hers, notices another car approaching down the road. He picks her up like a doll and carries her back to the Overland. </p><p><p ID="slug">235 EXT. BELVEDERE - CHUCK'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">They have arrived back at the Belvedere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm sorry. She touches his face in a surge of sympathy. What has she done to him? He kisses her neck and leads her toward the front door. </p><p><p ID="slug">236 CRANE TO CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">The camera rises to the uppermost story of the Belvedere. Chuck has seen them. Hot tears leap to his eyes. Before Bill left for the winter he often observed such intimacies between them. Now it all looks different. </p><p><p ID="slug">237 CHUCK'S POVS (HIGH ANGLES) </p><p><p ID="act">He looks around at his estate--his barn, his auto, his great house and his granary. None of them is any consolation now. Far a moment it seems to him as though he lived here in some time long past. </p><p><p ID="slug">238 INT. BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby notices Chuck watching her outside the bedroom door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">You want something from me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Will you hand me that magazine? He gives her the magazine she wants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's the matter? He seems for a moment to consider telling her, then shrugs and goes downstairs. </p><p><p ID="slug">239 INT. LIVING ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">He stumbles into a bird cage but hardly notices. The jostled birds raise a fuss. </p><p><p ID="slug">240 EXT. FRONT PORCH </p><p><p ID="act">He runs into Bill on the front porch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I've been looking for you. I have to take off again, real soon here, and... Chuck puts a hand on Bill's shoulder, stopping him. They look at each other for a moment, then he passes on. Bill seems puzzled. </p><p><p ID="slug">241 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck walks out into the deep of his fields. The wheat, a warm dry gold, is almost ready to take in. He sits down and rests his head against a furrow, powerless to think. The wind makes a song in the infinitude of sweet clicking heads. He puts his hands over his heart and breathes in gasps, with the dumb honesty of a wounded animal. He could not himself quite say what it is that he knows. </p><p><p ID="slug">242 EXT. BONANZA - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Late that afternoon disaster strikes as a swarm of locusts sweeps down on the bonanza. We do not see where they come from. They seem to appear out of nowhere, unnoticed. Ursula works in the kitchen, Bill by the barn. Chuck lies asleep in the field, Abby upstairs in bed. </p><p><p ID="slug">243 ANIMALS ON BONANZA </p><p><p ID="act">The animals sense it first. The buffalo move off in a mass. The horses become uncontrollable. One runs around the barn in a panic. Bill watches it, puzzled. Two peacocks have a fight. A dog in the treadmill races in vain to escape, driving the machine to a feverish pitch. The shadow of a giant cloud licks over the hills. </p><p><p ID="slug">244 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">Everything seems normal in the fields. Then, as you listen, a strange new sound begins to rise from them, a wild sea-like singing. As the camera moves over the fields and down into the wheat it swells in a crescendo until... </p><p><p ID="slug">245 TIGHT ON LOCUSTS </p><p><p ID="act">Suddenly we see them up close, devouring the stalks in a fever, the noise of their jaws magnified a thousand times. They slip into the Belvedere, under the sash and wainscoting, turning up first in places it would seem they could never get into: a jewelry case, the back of a radio, the works of a music box, a bottle with a miniature ship inside, etc. </p><p><p ID="slug">246 EXTREME CLOSEUPS </p><p><p ID="act">Their eyes are dumb and implacable. They seem to have a whole hidden life of their own. </p><p><p ID="slug">247 INT. KITCHEN </p><p><p ID="act">Little by little they gather in numbers. Ursula first sees one on the drainboard. She swats it with a newspaper. Others sprout up. One by one she picks them up with a tongs and drops them into the stove. This method is too slow. She begins to use her fingers. She moves with a quick, nervous energy, even as she understands this is futile. At last claustro-phobia seizes her. She spins around with a shriek, lashing out at everything in sight. </p><p><p ID="slug">248 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">In the bedroom overhead, Abby wakes up from one nightmare into another. She jumps out of bed and goes to the window. The locusts pelt against the pane like shot. She throws the bolt. Suddenly a crack shoots through the glass. She jumps back and watches in horror as a sliver of the pane falls in. They are free to enter. </p><p><p ID="slug">249 SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Suddenly they are everywhere: on the clothesline, in the pantry, in hats and shoes and the seams of clothing. Not a nook or cranny is safe from penetration. </p><p><p ID="slug">250 TIGHT ON CHUCK - SLOW MOTION </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck, asleep in the deep of the wheat, bolts up in slow motion. His hair is seething with them. </p><p><p ID="slug">251 EXT. BONANZA - FURTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">Panic hits the bonanza. Workers tie string around their pant cuffs to keep the insects from crawling up their legs, then rush out to the fields with gongs, rattles, pot lids, scarecrows on sticks, drums and horns and other noisemakers to scare them off. Some pray. Others run around like madmen, stamping and yelling, ignored by the gathering host. A couple get into a fistfight. A storm flag is run up the flagpole. A tractor blasts out an S.O.S. The peacocks huddle under the stoop. </p><p><p ID="slug">252 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck gives Benson his orders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Offer fifty cents a bushel for them. Get out the reapers. See what you can harvest. </p><p><p ID="slug">253 HIGH DOWN ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">The locusts snap through the air. Bill, swatting at them with a shovel, stops to gag. One has flown into his mouth. </p><p><p ID="slug">254 TIGHT ON GEARS </p><p><p ID="act">They jam up the gears of the machinery with the crush of their bodies. </p><p><p ID="slug">255 INT. MASTER BEDROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Abby throws a sheet over herself, but they get in under it. She thrashes around madly, then with a cry goes limp. </p><p><p ID="slug">256 CHUCK AND BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Benson reports back to Chuck. A team of horses races by, nearly bowling them over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">We can't get the machines out. They're jamming up the gears. There's a good chance they'll pass on south, though. Unless... unless a wind comes up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What happens then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">They'll set down and walk in. </p><p><p ID="slug">257 SIGNS OF DAMAGE </p><p><p ID="act">The locusts devour not just the crops but every organic thing: pitchfork handles, linens on the clothesline, leather traces, flowers in the window boxes, etc. Soon a large area of wheat is eaten down to stubble. Bill looks away from a tree for a second. When he turns back it has been stripped to a wintry bareness. </p><p><p ID="slug">258 EXT. WIND GENERATOR, OTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">The vanes of the wind generator begin gently to stir. Little by little the wind picks up. A dust devil spins across the yard. The grass lists by the well. A power line moans. </p><p><p ID="slug">259 EXT. FIELDS </p><p><p ID="act">As the sun dips below the horizon, the locusts pour in like a living river, walking along the ground like a procession of Army ants. The roar of their wings is deafening. The air hisses and pops with their electric frenzy. </p><p><p ID="slug">260 STOCK AND MATTE SHOTS - SUNSET </p><p><p ID="act">And these are but the advance elements of a main force which looms like a silver cloud on the horizon. </p><p><p ID="slug">261 EXT. BONFIRE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">WORKERS dump bushels of the insects into a bonfire. A MAN with an abacus keeps track of what each is owed. </p><p><p ID="slug">262 SAME FIELDS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The wind has picked up. Chuck, Bill and Abby have come out to the fields with a dozen WORKERS to investigate the extent of the damage. The insects buzz around blindly in the light of their lanterns, which they carry Japanese-fashion at the ends of cane poles. </p><p><p ID="slug">263 TIGHT ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck inspects the grain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">There's nothing we can do but wait. They're either going to take it all or they're not. He covers his face with his hands. The others shy back at this display of grief, startling in one so formal. Their jostled lanterns cast a dance of lights. Bill, moved to real sympathy, takes him by the shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Come on. They might still lift. Hey, I've seen a wind like this lay down and die. Don't give up now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(ignoring him) <P ID="dia">We could at least make sure they don't get the people on south. He breaks open the mantle of his lantern, still unsure what he should do. Some of the flaming kerosene splashes onto the crops nearby, setting them ablaze. Bill drops his rattle and swats the fire out with his coat. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you doing? Watch it! What're you, crazy? There's still a chance, don't you see? Chuck goes to his horse. Bill grabs him by the sleeve. Does he really mean to set the fields on fire? Chuck pushes him aside. Bill, frantic, turns to the others for support. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Stop him, or it's all going up. They, however, are too uncertain of their ground to intervene. Chuck turns on Bill. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What does it matter to you? Chuck slings fire out of the broken lantern onto the crops next to Bill -- a sudden, hostile gesture that catches them all by surprise. Independent of his will, the truth is forcing its way up, like a great blind fish from the bottom of the sea. He slings the fire out again. A patch lands on Bill's pantleg. Bill slaps it out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What's got into you? They stare at each other. Bill backs off like a cat, sensing Chuck knows the truth, but at a loss to understand how he could. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Why do you care? I gave my life for this land. Chuck walks towards him. Suddenly Bill turns and takes off running. Chuck swings at him with the lantern. Bill escapes behind the building wall of flame that springs up between them. The whirr of the locusts stops for a moment--they seem at times to have a collective mind--then, just as mysteriously, resumes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Stop, Chuck! Chuck leaps on his horse. She tries to drag him off but is thrown aside and almost trampled underfoot. Now the others join in, trying to knock away the lantern or catch his stirrup. He eludes them and rides off after Bill, leaving a slash of flame behind him in the grain. They tear off their coats to swat it out, in vain--already it stretches a hundred yards. </p><p><p ID="slug">264 BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill runs through the night, still carrying his lantern. Chuck bears down on him. Abby chases along behind him, screaming for him to stop. Bill realizes the lantern is giving his position away He blows it out and vanishes from sight. All we can see is the thundering horseman, sowing fire. </p><p><p ID="slug">265 CRANE SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">With a rough idea where Bill is, Chuck begins to lay a ring of fire around him, fifty yards in diameter. </p><p><p ID="slug">266 BILL AND ABBY INSIDE RING </p><p><p ID="act">Abby spots Bill against the flames. She rushes up, gasping. They have been caught inside the ring. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What're you doing? This is a bad place to talk He throws his coat over Abby's head, picks her up by the waist and crashes through the flame. They have to shout to make themselves understood. The locusts roar like a cyclone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Did you see that? He was trying to burn me. What's got into him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">He knows. He must. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">A whole year's work. All wasted! These bugs, once they make up their minds... Bill stalls. The fire races toward them through the wheat. They appear as silhouettes against it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I need to get out of here. I think you probably should, too. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Hell of a life. Damned if you do and damned if you don't. He leaves. Abby wonders if she ought to run after him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Bill! But this moment's hesitation has been too long. Already he is swallowed up in the night, her voice swept away in the roar of the flame and the locusts, who seem to wail louder now, and with a great mournfulness--like keening Arab women--as if they knew the fate shortly to envelop them. Abby turns back. She, too, has reason to fear Chuck and must escape. </p><p><p ID="slug">267 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Benson rallies the workers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">There's still a chance they're going to fly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VOICES <P ID="dia">Get the tractor out! The pump wagon! Blankets! They rush off to find equipment to fight the fire. </p><p><p ID="slug">268 ISOLATED ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck rides through the dark like a lone Horseman of the Apocalypse, setting his fields on fire. </p><p><p ID="slug">269 EXT. PLAINS ON FIRE - SERIES OF ANGLES - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Tractors attempt to plow a firebreak. Mad silhouettes run back and forth, slapping at the blaze with wet gunny sacks fixed to the ends of sticks. Two dormitories burn out of control. Ursula throws open the barn and lets the horses out. They have raised thunder kicking at their stalls. The light above the barn door pulses erratically. </p><p><p ID="slug">270 EXPLOSIONS - NIGHT (MINIATURES) </p><p><p ID="act">Oil wells explode along the horizon. Huge balls of flames roll into the heavens. </p><p><p ID="slug">271 EXT. BURNING PLAINS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Panic spreads among the workers as the holocaust threatens to engulf them. They throw down their tools and run for their lives. </p><p><p ID="slug">272 ANIMALS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Animals flee in all directions: birds and deer and rabbits, pigs, buffalo and the horses from the barn. The locusts mill around crazily on the wheat stalks, backlit against the flame. </p><p><p ID="slug">273 BILL - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill, fleeing on his motorbike with his rabbit, holds up for a moment to watch the fire--a Biblical inferno of spectacular sweep. </p><p><p ID="slug">274 EXT. BEDROOM WINDOW--TRACKING SHOT (CHUCK'S POV)--NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A single light burns in the Belvedere. </p><p><p ID="slug">275 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Heaving with sobs, Abby throws her things into a bindle. She has lost Chuck forever. Their life is destroyed. She glances out the window. She still has time to get away, but she must hurry. She bolts for the door. Sud- denly Chuck steps from the shadows, blocking her exit. His face, black with soot, looks gruesome in the gas1ight. The locusts have chewed up his clothes. Abby is like a frightened deer. Did he see her packing? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You look as though you'd seen a ghost. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Where you going? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Off with him? The wind cuts gaps in the death wail of the locusts. From time to time we hear the thump of an exploding well. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">He's not your brother, is he? How much does he know? She edges toward the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why do you say that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Come here a minute. Who are you? <P ID="spkdir">(no reply) <P ID="dia">Where'd you come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I told you. He shakes her. She quivers like a child in his grasp. She no longer has the audacity to lie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">How long have you known? He drops his eyes. Shamefully long -- and his anger is partly just at this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">What'd you want? He punches in the shade of a lamp, extinguishing it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Tell me. He shoves over the chest of drawers. She does not move. He tears down the drapes, already in shreds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">This? Show me what you wanted! I would have given it all to you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Please, Chuck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Please what? You're not going to tell me you're sorry, I hope.. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">But I am. Outside the window fires rage along half the horizon. He sits down. He wants to sob, but cannot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">You're so wonderful. How could you do this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I'm just no good. You picked me from the gutter, and this is how -- I never deserved you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">The things you told me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I love you, though. You have to believe me. It may sound false after... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(interrupting) <P ID="dia">Down at the cave. Don't you remember? I believed them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">All right. I'm going away. You'll never have to see me again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Away? He gets up, suddenly alarmed, walks to the mantel and opens a chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What're you doing? Chuck drapes his neck with the stole he used in slaughtering the hog. Her face goes empty. He gets his razor strop from the shaving basin. She shrinks back in the corner. He looks at her for a moment, then leaves the room. </p><p><p ID="slug">276 INT. STAIRCASE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Abby pursues him down the stairs. He throws her aside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Where are you doing? Chuck! What are you doing? I won't let you! Come back! Again he throws her aside, and again she keeps after him, desperate to prevent any harm coming to Bill. Finally he picks her up and drags her outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">277 EXT. PORCH - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">He lashes her with a rope to a column of the porch. She struggles vainly to free herself. Does he intend to use the razor on her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">No, Chuck! Please, darling! It wasn't his fault. It was mine. Let him go. I love you, Chuck. Do anything, only please... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">I'm sick of hearing lies. He stuffs a handkerchief in her mouth and leaves. </p><p><p ID="slug">278 TIGHT ON CHUCK - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck wanders through the night with a lantern, calling his mare. </p><p><p ID="slug">279 EXT. BURNT-OUT FIELDS - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">Dawn breaks. Chuck rides over the burnt-out fields looking for Bill. The feet of his lank white mare are wrapped to the fetlock in wet burlap, to protect them from the smouldering grass. It prances warily along, without making a sound, wreathed in a mist of blue smoke. With him he carries a stool. The camera pans up to the smoke which is carrying his fortune off. </p><p><p ID="slug">280 CHUCK'S POVS </p><p><p ID="act">Burnt, blind deer stand and look at him in utter terror, as though they understood his intentions. The roasted corpses of sharptail grouse, coyotes and badgers lie scattered here and there. Piles of dung burn on after the grass is out. A peacock from the Belvedere wanders around, angry and perplexed. </p><p><p ID="slug">281 BILL </p><p><p ID="act">Bill is repairing his motorbike by a rock in the middle of the scorched landscape. The tires are soft as licorice from the heat. Suddenly, he looks up. Chuck has found him. He jumps behind the handlebars and fishtails off. Chuck breaks into a gallop, rides him down, knocks him to the ground with the stool, dismounts and stamps in the spokes of the front wheel to make sure he goes no further. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Who do you think you are? Now you've ruined it. What's got into you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="dia">Where you headed? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Why do I have to tell you? I can come and go when I like. This is still a free country, last I heard. Bill stops when he sees the stool. Chuck calmly strops the razor on his stirrup flap. There are no secrets now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">What can I say? Too late for apologies. You've got a right to hate me. Chuck puts the razor away and advances on Bill with the stool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I want to leave. You won't ever see me again. I already got what I deserve. There is nothing Bill can say to appease him. This will be a fight to the death. Chuck lashes out with the stool. Bill ducks too late. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Watch it! Chuck comes at him again. Bill throws a punch, but Chuck blocks it and knocks him down again with the stool. Bill reels back and cracks his head on the bicycle frame. This time he stays down. Satisfied the struggle is over, Chuck goes back to get some rope. </p><p><p ID="slug">282 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck shuts his eyes to mumble a prayer of absolution--in Russian. Bill in a panic, snaps a spoke out of the broken wheel and lays it against his sleeve. Chuck moves in for the kill. Bill gets to his feet. He wants to run but fear makes his knees like water. Suddenly, they are face to face. Chuck swings at Bill with the stool but misses. Bill lifts the spoke above him and drives it deep into Chuck's heart. Chuck gasps. Bill seems just as shocked. Chuck sits down to determine the gravity of his injury. Blood jets rhythmically out the end of the spoke, as though from a straw. Bill circles him, unbelieving. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Should I pull it out? Chuck puts his finger over the end of the spoke. Blood seeps out the side of his mouth, like sap from a broken stem. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I better get somebody. He tries to catch the reins of Chuck's horse, but it shies out of reach, its conscience repelled. He looks back at Chuck in anguish. What has he done? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You were my friend. </p><p><p ID="slug">283 TIGHT ON BILL AND HIS POVS </p><p><p ID="act">The Belvedere is visible on the horizon. Bill hesitates a moment, then heads back on foot to find Abby. He gives Chuck a wide berth. Then, on a ridge in the distance, he spots Benson. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Get a doctor! Fast! How much did he see? Bill does not stay to find out but takes off running, though not without first collecting his rabbit. Benson, meanwhile, bounds down the hill to Chuck's side. His left sleeve has been burned away. The flesh beneath is the color of a raw steak. </p><p><p ID="slug">284 CHUCK'S POVS </p><p><p ID="act">Chuck sees the smoke from his fields, the burnt deer, a circling hawk. </p><p><p ID="slug">285 TIGHT ON CHUCK </p><p><p ID="act">He breathes in gulps. His eyes are blank, like a child's marbles. He takes Benson's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CHUCK <P ID="spkdir">(weakly) <P ID="dia">Wasn't his fault. Tell her...forgive them. The locusts can be heard no more. The prairie makes a sound like the ocean. Chuck turns his back and dies. </p><p><p ID="slug">286 TIGHT ON BENSON </p><p><p ID="act">Benson weeps. Whether or not he understood Chuck's last wishes, he seems unlikely to abide by them. </p><p><p ID="slug">287 EXT. BELVEDERE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill finds Abby bound to the house like the figurehead of a ship. He cuts her loose. The ropes fall at her feet. She is free. They look at each other for a moment. Then, in a rush of compassion for them all, she throws her arms around him. Bill wonders if she is taking him back. Might their differences all have been a terrible misunderstanding? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">We have to hurry. Chuck's out looking right now. Oh, Bill, what have we done? He took his razor. We need to hurry. He might be coming back any minute. Bill mentions nothing of his encounter. She grabs her bindle, Bill a handful of silverware and an umbrella. After a moment's hesitation, he puts them back. </p><p><p ID="slug">288 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">They run down to the barn, where the cars are stored. The saplings in the front yard have been stripped even of their bark. Abby stops to look back at the Belvedere one last time. Chuck does not want her anymore. How could she expect him to? Bill grabs her by the hand and tugs her along. </p><p><p ID="slug">289 EXT. BARN </p><p><p ID="act">Abby throws open the doors of the barn. Bill cranks up the engine of the Overland. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Will the cops be looking for us, too? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Probably. Abby stands in the door. She is reluctant to leave, though she knows they must. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Get in. She notices that Bill's lip is cut, his shirt soaked with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What happened to you? Where's this from? Bill looks down. He forgot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Had an accident. She looks at him for a moment, not quite trusting this explanation. The engine catches with a noise like start- led poultry. Bill gets behind the wheel. Just as they are pulling out of the garage, Ursula runs up, black as coal from battling the fire all night. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Where you going? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="spkdir">(breathless) <P ID="dia">We got in a jam. You'll be safer here. Say we're headed for town. Take care of the rabbit, too. He's yours now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">What's the matter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Just do what I say. Why're you always arguing about everything? Wait here till we get in touch. Bill gives Ursula his wallet and a kiss. Abby gives her a hug. </p><p><p ID="slug">290 EXT. BURNT GRASS </p><p><p ID="act">They roar off through the burnt grass of the prairie. Abby waves goodbye. </p><p><p ID="slug">291 THEIR POV (MOVING) </p><p><p ID="act">As they crest a ridge, Benson appears in front of them, waving a hand to flag them down. Bill puts his foot on the gas. Benson sees they are not going to stop and fires at then with a pistol. Bill grabs a shotgun from a scab- bard under the dash and fires back. Nobody is hurt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's the matter with him? Bill shrugs. Inside he feels a great relief. They are free at last. At last he has her back. </p><p><p ID="slug">292 EXT. BONANZA GATES </p><p><p ID="act">They veer off across the prairie, towards the Razumihin gates. The music comes up full. </p><p><p ID="slug">293 EXT. SHACK ON RIVER </p><p><p ID="act">They have come to a lone shack on the river, a drinking house for passing boatmen. They negotiate (in pantomime) with the PROPRIETOR for a tiny steam boat moored at the end of the pier. When the car is not enough, Abby throws in her necklace. </p><p><p ID="slug">294 ABOARD THE BOAT </p><p><p ID="act">They board the boat and turn down stream. There is a phonograph on board. </p><p><p ID="slug">295 TIGHT ON NECKLACE </p><p><p ID="act">The necklace sparkles on the hood of the car--a hint they are leaving behind evidence that could betray them. </p><p><p ID="slug">296 EXT. BOAT ON RIVER - AND MOVING POVS </p><p><p ID="act">They glide along in the hush of evening. The reeds are full of deer. Cranes, imprudently tame, dance on the sand bars. Bill looks around in wonder. He knows these may be his last days on earth. Abby throws a sounding line. A COUPLE from a local farm seeks privacy in the willows. Other BOATMEN glide past in silence. A CHILD plays a fiddle on the deck of a scow. HUNTERS creep along the shore in search of waterfowl. </p><p><p ID="slug">297 EXT. CAMP - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">Bill sleeps under a tarp. Abby looks out across the water and bursts into sobs. She has wronged Chuck and thrown her life away. </p><p><p ID="slug">298 THEIR POVS (MOVING) - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They shine a lamp into the murky depths and spear pickerel with a hammered-out fork. Strange rocks loom up and give way to wide moonlit fields. They have the sense of entering places where nobody has been since the making of the world. </p><p><p ID="slug">299 EXT. FARMHOUSE </p><p><p ID="act">Four LAWMEN, in pursuit, interrogate some FARMERS. Have they seen the two people standing by Chuck in his wedding portrait? Benson holds the bulky frame. There is a funereal border of black crepe at the corners. </p><p><p ID="slug">300 EXT. ABOARD THE BOAT - DUSK </p><p><p ID="act">They drift idly on the flood. The phonograph is playing in the stern. Abby is back in trousers. Bill points to a white house on the shore, an image of comfort and peace. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I used to want a set-up like that. Something like that, I thought, and you'd really have it made. Now I don't care. I just wish we could always live this way. He sees that her mind is somewhere else. He wants to tell her the truth about Chuck, for intimacy's sake, but it would just put more of a cloud over everything. It might even cause her to hate him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Maybe you want to write him a letter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I hadn't thought of that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You really do love him, don't you? She does not reply. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">You want to go back? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="spkdir">(shaking her head) <P ID="dia">Too late for that. I could never face him again. They look at each other for a moment. He touches her face, to show that he does not hold it against her. She touches him back. They only have each other now. They must save what moments they can. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Guess it's you and me again. </p><p><p ID="slug">301 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">On a sudden whim, Abby takes off her wedding bracelet and holds it over the water. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Watch this. Bill is caught off guard. Before he can make a move she throws it far out into the river. They laugh, without knowing why, at this extravagance. </p><p><p ID="slug">302 EXT. SHORE .. TRACKING SHOTS </p><p><p ID="act">They gather May apples and black haws. The music from the phonograph comes up full. They dig clams from a sand bar in a playful way. We are reminded of their first days on the harvest. </p><p><p ID="slug">303 XT. UNDERGROWTH </p><p><p ID="act">They make love in the undergrowth. Abby, afterwards, lies in a naked daze. The damp greens of the wilderness envelop her. </p><p><p ID="slug">304 THEIR POV - ON CITY ON RIVER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Rounding a bend in the river that night, they come upon the lights of a great city. They have doused the running lamp. Except for a faint groaning of the trees along the shore, the river is silent, conveying the sounds of the city to them from across a great distance -- bells, joy- ful voices, horns, the chirping of brakes, etc. </p><p><p ID="slug">305 EXT. CITY STREETS AND THEIR POVS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">They sneak down an alley. There are signs of life behind a few windows, but the city pursues its gaiety elsewhere. Suddenly, they come upon a POLICEMAN making his rounds. They let him pass, then cut through a vacant lot back to the boat. </p><p><p ID="slug">306 EXT. RIVER FRONT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The next morning finds them camped in a thicket on the river front below a factory. Bill wakes up, mysteriously happy. Their blankets are heavy with dew. Overhead, finches tilt from branch to branch. A light wind rushes through the leaves. Whatever his trou- bles, they seem very small to him in the great. scheme of things. He looks at Abby, mouthing silent words in her sleep. He puts on a white scarf and starts down to the boat. The slope is strewn with sodden cartons, burnt bricks and burst mattresses, an avalanche of urban excreta. </p><p><p ID="slug">307 HIS POV </p><p><p ID="act">Abruptly he stops. Two POLICE OFFICERS are combing over the boat. They have not seen him. He edges back. Suddenly, there is yelling on the hill above them. Bill looks up. Benson is calling him to the attention of a car-load of POLICEMEN pulling up beside him. The Officers at the boat now spot him, too, and open fire. Bill darts like a rabbit into the thicket. </p><p><p ID="slug">308 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Abby bolts awake. Bill jumps down beside her, breathless, and begins looking frantically for the shells to his shotgun. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">What's going on? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Keep down. Can't explain now. They're here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Who? What're you talking about? Stop a minute. He covers her with his body as bullets zoom through the undergrowth. His face is close to hers. She bursts into tears. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">Don't get shot. Look for me under that next bridge down. After dark. He empties out the contents of his pockets -- a watch, a couple of dollars in change, a ring -- and slaps them down in front of her. The Police fan out along the ridge above them. He jams a flare pistol into his belt and kisses her goodbye--after a moment's hesitation -- on the cheek. She tries in vain to hold him back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BILL <P ID="dia">I wish I could tell you how much I love you. </p><p><p ID="slug">309 EXT. MUD FLAT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill runs from the thicket down to the water. The Police have bunched on the other side. It seems he might be able to escape. Keeping low, he splashes across a mud flat. Suddenly he runs into a trot line that a fisherman has left out overnight. The hooks bite into his thigh and shoulder, yanking a string of startled, thrashing catfish out of the water. He keeps running in a panic, not realizing the line is staked to the shore. All at once, he jackknifes in the air. The stake twangs loose. The Police now spot him and begin firing. </p><p><p ID="slug">310 TIGHT ON ABBY </p><p><p ID="act">Abby runs out of hiding, thinking at first that the Police must be looking for her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">Why're you shooting? You'll kill him! Have you gone crazy? Stop! Oh, Bill, not you! Not you! </p><p><p ID="slug">311 NEW ANGLE </p><p><p ID="act">Bill stumbles along, trying to rip the hooks from his flesh, but the fish--fighting their way back to the water--only drive them in deeper. Ahead two MOUNTED POLICE surge into the river, blocking his retreat. He empties his shotgun at them and throws it away. They hold up, astonished. He dashes across a sand bar for the deep of the river and comparative safety. Black mud clings to his feet, drawing him down like a fly in molasses. Benson goes running out into the river ahead of the Police. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BENSON <P ID="dia">Leave him alone. I want him. Leave him alone. <P ID="spkdir">(firing) <P ID="dia">There you go! There you go! He shoots Bill down. Bill turns and looks at him in sur- prise. Benson shoots him again, point blank. </p><p><p ID="slug">312 UNDERWATER SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">Bill's blood fades off quickly in the gliding water of the river. The line of frightened catfish dances out behind him like a garland. </p><p><p ID="slug">313 OTHER ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">A dog trots off in alarm. Benson wades into shore, tears streaming down his face, his chest heaving with emotion. Abby falls to the ground in a convulsion of grief. A short way down the river PEOPLE come and go along the bridge where they were to meet. </p><p><p ID="slug">314 ISOLATED ON ROLLER PIANO </p><p><p ID="act">A roller piano sits in a corner by itself, playing a fox- trot. The camera moves back. </p><p><p ID="slug">315 INT. ARBORETUM - ATTIC </p><p><p ID="act">YOUNG DANCERS are learning the foxtrot in the attic of the Arboretum, a tacky Western version of an Eastern finishing school. The steps are painted on the floor as white footprints. Abby is apparently enrolling Ursula here. The headmistress, MADAME MURPHY, boasts of the school's achievements. Ursula looks trapped. Abby checks her watch. She must go. </p><p><p ID="slug">316 EXT. BRICK STREET </p><p><p ID="act">Abby and Ursula walk down an empty street. Abby wears a mourning band on her sleeve. She is under the false im- pression that Ursula likes her new home. An INDIAN PORTER carts her bags along behind them in a wheelbarrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">They'll teach you poise, too, so you can walk in any room you please. Pretty soon you'll know all kind of things. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I never read a whole book till I was fifteen. It was by Caesar. They laugh at her careful pronunciation of "Caesar." </p><p><p ID="slug">317 EXT. TRAIN STATION </p><p><p ID="act">Abby's train is about to leave. The CONDUCTOR walks by blowing a whistle. A five-piece BAND plays Sousa airs. They are practically the only civilians on the platform. The rest are SOLDIERS bound for Europe, where America has just entered the War, on fire with excitement and a sense of high adventure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">I like your hat. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It doesn't seem like a bird came down and landed on my head? Abby takes the hat off and gives it to Ursula, who lately has begun to take more trouble with her appearance, comb- ing her hair free of its usual snarls. They laugh at their reflection in a window of the train. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">I hardly ever wear it. Be sure and write every week. Signals nod. A lamp winks. There are leave-takings up and down the platform as the train slides away. Abby hops on board. A SOLDIER next to her sheds bitter tears. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You write me, too! They wave goodbye. </p><p><p ID="slug">318 EXT. ARBORETUM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Late that evening Ursula lowers herself out a third-floor window of the Arboretum with a rope made of bedsheets. </p><p><p ID="slug">319 TIGHT ON GIRLS AT WINDOW </p><p><p ID="act">The other GIRLS stand in their nightgowns and wave good- bye, amazed at her boldness. She slips off into the night. </p><p><p ID="slug">320 EXT. BACKSTAGE DOOR - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Ursula looks in a backstage door. She can see, through the wings, a MAN dancing on stage. There is a feeling of mad excitement about the place. The person she is looking for is not here, however. </p><p><p ID="slug">321 EXT. ALLEY - URSULA'S THEME - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">She runs down an alley. A man steps out of the shadows-- George, the pilot. She throws herself in his arms. This is our first sight of him since he left the bonanza. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">You're here! Oh, hug me! They kiss madly, with mystery. The moonlit, midsummer night thrums </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Aren't we happy? Oh, George, has anybody ever been this happy? He rocks her back and forth in his arms. They laugh, thinking what lucky exceptions they are to the world's misery. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">Hurry. They'll be looking for me. </p><p><p ID="slug">322 EXT. AIRPLANE - DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">George bundles Ursula, giggling, into a biplane. </p><p><P ID="speaker">URSULA <P ID="dia">This doesn't even belong to you. Suppose they catch us? </p><p><p ID="slug">323 EXT. PASTURE -- DAWN </p><p><p ID="act">From a pasture outside town the plane rises into the vast dawn sky. </p><p><p ID="slug">324 INT. TEXTILE FACTORY </p><p><p ID="act">Abby changes bobbins on a huge loom. A pall of lint and anonymous toil hangs over the factory. Down the way a handsome MALE WORKER smiles at her. She smiles back, interested. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY <P ID="dia">It seems an age we've been apart, and truly is for those who love each other so. Whenever shall we meet?' </p><p><p ID="slug">325 TIGHT ON MACHINERY </p><p><p ID="act">The shuttle rockets back and forth. Off camera we hear Abby reading what seems part of a letter to Ursula. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">Soon, I hope, for by and by we'll all be gone, Urs. Does it really seem as though we might?' </p><p><p ID="slug">326 UNDERWATER SHOT </p><p><p ID="act">We look from the bottom of a river up toward the light. In the foreground, dangling from the tip of a submerged limb, is the bracelet Abby threw away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">'The other day I tried to think how I'd look laid out in a solemn white gown. Closing my eyes I could almost hear you tiptoe inlook down in my face, so deep asleep, so still. </p><p><p ID="slug">327 EXT. FIELDS - SERIES OF ANGLES </p><p><p ID="act">The PEOPLE of the Razumihin rebuild the land -- raising fences and sinking a well, plowing down the stubble and putting in the seed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ABBY (o.s.) <P ID="dia">'I went to Lincoln Park Zoo the other day. It was great as usual. I enclose a check.' </p><p><p ID="act">An ANONYMOUS YOUNG MAN, standing on a carpet of new-sprung wheat, looks up with a start. From the distance comes a ghostly noise--the call of the prairie chickens at their spring rites. He listens for just a moment, then returns to work. </p><p><p ID="act">THE END</p> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What do the Ghostbusters do to stop an argument between Ray and Winston?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and memorize the context. (Note: I will give you the question after you confirm that you have memorized the context.) \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Take their clothes off" ]	25,093	narrativeqa	en	null	973ac7fc4eb400348ec30dae56ba4d177d0ade45a3529d3e	Ghostbusters II by Harold Ramis and Dan Aykroyd September 29, 1988 Last revised Feburary 27, 1989 <b>EXT. MANHATTAN ISLAND - DAY </b> A high AERIAL SHOT of the island features the Statue of Liberty prominently in the foreground then TRAVELS ACROSS the harbor, OVER the Battery and Lower Manhattan to Greenwich Village. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY </b> A car is being hoisted up by a municipal tow truck while its owner is having a terrible screaming arguement with a parking enforcement officer. DANA BARRETT comes home pushing a baby buggy, struggling with two full bags of groceries, and trying to dig her keys out of her purse. The building superintendent FRANK, sees her struggling but pretends not to notice. <b> DANA </b> (exasperated) Frank, do you think you could give me a hand with these bags? <b> FRANK </b> I'm not a doorman, Miss Barrett. I'm a building superintendent. <b> DANA </b> You're also a human being, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> (reluctantly going to help) Okay, okay. It's not my job, but what the hell. I'll do you a favor. He takes the grocery bags from her. <b> DANA </b> (setting the wheel brakes on the buggy) Thank you, Frank. I'll get the hang of this eventually. She continues digging in her purse while Frank leans over the buggy and makes funny faces at the baby, OSCAR, a very cute nine-month old boy. <b> FRANK </b> (to the baby) Hiya, Oscar. What do you say, slugger? <b> FRANK </b> (to Dana) That's a good-looking kid you got there, Ms. Barrett. <b> DANA </b> (finding her keys) Thank you, Frank. Oh, are you ever going to fix the radiator in my bedroom? I asked you last week. <b> FRANK </b> Didn't I do it? <b>BABY BUGGY </b> It starts to vibrate as if shaken by an unseen hand. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> He GURGLES with delight at the movement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DANA AND FRANK - DAY </b> Neither of them notice the movement of the carriage. <b> DANA </b> No, you didn't, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> Okay, that's no problem. <b> DANA </b> That's exactly what you said last week. <b>BUGGY WHEELS </b> The brakes unlock themselves. <b>DANA </b> She reaches for the handlebar of the buggy, but the buggy rolls forward just out of her reach and stops. Surprised by the movement, she reaches for the handlebar again, but this time the buggy rolls away even further. Alarmed now, Dana hurries after it, but the buggy keeps rolling down the street at ever increasing speed. <b>SIDEWALK </b> Dana chases the buggy down the street, shouting to passing pedestrians for help, but every time someone reaches out to stop it, the buggy swerves and continues unchecked. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars, trucks, and buses speed by in both directions as the buggy races toward the corner. <b>DANA </b> She puts her head down and sprints after the buggy like an Olympian. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> A city bus is on a collision course with the speeding baby buggy. <b>BUGGY </b> It careens toward the corner. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> Its eyes are wide open with excitement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> Bus and buggy are closing fast as the buggy bounces over the curb and into the crosswalk. <b>BUS </b> The bus driver reacts in helpless horror as he sees the buggy enter the intersection at high speed. <b>BUGGY </b> It comes to a dead stop right in the middle of the street. The bus continues missing the buggy by inches. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars and trucks swerve and hit their brakes as Dana runs into the intersection and snatches up the baby. She hugs it close, deeply relieved, then looks at the buggy with the dawning awareness that the supernatural has re-entered her life. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UPPER WEST SIDE - NEW YORK CITY STREET - GHOSTBUSTERS LOGO - DAY </b> THEME MUSIC kicks in strongly as we see the familiar "No Ghosts" symbol and PULL BACK to reveal that it's painted on the side of Ecto-1, the Ghostbusters' emergency vehicle, which is speeding up Broadway on the Upper West Side. RAY STANTZ is driving and WINSTON ZEDDEMORE is riding shotgun. <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> The Ectomobile pulls up in front of a carefully-restored brownstone. Stantz and Winston, wearing their official Ghostbuster uniforms, jump out of the old ambulance, shoulder their proton packs and enter the house. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> A WOMAN greets them and leads them through the expensively-furnished house. <b> STANTZ </b> (all business) How many of them are there, ma'am? <b> WOMAN </b> Fourteen. They're in the back. I hope you can handle them. It's been like a nightmare. <b> WINSTON </b> How big are they? She holds her hand out indicating about four feet. <b> WINSTON </b> (resolute) We'll do our best, ma'am. <b> WOMAN </b> They're right out here. She leads them to a set of French doors that open into another room. Stantz and Winston pause to make final adjustments to their equipment. <b> STANTZ </b> Ready? <b> WINSTON </b> I'm ready. <b> STANTZ </b> Then let's do it. He pushes through the French doors and they step into the room. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They are immediately attacked by fourteen or fifteen screaming KIDS between the ages of seven and ten. <b> KIDS </b> (disappointed) Ghostbusters!! Boooo!! Tables are set with party favors, ice cream and birthday cake and the room is strewn with discarded toys and games. A couple of weary parents sink onto lawn chairs as Stantz and Winston take over the party. <b> WINSTON </b> (trying his best) How you doin', kids? <b> LITTLE BOY </b> (nasty) I though we were having He-Man. <b> STANTZ </b> He-Man couldn't make it today. That's why we're here. <b> BOY </b> My dad says you're full of crap. <b> STANTZ </b> (stopped cold) Well, a lot of people have trouble believing in the paranormal. <b> BOY </b> No, he just says you're full of crap and that's why you went out of business. He kicks Stantz in the leg. Stantz grabs him by the shirtfront. <b> STANTZ </b> (low and menacing) I'm watching you. (to Winston) Song. Winston switches on a tiny TAPE RECORDER which starts PLAYING the Ghostbusters THEME SONG. Stantz and WInston start singing <b> STANTZ AND WINSTON </b> 'There's something wrong in the neighborhood. Who you gonna call?' <b> KIDS </b> (all together) He-Man!! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Stantz and Winston wearily load their equipment into the Ectomobile. <b> WINSTON </b> That's it, Ray. I've had it. No more parties. I'm tired of taking abuse from over-privileged nine-year-olds. <b> STANTZ </b> Come on, Winston. We can't quit now. The holidays are coming up. It's our best season. They get in the car <b>INT. ECTO-1 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz tries to start the car, but the engine won't turn over. <b> WINSTON </b> Give it up, Ray. You're living in the past. Ghostbusters doesn't exist anymore. In a year these kids won't even remember who we are. <b> STANTZ </b> (tries to start the car again) Ungrateful little Yuppie larvae. After all we did for this city. <b> WINSTON </b> Yeah, what did we do, Ray? The last real job we had we bubbled up a hundred foot marshmallow man and blew the top three floors off an uptown highrise. <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, but what a ride. You can't make a hamburger without chopping up a cow. He turns the key again, the ENGING TURNS OVER, then starts GRINDING and CLUNKING disastrously, chewing up vital parts and dropping twisted bits of metal onto the pavement. Finally, with a BLAST of black sooty exhaust from the tailpipe, Ecto-1 shudders and dies. Frustrated, Stantz bangs his head lightly on the steering wheel <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. WKRR-TV STUDIO RECEPTION AREA - DAY (LATER) </b> A bank of monitors in the lobby show the program now running on WKRR, Channel 10 in New York. We PUSH IN ON one of the monitors as a title card and logo come up accompanied by some EERIE SYNTHESIZER MUSIC, and we return to the show in progress: "World of the Psychic with Dr. Peter Venkman." There is a video dissolve to a standard talk show set and sitting there is our host PETER VENKMAN, the renowned and somewhat infamous ex-Ghostbuster. <b>VENKMAN </b> He turns TO CAMERA and talks to his viewers in a suavely engaging tone, understated and intimate. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, welcome back to the 'World of the Psychic,' I'm Peter Venkman and I'm chatting with my guest, author, lecturer and of course, psychic, Milton Anglund. (to his guest) Milt, your new book is called The End of the World. Isn't that kind of like writing about gum disease. Yes, it could happen, but do you think anybody wants to read a book about it? <b> MILTON </b> Well, I think it's important for people to know that the world is in danger. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, so can you tell us when it's going to happen or do we have to buy the book? <b> MILTON </b> I predict that the world will end at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> This year? That's cutting it a little close, isn't it? I mean, just from a sales point of view, the book just came out, right? So you're not even looking at the paperback release for maybe a year. And it's going to be at least another year after that if the thing has movie-of-the-week or mini-series potential. You would have been better off predicting 1992 or even '94 just to be safe. <b> MILTON </b> (irritated) This is not just some money-making scheme! I didn't just make up the date. I have a strong psychic belief that the world will end on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> (placating) Well, for your sake, I hope you're right. But I think my other guest may disagree with you. Elaine, you had another date in mind? The CAMERA REVEALS ELAINE, an attractive, aggressive New Jersey housewife, sitting on the other side of Venkman. <b> ELAINE </b> According to my sources, the world will end on February 14, in the year 2016. <b> VENKMAN </b> Valentine's Day. That's got to be a bummer. Where did you get that date, Elaine? <b> ELAINE </b> I received this information from an alien. I was at the Paramus Holiday Inn, I was having a drink in the bar when he approached me and started talking. Then he must have used some sort of ray or a mind control device because he made me follow him to his room and that's where he told me about the end of the world. <b> VENKMAN </b> Your alien had a room in the Holiday Inn? <b> ELAINE </b> It may have been a room on the spacecraft made up to look like a room in the Holiday Inn. I can't be sure, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (humoring her) No, you can't, and I think that's the whole problem with aliens; you just can't trust them. You may get some nice ones occasionally like Starman or E.T., but most of them turn out to be some kind of lizard. Anyway, we're just about out of time. (does his wrap-up right TO the CAMERA) Next week on 'World of the Psychic,' hairless pets. (holds up a hairless cat) Until then, this is Peter Venkman saying ... (puts a finger to his temple and sends out a though to his viewers) ... Good night. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. TV STUDIO - CORRIDOR - DAY (LATER) </b> Venkman comes out of the studio squabbling with his producer, NORMAN, a well-meaning young incompetent. <b> VENKMAN </b> Where do you find these people? I thought we were having the telekinetic guy who bends the spoons? <b> NORMAN </b> A lot of the better psychics won't come on the show. They think you're too skeptical. <b> VENKMAN </b> Skeptical! Norman, I'm a pushover. I think professional wrestling is real. There is a small commotion down the hall as two plainclothes cops come out of the next studio followed by a group of mayoral assistants. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Norman) What's all this? <b> NORMAN </b> They just interviewed the mayor on 'Cityline.' <b> VENKMAN </b> The Mayor! He's a friend of mine. Venkman starts down the hall as the MAYOR and his principal aide, JACK HARDEMEYER, come walking out of the studio. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calling to the Mayor) Lenny! The Mayor sees Venkman, blanches and hurries off, pretending not to know him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (starts to follow him) Lenny! It's Pete Venkman! The plainclothesmen cut Venkman off and Hardemeyer puts a heavy hand against Venkman's chest. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (snide) Can I help you? <b> VENKMAN </b> (dangerous) Yeah, you can get your hand off my chest. Hardemeyer smiles and drops his hand. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> I'm Jack Hardemeyer. I'm the mayor's assistant. What can I do for you? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm an old friend of the mayor's. I just want to say hello to him. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (scornful) I know who you are, Doctor Venkman. Busting any ghosts lately? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, that's what I want to talk to the mayor about. We did a little job for the city a while back and we ended up getting sued, screwed and tattooed by deskworms like you. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (bristling) Look, you stay away from the mayor. Next fall, barring a disaster, he's going to be elected governor of this state and the last thing we need is for him to be associated with two-bit frauds and publicity hounds like you and your friends. You read me? Hardemeyer walks off with the two cops. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, I get it. But I want you to tell Lenny that, because of you, I'm not voting for him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - DAY </b> The broad front steps of the museum are crowded with tourists and visitors. Dana arrives carrying a portfolio and artist's tackle box and enters the museum. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATER) </b> We are FULL-FRAME ON a larger-than-life, full-figure portrait of VIGO THE CARPATHIAN, a demented and sadistic 16th century despot with an incredibly powerful evil presence. Then we PULL BACK to reveal the studio, which is a large open space on the top floor of the museum, lit by large skylights in the ceiling. Working on the Vigo painting is JANOSZ POHA, a youngish art historian and painter, the head of the department, quirky, intense and somewhat creepy. Janosz is staring longingly across the room at Dana. <b>DANA </b> She is carefully cleaning a 19th Century landscape painting, still preoccupied by the extraordinary near-accident with the buggy. Janosz watches her for a moment, then comes up behind her and looks over her shoulder. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with an East European accent) Still working on the Turner? Dana jumps, startled by the intrusion. <b> DANA </b> Oh, yes, I got in a little late this morning, Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> You know, you are really doing very good work here. I think soon you may be ready to assist me in some of the more important restorations. <b> DANA </b> Thank you, Janosz. I've learned a lot here, but now that my baby's a little older, I was hoping to rejoin the orchestra. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> At the mention of Dana's baby, the figure of Vigo miraculously turns his head and looks at Dana. <b>JANOSZ AND DANA </b> Neither of them notice the movement in the painting. <b> JANOSZ </b> (disappointed) We'll be very sorry to lose you. Perhaps I could take you to lunch today? <b> DANA </b> Actually, I'm not eating lunch today. I have an appointment. (looks at her watch) In fact, I'd better go. She starts gathering up her things. <b> JANOSZ </b> Every day I ask you, and every day you've got something else to do. Do I have bad breath or something? <b> DANA </b> (trying to brush him off) I'm sorry. Perhaps some other time. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, I'll take a raincheck on that. Janosz smiles at her as she exits, then goes back to his easel. <b> JANOSZ </b> (to himself) I think she likes me. He switches on an English language TAPE and starts practicing the phrases as he resumes working. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UNIVERSITY - DAY </b> Dana Barrett crosses the quad and enters a modern building. A sign identifies it as "The Institute for Advanced Theoretical Research." <b>INT. UNIVERSITY - DAY (A LITTLE LATER) </b> Dana is explaining the buggy incident to EGON SPENGLER, the soberly intellectual techno-wizard and former Ghostbuster, as he conducts an experiment assisted by a research team of graduate students, all of whom are Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. The device he is testing is a black box about the size of a Sony Watchman with both digital and graphic displays. <b> DANA </b> ... and then the buggy just suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the street <b> SPENGLER </b> Did anyone else see this happen? <b> DANA </b> Hundreds of people. Believe me, I didn't imagine this. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm not saying you did. In science we always look for the simplest explanation. An ASSISTANT interrupts. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready, Dr. Spengler <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Assistant) We'll start with the negative calibration. He picks up the device and prepares to test it. <b> DANA </b> (curious) What are you working on, Egon? <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm trying to determine whether human emotional states have a measurable effect on the psychomagnetheric energy field. It's a theory Ray and I were working on when we had to dissolve Ghostbusters. An assistant draws a curtain revealing a large picture window, actually a two-way mirror, that looks into a small waiting room. Inside the waiting room they can see but not hear a youngish couple having a heated arguement. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Dana) They think they're here for marriage counseling. We've kept them waiting for two hours and we've been gradually increasing the temperature in the room. (checking a heat sensor) It's up to 95 degrees at the moment. Now my assistant is going to enter and ask them if they'd mind waiting another half-hour. As Spengler, Dana, and the research team watch, the assistant enters the waiting room and tells the couple about the new delay. They explode with anger both at him and each other while Spengler monitors them through the glass. After recording his readings, he returns to his Assistant. <b> SPENGLER </b> We'll do the happiness index next. (to Dana) I'd like to bring Ray in on your case, if it's all right with you. <b> DANA </b> Okay, whatever you think -- but not Venkman. <b> SPENGLER </b> Oh no. <b> DANA </b> (affectedly casual) Do you ever see him? <b> SPENGLER </b> Occasionally <b> DANA </b> How is he these days? <b> SPENGLER </b> Venkman? I think he was borderline for a while there. Then he crossed the border. <b> DANA </b> Does he ever mention me? <b> SPENGLER </b> No. Not that I can recall. They move to another two-way mirror through which they can see a lovely little girl playing with a wonderful array of toys. <b> DANA </b> (slightly disappointed) Well, we didn't part on very good terms and we sort of lost track of each other when I got married. The Assistant interrupts again. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready for the affection test. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the assistant) Good. Send in the puppy. <b> DANA </b> (continuing) I thought of calling him after my marriage ended, but --. Anyway, I appreciate you're doing this, Egon They watch as another assistant enters the playroom with an adorable Cocker Spaniel puppy and gives it to the little girl. Spengler monitors her as she jumps for joy and hugs the little dog. <b> DANA </b> (handing him a card) This is my address and telephone number. Will you call me? <b> SPENGLER </b> Certainly. <b> DANA </b> Egon, I'd rather you didn't mention any of this to Peter if you don't mind. <b> SPENGLER </b> I won't. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. She shakes his hand and exits. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to his assistant) Now let's see how she reacts when we take away the puppy <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOK STORE - DAY (LATER) </b> It's a small basement shop located on a quaint commercial block in Greenwich Village. The window is crowded with occult artifacts and old books full of arcane metaphysical lore. The TELEPHONE RINGS. <b> STANTZ </b> (v.o., answering the phone) Ray's Occult. <b>INT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOKS - CONTINUOUS </b> The shelves are jammed floor to ceiling with books on the paranormal. Ray sits on a barstool behind the counter wearing an old cardigan sweater over a T-shirt. He has on a pair of reading glasses and chews on a battered, reeking pipe. As he talks on the phone he prepares a cup of herb tea for Spengler who is thumbing through an arcane text. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the phone) Yeah ... mmhmm ... What do you need? ... What have I got? I've got alchemy, astrology, apparitions, Bundu Magic Men, demon intercession, U.F.O. abductions, psychic surgery, stigmata, modern miracles, pixie sightings, golden geese, geists, ghosts, I've got it all -- what are you looking for? ... Don't have any. Try the stockyards. He hangs up. <b> SPENGLER </b> Who was that? <b> STANTZ </b> Some crank. Looking for goat hooves. Come up with anything? <b> SPENGLER </b> (referring to the book) This one's interesting. Berlin, 1939, a flower cart took off by itself and rolled approximately half a kilometer over level ground. Three hundred eyewitnesses. <b> STANTZ </b> You might want to check those Duke University mean averaging studies on controlled psychokinesis. <b> SPENGLER </b> (going to the stacks) Good idea. The bones hanging over the door rattle as Venkman enters the shop. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, hello, perhaps you could help me. I'm looking for an aerosol love potion I could spray on a certain Penthouse Pet that would make her unconditionally submit to an unusual personal request. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, hiya, Pete. <b> VENKMAN </b> So, no goat hooves, huh? <b> STANTZ </b> (strung) I knew that voice sounded familiar. What's up? How's it going? <b> VENKMAN </b> Nowhere -- fast. Why don't you lock up and buy me a sub? <b> STANTZ </b> (slightly evasive) Uh, I can't. I'm kind of working on something. Spengler steps out of the stacks. <b> VENKMAN </b> Egon! <b> SPENGLER </b> Hello, Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> How've you been? How's teaching? I bet those science chicks really dig that big cranium of yours, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think they're more interested in my epididymis. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't even want to know where that is. Venkman steps behind the counter and takes a beer from Ray's mini-fridge. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, your book came in, Venkman. Magical Paths to Fortune and Power. He hands Venkman the book. <b> VENKMAN </b> Great. (reading the contents) So what are you guys working on? <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, just checking something for an old friend. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? <b> STANTZ </b> (at a loss) Who? Just -- someone we know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, Ray -- He grabs Stantz by both ears and pulls up. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? Who? Who? <b> STANTZ </b> Aaah! Nobody! I can't tell you! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who, Ray? <b> STANTZ </b> (giving in) Dana! Dana Barrett! Venkman lets go of his ears and smiles. Spengler looks at Stantz and shakes his head. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - DAY (LATER) </b> The apartment is old and creatively furnished with a comfortable mix of modern and traditional pieces. Maria, a young Hispanic woman who does day care for Dana, is feeding the baby in the kitchen when the DOORBELL <b>RINGS. </b> <b> CUT TO: </b> Dana enters from the bedroom and crosses to the front door. She opens it and admits Ray and Egon. <b> DANA </b> (hugging Ray) Hi, Ray. It's good to see you. Thanks for coming. <b> STANTZ </b> No problem. Always glad to help -- and hug. <b> DANA </b> (to Spengler) Hi, Egon. She shakes his hand and is about to close the door when Venkman appears in the doorway. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, Dana. Dana is caught completely off guard by Venkman's surprise appearance. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew you'd come crawling back to me. She regards him coolly, as always amused and amazed at his presumptuousness. <b> DANA </b> Hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) You know, Dana, I'm very very hurt that you didn't call me first. I'm still into all this stuff, you know. Haven't you ever seen my show? <b> DANA </b> I have. That's why I didn't call you first. <b> VENKMAN </b> I can see that you're still very bitter about us, but in the interest of science, I'm going to give it my best shot. Let's go to work, boys. Stantz and Spengler begin a comprehensive parapsychological work-up on the baby and the immediate physical environment. <b>VENKMAN AND DANA </b> Venkman starts nosing around the apartment. Dana follows him. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what happened to Mr. Right? I hear he ditched you and the kid and moved to Europe. <b> DANA </b> He didn't "ditch" me. We had some problems, he got a good offer from an orchestra in England and he took it. <b> VENKMAN </b> He ditched you. You should've married me, you know. <b> DANA </b> You never asked me, and every time I brought it up you'd get drowsy and fall asleep. <b> VENKMAN </b> Men are very sensitive, you know. We need to feel loved and desired, too. <b> DANA </b> Well, when you started introducing me as "the old ball and chain," that's when I left. <b> VENKMAN </b> I may have a few personal problems but one thing I am is a total professional. He leaves her and crosses to Spengler. <b>SPENGLER </b> He's taking a complete set of body and head measurements of the baby with a tape measure and calipers. <b> VENKMAN </b> What are you going to do, Egon? Knit him a snowsuit? Spengler ignores the remark and hands Venkman a specimen jar. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'd like to have a stool specimen <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, you would. Is that for personal or professional reasons? <b> VENKMAN </b> (picking up the baby) Okay, kid. Up you go. He starts clowning with the baby, holding him over his head and pressing his nose into the baby's belly, pretending that the baby is attacking him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Help! Please somebody help me! Get him off! Quickly! He's gone completely berserk! Dana is amused and somewhat disarmed by Venkman's rapport with the baby. <b> DANA </b> What do you think? <b> VENKMAN </b> There's no doubt about it. He's got his father's looks. The kid is ugly -- extremely ugly. And smelly. (resumes playing with the baby) You stink! It's just horrible. You are the stinkiest baby I ever smelled. (to Dana) What's his name? <b> DANA </b> His name is Oscar. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oscar! You poor kid! <b> DANA </b> (losing patience) Peter, this is serious. I need to know if you think there's anything unusual about him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Unusual? (holds up the baby and scrutinizes him) I don't know. I haven't had a lot of experience with babies. He looks at the baby, pulling his feet up, trying to get the sleeper off. <b> DANA </b> (taking the specimen jar) I'll do it. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll supervise. <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NURSERY - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman enters and finds Stantz monitoring the room. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) Well, Holmes, what do you think? <b> STANTZ </b> It's an interesting one, Pete. If anything was going on it's totally subdued now. Spengler enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) What now, Brainiac? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think we should see if we can find anything abnormal on the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finding something abnormal on the street shouldn't be too hard. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Dana walks down the street with Venkman, retracing the path of the runaway buggy. Spengler and Stantz follow, monitoring PKE valences from the pavement and the buildings. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana, nostalgic) Brings back a lot of sweet memories, doesn't it? (pointing out familiar neighborhood sights) There's our old cash machine. And the dry cleaners we used to go to. And the old video store. (he wipes away an imaginary tear) We really had some good times, didn't we? <b> DANA </b> We definitely had a moment or two. Dana stops at the intersection and points to the middle of the street. <b> DANA </b> That's where the buggy stopped. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, let's take a look. Venkman walks right out into the middle of the street, completely oblivious to the CARS HONKING and whizzing past him and starts motioning like a traffic cop, bringing traffic to a standstill. Then he signals for Dana, Stantz and Spengler to join him in the middle of the street. <b> STANTZ </b> (reading the PKE meter) Is this the spot? <b> DANA </b> A little to the left. Right there! That's where it stopped. Stantz reads the PKE meter. <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Not a trace. <b> SPENGLER </b> Why don't we try the Giga-meter? <b> VENKMAN </b> What's that? <b> STANTZ </b> Egon and I have been working on a gauge to measure psychomagnetheric energy in GEVs - giga electron volts. <b> SPENGLER </b> That's a thousand million electron volts. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew that. Spengler switches on the Giga-meter, the device he was testing in the lab, and passes it over the spot on the street where the buggy stopped. The indicator goes right into the red zone and the DEVICE starts CLICKING <b>WILDLY. </b> <b> STANTZ </b> I think we hit the honeypot, boys. There's something brewing under the street. <b> DANA </b> (worried, to Venkman) Peter, do you think maybe I have some genetic problem or something that makes me vulnerable to these supernatural things. <b> VENKMAN </b> You mean like the time you got possessed and turned into a monster terror dog? No, not a chance. Total coincidence. (to Stantz and Spengler) Am I right? Stantz and Spengler look at him skeptically, not convinced by the coincidence theory. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - LATE AFTERNOON </b> The museum has just closed for the day and the last of the visitors and employees are leaving. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is working late on the painting of Vigo. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> Unnoticed by Janosz, the eyes of Vigo start to glow. <b>JANOSZ </b> He touches his brush to the canvas and a powerful current of red, crackling energy surges through the brush and courses through his body, driving him to his knees. <b>PAINTING </b> The figure of Vigo comes to life, turns toward Janosz and gestures dramatically at him. Then he speaks to Janosz in a commanding voice. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia, the sorrow of Moldavia, command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (in agony) Command me, lord. <b> VIGO </b> On a mountain of skulls in a castle of pain, I sat on a throne of blood. What was will be, what is will be no more. Now is the season of evil. Find me a child that I might live again. Bolts of red-hot energy shoot from the eyes of Vigo into Janosz's eyes. He screams and falls to his knees. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. COFFEE SHOP - EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT </b> Venkman and Stantz come out with small boxes containing coffee, sandwiches and Danish and start walking up the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> I love this. We're onto something really big. I can smell it, Ray. We're going to make some headlines with this one. <b> STANTZ </b> Hey, hey, hey, stresshound! Are you nuts? If anybody found out about this we'd be in serious trouble. The judge couldn't have been clearer - no ghostbusting. <b> VENKMAN </b> Relax. We're going to keep this whole thing nice and quiet, low key, no profile. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Spengler, wearing a hardhat, is JACKHAMMERING a hole in the middle of the street. Safety cones and reflectors have been set up and a small area is lit by strong work lights. <b>POLICE CAR </b> It turns onto East 77th Street, cruises slowly up to the makeshift worksite and stops. The noise of the JACKHAMMER is so loud, Spengler doesn't notice the police car and the two COPS inside looking at them. Finally, he looks up, sees the police car and freezes. <b> FIRST COP </b> How ya doing? <b> SPENGLER </b> (reeking with guilt) Fine! It's cutting fine now. <b> FIRST COP </b> (curious) Why are you cutting? <b> SPENGLER </b> (looking for one of the others) Why are we cutting? Uh - boss! Venkman and Stantz arrive just in time wearing Con Ed hardhats, doing a good imitation of a Consolidated Edison repairman. <b> FIRST COP </b> What are you doing here? <b> VENKMAN </b> (belligerent) What the hell's it look like we're doing? We're bustin out asses over here 'cause some douchebag downtown ain't got nothin' better to do than make idiots like us work late on a Friday night, right? (looks to Spengler for agreement) <b> SPENGLER </b> (with a "right on" fist) Yo. The cops seem satisfied by the explanation. <b> FIRST COP </b> Okay, boys, take it easy. They drive off. Spengler breathes a great sigh of relief and starts rubbing his sore shoulders. <b> SPENGLER </b> You were supposed to help me with this. <b> VENKMAN </b> You need the exercise. Stantz resumes JACKHAMMERING, while Venkman and Spengler clear the rubble from the hole. Suddenly he hits metal. They clear away generations of paving material revealing an ornate iron manhole cover. The manhole cover bears a strange logo and the letters NYPRR. <b> STANTZ </b> (examing it) NYPRR. What the hell -- ? Help me lift this. They prey off the iron cover with crowbars, uncovering a very dark and very deep abyss. <b> STANTZ </b> (shining a flashlight into the hole) Wow! It's an old airshaft. It just goes forever. Spengler leans in with the giga-meter which is reading even higher now. <b> SPENGLER </b> Very intense. We need a deeper reading. Somebody has to go down there. Venkman and Spengler both look at Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> Thanks, boys. They snap Stantz into a harness and lower him into the hole on a strong cable attached to a winch. Ray calls out orders to them as he descends deeper and deeper. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (his voice echoing in the airshaft) Keep going -- more -- more -- <b>INT. HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz rappels off the sides of the airshaft as he continues his descent in total darkness. <b> STANTZ </b> (using a radio now) Lower -- lower -- (to himself) Gee, this really is deep. Suddenly, his feet kick thin air as he gets to the bottom of the airshaft and swings free in some kind of tunnel. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it! Steady! He pulls a powerful flashlight from his utility belt and shines it into the tunnel below. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - NIGHT </b> He is suspended near the top of a beautifully preserved chamber with rounded, polished tile walls ardorned with intricate, colorfully enameled Art Nouveau mosaics. A finely inlaid sign identifies it as VAN HORNE <b>STATION. </b> <b>STANTZ </b> He pans the walls with his flashlight, admiring the excellent tilework, and speaks quietly to Venkman and Spengler over his walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ </b> (reverently) This is it, boys, the end of the line. Van Horne Station. The old New York Pneumatic. It's still here. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman has no idea what he's talking about. <b> SPENGLER </b> (explaining) The New York Pneumatic Railway. It was an experimental subway system. Fan-forced air-trains, built around 1870. <b> STANTZ </b> (over the walkie-talkie) This is about as deep as you can go under Manhattan without digging your own hole. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) What's the reading? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz shines his flashlight on the meter and whistles at the extremely high reading. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Off the top of the scale. This place is really hot. Lower me to the floor. As Venkman and Spengler feed him some more cable, he pans his flashlight down the wall of the station, then onto the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it!! Stop!! Whoa!! <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - FLOOR - NIGHT </b> Below him is a river of bubbling seething, glowing slime, a veritable torrent of disgusting ooze. As he stares into the foul effluent, we become aware of the strangely amplified and magnified sounds of great ENGINES THROBBING and pulsing in the bowels of the city, of WATER RUSHING through pipes, STEAM HISSING through ducts, the muffled RUMBLE of the SUBWAY and the ROAR of TRAFFIC, and mixed with it all, the unmistakable sounds of human conflict and pain -- VOICES SHOUTING in anger, SCREAMING in fear, GROANING in pain, a sad and eerie symphony. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ - NIGHT </b> <b> STANTZ </b> (ranting on the radio) Oh, my God! It's a seething, bubbling, psychic cess! Interlocked tubes of plasm, crackling with negative GEVs! It's glowing and moving! It's -- it's a river of slime!! <b>STANTZ </b> He dangles from the end of the cable, holding his feet up as high as he can. He unhooks a device from his utility belt and pulls the trigger on it, shooting out a long telescoping fishing-pole with a scoop on the end. Reaching down, he scoops up a sample of the slime and starts retracting the pole. <b>SLIME </b> Suddenly, a grotesque arm with a long skeletal fingers reaches up out of the slime and snatches at Stantz's dangling feet. He jerks his legs up as several more arms poke up out of the slime and reach for him. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Haul me up, Venkman! Now! <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman and Spengler start hauling in the cable as a Con Ed Supervisor's car drives up, and behind it, the same police car they saw earlier. A burly SUPERVISOR gets out and crosses toward them, followed by the two cops. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (no nonsense) Okay, what's the story here? Venkman and Spengler stop pulling up the cable and Venkman tries the belligerent worker ploy again, only this time he's wearing a Nynex hardhat. <b> VENKMAN </b> What, I got time for this? We got three thousand phones out in the Village and about eight million miles of cable to check. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (not buying it) The phone lines are over there. (points to the curb) Venkman pops Spengler on the head. <b> VENKMAN </b> I told ya! Stantz can be heard ranting over Venkman's walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (filtered) Help! Help! Pull me up! It's alive! It's eating my boots. Venkman switches off the walkie-talkie. <b> FIRST COP </b> You ain't with Con Ed or the phone company. We checked. Tell me another one. Venkman stares at the Cop for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Gas leak? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - SAME TIME </b> Stantz is hanging there, looking down into the shaft at the slime which is now bubbling up the shaft after him. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouting) Get me out of here!! Desperate now, he kicks wildly and knocks loose a section of an old, rusting conduit. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - BOTTOM OF THE SHAFT </b> The conduit falls on a heavy electrical transmission line, ripping through the cable with a SHOWER OF SPARKS. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman, Spengler, the cops and the supervisor all react to a bright FLASH deep down in the hole and a SHOUT from Stantz. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - STREET - NIGHT </b> One by one, all the streetlights go out; then the lights on all the buildings along East 77th street; then the whole neighborhood blacks out, and finally the entire city is plunged into darkness. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> Sorry. <b>INT. DANA BARRETT'S APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> She walks around in the dark lighting candles and placing them all over the living room. Then she finds a transistor radio and turns it on for information about the blackout. She listens to a special news report for a moment, then has a compelling impulse to go check on the baby. She crosses to the nursery carrying a candle and quietly opens the door and looks in. Suddenly the DOORBELL RINGS, scaring her half to death. Leaving the chain on the door, she opens it a crack and sees Janosz standing in the hall, eerily lit by a red emergency spot at the end of the hallway. He looks slightly dazed and even creepier. <b> DANA </b> (surprised) Janosz? <b> JANOSZ </b> Hello, Dana. I happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop by to see if everything's all right with you -- you know, with the blackout and everything? Are you okay? Is the baby all right? His affected concern is chilling. She is frightened but conceals it from him. <b> DANA </b> (mechanically and cautiously) We're fine, Janosz. He tires to look around her into the apartment. <b> JANOSZ </b> Do you need anything? You want me to come in? <b> DANA </b> No, everything's fine. Honestly. Thanks anyway. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, just thought I'd check. Good night, Dana. Sleep well. Don't let the bedbugs bite you. <b> DANA </b> Good night, Janosz. She closes the door behind him and double locks it, then stands there staring into the candlelight, alone and afraid. <b>INT. HALLWAY OF DANA'S BUILDING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz stands there in semi-darkness, then his eyes light up like headlights and he walks off down the hall. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - NEXT DAY </b> The JUDGE, a rather sour-looking jurist of the old school, calls the court to order. <b> JUDGE </b> I want to make one thing very clear before we go any further. The law does not recognize the existence of ghosts, and I don't believe in them either, so I don't want to hear a lot of malarkey about goblins and spooks and demons. We're going to stick to the facts in this case and save the ghost stories for the kiddies. Understood? <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz leans over and whispers to Spengler. <b> STANTZ </b> Seems like a pretty open-minded guy, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> His nickname is "The Hammer." Stantz and Spengler are seated with their attorney LOUIS TULLY, lawyer, CPA and former demonic possession victim. Louis is desperately paging through a mountain of legal textbooks. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervous) I think you're making a big mistake here, fellas. I do mostly tax law and some probate stuff occasionally. I got my law degree at night school. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right. We got arrested at night. <b>SPECTATORS' GALLERY </b> Venkman is talking to Dana at the wooden rail in front of the gallery. <b> DANA </b> I wish I could stay. I feel personally responsible for you being here. <b> VENKMAN </b> You are personally responsible. If I can get conjugal rights, will you visit me at Sing Sing? <b> DANA </b> Please don't say that. You won't go to prison. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry about me. I'm like a cat. <b> DANA </b> You mean you cough up hairballs all over the rug? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm El Gato. I always land on my feet. <b> DANA </b> (sincerely) Good luck. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thanks. She gives him a quick, unexpected kiss and exits. Venkman savors it for a moment then goes back to the defense table. <b>PROSECUTION TABLE </b> Jack Hardemeyer, the mayor's principal aide, is goading the PROSECUTOR, a very sober, humorless woman in her late thirties. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> How are you doing, hon? Just put these guys away fast and make sure they go away for a long, long time. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> It shouldn't be hard with this list of charges. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Good. Very good. The mayor and future governor won't forget this. He smiles conspiratorially and makes a point of passing the defense table on his way out of the courtroom. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> The Ghostbusters look up as Hardemeyer approaches. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (gloating) Nice going, Venkman. Violating a judicial restraining order, willful destruction of public property, fraud, malicious mischief -- smooth move. See you in a couple years -- at your first parole hearing. Herdemeyer exits. Louis looks devastated. <b> LOUIS </b> Gee, the whole city's against us. I think I'm going to be sick. Spengler hands him a waste basket as the Prosecutor calls her first witness. <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - DAY (LATER) </b> The Con Ed Supervisor is testifying. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Mr. Fianella, please look at Exhibits A through F on the table over there. Do you recognize that equipment? <b>EXHIBIT TABLE </b> Lying on the table are the basic tools of the Ghostbusting trade: three proton packs and particle throwers, a couple of ghost traps, and various meters and detection devices. <b> CON ED </b> (o.c.) That's the stuff the cops found in their truck. <b>WITNESS STAND </b> She continues. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Do you know what this equipment is used for? <b> CON ED </b> (shrugs) I don't know. Catching ghosts, I guess. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> (to the Judge) May I remind the court that the defendants are under a judicial restraining order that specifically forbids them from performing services as paranormal investigators and eliminators. <b> JUDGE </b> So noted. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Now, Mr. Fianella, can you identify the substance in the jar on the table marked Exhibit F? <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She goes to the exhibit table and picks up a specimen jar containing the slime sample Stantz removed from the tunnel. <b> CON ED </b> I been working underground for Con Ed for 27 years and I never saw anything like that in my life. We checked out that tunnel the next day and we didn't find nothing. If it was down there, they must have put it there. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Venkman and Spengler look at Stantz. <b> STANTZ </b> (defensively) Hey, I didn't imagine it. There must have been ten thousand gallons of it down there. <b> SPENGLER </b> It may be ebbing and flowing from some tidal source. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervously) Should I say that? <b> SPENGLER </b> I doubt that they'd believe us. Louis moans and goes back to his notes. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - LATER </b> Venkman himself is on the stand and Louis is questioning him. <b> LOUIS </b> So like you were just trying to help out your old friend because she was scared and you didn't really mean to do anything bad and you really love the city and won't ever do anything like this again, right? <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection, your Honor. He's leading the witness. <b> JUDGE </b> The witness is leading him. Sustained. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, let me rephrase that question. (to venkman) Didn't you once coach a basketball team for underprivileged children? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yes, I did. We were city champs. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection. Irrelevant and immaterial. <b> JUDGE </b> Sustained. Mr. Tully, do you have anything to ask this witness that may have some bearing on this case? <b> LOUIS </b> (to Venkman) Do I? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I think you've helped them enough already. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the Judge) No, I guess not. (to the Prosecutor) Your witness. The Prosecutor rises and approaches the witness stand with relish. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So, Dr. Venkman, please explain to the court why it is you and your co-defendants took it upon yourselves to dig a big hole in the middle of the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Seventy-seventh and First Avenue has so many holes already we didn't think anyone would notice. The gallery laughs and the Judge gavels for order. <b> JUDGE </b> Keep that up, mister, and I'll find you in contempt. <b> VENKMAN </b> Sorry, your Honor, but when somebody sets me up like that I can't resist. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> I'll ask you again, Dr. Venkman. Why were you digging the hole? And please remember that you're under oath. <b> VENKMAN </b> I had my fingers crossed when they swore me in, but I'm going to tell you the truth. There are things in this world that go way beyond human understanding, things that can't be explained and that most people don't want to know about anyway. That's where we come in. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So what are you saying? That the world of the supernatural is your special province? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I guess I'm just saying that shit happens and somebody has to deal with it. The spectators in the gallery cheer and the judge gavels for order. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - LATER </b> The trial is nearing its end. The Judge calls on Louis to make his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> Does the counsel for the defense wish to make any final arguements? Louis rises. <b> LOUIS </b> Your honor, may I approach the bench? <b> JUDGE </b> (impatient) Yes. Louis crosses to the judge's bench. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the judge) Can I have some of your water? <b> JUDGE </b> Get on with it, counselor! <b> LOUIS </b> (scared) Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the -- (he remembers there's no jury) audience. I don't think it's fair to call my clients frauds. Okay, the blackout was a big problem for everybody. I was stuck in an elevator for about three hours and I had to go to the bathroom the whole time, but I don't blame them because once I turned into a dog and they helped me. Thank you. He goes back to the defense table and sits down. Stantz and Spengler hang their heads. Venkman pats Louis on the back. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Louis) Way to go. Concise and to the point. <b>JUDGE </b> He stares at Louis, astonished at his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> That's it? That's all you have to say? <b> LOUIS </b> Did I forget something? He searches through a disorderly pile of notes. <b> JUDGE </b> That was unquestionably the worst presentation of a case I've ever heard in a court of law! I ought to cite you for contempt and have you disbarred. As for your clients, Peter Venkman, Raymond Stantz and Egon Spengler, on the charges of conspiracy, fraud and the willful destruction of public property, I find you guilty on all counts. I order you to pay fines in the amount of $25,000 each and I sentence you to eighteen months in the city correctional facility at Ryker's Island. <b>STANTZ </b> He sees the activity in the jar <b> STANTZ </b> Uh-oh, she's twitchin'. <b>THE BENCH </b> The Judge continues <b> JUDGE </b> And on a more personal note, let me go on record as saying that there is no place in decent society for fakes, charlatans and tricksters like you who prey on the gullibility of innocent people. You're beneath the contempt of this court. And believe me, if my hands were not tied by the unalterable fetters of the law, a law which has become in my view far too permissive and inadequate in it's standards of punishment, I would invoke the tradition of our illustrious forebearers, reach back to a sterner, purer justice and have you burned at the stake! He hammers the bench with his gravel as the gallery erupts noisily. Then he feels a LOW RUMBLING TREMOR in the courtroom. <b>SPECIMEN JAR </b> The slime starts to pulse and swell, pushing up the lid on the jar. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz anticipates big trouble. <b> STANTZ </b> Under the table, boys! The Ghostbusters duck under the defense table. <b>LOUIS </b> He stands up and looks around fearfully. <b>INT. COURTROOM - GHOST BATTLE - DAY </b> Everybody is silent now as the rumbling increases. All eyes turn to the exhibit table. Then suddenly all Hell breaks loose as TWO FULL-TORSO APPARITIONS explode out of the specimen jar. <b>JUDGE </b> He looks up in terror at the two huge apparitions looming above him and recognizes them immediately. <b> JUDGE </b> (in horror) Oh, my God! The Scoleri Brothers! <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> Big in life, even bigger in death, the ghostly Scoleri brothers seem ten feet tall. They are strapped into electric chairs and on their heads are metal electrocution caps with live, sparking electrical wires still attached. Twenty-five hundred volts of electricity shoot through their bodies as they start to break free of the leather restraints, trying to get at the Judge. <b>JUDGE </b> Holding his gavel like a pitiful weapon, he crawls over to the defense table where Venkman, Stantz and Spengler are now crouched, assessing the spectral intruders. <b> JUDGE </b> (terrified) You've got to do something! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who are they? <b> JUDGE </b> They're the Scoleri Brothers. I tried them for murder. They were electrocuted up at Ossining in '48. Now they want to kill me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Maybe they just want to appeal. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They break loose from the electric chairs, then turn toward the defense table and BLAST it with HIGH-VOLTAGE FINGER-LIGHTNING. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She sprints for the door, pursued by one of the Scoleri brothers. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They jump to safety behind the rail of the jury box, pulling the Judge with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These boys aren't playing around. <b> JUDGE </b> (desperately) You've got to stop them. Please! <b> LOUIS </b> (thinking like a lawyer) Violating a judicial restraining order could expose my clients to serious criminal penalties. As their attorney I'd have to advise them against it. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They start punching through the jury box. <b>JUDGE </b> He is just about hysterical with fear. <b> JUDGE </b> All right! All right! I'm recinding the order. Case dismissed!! (he pounds his gavel on the floor) Now do something! <b> STANTZ </b> Let's go to work, boys. With that, the Ghostbusters leap over the rail of the jury box and dash across the courtroom to the exhibit table where their proton packs were being displayed as evidence. They strap them on hastily as the Brothers continue tearing up the seats looing for the Judge. <b> VENKMAN </b> (slinging the pack onto his back) Geez, I forgot how heavy these things are. <b> STANTZ </b> (grabbing other gear) Okay, let's heat 'em up! They flip the power switches on their packs and draw their particle throwers. <b> STANTZ </b> All right, throwers. Set for full neutronas on stream. They switch on their throwers and turn to face the raging phantasms. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They are just about to wipe out the Judge when a loud shout distracts them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size? The towering ghosts turn in a fury and raise their arms, ready to shoot lightning at their new adversaries. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the others) On my signal, boys. Open 'em up -- Now! They all pull their triggers and the wands EXPLODE with incredible powerful STREAMS OF ENERGY, doing even more damage to the courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Spengs, take the door. Ray, let's try and work them down and into the corner. Working as a team, they gradually confine the Scoleri Brothers with the streams, forcing them closer and closer to the traps Ray has set out on the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch it! I'm coming under you, Pete. They circle around the two ghosts, prodding them with the streams while ducking the lightning bolts shooting from their fingers. Finally, Ray sees his chance and pops open the traps which emit inverted pyramids of light energy. <b> STANTZ </b> Steady -- watch your streams -- easy now -- Venky, bring him left -- Spengy, pull him down -- trapping -- trapping -- now! He stomps on a control pedal and the Scoleri Brothers are drawn into the traps which snap shut. <b>INT. COURTROOM - TRAPS - DAY </b> LEDs on the outer casing start flashing, indicating the presence of a ghost inside each trap. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking the trap) Occupado. <b>INT. COURTROOM - JUDGE - DAY (AFTER GHOST BATTLE) </b> He sticks his head up slowly from behind the debris of his bench and looks around in total amazement. <b>LOUIS </b> He crawls out from under a chair. Reporters and spectators get back on their feet and start buzzing about the incredible manifestation. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She's lying on the floor, attended to by the Bailiff and the Court Clerk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Prosecutor) Brilliant summation. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They break into big smiles as photographers start snapping pictures of them standing in the wrecked courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Case closed, boys. We're back in business. The spectators cheer and applaud. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> The old, dilapidated Ghostbusters logo comes crashing to the ground, dropped by a pair of workmen on a ladder, and the new logo is hoisted into place over the main entrance. It's just like the original "No Ghosts" logo, but in the new one the ghost in the red circle is holding up two fingers. Venkman enters the firehouse. <b>INT. BEDROOM SET (TV COMMERCIAL - FULL SCREEN VIDEO) - NIGHT </b> A man and his wife are lying in bed reading. The man is played by Louis Tully and JANINE MELNITZ, the Ghostbusters' once and future receptionist, is playing his wife. They are both terrible actors. Suddenly, a ghost, actually a very bad puppet on a wire, floats through the bedroom. Janine sees it and screams. <b> LOUIS </b> What is it, honey? <b> JANINE </b> It's that darn ghost again! I don't know what to do anymore. He just won't leave us alone. I guess we'll just have to move. <b> LOUIS </b> Don't worry. We're not moving. He is. He picks up the phone. <b> JANINE </b> Who are you going to call? <b> LOUIS </b> (with a wink) Ghostbusters. As he starts to dial, the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the Ghostbusters standing in the bedroom. Their acting isn't much better than Louis and Janine's. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> Stantz speaks directly TO the CAMERA. <b> STANTZ </b> I'm Ray -- <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm Peter -- <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm Egon -- <b> STANTZ </b> And we're the ... <b> ALL </b> (together) Ghostbusters. <b> STANTZ </b> That's right -- Ghostbusters. We're back and we're better than ever with twice the know-how and twice the particle-power to deal with all your supernatural elimination needs. During his speech, Winston can be seen in the b.g. pretending to trap the fake ghost. <b> STANTZ </b> Careful, Winston. He's a mean one. <b> (TO CAMERA) </b> And to celebrate our grand reopening, we're giving you twice the value with our special half-price 'Welcome Back' service plan. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hold on, Ray! Half-price! Have you gone crazy? <b> STANTZ </b> I guess so, Pete, because that's not all. Tell them what else we've got, Egon. Spengler actually mouths everyone else's dialogue along with them, waiting for his cue. <b> SPENGLER </b> You mean the Ghostbusters hot beverage thermal mugs and free balloons for the kids? He holds up a mug and a limp, uninflated balloon. <b> STANTZ </b> You bet. As Stantz wraps it up, SUPERS APPEAR at the bottom of the SCREEN: FULLY <b>BONDED - FULLY LICENSED - SE HABLA ESPANOL. </b> <b> STANTZ </b><b> (TO CAMERA) </b> So don't wait another minute. Make your supernatural problem our supernatural problem. Call now, because we're still -- <b> ALL </b> (in unison, mechanically) -- Ready to believe you. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. JACK HARDEMEYER'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Hardemeyer is watching the Ghostbusters commercial on a TV in his office. He bangs his fist on his desk and angrily switches OFF the TV. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY (LATER) </b> The garage door opens and the new improved ECTOMOBILE comes ROARING out onto the street, its ghostly SIREN MOANING and WAILING. Louis comes running out after it. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis comes back into the garage bay and stops as he smells a foul odor. He sniffs around, following the smell. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, geez, smells like somebody took a really big -- He freezes. <b>INT. OFFICE AREA - LOUIS'S POV </b> Slimer, a spud-like green ghost, is hovering over Louis's desk, scarfing down Louis's bag lunch. Slimer looks up and sees Louis. <b>SLIMER AND LOUIS </b> They both scream and run off in opposite directions. <b>SLIMER </b> He passes right through a wall and disappears. <b>LOUIS </b> He runs right into a wall, recovers and exits in a hurry. <b> LOUIS </b> (screaming) Help! There's a thing! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK RESERVOIR - DAY (LATER) </b> Runners of both sexes and all ages are huffing and puffing as they jog along the track that circles the reservoir. One of the runners looks behind him at the sound of APPROACHING FOOTFALLS and screams. <b>GHOSTLY JOGGER </b> A ghost jogger is loping along at a pretty fair pace. Other runners stumble and run screaming into the park as he passes them. Seemingly oblivious to the effect he's having, the ghost jogger puts two fingers to his skeletal neck and checks his watch as if taking his pulse. <b>EXT. CLEARING IN PARK - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman is sitting on a park bench near the jogging track reading the newspaper, eating a donut and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. <b>STANTZ </b> He's sitting on a bench opposite Venkman's, casually watching the jogging track. <b>GHOST JOGGER </b> He approaches the benches where the Ghostbusters are waiting. As the ghost jogger passes the benches, Stantz and Venkman simultaneously hit concealed control buttons. A ghost trap buried in the track throws up a glowing inverted pyramid and catches the ghost jogger in mid-stride. Stantz and Venkman close the trap and capture the ghost jogger. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking his watch) You know he ran that last lap in under six minutes? <b> STANTZ </b> If he wasn't dead he'd be an Olympic prospect. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. JEWELRY STORE - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters come out carrying smoking traps, wearing cheap dime-store Santa Claus hats. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the client) Merry Christmas! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - ORREFORS GLASS STORE - DAY </b> The Ectomobile is parked at the curb and a curious crowd looks on as the Ghostbusters enter the store. <b>INT. ORREFORS GLASS STORE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> All the precious crystal is floating in the air, several feet above the glass shelves and display tables. Stantz and Venkman are talking to the manager while Winston and Spengler set up an array of electronic devices positioned in each corner of the store. On a signal from Stantz, Spengler and Winston switch on the devices which throw laser-type beams around the perimeter of the store. The manager watches in horror as all the GLASSWARE suddenly drops out of the air, SMASHES through the GLASS SHELVES and SHATTERS on the display tables. There is a long pregnant pause. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the manager) So will that be cash or a check? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) </b> Everyone else has gone home. Dana is cleaning her brushes and putting her supplies away. <b>VIGO PAINTING - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Vigo turns his head and watches Dana as she walks past the painting. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis is lurking behind a pillar, peeking out at the office area. We PAN DOWN TO the floor and see a foot pedal, then PAN ALONG the cord TO a ghost trap sitting on Louis's desk. Hanging from strings over the desk are several pieces of Kentucky fried chicken. <b>WALL </b> Slimer partially emerges and furtively sniffs the air, then spots the chicken bait. He licks his lips, materializes completely and flies to the chicken. <b>LOUIS </b> His eyes light up and he stomps the foot pedal. <b> LOUIS </b> (shouts) Gotcha! <b>DESK </b> The trap pops open and shoots out a powerful cone of energy. Slimer dodges it and escapes as a big section of the ceiling comes crashing down on Louis's desk. <b> LOUIS </b> (seeing the damage) Uh-oh. He slinks off, defeated. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - SECURITY DESK - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters commercial is playing on a portable TV on the security desk. Rudy, the Security Guard, is reading a National Enquirer with a giant front-page headline: GHOSTBUSTERS SAVE JUDGE. Venkman enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm looking for Dana Barrett. <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> Room 304 -- Restorations. (recognizing him) Hey! Dr. Venkman -- 'World of the Psychic.' I'm a big, big fan. That used to be one of my two favorite shows. <b> VENKMAN </b> (flattered) Thanks. What's the other one? <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> 'Bass Masters.' It's a fishing show. Ever see it? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, really great. Take it easy. He exits. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Dana is working on a valuable Flemish still-life by Ver Meer. Janosz is at the other end of the room, still working on the painting of Vigo. Venkman enters and sneaks up behind Dana. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the Ver Meer) So this is what you do, huh? <b> DANA </b> (glad to see him) Oh, hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> You're really good, you know. <b> DANA </b> I didn't paint it. I'm just cleaning it. It's an original Ver Meer. It's worth about ten million dollars. <b>VIGO </b> He turns his head and watches Venkman and Dana. <b>VENKMAN </b> Unaware that he's being watched, Venkman squints at the still life, holding up his thumb like he's seen artists do. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know you can go to Art World and get these huge sofa-size paintings for about forty-five bucks. He starts looking around at the other artwork in the studio. <b> DANA </b> I'm sure you didn't come here just to talk about art. <b> VENKMAN </b> As a matter of fact, I stopped by to tell you that I haven't forgotten your problem and that we're still on the case. They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> (smiling at Venkman) Dana, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend? <b> DANA </b> Oh, I'm sorry. This is Peter Venkman. Peter, Janosz Poha. Venkman warily shakes his hand, trying to size him up. <b> JANOSZ </b> (avoiding his gaze) Pleasure to meet you. I've seen you on television. <b> VENKMAN </b> How are you? (looking over at the Vigo painting) What's that you're working on, Johnny? Janosz winces at the nickname but lets it go. Venkman and Dana cross to the Vigo painting. Janosz steps protectively in front of it. <b> JANOSZ </b> It's a painting I'm restoring for the new Byzantine exhibition. It's a self-portrait of Prince Vigo, the Carpathian. He ruled most of Carpathia and Moldavia in the 17th Century. <b> VENKMAN </b> (staring at the painting) Too bad for the Moldavians. <b> JANOSZ </b> (defensive) He was a very powerful magician. A genius in many ways and quite a skilled painter. <b> DANA </b> He was also a lunatic and a genocidal madman. I hate this painting. I've felt very uncomfortable since they brought it up from storage. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, it's not the kind of thing you'd want to hang in the rec room. You know what it needs? (picking up a brush) A fluffy little white kitten in the corner. Venkman reaches toward the painting, but Janosz grabs his hand. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with forced good will) We don't go around altering valuable paintings, Dr. Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, I'd make an exception in this case if I were you. Dana looks disapprovingly at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) I'll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you. <b> JANOSZ </b> My pleasure. Venkman and Dana cross back to her workspace. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) I may be wrong, but I think you've got a little crush on this guy. <b> DANA </b> Good-bye, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (dragging his feet) I'd like to stay, but I really don't have time to hang around here. I'll call you. (calls out to Janosz) Later, Johnny! He exits. <b>VIGO </b> Vigo turns his head and follows Dana as she returns to her workbench. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LIVING QUARTERS - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> Venkman and Winston enter and find Stantz and Spengler at work in the lab area. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh good, you're here. Spengler and I have something really amazing to show you. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) It's not that thing you do with your nostrils, is it? Stantz goes to the refrigerator, opens the freezer, rummages around among the TV dinners and frozen pizza and pulls out a slime specimen in a Tupperware container. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Venkman) We've been studying the stuff that we took from the subway tunnel. He pops the specimen jar in the microwave and lets it thaw for a minute. <b> VENKMAN </b> And now you're going to eat it? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm just restoring it to its normal state. He takes the specimen out of the microwave and pours some of it into a large Petri dish. <b> STANTZ </b> Now watch this. He leans over the specimen and starts shouting at it. <b> STANTZ </b> (simulating anger) You worthless piece of slime!! (as the slime starts to twitch and glow) You ignorant disgusting blob!! <b>SPECIMEN </b> It bubbles and swells, changing color with each insult. <b> STANTZ </b> You foul, obnoxious muck!! <b>STANTZ </b> He continues venting his rage on the slime. <b> STANTZ </b> I've seen some real crud in my time, but you're a chemical disgrace!! The specimen doubles its size and starts spilling over the rim of the Petri dish. <b>STANTZ AND SPENGLER </b> They turn to Venkman for his reaction. He's dumbfounded. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is what you do with your spare time? <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) This is an incredible breakthrough, Venkman. A psychoreactive substance! Whatever this is, it clearly responds to human emotional states. <b> VENKMAN </b> 'Mood slime.' We ought to bottle this stuff and sell it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We've found it at every event site we've been to lately. <b> WINSTON </b> (poking at the slime) You mean this stuff actually feeds on 'bad vibes'? <b> STANTZ </b> Like a goat on garbage. <b> STANTZ </b> We're running tests to see if we can get an equally strong positive reaction. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of tests? <b> STANTZ </b> (a little embarrassed) Well, we sing to it, we talk to it, we say supportive, nurturing things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> You're not sleeping with this stuff, are you? Spengler reacts as if he might be. <b> STANTZ </b> It really responds to music. (to Spengler) Let's calm it down. Spengler picks up a guitar and he and Stantz start singing "Cumbaya" to the slime specimen. <b>SPECIMEN </b> It stops bubbling and starts to shrink. <b> WINSTON </b> Does it have any favorites? <b> STANTZ </b> It likes all the sappy stuff: 'Cumbaya,' 'Everything is Beautiful,' 'It's a Small World' -- but it loves Jackie Wilson. Venkman and Winston watch intently as Spengler spoons some of the psych-reactive slime onto an old toaster. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch this. Stantz turns on a CASSETTE PLAYER and Jackie Wilson's "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BLASTS from the speakers. <b>TOASTER </b> It shakes, spins and actually starts moving in time with the MUSIC. <b>VENKMAN </b> He stares in disbelief at the dancing toaster as it shoots two pieces of toast into the air and catches them without missing a beat. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't care what you say. This could be a major Christmas gift item. <b> WINSTON </b> Right, and the first time someone gets mad, their toaster will eat their hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> So we'll put a warning on the label. Stantz turns OFF the MUSIC and the toaster stops moving. Venkman looks at the toaster and sticks his fingers in the slot. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the toaster) Go ahead. I dare you. Suddenly, he yelps as if the toaster has actually bitten into his hand and won't let go. The others jump in to help him, but Venkman laughs and easily withdraws his hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> Just kidding. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Dana brings Oscar into the bathroom and lays him on the bassinet. She's wearing a robe over her nightgown, preparing to bathe the baby. She turns the taps on the old claw-footed bathtub, checks the water temperature, then turns away and starts to undress the baby. <b> DANA </b> (talking sweetly to the baby) Look at you. I think we got more food on your shirt than we got in your mouth. <b>BATHTUB </b> The water pouring from the faucet changes to slime and settles at the bottom of the tub. Dana reaches over and turns off the water without looking into the tub. When she turns away, both taps start to spin by themselves and the tub flexes and bulges. <b>DANA </b> Still unaware, she routinely reaches over and squirts some bubble bath into the tub. <b>BATHTUB </b> The rim of the tub puckers up and the sides convulse as if swallowing the bubble bath. <b>DANA </b>She picks the baby up off the bassinet and turns to place him in the tub. She is just about to lower him into the water when the tub starts to close up around the baby like a hugh mouth. Dana screams, snatches the baby away and runs from the room clutching Oscar to her bosom as the bathtub convulses and vomits up buckets of slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - SAME NIGHT (LATER) </b> The big open loft space is a chaotic clutter of mismatched furniture, old magazines, books, tapes, and sports equipment. Venkman is asleep on the floor, still wearing his coat, scarf, hat and gloves, having collapsed just short of the bedroom. The DOORBELL RINGS, he wakes up, lumbers to his feet and answers it. He opens the door and sees Dana standing there. She is wearing only a nightgown under her coat and Oscar is naked, wrapped in a baby blanket. <b> DANA </b> (somewhat embarrassed to be there) I'm sorry. Were you on your way out? <b> VENKMAN </b> (surprised to see her) No, I just got in -- a couple hours ago. Come on in. (noting her apparel) Are we having a pajama party? <b> DANA </b> (upset) Peter, the bathtub tried to eat Oscar. Venkman looks at her for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know, if anyone else told me that, I'd have serious doubts. But coming from you, I can't honestly say I'm surprised. <b> DANA </b> I must be losing my mind. At the museum today I could have sworn that terrible painting of Vigo looked right at me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who could blame him? Were you wearing this nightgown? <b> DANA </b> (distraught) I don't know what to do anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll get Ray and Egon to check out the bathtub. You better stay here. He exits to the bathroom. She looks around the loft, amazed at the disorder. Venkman comes back immediately with an old sweatshirt and takes Oscar from her. <b> VENKMAN </b> Now this kid has a serious nudity problem. He spreads the sweatshirt out on the sofa, lays the baby on it and starts tying it around him like a diaper. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the baby) This is Joe Namath's old number, you know. You could get a lot of chicks with this. Just don't pee in it. <b> DANA </b> Peter, what about the bathtub? <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the phone and dials) We'll take care of that. (on the phone) Ray, Pete. Listen, get over to Dana's right away ... Her bathtub pulled a fast one -- tried to eat the kid. <b> DANA </b> It was full of this awful pink ooze. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray) Sounds like another slime job ... No, they're all right. They're here now ... Right ... Let me know. He hangs up. <b> VENKMAN </b> They're going over there right now. You might as well make yourself at home. Let me show you around. (he crosses to the kitchen area) This is the cuisine de maison -- It's an incredible mess. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes and the counters are littered with all sorts of food trash. He grabs a big open Hefty bag on the floor and starts throwing garbage into it. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the sink) We may have to wash some of these if you get hungry -- (he looks in the fridge) -- but there's no food anyway so forget about it. I have all kinds of carry-out menus if you feel like ordering. He opens a drawer full of pizza, barbecue and Chinese food menus, then crosses to the bathroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Bathroom's right here -- let me just tidy up a few things. <b> DANA </b> Peter, this is very nice, but you don't have to do any of this, you know. He goes into the bathroom and we hear WATER RUNNING, the TOILET FLUSHING and more items going into the Hefty bag. <b> VENKMAN (O.S.) </b> The shower works but it's a little tricky. They're both marked "Hot." It takes a little practice, but at least this one won't try and eat you. He comes out of the bathroom with the now-loaded Hefty bag over his shoulder. <b> VENKMAN </b> Be careful on that sofa -- it's a butt-biter. But the bed's good and I just changed the sheets so if you get tired, feel free. In fact, I think you should definitely plan on spending the night here. <b> DANA </b> Really? And how would we handle the sleeping arrangements? <b> VENKMAN </b> For me it's best if I sleep on my side and you spoon up right behind me with your arms around me. If we go the other way I'm afraid your hair will be getting in my face all night. <b> DANA </b> How about you on the sofa and me in bed with the baby. <b> VENKMAN </b> Or we could do that. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. (she picks up Oscar) Poor baby. I think I should put him down now. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll put him down for you. (taking the baby) You are way too short! And your belly-button sticks out! You're nothing but a burden to your poor mother! Venkman carries the baby into the bedroom leaving Dana in the living room, feeling more relaxed and a lot safer. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> Venkman is waiting in front of the building as ECTO-2 pulls up and Stantz, Spengler and Winston get out and report on Dana's apartment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you find anything at Dana's? <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Just some mood-slime residue in and around the bathtub. But we did turn up some interesting stuff on this Vigo character you mentioned. I found the name Vigo the Carpathian in Leon Zundinger's Magicians, Martyrs and Madmen. Listen to this: <b> SPENGLER </b> (reads from xerox of entry) "Vigo the Carpathian, born 1505, died 1610 --" <b> VENKMAN </b> A hundred and five years? He really hung on, didn't he. <b> STANTZ </b> And he didn't die of old age either. He was poisoned, stabbed, shot, hung, stretched, disemboweled, drawn and quartered. <b> WINSTON </b> I guess he wasn't too popular at the end there. <b> SPENGLER </b> No, not exactly a man of the people. (reads) "Also known as Vigo the Cruel, Vigo the Torturer, Vigo the Despised, and Vigo the Unholy." <b> STANTZ </b> This guy was a bad monkey. He dabbled in all the Black Arts, and listen to this prophecy. Just before his head died, his last words were, "Death is but a door, time is but a window. I'll be back." <b> VENKMAN </b> That's it? "I'll be back?" <b> SPENGLER </b> It's a rough translation from the Moldavian. They enter the museum carrying their monitoring equipment. <b>INT. MUSEUM - SECURITY DESK - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Rudy the guard looks up in surprise as the Ghostbusters enter. <b> RUDY </b> Hey, Dr. Venkman. What's going on? <b> VENKMAN </b> We're just going up to Restorations for a minute. <b> RUDY </b> Oh, I can't let you do that. Mr. Poha told me not to let you up there anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> (with mock seriousness) Okay, we were trying to keep this quiet but I think you can be trusted. Tell him, Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> (very official) Mister, you have an Ecto-paritic, subfusionary flux in this building. <b> RUDY </b> We got a flux? <b> WINSTON </b> You got a flux and a half. <b> STANTZ </b> Now if you don't want to be the -- (he counts) -- fifth person ever to die in meta-shock from a planar rift, I suggest you get down behind that desk and don't move until we give you the signal "Stabilize -- All Clear." Rudy gulps and starts to hunker down behind the desk as the Ghostbusters head upstairs. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Janosz is working on the Vigo painting when the Ghostbusters enter. He rushes over and stops them at the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> Dr. Venkman? Dana is not here. <b> VENKMAN </b> I know. <b> JANOSZ </b> Then why have you come? <b> VENKMAN </b> We got a major creep alert and we're just going down the list. Your name was first. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Spengler and Winston) Let's sweep it, boys. They deploy and start scanning the studio with their monitoring devices. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) You know, I never got to ask you. Where you from, Johnny? <b> JANOSZ </b> (nervous) The Upper West Side. <b> SPENGLER </b> (consulting his PKE meter) This entire room is extremely hot, Peter. <b> JANOSZ </b> What exactly are you looking for, Dr. Venkman? <b> VENKMAN </b> We'll know when we find it. You just sit tight. This won't take long. <b>STANTZ </b> Using the Giga-meter, he traces a strong psychomagnetheric reading to the painting of Vigo in the alcove at the end of the studio. Venkman comes up behind him with Janosz right on his heels. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is the one that looked at Dana. <b> JANOSZ </b> It must be the chemical fumes in the studio. People start imagining things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (interrupts) I'm going to rule out the glue-sniffing theory. If she says it looked at her, it looked at her. (to Vigo) Hey, you! Vigie! Look at me. I'm talking to you. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you. They watch the painting for any sign of movement. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes stare lifelessly into the distance. <b>STANTZ AND VENKMAN </b> Venkman starts shooting Polaroids of Vigo. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Vigo) Beautiful, beautiful. Work with me, baby. Just have fun with it. (to Stantz) Okay, he's playing it cool. Let's finish up and get out of here. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll get one more reading. Venkman walks off leaving Stantz alone with the painting. Stantz scans the painting with the Giga-meter until his eyes meet Vigo's. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes seems to burn right through to the depths of Stantz's soul. <b>STANTZ </b> He stands there transfixed, unable to look away, as a strange and subtle transformation occurs within him. Winston comes up behind him and breaks the spell. <b> WINSTON </b> (looking at the painting) Now that's one ugly dude. <b> STANTZ </b> (coming back to his senses) Huh? What? <b> WINSTON </b> You finished here? <b> STANTZ </b> (distracted) What? Yeah. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? You coming down with something? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm fine. I just got light-headed for a second there. Let's go. They head for the door. <b>JANOSZ </b> He escorts the Ghostbusters to the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> So you see, everything is in order, is it not? <b> VENKMAN </b> Not. Don't leave town and report any change in your address to the proper authorities. We'll be back. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters cross to ECTO-2. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's definitely something going on in that studio. The PKE levels were max-plus and the Giga-meter was showing all red. <b> WINSTON </b> I'd put my money on that Vigo character. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, that's a safe bet. (to Stantz) You and Spengman see what else you can dig up on Vigo and this little weasel Poha. Those two were made for each other. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are driving back to the firehouse. Stantz is at the wheel. His eyes are vacant, he seems distracted and very tense. Stantz swerves suddenly and HONKS the horn angrily. <b> STANTZ </b> (to another driver) Idiot! (honking) Move it, you jerk! Venkman and Winston exchange surprised looks. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz drives extremely fast, HONKING vindictively, weaving dangerously through traffic. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks at Ray, concerned. <b> WINSTON </b> Going a little fast, aren't we, Ray? Stantz turns on him. <b> STANTZ </b> (viciously) Are you telling me how to drive? <b> WINSTON </b> No, I just thought -- <b> STANTZ </b> Well don't think! He HONKS again and tromps hard on the accelerator. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS) </b> Ecto-2 is now barreling down the avenue. Pedestrians leap to safety as Stantz runs a red light. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They hang on to the safety straps as Stantz continues his maniacal ride. <b> WINSTON </b> (to Stantz, really worried now) Are you crazy, man? You're going to kill somebody! Stantz looks at him and smile demonically. <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm going to kill everybody! He swerves off the road. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car heads right for a big tree. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> At the last possible moment, Winston cold-cocks Stantz, grabs the wheel and steps across to stomp on the brakes. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car skids into the tree and stops. The Ghostbusters stumble out dazed and shaken, but unhurt. Stantz rubs his eyes and looks at the others, completely at a loss. <b> STANTZ </b> (himself again) What happened? <b> VENKMAN </b> You just picked up three penalty points on your driver's license. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, I guess so. It was the strangest thing. I knew what I was doing but I couldn't stop. This really terrible feeling came over me and -- I don't know -- I just felt like driving into that tree and ending it all. Whew! Sorry, boys. They inspect the damage to the car. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially, to Spengler) Watch him, Egon. Don't even let him shave. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - DAY (LATER) </b> There's a KNOCK at the front door, a key turns in the lock, and Venkman enters somewhat tentatively holding a bouquet of flowers and a small suitcase of Dana's. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calls out) I'm home! He looks around the large open loft. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to himself) I knew it. She cleaned. He hears the SHOWER RUNNING and crosses to the bathroom. The door is half-open and he can see Dana in the shower (tastefully blurred) through the transparent vinyl curtain. He closes the bathroom door and looks at the baby asleep on the bed, surrounded by pillows to prevent him rolling off. Then he turns and bumps into Dana who's just coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She jumps back into the bathroom. She comes out again, this time wearing a robe. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you all squeaky clean now? <b> DANA </b> (humoring him) Yes, I'm very clean. Did they find anything at my apartment? She squeezes past him into the bedroom and closes the door. <b> VENKMAN </b> (through the door) Nothing. They stayed there all night, went through your personal stuff, made a bunch of long-distance phone calls and cleaned out your refrigerator. And didn't find anything. Dana opens the bedroom door. <b> DANA </b> They didn't find anything? In the bathtub ... the pink ooze ... nothing? So, what do I do now? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you get dressed and we go out. I got a babysitter and everything. Trust me, you need it. <b> DANA </b> I'm not here to date. I can't leave Oscar in a strange place with someone I don't know. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's Janine Melnitz, from my staff. She's one of my most valuable employees. <b> DANA </b> Does she know anything about babies? <b> VENKMAN </b> Janine Melnitz, are you kidding? (handing her the flowers) Do I have a vase? I brought some of your clothes. Wear something intriguing. I brought along some interesting possibilities. <b> DANA </b> Okay, but it's not a date. It's a dinner. She smiles and closes the door again. He opens the closet and starts looking for his good suit. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you happen to see some shirts on the floor in here? <b> DANA (O.S.) </b> I put them in your hamper. I thought they were dirty. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shaking his head) I have a hamper? Next time ask me first, okay. I have more than two grades of laundry. There're lots of subtle levels between clean and dirty. He pulls some clothes out of the hamper and inspects them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These aren't so bad yet. You just hang them up for a while and they're fine. <b> CUT TO: </b><b>INT. FIREHOUSE - RECEPTION AREA - EARLY EVENING </b> Janine covers her computer terminal and starts turning out the lights. Then she notices that the lights are still on upstairs. She starts primping and freshening up her makeup. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LAB AREA - SAME TIME </b> Louis is strapping on a proton pack, preparing to deal with Slimer once and for all. He's wearing a bicyclist's rearview mirror on a headband. <b> LOUIS </b> (to himself) Okay, Stinky, this is it. Showdown time. You and me, pal. You think you're smarter than I am? We'll see about that. (loud) Oh, hello, Pizza Man! Oh, two larges! I only ordered one. Oh, pepperoni and pineapple. My absolute favorite. I guess I'll have to eat these both by myself. <b>THE CEILING </b> Slimer pokes his head through the ceiling and scans the room hanging upside down. <b>LOUIS </b> He spots Slimer through the rearview mirror. <b> LOUIS </b> (quietly) Okay, let's boogie! He whirls around and fires a proton stream at Slimer, slicing a burning a gash across the ceiling. <b>THE STAIRS </b> Janine comes up and ducks as a bolt of energy streaks across the room and strikes the wall behind her. Slimer disappears. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed and apologetic) Oh migod! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It was an accident. <b> JANINE </b> What are you doing up here? <b> LOUIS </b> I was trying to get that smelly green thing. The guys asked me to help out. I'm like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> JANINE </b> Why would you want to be a Ghostbuster if you're already an accountant? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, no, it's just if one of the guys calls in sick or gets hurt. Louis quickly slips off the proton pack and sets it down. <b> JANINE </b> Have you made any plans yet? You know tomorrow is New Year's Eve. <b> LOUIS </b> No, I celebrate at the beginning of my corporate tax year which is March first. That way I beat the crowds. <b> JANINE </b> That's very practical. I hate going out on New Year's Eve, too. There is an awkward silence between them and Janine starts to leave. <b> JANINE </b> Well, good night, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> (on an impulse) Janine, do you feel like maybe getting something to eat on the way home? <b> JANINE </b> I'd like to, but I told Dr. Venkman I'd babysit. (seductively) Do you want to babysit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, sure, that sounds great. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> There is a KNOCK at the door and Venkman goes to answer it. He's dressed for the evening and looking very dapper. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - ENTRANCE HALL - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman opens the door and finds Stantz, Spengler and Winston standing there wearing over-the-hip rubberized waders, firemen's slickers, and miners' helmets, carrying tons of sensing devices, meters, collection jars and photographic equipment. They look like they're rigged out for a major spelunking expedition. <b> VENKMAN </b> (ushering them in) Don't tell me, let me guess. All-you-can-eat barbecue rib night at the Sizzler? <b> STANTZ </b> We're going down into the sewer system to see if we can trace the source of the psycho-reactive slime flow. We thought you might want to come along. <b> VENKMAN </b> Darn it! I wish I'd known you were going. I'm stuck with these damn dinner reservations. <b> SPENGLER </b> You know, animals and lower life forms often anticipate major disasters. Given the new magnetheric readings we could see a tremendous breeding surge in the cockroach population. <b> VENKMAN </b> Roach breeding? Sounds better and better. (calls out) Dana? The boys are going down under the sewers tonight to look for slime. Egon thinks there might even be some kind of big roach-breeding surge. Should we forget about dinner and go with them instead? Dana steps into the living room looking very beautiful. <b> STANTZ </b> Wow. Dana looks curiously at their outfits. <b> DANA </b> Hi. They nod and wave back. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray and Egon) I think we're going to have to pass on the sewer trip, boys. Let me know what you find out. <b> STANTZ </b> (on his exit) Okay, but you're missing all the fun. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Stantz, Spengler and Winston come down the stairs into the station, guided by a very old map of the underground city. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. Van Horne Station. Right where the old transit map said it would be. They cross to the edge of the platform and look into the river of slime. <b> STANTZ </b> Let's get a sounding on the depth of that flow. Stantz has a long, coiled, graduated cord with a plumb bob on the end of it attached to his utility belt. <b> STANTZ </b> Stand back. He takes the cord in his hand, swings the plumb bob over his head and casts it out into the middle of the flow. The plumb bob sinks and Spengler reads the depth. <b> SPENGLER </b> Six feet -- seven -- eight -- <b> STANTZ </b> That's it. It's on the bottom. <b> SPENGLER </b> Nine feet -- ten -- <b> WINSTON </b> Is the line sinking? <b> SPENGLER </b> No, the slime is rising. Stantz looks down and notices the slime rising over the edge of the platform and around his boots. <b> STANTZ </b> (alarmed) Let's get out of here, boys. He starts to pull out the plumb line but it seems to be stuck. Spengler tries to help, but whatever is pulling on the cord is stronger than all three of them. As their unseen adversary pulls them closer and closer to the edge, Stantz works desperately to unhook the cord from his belt but finally just unhooks the whole belt. Spengler lets go in time but Winston doesn't. He is jerked off his feet and into the slime flow. Stantz and Spengler look at each other, summon their courage and jump in after him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Dana and Venkman are sitting at a table in an elegant restaurant nibbling caviar and toasting with very expensive champagne. <b> VENKMAN </b> (very intimate) Here's to -- us. She sighs and drinks. <b> VENKMAN </b> So -- are you making any New Year's resolutions? <b> DANA </b> I want to stop getting involved with men who aren't good for me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Does that start exactly at midnight tomorrow, or could you hold off for a few days maybe? <b> DANA </b> For one night in your life, do you think it's possible for us to be completely real? <b> VENKMAN </b> All right, you want to be real? So tell me why did you dump me? <b> DANA </b> Oh, Peter, I didn't dump you. I just had to protect myself. You really weren't very good for me, you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm not even good for me. <b> DANA </b> Why do you say things like that? You're so much better than you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thank you. If I had that kind of support on a daily basis, I could definitely shape up by the turn of the century. <b> DANA </b> (already feeling the effects of the champagne) So why don't you give me a jingle in the year 2000? <b> VENKMAN </b> Let me jingle you right now. He leans over to kiss her. <b> DANA </b> Maybe I should call Janine. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry. Janine has a very special way with children. They kiss. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine is on the sofa doing her nails while Louis paces with the baby. <b> JANINE </b> (looking around) I can't believe a person could actually live like this. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the baby) So these dwarfs had a limited partnership in a small mining operation and then one day a beautiful princess came to live with them. <b> JANINE </b> It's really not a bad place. It just needs a woman's touch. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) So they bartered room and board in exchange for housekeeping services, which was a good deal for all of them because then they didn't have to withhold tax and social security, which I'm not saying is right but it's just a story, so I guess it's all right. I can finish this later if you're tired. Louis goes into the bedroom and puts the baby down. <b> JANINE </b> You're really good with children, Louis. I can tell. (as he returns) Why don't you come here and sit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Okay. He sits stiffly beside her on the sofa. <b> JANINE </b> (getting close) Motherhood is a very natural instinct for me. I'd like to have a baby myself. Wouldn't you? <b> LOUIS </b> (gulps) Tonight? <b>EXT. STREET - MANHOLE COVER - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A manhole cover is dislodged and pushed up from below. It slides away, and Winston crawls out of the manhole followed by Stantz and Spengler. They are exhausted and covered with slime. <b> WINSTON </b> (uncharacteristically angry) Nice going, Ray! What were you trying to do -- drown me? <b> STANTZ </b> (unusually mean) Look, Zeddemore, it wasn't my fault you were too stupid to drop that line. <b> WINSTON </b> (shoves him) You better watch your mouth, man, or I'll punch your lights out. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh yeah? Anytime, anytime. Just go ahead and try it. Spengler steps between them with unprecedented aggression. <b> SPENGLER </b> If you two are looking for a fight, you got one. (putting up his fists) Who wants it first? Come on, Ray. Try me, sucker. <b> STANTZ </b> (squaring off) Butt out, you pencil-necked geek. I've had it with you. They grab each other and start to tussle. Suddenly Spengler comes to his senses and pulls them apart. <b> SPENGLER </b> (forcefully) Strip! Right now! Get out of those clothes! He starts yanking off his slicker and waders. Bewildered, Stantz and Winston start doing the same. Spengler helps pull off their clothes and throws them into the open manhole. Now wearing only long underwear, they seem to return to normal. <b> WINSTON </b> What are we doing? Ray, I was ready to kill you. <b> STANTZ </b> Don't you see? It's the slime. That stuff is like pure, concentrated evil. Stantz looks around and sees that they are standing right in front of the museum. <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing right to this spot. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT ENTRANCE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The MAITRE D' looks up in surprise as Stantz, Spengler and Winston enter the restaurant wearing only long underwear. <b> MAITRE D' </b> (intercepting them) Can I help you? Stantz looks around and spots Venkman. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right, I see him. They blow right by the Maitre d' who jumps back in horror as they pass. <b>VENKMAN </b> He's just about to pour more champagne when he sees Ray, Egon and Winston coming toward him through the restaurant. <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) You should've been there, Venkman. Absolutely incredible! <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, sorry I missed it. (noting their attire) I guess you guys didn't know about the dress code here. It's really kind of a coat and tie place. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all over the city, Pete -- well, under it actually. <b> WINSTON </b> Rivers of the stuff! <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing toward the museum. He gestures excitedly and a big gob of slime flies across the room and lands on a well-dressed diner. <b> STANTZ </b> (calls out) Sorry! <b> DANA </b> Maybe we should discuss this somewhere else. Venkman notes the look of alarm on Dana's face and pulls his colleagues aside. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) Boys, listen. You're scaring the straights. Let's save this until tomorrow, okay? <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Venkman) This won't wait until tomorrow, Venkman. It's hot and it's ready to pop. <b>MAITRE D' </b> He hurries through the restaurant with two city COPS right behind him and makes straight for Venkman's table. <b> MAITRE D' </b> Arrest these men. <b> COP </b> (recognizing them) Hey! It's the Ghostbusters. You're out of uniform, gentlemen Stantz suddenly realizes how ridiculous they look. <b> STANTZ </b> (self-conscious) Uh -- well -- we had a little accident, but forget that. We have to see the mayor as soon as possible. <b> COP </b> Look, Doc, why don't you just go home. You'll get a good night's sleep and then you can give the mayor a call in the morning. Come on. He takes Stantz by the arm but Stantz resists. <b> STANTZ </b> We're not going anywhere with you. I told you we have to see the mayor now. <b> COP </b> (grabbing Stantz) I'm warning you. You can come along peaceably or -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the Cop) Hey, don't be an idiot. This is serious. <b> COP </b> (angry) Look, pal, keep this up and you're going with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, yeah? <b> COP </b> (has had enough) Yeah, let's go. You're all under arrest. The Cop catches Venkman in an armlock and starts walking him out of the restaurant. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) Finish your dessert -- it's already paid for. I'll call you. They all exit, causing a major commotion among the other diners. <b>EXT. ARMAND'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The police car is parked right behind Ecto-2. Spengler stops at the police car and confronts the cops. <b> SPENGLER </b> Look, we're not drunk and we're not crazy. This is a matter of vital importance. Venkman steps in and looks at the policemen's nametags. <b> COP </b> What are you doing? <b> VENKMAN </b> I just want to get your names right for when the mayor asks us why we didn't let him know about this sooner. The Cops look at each other, uncertain about what to do. <b> COP </b> (relenting) Okay, Doc. You want to see the mayor, you got it. Follow us. They head for their respective vehicles. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are on the sofa making out when Dana enters. They jump up and start smoothing their clothes. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed) Oh, hello, Dana. we were just -- we were -- <b> DANA </b> I know what you were doing, Louis. It's all right. <b> JANINE </b> How was your date? <b> DANA </b> Typical. Peter was arrested. Has he called? <b> LOUIS </b> No, nobody called. Dana frowns. <b> DANA </b> Is everything all right with Oscar? <b> JANINE </b> Oh, he's fine. He's such a good baby. He was a little fussy at first, but we gave him a Freach bread pizza and he went right to sleep. <b> DANA </b> (relieved) Oh, good. I'll just check on him. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana looks at Oscar sleeping peacefully on the bed. She starts to change clothes. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine aren't sure what to do. <b> LOUIS </b> Should we go? <b> JANINE </b> I don't think we should leave her alone. <b> LOUIS </b> You're right. We should stay. He grabs Janine and they start making out again. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz stands before the painting of Vigo. Vigo comes to life and repeats the litany of his power. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> (heard all this before) Yes, the scourge -- <b> VIGO </b> -- the sorrow of Moldavia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> -- the sorrow -- <b> VIGO </b> I command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (checking his watch) I await the word of Vigo. <b> VIGO </b> The season of evil begins with the birth of the new year. Bring me the child that I might live again. <b> JANOSZ </b> (abjectly humble) Lord Vigo, the mother, Dana, is fine and strong. I was wondering -- well, would it be possible -- if I bring the baby, could I have the woman? <b> VIGO </b> So be it. On this the day of darkness, she will be ours, wife to you and mother to me. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CARL SCHURZ PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Preceded by a police car, Ecto-2 enters the small park on the East River at 88th Street and disappears into an underground entrance. The CAMERA PANS UP to reveal Gracie Mansion, the residence of the Mayor of New York City. <b>INT. GRACIE MANSION - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters, now wearing police raincoats over their longjohns are ushered through the house by a butler to a set of double oak doors. The butler knocks lightly, then opens the door to reveal the MAYOR sitting in front of the fireplace in his well-appointed private study, flanked by Jack Hardemeyer, both in tuxedoes. The Ghostbusters enter. <b>INT. STUDY - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> The Mayor is impatient and a little angry at having been pulled out of his formal reception. He frowns at their bizarre attire. <b> MAYOR </b> All right -- the Ghostbusters. I'll tell you right now; I've got two hundred of the heaviest campaign contributors in the city out there eating bad roast chicken waiting for me to give the speech of my life. You've got two minutes. Make it good. <b> STANTZ </b> You get enough negative energy flowing in a dense environment like Manhattan, it starts to build up, and if we don't do something fast this whole place will blow like a frog on a hotplate. <b> WINSTON </b> Tell him about the toaster. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't think he's ready for the toaster. <b> MAYOR </b> (shaking his head) Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right. What am I supposed to do -- go on television and tell eight million people they have to be nice to each other? I'm sorry, none of this makes any sense to me, and if anything does happen we've got plenty of paid professionals to deal with it. Your two minutes are up. Good night, gentlemen. The mayor exits, leaving the Ghostbusters to Hardemeyer. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (smirking) That's quite a story. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, I think the Times might be interested, don't you? The Post might have a lot of fun with it, too. Hardemeyer's eyes go cold and calculating. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Before you go running to the newspapers with this, would you consider telling this slime thing to some people downtown? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you're talking. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - PSYCHIATRIC WARD - NIGHT (LATER) </b> An attendant opens a locked door with a wire mesh window and the Ghostbusters, in straitjackets, are led into the psych ward as Hardemeyer confers with the chief PSYCHIATRIST. <b> WINSTON </b> (protesting) I'm telling you, we're not crazy. He is! <b>HARDEMEYER </b> He laughs off the remark. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to the Psychiatrist) The mayor wants them kept under strict observation for a few days. We think they're seriously disturbed and potentially dangerous. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> We'll do whatever's necessary. Hardemeyer shakes his hand and exits as the door slams shut on the Ghostbusters. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are watching an old rerun on TV, eating popcorn, while Dana is stretched out on the other sofa. <b> DANA </b> (wishing they'd leave) You know you really don't have to stay. Peter should be back soon. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh no, we don't mind. She hears a little CRY from the nursery and sits up. <b> DANA </b> Excuse me. I think Oscar is up. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana enters and immediately notices that the crib is empty and the window is open. <b> DANA </b> (screams) Louis! Frantic now, Dana rushes to the window and looks out, as Louis and Janine come running in. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - DANA'S POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The baby is standing out on the ledge at the corner of the building, fifty feet above the street, staring off into the distance as if he's waiting for something. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana climbs out onto the ledge and starts inching slowly toward the baby. Then she stops as a miraculous apparition materializes. <b>LOUIS AND JANINE </b> They lean out the window, gaping at the apparition. <b>EXT. VENKMAN'S LEDGE - APPARITION </b> A sweet, kindly-looking English nanny appears, pushing a pram, strolling on thin air parallel to the ledge high above the ground. Her face looks remarkably like Janosz Poha's. The nanny extends her hand to the BABY who GURGLES sweetly as he reaches out to take it. <b>DANA </b> She watches in helpless horror. <b> DANA </b> (screams) No!! <b>GHOST NANNY </b> She picks up the baby and lays it gently in the pram, then turns and smiles at Dana. The smile turns to a hideous grin, then the nanny shrieks at Dana and takes off like a shot with the baby. <b>DANA </b> She watches the creature fly off with Oscar, then climbs back through the window assisted by Louis and Janine. <b> DANA </b> (resolutely) Louis, you have to find Peter and tell him what happened. <b> LOUIS </b> (confused and worried) Where're you going? <b> DANA </b> To get my baby back. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (A LITTLE LATER) </b> A taxi pulls up, Dana jumps out and rushes into the museum. The moment the door closes behind her, there is a loud THUNDERCLAP, the ground trembles and a massive amount of slime erupts from around the base of the museum and starts covering the walls, sealing her inside the building. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC - PADDED ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are in a padded cell. They are handcuffed and the cuffs are chained to thick leather belts around their waists. Venkman stands there banging his head into the padded wall while the others try to explain the situation to a skeptical Psychiatrist. <b> STANTZ </b> We think the spirit of Vigo the Carpathian is alive in a painting at the Manhattan Museum. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> I see. And are there any other paintings in the museum with bad spirits in them? <b> SPENGLER </b> (impatient) You're wasting valuable time! We have reason to believe that Vigo is drawing strength from a psychomagnetheric slime flow that's been collecting under the city. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> Yes, tell me about the slime. <b> WINSTON </b> It's potent stuff. We made a toaster dance with it, then a bathtub tried to eat his friend's baby. The psychiatrist looks at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't look at me. I think they're nuts. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Moonlight streams through the skylight above, bathing the studio in eerie white light. Oscar is lying safely on a table in front of the painting of Vigo. Dana enters cautiously and sees the baby. Seeing no one else about, she quickly sneaks down to the table and picks up the baby, hugging hin tight, greatly relieved to find him unharmed and intact. <b> JANOSZ (O.S.) </b> I knew you would come. Startled, Dana turns at the sound of his voice as Janosz steps out from behind the Vigo painting. <b> DANA </b> (defiantly) What do you want with my baby? <b> JANOSZ </b> No harm will come to the child. You might even say it's a privilege. He will be the vessel for the spirit of Vigo. And you -- well, you will be the mother of the ruler of the world. Doesn't that sound nice? <b> DANA </b> If this is what the world will be like, I don't want to live in it. <b> JANOSZ </b> (confidentially, indicating Vigo) I don't believe we have the luxury of choice. <b> DANA </b> Everybody has a choice. <b> JANOSZ </b> Not in this case, my dear. Take a look. That's not Gainsborough's Blue Boy up there. He's Vigo! <b> DANA </b> I don't care who he is. He's not taking my baby. Dana walks quickly to the door but suddenly Oscar flies out of her arms, floats across the room and lands lightly back in the cradle. <b>DANA </b> She turns and looks at Vigo, for the first time feeling his power. <b> JANOSZ </b> You will see. It's all for the best. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> It's the last day of the year and the sun is shining brightly. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC WARD - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> The Ghostbusters are sitting in the dayroom, a dingy lounge for patients in the locked ward. There is a television set, a Ping-Pong table and a few tables and chairs. Stantz is looking at the sky through the heavy wire mesh covering the windows. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. boys. It's starting. Shit-storm <b> 2000. </b> Venkman is doing occupational therapy, weaving on a little hand-loom. <b> VENKMAN </b> It better not start yet. I'm trying to finish my potholder before lunch. <b> WINSTON </b> You think all those predictions about the world coming to an end in the 1990s are true? A PATIENT at the next table joins the discussion. <b> PATIENT </b> (with certainty) 1997. My dog told me. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of dog? <b> PATIENT </b> Labrador. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shakes his head) Habitual liars. They can't help it. It's in the breed. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - EXAMINING ROOM - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Louis is pleading with his cousin, SHERMAN TULLY, a doctor on the staff at Parkview. He looks and sounds just like Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> Come on, Sherm. You're my cousin. Do this for me. I'm begging you. <b> SHERMAN </b> I can't do it, Louis. It isn't ethical. I could lose my license. <b> LOUIS </b> Why can't you just have them released? You're a doctor. <b> SHERMAN </b> I'm a dermatologist. I can't write orders on the psych ward. <b> LOUIS </b> Sherman, I've done lots of favors for you. <b> SHERMAN </b> Like what? <b> LOUIS </b> I got you out of those bad tax shelters. <b> SHERMAN </b> You were the one who got me in. <b> LOUIS </b> I fixed you up with Diane Troxler and she put out, didn't she? <b> SHERMAN </b> Yeah, I had to give her free dermabrasion for a year. Forget it, Louis. I could get in a lot of trouble. <b> LOUIS </b> I'm telling you, we're all going to be in big trouble if we don't do something fast. That ghost guy came and took my friend's baby and we got to get it back. It's just a scared little baby, Sherm. <b> SHERMAN </b> Then you should go to the police. I don't believe in any of that stuff. Sherman looks out the window. <b>EXT. SKY - SHERMAN'S POV </b> The sky begins to go dark as the sun is magically eclipsed. <b>INT. EXAMINING ROOM - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> The room goes dark. Louis switches on a lamp which casts an eerie light on his face. <b> LOUIS </b> (spooky) Do you believe it now, Sherm? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. HUDSON RIVER PIER - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> A drainpipe starts dripping slime into the river near the Cunard Line docks. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PUBLIC FOUNTAIN (59TH AND FIFTH) - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> With the Plaza Hotel in the background, the fountain starts to spout psycho-reactive slime. <b>HOTEL ENTRANCE </b> A well-heeled MAN and WOMAN step out of a limousine and walk up the steps toward the revolving door. She looks up at the sky and frowns. <b> WOMAN </b> (shrewish) I told you we should have stayed in Palm Beach. The weather here gets stranger every year. <b> MAN </b> Yes, dear. She doesn't notice it, but a small amount of slime falls on the back of her luxurious, full-length, white mink coat. The doorman nods courteously and extends a hand to help her up the stairs. <b>WOMAN </b> She yelps in pain. <b> WOMAN </b> (to the doorman) Something just bit me! The doorman looks curiously at her, then recoils in shock as her coat comes alive. MINK HEADS pop out of the thick fur, SNARLING, BARKING and YAPPING, their sharp, little teeth biting the air. Reacting quickly, the doorman yanks the coat off the woman's back, throws it to the ground and starts stomping on it as the Woman and her husband look on in horror. The coat scuttles down the steps and runs off down the street. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MIDTOWN CENTRAL POLICE PRECINCT - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The squad room is busy as DETECTIVES try to answer the flood of calls regarding the wave of supernatural events sweeping the city. <b> DETECTIVE ONE </b> (on the phone) Look, lady, of course there are dead people there. It's a cemetery ... (his face falls) They were asking you for directions? <b> DETECTIVE TWO </b> (on another phone) Was this a big dinosaur or a little dinosaur? ... Oh, just the skeleton, huh? Well, where is it now? <b> DETECTIVE THREE </b> (on the phone) Wait a second -- the park bench was chasing you? You mean, someone was chasing you in the park ... No, the bench itself was chasing you. I see -- A weary SERGEANT answers a RINGING PHONE. <b> SERGEANT </b> Manhattan Central, Flaherty speaking ... Yeah ... yeah? ... What? Who is this? ... Wait a second. He puts the caller on "Hold" and turns the LIEUTENANT. <b> SERGEANT </b> Lieutenant, I think you better talk to this guy. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> (on another call) What is it? I'm talkin' here! <b> SERGEANT </b> It's some dock supervisor down at Pier 34 on the Hudson. The guy's going nuts. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> What's the problem? <b> SERGEANT </b> (takes a deep breath) He says the Titanic just arrived. <b>INT. PORT AUTHORITY OFFICE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The dock supervisor stands there with the phone in his hand, an assistant beside him, both staring out the window at the ocean liner tied up at the pier. <b>EXT. PIER 34 - THEIR POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The name "R.M.S. Titanic" is clearly visible on the side of the huge ship. The gangplank is down and dozens of drowned passengers, sopping wet and festooned with seaweed, are disembarking while drowned porters off-load their waterlogged baggage. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER)(ECLIPSE) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside as Louis and Sherman come out of the hospital with the Ghostbusters, now wearing their standard uniforms. <b> STANTZ </b> Good work, Louis. How did you get us out? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, I pulled a few strings. I wouldn't want to say any more than that. Louis winks conspiratorially at Sherman. <b> LOUIS </b> This is my cousin Sherman. Sherm, say hello to the Ghostbusters. (sotto voce to Stantz) I promised him a ride in the car if he got you out. <b> SHERMAN </b> (to the Ghostbusters) Hi, it's really great to meet you guys. I know this sounds weird but once I had a dream that my grandfather was standing at the foot of my bed, but I knew it was impossible because he died and he started to tell me that -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ectomobile and drive off, leaving him and Louis standing at the curb. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> SHERMAN </b> I thought you were like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> LOUIS </b> I let them handle all the little stuff. I just come in on the big ones. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b>(original version of the above scene - 11/27/88) (TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: These two versions of this scene were put in my copy of the script, so I have included both of them here) <b> LOUIS </b> Actually, they still think you're crazy, but I convinced them you're not dangerous. <b> VENKMAN </b> (determined) Yeah, well guess again. <b>EXT. BELLEVUE HOSPITAL - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(MOMENTS LATER) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside and the Ghostbusters are hastily donning their standard uniforms. <b> LOUIS </b> I brought everything you asked for and I gassed up the car with Super Unleaded. It cost twenty cents more than Regular Unleaded but you get much better performance and in an old car like this that'll end up saving you money in the long run. I put it on my credit card, so you can either reimburse me or I can take it out of petty cash -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ecto-2 and drive off without him. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(LATER) </b> ECTO-2 pulls to the curb across the street from the museum. Hundreds of spectators are already there gawking at the building as the Ghostbusters jump out and gape at the sight that greets them. <b>EXT. MUSEUM THEIR POV - BUILDING </b> The building is now totally covered in a shell of psycho-reactive slime. CITY WORKMEN and FIREMEN are trying to cut their way in with blowtorches, jackhammers, power tools and the "jaws of life," but they can't even make a dent. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They size up the situation as they don their proton packs. <b> STANTZ </b> It looks like a giant Jello mold. <b> VENKMAN </b> I hate Jello. They stride manfully across the street and approach the main entrance to the museum. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the Fire Captain) Okay, give it a rest, Captain. We'll take it from here. <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> (skeptical) Be my guest. We been cutting here for three hours. What the hell's going on? You know the Titanic arrived this morning? <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, better late than never. The workmen and firemen put down their tools and fall back as the Ghostbusters draw their particle throwers. <b> SPENGLER </b> (monitoring valences) Full neutronas, maser assist. They adjust their settings and prepare to fire. <b> STANTZ </b> Throw 'em! They trigger their throwers and spray the front doors of the building with bolts of proton energy, but it has no effect on the hardened slime. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the firemen) Okay, who knows "Cumbaya?" A few of the firemen and workmen tentatively raise their hands. Venkman grabs them and lines them up at the entrance of the museum. <b> VENKMAN </b> All right. Nice and sweet -- (starts singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya -- Stantz, Spengler, Winston and the firemen sing along, reluctantly holding hands and swaying to the music. <b> ALL </b> (singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Oh, Lord, cumbaya. Stantz inspects the wall of slime with his infra-goggles and finds that they have only managed to open a hole the size of a dime. <b> STANTZ </b> Forget it. The Vienna Boys Choir couldn't get through this stuff. <b> VENKMAN </b> Good effort. Now what? Should we say supportive, nurturing things to it, Ray? <b> SPENGLER </b> It won't work. There's no way we could generate enough positive energy to crack that shell. <b> STANTZ </b> I can't believe things have gotten so bad in this city that there's no way back. Sure, it's crowded, it's dirty, it's noisy. And there are too many people who'd just as soon step on your face as look at you. But there've got to be a few sparks of sweet humanity left in this burned-out burg. We just have to mobilize it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We need something that everyone can get behind, a symbol -- His eyes fall on ECTO-2's New York State license plate which features a line drawing of the Statue of Liberty. <b> STANTZ </b> (he sees it, too) Something that appeals to the best in each and every one of us -- <b> SPENGLER </b> Something good -- <b> VENKMAN </b> And pure -- <b> WINSTON </b> And decent. <b>EXT. THE STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> There is a commotion among the crowd as the Mayor's limousine arrives with a police escort. Jack Hardemeyer steps out followed by the Mayor himself and they cross to the museum entrance. Hardemeyer, his ASSISTANT and several police BODYGUARDS confront the Ghostbusters. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Look, I've had it with you. Get your stuff together, get back in that clown car and get out of here. This is a city matter and everything's under control. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, you think so? Well, I've got news for you. You've got Dracula's brother-in-law in there and he's got my girlfriend and her kid. Around about midnight tonight, when you're partying uptown, this guy's going to come to life and start doing amateur head transplants. And that's just round one. <b> MAYOR </b> Are you telling me there're people trapped in there? <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to his assistant) This is dynamite. Call A.P., U.P.I., and C.N.N. and get them down here right away. When the police bring this kid out I want them to hand it right to the mayor and I want it all on camera. <b> STANTZ </b> Mr. Mayor, if we don't do something by midnight, you're going to go down in history as the man who let New York get sucked down into the tenth level of hell. The Mayor stops to consider the situation. <b> MAYOR </b> (to the Fire Captain) Can you get into that museum? <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> If I had a nuclear warhead, maybe. The Mayor turns to Venkman. <b> MAYOR </b> You know why all these things are happening? <b> VENKMAN </b> We tried to tell you last night, but Mr. Hard-On over here packed us off to the loony bin. Hardemeyer flips out. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> This is preposterous! You can't seriously believe all this mumbo-jumbo! It's the Twentieth Century, for crying out loud! (viciously, to Venkman) Look, mister, I don't know what this stuff is or how you got it all over the museum, but you better get it off and I mean right now! He pounds the wall of slime with his fist, and they all watch in amazement as his fist goes through the wall and he is sucked bodily through the slime curtain. Only his shoes can be seen, embedded in the slime. <b> MAYOR </b> (to Venkman) Okay, just tell me what you need. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND (NEW YORK HARBOR) - NIGHT </b> With the city skyline in the b.g., the Ghostbusters prepare their equipment. Each of them dons a makeshift backpack consisting of tanks, hoses, nozzles and an abundance of gauges, valves and regulators. Venkman looks up at the Statue of Liberty looming above them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it? <b> WINSTON </b> Wonder what? <b> VENKMAN </b> If she's naked under that toga. She's French, you know. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's nothing under that toga but 300 tons of iron and steel. Stantz is looking worried. <b> STANTZ </b> I hope we have enough stuff to do the job. <b> VENKMAN </b> Only one way to find out. (to Stantz) Ready, Teddy? They enter the statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters are working from the iron staircase that spirals straight up 100 feet inside the hollow super-structure of the statue. Spengler and Winston are busy assembling hundreds of wires connected to various relays on the interior surface of the statue. Venkman and Stantz are mounting large auditorium loudspeakers near the top of the staircase. They finish the installation, then Stantz dons one of the new backpacks and gives the order. <b> STANTZ </b> Okay, boys. Let's frost it. They begin hosing the inside of the statue with the psycho-reactive slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine watches as Louis, wearing a Ghostbuster uniform, slings a heavy proton pack onto his back. <b> JANINE </b> I'm not sure this is such a good idea? Do they know you're doing this? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, yeah, sure -- no. But there's really not much to do here and they might need some back-up at the museum. <b> JANINE </b> You're very brave, Louis. Good luck. She kisses Louis and he gets extremely self-conscious. <b> LOUIS </b> Uh -- oh -- well, I better hurry. He rushes out. <b>EXT STREET OUTSIDE FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> Louis stands on the street corner waiting for a bus. Finally, a bus pulls up, Louis climbs aboard and finds Slimer behind the wheel. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - OBSERVATION DECK - MOMENTS LATER </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are standing in the observation windows in the crown of the statue. It looks like they're on the bridge of an ocean liner, then the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the head of the statue. <b>STANTZ </b> He plugs the main cable lead into a transformer. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all yours, Pete. (checks his watch) There's not much time left. Venkman plugs the speaker cable into a Walkman and gives a downbeat. <b> VENKMAN </b> (giving the downbeat) Okay, one, two, three, four -- He hits "Play" on the Walkman and "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BOOMS from the huge SPEAKERS, amplified by the statue's vast hollow interior. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The head of the statue lurches suddenly, but the Ghostbusters cling to the rail and manage to keep their feet. <b> STANTZ </b> She's moving! <b> WINSTON </b> I've lived in New York all my life and I never visited the Statue of Liberty. Now I finally get here and we're taking her out for a walk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (reading the Giga-meter) We've got full power. Stantz picks up a Nintendo control paddle from a home video game and starts pushing the buttons. <b> VENKMAN </b> (into a microphone) Okay, Libby. Let's get it in gear. They feel a strong vibration and the statue starts to move. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. SOUTH STREET SEAPORT - NIGHT </b> New Years Eve celebrants line the riverfront, pointing and gawking at an incredible sight. <b>EXT. EAST RIVER - THEIR POV - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The statue is moving up the river almost completely submerged, only her head from the nose up is visible above the surface. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks out apprehensively. <b> WINSTON </b> How deep does it get? That water's cold and I can't swim. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's okay. I have my Senior Lifesaving card. <b> SPENGLER </b> With a water temperature of forty degrees we'd survive approximately fifteen minutes. Stantz studies a maritime navigational chart. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll keep to the middle of the channel. We're okay to 59th Street, then we'll go ashore and take First Avenue to 79th. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you kidding? We'll hit all that bridge traffic at 59th. I'm going to take 72nd straight up to Fifth. Trust me, I used to drive a cab. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RIVERFRONT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Spectators cheer wildly, inspired by the sight of the Statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz is sitting next to Dana, still wheedling her with promises and self-serving logic. <b> JANOSZ </b> Time is running out, Dana. Soon it will be midnight and the city will be mine -- and Vigo's. Well, mainly Vigo's. But we have a spectacular opportunity to make the best of our relationship. <b> DANA </b> We don't have a relationship. <b> JANOSZ </b> I know. Marry me, Dana, and together we will raise Vigo as our son. There are many perks that come with being the mother of a living god. I'm sure he will supply for us a magnificent apartment. And perhaps a car and free parking. <b> DANA </b> I hate and despise you and everything you stand for with all my heart and soul. I could never forgive what you've done to me and my child. <b> JANOSZ </b> Many marriages begin with a certain amount of distance, but after a while I believe we could learn to love each other. Think about it. <b> DANA </b> I'd rather not. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> People are jammed together shoulder to shoulder filling Times Square, watching the big Seiko clock count down the last ten minutes to midnight. Suddenly, they look down Broadway and see a magnificent sight. <b>EXT. BROADWAY - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue of Liberty is walking up Broadway approaching 42nd Street, with "Higher and Higher" BOOMING from the SPEAKERS inside. A great cheer goes up, and the crowd goes wild with joy, dancing and singing along with the MUSIC. <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS) </b> Spengler reads the Giga-meter. <b> SPENGLER </b> It's working. The positive GeV's are climbing. <b> VENKMAN </b> (patting the Statue) They love you, Lib. Keep it up. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The avenue has been closed to traffic and barricades placed, blocking all the side streets. A squadron of police motorcycles comes speeding around the corner at 72nd Street and proceeds up Fifth Avenue in the direction of the museum. Then MUSIC is heard BOOMING in the distance, the ground shakes and the Statue of Liberty comes walking around the corner onto Fifth Avenue followed by a wildly cheering throng. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters can see the museum ahead. <b> VENKMAN </b> So far so good. <b> SPENGLER </b> (worried) I'm worried. The vibrations could shake her to pieces. We should have padded her feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I don't think they make Nikes in her size. <b> VENKMAN </b> We're almost there, Lib. (to Stantz) Step on it. <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue's huge foot comes down and squashes a car. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters look down at the flattened car. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts out the window) My Fault! <b> VENKMAN </b> (shouts) She's new in town. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is painting the last of the mystical symbols on the baby's chest. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> The people still in the square start counting off the last ten seconds to midnight and the New Year. <b> CROWD </b> (chanting) Ten .. nine ... eight ... seven ... <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> A strange light spreads over the painting. As the light moves onto his face, Vigo spreads his arms wide and his upper body starts to emerge from the canvas. <b> VIGO </b> Soon my life begins. Then woe to the weak, all power to me, the world is mine. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ - NIGHT </b> The baby's body begins to glow as Vigo reaches out for it. Then suddenly a dark shadow falls across the skylight. Janosz looks up. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ'S POV - SKYLIGHT - NIGHT </b> The Statue of Liberty is looming over the skylight looking down on Janosz with an expression of righteous anger on it's face. <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Kneeling beside the museum, the statue draws back it's mighty right arm and smashes the skylight with its torch. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz retreats from the shower of broken glass as the Ghostbusters come sliding down ropes into the studio and confront Janosz with their new weapons. Quick as a flash, Dana seizes the moment, dashes across the studio and snatches the baby from Vigo's outstretched arms. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) Happy New Year. <b>INT. MUSEUM - VIGO PAINTING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Vigo bellows in rage. <b>INT. MUSEUM - STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz steps in front of the painting. <b> SPENGLER </b> Hi there. Feel free to try something stupid. Janosz sneers, trusting the invincibility of Vigo. <b> JANOSZ </b> You pitiful, miserable creatures! You dare to challenge the power of darkness? Don't you realize what you are dealing with? He's Vigo! You are like the buzzing of flies to him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (sighs) Oh, Johnny. Did you back the wrong horse. With that, the Ghostbusters fire their slime-blowers and hose Janosz from head to toe, blowing him into the corner. Then they turn to Vigo. <b>VIGO </b> He is now almost completely out of the painting, but still held from the knees down. He spits and rages at the Ghostbusters, trying to unleash his magic powers. <b>THE GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They stand fast, secure in the knowledge that Vigo's power has been neutralized by the good will of the people. <b> STANTZ </b> Vigi, Vigi, Vigi -- you have been a bad little monkey. <b> VENKMAN </b> The whole city's together on this one. We took a vote. Everybody's down on you, you know. <b> WINSTON </b> (arming his slime-blower) Say goodnight now. Suddenly Vigo grabs Stantz by the neck and holds him up as a shield. <b> SPENGLER </b> Don't shoot! You'll hit Ray! <b> STANTZ </b> (strangling) Do it! Just do it! Winston fires and hoses both Vigo and Ray. <b>VIGO </b> He bellows and drops Ray, then falls back into the painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> The paint turns liquid, melts off the canvas and runs onto the floor revealing another painting underneath it. <b>INT. MUSEUM - GHOSTBUSTERS - NIGHT (AFTER BATTLE) </b> Venkman, Spengler and Winston rush over to Ray and kneel beside him. He is completely covered with slime and motionless. <b> SPENGLER </b> (examining him) He's breathing. Winston wipes the slime off Ray's face and Ray opens his eyes. <b> WINSTON </b> Ray -- Ray -- How do you feel, man? <b> STANTZ </b> (smiles lovingly) Groovy. I've never felt better in my life. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, no. We've got to live with this? They pull him to his feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I love you guys. You're the best friends I've ever had. He hugs them each in turn, leaving them slimed as well. Venkman recoils in disgust. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey, I just had this suit cleaned. (indicating Janosz) Take care of the wiggler, will you. Venkman crosses to Dana who is snuggling the baby. She hugs Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> What is this -- a love in? (notes the symbols painted on the baby's body) Hey, sailor. I think the tattoos are a little much, don't you? He picks up the baby. <b> DANA </b> (to Venkman) I think he likes you. I think I do too. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finally came to your senses, huh? They hug and kiss. <b>SPENGLER, WINSTON AND STANTZ </b> They help Janosz to his feet. He's dazed but unhurt. <b> JANOSZ </b> (restored to normalcy) What happened? <b> STANTZ </b> (calmly) Sir, you had a violent, prolonged, transformative psychic episode. But it's over now. Want a coffee? <b> JANOSZ </b> (extremely nice) That's very kind of you. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) He's fine, Ray. Physically intact, psychomagnetherically neutral. <b> JANOSZ </b> Is that good? <b> WINSTON </b> It's where you want to be. As they exit they stop to examine the painting that was concealed by Vigo's self-portrait. <b> SPENGLER </b> Late Renaissance, I think. Caravaggio or Brunelleschi. <b> WINSTON </b> (staring at it) There's something very familiar about this painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - NEW PAINTING - NIGHT </b> It's a beautiful painting in the high-Renaissance style depicting four archangels hovering protectively over a cherubic baby. One holds a harp, one, an olive branch, the third, a book, and the last, a sword. Most remarkably, their faces bear an uncanny resemblance to Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A city bus pulls up near the museum and Louis steps off. He waves his thanks to Slimer who is behind the wheel. <b> LOUIS </b> (to Slimer) Okay, so Monday night we'll get something to eat and maybe go bowling? Can you bowl with those little arms? SLIMER GRUNTS and SLOBBERS a reply, flexing his scrawny biceps. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, I have to go save Dana. I'll see you later. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are greeted by wild cheering and applause as they come out the main entrance with Dana and the baby. Everybody starts singing "Auld Lang Syne." Louis picks his way through the celebrating crowd and finds the Ghostbusters. <b> LOUIS </b> Am I too late? <b> STANTZ </b> No, you're right on time. Stantz pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and hands it to him. <b>EXT. MUSEUM ENTRANCE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Hardemeyer staggers out of the museum covered in slime. He looks at the celebrating crowd and his eyes fill with tears. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (weepy) Happy New Year, everybody! He joins in on "Auld Lang Syne." <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The Statue of Liberty is sprawled inert on her back in the park behind the museum, her toga up over her knees. The Mayor looks nearly suicidal. The Ghostbusters stand beside him commiserating. <b> VENKMAN </b> She's all right. She's just sleeping it off. <b> MAYOR </b> (stricken) We just had it restored. <b> VENKMAN </b> This probably isn't a good time to bring this up, but the last time we did a job for the city you stiffed us. <b> STANTZ </b> (handing the Mayor an invoice) This is a bill for tonight's job. The Mayor looks at it and gasps at the amount. <b> MAYOR </b> What! This is way too much. (hands the bill back to Venkman) We won't pay. Venkman looks at the Statue. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) I think she looks pretty good here, don't you? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, and a lot easier to get to than that island. Realizing he has no alternative, the Mayor sighs and takes the bill back. <b> MAYOR </b> All right, all right. If you can wait until Monday I'll issue you a check. <b> SPENGLER </b> Sorry. No checks. Company policy. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND - DAY (WEEKS LATER) </b> The sun is shining brightly and Liberty is back on her pedestal where she belongs. The Mayor and a host of officials are commemorating her return. The Ghostbusters, Dana, Janine and Louis are there as honored guests. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking up at the statue) Pretty impressive, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> (musing) It's probably the first thing my grandparents saw when they came to this country. <b> VENKMAN </b> From where -- Neptune? <b> SPENGLER </b> They came from Ostrov in Eastern Poland. <b> VENKMAN </b> Ostrov? I've been there. Good party town. <b> STANTZ </b> (in a similarly reflective mood) My great-grandparents were Swiss. I still have the pictures they took of the statue from the boat when they arrived. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, right, you told me that. They came to America seeking other kinds of cheese, as I recall. How about you, Winston? <b> WINSTON </b> My people weren't taking any pictures from those slave ships, man. And there wasn't any Statue in Charleston Harbor to welcome them, either. What are you, Dana? <b> VENKMAN </b> Miss Blue Blood? Her family's been here since the year 12. <b> DANA </b> That's not true. It was 1620. <b> VENKMAN </b> Same difference. <b> STANTZ </b> What's your story, Pete? <b> VENKMAN </b> Me? I'm a little of everything. Some Irish, some German, some French, Dutch -- the women in my family slept around. And that's what made this country great. <b> DANA </b> That's a terrible thing to say. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what? It's a free country. (looking up at the Statue) Thanks, Lib. They all look up at the Statue. <b>EXT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - HEAD OF STATUE - DAY </b> Slimer flies out one of the observation windows, THEME MUSIC KICKS IN and the CAMERA PULLS UP and AWAY FROM the island TO a HIGH SHOT of the Statue, lower Manhattan and the shining sea beyond. <b> FADE OUT. </b> <b> THE END </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What does Frank Saltram do for work?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "He does not work." ]	22,694	narrativeqa	en	null	3ab2add236bd7cba3c5f398e53ab0b6581fa82dae827c871	Transcribed from the 1915 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org [Picture: Book cover] THE COXON FUND BY HENRY JAMES [Picture: Decorative graphic] * * * * * LONDON: MARTIN SECKER NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI * * * * * This edition first published 1915 The text follows that of the Definitive Edition * * * * * I “THEY’VE got him for life!” I said to myself that evening on my way back to the station; but later on, alone in the compartment (from Wimbledon to Waterloo, before the glory of the District Railway) I amended this declaration in the light of the sense that my friends would probably after all not enjoy a monopoly of Mr. Saltram. I won’t pretend to have taken his vast measure on that first occasion, but I think I had achieved a glimpse of what the privilege of his acquaintance might mean for many persons in the way of charges accepted. He had been a great experience, and it was this perhaps that had put me into the frame of foreseeing how we should all, sooner or later, have the honour of dealing with him as a whole. Whatever impression I then received of the amount of this total, I had a full enough vision of the patience of the Mulvilles. He was to stay all the winter: Adelaide dropped it in a tone that drew the sting from the inevitable emphasis. These excellent people might indeed have been content to give the circle of hospitality a diameter of six months; but if they didn’t say he was to stay all summer as well it was only because this was more than they ventured to hope. I remember that at dinner that evening he wore slippers, new and predominantly purple, of some queer carpet-stuff; but the Mulvilles were still in the stage of supposing that he might be snatched from them by higher bidders. At a later time they grew, poor dears, to fear no snatching; but theirs was a fidelity which needed no help from competition to make them proud. Wonderful indeed as, when all was said, you inevitably pronounced Frank Saltram, it was not to be overlooked that the Kent Mulvilles were in their way still more extraordinary: as striking an instance as could easily be encountered of the familiar truth that remarkable men find remarkable conveniences. They had sent for me from Wimbledon to come out and dine, and there had been an implication in Adelaide’s note—judged by her notes alone she might have been thought silly—that it was a case in which something momentous was to be determined or done. I had never known them not be in a “state” about somebody, and I dare say I tried to be droll on this point in accepting their invitation. On finding myself in the presence of their latest discovery I had not at first felt irreverence droop—and, thank heaven, I have never been absolutely deprived of that alternative in Mr. Saltram’s company. I saw, however—I hasten to declare it—that compared to this specimen their other phoenixes had been birds of inconsiderable feather, and I afterwards took credit to myself for not having even in primal bewilderments made a mistake about the essence of the man. He had an incomparable gift; I never was blind to it—it dazzles me still. It dazzles me perhaps even more in remembrance than in fact, for I’m not unaware that for so rare a subject the imagination goes to some expense, inserting a jewel here and there or giving a twist to a plume. How the art of portraiture would rejoice in this figure if the art of portraiture had only the canvas! Nature, in truth, had largely rounded it, and if memory, hovering about it, sometimes holds her breath, this is because the voice that comes back was really golden. Though the great man was an inmate and didn’t dress, he kept dinner on this occasion waiting, and the first words he uttered on coming into the room were an elated announcement to Mulville that he had found out something. Not catching the allusion and gaping doubtless a little at his face, I privately asked Adelaide what he had found out. I shall never forget the look she gave me as she replied: “Everything!” She really believed it. At that moment, at any rate, he had found out that the mercy of the Mulvilles was infinite. He had previously of course discovered, as I had myself for that matter, that their dinners were soignés. Let me not indeed, in saying this, neglect to declare that I shall falsify my counterfeit if I seem to hint that there was in his nature any ounce of calculation. He took whatever came, but he never plotted for it, and no man who was so much of an absorbent can ever have been so little of a parasite. He had a system of the universe, but he had no system of sponging—that was quite hand-to-mouth. He had fine gross easy senses, but it was not his good-natured appetite that wrought confusion. If he had loved us for our dinners we could have paid with our dinners, and it would have been a great economy of finer matter. I make free in these connexions with the plural possessive because if I was never able to do what the Mulvilles did, and people with still bigger houses and simpler charities, I met, first and last, every demand of reflexion, of emotion—particularly perhaps those of gratitude and of resentment. No one, I think, paid the tribute of giving him up so often, and if it’s rendering honour to borrow wisdom I’ve a right to talk of my sacrifices. He yielded lessons as the sea yields fish—I lived for a while on this diet. Sometimes it almost appeared to me that his massive monstrous failure—if failure after all it was—had been designed for my private recreation. He fairly pampered my curiosity; but the history of that experience would take me too far. This is not the large canvas I just now spoke of, and I wouldn’t have approached him with my present hand had it been a question of all the features. Frank Saltram’s features, for artistic purposes, are verily the anecdotes that are to be gathered. Their name is legion, and this is only one, of which the interest is that it concerns even more closely several other persons. Such episodes, as one looks back, are the little dramas that made up the innumerable facets of the big drama—which is yet to be reported. II IT is furthermore remarkable that though the two stories are distinct—my own, as it were, and this other—they equally began, in a manner, the first night of my acquaintance with Frank Saltram, the night I came back from Wimbledon so agitated with a new sense of life that, in London, for the very thrill of it, I could only walk home. Walking and swinging my stick, I overtook, at Buckingham Gate, George Gravener, and George Gravener’s story may be said to have begun with my making him, as our paths lay together, come home with me for a talk. I duly remember, let me parenthesise, that it was still more that of another person, and also that several years were to elapse before it was to extend to a second chapter. I had much to say to him, none the less, about my visit to the Mulvilles, whom he more indifferently knew, and I was at any rate so amusing that for long afterwards he never encountered me without asking for news of the old man of the sea. I hadn’t said Mr. Saltram was old, and it was to be seen that he was of an age to outweather George Gravener. I had at that time a lodging in Ebury Street, and Gravener was staying at his brother’s empty house in Eaton Square. At Cambridge, five years before, even in our devastating set, his intellectual power had seemed to me almost awful. Some one had once asked me privately, with blanched cheeks, what it was then that after all such a mind as that left standing. “It leaves itself!” I could recollect devoutly replying. I could smile at present for this remembrance, since before we got to Ebury Street I was struck with the fact that, save in the sense of being well set up on his legs, George Gravener had actually ceased to tower. The universe he laid low had somehow bloomed again—the usual eminences were visible. I wondered whether he had lost his humour, or only, dreadful thought, had never had any—not even when I had fancied him most Aristophanesque. What was the need of appealing to laughter, however, I could enviously enquire, where you might appeal so confidently to measurement? Mr. Saltram’s queer figure, his thick nose and hanging lip, were fresh to me: in the light of my old friend’s fine cold symmetry they presented mere success in amusing as the refuge of conscious ugliness. Already, at hungry twenty-six, Gravener looked as blank and parliamentary as if he were fifty and popular. In my scrap of a residence—he had a worldling’s eye for its futile conveniences, but never a comrade’s joke—I sounded Frank Saltram in his ears; a circumstance I mention in order to note that even then I was surprised at his impatience of my enlivenment. As he had never before heard of the personage it took indeed the form of impatience of the preposterous Mulvilles, his relation to whom, like mine, had had its origin in an early, a childish intimacy with the young Adelaide, the fruit of multiplied ties in the previous generation. When she married Kent Mulville, who was older than Gravener and I and much more amiable, I gained a friend, but Gravener practically lost one. We reacted in different ways from the form taken by what he called their deplorable social action—the form (the term was also his) of nasty second-rate gush. I may have held in my ‘for intérieur’ that the good people at Wimbledon were beautiful fools, but when he sniffed at them I couldn’t help taking the opposite line, for I already felt that even should we happen to agree it would always be for reasons that differed. It came home to me that he was admirably British as, without so much as a sociable sneer at my bookbinder, he turned away from the serried rows of my little French library. “Of course I’ve never seen the fellow, but it’s clear enough he’s a humbug.” “Clear ‘enough’ is just what it isn’t,” I replied; “if it only were!” That ejaculation on my part must have been the beginning of what was to be later a long ache for final frivolous rest. Gravener was profound enough to remark after a moment that in the first place he couldn’t be anything but a Dissenter, and when I answered that the very note of his fascination was his extraordinary speculative breadth my friend retorted that there was no cad like your cultivated cad, and that I might depend upon discovering—since I had had the levity not already to have enquired—that my shining light proceeded, a generation back, from a Methodist cheesemonger. I confess I was struck with his insistence, and I said, after reflexion: “It may be—I admit it may be; but why on earth are you so sure?”—asking the question mainly to lay him the trap of saying that it was because the poor man didn’t dress for dinner. He took an instant to circumvent my trap and come blandly out the other side. “Because the Kent Mulvilles have invented him. They’ve an infallible hand for frauds. All their geese are swans. They were born to be duped, they like it, they cry for it, they don’t know anything from anything, and they disgust one—luckily perhaps!—with Christian charity.” His vehemence was doubtless an accident, but it might have been a strange foreknowledge. I forget what protest I dropped; it was at any rate something that led him to go on after a moment: “I only ask one thing—it’s perfectly simple. Is a man, in a given case, a real gentleman?” “A real gentleman, my dear fellow—that’s so soon said!” “Not so soon when he isn’t! If they’ve got hold of one this time he must be a great rascal!” “I might feel injured,” I answered, “if I didn’t reflect that they don’t rave about me.” “Don’t be too sure! I’ll grant that he’s a gentleman,” Gravener presently added, “if you’ll admit that he’s a scamp.” “I don’t know which to admire most, your logic or your benevolence.” My friend coloured at this, but he didn’t change the subject. “Where did they pick him up?” “I think they were struck with something he had published.” “I can fancy the dreary thing!” “I believe they found out he had all sorts of worries and difficulties.” “That of course wasn’t to be endured, so they jumped at the privilege of paying his debts!” I professed that I knew nothing about his debts, and I reminded my visitor that though the dear Mulvilles were angels they were neither idiots nor millionaires. What they mainly aimed at was reuniting Mr. Saltram to his wife. “I was expecting to hear he has basely abandoned her,” Gravener went on, at this, “and I’m too glad you don’t disappoint me.” I tried to recall exactly what Mrs. Mulville had told me. “He didn’t leave her—no. It’s she who has left him.” “Left him to us?” Gravener asked. “The monster—many thanks! I decline to take him.” “You’ll hear more about him in spite of yourself. I can’t, no, I really can’t resist the impression that he’s a big man.” I was already mastering—to my shame perhaps be it said—just the tone my old friend least liked. “It’s doubtless only a trifle,” he returned, “but you haven’t happened to mention what his reputation’s to rest on.” “Why on what I began by boring you with—his extraordinary mind.” “As exhibited in his writings?” “Possibly in his writings, but certainly in his talk, which is far and away the richest I ever listened to.” “And what’s it all about?” “My dear fellow, don’t ask me! About everything!” I pursued, reminding myself of poor Adelaide. “About his ideas of things,” I then more charitably added. “You must have heard him to know what I mean—it’s unlike anything that ever was heard.” I coloured, I admit, I overcharged a little, for such a picture was an anticipation of Saltram’s later development and still more of my fuller acquaintance with him. However, I really expressed, a little lyrically perhaps, my actual imagination of him when I proceeded to declare that, in a cloud of tradition, of legend, he might very well go down to posterity as the greatest of all great talkers. Before we parted George Gravener had wondered why such a row should be made about a chatterbox the more and why he should be pampered and pensioned. The greater the wind-bag the greater the calamity. Out of proportion to everything else on earth had come to be this wagging of the tongue. We were drenched with talk—our wretched age was dying of it. I differed from him here sincerely, only going so far as to concede, and gladly, that we were drenched with sound. It was not however the mere speakers who were killing us—it was the mere stammerers. Fine talk was as rare as it was refreshing—the gift of the gods themselves, the one starry spangle on the ragged cloak of humanity. How many men were there who rose to this privilege, of how many masters of conversation could he boast the acquaintance? Dying of talk?—why we were dying of the lack of it! Bad writing wasn’t talk, as many people seemed to think, and even good wasn’t always to be compared to it. From the best talk indeed the best writing had something to learn. I fancifully added that we too should peradventure be gilded by the legend, should be pointed at for having listened, for having actually heard. Gravener, who had glanced at his watch and discovered it was midnight, found to all this a retort beautifully characteristic of him. “There’s one little fact to be borne in mind in the presence equally of the best talk and of the worst.” He looked, in saying this, as if he meant great things, and I was sure he could only mean once more that neither of them mattered if a man wasn’t a real gentleman. Perhaps it was what he did mean; he deprived me however of the exultation of being right by putting the truth in a slightly different way. “The only thing that really counts for one’s estimate of a person is his conduct.” He had his watch still in his palm, and I reproached him with unfair play in having ascertained beforehand that it was now the hour at which I always gave in. My pleasantry so far failed to mollify him that he promptly added that to the rule he had just enunciated there was absolutely no exception. “None whatever?” “None whatever.” “Trust me then to try to be good at any price!” I laughed as I went with him to the door. “I declare I will be, if I have to be horrible!” III IF that first night was one of the liveliest, or at any rate was the freshest, of my exaltations, there was another, four years later, that was one of my great discomposures. Repetition, I well knew by this time, was the secret of Saltram’s power to alienate, and of course one would never have seen him at his finest if one hadn’t seen him in his remorses. They set in mainly at this season and were magnificent, elemental, orchestral. I was quite aware that one of these atmospheric disturbances was now due; but none the less, in our arduous attempt to set him on his feet as a lecturer, it was impossible not to feel that two failures were a large order, as we said, for a short course of five. This was the second time, and it was past nine o’clock; the audience, a muster unprecedented and really encouraging, had fortunately the attitude of blandness that might have been looked for in persons whom the promise of (if I’m not mistaken) An Analysis of Primary Ideas had drawn to the neighbourhood of Upper Baker Street. There was in those days in that region a petty lecture-hall to be secured on terms as moderate as the funds left at our disposal by the irrepressible question of the maintenance of five small Saltrams—I include the mother—and one large one. By the time the Saltrams, of different sizes, were all maintained we had pretty well poured out the oil that might have lubricated the machinery for enabling the most original of men to appear to maintain them. It was I, the other time, who had been forced into the breach, standing up there for an odious lamplit moment to explain to half a dozen thin benches, where earnest brows were virtuously void of anything so cynical as a suspicion, that we couldn’t so much as put a finger on Mr. Saltram. There was nothing to plead but that our scouts had been out from the early hours and that we were afraid that on one of his walks abroad—he took one, for meditation, whenever he was to address such a company—some accident had disabled or delayed him. The meditative walks were a fiction, for he never, that any one could discover, prepared anything but a magnificent prospectus; hence his circulars and programmes, of which I possess an almost complete collection, are the solemn ghosts of generations never born. I put the case, as it seemed to me, at the best; but I admit I had been angry, and Kent Mulville was shocked at my want of public optimism. This time therefore I left the excuses to his more practised patience, only relieving myself in response to a direct appeal from a young lady next whom, in the hall, I found myself sitting. My position was an accident, but if it had been calculated the reason would scarce have eluded an observer of the fact that no one else in the room had an approach to an appearance. Our philosopher’s “tail” was deplorably limp. This visitor was the only person who looked at her ease, who had come a little in the spirit of adventure. She seemed to carry amusement in her handsome young head, and her presence spoke, a little mystifyingly, of a sudden extension of Saltram’s sphere of influence. He was doing better than we hoped, and he had chosen such an occasion, of all occasions, to succumb to heaven knew which of his fond infirmities. The young lady produced an impression of auburn hair and black velvet, and had on her other hand a companion of obscurer type, presumably a waiting-maid. She herself might perhaps have been a foreign countess, and before she addressed me I had beguiled our sorry interval by finding in her a vague recall of the opening of some novel of Madame Sand. It didn’t make her more fathomable to pass in a few minutes from this to the certitude that she was American; it simply engendered depressing reflexions as to the possible check to contributions from Boston. She asked me if, as a person apparently more initiated, I would recommend further waiting, and I answered that if she considered I was on my honour I would privately deprecate it. Perhaps she didn’t; at any rate our talk took a turn that prolonged it till she became aware we were left almost alone. I presently ascertained she knew Mrs. Saltram, and this explained in a manner the miracle. The brotherhood of the friends of the husband was as nothing to the brotherhood, or perhaps I should say the sisterhood, of the friends of the wife. Like the Kent Mulvilles I belonged to both fraternities, and even better than they I think I had sounded the abyss of Mrs. Saltram’s wrongs. She bored me to extinction, and I knew but too well how she had bored her husband; but there were those who stood by her, the most efficient of whom were indeed the handful of poor Saltram’s backers. They did her liberal justice, whereas her mere patrons and partisans had nothing but hatred for our philosopher. I’m bound to say it was we, however—we of both camps, as it were—who had always done most for her. I thought my young lady looked rich—I scarcely knew why; and I hoped she had put her hand in her pocket. I soon made her out, however, not at all a fine fanatic—she was but a generous, irresponsible enquirer. She had come to England to see her aunt, and it was at her aunt’s she had met the dreary lady we had all so much on our mind. I saw she’d help to pass the time when she observed that it was a pity this lady wasn’t intrinsically more interesting. That was refreshing, for it was an article of faith in Mrs. Saltram’s circle—at least among those who scorned to know her horrid husband—that she was attractive on her merits. She was in truth a most ordinary person, as Saltram himself would have been if he hadn’t been a prodigy. The question of vulgarity had no application to him, but it was a measure his wife kept challenging you to apply. I hasten to add that the consequences of your doing so were no sufficient reason for his having left her to starve. “He doesn’t seem to have much force of character,” said my young lady; at which I laughed out so loud that my departing friends looked back at me over their shoulders as if I were making a joke of their discomfiture. My joke probably cost Saltram a subscription or two, but it helped me on with my interlocutress. “She says he drinks like a fish,” she sociably continued, “and yet she allows that his mind’s wonderfully clear.” It was amusing to converse with a pretty girl who could talk of the clearness of Saltram’s mind. I expected next to hear she had been assured he was awfully clever. I tried to tell her—I had it almost on my conscience—what was the proper way to regard him; an effort attended perhaps more than ever on this occasion with the usual effect of my feeling that I wasn’t after all very sure of it. She had come to-night out of high curiosity—she had wanted to learn this proper way for herself. She had read some of his papers and hadn’t understood them; but it was at home, at her aunt’s, that her curiosity had been kindled—kindled mainly by his wife’s remarkable stories of his want of virtue. “I suppose they ought to have kept me away,” my companion dropped, “and I suppose they’d have done so if I hadn’t somehow got an idea that he’s fascinating. In fact Mrs. Saltram herself says he is.” “So you came to see where the fascination resides? Well, you’ve seen!” My young lady raised fine eyebrows. “Do you mean in his bad faith?” “In the extraordinary effects of it; his possession, that is, of some quality or other that condemns us in advance to forgive him the humiliation, as I may call it, to which he has subjected us.” “The humiliation?” “Why mine, for instance, as one of his guarantors, before you as the purchaser of a ticket.” She let her charming gay eyes rest on me. “You don’t look humiliated a bit, and if you did I should let you off, disappointed as I am; for the mysterious quality you speak of is just the quality I came to see.” “Oh, you can’t ‘see’ it!” I cried. “How then do you get at it?” “You don’t! You mustn’t suppose he’s good-looking,” I added. “Why his wife says he’s lovely!” My hilarity may have struck her as excessive, but I confess it broke out afresh. Had she acted only in obedience to this singular plea, so characteristic, on Mrs. Saltram’s part, of what was irritating in the narrowness of that lady’s point of view? “Mrs. Saltram,” I explained, “undervalues him where he’s strongest, so that, to make up for it perhaps, she overpraises him where he’s weak. He’s not, assuredly, superficially attractive; he’s middle-aged, fat, featureless save for his great eyes.” “Yes, his great eyes,” said my young lady attentively. She had evidently heard all about his great eyes—the beaux yeux for which alone we had really done it all. “They’re tragic and splendid—lights on a dangerous coast. But he moves badly and dresses worse, and altogether he’s anything but smart.” My companion, who appeared to reflect on this, after a moment appealed. “Do you call him a real gentleman?” I started slightly at the question, for I had a sense of recognising it: George Gravener, years before, that first flushed night, had put me face to face with it. It had embarrassed me then, but it didn’t embarrass me now, for I had lived with it and overcome it and disposed of it. “A real gentleman? Emphatically not!” My promptitude surprised her a little, but I quickly felt how little it was to Gravener I was now talking. “Do you say that because he’s—what do you call it in England?—of humble extraction?” “Not a bit. His father was a country school-master and his mother the widow of a sexton, but that has nothing to do with it. I say it simply because I know him well.” “But isn’t it an awful drawback?” “Awful—quite awful.” “I mean isn’t it positively fatal?” “Fatal to what? Not to his magnificent vitality.” Again she had a meditative moment. “And is his magnificent vitality the cause of his vices?” “Your questions are formidable, but I’m glad you put them. I was thinking of his noble intellect. His vices, as you say, have been much exaggerated: they consist mainly after all in one comprehensive defect.” “A want of will?” “A want of dignity.” “He doesn’t recognise his obligations?” “On the contrary, he recognises them with effusion, especially in public: he smiles and bows and beckons across the street to them. But when they pass over he turns away, and he speedily loses them in the crowd. The recognition’s purely spiritual—it isn’t in the least social. So he leaves all his belongings to other people to take care of. He accepts favours, loans, sacrifices—all with nothing more deterrent than an agony of shame. Fortunately we’re a little faithful band, and we do what we can.” I held my tongue about the natural children, engendered, to the number of three, in the wantonness of his youth. I only remarked that he did make efforts—often tremendous ones. “But the efforts,” I said, “never come to much: the only things that come to much are the abandonments, the surrenders.” “And how much do they come to?” “You’re right to put it as if we had a big bill to pay, but, as I’ve told you before, your questions are rather terrible. They come, these mere exercises of genius, to a great sum total of poetry, of philosophy, a mighty mass of speculation, notation, quotation. The genius is there, you see, to meet the surrender; but there’s no genius to support the defence.” “But what is there, after all, at his age, to show?” “In the way of achievement recognised and reputation established?” I asked. “To ‘show’ if you will, there isn’t much, since his writing, mostly, isn’t as fine, isn’t certainly as showy, as his talk. Moreover two-thirds of his work are merely colossal projects and announcements. ‘Showing’ Frank Saltram is often a poor business,” I went on: “we endeavoured, you’ll have observed, to show him to-night! However, if he had lectured he’d have lectured divinely. It would just have been his talk.” “And what would his talk just have been?” I was conscious of some ineffectiveness, as well perhaps as of a little impatience, as I replied: “The exhibition of a splendid intellect.” My young lady looked not quite satisfied at this, but as I wasn’t prepared for another question I hastily pursued: “The sight of a great suspended swinging crystal—huge lucid lustrous, a block of light—flashing back every impression of life and every possibility of thought!” This gave her something to turn over till we had passed out to the dusky porch of the hall, in front of which the lamps of a quiet brougham were almost the only thing Saltram’s treachery hadn’t extinguished. I went with her to the door of her carriage, out of which she leaned a moment after she had thanked me and taken her seat. Her smile even in the darkness was pretty. “I do want to see that crystal!” “You’ve only to come to the next lecture.” “I go abroad in a day or two with my aunt.” “Wait over till next week,” I suggested. “It’s quite worth it.” She became grave. “Not unless he really comes!” At which the brougham started off, carrying her away too fast, fortunately for my manners, to allow me to exclaim “Ingratitude!” IV MRS. SALTRAM made a great affair of her right to be informed where her husband had been the second evening he failed to meet his audience. She came to me to ascertain, but I couldn’t satisfy her, for in spite of my ingenuity I remained in ignorance. It wasn’t till much later that I found this had not been the case with Kent Mulville, whose hope for the best never twirled the thumbs of him more placidly than when he happened to know the worst. He had known it on the occasion I speak of—that is immediately after. He was impenetrable then, but ultimately confessed. What he confessed was more than I shall now venture to make public. It was of course familiar to me that Saltram was incapable of keeping the engagements which, after their separation, he had entered into with regard to his wife, a deeply wronged, justly resentful, quite irreproachable and insufferable person. She often appeared at my chambers to talk over his lapses; for if, as she declared, she had washed her hands of him, she had carefully preserved the water of this ablution, which she handed about for analysis. She had arts of her own of exciting one’s impatience, the most infallible of which was perhaps her assumption that we were kind to her because we liked her. In reality her personal fall had been a sort of social rise—since I had seen the moment when, in our little conscientious circle, her desolation almost made her the fashion. Her voice was grating and her children ugly; moreover she hated the good Mulvilles, whom I more and more loved. They were the people who by doing most for her husband had in the long run done most for herself; and the warm confidence with which he had laid his length upon them was a pressure gentle compared with her stiffer persuadability. I’m bound to say he didn’t criticise his benefactors, though practically he got tired of them; she, however, had the highest standards about eleemosynary forms. She offered the odd spectacle of a spirit puffed up by dependence, and indeed it had introduced her to some excellent society. She pitied me for not knowing certain people who aided her and whom she doubtless patronised in turn for their luck in not knowing me. I dare say I should have got on with her better if she had had a ray of imagination—if it had occasionally seemed to occur to her to regard Saltram’s expressions of his nature in any other manner than as separate subjects of woe. They were all flowers of his character, pearls strung on an endless thread; but she had a stubborn little way of challenging them one after the other, as if she never suspected that he had a character, such as it was, or that deficiencies might be organic; the irritating effect of a mind incapable of a generalisation. One might doubtless have overdone the idea that there was a general licence for such a man; but if this had happened it would have been through one’s feeling that there could be none for such a woman. I recognised her superiority when I asked her about the aunt of the disappointed young lady: it sounded like a sentence from an English-French or other phrase-book. She triumphed in what she told me and she may have triumphed still more in what she withheld. My friend of the other evening, Miss Anvoy, had but lately come to England; Lady Coxon, the aunt, had been established here for years in consequence of her marriage with the late Sir Gregory of that name. She had a house in the Regent’s Park, a Bath-chair and a fernery; and above all she had sympathy. Mrs. Saltram had made her acquaintance through mutual friends. This vagueness caused me to feel how much I was out of it and how large an independent circle Mrs. Saltram had at her command. I should have been glad to know more about the disappointed young lady, but I felt I should know most by not depriving her of her advantage, as she might have mysterious means of depriving me of my knowledge. For the present, moreover, this experience was stayed, Lady Coxon having in fact gone abroad accompanied by her niece. The niece, besides being immensely clever, was an heiress, Mrs. Saltram said; the only daughter and the light of the eyes of some great American merchant, a man, over there, of endless indulgences and dollars. She had pretty clothes and pretty manners, and she had, what was prettier still, the great thing of all. The great thing of all for Mrs. Saltram was always sympathy, and she spoke as if during the absence of these ladies she mightn’t know where to turn for it. A few months later indeed, when they had come back, her tone perceptibly changed: she alluded to them, on my leading her up to it, rather as to persons in her debt for favours received. What had happened I didn’t know, but I saw it would take only a little more or a little less to make her speak of them as thankless subjects of social countenance—people for whom she had vainly tried to do something. I confess I saw how it wouldn’t be in a mere week or two that I should rid myself of the image of Ruth Anvoy, in whose very name, when I learnt it, I found something secretly to like. I should probably neither see her nor hear of her again: the knight’s widow (he had been mayor of Clockborough) would pass away and the heiress would return to her inheritance. I gathered with surprise that she had not communicated to his wife the story of her attempt to hear Mr..Saltram, and I founded this reticence on the easy supposition that Mrs. Saltram had fatigued by overpressure the spring of the sympathy of which she boasted. The girl at any rate would forget the small adventure, be distracted, take a husband; besides which she would lack occasion to repeat her experiment. We clung to the idea of the brilliant course, delivered without an accident, that, as a lecturer, would still make the paying public aware of our great man, but the fact remained that in the case of an inspiration so unequal there was treachery, there was fallacy at least, in the very conception of a series. In our scrutiny of ways and means we were inevitably subject to the old convention of the synopsis, the syllabus, partly of course not to lose the advantage of his grand free hand in drawing up such things; but for myself I laughed at our playbills even while I stickled for them. It was indeed amusing work to be scrupulous for Frank Saltram, who also at moments laughed about it, so far as the comfort of a sigh so unstudied as to be cheerful might pass for such a sound. He admitted with a candour all his own that he was in truth only to be depended on in the Mulvilles’ drawing-room. “Yes,” he suggestively allowed, “it’s there, I think, that I’m at my best; quite late, when it gets toward eleven—and if I’ve not been too much worried.” We all knew what too much worry meant; it meant too enslaved for the hour to the superstition of sobriety. On the Saturdays I used to bring my portmanteau, so as not to have to think of eleven o’clock trains. I had a bold theory that as regards this temple of talk and its altars of cushioned chintz, its pictures and its flowers, its large fireside and clear lamplight, we might really arrive at something if the Mulvilles would but charge for admission. Here it was, however, that they shamelessly broke down; as there’s a flaw in every perfection this was the inexpugnable refuge of their egotism. They declined to make their saloon a market, so that Saltram’s golden words continued the sole coin that rang there. It can have happened to no man, however, to be paid a greater price than such an enchanted hush as surrounded him on his greatest nights. The most profane, on these occasions, felt a presence; all minor eloquence grew dumb. Adelaide Mulville, for the pride of her hospitality, anxiously watched the door or stealthily poked the fire. I used to call it the music-room, for we had anticipated Bayreuth. The very gates of the kingdom of light seemed to open and the horizon of thought to flash with the beauty of a sunrise at sea. In the consideration of ways and means, the sittings of our little board, we were always conscious of the creak of Mrs. Saltram’s shoes. She hovered, she interrupted, she almost presided, the state of affairs being mostly such as to supply her with every incentive for enquiring what was to be done next. It was the pressing pursuit of this knowledge that, in concatenations of omnibuses and usually in very wet weather, led her so often to my door. She thought us spiritless creatures with editors and publishers; but she carried matters to no great effect when she personally pushed into back-shops. She wanted all moneys to be paid to herself: they were otherwise liable to such strange adventures. They trickled away into the desert—they were mainly at best, alas, a slender stream. The editors and the publishers were the last people to take this remarkable thinker at the valuation that has now pretty well come to be established. The former were half-distraught between the desire to “cut” him and the difficulty of finding a crevice for their shears; and when a volume on this or that portentous subject was proposed to the latter they suggested alternative titles which, as reported to our friend, brought into his face the noble blank melancholy that sometimes made it handsome. The title of an unwritten book didn’t after all much matter, but some masterpiece of Saltram’s may have died in his bosom of the shudder with which it was then convulsed. The ideal solution, failing the fee at Kent Mulville’s door, would have been some system of subscription to projected treatises with their non-appearance provided for—provided for, I mean, by the indulgence of subscribers. The author’s real misfortune was that subscribers were so wretchedly literal. When they tastelessly enquired why publication hadn’t ensued I was tempted to ask who in the world had ever been so published. Nature herself had brought him out in voluminous form, and the money was simply a deposit on borrowing the work. V I WAS doubtless often a nuisance to my friends in those years; but there were sacrifices I declined to make, and I never passed the hat to George Gravener. I never forgot our little discussion in Ebury Street, and I think it stuck in my throat to have to treat him to the avowal I had found so easy to Mss Anvoy. It had cost me nothing to confide to this charming girl, but it would have cost me much to confide to the friend of my youth, that the character of the “real gentleman” wasn’t an attribute of the man I took such pains for. Was this because I had already generalised to the point of perceiving that women are really the unfastidious sex? I knew at any rate that Gravener, already quite in view but still hungry and frugal, had naturally enough more ambition than charity. He had sharp aims for stray sovereigns, being in view most from the tall steeple of Clockborough. His immediate ambition was to occupy à lui seul the field of vision of that smokily-seeing city, and all his movements and postures were calculated for the favouring angle. The movement of the hand as to the pocket had thus to alternate gracefully with the posture of the hand on the heart. He talked to Clockborough in short only less beguilingly than Frank Saltram talked to his electors; with the difference to our credit, however, that we had already voted and that our candidate had no antagonist but himself. He had more than once been at Wimbledon—it was Mrs. Mulville’s work not mine—and by the time the claret was served had seen the god descend. He took more pains to swing his censer than I had expected, but on our way back to town he forestalled any little triumph I might have been so artless as to express by the observation that such a man was—a hundred times!—a man to use and never a man to be used by. I remember that this neat remark humiliated me almost as much as if virtually, in the fever of broken slumbers, I hadn’t often made it myself. The difference was that on Gravener’s part a force attached to it that could never attach to it on mine. He was able to use people—he had the machinery; and the irony of Saltram’s being made showy at Clockborough came out to me when he said, as if he had no memory of our original talk and the idea were quite fresh to him: “I hate his type, you know, but I’ll be hanged if I don’t put some of those things in. I can find a place for them: we might even find a place for the fellow himself.” I myself should have had some fear—not, I need scarcely say, for the “things” themselves, but for some other things very near them; in fine for the rest of my eloquence. Later on I could see that the oracle of Wimbledon was not in this case so appropriate as he would have been had the polities of the gods only coincided more exactly with those of the party. There was a distinct moment when, without saying anything more definite to me, Gravener entertained the idea of annexing Mr. Saltram. Such a project was delusive, for the discovery of analogies between his body of doctrine and that pressed from headquarters upon Clockborough—the bottling, in a word, of the air of those lungs for convenient public uncorking in corn-exchanges—was an experiment for which no one had the leisure. The only thing would have been to carry him massively about, paid, caged, clipped; to turn him on for a particular occasion in a particular channel. Frank Saltram’s channel, however, was essentially not calculable, and there was no knowing what disastrous floods might have ensued. For what there would have been to do The Empire, the great newspaper, was there to look to; but it was no new misfortune that there were delicate situations in which The Empire broke down. In fine there was an instinctive apprehension that a clever young journalist commissioned to report on Mr. Saltram might never come back from the errand. No one knew better than George Gravener that that was a time when prompt returns counted double. If he therefore found our friend an exasperating waste of orthodoxy it was because of his being, as he said, poor Gravener, up in the clouds, not because he was down in the dust. The man would have been, just as he was, a real enough gentleman if he could have helped to put in a real gentleman. Gravener’s great objection to the actual member was that he was not one. Lady Coxon had a fine old house, a house with “grounds,” at Clockborough, which she had let; but after she returned from abroad I learned from Mrs. Saltram that the lease had fallen in and that she had gone down to resume possession. I could see the faded red livery, the big square shoulders, the high-walled garden of this decent abode. As the rumble of dissolution grew louder the suitor would have pressed his suit, and I found myself hoping the politics of the late Mayor’s widow wouldn’t be such as to admonish her to ask him to dinner; perhaps indeed I went so far as to pray, they would naturally form a bar to any contact. I tried to focus the many-buttoned page, in the daily airing, as he perhaps even pushed the Bath-chair over somebody’s toes. I was destined to hear, none the less, through Mrs. Saltram—who, I afterwards learned, was in correspondence with Lady Coxon’s housekeeper—that Gravener was known to have spoken of the habitation I had in my eye as the pleasantest thing at Clockborough. On his part, I was sure, this was the voice not of envy but of experience. The vivid scene was now peopled, and I could see him in the old-time garden with Miss Anvoy, who would be certain, and very justly, to think him good-looking. It would be too much to describe myself as troubled by this play of surmise; but I occur to remember the relief, singular enough, of feeling it suddenly brushed away by an annoyance really much greater; an annoyance the result of its happening to come over me about that time with a rush that I was simply ashamed of Frank Saltram. There were limits after all, and my mark at last had been reached. I had had my disgusts, if I may allow myself to-day such an expression; but this was a supreme revolt. Certain things cleared up in my mind, certain values stood out. It was all very well to have an unfortunate temperament; there was nothing so unfortunate as to have, for practical purposes, nothing else. I avoided George Gravener at this moment and reflected that at such a time I should do so most effectually by leaving England. I wanted to forget Frank Saltram—that was all. I didn’t want to do anything in the world to him but that. Indignation had withered on the stalk, and I felt that one could pity him as much as one ought only by never thinking of him again. It wasn’t for anything he had done to me; it was for what he had done to the Mulvilles. Adelaide cried about it for a week, and her husband, profiting by the example so signally given him of the fatal effect of a want of character, left the letter, the drop too much, unanswered. The letter, an incredible one, addressed by Saltram to Wimbledon during a stay with the Pudneys at Ramsgate, was the central feature of the incident, which, however, had many features, each more painful than whichever other we compared it with. The Pudneys had behaved shockingly, but that was no excuse. Base ingratitude, gross indecency—one had one’s choice only of such formulas as that the more they fitted the less they gave one rest. These are dead aches now, and I am under no obligation, thank heaven, to be definite about the business. There are things which if I had had to tell them—well, would have stopped me off here altogether. I went abroad for the general election, and if I don’t know how much, on the Continent, I forgot, I at least know how much I missed, him. At a distance, in a foreign land, ignoring, abjuring, unlearning him, I discovered what he had done for me. I owed him, oh unmistakeably, certain noble conceptions; I had lighted my little taper at his smoky lamp, and lo it continued to twinkle. But the light it gave me just showed me how much more I wanted. I was pursued of course by letters from Mrs. Saltram which I didn’t scruple not to read, though quite aware her embarrassments couldn’t but be now of the gravest. I sacrificed to propriety by simply putting them away, and this is how, one day as my absence drew to an end, my eye, while I rummaged in my desk for another paper, was caught by a name on a leaf that had detached itself from the packet. The allusion was to Miss Anvoy, who, it appeared, was engaged to be married to Mr. George Gravener; and the news was two months old. A direct question of Mrs. Saltram’s had thus remained unanswered—she had enquired of me in a postscript what sort of man this aspirant to such a hand might be. The great other fact about him just then was that he had been triumphantly returned for Clockborough in the interest of the party that had swept the country—so that I might easily have referred Mrs. Saltram to the journals of the day. Yet when I at last wrote her that I was coming home and would discharge my accumulated burden by seeing her, I but remarked in regard to her question that she must really put it to Miss Anvoy. VI I HAD almost avoided the general election, but some of its consequences, on my return, had smartly to be faced. The season, in London, began to breathe again and to flap its folded wings. Confidence, under the new Ministry, was understood to be reviving, and one of the symptoms, in a social body, was a recovery of appetite. People once more fed together, and it happened that, one Saturday night, at somebody’s house, I fed with George Gravener. When the ladies left the room I moved up to where he sat and begged to congratulate him. “On my election?” he asked after a moment; so that I could feign, jocosely, not to have heard of that triumph and to be alluding to the rumour of a victory still more personal. I dare say I coloured however, for his political success had momentarily passed out of my mind. What was present to it was that he was to marry that beautiful girl; and yet his question made me conscious of some discomposure—I hadn’t intended to put this before everything. He himself indeed ought gracefully to have done so, and I remember thinking the whole man was in this assumption that in expressing my sense of what he had won I had fixed my thoughts on his “seat.” We straightened the matter out, and he was so much lighter in hand than I had lately seen him that his spirits might well have been fed from a twofold source. He was so good as to say that he hoped I should soon make the acquaintance of Miss Anvoy, who, with her aunt, was presently coming up to town. Lady Coxon, in the country, had been seriously unwell, and this had delayed their arrival. I told him I had heard the marriage would be a splendid one; on which, brightened and humanised by his luck, he laughed and said “Do you mean for her?” When I had again explained what I meant he went on: “Oh she’s an American, but you’d scarcely know it; unless, perhaps,” he added, “by her being used to more money than most girls in England, even the daughters of rich men. That wouldn’t in the least do for a fellow like me, you know, if it wasn’t for the great liberality of her father. He really has been most kind, and everything’s quite satisfactory.” He added that his eldest brother had taken a tremendous fancy to her and that during a recent visit at Coldfield she had nearly won over Lady Maddock. I gathered from something he dropped later on that the free-handed gentleman beyond the seas had not made a settlement, but had given a handsome present and was apparently to be looked to, across the water, for other favours. People are simplified alike by great contentments and great yearnings, and, whether or no it was Gravener’s directness that begot my own, I seem to recall that in some turn taken by our talk he almost imposed it on me as an act of decorum to ask if Miss Anvoy had also by chance expectations from her aunt. My enquiry drew out that Lady Coxon, who was the oddest of women, would have in any contingency to act under her late husband’s will, which was odder still, saddling her with a mass of queer obligations complicated with queer loopholes. There were several dreary people, Coxon cousins, old maids, to whom she would have more or less to minister. Gravener laughed, without saying no, when I suggested that the young lady might come in through a loophole; then suddenly, as if he suspected my turning a lantern on him, he declared quite dryly: “That’s all rot—one’s moved by other springs!” A fortnight later, at Lady Coxon’s own house, I understood well enough the springs one was moved by. Gravener had spoken of me there as an old friend, and I received a gracious invitation to dine. The Knight’s widow was again indisposed—she had succumbed at the eleventh hour; so that I found Miss Anvoy bravely playing hostess without even Gravener’s help, since, to make matters worse, he had just sent up word that the House, the insatiable House, with which he supposed he had contracted for easier terms, positively declined to release him. I was struck with the courage, the grace and gaiety of the young lady left thus to handle the fauna and flora of the Regent’s Park. I did what I could to help her to classify them, after I had recovered from the confusion of seeing her slightly disconcerted at perceiving in the guest introduced by her intended the gentleman with whom she had had that talk about Frank Saltram. I had at this moment my first glimpse of the fact that she was a person who could carry a responsibility; but I leave the reader to judge of my sense of the aggravation, for either of us, of such a burden, when I heard the servant announce Mrs. Saltram. From what immediately passed between the two ladies I gathered that the latter had been sent for post-haste to fill the gap created by the absence of the mistress of the house. “Good!” I remember crying, “she’ll be put by me;” and my apprehension was promptly justified. Mrs. Saltram taken in to dinner, and taken in as a consequence of an appeal to her amiability, was Mrs. Saltram with a vengeance. I asked myself what Miss Anvoy meant by doing such things, but the only answer I arrived at was that Gravener was verily fortunate. She hadn’t happened to tell him of her visit to Upper Baker Street, but she’d certainly tell him to-morrow; not indeed that this would make him like any better her having had the innocence to invite such a person as Mrs. Saltram on such an occasion. It could only strike me that I had never seen a young woman put such ignorance into her cleverness, such freedom into her modesty; this, I think, was when, after dinner, she said to me frankly, with almost jubilant mirth: “Oh you don’t admire Mrs. Saltram?” Why should I? This was truly a young person without guile. I had briefly to consider before I could reply that my objection to the lady named was the objection often uttered about people met at the social board—I knew all her stories. Then as Miss Anvoy remained momentarily vague I added: “Those about her husband.” “Oh yes, but there are some new ones.” “None for me. Ah novelty would be pleasant!” “Doesn’t it appear that of late he has been particularly horrid?” “His fluctuations don’t matter”, I returned, “for at night all cats are grey. You saw the shade of this one the night we waited for him together. What will you have? He has no dignity.” Miss Anvoy, who had been introducing with her American distinctness, looked encouragingly round at some of the combinations she had risked. “It’s too bad I can’t see him.” “You mean Gravener won’t let you?” “I haven’t asked him. He lets me do everything.” “But you know he knows him and wonders what some of us see in him.” “We haven’t happened to talk of him,” the girl said. “Get him to take you some day out to see the Mulvilles.” “I thought Mr. Saltram had thrown the Mulvilles over.” “Utterly. But that won’t prevent his being planted there again, to bloom like a rose, within a month or two.” Miss Anvoy thought a moment. Then, “I should like to see them,” she said with her fostering smile. “They’re tremendously worth it. You mustn’t miss them.” “I’ll make George take me,” she went on as Mrs. Saltram came up to interrupt us. She sniffed at this unfortunate as kindly as she had smiled at me and, addressing the question to her, continued: “But the chance of a lecture—one of the wonderful lectures? Isn’t there another course announced?” “Another? There are about thirty!” I exclaimed, turning away and feeling Mrs. Saltram’s little eyes in my back. A few days after this I heard that Gravener’s marriage was near at hand—was settled for Whitsuntide; but as no invitation had reached me I had my doubts, and there presently came to me in fact the report of a postponement. Something was the matter; what was the matter was supposed to be that Lady Coxon was now critically ill. I had called on her after my dinner in the Regent’s Park, but I had neither seen her nor seen Miss Anvoy. I forget to-day the exact order in which, at this period, sundry incidents occurred and the particular stage at which it suddenly struck me, making me catch my breath a little, that the progression, the acceleration, was for all the world that of fine drama. This was probably rather late in the day, and the exact order doesn’t signify. What had already occurred was some accident determining a more patient wait. George Gravener, whom I met again, in fact told me as much, but without signs of perturbation. Lady Coxon had to be constantly attended to, and there were other good reasons as well. Lady Coxon had to be so constantly attended to that on the occasion of a second attempt in the Regent’s Park I equally failed to obtain a sight of her niece. I judged it discreet in all the conditions not to make a third; but this didn’t matter, for it was through Adelaide Mulville that the side-wind of the comedy, though I was at first unwitting, began to reach me. I went to Wimbledon at times because Saltram was there, and I went at others because he wasn’t. The Pudneys, who had taken him to Birmingham, had already got rid of him, and we had a horrible consciousness of his wandering roofless, in dishonour, about the smoky Midlands, almost as the injured Lear wandered on the storm-lashed heath. His room, upstairs, had been lately done up (I could hear the crackle of the new chintz) and the difference only made his smirches and bruises, his splendid tainted genius, the more tragic. If he wasn’t barefoot in the mire he was sure to be unconventionally shod. These were the things Adelaide and I, who were old enough friends to stare at each other in silence, talked about when we didn’t speak. When we spoke it was only about the brilliant girl George Gravener was to marry and whom he had brought out the other Sunday. I could see that this presentation had been happy, for Mrs. Mulville commemorated it after her sole fashion of showing confidence in a new relation. “She likes me—she likes me”: her native humility exulted in that measure of success. We all knew for ourselves how she liked those who liked her, and as regards Ruth Anvoy she was more easily won over than Lady Maddock. VII ONE of the consequences, for the Mulvilles, of the sacrifices they made for Frank Saltram was that they had to give up their carriage. Adelaide drove gently into London in a one-horse greenish thing, an early Victorian landau, hired, near at hand, imaginatively, from a broken-down jobmaster whose wife was in consumption—a vehicle that made people turn round all the more when her pensioner sat beside her in a soft white hat and a shawl, one of the dear woman’s own. This was his position and I dare say his costume when on an afternoon in July she went to return Miss Anvoy’s visit. The wheel of fate had now revolved, and amid silences deep and exhaustive, compunctions and condonations alike unutterable, Saltram was reinstated. Was it in pride or in penance that Mrs. Mulville had begun immediately to drive him about? If he was ashamed of his ingratitude she might have been ashamed of her forgiveness; but she was incorrigibly capable of liking him to be conspicuous in the landau while she was in shops or with her acquaintance. However, if he was in the pillory for twenty minutes in the Regent’s Park—I mean at Lady Coxon’s door while his companion paid her call—it wasn’t to the further humiliation of any one concerned that she presently came out for him in person, not even to show either of them what a fool she was that she drew him in to be introduced to the bright young American. Her account of the introduction I had in its order, but before that, very late in the season, under Gravener’s auspices, I met Miss Anvoy at tea at the House of Commons. The member for Clockborough had gathered a group of pretty ladies, and the Mulvilles were not of the party. On the great terrace, as I strolled off with her a little, the guest of honour immediately exclaimed to me: “I’ve seen him, you know—I’ve seen him!” She told me about Saltram’s call. “And how did you find him?” “Oh so strange!” “You didn’t like him?” “I can’t tell till I see him again.” “You want to do that?” She had a pause. “Immensely.” We went no further; I fancied she had become aware Gravener was looking at us. She turned back toward the knot of the others, and I said: “Dislike him as much as you will—I see you’re bitten.” “Bitten?” I thought she coloured a little. “Oh it doesn’t matter!” I laughed; “one doesn’t die of it.” “I hope I shan’t die of anything before I’ve seen more of Mrs. Mulville.” I rejoiced with her over plain Adelaide, whom she pronounced the loveliest woman she had met in England; but before we separated I remarked to her that it was an act of mere humanity to warn her that if she should see more of Frank Saltram—which would be likely to follow on any increase of acquaintance with Mrs. Mulville—she might find herself flattening her nose against the clear hard pane of an eternal question—that of the relative, that of the opposed, importances of virtue and brains. She replied that this was surely a subject on which one took everything for granted; whereupon I admitted that I had perhaps expressed myself ill. What I referred to was what I had referred to the night we met in Upper Baker Street—the relative importance (relative to virtue) of other gifts. She asked me if I called virtue a gift—a thing handed to us in a parcel on our first birthday; and I declared that this very enquiry proved to me the problem had already caught her by the skirt. She would have help however, the same help I myself had once had, in resisting its tendency to make one cross. “What help do you mean?” “That of the member for Clockborough.” She stared, smiled, then returned: “Why my idea has been to help him!” She had helped him—I had his own word for it that at Clockborough her bedevilment of the voters had really put him in. She would do so doubtless again and again, though I heard the very next month that this fine faculty had undergone a temporary eclipse. News of the catastrophe first came to me from Mrs. Saltram, and it was afterwards confirmed at Wimbledon: poor Miss Anvoy was in trouble—great disasters in America had suddenly summoned her home. Her father, in New York, had suffered reverses, lost so much money that it was really vexatious as showing how much he had had. It was Adelaide who told me she had gone off alone at less than a week’s notice. “Alone? Gravener has permitted that?” “What will you have? The House of Commons!” I’m afraid I cursed the House of Commons: I was so much interested. Of course he’d follow her as soon as he was free to make her his wife; only she mightn’t now be able to bring him anything like the marriage-portion of which he had begun by having the virtual promise. Mrs. Mulville let me know what was already said: she was charming, this American girl, but really these American fathers—! What was a man to do? Mr. Saltram, according to Mrs. Mulville, was of opinion that a man was never to suffer his relation to money to become a spiritual relation—he was to keep it exclusively material. “Moi pas comprendre!” I commented on this; in rejoinder to which Adelaide, with her beautiful sympathy, explained that she supposed he simply meant that the thing was to use it, don’t you know? but not to think too much about it. “To take it, but not to thank you for it?” I still more profanely enquired. For a quarter of an hour afterwards she wouldn’t look at me, but this didn’t prevent my asking her what had been the result, that afternoon—in the Regent’s Park, of her taking our friend to see Miss Anvoy. “Oh so charming!” she answered, brightening. “He said he recognised in her a nature he could absolutely trust.” “Yes, but I’m speaking of the effect on herself.” Mrs. Mulville had to remount the stream. “It was everything one could wish.” Something in her tone made me laugh. “Do you mean she gave him—a dole?” “Well, since you ask me!” “Right there on the spot?” Again poor Adelaide faltered. “It was to me of course she gave it.” I stared; somehow I couldn’t see the scene. “Do you mean a sum of money?” “It was very handsome.” Now at last she met my eyes, though I could see it was with an effort. “Thirty pounds.” “Straight out of her pocket?” “Out of the drawer of a table at which she had been writing. She just slipped the folded notes into my hand. He wasn’t looking; it was while he was going back to the carriage.” “Oh,” said Adelaide reassuringly, “I take care of it for him!” The dear practical soul thought my agitation, for I confess I was agitated, referred to the employment of the money. Her disclosure made me for a moment muse violently, and I dare say that during that moment I wondered if anything else in the world makes people so gross as unselfishness. I uttered, I suppose, some vague synthetic cry, for she went on as if she had had a glimpse of my inward amaze at such passages. “I assure you, my dear friend, he was in one of his happy hours.” But I wasn’t thinking of that. “Truly indeed these Americans!” I said. “With her father in the very act, as it were, of swindling her betrothed!” Mrs. Mulville stared. “Oh I suppose Mr. Anvoy has scarcely gone bankrupt—or whatever he has done—on purpose. Very likely they won’t be able to keep it up, but there it was, and it was a very beautiful impulse.” “You say Saltram was very fine?” “Beyond everything. He surprised even me.” “And I know what you’ve enjoyed.” After a moment I added: “Had he peradventure caught a glimpse of the money in the table-drawer?” At this my companion honestly flushed. “How can you be so cruel when you know how little he calculates?” “Forgive me, I do know it. But you tell me things that act on my nerves. I’m sure he hadn’t caught a glimpse of anything but some splendid idea.” Mrs. Mulville brightly concurred. “And perhaps even of her beautiful listening face.” “Perhaps even! And what was it all about?” “His talk? It was apropos of her engagement, which I had told him about: the idea of marriage, the philosophy, the poetry, the sublimity of it.” It was impossible wholly to restrain one’s mirth at this, and some rude ripple that I emitted again caused my companion to admonish me. “It sounds a little stale, but you know his freshness.” “Of illustration? Indeed I do!” “And how he has always been right on that great question.” “On what great question, dear lady, hasn’t he been right?” “Of what other great men can you equally say it?—and that he has never, but never, had a deflexion?” Mrs. Mulville exultantly demanded. I tried to think of some other great man, but I had to give it up. “Didn’t Miss Anvoy express her satisfaction in any less diffident way than by her charming present?” I was reduced to asking instead. “Oh yes, she overflowed to me on the steps while he was getting into the carriage.” These words somehow brushed up a picture of Saltram’s big shawled back as he hoisted himself into the green landau. “She said she wasn’t disappointed,” Adelaide pursued. I turned it over. “Did he wear his shawl?” “His shawl?” She hadn’t even noticed. “I mean yours.” “He looked very nice, and you know he’s really clean. Miss Anvoy used such a remarkable expression—she said his mind’s like a crystal!” I pricked up my ears. “A crystal?” “Suspended in the moral world—swinging and shining and flashing there. She’s monstrously clever, you know.” I thought again. “Monstrously!” VIII GEORGE GRAVENER didn’t follow her, for late in September, after the House had risen, I met him in a railway-carriage. He was coming up from Scotland and I had just quitted some relations who lived near Durham. The current of travel back to London wasn’t yet strong; at any rate on entering the compartment I found he had had it for some time to himself. We fared in company, and though he had a blue-book in his lap and the open jaws of his bag threatened me with the white teeth of confused papers, we inevitably, we even at last sociably conversed. I saw things weren’t well with him, but I asked no question till something dropped by himself made, as it had made on another occasion, an absence of curiosity invidious. He mentioned that he was worried about his good old friend Lady Coxon, who, with her niece likely to be detained some time in America, lay seriously ill at Clockborough, much on his mind and on his hands. “Ah Miss Anvoy’s in America?” “Her father has got into horrid straits—has lost no end of money.” I waited, after expressing due concern, but I eventually said: “I hope that raises no objection to your marriage.” “None whatever; moreover it’s my trade to meet objections. But it may create tiresome delays, of which there have been too many, from various causes, already. Lady Coxon got very bad, then she got much better. Then Mr. Anvoy suddenly began to totter, and now he seems quite on his back. I’m afraid he’s really in for some big reverse. Lady Coxon’s worse again, awfully upset by the news from America, and she sends me word that she _must_ have Ruth. How can I supply her with Ruth? I haven’t got Ruth myself!” “Surely you haven’t lost her?” I returned. “She’s everything to her wretched father. She writes me every post—telling me to smooth her aunt’s pillow. I’ve other things to smooth; but the old lady, save for her servants, is really alone. She won’t receive her Coxon relations—she’s angry at so much of her money going to them. Besides, she’s hopelessly mad,” said Gravener very frankly. I don’t remember whether it was this, or what it was, that made me ask if she hadn’t such an appreciation of Mrs. Saltram as might render that active person of some use. He gave me a cold glance, wanting to know what had put Mrs. Saltram into my head, and I replied that she was unfortunately never out of it. I happened to remember the wonderful accounts she had given me of the kindness Lady Coxon had shown her. Gravener declared this to be false; Lady Coxon, who didn’t care for her, hadn’t seen her three times. The only foundation for it was that Miss Anvoy, who used, poor girl, to chuck money about in a manner she must now regret, had for an hour seen in the miserable woman—you could never know what she’d see in people—an interesting pretext for the liberality with which her nature overflowed. But even Miss Anvoy was now quite tired of her. Gravener told me more about the crash in New York and the annoyance it had been to him, and we also glanced here and there in other directions; but by the time we got to Doncaster the principal thing he had let me see was that he was keeping something back. We stopped at that station, and, at the carriage-door, some one made a movement to get in. Gravener uttered a sound of impatience, and I felt sure that but for this I should have had the secret. Then the intruder, for some reason, spared us his company; we started afresh, and my hope of a disclosure returned. My companion held his tongue, however, and I pretended to go to sleep; in fact I really dozed for discouragement. When I reopened my eyes he was looking at me with an injured air. He tossed away with some vivacity the remnant of a cigarette and then said: “If you’re not too sleepy I want to put you a case.” I answered that I’d make every effort to attend, and welcomed the note of interest when he went on: “As I told you a while ago, Lady Coxon, poor dear, is demented.” His tone had much behind it—was full of promise. I asked if her ladyship’s misfortune were a trait of her malady or only of her character, and he pronounced it a product of both. The case he wanted to put to me was a matter on which it concerned him to have the impression—the judgement, he might also say—of another person. “I mean of the average intelligent man, but you see I take what I can get.” There would be the technical, the strictly legal view; then there would be the way the question would strike a man of the world. He had lighted another cigarette while he talked, and I saw he was glad to have it to handle when he brought out at last, with a laugh slightly artificial: “In fact it’s a subject on which Miss Anvoy and I are pulling different ways.” “And you want me to decide between you? I decide in advance for Miss Anvoy.” “In advance—that’s quite right. That’s how I decided when I proposed to her. But my story will interest you only so far as your mind isn’t made up.” Gravener puffed his cigarette a minute and then continued: “Are you familiar with the idea of the Endowment of Research?” “Of Research?” I was at sea a moment. “I give you Lady Coxon’s phrase. She has it on the brain.” “She wishes to endow—?” “Some earnest and ‘loyal’ seeker,” Gravener said. “It was a sketchy design of her late husband’s, and he handed it on to her; setting apart in his will a sum of money of which she was to enjoy the interest for life, but of which, should she eventually see her opportunity—the matter was left largely to her discretion—she would best honour his memory by determining the exemplary public use. This sum of money, no less than thirteen thousand pounds, was to be called The Coxon Fund; and poor Sir Gregory evidently proposed to himself that The Coxon Fund should cover his name with glory—be universally desired and admired. He left his wife a full declaration of his views, so far at least as that term may be applied to views vitiated by a vagueness really infantine. A little learning’s a dangerous thing, and a good citizen who happens to have been an ass is worse for a community than bad sewerage. He’s worst of all when he’s dead, because then he can’t be stopped. However, such as they were, the poor man’s aspirations are now in his wife’s bosom, or fermenting rather in her foolish brain: it lies with her to carry them out. But of course she must first catch her hare.” “Her earnest loyal seeker?” “The flower that blushes unseen for want of such a pecuniary independence as may aid the light that’s in it to shine upon the human race. The individual, in a word, who, having the rest of the machinery, the spiritual, the intellectual, is most hampered in his search.” “His search for what?” “For Moral Truth. That’s what Sir Gregory calls it.” I burst out laughing. “Delightful munificent Sir Gregory! It’s a charming idea.” “So Miss Anvoy thinks.” “Has she a candidate for the Fund?” “Not that I know of—and she’s perfectly reasonable about it. But Lady Coxon has put the matter before her, and we’ve naturally had a lot of talk.” “Talk that, as you’ve so interestingly intimated, has landed you in a disagreement.” “She considers there’s something in it,” Gravener said. “And you consider there’s nothing?” “It seems to me a piece of solemn twaddle—which can’t fail to be attended with consequences certainly grotesque and possibly immoral. To begin with, fancy constituting an endowment without establishing a tribunal—a bench of competent people, of judges.” “The sole tribunal is Lady Coxon?” “And any one she chooses to invite.” “But she has invited you,” I noted. “I’m not competent—I hate the thing. Besides, she hasn’t,” my friend went on. “The real history of the matter, I take it, is that the inspiration was originally Lady Coxon’s own, that she infected him with it, and that the flattering option left her is simply his tribute to her beautiful, her aboriginal enthusiasm. She came to England forty years ago, a thin transcendental Bostonian, and even her odd happy frumpy Clockborough marriage never really materialised her. She feels indeed that she has become very British—as if that, as a process, as a ‘Werden,’ as anything but an original sign of grace, were conceivable; but it’s precisely what makes her cling to the notion of the ‘Fund’—cling to it as to a link with the ideal.” “How can she cling if she’s dying?” “Do you mean how can she act in the matter?” Gravener asked. “That’s precisely the question. She can’t! As she has never yet caught her hare, never spied out her lucky impostor—how should she, with the life she has led?—her husband’s intention has come very near lapsing. His idea, to do him justice, was that it _should_ lapse if exactly the right person, the perfect mixture of genius and chill penury, should fail to turn up. Ah the poor dear woman’s very particular—she says there must be no mistake.” I found all this quite thrilling—I took it in with avidity. “And if she dies without doing anything, what becomes of the money?” I demanded. “It goes back to his family, if she hasn’t made some other disposition of it.” “She may do that then—she may divert it?” “Her hands are not tied. She has a grand discretion. The proof is that three months ago she offered to make the proceeds over to her niece.” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use?” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use—on the occasion of her prospective marriage. She was discouraged—the earnest seeker required so earnest a search. She was afraid of making a mistake; every one she could think of seemed either not earnest enough or not poor enough. On the receipt of the first bad news about Mr. Anvoy’s affairs she proposed to Ruth to make the sacrifice for her. As the situation in New York got worse she repeated her proposal.” “Which Miss Anvoy declined?” “Except as a formal trust.” “You mean except as committing herself legally to place the money?” “On the head of the deserving object, the great man frustrated,” said Gravener. “She only consents to act in the spirit of Sir Gregory’s scheme.” “And you blame her for that?” I asked with some intensity. My tone couldn’t have been harsh, but he coloured a little and there was a queer light in his eye. “My dear fellow, if I ‘blamed’ the young lady I’m engaged to I shouldn’t immediately say it even to so old a friend as you.” I saw that some deep discomfort, some restless desire to be sided with, reassuringly, approvingly mirrored, had been at the bottom of his drifting so far, and I was genuinely touched by his confidence. It was inconsistent with his habits; but being troubled about a woman was not, for him, a habit: that itself was an inconsistency. George Gravener could stand straight enough before any other combination of forces. It amused me to think that the combination he had succumbed to had an American accent, a transcendental aunt and an insolvent father; but all my old loyalty to him mustered to meet this unexpected hint that I could help him. I saw that I could from the insincere tone in which he pursued: “I’ve criticised her of course, I’ve contended with her, and it has been great fun.” Yet it clearly couldn’t have been such great fun as to make it improper for me presently to ask if Miss Anvoy had nothing at all settled on herself. To this he replied that she had only a trifle from her mother—a mere four hundred a year, which was exactly why it would be convenient to him that she shouldn’t decline, in the face of this total change in her prospects, an accession of income which would distinctly help them to marry. When I enquired if there were no other way in which so rich and so affectionate an aunt could cause the weight of her benevolence to be felt, he answered that Lady Coxon was affectionate indeed, but was scarcely to be called rich. She could let her project of the Fund lapse for her niece’s benefit, but she couldn’t do anything else. She had been accustomed to regard her as tremendously provided for, and she was up to her eyes in promises to anxious Coxons. She was a woman of an inordinate conscience, and her conscience was now a distress to her, hovering round her bed in irreconcilable forms of resentful husbands, portionless nieces and undiscoverable philosophers. We were by this time getting into the whirr of fleeting platforms, the multiplication of lights. “I think you’ll find,” I said with a laugh, “that your predicament will disappear in the very fact that the philosopher _is_ undiscoverable.” He began to gather up his papers. “Who can set a limit to the ingenuity of an extravagant woman?” “Yes, after all, who indeed?” I echoed as I recalled the extravagance commemorated in Adelaide’s anecdote of Miss Anvoy and the thirty pounds. IX THE thing I had been most sensible of in that talk with George Gravener was the way Saltram’s name kept out of it. It seemed to me at the time that we were quite pointedly silent about him; but afterwards it appeared more probable there had been on my companion’s part no conscious avoidance. Later on I was sure of this, and for the best of reasons—the simple reason of my perceiving more completely that, for evil as well as for good, he said nothing to Gravener’s imagination. That honest man didn’t fear him—he was too much disgusted with him. No more did I, doubtless, and for very much the same reason. I treated my friend’s story as an absolute confidence; but when before Christmas, by Mrs. Saltram, I was informed of Lady Coxon’s death without having had news of Miss Anvoy’s return, I found myself taking for granted we should hear no more of these nuptials, in which, as obscurely unnatural, I now saw I had never _too_ disconcertedly believed. I began to ask myself how people who suited each other so little could please each other so much. The charm was some material charm, some afffinity, exquisite doubtless, yet superficial some surrender to youth and beauty and passion, to force and grace and fortune, happy accidents and easy contacts. They might dote on each other’s persons, but how could they know each other’s souls? How could they have the same prejudices, how could they have the same horizon? Such questions, I confess, seemed quenched but not answered when, one day in February, going out to Wimbledon, I found our young lady in the house. A passion that had brought her back across the wintry ocean was as much of a passion as was needed. No impulse equally strong indeed had drawn George Gravener to America; a circumstance on which, however, I reflected only long enough to remind myself that it was none of my business. Ruth Anvoy was distinctly different, and I felt that the difference was not simply that of her marks of mourning. Mrs. Mulville told me soon enough what it was: it was the difference between a handsome girl with large expectations and a handsome girl with only four hundred a year. This explanation indeed didn’t wholly content me, not even when I learned that her mourning had a double cause—learned that poor Mr. Anvoy, giving way altogether, buried under the ruins of his fortune and leaving next to nothing, had died a few weeks before. “So she has come out to marry George Gravener?” I commented. “Wouldn’t it have been prettier of him to have saved her the trouble?” “Hasn’t the House just met?” Adelaide replied. “And for Mr. Gravener the House—!” Then she added: “I gather that her having come is exactly a sign that the marriage is a little shaky. If it were quite all right a self-respecting girl like Ruth would have waited for him over there.” I noted that they were already Ruth and Adelaide, but what I said was: “Do you mean she’ll have had to return to _make_ it so?” “No, I mean that she must have come out for some reason independent of it.” Adelaide could only surmise, however, as yet, and there was more, as we found, to be revealed. Mrs. Mulville, on hearing of her arrival, had brought the young lady out in the green landau for the Sunday. The Coxons were in possession of the house in Regent’s Park, and Miss Anvoy was in dreary lodgings. George Gravener had been with her when Adelaide called, but had assented graciously enough to the little visit at Wimbledon. The carriage, with Mr. Saltram in it but not mentioned, had been sent off on some errand from which it was to return and pick the ladies up. Gravener had left them together, and at the end of an hour, on the Saturday afternoon, the party of three had driven out to Wimbledon. This was the girl’s second glimpse of our great man, and I was interested in asking Mrs. Mulville if the impression made by the first appeared to have been confirmed. On her replying after consideration, that of course with time and opportunity it couldn’t fail to be, but that she was disappointed, I was sufficiently struck with her use of this last word to question her further. “Do you mean you’re disappointed because you judge Miss Anvoy to be?” “Yes; I hoped for a greater effect last evening. We had two or three people, but he scarcely opened his mouth.” “He’ll be all the better to-night,” I opined after a moment. Then I pursued: “What particular importance do you attach to the idea of her being impressed?” Adelaide turned her mild pale eyes on me as for rebuke of my levity. “Why the importance of her being as happy as _we_ are!” I’m afraid that at this my levity grew. “Oh that’s a happiness almost too great to wish a person!” I saw she hadn’t yet in her mind what I had in mine, and at any rate the visitor’s actual bliss was limited to a walk in the garden with Kent Mulville. Later in the afternoon I also took one, and I saw nothing of Miss Anvoy till dinner, at which we failed of the company of Saltram, who had caused it to be reported that he was indisposed and lying down. This made us, most of us—for there were other friends present—convey to each other in silence some of the unutterable things that in those years our eyes had inevitably acquired the art of expressing. If a fine little American enquirer hadn’t been there we would have expressed them otherwise, and Adelaide would have pretended not to hear. I had seen her, before the very fact, abstract herself nobly; and I knew that more than once, to keep it from the servants, managing, dissimulating cleverly, she had helped her husband to carry him bodily to his room. Just recently he had been so wise and so deep and so high that I had begun to get nervous—to wonder if by chance there were something behind it, if he were kept straight for instance by the knowledge that the hated Pudneys would have more to tell us if they chose. He was lying low, but unfortunately it was common wisdom with us in this connexion that the biggest splashes took place in the quietest pools. We should have had a merry life indeed if all the splashes had sprinkled us as refreshingly as the waters we were even then to feel about our ears. Kent Mulville had been up to his room, but had come back with a face that told as few tales as I had seen it succeed in telling on the evening I waited in the lecture-room with Miss Anvoy. I said to myself that our friend had gone out, but it was a comfort that the presence of a comparative stranger deprived us of the dreary duty of suggesting to each other, in respect of his errand, edifying possibilities in which we didn’t ourselves believe. At ten o’clock he came into the drawing-room with his waistcoat much awry but his eyes sending out great signals. It was precisely with his entrance that I ceased to be vividly conscious of him. I saw that the crystal, as I had called it, had begun to swing, and I had need of my immediate attention for Miss Anvoy. Even when I was told afterwards that he had, as we might have said to-day, broken the record, the manner in which that attention had been rewarded relieved me of a sense of loss. I had of course a perfect general consciousness that something great was going on: it was a little like having been etherised to hear Herr Joachim play. The old music was in the air; I felt the strong pulse of thought, the sink and swell, the flight, the poise, the plunge; but I knew something about one of the listeners that nobody else knew, and Saltram’s monologue could reach me only through that medium. To this hour I’m of no use when, as a witness, I’m appealed to—for they still absurdly contend about it—as to whether or no on that historic night he was drunk; and my position is slightly ridiculous, for I’ve never cared to tell them what it really was I was taken up with. What I got out of it is the only morsel of the total experience that is quite my own. The others were shared, but this is incommunicable. I feel that now, I’m bound to say, even in thus roughly evoking the occasion, and it takes something from my pride of clearness. However, I shall perhaps be as clear as is absolutely needful if I remark that our young lady was too much given up to her own intensity of observation to be sensible of mine. It was plainly not the question of her marriage that had brought her back. I greatly enjoyed this discovery and was sure that had that question alone been involved she would have stirred no step. In this case doubtless Gravener would, in spite of the House of Commons, have found means to rejoin her. It afterwards made me uncomfortable for her that, alone in the lodging Mrs. Mulville had put before me as dreary, she should have in any degree the air of waiting for her fate; so that I was presently relieved at hearing of her having gone to stay at Coldfield. If she was in England at all while the engagement stood the only proper place for her was under Lady Maddock’s wing. Now that she was unfortunate and relatively poor, perhaps her prospective sister-in-law would be wholly won over. There would be much to say, if I had space, about the way her behaviour, as I caught gleams of it, ministered to the image that had taken birth in my mind, to my private amusement, while that other night I listened to George Gravener in the railway-carriage. I watched her in the light of this queer possibility—a formidable thing certainly to meet—and I was aware that it coloured, extravagantly perhaps, my interpretation of her very looks and tones. At Wimbledon for instance it had appeared to me she was literally afraid of Saltram, in dread of a coercion that she had begun already to feel. I had come up to town with her the next day and had been convinced that, though deeply interested, she was immensely on her guard. She would show as little as possible before she should be ready to show everything. What this final exhibition might be on the part of a girl perceptibly so able to think things out I found it great sport to forecast. It would have been exciting to be approached by her, appealed to by her for advice; but I prayed to heaven I mightn’t find myself in such a predicament. If there was really a present rigour in the situation of which Gravener had sketched for me the elements, she would have to get out of her difficulty by herself. It wasn’t I who had launched her and it wasn’t I who could help her. I didn’t fail to ask myself why, since I couldn’t help her, I should think so much about her. It was in part my suspense that was responsible for this; I waited impatiently to see whether she wouldn’t have told Mrs. Mulville a portion at least of what I had learned from Gravener. But I saw Mrs. Mulville was still reduced to wonder what she had come out again for if she hadn’t come as a conciliatory bride. That she had come in some other character was the only thing that fitted all the appearances. Having for family reasons to spend some time that spring in the west of England, I was in a manner out of earshot of the great oceanic rumble—I mean of the continuous hum of Saltram’s thought—and my uneasiness tended to keep me quiet. There was something I wanted so little to have to say that my prudence surmounted my curiosity. I only wondered if Ruth Anvoy talked over the idea of The Coxon Fund with Lady Maddock, and also somewhat why I didn’t hear from Wimbledon. I had a reproachful note about something or other from Mrs. Saltram, but it contained no mention of Lady Coxon’s niece, on whom her eyes had been much less fixed since the recent untoward events. X POOR Adelaide’s silence was fully explained later—practically explained when in June, returning to London, I was honoured by this admirable woman with an early visit. As soon as she arrived I guessed everything, and as soon as she told me that darling Ruth had been in her house nearly a month I had my question ready. “What in the name of maidenly modesty is she staying in England for?” “Because she loves me so!” cried Adelaide gaily. But she hadn’t come to see me only to tell me Miss Anvoy loved her: that was quite sufficiently established, and what was much more to the point was that Mr. Gravener had now raised an objection to it. He had protested at least against her being at Wimbledon, where in the innocence of his heart he had originally brought her himself; he called on her to put an end to their engagement in the only proper, the only happy manner. “And why in the world doesn’t she do do?” I asked. Adelaide had a pause. “She says you know.” Then on my also hesitating she added: “A condition he makes.” “The Coxon Fund?” I panted. “He has mentioned to her his having told you about it.” “Ah but so little! Do you mean she has accepted the trust?” “In the most splendid spirit—as a duty about which there can be no two opinions.” To which my friend added: “Of course she’s thinking of Mr. Saltram.” I gave a quick cry at this, which, in its violence, made my visitor turn pale. “How very awful!” “Awful?” “Why, to have anything to do with such an idea one’s self.” “I’m sure _you_ needn’t!” and Mrs. Mulville tossed her head. “He isn’t good enough!” I went on; to which she opposed a sound almost as contentious as my own had been. This made me, with genuine immediate horror, exclaim: “You haven’t influenced her, I hope!” and my emphasis brought back the blood with a rush to poor Adelaide’s face. She declared while she blushed—for I had frightened her again—that she had never influenced anybody and that the girl had only seen and heard and judged for herself. _He_ had influenced her, if I would, as he did every one who had a soul: that word, as we knew, even expressed feebly the power of the things he said to haunt the mind. How could she, Adelaide, help it if Miss Anvoy’s mind was haunted? I demanded with a groan what right a pretty girl engaged to a rising M.P. had to _have_ a mind; but the only explanation my bewildered friend could give me was that she was so clever. She regarded Mr. Saltram naturally as a tremendous force for good. She was intelligent enough to understand him and generous enough to admire. “She’s many things enough, but is she, among them, rich enough?” I demanded. “Rich enough, I mean, to sacrifice such a lot of good money?” “That’s for herself to judge. Besides, it’s not her own money; she doesn’t in the least consider it so.” “And Gravener does, if not _his_ own; and that’s the whole difficulty?” “The difficulty that brought her back, yes: she had absolutely to see her poor aunt’s solicitor. It’s clear that by Lady Coxon’s will she may have the money, but it’s still clearer to her conscience that the original condition, definite, intensely implied on her uncle’s part, is attached to the use of it. She can only take one view of it. It’s for the Endowment or it’s for nothing.” “The Endowment,” I permitted myself to observe, “is a conception superficially sublime, but fundamentally ridiculous.” “Are you repeating Mr. Gravener’s words?” Adelaide asked. “Possibly, though I’ve not seen him for months. It’s simply the way it strikes me too. It’s an old wife’s tale. Gravener made some reference to the legal aspect, but such an absurdly loose arrangement has _no_ legal aspect.” “Ruth doesn’t insist on that,” said Mrs. Mulville; “and it’s, for her, exactly this technical weakness that constitutes the force of the moral obligation.” “Are you repeating _her_ words?” I enquired. I forget what else Adelaide said, but she said she was magnificent. I thought of George Gravener confronted with such magnificence as that, and I asked what could have made two such persons ever suppose they understood each other. Mrs. Mulville assured me the girl loved him as such a woman could love and that she suffered as such a woman could suffer. Nevertheless she wanted to see _me_. At this I sprang up with a groan. “Oh I’m so sorry!—when?” Small though her sense of humour, I think Adelaide laughed at my sequence. We discussed the day, the nearest it would be convenient I should come out; but before she went I asked my visitor how long she had been acquainted with these prodigies. “For several weeks, but I was pledged to secrecy.” “And that’s why you didn’t write?” “I couldn’t very well tell you she was with me without telling you that no time had even yet been fixed for her marriage. And I couldn’t very well tell you as much as that without telling you what I knew of the reason of it. It was not till a day or two ago,” Mrs. Mulville went on, “that she asked me to ask you if you wouldn’t come and see her. Then at last she spoke of your knowing about the idea of the Endowment.” I turned this over. “Why on earth does she want to see me?” “To talk with you, naturally, about Mr. Saltram.” “As a subject for the prize?” This was hugely obvious, and I presently returned: “I think I’ll sail to-morrow for Australia.” “Well then—sail!” said Mrs. Mulville, getting up. But I frivolously, continued. “On Thursday at five, we said?” The appointment was made definite and I enquired how, all this time, the unconscious candidate had carried himself. “In perfection, really, by the happiest of chances: he has positively been a dear. And then, as to what we revere him for, in the most wonderful form. His very highest—pure celestial light. You _won’t_ do him an ill turn?” Adelaide pleaded at the door. “What danger can equal for him the danger to which he’s exposed from himself?” I asked. “Look out sharp, if he has lately been too prim. He’ll presently take a day off, treat us to some exhibition that will make an Endowment a scandal.” “A scandal?” Mrs. Mulville dolorously echoed. “Is Miss Anvoy prepared for that?” My visitor, for a moment, screwed her parasol into my carpet. “He grows bigger every day.” “So do you!” I laughed as she went off. That girl at Wimbledon, on the Thursday afternoon, more than justified my apprehensions. I recognised fully now the cause of the agitation she had produced in me from the first—the faint foreknowledge that there was something very stiff I should have to do for her. I felt more than ever committed to my fate as, standing before her in the big drawing-room where they had tactfully left us to ourselves, I tried with a smile to string together the pearls of lucidity which, from her chair, she successively tossed me. Pale and bright, in her monotonous mourning, she was an image of intelligent purpose, of the passion of duty; but I asked myself whether any girl had ever had so charming an instinct as that which permitted her to laugh out, as for the joy of her difficulty, into the priggish old room. This remarkable young woman could be earnest without being solemn, and at moments when I ought doubtless to have cursed her obstinacy I found myself watching the unstudied play of her eyebrows or the recurrence of a singularly intense whiteness produced by the parting of her lips. These aberrations, I hasten to add, didn’t prevent my learning soon enough why she had wished to see me. Her reason for this was as distinct as her beauty: it was to make me explain what I had meant, on the occasion of our first meeting, by Mr. Saltram’s want of dignity. It wasn’t that she couldn’t imagine, but she desired it there from my lips. What she really desired of course was to know whether there was worse about him than what she had found out for herself. She hadn’t been a month so much in the house with him without discovering that he wasn’t a man of monumental bronze. He was like a jelly minus its mould, he had to be embanked; and that was precisely the source of her interest in him and the ground of her project. She put her project boldly before me: there it stood in its preposterous beauty. She was as willing to take the humorous view of it as I could be: the only difference was that for her the humorous view of a thing wasn’t necessarily prohibitive, wasn’t paralysing. Moreover she professed that she couldn’t discuss with me the primary question—the moral obligation: that was in her own breast. There were things she couldn’t go into—injunctions, impressions she had received. They were a part of the closest intimacy of her intercourse with her aunt, they were absolutely clear to her; and on questions of delicacy, the interpretation of a fidelity, of a promise, one had always in the last resort to make up one’s mind for one’s self. It was the idea of the application to the particular case, such a splendid one at last, that troubled her, and she admitted that it stirred very deep things. She didn’t pretend that such a responsibility was a simple matter; if it _had_ been she wouldn’t have attempted to saddle me with any portion of it. The Mulvilles were sympathy itself, but were they absolutely candid? Could they indeed be, in their position—would it even have been to be desired? Yes, she had sent for me to ask no less than that of me—whether there was anything dreadful kept back. She made no allusion whatever to George Gravener—I thought her silence the only good taste and her gaiety perhaps a part of the very anxiety of that discretion, the effect of a determination that people shouldn’t know from herself that her relations with the man she was to marry were strained. All the weight, however, that she left me to throw was a sufficient implication of the weight _he_ had thrown in vain. Oh she knew the question of character was immense, and that one couldn’t entertain any plan for making merit comfortable without running the gauntlet of that terrible procession of interrogation-points which, like a young ladies’ school out for a walk, hooked their uniform noses at the tail of governess Conduct. But were we absolutely to hold that there was never, never, never an exception, never, never, never an occasion for liberal acceptance, for clever charity, for suspended pedantry—for letting one side, in short, outbalance another? When Miss Anvoy threw off this appeal I could have embraced her for so delightfully emphasising her unlikeness to Mrs. Saltram. “Why not have the courage of one’s forgiveness,” she asked, “as well as the enthusiasm of one’s adhesion?” “Seeing how wonderfully you’ve threshed the whole thing out,” I evasively replied, “gives me an extraordinary notion of the point your enthusiasm has reached.” She considered this remark an instant with her eyes on mine, and I divined that it struck her I might possibly intend it as a reference to some personal subjection to our fat philosopher, to some aberration of sensibility, some perversion of taste. At least I couldn’t interpret otherwise the sudden flash that came into her face. Such a manifestation, as the result of any word of mine, embarrassed me; but while I was thinking how to reassure her the flush passed away in a smile of exquisite good nature. “Oh you see one forgets so wonderfully how one dislikes him!” she said; and if her tone simply extinguished his strange figure with the brush of its compassion, it also rings in my ear to-day as the purest of all our praises. But with what quick response of fine pity such a relegation of the man himself made me privately sigh “Ah poor Saltram!” She instantly, with this, took the measure of all I didn’t believe, and it enabled her to go on: “What can one do when a person has given such a lift to one’s interest in life?” “Yes, what can one do?” If I struck her as a little vague it was because I was thinking of another person. I indulged in another inarticulate murmur—“Poor George Gravener!” What had become of the lift _he_ had given that interest? Later on I made up my mind that she was sore and stricken at the appearance he presented of wanting the miserable money. This was the hidden reason of her alienation. The probable sincerity, in spite of the illiberality, of his scruples about the particular use of it under discussion didn’t efface the ugliness of his demand that they should buy a good house with it. Then, as for _his_ alienation, he didn’t, pardonably enough, grasp the lift Frank Saltram had given her interest in life. If a mere spectator could ask that last question, with what rage in his heart the man himself might! He wasn’t, like her, I was to see, too proud to show me why he was disappointed. XI I WAS unable this time to stay to dinner: such at any rate was the plea on which I took leave. I desired in truth to get away from my young lady, for that obviously helped me not to pretend to satisfy her. How _could_ I satisfy her? I asked myself—how could I tell her how much had been kept back? I didn’t even know and I certainly didn’t desire to know. My own policy had ever been to learn the least about poor Saltram’s weaknesses—not to learn the most. A great deal that I had in fact learned had been forced upon me by his wife. There was something even irritating in Miss Anvoy’s crude conscientiousness, and I wondered why, after all, she couldn’t have let him alone and been content to entrust George Gravener with the purchase of the good house. I was sure he would have driven a bargain, got something excellent and cheap. I laughed louder even than she, I temporised, I failed her; I told her I must think over her case. I professed a horror of responsibilities and twitted her with her own extravagant passion for them. It wasn’t really that I was afraid of the scandal, the moral discredit for the Fund; what troubled me most was a feeling of a different order. Of course, as the beneficiary of the Fund was to enjoy a simple life-interest, as it was hoped that new beneficiaries would arise and come up to new standards, it wouldn’t be a trifle that the first of these worthies shouldn’t have been a striking example of the domestic virtues. The Fund would start badly, as it were, and the laurel would, in some respects at least, scarcely be greener from the brows of the original wearer. That idea, however, was at that hour, as I have hinted, not the source of solicitude it ought perhaps to have been, for I felt less the irregularity of Saltram’s getting the money than that of this exalted young woman’s giving it up. I wanted her to have it for herself, and I told her so before I went away. She looked graver at this than she had looked at all, saying she hoped such a preference wouldn’t make me dishonest. It made me, to begin with, very restless—made me, instead of going straight to the station, fidget a little about that many-coloured Common which gives Wimbledon horizons. There was a worry for me to work off, or rather keep at a distance, for I declined even to admit to myself that I had, in Miss Anvoy’s phrase, been saddled with it. What could have been clearer indeed than the attitude of recognising perfectly what a world of trouble The Coxon Fund would in future save us, and of yet liking better to face a continuance of that trouble than see, and in fact contribute to, a deviation from attainable bliss in the life of two other persons in whom I was deeply interested? Suddenly, at the end of twenty minutes, there was projected across this clearness the image of a massive middle-aged man seated on a bench under a tree, with sad far-wandering eyes and plump white hands folded on the head of a stick—a stick I recognised, a stout gold-headed staff that I had given him in devoted days. I stopped short as he turned his face to me, and it happened that for some reason or other I took in as I had perhaps never done before the beauty of his rich blank gaze. It was charged with experience as the sky is charged with light, and I felt on the instant as if we had been overspanned and conjoined by the great arch of a bridge or the great dome of a temple. Doubtless I was rendered peculiarly sensitive to it by something in the way I had been giving him up and sinking him. While I met it I stood there smitten, and I felt myself responding to it with a sort of guilty grimace. This brought back his attention in a smile which expressed for me a cheerful weary patience, a bruised noble gentleness. I had told Miss Anvoy that he had no dignity, but what did he seem to me, all unbuttoned and fatigued as he waited for me to come up, if he didn’t seem unconcerned with small things, didn’t seem in short majestic? There was majesty in his mere unconsciousness of our little conferences and puzzlements over his maintenance and his reward. After I had sat by him a few minutes I passed my arm over his big soft shoulder—wherever you touched him you found equally little firmness—and said in a tone of which the suppliance fell oddly on my own ear: “Come back to town with me, old friend—come back and spend the evening.” I wanted to hold him, I wanted to keep him, and at Waterloo, an hour later, I telegraphed possessively to the Mulvilles. When he objected, as regards staying all night, that he had no things, I asked him if he hadn’t everything of mine. I had abstained from ordering dinner, and it was too late for preliminaries at a club; so we were reduced to tea and fried fish at my rooms—reduced also to the transcendent. Something had come up which made me want him to feel at peace with me—and which, precisely, was all the dear man himself wanted on any occasion. I had too often had to press upon him considerations irrelevant, but it gives me pleasure now to think that on that particular evening I didn’t even mention Mrs. Saltram and the children. Late into the night we smoked and talked; old shames and old rigours fell away from us; I only let him see that I was conscious of what I owed him. He was as mild as contrition and as copious as faith; he was never so fine as on a shy return, and even better at forgiving than at being forgiven. I dare say it was a smaller matter than that famous night at Wimbledon, the night of the problematical sobriety and of Miss Anvoy’s initiation; but I was as much in it on this occasion as I had been out of it then. At about 1.30 he was sublime. He never, in whatever situation, rose till all other risings were over, and his breakfasts, at Wimbledon, had always been the principal reason mentioned by departing cooks. The coast was therefore clear for me to receive her when, early the next morning, to my surprise, it was announced to me his wife had called. I hesitated, after she had come up, about telling her Saltram was in the house, but she herself settled the question, kept me reticent by drawing forth a sealed letter which, looking at me very hard in the eyes, she placed, with a pregnant absence of comment, in my hand. For a single moment there glimmered before me the fond hope that Mrs. Saltram had tendered me, as it were, her resignation and desired to embody the act in an unsparing form. To bring this about I would have feigned any humiliation; but after my eyes had caught the superscription I heard myself say with a flatness that betrayed a sense of something very different from relief: “Oh the Pudneys!” I knew their envelopes though they didn’t know mine. They always used the kind sold at post-offices with the stamp affixed, and as this letter hadn’t been posted they had wasted a penny on me. I had seen their horrid missives to the Mulvilles, but hadn’t been in direct correspondence with them. “They enclosed it to me, to be delivered. They doubtless explain to you that they hadn’t your address.” I turned the thing over without opening it. “Why in the world should they write to me?” “Because they’ve something to tell you. The worst,” Mrs. Saltram dryly added. It was another chapter, I felt, of the history of their lamentable quarrel with her husband, the episode in which, vindictively, disingenuously as they themselves had behaved, one had to admit that he had put himself more grossly in the wrong than at any moment of his life. He had begun by insulting the matchless Mulvilles for these more specious protectors, and then, according to his wont at the end of a few months, had dug a still deeper ditch for his aberration than the chasm left yawning behind. The chasm at Wimbledon was now blessedly closed; but the Pudneys, across their persistent gulf, kept up the nastiest fire. I never doubted they had a strong case, and I had been from the first for not defending him—reasoning that if they weren’t contradicted they’d perhaps subside. This was above all what I wanted, and I so far prevailed that I did arrest the correspondence in time to save our little circle an infliction heavier than it perhaps would have borne. I knew, that is I divined, that their allegations had gone as yet only as far as their courage, conscious as they were in their own virtue of an exposed place in which Saltram could have planted a blow. It was a question with them whether a man who had himself so much to cover up would dare his blow; so that these vessels of rancour were in a manner afraid of each other. I judged that on the day the Pudneys should cease for some reason or other to be afraid they would treat us to some revelation more disconcerting than any of its predecessors. As I held Mrs. Saltram’s letter in my hand it was distinctly communicated to me that the day had come—they had ceased to be afraid. “I don’t want to know the worst,” I presently declared. “You’ll have to open the letter. It also contains an enclosure.” I felt it—it was fat and uncanny. “Wheels within wheels!” I exclaimed. “There’s something for me too to deliver.” “So they tell me—to Miss Anvoy.” I stared; I felt a certain thrill. “Why don’t they send it to her directly?” Mrs. Saltram hung fire. “Because she’s staying with Mr. and Mrs. Mulville.” “And why should that prevent?” Again my visitor faltered, and I began to reflect on the grotesque, the unconscious perversity of her action. I was the only person save George Gravener and the Mulvilles who was aware of Sir Gregory Coxon’s and of Miss Anvoy’s strange bounty. Where could there have been a more signal illustration of the clumsiness of human affairs than her having complacently selected this moment to fly in the face of it? “There’s the chance of their seeing her letters. They know Mr. Pudney’s hand.” Still I didn’t understand; then it flashed upon me. “You mean they might intercept it? How can you imply anything so base?” I indignantly demanded. “It’s not I—it’s Mr. Pudney!” cried Mrs. Saltram with a flush. “It’s his own idea.” “Then why couldn’t he send the letter to you to be delivered?” Mrs. Saltram’s embarrassment increased; she gave me another hard look. “You must make that out for yourself.” I made it out quickly enough. “It’s a denunciation?” “A real lady doesn’t betray her husband!” this virtuous woman exclaimed. I burst out laughing, and I fear my laugh may have had an effect of impertinence. “Especially to Miss Anvoy, who’s so easily shocked? Why do such things concern _her_?” I asked, much at a loss. “Because she’s there, exposed to all his craft. Mr. and Mrs. Pudney have been watching this: they feel she may be taken in.” “Thank you for all the rest of us! What difference can it make when she has lost her power to contribute?” Again Mrs. Saltram considered; then very nobly: “There are other things in the world than money.” This hadn’t occurred to her so long as the young lady had any; but she now added, with a glance at my letter, that Mr. and Mrs. Pudney doubtless explained their motives. “It’s all in kindness,” she continued as she got up. “Kindness to Miss Anvoy? You took, on the whole, another view of kindness before her reverses.” My companion smiled with some acidity “Perhaps you’re no safer than the Mulvilles!” I didn’t want her to think that, nor that she should report to the Pudneys that they had not been happy in their agent; and I well remember that this was the moment at which I began, with considerable emotion, to promise myself to enjoin upon Miss Anvoy never to open any letter that should come to her in one of those penny envelopes. My emotion, and I fear I must add my confusion, quickly deepened; I presently should have been as glad to frighten Mrs. Saltram as to think I might by some diplomacy restore the Pudneys to a quieter vigilance. “It’s best you should take _my_ view of my safety,” I at any rate soon responded. When I saw she didn’t know what I meant by this I added: “You may turn out to have done, in bringing me this letter, a thing you’ll profoundly regret.” My tone had a significance which, I could see, did make her uneasy, and there was a moment, after I had made two or three more remarks of studiously bewildering effect, at which her eyes followed so hungrily the little flourish of the letter with which I emphasised them that I instinctively slipped Mr. Pudney’s communication into my pocket. She looked, in her embarrassed annoyance, capable of grabbing it to send it back to him. I felt, after she had gone, as if I had almost given her my word I wouldn’t deliver the enclosure. The passionate movement, at any rate, with which, in solitude, I transferred the whole thing, unopened, from my pocket to a drawer which I double-locked would have amounted, for an initiated observer, to some such pledge. XII MRS. SALTRAM left me drawing my breath more quickly and indeed almost in pain—as if I had just perilously grazed the loss of something precious. I didn’t quite know what it was—it had a shocking resemblance to my honour. The emotion was the livelier surely in that my pulses even yet vibrated to the pleasure with which, the night before, I had rallied to the rare analyst, the great intellectual adventurer and pathfinder. What had dropped from me like a cumbersome garment as Saltram appeared before me in the afternoon on the heath was the disposition to haggle over his value. Hang it, one had to choose, one had to put that value somewhere; so I would put it really high and have done with it. Mrs. Mulville drove in for him at a discreet hour—the earliest she could suppose him to have got up; and I learned that Miss Anvoy would also have come had she not been expecting a visit from Mr. Gravener. I was perfectly mindful that I was under bonds to see this young lady, and also that I had a letter to hand to her; but I took my time, I waited from day to day. I left Mrs. Saltram to deal as her apprehensions should prompt with the Pudneys. I knew at last what I meant—I had ceased to wince at my responsibility. I gave this supreme impression of Saltram time to fade if it would; but it didn’t fade, and, individually, it hasn’t faded even now. During the month that I thus invited myself to stiffen again, Adelaide Mulville, perplexed by my absence, wrote to me to ask why I _was_ so stiff. At that season of the year I was usually oftener “with” them. She also wrote that she feared a real estrangement had set in between Mr. Gravener and her sweet young friend—a state of things but half satisfactory to her so long as the advantage resulting to Mr. Saltram failed to disengage itself from the merely nebulous state. She intimated that her sweet young friend was, if anything, a trifle too reserved; she also intimated that there might now be an opening for another clever young man. There never was the slightest opening, I may here parenthesise, and of course the question can’t come up to-day. These are old frustrations now. Ruth Anvoy hasn’t married, I hear, and neither have I. During the month, toward the end, I wrote to George Gravener to ask if, on a special errand, I might come to see him, and his answer was to knock the very next day at my door. I saw he had immediately connected my enquiry with the talk we had had in the railway-carriage, and his promptitude showed that the ashes of his eagerness weren’t yet cold. I told him there was something I felt I ought in candour to let him know—I recognised the obligation his friendly confidence had laid on me. “You mean Miss Anvoy has talked to you? She has told me so herself,” he said. “It wasn’t to tell you so that I wanted to see you,” I replied; “for it seemed to me that such a communication would rest wholly with herself. If however she did speak to you of our conversation she probably told you I was discouraging.” “Discouraging?” “On the subject of a present application of The Coxon Fund.” “To the case of Mr. Saltram? My dear fellow, I don’t know what you call discouraging!” Gravener cried. “Well I thought I was, and I thought she thought I was.” “I believe she did, but such a thing’s measured by the effect. She’s not ‘discouraged,’” he said. “That’s her own affair. The reason I asked you to see me was that it appeared to me I ought to tell you frankly that—decidedly!—I can’t undertake to produce that effect. In fact I don’t want to!” “It’s very good of you, damn you!” my visitor laughed, red and really grave. Then he said: “You’d like to see that scoundrel publicly glorified—perched on the pedestal of a great complimentary pension?” I braced myself. “Taking one form of public recognition with another it seems to me on the whole I should be able to bear it. When I see the compliments that _are_ paid right and left I ask myself why this one shouldn’t take its course. This therefore is what you’re entitled to have looked to me to mention to you. I’ve some evidence that perhaps would be really dissuasive, but I propose to invite Mss Anvoy to remain in ignorance of it.” “And to invite me to do the same?” “Oh you don’t require it—you’ve evidence enough. I speak of a sealed letter that I’ve been requested to deliver to her.” “And you don’t mean to?” “There’s only one consideration that would make me,” I said. Gravener’s clear handsome eyes plunged into mine a minute, but evidently without fishing up a clue to this motive—a failure by which I was almost wounded. “What does the letter contain?” “It’s sealed, as I tell you, and I don’t know what it contains.” “Why is it sent through you?” “Rather than you?” I wondered how to put the thing. “The only explanation I can think of is that the person sending it may have imagined your relations with Miss Anvoy to be at an end—may have been told this is the case by Mrs. Saltram.” “My relations with Miss Anvoy are not at an end,” poor Gravener stammered. Again for an instant I thought. “The offer I propose to make you gives me the right to address you a question remarkably direct. Are you still engaged to Miss Anvoy?” “No, I’m not,” he slowly brought out. “But we’re perfectly good friends.” “Such good friends that you’ll again become prospective husband and wife if the obstacle in your path be removed?” “Removed?” he anxiously repeated. “If I send Miss Anvoy the letter I speak of she may give up her idea.” “Then for God’s sake send it!” “I’ll do so if you’re ready to assure me that her sacrifice would now presumably bring about your marriage.” “I’d marry her the next day!” my visitor cried. “Yes, but would she marry _you_? What I ask of you of course is nothing less than your word of honour as to your conviction of this. If you give it me,” I said, “I’ll engage to hand her the letter before night.” Gravener took up his hat; turning it mechanically round he stood looking a moment hard at its unruffled perfection. Then very angrily honestly and gallantly, “Hand it to the devil!” he broke out; with which he clapped the hat on his head and left me. “Will you read it or not?” I said to Ruth Anvoy, at Wimbledon, when I had told her the story of Mrs. Saltram’s visit. She debated for a time probably of the briefest, but long enough to make me nervous. “Have you brought it with you?” “No indeed. It’s at home, locked up.” There was another great silence, and then she said “Go back and destroy it.” I went back, but I didn’t destroy it till after Saltram’s death, when I burnt it unread. The Pudneys approached her again pressingly, but, prompt as they were, The Coxon Fund had already become an operative benefit and a general amaze: Mr. Saltram, while we gathered about, as it were, to watch the manna descend, had begun to draw the magnificent income. He drew it as he had always drawn everything, with a grand abstracted gesture. Its magnificence, alas, as all the world now knows, quite quenched him; it was the beginning of his decline. It was also naturally a new grievance for his wife, who began to believe in him as soon as he was blighted, and who at this hour accuses us of having bribed him, on the whim of a meddlesome American, to renounce his glorious office, to become, as she says, like everybody else. The very day he found himself able to publish he wholly ceased to produce. This deprived us, as may easily be imagined, of much of our occupation, and especially deprived the Mulvilles, whose want of self-support I never measured till they lost their great inmate. They’ve no one to live on now. Adelaide’s most frequent reference to their destitution is embodied in the remark that dear far-away Ruth’s intentions were doubtless good. She and Kent are even yet looking for another prop, but no one presents a true sphere of usefulness. They complain that people are self-sufficing. With Saltram the fine type of the child of adoption was scattered, the grander, the elder style. They’ve got their carriage back, but what’s an empty carriage? In short I think we were all happier as well as poorer before; even including George Gravener, who by the deaths of his brother and his nephew has lately become Lord Maddock. His wife, whose fortune clears the property, is criminally dull; he hates being in the Upper House, and hasn’t yet had high office. But what are these accidents, which I should perhaps apologise for mentioning, in the light of the great eventual boon promised the patient by the rate at which The Coxon Fund must be rolling up? Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who did Ruth Honeywill plan to escape with?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The context is a play called "Justice" by John Galsworthy. The play is divided into four acts. The first act takes place in the office of James and Walter How, a law firm, on a July morning. The office is old-fashioned and furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. SWEEDLE tells COKESON that there's a party wants to see FALDER, the firm's junior clerk. COKESON sends SWEEDLE to Morris's to send FALDER there. However, SWEEDLE returns and tells COKESON that the party is a woman, and she's brought her children with her. COKESON is hesitant but allows the woman, RUTH HONEYWILL, to see FALDER. RUTH tells FALDER that Honeywill, her husband, has been ill-treating her, and she's been living with FALDER. FALDER is torn between his love for RUTH and his desire to escape his situation. He gives RUTH seven pounds and tells her to meet him at the booking office at 11.45 that night. RUTH and FALDER share a passionate kiss before COKESON re-enters the room. COKESON is shocked and tries to intervene, but FALDER quickly composes himself and leaves the room. COKESON is left looking uncomfortable and tries to distract himself by adding up figures in his pass-book. WALTER HOW, the son of the firm's partner, enters the room and talks to COKESON about some business matters. COKESON mentions that he's been adding up figures in the pass-book and offers to let WALTER take it. WALTER agrees and takes the pass-book. JAMES HOW, the firm's partner, enters the room and talks to WALTER and COKESON about some business matters. COKESON mentions that he's been adding up figures in the pass-book and offers to let JAMES take it. JAMES agrees and takes the pass-book. COKESON is left looking uncomfortable and tries to Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Falder" ]	22,764	narrativeqa	en	null	9420daeb72715dee209b0b33539597d033d14ca5fa6b2365	Produced by David Widger GALSWORTHY PLAYS SECOND SERIES--NO. 1 JUSTICE By John Galsworthy PERSONS OF THE PLAY JAMES HOW, solicitor WALTER HOW, solicitor ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk SWEEDLE, their office-boy WISTER, a detective COWLEY, a cashier MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate HECTOR FROME, a young advocate CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain EDWARD CLEMENT, a prison doctor WOODER, a chief warder MOANEY, convict CLIFTON, convict O'CLEARY, convict RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman A NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITERS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS, JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS TIME: The Present. ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July. ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. ACT III. A prison. December. SCENE I. The Governor's office. SCENE II. A corridor. SCENE III. A cell. ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. March, two years later. CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINE Walter How MR. CHARLES MAUDE Cokeson MR. EDMUND GWENN Falder MR. DENNIS EADIE The Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEE The Detective MR. LESLIE CARTER The Cashier MR. C. E. VERNON The Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULT The Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYE The Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANT The Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEY The Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBEN The Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSON Wooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYD Moaney MR. ROBERT PATEMAN Clipton MR. O. P. HEGGIE O'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANE Ruth Honeywill Miss EDYTH OLIVE ACT I The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of James and Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned, furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the partners' room. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. COKESON. And five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks the page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one. SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carry two. Send him to Morris's. What name? SWEEDLE. Honeywill. COKESON. What's his business? SWEEDLE. It's a woman. COKESON. A lady? SWEEDLE. No, a person. COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closes the pass-book.] SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, please? RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She is a tall woman, twenty-six years old, unpretentiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. She stands very still, having a natural dignity of pose and gesture. SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young man's out. [Suspiciously] State your business, please. RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slight West-Country accent] It's a personal matter, sir. COKESON. We don't allow private callers here. Will you leave a message? RUTH. I'd rather see him, please. She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. Suppose I had my friends here to see me! It'd never do! RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here you are wanting to see a junior clerk! RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him. COKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of outraged interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to his private address. RUTH. He's not there. COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know what to say. It's no affair of the office. RUTH. But what am I to do? COKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. SWEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer office and passes through into it, with a quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully leaving the door an inch or two open. COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, this won't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in! An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer door of the outer office. SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some children outside here. RUTH. They're mine, please. SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check? RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON] COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk short as it is. RUTH. It's a matter of life and death. COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death! SWEEDLE. Here is Falder. FALDER has entered through the outer office. He is a pale, good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. He moves towards the door of the clerks' office, and stands there irresolute. COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not regular. Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' room. RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. He tried to cut my throat last night. I came out with the children before he was awake. I went round to you. FALDER. I've changed my digs. RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night? FALDER. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at the booking office. For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her with tragic intensity] Ruth! RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you? FALDER. Have you got your things, and the children's? RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but one bag. I can't go near home again. FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. How much must you have? RUTH. Six pounds--I could do with that, I think. FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [As if to himself] When I get out there I mean to forget it all. RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than take you against your will. FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'll have you. RUTH. You've just to say; it's not too late. FALDER. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. Booking office 11.45 to-night. If you weren't what you are to me, Ruth----! RUTH. Kiss me! They cling together passionately, there fly apart just as COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH turns and goes out through the outer office. COKESON advances deliberately to his chair and seats himself. COKESON. This isn't right, Falder. FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir. COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. FALDER. Yes, sir. COKESON. You quite understand-the party was in some distress; and, having children with her, I allowed my feelings----[He opens a drawer and produces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in the Home." It's a well-written thing. FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] Thank you, sir. COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left? FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir--for good. COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't mention about the party having called, but---- FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost apologetic voice. WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson. COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter. WALTER. My father here? COKESON. [Always with a certain patronage as to a young man who might be doing better] Mr. James has been here since eleven o'clock. WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the Guildhall. COKESON. [Looking at him as though this were exactly what was to be expected] Have you now--ye--es. This lease of Boulter's--am I to send it to counsel? WALTER. What does my father say? COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him. WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful. COKESON. It's such a little thing--hardly worth the fees. I thought you'd do it yourself. WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the responsibility. COKESON. [With an indescribable air of compassion] Just as you like. This "right-of-way" case--we've got 'em on the deeds. WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit of common ground. COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're the right side of the law. WALTER. I don't like it, COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want to set ourselves up against the law. Your father wouldn't waste his time doing that. As he speaks JAMES How comes in from the partners' room. He is a shortish man, with white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. JAMES. Morning, Walter. WALTER. How are you, father? COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as though deprecating their size] I'll just take Boulter's lease in to young Falder to draft the instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room.] WALTER. About that right-of-way case? JAMES. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I thought you told me yesterday the firm's balance was over four hundred. WALTER. So it is. JAMES. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three--five--one, no recent cheques. Just get me out the cheque-book. WALTER goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer and produces a cheque-book. JAMES. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, fifty-four, seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, eleven, fifty-two, seventy-one. Tally? WALTER. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure it was over four hundred. JAMES. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the check-book and cons the counterfoils] What's this ninety? WALTER. Who drew it? JAMES. You. WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's the day I went down to look over the Trenton Estate--last Friday week; I came back on the Tuesday, you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my expenses. It just covered all but half a crown. JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. [He sorts the cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] Seems all right. There's no nine here. This is bad. Who cashed that nine-pound cheque? WALTER. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see! I was finishing Mrs. Reddy's will--only just had time; yes--I gave it to Cokeson. JAMES. Look at that 't' 'y': that yours? WALTER. [After consideration] My y's curl back a little; this doesn't. JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room] We must ask him. Just come here and carry your mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you remember cashing a cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week--the day he went to Trenton? COKESON. Ye-es. Nine pounds. JAMES. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque.] COKESON. No! Nine pounds. My lunch was just coming in; and of course I like it hot; I gave the cheque to Davis to run round to the bank. He brought it back, all gold--you remember, Mr. Walter, you wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain contemptuous compassion] Here, let me see. You've got the wrong cheque. He takes cheque-book and pass-book from WALTER. WALTER. Afraid not. COKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. JAMES. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for Australia on Monday. Looks black, Cokeson. COKESON. [Puzzled and upset] why this'd be a felony! No, no! there's some mistake. JAMES. I hope so. COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort in the office the twenty-nine years I've been here. JAMES. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a very clever bit of work; a warning to you not to leave space after your figures, Walter. WALTER. [Vexed] Yes, I know--I was in such a tearing hurry that afternoon. COKESON. [Suddenly] This has upset me. JAMES. The counterfoil altered too--very deliberate piece of swindling. What was Davis's ship? WALTER. 'City of Rangoon'. JAMES. We ought to wire and have him arrested at Naples; he can't be there yet. COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young man. Dear, oh dear! In this office! WALTER. Shall I go to the bank and ask the cashier? JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring up Scotland Yard. WALTER. Really? He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces the room. He stops and looks at COKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the knees of his trousers. JAMES. Well, Cokeson! There's something in character, isn't there? COKESON. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't quite take you, sir. JAMES. Your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn't know you. COKESON. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with a sudden gravity] I'm sorry for that young man. I feel it as if it was my own son, Mr. James. JAMES. A nasty business! COKESON. It unsettles you. All goes on regular, and then a thing like this happens. Shan't relish my lunch to-day. JAMES. As bad as that, Cokeson? COKESON. It makes you think. [Confidentially] He must have had temptation. JAMES. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him yet. COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen. [He broods.] JAMES. I hope that fellow will hurry up. COKESON. [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] It isn't fifty yards, Mr. James. He won't be a minute. JAMES. The idea of dishonesty about this office it hits me hard, Cokeson. He goes towards the door of the partners' room. SWEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to COKESON in a low voice] She's popped up again, sir-something she forgot to say to Falder. COKESON. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh? Impossible. Send her away! JAMES. What's that? COKESON. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter. Here, I'll come myself. [He goes into the outer office as JAMES passes into the partners' room] Now, you really mustn't--we can't have anybody just now. RUTH. Not for a minute, sir? COKESON. Reely! Reely! I can't have it. If you want him, wait about; he'll be going out for his lunch directly. RUTH. Yes, sir. WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH as she leaves the outer office. COKESON. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary dragoon] Good-morning. [To WALTER] Your father's in there. WALTER crosses and goes into the partners' room. COKESON. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, Mr. Cowley. I'm quite ashamed to have to trouble you. COWLEY. I remember the cheque quite well. [As if it were a liver] Seemed in perfect order. COKESON. Sit down, won't you? I'm not a sensitive man, but a thing like this about the place--it's not nice. I like people to be open and jolly together. COWLEY. Quite so. COKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing toward the partners' room] Of course he's a young man. I've told him about it before now-- leaving space after his figures, but he will do it. COWLEY. I should remember the person's face--quite a youth. COKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show him to you, as a matter of fact. JAMES and WALTER have come back from the partners' room. JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen my son and myself, you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. It was none of us, I take it. The cashier shakes his head with a smile. JAMES. Be so good as to sit there. Cokeson, engage Mr. Cowley in conversation, will you? He goes toward FALDER'S room. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. JAMES. Well? COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man in there, do you? He's a nervous young feller. JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake of Falder's name, to say nothing of yours. COKESON. [With Some dignity] That'll look after itself, sir. He's been upset once this morning; I don't want him startled again. JAMES. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon niceness over a thing like this--too serious. Just talk to Mr. Cowley. He opens the door of FALDER'S room. JAMES. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will you, Falder? COKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs? The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer. COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare me, I suppose? At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to see FALDER standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on COWLEY, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake. FALDER. [Advancing with the papers] Here they are, sir! JAMES. [Taking them] Thank you. FALDER. Do you want me, sir? JAMES. No, thanks! FALDER turns and goes back into his own room. As he shuts the door JAMES gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the cashier nods. JAMES. Sure? This isn't as we suspected. COWLEY. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't slip out of that room? COKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window--a whole floor and a basement. The door of FALDER'S room is quietly opened, and FALDER, with his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office. JAMES. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder? FALDER. To have my lunch, sir. JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want to speak to you about this lease. FALDER. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room.] COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the young man who cashed the cheque. It was the last cheque I handled that morning before my lunch. These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slip of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning! JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley! COWLEY. [To COKESON] Good-morning. COKESON. [With Stupefaction] Good-morning. The cashier goes out through the outer office. COKESON sits down in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the morass of his feelings. WALTER. What are you going to do? JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and the counterfoil. COKESON. I don't understand. I thought young Davis---- JAMES. We shall see. WALTER. One moment, father: have you thought it out? JAMES. Call him in! COKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening FALDER'S door; hoarsely] Step in here a minute. FALDER. [Impassively] Yes, sir? JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] You know this cheque, Falder? FALDER. No, sir. JADES. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week. FALDER. Oh! yes, sir; that one--Davis gave it me. JAMES. I know. And you gave Davis the cash? FALDER. Yes, sir. JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this? FALDER. Yes, I think so, sir. JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque for nine pounds? FALDER. No, sir--ninety. JAMES. Nine, Falder. FALDER. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir. JAMES. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque was altered; whether by you or Davis is the question. FALDER. I--I COKESON. Take your time, take your time. FALDER. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir. JAMES. The cheque was handed to--Cokeson by Mr. Walter at one o'clock; we know that because Mr. Cokeson's lunch had just arrived. COKESON. I couldn't leave it. JAMES. Exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to Davis. It was cashed by you at 1.15. We know that because the cashier recollects it for the last cheque he handled before his lunch. FALDER. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me because some friends were giving him a farewell luncheon. JAMES. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then? FALDER. I don't know, sir--it's very funny. WALTER, who has come close to his father, says something to him in a low voice. JAMES. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, was he? COKESON. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young man, and seeing faint signs of their all being jolly once more] No, he sailed on the Monday. JAMES. Was he, Falder? FALDER. [Very faintly] No, sir. JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for the fact that this nought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after Tuesday? COKESON. [Surprised] How's that? FALDER gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull himself together, but he has gone all to pieces. JAMES. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson. The cheque-book remained in Mr. Walter's pocket till he came back from Trenton on Tuesday morning. In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny that you altered both cheque and counterfoil? FALDER. No, sir--no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I did it. COKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear! what a thing to do! FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I didn't know what I was doing. COKESON. However such a thing could have come into your head! FALDER. [Grasping at the words] I can't think, sir, really! It was just a minute of madness. JAMES. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the counterfoil] Four days at least. FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done till afterwards, and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! Sir, look over it! I'll pay the money back--I will, I promise. JAMES. Go into your room. FALDER, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room. There is silence. JAMES. About as bad a case as there could be. COKESON. To break the law like that-in here! WALTER. What's to be done? JAMES. Nothing for it. Prosecute. WALTER. It's his first offence. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of that. Too neat a piece of swindling altogether. COKESON. I shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted. JAMES. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, Mr. James. There was a woman come to see him this morning. WALTER. The woman we passed as we came in just now. Is it his wife? COKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in jollier circumstances would have been a wink] A married person, though. WALTER. How do you know? COKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised] There they were outside the office. JAMES. A real bad egg. WALTER. I should like to give him a chance. JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way he went to work-- counting on our suspecting young Davis if the matter came to light. It was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. WALTER. It must have been the temptation of a moment. He hadn't time. JAMES. A man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, if he's a clean mind and habits. He's rotten; got the eyes of a man who can't keep his hands off when there's money about. WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before. JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots of those fellows in my time. No doing anything with them except to keep 'em out of harm's way. They've got a blind spat. WALTER. It's penal servitude. COKESON. They're nahsty places-prisons. JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Out of the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine qua non'. COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is. JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst people who've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society. WALTER. But to brand him like this? JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd give him another chance. It's far from that. He has dissolute habits. COKESON. I didn't say that--extenuating circumstances. JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. If that's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know what is. WALTER. For the sake of his future, though. JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one would ever prosecute. WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it. COKESON. That's rather 'ex parte', Mr. Walter! We must have protection. JAMES. This is degenerating into talk. He moves towards the partners' room. WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father. JAMES. You ask too much of me. WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him. JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do this sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn't nothing'll make him. WALTER. He'll never do it again. COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk with him. We don't want to be hard on the young man. JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my mind. [He passes into the partners' room.] COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must excuse your father. I don't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right. WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You know you feel---- COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what I feel. WALTER. We shall regret it. COKESON. He must have known what he was doing. WALTER. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not strained." COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. Walter. We must try and see it sensible. SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir. COKESON. Put it down! While SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON's table, the detective, WISTER, enters the outer office, and, finding no one there, comes to the inner doorway. He is a square, medium-sized man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong boots. COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we doing? WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir. Detective-Sergeant Blister. WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my father. He goes into the partners' room. JAMES enters. JAMES. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture from COKESON] I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I felt I could. Open that door. [SWEEDLE, wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder. As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a sign from JAMES, slips his hand out and grasps his arm. FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh! no,--oh! no! WALTER. Come, come, there's a good lad. JAMES. I charge him with felony. FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one--I did it for her. Let me be till to-morrow. JAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of hardness, FALDER becomes rigid. Then, turning, he goes out quietly in the detective's grip. JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE, rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the outer office into the corridor. When they have all disappeared COKESON spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer office. COKESON: [Hoarsely] Here! What are we doing? There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief and mops the sweat from his face. Going back blindly to his table, sits down, and stares blankly at his lunch. The curtain falls. ACT II A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon crowded with barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. Sitting in the large, solid dock is FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to and unconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting exactly opposite to the JUDGE, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seems unconscious of and indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, the counsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middle age, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in a very white wig. Among the spectators, having already given their evidence, are JAMES and WALTER HOW, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! Gathering his robes together, he sits down. FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it please your lordship and gentlemen of the jury. I am not going to dispute the fact that the prisoner altered this cheque, but I am going to put before you evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that you would not be justified in finding that he was responsible for his actions at the time. I am going to show you, in fact, that he did this in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. I shall call before you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up to this act. You will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstances of her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she has inspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading a miserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, from whom she actually goes in terror of her life. I am not, of course, saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall in love with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue her from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying anything of the sort. But we all know the power of the passion of love; and I would ask you to remember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to a drunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enable a woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear that her husband is guilty. JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely--I shall be able to show your lordship that directly. JUDGE. Very well. FROME. In these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her? She could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of her life; or she could apply to the Court for a separation order. Well, gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this would have given her very insufficient protection from the violence of such a man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced her either to the workhouse or the streets--for it's not easy, as she is now finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood to support herself and her children without resorting either to the Poor Law or--to speak quite plainly--to the sale of her body. JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome. FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord. JUDGE. Let us hope so. FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark--and this is what I have been leading up to--this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on himself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. She saw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, where they would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. This was a desperate and, as my friend Mr. Cleaver will no doubt call it, an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation possibly have the right to hold up their hands--as to that I prefer to say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part of the prisoner's story--whatever opinion you form of the right of these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into their own hands--the fact remains that this young woman in her distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so devotedly attached to her, did conceive this--if you like-- reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, of course, they required money, and--they had none. As to the actual events of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility --I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the lips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takes up a sheet of paper, and waits.] COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him. FROME. What is your name? COKESON. Robert Cokeson. FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ the prisoner? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ? COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there--all but seventeen days. FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time? COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays. FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about his general character during those two years. COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprised at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. I'd no fault to find with him--quite the contrary. It was a great surprise to me when he did a thing like that. FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty? COKESON. No! To have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do. FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua non'. FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not? COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We were all very jolly and pleasant together, until this happened. Quite upset me. FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning on which the cheque was altered. What have you to say about his demeanour that morning? COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quite compos when he did it. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he was insane? COKESON. Not compos. THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please. FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion--[looking at the JUDGE]--such as it is--he was jumpy at the time. The jury will understand my meaning. FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that conclusion? COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in from the restaurant, a chop and a potato--saves time. That day it happened to come just as Mr. Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it hot; so I went into the clerks' office and I handed the cheque to Davis, the other clerk, and told him to get change. I noticed young Falder walking up and down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological Gardens, Falder." FROME. Do you remember what he answered? COKESON. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck me as funny. FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar? COKESON. I did. FROME. What was that? COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like a young man to be neat. I said to him: "Your collar's unbuttoned." FROME. And what did he answer? COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice. THE JUDGE. Stared at you? Isn't that a very common practice? COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain my meaning--it was funny. FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before? COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to the partners. We can't have anything eccentric in our profession. THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that occasion? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to trouble them about prime facey evidence. FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on your mind? COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same. FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the forgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that morning? COKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little deaf. FROME. Was there anything in the course of that morning--I mean before the discovery--that caught your attention? COKESON. Ye-es--a woman. THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind in which the prisoner committed this act, my lord. THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after the act. FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention. THE JUDGE. Well! FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. What for? COKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out at the moment. FROME. Did you see her? COKESON. I did. FROME. Did she come alone? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me in a difficulty. I mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me. FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so---- COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of "You are young--leave it to me"] But I think we can get round it. In answer to a question put to her by a third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, sir." THE JUDGE. What are? What were? COKESON. Her children. They were outside. THE JUDGE. HOW do you know? COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I shall have to tell you what I was told--and that'd never do. THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a statement. COKESON. Egg-zactly. FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the course of her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that you specially remember? COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to complete the sentence] A leetle more, sir. FROME. Or did she not? COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have led me to the answer. FROME. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the jury what it was? COKESON. "It's a matter of life and death." FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman said that? COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have said to you. FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in while she was there? [COKESON nods] And she saw him, and went away? COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go. FROME. Well, is she there now? COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No! FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down.] CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery the prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by that word? COKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. Have you ever seen a dog that's lost its master? He was kind of everywhere at once with his eyes. CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them "funny." What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what? COKESON. Ye-es, funny. COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not be funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, or fierce, or what? COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and you want me to give you another. CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean mad? CLEAVER. Not mad, fun---- CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Was it a hot day? COKESON. Ye-es; I think it was. CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it? COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did. CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted insanity? He sits downs. COKESON, who has opened his mouth to reply, is left gaping. FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelled state before? COKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet. FROME. That will do, thank you. COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though to rebuke counsel for not remembering that the JUDGE might wish to have a chance; arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next to JAMES and WALTER. FROME. Ruth Honeywill. RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the witness-box. She is sworn. FROME. What is your name, please? RUTH. Ruth Honeywill. FROME. How old are you? RUTH. Twenty-six. FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A little louder. RUTH. No, sir; not since July. FROME. Have you any children? RUTH. Yes, sir, two. FROME. Are they living with you? RUTH. Yes, sir. FROME. You know the prisoner? RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes. FROME. What was the nature of your relations with him? RUTH. We were friends. THE JUDGE. Friends? RUTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use that word? RUTH. We love each other. THE JUDGE. Yes, but---- RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship--not yet. THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well! FROME. What is your husband? RUTH. Traveller. FROME. And what was the nature of your married life? RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking about. FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what? RUTH. Ever since my first was born. FROME. In what way? RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me out of it, sir. We were going to South America. FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite--and what prevented you? RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearly broke my heart. FROME. You knew, then, that he had been arrested? RUTH. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, and [pointing to COKESON] that gentleman told me all about it. FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of Friday, July 7th? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Why? RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that morning. THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you! RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord. FROME. With his hands, or----? RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight to my friend. It was eight o'clock. THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influence of liquor then? RUTH. It wasn't always that. FROME. In what condition were you? RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was half choking. FROME. Did you tell your friend what had happened? RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had. FROME. It upset him? RUTH. Dreadfully. FROME. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? RUTH. Never. FROZE. Did he ever give you any money? RUTH. Yes. FROME. When was that? RUTH. On Saturday. FROME. The 8th? RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to start. FROME. Did that surprise you, or not? RUTH. What, sir? FROME. That he had money to give you. Ring. Yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed me my friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. He told me afterwards he'd come into a windfall. FROME. And when did you last see him? RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were to have started. FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him at all between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was his manner then? RUTH. Dumb--like--sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word. FROME. As if something unusual had happened to him? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what? RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him. FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the prisoner very much? RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes. FROME. And had he a very great affection for you? RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir. FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his actions? RUTH. Yes. FROME. His reason, even? RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would. FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairly calm? RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me. FROME. Do you still love him? RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me. FROME. Thank you. He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright in the witness-box. CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morning of Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, I suppose? RUTH. No, sir. CLEAVER. Thank you; I've no further questions to ask you. RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done the same for him; I would indeed. THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappy one? Faults on both sides? RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why I should, sir, not to a man like that. THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him? RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied him to keep things nice. THE JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner--was that it? RUTH. No; even after that. THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in this affection of yours for the prisoner. RUTH. [Hesitating] I--I do. It's the only thing in my life now. THE JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, please. RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her seat among the witnesses. FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord. FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly sworn. FROME. What is your name? FALDER. William Falder. FROME. And age? FALDER. Twenty-three. FROME. You are not married? FALDER shakes his head FROME. How long have you known the last witness? FALDER. Six months. FROME. Is her account of the relationship between you a correct one? FALDER. Yes. FROME. You became devotedly attached to her, however? FALDER. Yes. THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married woman? FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship. THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it? FALDER. I didn't seem able to. The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders. FROME. How did you come to know her? FALDER. Through my married sister. FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband? FALDER. It was trouble all the time. FROME. You knew her husband? FALDER. Only through her--he's a brute. THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person not present. FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To FALDER] You admit altering this cheque? FALDER bows his head. FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the 7th, and tell the jury what happened. FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my breakfast when she came. Her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seem to get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyes dreadfully. It frightened me, and then when she told me, I felt--I felt--well--it was too much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'd seen it, having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt the same, I know. FROME. Yes? FALDER. When she left me--because I had to go to the office--I was out of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what I could do. I couldn't work--all the morning I was like that--simply couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't think at all. I seemed to have to keep moving. When Davis--the other clerk--gave me the cheque--he said: "It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. You seem half off your chump this morning." Then when I had it in my hand--I don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that if I put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get her away. It just came and went--I never thought of it again. Then Davis went out to his luncheon, and I don't really remember what I did till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. I remember his saying "Gold or notes?" Then I suppose I knew what I'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted to chuck myself under a bus; I wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed I was in for it, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets I took for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, and all, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've restored. I keep thinking over and over however it was I came to do it, and how I can't have it all again to do differently! FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him. FROME. How far is it from your office to the bank? FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir. FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed the cheque, how long do you say it must have been? FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran all the way. FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing? FALDER. No, sir; only that I ran. FROME. Not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?' FALDER. No, sir. I don't really. FROME sits down, and CLEAVER rises. CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you? FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the bank. CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the cheque? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is casting over the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? Come. FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning, sir. CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the cashier? FALDER. It was an accident. CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't it? On which day did you alter the counterfoil? FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday morning. CLEAVER. Was that an accident too? FALDER. [Faintly] No. CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your opportunity, I suppose? FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes. CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under great excitement when you did that? FALDER. I was haunted. CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out? FALDER. [Very low] Yes. THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do was to confess to your employers, and restore the money? FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence] CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design of taking this woman away? FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that, to do it for nothing seemed so dreadful. I might just as well have chucked myself into the river. CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England --didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion would fall on him? FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought of it afterwards. CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done? FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got out there--I would have repaid the money. THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have been prosecuted. FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. I thought there'd be time. I didn't think they'd find it out so soon. FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if the discovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would have left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis, from the beginning. THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion would light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did you know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis had sailed? FALDER. I--I--thought--he---- THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth-yes or no! FALDER. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means of knowing. THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr. Frome. [FROME bows to the JUDGE] CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work that afternoon? FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back. CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keen for you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don't remember altering this cheque. [He sits down] FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage. FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back? FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep. FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between Davis's going out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollect nothing during those four minutes? FALDER. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson's face. FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what you were doing? FALDER. No, Sir. FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran out? FALDER. Yes, and while I was running. FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold or notes?" FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself--and it was too late. FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, my lord. The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock. FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship--Gentlemen of the Jury,--My friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I am free to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidence has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. My friend has alluded to the "romantic glamour" with which I have sought to invest this case. Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I have merely shown you the background of "life"--that palpitating life which, believe me--whatever my friend may say--always lies behind the commission of a crime. Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. But when we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love--what then? Just think of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the prisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! he is hardly the comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was devotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just the sort of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. You have heard the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at the word "funny"--I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which could have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that his mental irresponsibility--was more than a flash of darkness, in which all sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intent and treated as a patient. I admit that this is a plea which might well be abused. It is a matter for discretion. But here you have a case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four fatal minutes. What was his answer? "I thought of Mr. Cokeson's face!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is absolutely stamped with truth. You have seen the great affection [legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It is impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he committed this act. We well know what terrible havoc such distress can make in weak and highly nervous people. It was all the work of a moment. The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter impossibility of changing what you have done. Once this cheque was altered and presented, the work of four minutes--four mad minutes --the rest has been silence. But in those four minutes the boy before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great cage which never again quite lets a man go--the cage of the Law. His further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence--not of deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from which these subsequent acts arose; no--they are merely evidence of the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. But is a man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in all probability become one. I beg you not to return a verdict that may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the starting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be ground to pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of weakness? Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? Is that to be his voyage-from which so few return? Or is he to have another chance, to be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will come back? I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, stares him in the face. He can be saved now. Imprison him as a criminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost. He has neither the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he has undergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. He has lain in prison under this charge for more than two months. Is he likely ever to forget that? Imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. He has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decided to prosecute him. We are now already at the second stage. If you permit it to go on to the third I would not give--that for him. He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a circle, drops his hand, and sits dozen. The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towards the counsel for the Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spot that seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and then towards the jury. CLEAVER. May it please your lordship--[Rising on his toes] Gentlemen of the Jury,--The facts in this case are not disputed, and the defence, if my friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that I don't propose to waste the time of the Court by taking you over the evidence. The plea is one of temporary insanity. Well, gentlemen, I daresay it is clearer to me than it is to you why this rather--what shall we call it?--bizarre defence has been set up. The alternative would have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the prisoner had pleaded guilty my friend would have had to rely on a simple appeal to his lordship. Instead of that, he has gone into the byways and hedges and found this--er--peculiar plea, which has enabled him to show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box--to give, in fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I compliment my friend; I think it highly ingenious of him. By these means, he has--to a certain extent--got round the Law. He has brought the whole story of motive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he would not otherwise have been able to do. But when you have once grasped that fact, gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [With good-humoured contempt] For look at this plea of insanity; we can't put it lower than that. You have heard the woman. She has every reason to favour the prisoner, but what did she say? She said that the prisoner was not insane when she left him in the morning. If he were going out of his mind through distress, that was obviously the moment when insanity would have shown itself. You have heard the managing clerk, another witness for the defence. With some difficulty I elicited from him the admission that the prisoner, though jumpy [a word that he seemed to think you would understand, gentlemen, and I'm sure I hope you do], was not mad when the cheque was handed to Davis. I agree with my friend that it's unfortunate that we have not got Davis here, but the prisoner has told you the words with which Davis in turn handed him the cheque; he obviously, therefore, was not mad when he received it, or he would not have remembered those words. The cashier has told you that he was certainly in his senses when he cashed it. We have therefore the plea that a man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at fifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding the consequences of a crime, call himself insane between those points of time. Really, gentlemen, this is so peculiar a proposition that I am not disposed to weary you with further argument. You will form your own opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way of saying a great deal to you--and very eloquently--on the score of youth, temptation, and the like. I might point out, however, that the offence with which the prisoner is charged is one of the most serious known to our law; and there are certain features in this case, such as the suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent fellow-clerk, and his relations with this married woman, which will render it difficult for you to attach too much importance to such pleading. I ask you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which, in the circumstances, I regard you as, unfortunately, bound to record. Letting his eyes travel from the JUDGE and the jury to FROME, he sits down. THE JUDGE. [Bending a little towards the jury, and speaking in a business-like voice] Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence, and the comments on it. My only business is to make clear to you the issues you have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as the alteration of this cheque and counterfoil by the prisoner. The defence set up is that he was not in a responsible condition when he committed the crime. Well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the evidence of the other witnesses--so far as it bears on the point of insanity. If you think that what you have heard establishes the fact that the prisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you will find him guilty, but insane. If, on the other hand, you conclude from what you have seen and heard that the prisoner was sane--and nothing short of insanity will count--you will find him guilty. In reviewing the testimony as to his mental condition you must bear in mind very carefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct both before and after the act of forgery--the evidence of the prisoner himself, of the woman, of the witness--er--COKESON, and--er--of the cashier. And in regard to that I especially direct your attention to the prisoner's admission that the idea of adding the 'ty' and the nought did come into his mind at the moment when the cheque was handed to him; and also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to his subsequent conduct generally. The bearing of all this on the question of premeditation [and premeditation will imply sanity] is very obvious. You must not allow any considerations of age or temptation to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. Before you can come to a verdict of guilty but insane you must be well and thoroughly convinced that the condition of his mind was such as would have qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [He pauses, then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire or no, adds:] You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to do so. The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE. The JUDGE bends over his notes. FALDER, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly to his solicitor, pointing dawn at RUTH. The solicitor in turn speaks to FROME. FROME. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very anxious that I should ask you if your lordship would kindly request the reporters not to disclose the name of the woman witness in the Press reports of these proceedings. Your lordship will understand that the consequences might be extremely serious to her. THE JUDGE. [Pointedly--with the suspicion of a smile] well, Mr. Frome, you deliberately took this course which involved bringing her here. FROME. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship thinks I could have brought out the full facts in any other way? THE JUDGE. H'm! Well. FROME. There is very real danger to her, your lordship. THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for all that. FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I can assure your lordship that I am not exaggerating. THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain with me that the name of a witness should ever be suppressed. [With a glance at FALDER, who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH, who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on FALDER] I'll consider your application. It must depend. I have to remember that she may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. FROME. Your lordship, I really---- THE JUDGE. Yes, yes--I don't suggest anything of the sort, Mr. Frome. Leave it at that for the moment. As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the box. CLERK of ASSIZE. Gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? FOREMAN. We are. CLERK of ASSIZE. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but insane? FOREMAN. Guilty. The JUDGE nods; then, gathering up his notes, sits looking at FALDER, who stands motionless. FROME. [Rising] If your lordship would allow me to address you in mitigation of sentence. I don't know if your lordship thinks I can add anything to what I have said to the jury on the score of the prisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he acted. THE JUDGE. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome. FROME. If your lordship says so--I do most earnestly beg your lordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. [He sits down.] THE JUDGE. [To the CLERK] Call upon him. THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Have you anything to say for yourself, why the Court should not give you judgment according to law? [FALDER shakes his head] THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given fair trial and found guilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses; then, consulting his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that you were not responsible for your actions at the moment of committing this crime. There is no, doubt, I think, that this was a device to bring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which you succumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel was in reality making an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence of course enabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in that direction. Whether he was well advised to so is another matter. He claimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as a criminal. And this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the march of Justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completing the process of criminality. Now, in considering how far I should allow weight to his appeal; I have a number of factors to take into account. I have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of your offence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, to my mind, is a very grave point--and finally I have to consider the necessity of deterring others from following your example. On the other hand, I have to bear in mind that you are young, that you have hitherto borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of some emotional excitement when you committed this crime. I have every wish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to the community--to treat you with leniency. And this brings me to what are the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of your case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very serious element in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you on the ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of the crime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. It is said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. The story has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--Mrs. Honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy were in effect based. Now what is that story? It is that you, a young man, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed an attachment, which you both say--with what truth I am unable to gauge --had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admit was about to result in such relationship. Your counsel has made an attempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what he describes, I think, as "a hopeless position." As to that I can express no opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is patent that you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoral design. Now, however I might wish, I am not able to justify to my conscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality. It is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you for the completion of this immoral project. Your counsel has made an attempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is a defect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show that to punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. I do not follow him in these flights. The Law is what it is--a majestic edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another. I am concerned only with its administration. The crime you have committed is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance with my duty to Society to exercise the powers I have in your favour. You will go to penal servitude for three years. FALDER, who throughout the JUDGE'S speech has looked at him steadily, lets his head fall forward on his breast. RUTH starts up from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. There is a bustle in court. THE JUDGE. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen of the Press, I think that the name of the female witness should not be reported. The reporters bow their acquiescence. THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who is staring in the direction in which FALDER has disappeared] Do you understand, your name will not be mentioned? COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking to you. RUTH turns, stares at the JUDGE, and turns away. THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the next case. CLERK of ASSIZE. [To a warder] Put up John Booley. To cries of "Witnesses in the case of Booley": The curtain falls. ACT III SCENE I A prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large barred windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise yard, where men, in yellow clothes marked with arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are seen in single file at a distance of four yards from each other, walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on the concrete floor of the yard. Two warders in blue uniforms, with peaked caps and swords, are stationed amongst them. The room has distempered walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the prison on the wall, a writing-table covered with documents. It is Christmas Eve. The GOVERNOR, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, fair moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled hair, receding from the temples, is standing close to this writing-table looking at a sort of rough saw made out of a piece of metal. The hand in which he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are missing. The chief warder, WOODER, a tall, thin, military-looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and melancholy, monkey-like eyes, stands very upright two paces from him. THE GOVERNOR. [With a faint, abstracted smile] Queer-looking affair, Mr. Wooder! Where did you find it? WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come across such a thing for two years now. THE GOVERNOR. [With curiosity] Had he any set plan? WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [He holds up his thumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart] THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon. What's his name? Moaney! An old hand, I think? WOODER. Yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. You'd think an old lag like him would have had more sense by now. [With pitying contempt] Occupied his mind, he said. Breaking in and breaking out--that's all they think about. THE GOVERNOR. Who's next him? WOODER. O'Cleary, sir. THE GOVERNOR. The Irishman. WOODER. Next him again there's that young fellow, Falder--star class--and next him old Clipton. THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes! "The philosopher." I want to see him about his eyes. WOODER. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one of these tries at escape going on. It makes them restive--there's a regular wave going through them just now. THE GOVERNOR. [Meditatively] Odd things--those waves. [Turning to look at the prisoners exercising] Seem quiet enough out here! WOODER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging on his door this morning. Little thing like that's quite enough to upset the whole lot. They're just like dumb animals at times. THE GOVERNOR. I've seen it with horses before thunder--it'll run right through cavalry lines. The prison CHAPLAIN has entered. He is a dark-haired, ascetic man, in clerical undress, with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped face and slow, cultured speech. THE GOVERNOR. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, Miller? THE CHAPLAIN. Useful-looking specimen. THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes to the cupboard and opens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, and metal tools with labels tied on them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out] THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men last day or two, Miller? Seems going through the whole place. THE CHAPLAIN. No. I don't know of anything. THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dine with us on Christmas Day? THE CHAPLAIN. To-morrow. Thanks very much. THE GOVERNOR. Worries me to feel the men discontented. [Gazing at the saw] Have to punish this poor devil. Can't help liking a man who tries to escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks the cupboard again] THE CHAPLAIN. Extraordinary perverted will-power--some of them. Nothing to be done till it's broken. THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm afraid. Ground too hard for golf? WOODER comes in again. WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks to speak to you, sir. I told him it wasn't usual. THE GOVERNOR. What about? WOODER. Shall I put him off, sir? THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see him. Don't go, Miller. WOODER motions to some one without, and as the visitor comes in withdraws. The visitor is COKESON, who is attired in a thick overcoat to the knees, woollen gloves, and carries a top hat. COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been talking to the young man. THE GOVERNOR. We have a good many here. COKESON. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a card, and handing it to the GOVERNOR] Firm of James and Walter How. Well known in the law. THE GOVERNOR. [Receiving the card-with a faint smile] What do you want to see me about, sir? COKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] Why! what a sight! THE GOVERNOR. Yes, we have that privilege from here; my office is being done up. [Sitting down at his table] Now, please! COKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the window] I wanted to say a word to you; I shan't keep you long. [Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be here by rights. His sister came to me--he's got no father and mother--and she was in some distress. "My husband won't let me go and see him," she said; "says he's disgraced the family. And his other sister," she said, "is an invalid." And she asked me to come. Well, I take an interest in him. He was our junior--I go to the same chapel--and I didn't like to refuse. And what I wanted to tell you was, he seems lonely here. THE GOVERNOR. Not unnaturally. COKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see a lot of them about working together. THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The convicts serve their three months here in separate confinement, sir. COKESON. But we don't want to be unreasonable. He's quite downhearted. I wanted to ask you to let him run about with the others. THE GOVERNOR. [With faint amusement] Ring the bell-would you, Miller? [To COKESON] You'd like to hear what the doctor says about him, perhaps. THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not accustomed to prisons, it would seem, sir. COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite a young fellow. I said to him: "Before a month's up" I said, "you'll be out and about with the others; it'll be a nice change for you." "A month!" he said --like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. What's a month? Why, it's nothing!" "A day," he said, "shut up in your cell thinking and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside. I can't help it," he said; "I try--but I'm built that way, Mr. COKESON." And, he held his hand up to his face. I could see the tears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice. THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, isn't he? Not Church of England, I think? COKESON. No. THE CHAPLAIN. I know. THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be good enough to come here for a minute. [WOODER salutes, and goes out] Let's see, he's not married? COKESON. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party he's very much attached to, not altogether com-il-fa. It's a sad story. THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prison might be closed. COKESON. [Looking at the CHAPLAIN over his spectacles] Ye-es, but I wanted to tell you about that, special. He had hopes they'd have let her come and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked me questions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the poor young fellow a lie, with him in here--seemed like hitting him. But I'm afraid it's made him worse. THE GOVERNOR. What was this news then? COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a husband, and she'd left him. Fact is, she was going away with our young friend. It's not nice--but I've looked over it. Well, when he was put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait for him to come out. That was a great consolation to him. But after a month she came to me--I don't know her personally--and she said: "I can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--I've got no friends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else my husband'd get to know where I was. I'm very much reduced," she said. And she has lost flesh. "I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's a painful story. I said to her: "No," I said, "not that! I've got a wife an' family, but sooner than you should do that I'll spare you a little myself." "Really," she said--she's a nice creature--"I don't like to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband." Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but I didn't like to persuade her not to. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow dreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three years to serve. I want things to be pleasant for him. THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The Law hardly shares your view, I'm afraid. COKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut him up there by himself'll turn him silly. And nobody wants that, I s'pose. I don't like to see a man cry. THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that. COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility] I keep dogs. THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed? COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over. THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a sense of right and wrong. COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it. THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ. COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes 'em savage. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners. COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for years. He's eurotic--got no stamina. His father died of consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him harm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the wall." It's not nice. During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He is a medium-Sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye. He stands leaning against the window. THE GOVERNOR. This gentleman thinks the separate is telling on Q 3007--Falder, young thin fellow, star class. What do you say, Doctor Clements? THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm. COKESON. But he's told me. THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. He's lost no weight since he's been here. COKESON. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of. THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's nervous, rather melancholy. I don't see signs of anything more. I'm watching him carefully. COKESON. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say that. THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this period that we are able to make some impression on them, sir. I am speaking from my special standpoint. COKESON. [Turning bewildered to the GOVERNOR] I don't want to be unpleasant, but having given him this news, I do feel it's awkward. THE GOVERNOR. I'll make a point of seeing him to-day. COKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought perhaps seeing him every day you wouldn't notice it. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather sharply] If any sign of injury to his health shows itself his case will be reported at once. That's fully provided for. [He rises] COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, what you don't see doesn't trouble you; but having seen him, I don't want to have him on my mind. THE GOVERNOR. I think you may safely leave it to us, sir. COKESON. [Mollified and apologetic] I thought you'd understand me. I'm a plain man--never set myself up against authority. [Expanding to the CHAPLAIN] Nothing personal meant. Good-morning. As he goes out the three officials do not look at each other, but their faces wear peculiar expressions. THE CHAPLAIN. Our friend seems to think that prison is a hospital. COKESON. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] There's just one little thing. This woman--I suppose I mustn't ask you to let him see her. It'd be a rare treat for them both. He's thinking about her all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's quite safe in here. They're a pitiful couple. You couldn't make an exception? THE GOVERNOR. [Wearily] As you say, my dear sir, I couldn't make an exception; he won't be allowed another visit of any sort till he goes to a convict prison. COKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have troubled you. [He again goes out] THE CHAPLAIN. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain man indeed, poor fellow. Come and have some lunch, Clements? He and the DOCTOR go out talking. The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a pen. The curtain falls. SCENE II Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls are coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe of deeper green about the height of a man's shoulder, and above this line are whitewashed. The floor is of blackened stones. Daylight is filtering through a heavily barred window at the end. The doors of four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little round peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered by a little round disc, which, raised upwards, affords a view o f the cell. On the wall, close to each cell door, hangs a little square board with the prisoner's name, number, and record. Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor and second-floor corridors. The WARDER INSTRUCTOR, a bearded man in blue uniform, with an apron, and some dangling keys, is just emerging from one of the cells. INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell] I'll have another bit for you when that's finished. O'CLEARY. [Unseen--in an Irish voice] Little doubt o' that, sirr. INSTRUCTOR. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have it than nothing, I s'pose. O'CLEARY. An' that's the blessed truth. Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of approaching footsteps. INSTRUCTOR. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive over it! He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. The GOVERNOR comes walking down the corridor, followed by WOODER. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to report? INSTRUCTOR. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a cell] is behind with his work, sir. He'll lose marks to-day. The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end cell. The INSTRUCTOR goes away. THE GOVERNOR. This is our maker of saws, isn't it? He takes the saw from his pocket as WOODER throws open the door of the cell. The convict MOANEY is seen lying on his bed, athwart the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and stands in the middle of the cell. He is a raw-boned fellow, about fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce, staring, steel-coloured eyes. WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap] Out here! [MOANEY Comes to the door] THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding up the saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private] Anything to say about this, my man? [MOANEY is silent] Come! MOANEY. It passed the time. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough to do, eh? MOANEY. It don't occupy your mind. THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find a better way than this. MOANEY. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must keep my hand in against the time I get out. What's the good of anything else to me at my time of life? [With a gradual change to civility, as his tongue warms] Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or two, after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace meself when I'm out. You've got your pride keeping the prison smart; well, I've got mine. [Seeing that the GOVERNOR is listening with interest, he goes on, pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this. It's no harm to any one. I was five weeks makin' that saw--a bit of all right it is, too; now I'll get cells, I suppose, or seven days' bread and water. You can't help it, sir, I know that--I quite put meself in your place. THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass it over will you give me your word not to try it on again? Think! [He goes into the cell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries the window-bars] THE GOVERNOR. [Returning] Well? MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another six weeks to do in here, alone. I can't do it and think o' nothing. I must have something to interest me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but I can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive a gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four hours' steady work would have done it. THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then? Caught, brought back, punishment. Five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, while they put anew bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney? MOANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is. THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, well! Two days' cells-bread and water. MOANEY. Thank 'e, sir. He turns quickly like an animal and slips into his cell. The GOVERNOR looks after him and shakes his head as WOODER closes and locks the cell door. THE GOVERNOR. Open Clipton's cell. WOODER opens the door of CLIPTON'S cell. CLIPTON is sitting on a stool just inside the door, at work on a pair of trousers. He is a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost shaven head, and smouldering little dark eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets up and stands motionless in the doorway, peering at his visitors. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning] Come out here a minute, Clipton. CLIPTON, with a sort of dreadful quietness, comes into the corridor, the needle and thread in his hand. The GOVERNOR signs to WOODER, who goes into the cell and inspects it carefully. THE GOVERNOR. How are your eyes? CLIFTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see the sun here. [He makes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] There's just one thing, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd ask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter. THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want any tales, Clipton. CLIPTON. He keeps me awake. I don't know who he is. [With contempt] One of this star class, I expect. Oughtn't to be here with us. THE GOVERNOR. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton. He'll be moved when there's a cell vacant. CLIPTON. He knocks about like a wild beast in the early morning. I'm not used to it--stops me getting my sleep out. In the evening too. It's not fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. Sleep's the comfort I've got here; I'm entitled to take it out full. WOODER comes out of the cell, and instantly, as though extinguished, CLIPTON moves with stealthy suddenness back into his cell. WOODER. All right, sir. THE GOVERNOR nods. The door is closed and locked. THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on his door this morning? WOODER. [Going towards O'CLEARY'S cell] This one, sir; O'Cleary. He lifts the disc and glances through the peephole. THE GOVERNOR. Open. WOODER throws open the door. O'CLEARY, who is seated at a little table by the door as if listening, springs up and stands at attention jest inside the doorway. He is a broad-faced, middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, flexible mouth, and little holes under his high cheek-bones. THE GOVERNOR. Where's the joke, O'Cleary? O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour? I've not seen one for a long time. THE GOVERNOR. Banging on your door? O'CLEARY. Oh! that! THE GOVERNOR. It's womanish. O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two months past. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to complain of? O'CLEARY. NO, Sirr. THE GOVERNOR. You're an old hand; you ought to know better. O'CLEARY. Yes, I've been through it all. THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him. O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't always be the same steady man. THE GOVERNOR. Work all right? O'CLEARY. [Taking up a rush mat he is making] Oh! I can do it on me head. It's the miserablest stuff--don't take the brains of a mouse. [Working his mouth] It's here I feel it--the want of a little noise --a terrible little wud ease me. THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if you were out in the shops you wouldn't be allowed to talk. O'CLEARY. [With a look of profound meaning] Not with my mouth. THE GOVERNOR. Well, then? O'CLEARY. But it's the great conversation I'd have. THE GOVERNOR. [With a smile] Well, no more conversation on your door. O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit to repeat meself. THE GOVERNOR. [Turning] Good-night. O'CLEARY. Good-night, your honour. He turns into his cell. The GOVERNOR shuts the door. THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't help liking the poor blackguard. WOODER. He's an amiable man, sir. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask the doctor to come here, Mr. Wooder. WOODER salutes and goes away down the corridor. The GOVERNOR goes to the door of FALDER'S cell. He raises his uninjured hand to uncover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, after scrutinising the record board, he opens the cell door. FALDER, who is standing against it, lurches forward. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: can't you settle down, Falder? FALDER. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean? It's no good running your head against a stone wall, is it? FALDER. No, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Well, come. FALDER. I try, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Can't you sleep? FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and getting up's the worst time. THE GOVERNOR. How's that? FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't know, sir. I was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] Everything seems to get such a size then. I feel I'll never get out as long as I live. THE GOVERNOR. That's morbid, my lad. Pull yourself together. FALDER. [With an equally sudden dogged resentment] Yes--I've got to. THE GOVERNOR. Think of all these other fellows? FALDER. They're used to it. THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it once for the first time, just as you're doing now. FALDER. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in time, I suppose. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! That rests with you. Now come. Set your mind to it, like a good fellow. You're still quite young. A man can make himself what he likes. FALDER. [Wistfully] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Take a good hold of yourself. Do you read? FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his head] I know it's no good; but I can't help thinking of what's going on outside. In my cell I can't see out at all. It's thick glass, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You've had a visitor. Bad news? FALDER. Yes. THE GOVERNOR. You mustn't think about it. FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help it, sir? He suddenly becomes motionless as WOODER and the DOCTOR approach. The GOVERNOR motions to him to go back into his cell. FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my head, sir. [He goes back into his cell.] THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and see him, Clements. The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR pushes the door to, nearly closing it, and walks towards the window. WOODER. [Following] Sorry you should be troubled like this, sir. Very contented lot of men, on the whole. THE GOVERNOR. [Shortly] You think so? WOODER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my opinion. THE GOVERNOR. [To himself] Queer, that! WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? THE GOVERNOR. Christmas! He turns towards the window, leaving WOODER looking at him with a sort of pained anxiety. WOODER. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show enough, sir? If you'd like us to have more holly? THE GOVERNOR. Not at all, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. Very good, sir. The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell, and the GOVERNOR beckons to him. THE GOVERNOR. Well? THE DOCTOR. I can't make anything much of him. He's nervous, of course. THE GOVERNOR. Is there any sort of case to report? Quite frankly, Doctor. THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separates doing him any good; but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better in the shops, there's no doubt. THE GOVERNOR. You mean you'd have to recommend others? THE DOCTOR. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves. There's nothing tangible. That fellow there [pointing to O'CLEARY'S cell], for instance--feels it just as much, in his way. If I once get away from physical facts--I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously, sir, I don't know how to differentiate him. He hasn't lost weight. Nothing wrong with his eyes. His pulse is good. Talks all right. THE GOVERNOR. It doesn't amount to melancholia? THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on him if you like; but if I do I ought to report on others. THE GOVERNOR. I see. [Looking towards FALDER'S cell] The poor devil must just stick it then. As he says thin he looks absently at WOODER. WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns on his heel, and walks away. There is a sound as of beating on metal. THE GOVERNOR. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder? WOODER. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we should have more of that. He hurries forward, passing the GOVERNOR, who follows closely. The curtain falls. SCENE III FALDER's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass, with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet]. Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark ventilator under the window, and another over the door. FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under the window. In fast-failing daylight, FALDER, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. He springs suddenly upright--as if at a sound-and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. FALDER is seen gasping for breath. A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. FALDER shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; FALDER'S hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it. The curtain falls. ACT IV The scene is again COKESON'S room, at a few minutes to ten of a March morning, two years later. The doors are all open. SWEEDLE, now blessed with a sprouting moustache, is getting the offices ready. He arranges papers on COKESON'S table; then goes to a covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at himself in the mirror. While he is gazing his full RUTH HONEYWILL comes in through the outer office and stands in the doorway. There seems a kind of exultation and excitement behind her habitual impassivity. SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstand with a bang] Hello! It's you! RUTH. Yes. SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't waste their time hurrying down in the morning. Why, it must be two years since we had the pleasure of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been doing with yourself? RUTH. [Sardonically] Living. SWEEDLE. [Impressed] If you want to see him [he points to COKESON'S chair], he'll be here directly--never misses--not much. [Delicately] I hope our friend's back from the country. His time's been up these three months, if I remember. [RUTH nods] I was awful sorry about that. The governor made a mistake--if you ask me. RUTH. He did. SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. And, I say, the judge ought to ha' let him go after that. They've forgot what human nature's like. Whereas we know. [RUTH gives him a honeyed smile] SWEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload of bricks, flatten you out, and when you don't swell up again they complain of it. I know 'em--seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [He shakes his head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other day the governor---- But COKESON has come in through the outer office; brisk with east wind, and decidedly greyer. COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! it's you! [Then motioning SWEEDLE out, and closing the door] Quite a stranger! Must be two years. D'you want to see me? I can give you a minute. Sit down! Family well? RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was. COKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are more comfortable at home. RUTH. I couldn't stay with Honeywill, after all. COKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. I should be sorry if you'd done anything rash. RUTH. I've kept the children with me. COKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so jolly as ha had hoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen you. You've not heard from the young man, I suppose, since he came out? RUTH. Yes, I ran across him yesterday. COKESON. I hope he's well. RUTH. [With sudden fierceness] He can't get anything to do. It's dreadful to see him. He's just skin and bone. COKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that. [On his guard again] Didn't they find him a place when his time was up? RUTH. He was only there three weeks. It got out. COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you. I don't like to be snubby. RUTH. I can't bear his being like that. COKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I know his relations aren't very forthy about him. Perhaps you can do something for him, till he finds his feet. RUTH. Not now. I could have--but not now. COKESON. I don't understand. RUTH. [Proudly] I've seen him again--that's all over. COKESON. [Staring at her--disturbed] I'm a family man--I don't want to hear anything unpleasant. Excuse me--I'm very busy. RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, but they've never got over me marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise, Mr. Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when I married him. I thought the world of him, of course... he used to come travelling to our farm. COKESON. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got on better, after you saw me. RUTH. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't break my nerve, but I lost my health; and then he began knocking the children about. I couldn't stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were dying. COKESON. [Who has risen and is shifting about as though dodging a stream of lava] We mustn't be violent, must we? RUTH. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave better than that-- [There is silence] COKESON. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there you were! And what did you do then? RUTH. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left him before..., making skirts... cheap things. It was the best I could get, but I never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and working all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I kept at it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that; I wasn't made for it. I'd rather die. COKESON. My dear woman! We mustn't talk like that. RUTH. It was starvation for the children too--after what they'd always had. I soon got not to care. I used to be too tired. [She is silent] COKESON. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what happened then? RUTH. [With a laugh] My employer happened then--he's happened ever since. COKESON. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a thing like this. RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But I've done with that. [Suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the back of her hand] I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was just a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in there and sat down, and he told me all about himself. Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him another chance. COKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost your livings! What a horrible position! RUTH. If he could only get here--where there's nothing to find out about him! COKESON. We can't have anything derogative to the firm. RUTH. I've no one else to go to. COKESON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't think they'll take him, under the circumstances. I don't really. RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in the street. [She points to the window.] COKESON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done that until he's sent for. [Then softening at the look on her face] We've got a vacancy, as it happens, but I can't promise anything. RUTH. It would be the saving of him. COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not sanguine. Now tell him that I don't want him till I see how things are. Leave your address? [Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street? [He notes it on blotting-paper] Good-morning. RUTH. Thank you. She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not, and goes away. COKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a large white cotton handkerchief] What a business! [Then looking amongst his papers, he sounds his bell. SWEEDLE answers it] COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here to-day after the clerk's place? SWEEDLE. Yes. COKESON. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want to see him yet. SWEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir? COKESON. [With asperity] invent something. Use your brains. Don't stump him off altogether. SWEEDLE. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, sir? COKESON. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here to-day. SWEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? COKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remember Falder? I may be having him round to see me. Now, treat him like you'd have him treat you in a similar position. SWEEDLE. I naturally should do. COKESON. That's right. When a man's down never hit 'im. 'Tisn't necessary. Give him a hand up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you in life. It's sound policy. SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take him on again, sir? COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the sound of some one having entered the outer office] Who's there? SWEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's Falder, sir. COKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty of her. Tell him to call again. I don't want---- He breaks off as FALDER comes in. FALDER is thin, pale, older, his eyes have grown more restless. His clothes are very worn and loose. SWEEDLE, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. COKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous. [Trying to keep things pleasant] Shake hands! She's striking while the iron's hot. [He wipes his forehead] I don't blame her. She's anxious. FALDER timidly takes COKESON's hand and glances towards the partners' door. COKESON. No--not yet! Sit down! [FALDER sits in the chair at the aide of COKESON's table, on which he places his cap] Now you are here I'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [Looking at him over his spectacles] How's your health? FALDER. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that. About this matter. I don't like doing anything out of the ordinary; it's not my habit. I'm a plain man, and I want everything smooth and straight. But I promised your friend to speak to the partners, and I always keep my word. FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've paid for that job a thousand times and more. I have, sir. No one knows. They say I weighed more when I came out than when I went in. They couldn't weigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart, and gives a sort of laugh]. Till last night I'd have thought there was nothing in here at all. COKESON. [Concerned] You've not got heart disease? FALDER. Oh! they passed me sound enough. COKESON. But they got you a place, didn't they? FALSER. Yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me. I thought I was going to get on first rate. But one day, all of a sudden, the other clerks got wind of it.... I couldn't stick it, Mr. COKESON, I couldn't, sir. COKESON. Easy, my dear fellow, easy! FALDER. I had one small job after that, but it didn't last. COKESON. How was that? FALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. The fact is, I seem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. I can't explain it: it's as if I was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, it grows up there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about references; but what are you to do? You must have them. And that made me afraid, and I left. In fact, I'm--I'm afraid all the time now. He bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table. COKESON. I feel for you--I do really. Aren't your sisters going to do anything for you? FALDER. One's in consumption. And the other---- COKESON. Ye...es. She told me her husband wasn't quite pleased with you. FALDER. When I went there--they were at supper--my sister wanted to give me a kiss--I know. But he just looked at her, and said: "What have you come for?" Well, I pocketed my pride and I said: "Aren't you going to give me your hand, Jim? Cis is, I know," I said. "Look here!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd better come to an understanding. I've been expecting you, and I've made up my mind. I'll give you fifteen pounds to go to Canada with." "I see," I said--"good riddance! No, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds." Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where I have. COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen pound from me? [Flustered, as FALDER regards him with a queer smile] Quite without prejudice; I meant it kindly. FALDER. I'm not allowed to leave the country. COKESON. Oh! ye...es--ticket-of-leave? You aren't looking the thing. FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawns aren't all poetry there. But meeting her--I feel a different man this morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the best thing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. That's queer, isn't it? COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you. FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me. [With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate with criminals! COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That never did a man any good. Put a face on it. FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're independent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk about giving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over. COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven't made a Socialist of you. FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he utters a peculiar laugh. COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Really you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure. FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, but they down you all the same. This feeling--[He stares round him, as though at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden impersonality] I know it is. COKESON. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there! We must try and take it quiet. I'm sure I've often had you in my prayers. Now leave it to me. I'll use my gumption and take 'em when they're jolly. [As he speaks the two partners come in] COKESON [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put them all at ease] I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've just been having a talk with this young man. I think you'll remember him. JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How are you, Falder? WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] Very glad to see you again, Falder. FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] Thank you, sir. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To FALDER, pointing to the clerks' office] You might go in there a minute. You know your way. Our junior won't be coming this morning. His wife's just had a little family. FALDER, goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all about it. He's quite penitent. But there's a prejudice against him. And you're not seeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It's very trying to go without your dinner. JAMES. Is that so, COKESON? COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. Now we know all about him, and we want a clerk. There is a young fellow applying, but I'm keeping him in the air. JAMES. A gaol-bird in the office, COKESON? I don't see it. WALTER. "The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice!" I've never got that out of my head. JAMES. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this affair. What's he been doing since he came out? COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. He's sensitive--quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's down on him. JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow--never did from the first. "Weak character"'s written all over him. WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up. JAMES. He brought it all on himself. WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold in these days. JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold it for all that, my boy. WALTER. For oneself, yes--not for other people, thanks. JAMES. Well! I don't want to be hard. COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something [spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy. JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some one uncommonly like her outside as we came in. COKESON. That! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has met her. JAMES. Is she with her husband? COKESON. No. JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose? COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] I don't know that of my own knowledge. 'Tisn't my business. JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage him, COKESON. COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. I've had the party here this morning. JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Too shady altogether! COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you--I see that. WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what we have to do with his private life. JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come here. WALTER. Poor devil! COKESON. Will you--have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I can get him to see reason. JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, COKESON. WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON is summoning FALDER] His whole future may depend on what we do, dad. FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself together, and presents a steady front. JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you another chance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the first place: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notion that you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. You can't play fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. If Society didn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise that the better. FALDER. Yes, sir; but--may I say something? JAMES. Well? FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [He stops] COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, that if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a quarter of us would ever have got there. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that, Falder. FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you began it. FALDER. I never wanted to do wrong. JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did. FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knocked me out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not what I was. JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. FALDER. [Throwing over his caution from the intensity of his feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to the future. FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what prison is. It's here it gets you. He grips his chest. COKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he wanted nourishment. WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. Time's merciful. FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what you've got to do is to put all the past behind you and build yourself up a steady reputation. And that brings me to the second thing. This woman you were mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have done with that. There's no chance of your keeping straight if you're going to begin your future with such a relationship. FALDER. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted expression] But sir... but sir... it's the one thing I looked forward to all that time. And she too... I couldn't find her before last night. During this and what follows COKESON becomes more and more uneasy. JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself that it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come back--not otherwise. FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffens himself] I couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got. JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for the benefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of this connection. It was the cause of all your disaster. FALDER. But sir, it means-having gone through all that-getting broken up--my nerves are in an awful state--for nothing. I did it for her. JAMES. Come! If she's anything of a woman she'll see it for herself. She won't want to drag you down further. If there were a prospect of your being able to marry her--it might be another thing. FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him --she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble from the beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER]... If anybody would help her! It's only money wants now, I'm sure. COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and is about to speak] I don't think we need consider that--it's rather far-fetched. FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full cause since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, if it can be managed. FALDER. Oh, sir! He goes to the window and looks down into the street. COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr. Walter. I have my reasons. FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her? I can beckon to her from here. WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to JAMES. JAMES. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. FALDER beckons from the window. COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James. She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young man's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to swindle the Law. FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a sort of awed silence. FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some change--looking from one to the other] There's been nothing between us, sir, to prevent it.... What I said at the trial was true. And last night we only just sat in the Park. SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office. COKESON. What is it? SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honeywill. [There is silence] JAMES. Show her in. RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKESON turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed groove. JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door] We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be faced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falder again. RUTH. Yes--only yesterday. JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. [Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage, ma'am. RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to twist her hands in front of her as though prescient of disaster. FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us to get you a divorce. RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and WALTER. JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. FALDER. But, Sir----! JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're fond of him. RUTH. Yes, Sir; I love him. She looks miserably at FALDER. JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way, do you? RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce. There's been nothing between us, has there? RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head-without looking at him] No. FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help us--we promise. JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you? You see what I mean? RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes. COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. JAMES. The situation is impossible. RUTH. Must I, Sir? JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to you, ma'am. His future is in your hands. RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right! FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to give me up--after all this? There's something--[Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, I swear solemnly there's been nothing between us. JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He starts at RUTH, who is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as the truth dawns on him] What is it? You've not been-- WALTER. Father! JAMES. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do, that'll do! I'll give you your chance, Falder. Don't let me know what you do with yourselves, that's all. FALDER. [As if he has not heard] Ruth? RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands. There is silence. COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. [To RUTH] Go in here. You'll feel better by yourself for a minute. He points to the clerks' room and moves towards the outer office. FALDER does not move. RUTH puts out her hand timidly. He shrinks back from the touch. She turns and goes miserably into the clerks' room. With a brusque movement he follows, seizing her by the shoulder just inside the doorway. COKESON shuts the door. JAMES. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, whoever it is. SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice] Detective-Sergeant blister. The detective enters, and closes the door behind him. WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two years and a half ago: I arrested him in, this room. JAMES. What about him? WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his whereabouts from you. [There is an awkward silence] COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're not responsible for his movements; you know that. JAMES. What do you want with him? WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four weeks. WALTER. How d'you mean? WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police till then? WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare say we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employment with a forged reference. What with the two things together--we must have him. Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON steal glances at JAMES, who stands staring steadily at the detective. COKESON. [Expansively] We're very busy at the moment. If you could make it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but I dislike peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. If you want him you must find him without us. As he speaks his eye falls on FALDER'S cap, still lying on the table, and his face contracts. WISTER. [Noting the gesture--quietly] Very good, sir. I ought to warn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still a convict, and sheltering a convict. JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come here and ask questions which it's not my business to answer. WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quite understand, don't you? Good-morning! WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. COKESON. The other door.... the other door! WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTHS's voice is heard: "Oh, do!" and FALDER'S: "I can't!" There is a little pause; then, with sharp fright, RUTH says: "Who's that?" WISTER has gone in. The three men look aghast at the door. WISTER [From within] Keep back, please! He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in FALDER'S. The latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake! WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. FALDER. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up his head, and goes out through the outer office, half dragging WISTER after him. WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll go on for ever now. SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER's voice. JAMES. What's that? SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to behind him. There is dead silence. WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The woman-she's fainting! He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the clerks' room. COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! WALTER. Have you any brandy? COKESON. I've got sherry. WALTER. Get it, then. Quick! He places RUTH in a chair--which JAMES has dragged forward. COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They try to force the sherry between her lips.] There is the sound of feet, and they stop to listen. The outer door is reopened--WISTER and SWEEDLE are seen carrying some burden. JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it? They lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and all but RUTH cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices. WISTER. He jumped--neck's broken. WALTER. Good God! WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the slip like that. And what was it--just a few months! WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all? JAMES. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice unlike his own] Run for a doctor--you! [SWEEDLE rushes from the outer office] An ambulance! WISTER goes out. On RUTH's face an expression of fear and horror has been seen growing, as if she dared not turn towards the voices. She now rises and steals towards them. WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look! The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body. RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it? He's not breathing. [She crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! In the outer office doorway the figures of men am seen standing. RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead! [The figures of the men shrink back] COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] There, there, poor dear woman! At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at him. COKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! He's safe with gentle Jesus! RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at COKESON, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as one would to a lost dog. The curtain falls. End of Project Gutenberg's Justice (Second Series Plays), by John Galsworthy Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What Medical school does Laura attend?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Laura attends Harvard Medical school." ]	8,722	narrativeqa	en	null	e726a44d5d159de71612e7733d453f36d881d6f19f484fe4	Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net DOCTOR BY MURRAY LEINSTER Illustrated by FINLAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine February 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly the biggest thing in the universe was the very tiniest. There were suns, which were nearby, and there were stars which were so far away that no way of telling their distance had any meaning. The suns had planets, most of which did not matter, but the ones that did count had seas and continents, and the continents had cities and highways and spaceports. And people. The people paid no attention to their insignificance. They built ships which went through emptiness beyond imagining, and they landed upon planets and rebuilt them to their own liking. Suns flamed terribly, renting their impertinence, and storms swept across the planets they preëmpted, but the people built more strongly and were secure. Everything in the universe was bigger or stronger than the people, but they ignored the fact. They went about the businesses they had contrived for themselves. They were not afraid of anything until somewhere on a certain small planet an infinitesimal single molecule changed itself. It was one molecule among unthinkably many, upon one planet of one solar system among uncountable star clusters. It was not exactly alive, but it acted as if it were, in which it was like all the important matter of the cosmos. It was actually a combination of two complicated substances not too firmly joined together. When one of the parts changed, it became a new molecule. But, like the original one, it was still capable of a process called autocatalysis. It practiced that process and catalyzed other molecules into existence, which in each case were duplicates of itself. Then mankind had to take notice, though it ignored flaming suns and monstrous storms and emptiness past belief. Men called the new molecule a virus and gave it a name. They called it and its duplicates "chlorophage." And chlorophage was, to people, the most terrifying thing in the universe. * * * * * In a strictly temporary orbit around the planet Altaira, the _Star Queen_ floated, while lift-ships brought passengers and cargo up to it. The ship was too large to be landed economically at an unimportant spaceport like Altaira. It was a very modern ship and it made the Regulus-to-Cassim run, which is five hundred light-years, in only fifty days of Earthtime. Now the lift-ships were busy. There was an unusual number of passengers to board the _Star Queen_ at Altaira and an unusual number of them were women and children. The children tended to pudginess and the women had the dieted look of the wives of well-to-do men. Most of them looked red-eyed, as if they had been crying. One by one the lift-ships hooked onto the airlock of the _Star Queen_ and delivered passengers and cargo to the ship. Presently the last of them was hooked on, and the last batch of passengers came through to the liner, and the ship's doctor watched them stream past him. His air was negligent, but he was actually impatient. Like most doctors, Nordenfeld approved of lean children and wiry women. They had fewer things wrong with them and they responded better to treatment. Well, he was the doctor of the _Star Queen_ and he had much authority. He'd exerted it back on Regulus to insist that a shipment of botanical specimens for Cassim travel in quarantine--to be exact, in the ship's practically unused hospital compartment--and he was prepared to exercise authority over the passengers. He had a sheaf of health slips from the examiners on the ground below. There was one slip for each passenger. It certified that so-and-so had been examined and could safely be admitted to the _Star Queen's_ air, her four restaurants, her two swimming pools, her recreation areas and the six levels of passenger cabins the ship contained. He impatiently watched the people go by. Health slips or no health slips, he looked them over. A characteristic gait or a typical complexion tint, or even a certain lack of hair luster, could tell him things that ground physicians might miss. In such a case the passenger would go back down again. It was not desirable to have deaths on a liner in space. Of course nobody was ever refused passage because of chlorophage. If it were ever discovered, the discovery would already be too late. But the health regulations for space travel were very, very strict. He looked twice at a young woman as she passed. Despite applied complexion, there was a trace of waxiness in her skin. Nordenfeld had never actually seen a case of chlorophage. No doctor alive ever had. The best authorities were those who'd been in Patrol ships during the quarantine of Kamerun when chlorophage was loose on that planet. They'd seen beamed-up pictures of patients, but not patients themselves. The Patrol ships stayed in orbit while the planet died. Most doctors, and Nordenfeld was among them, had only seen pictures of the screens which showed the patients. * * * * * He looked sharply at the young woman. Then he glanced at her hands. They were normal. The young woman went on, unaware that for the fraction of an instant there had been the possibility of the landing of the _Star Queen_ on Altaira, and the destruction of her space drive, and the establishment of a quarantine which, if justified, would mean that nobody could ever leave Altaira again, but must wait there to die. Which would not be a long wait. A fat man puffed past. The gravity on Altaira was some five per cent under ship-normal and he felt the difference at once. But the veins at his temples were ungorged. Nordenfeld let him go by. There appeared a white-haired, space-tanned man with a briefcase under his arm. He saw Nordenfeld and lifted a hand in greeting. The doctor knew him. He stepped aside from the passengers and stood there. His name was Jensen, and he represented a fund which invested the surplus money of insurance companies. He traveled a great deal to check on the business interests of that organization. The doctor grunted, "What're you doing here? I thought you'd be on the far side of the cluster." "Oh, I get about," said Jensen. His manner was not quite normal. He was tense. "I got here two weeks ago on a Q-and-C tramp from Regulus. We were a ship load of salt meat. There's romance for you! Salt meat by the spaceship load!" The doctor grunted again. All sorts of things moved through space, naturally. The _Star Queen_ carried a botanical collection for a museum and pig-beryllium and furs and enzymes and a list of items no man could remember. He watched the passengers go by, automatically counting them against the number of health slips in his hand. "Lots of passengers this trip," said Jensen. "Yes," said the doctor, watching a man with a limp. "Why?" Jensen shrugged and did not answer. He was uneasy, the doctor noted. He and Jensen were as much unlike as two men could very well be, but Jensen was good company. A ship's doctor does not have much congenial society. The file of passengers ended abruptly. There was no one in the _Star Queen's_ airlock, but the "Connected" lights still burned and the doctor could look through into the small lift-ship from the planet down below. He frowned. He fingered the sheaf of papers. "Unless I missed count," he said annoyedly, "there's supposed to be one more passenger. I don't see--" A door opened far back in the lift-ship. A small figure appeared. It was a little girl perhaps ten years old. She was very neatly dressed, though not quite the way a mother would have done it. She wore the carefully composed expression of a child with no adult in charge of her. She walked precisely from the lift-ship into the _Star Queen's_ lock. The opening closed briskly behind her. There was the rumbling of seals making themselves tight. The lights flickered for "Disconnect" and then "All Clear." They went out, and the lift-ship had pulled away from the _Star Queen_. "There's my missing passenger," said the doctor. * * * * * The child looked soberly about. She saw him. "Excuse me," she said very politely. "Is this the way I'm supposed to go?" "Through that door," said the doctor gruffly. "Thank you," said the little girl. She followed his direction. She vanished through the door. It closed. There came a deep, droning sound, which was the interplanetary drive of the _Star Queen_, building up that directional stress in space which had seemed such a triumph when it was first contrived. The ship swung gently. It would be turning out from orbit around Altaira. It swung again. The doctor knew that its astrogators were feeling for the incredibly exact pointing of its nose toward the next port which modern commercial ship operation required. An error of fractional seconds of arc would mean valuable time lost in making port some ten light-years of distance away. The drive droned and droned, building up velocity while the ship's aiming was refined and re-refined. The drive cut off abruptly. Jensen turned white. The doctor said impatiently, "There's nothing wrong. Probably a message or a report should have been beamed down to the planet and somebody forgot. We'll go on in a minute." But Jensen stood frozen. He was very pale. The interplanetary drive stayed off. Thirty seconds. A minute. Jensen swallowed audibly. Two minutes. Three. The steady, monotonous drone began again. It continued interminably, as if while it was off the ship's head had swung wide of its destination and the whole business of lining up for a jump in overdrive had to be done all over again. Then there came that "Ping-g-g-g!" and the sensation of spiral fall which meant overdrive. The droning ceased. Jensen breathed again. The ship's doctor looked at him sharply. Jensen had been taut. Now the tensions had left his body, but he looked as if he were going to shiver. Instead, he mopped a suddenly streaming forehead. "I think," said Jensen in a strange voice, "that I'll have a drink. Or several. Will you join me?" Nordenfeld searched his face. A ship's doctor has many duties in space. Passengers can have many things wrong with them, and in the absolute isolation of overdrive they can be remarkably affected by each other. "I'll be at the fourth-level bar in twenty minutes," said Nordenfeld. "Can you wait that long?" "I probably won't wait to have a drink," said Jensen. "But I'll be there." The doctor nodded curtly. He went away. He made no guesses, though he'd just observed the new passengers carefully and was fully aware of the strict health regulations that affect space travel. As a physician he knew that the most deadly thing in the universe was chlorophage and that the planet Kamerun was only one solar system away. It had been a stop for the _Star Queen_ until four years ago. He puzzled over Jensen's tenseness and the relief he'd displayed when the overdrive field came on. But he didn't guess. Chlorophage didn't enter his mind. Not until later. * * * * * He saw the little girl who'd come out of the airlock last of all the passengers. She sat on a sofa as if someone had told her to wait there until something or other was arranged. Doctor Nordenfeld barely glanced at her. He'd known Jensen for a considerable time. Jensen had been a passenger on the _Star Queen_ half a dozen times, and he shouldn't have been upset by the temporary stoppage of an interplanetary drive. Nordenfeld divided people into two classes, those who were not and those who were worth talking to. There weren't many of the latter. Jensen was. He filed away the health slips. Then, thinking of Jensen's pallor, he asked what had happened to make the _Star Queen_ interrupt her slow-speed drive away from orbit around Altaira. The purser told him. But the purser was fussily concerned because there were so many extra passengers from Altaira. He might not be able to take on the expected number of passengers at the next stop-over point. It would be bad business to have to refuse passengers! It would give the space line a bad name. Then the air officer stopped Nordenfeld as he was about to join Jensen in the fourth-level bar. It was time for a medical inspection of the quarter-acre of Banthyan jungle which purified and renewed the air of the ship. Nordenfeld was expected to check the complex ecological system of the air room. Specifically, he was expected to look for and identify any patches of colorlessness appearing on the foliage of the jungle plants the _Star Queen_ carried through space. The air officer was discreet and Nordenfeld was silent about the ultimate reason for the inspection. Nobody liked to think about it. But if a particular kind of bleaching appeared, as if the chlorophyll of the leaves were being devoured by something too small to be seen by an optical microscope--why, that would be chlorophage. It would also be a death sentence for the _Star Queen_ and everybody in her. But the jungle passed medical inspection. The plants grew lushly in soil which periodically was flushed with hydroponic solution and then drained away again. The UV lamps were properly distributed and the different quarters of the air room were alternately lighted and darkened. And there were no colorless patches. A steady wind blew through the air room and had its excess moisture and unpleasing smells wrung out before it recirculated through the ship. Doctor Nordenfeld authorized the trimming of some liana-like growths which were developing woody tissue at the expense of leaves. The air officer also told him about the reason for the turning off of the interplanetary drive. He considered it a very curious happening. The doctor left the air room and passed the place where the little girl--the last passenger to board the _Star Queen_--waited patiently for somebody to arrange something. Doctor Nordenfeld took a lift to the fourth level and went into the bar where Jensen should be waiting. He was. He had an empty glass before him. Nordenfeld sat down and dialed for a drink. He had an indefinite feeling that something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. There are always things going wrong for a ship's doctor, though. There are so many demands on his patience that he is usually short of it. Jensen watched him sip at his drink. "A bad day?" he asked. He'd gotten over his own tension. * * * * * Nordenfeld shrugged, but his scowl deepened. "There are a lot of new passengers." He realized that he was trying to explain his feelings to himself. "They'll come to me feeling miserable. I have to tell each one that if they feel heavy and depressed, it may be the gravity-constant of the ship, which is greater than their home planet. If they feel light-headed and giddy, it may be because the gravity-constant of the ship is less than they're used to. But it doesn't make them feel better, so they come back for a second assurance. I'll be overwhelmed with such complaints within two hours." Jensen waited. Then he said casually--too casually, "Does anybody ever suspect chlorophage?" "No," said Nordenfeld shortly. Jensen fidgeted. He sipped. Then he said, "What's the news from Kamerun, anyhow?" "There isn't any," said Nordenfeld. "Naturally! Why ask?" "I just wondered," said Jensen. After a moment: "What was the last news?" "There hasn't been a message from Kamerun in two years," said Nordenfeld curtly. "There's no sign of anything green anywhere on the planet. It's considered to be--uninhabited." Jensen licked his lips. "That's what I understood. Yes." Nordenfeld drank half his drink and said unpleasantly, "There were thirty million people on Kamerun when the chlorophage appeared. At first it was apparently a virus which fed on the chlorophyll of plants. They died. Then it was discovered that it could also feed on hemoglobin, which is chemically close to chlorophyll. Hemoglobin is the red coloring matter of the blood. When the virus consumed it, people began to die. Kamerun doctors found that the chlorophage virus was transmitted by contact, by inhalation, by ingestion. It traveled as dust particles and on the feet of insects, and it was in drinking water and the air one breathed. The doctors on Kamerun warned spaceships off and the Patrol put a quarantine fleet in orbit around it to keep anybody from leaving. And nobody left. And everybody died. _And_ so did every living thing that had chlorophyll in its leaves or hemoglobin in its blood, or that needed plant or animal tissues to feed on. There's not a person left alive on Kamerun, nor an animal or bird or insect, nor a fish nor a tree, or plant or weed or blade of grass. There's no longer a quarantine fleet there. Nobody'll go there and there's nobody left to leave. But there are beacon satellites to record any calls and to warn any fool against landing. If the chlorophage got loose and was carried about by spaceships, it could kill the other forty billion humans in the galaxy, together with every green plant or animal with hemoglobin in its blood." "That," said Jensen, and tried to smile, "sounds final." "It isn't," Nordenfeld told him. "If there's something in the universe which can kill every living thing except its maker, that something should be killed. There should be research going on about the chlorophage. It would be deadly dangerous work, but it should be done. A quarantine won't stop contagion. It can only hinder it. That's useful, but not enough." Jensen moistened his lips. Nordenfeld said abruptly, "I've answered your questions. Now what's on your mind and what has it to do with chlorophage?" Jensen started. He went very pale. "It's too late to do anything about it," said Nordenfeld. "It's probably nonsense anyhow. But what is it?" Jensen stammered out his story. It explained why there were so many passengers for the _Star Queen_. It even explained his departure from Altaira. But it was only a rumor--the kind of rumor that starts up untraceably and can never be verified. This one was officially denied by the Altairan planetary government. But it was widely believed by the sort of people who usually were well-informed. Those who could sent their families up to the _Star Queen_. And that was why Jensen had been tense and worried until the liner had actually left Altaira behind. Then he felt safe. Nordenfeld's jaw set as Jensen told his tale. He made no comment, but when Jensen was through he nodded and went away, leaving his drink unfinished. Jensen couldn't see his face; it was hard as granite. And Nordenfeld, the ship's doctor of the _Star Queen_, went into the nearest bathroom and was violently sick. It was a reaction to what he'd just learned. * * * * * There were stars which were so far away that their distance didn't mean anything. There were planets beyond counting in a single star cluster, let alone the galaxy. There were comets and gas clouds in space, and worlds where there was life, and other worlds where life was impossible. The quantity of matter which was associated with life was infinitesimal, and the quantity associated with consciousness--animal life--was so much less that the difference couldn't be expressed. But the amount of animal life which could reason was so minute by comparison that the nearest ratio would be that of a single atom to a sun. Mankind, in fact, was the least impressive fraction of the smallest category of substance in the galaxy. But men did curious things. There was the cutting off of the _Star Queen's_ short-distance drive before she'd gotten well away from Altaira. There had been a lift-ship locked to the liner's passenger airlock. When the last passenger entered the big ship--a little girl--the airlocks disconnected and the lift-ship pulled swiftly away. It was not quite two miles from the _Star Queen_ when its emergency airlocks opened and spacesuited figures plunged out of it to emptiness. Simultaneously, the ports of the lift-ship glowed and almost immediately the whole plating turned cherry-red, crimson, and then orange, from unlimited heat developed within it. The lift-ship went incandescent and ruptured and there was a spout of white-hot air, and then it turned blue-white and puffed itself to nothing in metallic steam. Where it had been there was only shining gas, which cooled. Beyond it there were figures in spacesuits which tried to swim away from it. The _Star Queen's_ control room, obviously, saw the happening. The lift-ship's atomic pile had flared out of control and melted down the ship. It had developed something like sixty thousand degrees Fahrenheit when it ceased to flare. It did not blow up; it only vaporized. But the process must have begun within seconds after the lift-ship broke contact with the _Star Queen_. In automatic reaction, the man in control of the liner cut her drive and offered to turn back and pick up the spacesuited figures in emptiness. The offer was declined with almost hysterical haste. In fact, it was barely made before the other lift-ships moved in on rescue missions. They had waited. And they were picking up castaways before the _Star Queen_ resumed its merely interplanetary drive and the process of aiming for a solar system some thirty light-years away. When the liner flicked into overdrive, more than half the floating figures had been recovered, which was remarkable. It was almost as remarkable as the flare-up of the lift-ship's atomic pile. One has to know exactly what to do to make a properly designed atomic pile vaporize metal. Somebody had known. Somebody had done it. And the other lift-ships were waiting to pick up the destroyed lift-ship's crew when it happened. The matter of the lift-ship's destruction was fresh in Nordenfeld's mind when Jensen had told his story. The two items fitted together with an appalling completeness. They left little doubt or hope. * * * * * Nordenfeld consulted the passenger records and presently was engaged in conversation with the sober-faced, composed little girl on a sofa in one of the cabin levels of the _Star Queen_. "You're Kathy Brand, I believe," he said matter-of-factly. "I understand you've been having a rather bad time of it." She seemed to consider. "It hasn't been too bad," she assured him. "At least I've been seeing new things. I got dreadfully tired of seeing the same things all the time." "What things?" asked Nordenfeld. His expression was not stern now, though his inner sensations were not pleasant. He needed to talk to this child, and he had learned how to talk to children. The secret is to talk exactly as to an adult, with respect and interest. "There weren't any windows," she explained, "and my father couldn't play with me, and all the toys and books were ruined by the water. It was dreadfully tedious. There weren't any other children, you see. And presently there weren't any grownups but my father." Nordenfeld only looked more interested. He'd been almost sure ever since knowing of the lift-ship's destruction and listening to Jensen's account of the rumor the government of Altaira denied. He was horribly sure now. "How long were you in the place that hadn't any windows?" "Oh, dreadfully long!" she said. "Since I was only six years old! Almost half my life!" She smiled brightly at him. "I remember looking out of windows and even playing out-of-doors, but my father and mother said I had to live in this place. My father talked to me often and often. He was very nice. But he had to wear that funny suit and keep the glass over his face because he didn't live in the room. The glass was because he went under the water, you know." Nordenfeld asked carefully conversational-sounding questions. Kathy Brand, now aged ten, had been taken by her father to live in a big room without any windows. It hadn't any doors, either. There were plants in it, and there were bluish lights to shine on the plants, and there was a place in one corner where there was water. When her father came in to talk to her, he came up out of the water wearing the funny suit with glass over his face. He went out the same way. There was a place in the wall where she could look out into another room, and at first her mother used to come and smile at her through the glass, and she talked into something she held in her hand, and her voice came inside. But later she stopped coming. * * * * * There was only one possible kind of place which would answer Kathy's description. When she was six years old she had been put into some university's aseptic-environment room. And she had stayed there. Such rooms were designed for biological research. They were built and then made sterile of all bacterial life and afterward entered through a tank of antiseptic. Anyone who entered wore a suit which was made germ-free by its passage through the antiseptic, and he did not breathe the air of the aseptic room, but air which was supplied him through a hose, the exhaled-air hose also passing under the antiseptic outside. No germ or microbe or virus could possibly get into such a room without being bathed in corrosive fluid which would kill it. So long as there was someone alive outside to take care of her, a little girl could live there and defy even chlorophage. And Kathy Brand had done it. But, on the other hand, Kamerun was the only planet where it would be necessary, and it was the only world from which a father would land his small daughter on another planet's spaceport. There was no doubt. Nordenfeld grimly imagined someone--he would have had to be a microbiologist even to attempt it--fighting to survive and defeat the chlorophage while he kept his little girl in an aseptic-environment room. She explained quite pleasantly as Nordenfeld asked more questions. There had been other people besides her father, but for a long time there had been only him. And Nordenfeld computed that somehow she'd been kept alive on the dead planet Kamerun for four long years. Recently, though--very recently--her father told her that they were leaving. Wearing his funny, antiseptic-wetted suit, he'd enclosed her in a plastic bag with a tank attached to it. Air flowed from the tank into the bag and out through a hose that was all wetted inside. She breathed quite comfortably. It made sense. An air tank could be heated and its contents sterilized to supply germ-free--or virus-free--air. And Kathy's father took an axe and chopped away a wall of the room. He picked her up, still inside the plastic bag, and carried her out. There was nobody about. There was no grass. There were no trees. Nothing moved. Here Kathy's account was vague, but Nordenfeld could guess at the strangeness of a dead planet, to the child who barely remembered anything but the walls of an aseptic-environment room. Her father carried her to a little ship, said Kathy, and they talked a lot after the ship took off. He told her that he was taking her to a place where she could run about outdoors and play, but he had to go somewhere else. He did mysterious things which to Nordenfeld meant a most scrupulous decontamination of a small spaceship's interior and its airlock. Its outer surface would reach a temperature at which no organic material could remain uncooked. And finally, said Kathy, her father had opened a door and told her to step out and good-by, and she did, and the ship went away--her father still wearing his funny suit--and people came and asked her questions she did not understand. * * * * * Kathy's narrative fitted perfectly into the rumor Jensen said circulated among usually well-informed people on Altaira. They believed, said Jensen, that a small spaceship had appeared in the sky above Altaira's spaceport. It ignored all calls, landed swiftly, opened an airlock and let someone out, and plunged for the sky again. And the story said that radar telescopes immediately searched for and found the ship in space. They trailed it, calling vainly for it to identify itself, while it drove at top speed for Altaira's sun. It reached the sun and dived in. Nordenfeld reached the skipper on intercom vision-phone. Jensen had been called there to repeat his tale to the skipper. "I've talked to the child," said Nordenfeld grimly, "and I'm putting her into isolation quarters in the hospital compartment. She's from Kamerun. She was kept in an aseptic-environment room at some university or other. She says her father looked after her. I get an impression of a last-ditch fight by microbiologists against the chlorophage. They lost it. Apparently her father landed her on Altaira and dived into the sun. From her story, he took every possible precaution to keep her from contagion or carrying contagion with her to Altaira. Maybe he succeeded. There's no way to tell--yet." The skipper listened in silence. Jensen said thinly, "Then the story about the landing was true." "Yes. The authorities isolated her, and then shipped her off on the _Star Queen_. Your well-informed friends, Jensen, didn't know what their government was going to do!" Nordenfeld paused, and said more coldly still, "They didn't handle it right. They should have killed her, painlessly but at once. Her body should have been immersed, with everything that had touched it, in full-strength nitric acid. The same acid should have saturated the place where the ship landed and every place she walked. Every room she entered, and every hall she passed through, should have been doused with nitric and then burned. It would still not have been all one could wish. The air she breathed couldn't be recaptured and heated white-hot. But the chances for Altaira's population to go on living would be improved. Instead, they isolated her and they shipped her off with us--and thought they were accomplishing something by destroying the lift-ship that had her in an airtight compartment until she walked into the _Star Queen's_ lock!" The skipper said heavily, "Do you think she's brought chlorophage on board?" "I've no idea," said Nordenfeld. "If she did, it's too late to do anything but drive the _Star Queen_ into the nearest sun.... No. Before that, one should give warning that she was aground on Altaira. No ship should land there. No ship should take off. Altaira should be blocked off from the rest of the galaxy like Kamerun was. And to the same end result." Jensen said unsteadily; "There'll be trouble if this is known on the ship. There'll be some unwilling to sacrifice themselves." "Sacrifice?" said Nordenfeld. "They're dead! But before they lie down, they can keep everybody they care about from dying too! Would you want to land and have your wife and family die of it?" The skipper said in the same heavy voice, "What are the probabilities? You say there was an effort to keep her from contagion. What are the odds?" "Bad," said Nordenfeld. "The man tried, for the child's sake. But I doubt he managed to make a completely aseptic transfer from the room she lived in to the spaceport on Altaira. The authorities on Altaira should have known it. They should have killed her and destroyed everything she'd touched. And _still_ the odds would have been bad!" Jensen said, "But you can't do that, Nordenfeld! Not now!" "I shall take every measure that seems likely to be useful." Then Nordenfeld snapped, "Damnation, man! Do you realize that this chlorophage can wipe out the human race if it really gets loose? Do you think I'll let sentiment keep me from doing what has to be done?" He flicked off the vision-phone. * * * * * The _Star Queen_ came out of overdrive. Her skipper arranged it to be done at the time when the largest possible number of her passengers and crew would be asleep. Those who were awake, of course, felt the peculiar inaudible sensation which one subjectively translated into sound. They felt the momentary giddiness which--having no natural parallel--feels like the sensation of treading on a stair-step that isn't there, combined with a twisting sensation so it is like a spiral fall. The passengers who were awake were mostly in the bars, and the bartenders explained that the ship had shifted overdrive generators and there was nothing to it. Those who were asleep started awake, but there was nothing in their surroundings to cause alarm. Some blinked in the darkness of their cabins and perhaps turned on the cabin lights, but everything seemed normal. They turned off the lights again. Some babies cried and had to be soothed. But there was nothing except wakening to alarm anybody. Babies went back to sleep and mothers returned to their beds and--such awakenings being customary--went back to sleep also. It was natural enough. There were vague and commonplace noises, together making an indefinite hum. Fans circulated the ship's purified and reinvigorated air. Service motors turned in remote parts of the hull. Cooks and bakers moved about in the kitchens. Nobody could tell by any physical sensation that the _Star Queen_ was not in overdrive, except in the control room. There the stars could be seen. They were unthinkably remote. The ship was light-years from any place where humans lived. She did not drive. Her skipper had a family on Cassim. He would not land a plague ship which might destroy them. The executive officer had a small son. If his return meant that small son's death as well as his own, he would not return. All through the ship, the officers who had to know the situation recognized that if chlorophage had gotten into the _Star Queen_, the ship must not land anywhere. Nobody could survive. Nobody must attempt it. So the huge liner hung in the emptiness between the stars, waiting until it could be known definitely that chlorophage was aboard or that with absolute certainty it was absent. The question was up to Doctor Nordenfeld. He had isolated himself with Kathy in the ship's hospital compartment. Since the ship was built it had been used once by a grown man who developed mumps, and once by an adolescent boy who developed a raging fever which antibiotics stopped. Health measures for space travel were strict. The hospital compartment had only been used those two times. * * * * * On this voyage it had been used to contain an assortment of botanical specimens from a planet seventy light-years beyond Regulus. They were on their way to the botanical research laboratory on Cassim. As a routine precaution they'd been placed in the hospital, which could be fumigated when they were taken out. Now the doctor had piled them in one side of the compartment, which he had divided in half with a transparent plastic sheet. He stayed in that side. Kathy occupied the other. She had some flowering plants to look at and admire. They'd come from the air room and she was delighted with their coloring and beauty. But Doctor Nordenfeld had put them there as a continuing test for chlorophage. If Kathy carried that murderous virus on her person, the flowering plants would die of it--probably even before she did. It was a scrupulously scientific test for the deadly stuff. Completely sealed off except for a circulator to freshen the air she breathed, Kathy was settled with toys and picture books. It was an improvised but well-designed germproof room. The air for Kathy to breathe was sterilized before it reached her. The air she had breathed was sterilized as it left her plastic-sided residence. It should be the perfection of protection for the ship--if it was not already too late. The vision-phone buzzed. Doctor Nordenfeld stirred in his chair and flipped the switch. The _Star Queen's_ skipper looked at him out of the screen. "I've cut the overdrive," said the skipper. "The passengers haven't been told." "Very sensible," said the doctor. "When will we know?" "That we can go on living? When the other possibility is exhausted." "Then, how will we know?" asked skipper stonily. Doctor Nordenfeld ticked off the possibilities. He bent down a finger. "One, her father took great pains. Maybe he did manage an aseptic transfer from a germ-free room to Altaira. Kathy may not have been exposed to the chlorophage. If she hasn't, no bleached spots will show up on the air-room foliage or among the flowering plants in the room with her. Nobody in the crew or among the passengers will die." He bent down a second finger. "It is probably more likely that white spots will appear on the plants in the air room _and_ here, and people will start to die. That will mean Kathy brought contagion here the instant she arrived, and almost certainly that Altaira will become like Kamerun--uninhabited. In such a case we are finished." * * * * * He bent down a third finger. "Not so likely, but preferable, white spots may appear on the foliage inside the plastic with Kathy, but not in the ship's air room. In that case she was exposed, but the virus was incubating when she came on board, and only developed and spread after she was isolated. Possibly, in such a case, we can save the passengers and crew, but the ship will probably have to be melted down in space. It would be tricky, but it might be done." The skipper hesitated. "If that last happened, she--" "I will take whatever measures are necessary," said Doctor Nordenfeld. "To save your conscience, we won't discuss them. They should have been taken on Altaira." He reached over and flipped off the phone. Then he looked up and into the other part of the ship's hospital space. Kathy came out from behind a screen, where she'd made ready for bed. She was beaming. She had a large picture book under one arm and a doll under the other. "It's all right for me to have these with me, isn't it, Doctor Nordenfeld?" she asked hopefully. "I didn't have any picture books but one, and it got worn out. And my doll--it was dreadful how shabby she was!" The doctor frowned. She smiled at him. He said, "After all, picture books are made to be looked at and dolls to be played with." She skipped to the tiny hospital bed on the far side of the presumably virusproof partition. She climbed into it and zestfully arranged the doll to share it. She placed the book within easy reach. She said, "I think my father would say you were very nice, Doctor Nordenfeld, to look after me so well." "No-o-o-o," said the doctor in a detached voice. "I'm just doing what anybody ought to do." She snuggled down under the covers. He looked at his watch and shrugged. It was very easy to confuse official night with official day, in space. Everybody else was asleep. He'd been putting Kathy through tests which began with measurements of pulse and respiration and temperature and went on from there. Kathy managed them herself, under his direction. He settled down with one of the medical books he'd brought into the isolation section with him. Its title was _Decontamination of Infectious Material from Different Planets_. He read it grimly. * * * * * The time came when the _Star Queen_ should have come out of overdrive with the sun Circe blazing fiercely nearby, and a green planet with ice caps to be approached on interplanetary drive. There should have been droning, comforting drive noises to assure the passengers--who naturally could not see beyond the ship's steel walls--that they were within a mere few million miles of a world where sunshine was normal, and skies were higher than ship's ceilings, and there were fascinating things to see and do. Some of the passengers packed their luggage and put it outside their cabins to be picked up for landing. But no stewards came for it. Presently there was an explanation. The ship had run under maximum speed and the planetfall would be delayed. The passengers were disappointed but not concerned. The luggage vanished into cabins again. The _Star Queen_ floated in space among a thousand thousand million stars. Her astrogators had computed a course to the nearest star into which to drive the _Star Queen_, but it would not be used unless there was mutiny among the crew. It would be better to go in remote orbit around Circe III and give the news of chlorophage on Altaira, if Doctor Nordenfeld reported it on the ship. Time passed. One day. Two. Three. Then Jensen called the hospital compartment on vision-phone. His expression was dazed. Nordenfeld saw the interior of the control room behind Jensen. He said, "You're a passenger, Jensen. How is it you're in the control room?" Jensen moistened his lips. "The skipper thought I'd better not associate with the other passengers. I've stayed with the officers the past few days. We--the ones who know what's in prospect--we're keeping separate from the others so--nobody will let anything out by accident." "Very wise. When the skipper comes back on duty, ask him to call me. I've something interesting to tell him." "He's--checking something now," said Jensen. His voice was thin and reedy. "The--air officer reports there are white patches on the plants in the air room. They're growing. Fast. He told me to tell you. He's--gone to make sure." "No need," said Nordenfeld bitterly. He swung the vision-screen. It faced that part of the hospital space beyond the plastic sheeting. There were potted flowering plants there. They had pleased Kathy. They shared her air. And there were white patches on their leaves. "I thought," said Nordenfeld with an odd mirthless levity, "that the skipper'd be interested. It is of no importance whatever now, but I accomplished something remarkable. Kathy's father didn't manage an aseptic transfer. She brought the chlorophage with her. But I confined it. The plants on the far side of that plastic sheet show the chlorophage patches plainly. I expect Kathy to show signs of anemia shortly. I'd decided that drastic measures would have to be taken, and it looked like they might work, because I've confined the virus. It's there where Kathy is, but it isn't where I am. All the botanical specimens on my side of the sheet are untouched. The phage hasn't hit them. It is remarkable. But it doesn't matter a damn if the air room's infected. And I was so proud!" Jensen did not respond. * * * * * Nordenfeld said ironically, "Look what I accomplished! I protected the air plants on my side See? They're beautifully green! No sign of infection! It means that a man can work with chlorophage! A laboratory ship could land on Kamerun and keep itself the equivalent of an aseptic-environment room while the damned chlorophage was investigated and ultimately whipped! And it doesn't matter!" Jensen said numbly, "We can't ever make port. We ought--we ought to--" "We'll take the necessary measures," Nordenfeld told him. "Very quietly and very efficiently, with neither the crew nor the passengers knowing that Altaira sent the chlorophage on board the _Star Queen_ in the hope of banishing it from there. The passengers won't know that their own officials shipped it off with them as they tried to run away.... And I was so proud that I'd improvised an aseptic room to keep Kathy in! I sterilized the air that went in to her, and I sterilized--" Then he stopped. He stopped quite short. He stared at the air unit, set up and with two pipes passing through the plastic partition which cut the hospital space in two. He turned utterly white. He went roughly to the air machine. He jerked back its cover. He put his hand inside. Minutes later he faced back to the vision-screen from which Jensen looked apathetically at him. "Tell the skipper to call me," he said in a savage tone. "Tell him to call me instantly he comes back! Before he issues any orders at all!" He bent over the sterilizing equipment and very carefully began to disassemble it. He had it completely apart when Kathy waked. She peered at him through the plastic separation sheet. "Good morning, Doctor Nordenfeld," she said cheerfully. The doctor grunted. Kathy smiled at him. She had gotten on very good terms with the doctor, since she'd been kept in the ship's hospital. She did not feel that she was isolated. In having the doctor where she could talk to him at any time, she had much more company than ever before. She had read her entire picture book to him and discussed her doll at length. She took it for granted that when he did not answer or frowned that he was simply busy. But he was company because she could see him. Doctor Nordenfeld put the air apparatus together with an extremely peculiar expression on his face. It had been built for Kathy's special isolation by a ship's mechanic. It should sterilize the used air going into Kathy's part of the compartment, and it should sterilize the used air pushed out by the supplied fresh air. The hospital itself was an independent sealed unit, with its own chemical air freshener, and it had been divided into two. The air freshener was where Doctor Nordenfeld could attend to it, and the sterilizer pump simply shared the freshening with Kathy. But-- But the pipe that pumped air to Kathy was brown and discolored from having been used for sterilizing, and the pipe that brought air back was not. It was cold. It had never been heated. So Doctor Nordenfeld had been exposed to any contagion Kathy could spread. He hadn't been protected at all. Yet the potted plants on Kathy's side of the barrier were marked with great white splotches which grew almost as one looked, while the botanical specimens in the doctor's part of the hospital--as much infected as Kathy's could have been, by failure of the ship's mechanic to build the sterilizer to work two ways: the stacked plants, the alien plants, the strange plants from seventy light-years beyond Regulus--they were vividly green. There was no trace of chlorophage on them. Yet they had been as thoroughly exposed as Doctor Nordenfeld himself! The doctor's hands shook. His eyes burned. He took out a surgeon's scalpel and ripped the plastic partition from floor to ceiling. Kathy watched interestedly. "Why did you do that, Doctor Nordenfeld?" she asked. He said in an emotionless, unnatural voice, "I'm going to do something that it was very stupid of me not to do before. It should have been done when you were six years old, Kathy. It should have been done on Kamerun, and after that on Altaira. Now we're going to do it here. You can help me." * * * * * The _Star Queen_ had floated out of overdrive long enough to throw all distance computations off. But she swung about, and swam back, and presently she was not too far from the world where she was now many days overdue. Lift-ships started up from the planet's surface. But the _Star Queen_ ordered them back. "Get your spaceport health officer on the vision-phone," ordered the _Star Queen's_ skipper. "We've had chlorophage on board." There was panic. Even at a distance of a hundred thousand miles, chlorophage could strike stark terror into anybody. But presently the image of the spaceport health officer appeared on the _Star Queen's_ screen. "We're not landing," said Doctor Nordenfeld. "There's almost certainly an outbreak of chlorophage on Altaira, and we're going back to do something about it. It got on our ship with passengers from there. We've whipped it, but we may need some help." The image of the health officer aground was a mask of horror for seconds after Nordenfeld's last statement. Then his expression became incredulous, though still horrified. "We came on to here," said Doctor Nordenfeld, "to get you to send word by the first other ship to the Patrol that a quarantine has to be set up on Altaira, and we need to be inspected for recovery from chlorophage infection. And we need to pass on, officially, the discovery that whipped the contagion on this ship. We were carrying botanical specimens to Cassim and we discovered that they were immune to chlorophage. That's absurd, of course. Their green coloring is the same substance as in plants under Sol-type suns anywhere. They couldn't be immune to chlorophage. So there had to be something else." "Was--was there?" asked the health officer. "There was. Those specimens came from somewhere beyond Regulus. They carried, as normal symbiotes on their foliage, microörganisms unknown both on Kamerun and Altaira. The alien bugs are almost the size of virus particles, feed on virus particles, and are carried by contact, air, and so on, as readily as virus particles themselves. We discovered that those microörganisms devoured chlorophage. We washed them off the leaves of the plants, sprayed them in our air-room jungle, and they multiplied faster than the chlorophage. Our whole air supply is now loaded with an airborne antichlorophage organism which has made our crew and passengers immune. We're heading back to Altaira to turn loose our merry little bugs on that planet. It appears that they grow on certain vegetation, but they'll live anywhere there's phage to eat. We're keeping some chlorophage cultures alive so our microörganisms don't die out for lack of food!" The medical officer on the ground gasped. "Keeping phage _alive_?" * * * * * "I hope you've recorded this," said Nordenfeld. "It's rather important. This trick should have been tried on Kamerun and Altaira and everywhere else new diseases have turned up. When there's a bug on one planet that's deadly to us, there's bound to be a bug on some other planet that's deadly to it! The same goes for any pests or vermin--the principle of natural enemies. All we have to do is find the enemies!" There was more communication between the _Star Queen_ and the spaceport on Circe III, which the _Star Queen_ would not make other contact with on this trip, and presently the big liner headed back to Altaira. It was necessary for official as well as humanitarian reasons. There would need to be a health examination of the _Star Queen_ to certify that it was safe for passengers to breathe her air and eat in her restaurants and swim in her swimming pools and occupy the six levels of passenger cabins she contained. This would have to be done by a Patrol ship, which would turn up at Altaira. The _Star Queen's_ skipper would be praised by his owners for not having driven the liner into a star, and the purser would be forgiven for the confusion in his records due to off-schedule operations of the big ship, and Jensen would find in the ending of all terror of chlorophage an excellent reason to look for appreciation in the value of the investments he was checking up. And Doctor Nordenfeld.... He talked very gravely to Kathy. "I'm afraid," he told her, "that your father isn't coming back. What would you like to do?" She smiled at him hopefully. "Could I be your little girl?" she asked. Doctor Nordenfeld grunted. "Hm ... I'll think about it." But he smiled at her. She grinned at him. And it was settled. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Doctor, by Murray Leinster Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What gift did the mayor give to the Ghostbusters?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and memorize the context. (Note: I will give you the question after you confirm that you have memorized the context.) \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "key to the city" ]	25,089	narrativeqa	en	null	1e06ea4077ecabcd5cc72281c2a3e843f0c17dccd8af3183	Ghostbusters II by Harold Ramis and Dan Aykroyd September 29, 1988 Last revised Feburary 27, 1989 <b>EXT. MANHATTAN ISLAND - DAY </b> A high AERIAL SHOT of the island features the Statue of Liberty prominently in the foreground then TRAVELS ACROSS the harbor, OVER the Battery and Lower Manhattan to Greenwich Village. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY </b> A car is being hoisted up by a municipal tow truck while its owner is having a terrible screaming arguement with a parking enforcement officer. DANA BARRETT comes home pushing a baby buggy, struggling with two full bags of groceries, and trying to dig her keys out of her purse. The building superintendent FRANK, sees her struggling but pretends not to notice. <b> DANA </b> (exasperated) Frank, do you think you could give me a hand with these bags? <b> FRANK </b> I'm not a doorman, Miss Barrett. I'm a building superintendent. <b> DANA </b> You're also a human being, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> (reluctantly going to help) Okay, okay. It's not my job, but what the hell. I'll do you a favor. He takes the grocery bags from her. <b> DANA </b> (setting the wheel brakes on the buggy) Thank you, Frank. I'll get the hang of this eventually. She continues digging in her purse while Frank leans over the buggy and makes funny faces at the baby, OSCAR, a very cute nine-month old boy. <b> FRANK </b> (to the baby) Hiya, Oscar. What do you say, slugger? <b> FRANK </b> (to Dana) That's a good-looking kid you got there, Ms. Barrett. <b> DANA </b> (finding her keys) Thank you, Frank. Oh, are you ever going to fix the radiator in my bedroom? I asked you last week. <b> FRANK </b> Didn't I do it? <b>BABY BUGGY </b> It starts to vibrate as if shaken by an unseen hand. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> He GURGLES with delight at the movement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DANA AND FRANK - DAY </b> Neither of them notice the movement of the carriage. <b> DANA </b> No, you didn't, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> Okay, that's no problem. <b> DANA </b> That's exactly what you said last week. <b>BUGGY WHEELS </b> The brakes unlock themselves. <b>DANA </b> She reaches for the handlebar of the buggy, but the buggy rolls forward just out of her reach and stops. Surprised by the movement, she reaches for the handlebar again, but this time the buggy rolls away even further. Alarmed now, Dana hurries after it, but the buggy keeps rolling down the street at ever increasing speed. <b>SIDEWALK </b> Dana chases the buggy down the street, shouting to passing pedestrians for help, but every time someone reaches out to stop it, the buggy swerves and continues unchecked. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars, trucks, and buses speed by in both directions as the buggy races toward the corner. <b>DANA </b> She puts her head down and sprints after the buggy like an Olympian. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> A city bus is on a collision course with the speeding baby buggy. <b>BUGGY </b> It careens toward the corner. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> Its eyes are wide open with excitement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> Bus and buggy are closing fast as the buggy bounces over the curb and into the crosswalk. <b>BUS </b> The bus driver reacts in helpless horror as he sees the buggy enter the intersection at high speed. <b>BUGGY </b> It comes to a dead stop right in the middle of the street. The bus continues missing the buggy by inches. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars and trucks swerve and hit their brakes as Dana runs into the intersection and snatches up the baby. She hugs it close, deeply relieved, then looks at the buggy with the dawning awareness that the supernatural has re-entered her life. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UPPER WEST SIDE - NEW YORK CITY STREET - GHOSTBUSTERS LOGO - DAY </b> THEME MUSIC kicks in strongly as we see the familiar "No Ghosts" symbol and PULL BACK to reveal that it's painted on the side of Ecto-1, the Ghostbusters' emergency vehicle, which is speeding up Broadway on the Upper West Side. RAY STANTZ is driving and WINSTON ZEDDEMORE is riding shotgun. <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> The Ectomobile pulls up in front of a carefully-restored brownstone. Stantz and Winston, wearing their official Ghostbuster uniforms, jump out of the old ambulance, shoulder their proton packs and enter the house. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> A WOMAN greets them and leads them through the expensively-furnished house. <b> STANTZ </b> (all business) How many of them are there, ma'am? <b> WOMAN </b> Fourteen. They're in the back. I hope you can handle them. It's been like a nightmare. <b> WINSTON </b> How big are they? She holds her hand out indicating about four feet. <b> WINSTON </b> (resolute) We'll do our best, ma'am. <b> WOMAN </b> They're right out here. She leads them to a set of French doors that open into another room. Stantz and Winston pause to make final adjustments to their equipment. <b> STANTZ </b> Ready? <b> WINSTON </b> I'm ready. <b> STANTZ </b> Then let's do it. He pushes through the French doors and they step into the room. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They are immediately attacked by fourteen or fifteen screaming KIDS between the ages of seven and ten. <b> KIDS </b> (disappointed) Ghostbusters!! Boooo!! Tables are set with party favors, ice cream and birthday cake and the room is strewn with discarded toys and games. A couple of weary parents sink onto lawn chairs as Stantz and Winston take over the party. <b> WINSTON </b> (trying his best) How you doin', kids? <b> LITTLE BOY </b> (nasty) I though we were having He-Man. <b> STANTZ </b> He-Man couldn't make it today. That's why we're here. <b> BOY </b> My dad says you're full of crap. <b> STANTZ </b> (stopped cold) Well, a lot of people have trouble believing in the paranormal. <b> BOY </b> No, he just says you're full of crap and that's why you went out of business. He kicks Stantz in the leg. Stantz grabs him by the shirtfront. <b> STANTZ </b> (low and menacing) I'm watching you. (to Winston) Song. Winston switches on a tiny TAPE RECORDER which starts PLAYING the Ghostbusters THEME SONG. Stantz and WInston start singing <b> STANTZ AND WINSTON </b> 'There's something wrong in the neighborhood. Who you gonna call?' <b> KIDS </b> (all together) He-Man!! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Stantz and Winston wearily load their equipment into the Ectomobile. <b> WINSTON </b> That's it, Ray. I've had it. No more parties. I'm tired of taking abuse from over-privileged nine-year-olds. <b> STANTZ </b> Come on, Winston. We can't quit now. The holidays are coming up. It's our best season. They get in the car <b>INT. ECTO-1 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz tries to start the car, but the engine won't turn over. <b> WINSTON </b> Give it up, Ray. You're living in the past. Ghostbusters doesn't exist anymore. In a year these kids won't even remember who we are. <b> STANTZ </b> (tries to start the car again) Ungrateful little Yuppie larvae. After all we did for this city. <b> WINSTON </b> Yeah, what did we do, Ray? The last real job we had we bubbled up a hundred foot marshmallow man and blew the top three floors off an uptown highrise. <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, but what a ride. You can't make a hamburger without chopping up a cow. He turns the key again, the ENGING TURNS OVER, then starts GRINDING and CLUNKING disastrously, chewing up vital parts and dropping twisted bits of metal onto the pavement. Finally, with a BLAST of black sooty exhaust from the tailpipe, Ecto-1 shudders and dies. Frustrated, Stantz bangs his head lightly on the steering wheel <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. WKRR-TV STUDIO RECEPTION AREA - DAY (LATER) </b> A bank of monitors in the lobby show the program now running on WKRR, Channel 10 in New York. We PUSH IN ON one of the monitors as a title card and logo come up accompanied by some EERIE SYNTHESIZER MUSIC, and we return to the show in progress: "World of the Psychic with Dr. Peter Venkman." There is a video dissolve to a standard talk show set and sitting there is our host PETER VENKMAN, the renowned and somewhat infamous ex-Ghostbuster. <b>VENKMAN </b> He turns TO CAMERA and talks to his viewers in a suavely engaging tone, understated and intimate. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, welcome back to the 'World of the Psychic,' I'm Peter Venkman and I'm chatting with my guest, author, lecturer and of course, psychic, Milton Anglund. (to his guest) Milt, your new book is called The End of the World. Isn't that kind of like writing about gum disease. Yes, it could happen, but do you think anybody wants to read a book about it? <b> MILTON </b> Well, I think it's important for people to know that the world is in danger. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, so can you tell us when it's going to happen or do we have to buy the book? <b> MILTON </b> I predict that the world will end at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> This year? That's cutting it a little close, isn't it? I mean, just from a sales point of view, the book just came out, right? So you're not even looking at the paperback release for maybe a year. And it's going to be at least another year after that if the thing has movie-of-the-week or mini-series potential. You would have been better off predicting 1992 or even '94 just to be safe. <b> MILTON </b> (irritated) This is not just some money-making scheme! I didn't just make up the date. I have a strong psychic belief that the world will end on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> (placating) Well, for your sake, I hope you're right. But I think my other guest may disagree with you. Elaine, you had another date in mind? The CAMERA REVEALS ELAINE, an attractive, aggressive New Jersey housewife, sitting on the other side of Venkman. <b> ELAINE </b> According to my sources, the world will end on February 14, in the year 2016. <b> VENKMAN </b> Valentine's Day. That's got to be a bummer. Where did you get that date, Elaine? <b> ELAINE </b> I received this information from an alien. I was at the Paramus Holiday Inn, I was having a drink in the bar when he approached me and started talking. Then he must have used some sort of ray or a mind control device because he made me follow him to his room and that's where he told me about the end of the world. <b> VENKMAN </b> Your alien had a room in the Holiday Inn? <b> ELAINE </b> It may have been a room on the spacecraft made up to look like a room in the Holiday Inn. I can't be sure, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (humoring her) No, you can't, and I think that's the whole problem with aliens; you just can't trust them. You may get some nice ones occasionally like Starman or E.T., but most of them turn out to be some kind of lizard. Anyway, we're just about out of time. (does his wrap-up right TO the CAMERA) Next week on 'World of the Psychic,' hairless pets. (holds up a hairless cat) Until then, this is Peter Venkman saying ... (puts a finger to his temple and sends out a though to his viewers) ... Good night. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. TV STUDIO - CORRIDOR - DAY (LATER) </b> Venkman comes out of the studio squabbling with his producer, NORMAN, a well-meaning young incompetent. <b> VENKMAN </b> Where do you find these people? I thought we were having the telekinetic guy who bends the spoons? <b> NORMAN </b> A lot of the better psychics won't come on the show. They think you're too skeptical. <b> VENKMAN </b> Skeptical! Norman, I'm a pushover. I think professional wrestling is real. There is a small commotion down the hall as two plainclothes cops come out of the next studio followed by a group of mayoral assistants. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Norman) What's all this? <b> NORMAN </b> They just interviewed the mayor on 'Cityline.' <b> VENKMAN </b> The Mayor! He's a friend of mine. Venkman starts down the hall as the MAYOR and his principal aide, JACK HARDEMEYER, come walking out of the studio. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calling to the Mayor) Lenny! The Mayor sees Venkman, blanches and hurries off, pretending not to know him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (starts to follow him) Lenny! It's Pete Venkman! The plainclothesmen cut Venkman off and Hardemeyer puts a heavy hand against Venkman's chest. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (snide) Can I help you? <b> VENKMAN </b> (dangerous) Yeah, you can get your hand off my chest. Hardemeyer smiles and drops his hand. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> I'm Jack Hardemeyer. I'm the mayor's assistant. What can I do for you? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm an old friend of the mayor's. I just want to say hello to him. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (scornful) I know who you are, Doctor Venkman. Busting any ghosts lately? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, that's what I want to talk to the mayor about. We did a little job for the city a while back and we ended up getting sued, screwed and tattooed by deskworms like you. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (bristling) Look, you stay away from the mayor. Next fall, barring a disaster, he's going to be elected governor of this state and the last thing we need is for him to be associated with two-bit frauds and publicity hounds like you and your friends. You read me? Hardemeyer walks off with the two cops. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, I get it. But I want you to tell Lenny that, because of you, I'm not voting for him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - DAY </b> The broad front steps of the museum are crowded with tourists and visitors. Dana arrives carrying a portfolio and artist's tackle box and enters the museum. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATER) </b> We are FULL-FRAME ON a larger-than-life, full-figure portrait of VIGO THE CARPATHIAN, a demented and sadistic 16th century despot with an incredibly powerful evil presence. Then we PULL BACK to reveal the studio, which is a large open space on the top floor of the museum, lit by large skylights in the ceiling. Working on the Vigo painting is JANOSZ POHA, a youngish art historian and painter, the head of the department, quirky, intense and somewhat creepy. Janosz is staring longingly across the room at Dana. <b>DANA </b> She is carefully cleaning a 19th Century landscape painting, still preoccupied by the extraordinary near-accident with the buggy. Janosz watches her for a moment, then comes up behind her and looks over her shoulder. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with an East European accent) Still working on the Turner? Dana jumps, startled by the intrusion. <b> DANA </b> Oh, yes, I got in a little late this morning, Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> You know, you are really doing very good work here. I think soon you may be ready to assist me in some of the more important restorations. <b> DANA </b> Thank you, Janosz. I've learned a lot here, but now that my baby's a little older, I was hoping to rejoin the orchestra. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> At the mention of Dana's baby, the figure of Vigo miraculously turns his head and looks at Dana. <b>JANOSZ AND DANA </b> Neither of them notice the movement in the painting. <b> JANOSZ </b> (disappointed) We'll be very sorry to lose you. Perhaps I could take you to lunch today? <b> DANA </b> Actually, I'm not eating lunch today. I have an appointment. (looks at her watch) In fact, I'd better go. She starts gathering up her things. <b> JANOSZ </b> Every day I ask you, and every day you've got something else to do. Do I have bad breath or something? <b> DANA </b> (trying to brush him off) I'm sorry. Perhaps some other time. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, I'll take a raincheck on that. Janosz smiles at her as she exits, then goes back to his easel. <b> JANOSZ </b> (to himself) I think she likes me. He switches on an English language TAPE and starts practicing the phrases as he resumes working. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UNIVERSITY - DAY </b> Dana Barrett crosses the quad and enters a modern building. A sign identifies it as "The Institute for Advanced Theoretical Research." <b>INT. UNIVERSITY - DAY (A LITTLE LATER) </b> Dana is explaining the buggy incident to EGON SPENGLER, the soberly intellectual techno-wizard and former Ghostbuster, as he conducts an experiment assisted by a research team of graduate students, all of whom are Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. The device he is testing is a black box about the size of a Sony Watchman with both digital and graphic displays. <b> DANA </b> ... and then the buggy just suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the street <b> SPENGLER </b> Did anyone else see this happen? <b> DANA </b> Hundreds of people. Believe me, I didn't imagine this. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm not saying you did. In science we always look for the simplest explanation. An ASSISTANT interrupts. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready, Dr. Spengler <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Assistant) We'll start with the negative calibration. He picks up the device and prepares to test it. <b> DANA </b> (curious) What are you working on, Egon? <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm trying to determine whether human emotional states have a measurable effect on the psychomagnetheric energy field. It's a theory Ray and I were working on when we had to dissolve Ghostbusters. An assistant draws a curtain revealing a large picture window, actually a two-way mirror, that looks into a small waiting room. Inside the waiting room they can see but not hear a youngish couple having a heated arguement. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Dana) They think they're here for marriage counseling. We've kept them waiting for two hours and we've been gradually increasing the temperature in the room. (checking a heat sensor) It's up to 95 degrees at the moment. Now my assistant is going to enter and ask them if they'd mind waiting another half-hour. As Spengler, Dana, and the research team watch, the assistant enters the waiting room and tells the couple about the new delay. They explode with anger both at him and each other while Spengler monitors them through the glass. After recording his readings, he returns to his Assistant. <b> SPENGLER </b> We'll do the happiness index next. (to Dana) I'd like to bring Ray in on your case, if it's all right with you. <b> DANA </b> Okay, whatever you think -- but not Venkman. <b> SPENGLER </b> Oh no. <b> DANA </b> (affectedly casual) Do you ever see him? <b> SPENGLER </b> Occasionally <b> DANA </b> How is he these days? <b> SPENGLER </b> Venkman? I think he was borderline for a while there. Then he crossed the border. <b> DANA </b> Does he ever mention me? <b> SPENGLER </b> No. Not that I can recall. They move to another two-way mirror through which they can see a lovely little girl playing with a wonderful array of toys. <b> DANA </b> (slightly disappointed) Well, we didn't part on very good terms and we sort of lost track of each other when I got married. The Assistant interrupts again. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready for the affection test. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the assistant) Good. Send in the puppy. <b> DANA </b> (continuing) I thought of calling him after my marriage ended, but --. Anyway, I appreciate you're doing this, Egon They watch as another assistant enters the playroom with an adorable Cocker Spaniel puppy and gives it to the little girl. Spengler monitors her as she jumps for joy and hugs the little dog. <b> DANA </b> (handing him a card) This is my address and telephone number. Will you call me? <b> SPENGLER </b> Certainly. <b> DANA </b> Egon, I'd rather you didn't mention any of this to Peter if you don't mind. <b> SPENGLER </b> I won't. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. She shakes his hand and exits. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to his assistant) Now let's see how she reacts when we take away the puppy <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOK STORE - DAY (LATER) </b> It's a small basement shop located on a quaint commercial block in Greenwich Village. The window is crowded with occult artifacts and old books full of arcane metaphysical lore. The TELEPHONE RINGS. <b> STANTZ </b> (v.o., answering the phone) Ray's Occult. <b>INT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOKS - CONTINUOUS </b> The shelves are jammed floor to ceiling with books on the paranormal. Ray sits on a barstool behind the counter wearing an old cardigan sweater over a T-shirt. He has on a pair of reading glasses and chews on a battered, reeking pipe. As he talks on the phone he prepares a cup of herb tea for Spengler who is thumbing through an arcane text. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the phone) Yeah ... mmhmm ... What do you need? ... What have I got? I've got alchemy, astrology, apparitions, Bundu Magic Men, demon intercession, U.F.O. abductions, psychic surgery, stigmata, modern miracles, pixie sightings, golden geese, geists, ghosts, I've got it all -- what are you looking for? ... Don't have any. Try the stockyards. He hangs up. <b> SPENGLER </b> Who was that? <b> STANTZ </b> Some crank. Looking for goat hooves. Come up with anything? <b> SPENGLER </b> (referring to the book) This one's interesting. Berlin, 1939, a flower cart took off by itself and rolled approximately half a kilometer over level ground. Three hundred eyewitnesses. <b> STANTZ </b> You might want to check those Duke University mean averaging studies on controlled psychokinesis. <b> SPENGLER </b> (going to the stacks) Good idea. The bones hanging over the door rattle as Venkman enters the shop. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, hello, perhaps you could help me. I'm looking for an aerosol love potion I could spray on a certain Penthouse Pet that would make her unconditionally submit to an unusual personal request. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, hiya, Pete. <b> VENKMAN </b> So, no goat hooves, huh? <b> STANTZ </b> (strung) I knew that voice sounded familiar. What's up? How's it going? <b> VENKMAN </b> Nowhere -- fast. Why don't you lock up and buy me a sub? <b> STANTZ </b> (slightly evasive) Uh, I can't. I'm kind of working on something. Spengler steps out of the stacks. <b> VENKMAN </b> Egon! <b> SPENGLER </b> Hello, Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> How've you been? How's teaching? I bet those science chicks really dig that big cranium of yours, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think they're more interested in my epididymis. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't even want to know where that is. Venkman steps behind the counter and takes a beer from Ray's mini-fridge. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, your book came in, Venkman. Magical Paths to Fortune and Power. He hands Venkman the book. <b> VENKMAN </b> Great. (reading the contents) So what are you guys working on? <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, just checking something for an old friend. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? <b> STANTZ </b> (at a loss) Who? Just -- someone we know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, Ray -- He grabs Stantz by both ears and pulls up. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? Who? Who? <b> STANTZ </b> Aaah! Nobody! I can't tell you! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who, Ray? <b> STANTZ </b> (giving in) Dana! Dana Barrett! Venkman lets go of his ears and smiles. Spengler looks at Stantz and shakes his head. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - DAY (LATER) </b> The apartment is old and creatively furnished with a comfortable mix of modern and traditional pieces. Maria, a young Hispanic woman who does day care for Dana, is feeding the baby in the kitchen when the DOORBELL <b>RINGS. </b> <b> CUT TO: </b> Dana enters from the bedroom and crosses to the front door. She opens it and admits Ray and Egon. <b> DANA </b> (hugging Ray) Hi, Ray. It's good to see you. Thanks for coming. <b> STANTZ </b> No problem. Always glad to help -- and hug. <b> DANA </b> (to Spengler) Hi, Egon. She shakes his hand and is about to close the door when Venkman appears in the doorway. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, Dana. Dana is caught completely off guard by Venkman's surprise appearance. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew you'd come crawling back to me. She regards him coolly, as always amused and amazed at his presumptuousness. <b> DANA </b> Hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) You know, Dana, I'm very very hurt that you didn't call me first. I'm still into all this stuff, you know. Haven't you ever seen my show? <b> DANA </b> I have. That's why I didn't call you first. <b> VENKMAN </b> I can see that you're still very bitter about us, but in the interest of science, I'm going to give it my best shot. Let's go to work, boys. Stantz and Spengler begin a comprehensive parapsychological work-up on the baby and the immediate physical environment. <b>VENKMAN AND DANA </b> Venkman starts nosing around the apartment. Dana follows him. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what happened to Mr. Right? I hear he ditched you and the kid and moved to Europe. <b> DANA </b> He didn't "ditch" me. We had some problems, he got a good offer from an orchestra in England and he took it. <b> VENKMAN </b> He ditched you. You should've married me, you know. <b> DANA </b> You never asked me, and every time I brought it up you'd get drowsy and fall asleep. <b> VENKMAN </b> Men are very sensitive, you know. We need to feel loved and desired, too. <b> DANA </b> Well, when you started introducing me as "the old ball and chain," that's when I left. <b> VENKMAN </b> I may have a few personal problems but one thing I am is a total professional. He leaves her and crosses to Spengler. <b>SPENGLER </b> He's taking a complete set of body and head measurements of the baby with a tape measure and calipers. <b> VENKMAN </b> What are you going to do, Egon? Knit him a snowsuit? Spengler ignores the remark and hands Venkman a specimen jar. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'd like to have a stool specimen <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, you would. Is that for personal or professional reasons? <b> VENKMAN </b> (picking up the baby) Okay, kid. Up you go. He starts clowning with the baby, holding him over his head and pressing his nose into the baby's belly, pretending that the baby is attacking him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Help! Please somebody help me! Get him off! Quickly! He's gone completely berserk! Dana is amused and somewhat disarmed by Venkman's rapport with the baby. <b> DANA </b> What do you think? <b> VENKMAN </b> There's no doubt about it. He's got his father's looks. The kid is ugly -- extremely ugly. And smelly. (resumes playing with the baby) You stink! It's just horrible. You are the stinkiest baby I ever smelled. (to Dana) What's his name? <b> DANA </b> His name is Oscar. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oscar! You poor kid! <b> DANA </b> (losing patience) Peter, this is serious. I need to know if you think there's anything unusual about him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Unusual? (holds up the baby and scrutinizes him) I don't know. I haven't had a lot of experience with babies. He looks at the baby, pulling his feet up, trying to get the sleeper off. <b> DANA </b> (taking the specimen jar) I'll do it. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll supervise. <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NURSERY - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman enters and finds Stantz monitoring the room. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) Well, Holmes, what do you think? <b> STANTZ </b> It's an interesting one, Pete. If anything was going on it's totally subdued now. Spengler enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) What now, Brainiac? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think we should see if we can find anything abnormal on the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finding something abnormal on the street shouldn't be too hard. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Dana walks down the street with Venkman, retracing the path of the runaway buggy. Spengler and Stantz follow, monitoring PKE valences from the pavement and the buildings. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana, nostalgic) Brings back a lot of sweet memories, doesn't it? (pointing out familiar neighborhood sights) There's our old cash machine. And the dry cleaners we used to go to. And the old video store. (he wipes away an imaginary tear) We really had some good times, didn't we? <b> DANA </b> We definitely had a moment or two. Dana stops at the intersection and points to the middle of the street. <b> DANA </b> That's where the buggy stopped. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, let's take a look. Venkman walks right out into the middle of the street, completely oblivious to the CARS HONKING and whizzing past him and starts motioning like a traffic cop, bringing traffic to a standstill. Then he signals for Dana, Stantz and Spengler to join him in the middle of the street. <b> STANTZ </b> (reading the PKE meter) Is this the spot? <b> DANA </b> A little to the left. Right there! That's where it stopped. Stantz reads the PKE meter. <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Not a trace. <b> SPENGLER </b> Why don't we try the Giga-meter? <b> VENKMAN </b> What's that? <b> STANTZ </b> Egon and I have been working on a gauge to measure psychomagnetheric energy in GEVs - giga electron volts. <b> SPENGLER </b> That's a thousand million electron volts. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew that. Spengler switches on the Giga-meter, the device he was testing in the lab, and passes it over the spot on the street where the buggy stopped. The indicator goes right into the red zone and the DEVICE starts CLICKING <b>WILDLY. </b> <b> STANTZ </b> I think we hit the honeypot, boys. There's something brewing under the street. <b> DANA </b> (worried, to Venkman) Peter, do you think maybe I have some genetic problem or something that makes me vulnerable to these supernatural things. <b> VENKMAN </b> You mean like the time you got possessed and turned into a monster terror dog? No, not a chance. Total coincidence. (to Stantz and Spengler) Am I right? Stantz and Spengler look at him skeptically, not convinced by the coincidence theory. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - LATE AFTERNOON </b> The museum has just closed for the day and the last of the visitors and employees are leaving. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is working late on the painting of Vigo. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> Unnoticed by Janosz, the eyes of Vigo start to glow. <b>JANOSZ </b> He touches his brush to the canvas and a powerful current of red, crackling energy surges through the brush and courses through his body, driving him to his knees. <b>PAINTING </b> The figure of Vigo comes to life, turns toward Janosz and gestures dramatically at him. Then he speaks to Janosz in a commanding voice. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia, the sorrow of Moldavia, command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (in agony) Command me, lord. <b> VIGO </b> On a mountain of skulls in a castle of pain, I sat on a throne of blood. What was will be, what is will be no more. Now is the season of evil. Find me a child that I might live again. Bolts of red-hot energy shoot from the eyes of Vigo into Janosz's eyes. He screams and falls to his knees. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. COFFEE SHOP - EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT </b> Venkman and Stantz come out with small boxes containing coffee, sandwiches and Danish and start walking up the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> I love this. We're onto something really big. I can smell it, Ray. We're going to make some headlines with this one. <b> STANTZ </b> Hey, hey, hey, stresshound! Are you nuts? If anybody found out about this we'd be in serious trouble. The judge couldn't have been clearer - no ghostbusting. <b> VENKMAN </b> Relax. We're going to keep this whole thing nice and quiet, low key, no profile. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Spengler, wearing a hardhat, is JACKHAMMERING a hole in the middle of the street. Safety cones and reflectors have been set up and a small area is lit by strong work lights. <b>POLICE CAR </b> It turns onto East 77th Street, cruises slowly up to the makeshift worksite and stops. The noise of the JACKHAMMER is so loud, Spengler doesn't notice the police car and the two COPS inside looking at them. Finally, he looks up, sees the police car and freezes. <b> FIRST COP </b> How ya doing? <b> SPENGLER </b> (reeking with guilt) Fine! It's cutting fine now. <b> FIRST COP </b> (curious) Why are you cutting? <b> SPENGLER </b> (looking for one of the others) Why are we cutting? Uh - boss! Venkman and Stantz arrive just in time wearing Con Ed hardhats, doing a good imitation of a Consolidated Edison repairman. <b> FIRST COP </b> What are you doing here? <b> VENKMAN </b> (belligerent) What the hell's it look like we're doing? We're bustin out asses over here 'cause some douchebag downtown ain't got nothin' better to do than make idiots like us work late on a Friday night, right? (looks to Spengler for agreement) <b> SPENGLER </b> (with a "right on" fist) Yo. The cops seem satisfied by the explanation. <b> FIRST COP </b> Okay, boys, take it easy. They drive off. Spengler breathes a great sigh of relief and starts rubbing his sore shoulders. <b> SPENGLER </b> You were supposed to help me with this. <b> VENKMAN </b> You need the exercise. Stantz resumes JACKHAMMERING, while Venkman and Spengler clear the rubble from the hole. Suddenly he hits metal. They clear away generations of paving material revealing an ornate iron manhole cover. The manhole cover bears a strange logo and the letters NYPRR. <b> STANTZ </b> (examing it) NYPRR. What the hell -- ? Help me lift this. They prey off the iron cover with crowbars, uncovering a very dark and very deep abyss. <b> STANTZ </b> (shining a flashlight into the hole) Wow! It's an old airshaft. It just goes forever. Spengler leans in with the giga-meter which is reading even higher now. <b> SPENGLER </b> Very intense. We need a deeper reading. Somebody has to go down there. Venkman and Spengler both look at Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> Thanks, boys. They snap Stantz into a harness and lower him into the hole on a strong cable attached to a winch. Ray calls out orders to them as he descends deeper and deeper. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (his voice echoing in the airshaft) Keep going -- more -- more -- <b>INT. HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz rappels off the sides of the airshaft as he continues his descent in total darkness. <b> STANTZ </b> (using a radio now) Lower -- lower -- (to himself) Gee, this really is deep. Suddenly, his feet kick thin air as he gets to the bottom of the airshaft and swings free in some kind of tunnel. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it! Steady! He pulls a powerful flashlight from his utility belt and shines it into the tunnel below. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - NIGHT </b> He is suspended near the top of a beautifully preserved chamber with rounded, polished tile walls ardorned with intricate, colorfully enameled Art Nouveau mosaics. A finely inlaid sign identifies it as VAN HORNE <b>STATION. </b> <b>STANTZ </b> He pans the walls with his flashlight, admiring the excellent tilework, and speaks quietly to Venkman and Spengler over his walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ </b> (reverently) This is it, boys, the end of the line. Van Horne Station. The old New York Pneumatic. It's still here. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman has no idea what he's talking about. <b> SPENGLER </b> (explaining) The New York Pneumatic Railway. It was an experimental subway system. Fan-forced air-trains, built around 1870. <b> STANTZ </b> (over the walkie-talkie) This is about as deep as you can go under Manhattan without digging your own hole. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) What's the reading? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz shines his flashlight on the meter and whistles at the extremely high reading. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Off the top of the scale. This place is really hot. Lower me to the floor. As Venkman and Spengler feed him some more cable, he pans his flashlight down the wall of the station, then onto the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it!! Stop!! Whoa!! <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - FLOOR - NIGHT </b> Below him is a river of bubbling seething, glowing slime, a veritable torrent of disgusting ooze. As he stares into the foul effluent, we become aware of the strangely amplified and magnified sounds of great ENGINES THROBBING and pulsing in the bowels of the city, of WATER RUSHING through pipes, STEAM HISSING through ducts, the muffled RUMBLE of the SUBWAY and the ROAR of TRAFFIC, and mixed with it all, the unmistakable sounds of human conflict and pain -- VOICES SHOUTING in anger, SCREAMING in fear, GROANING in pain, a sad and eerie symphony. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ - NIGHT </b> <b> STANTZ </b> (ranting on the radio) Oh, my God! It's a seething, bubbling, psychic cess! Interlocked tubes of plasm, crackling with negative GEVs! It's glowing and moving! It's -- it's a river of slime!! <b>STANTZ </b> He dangles from the end of the cable, holding his feet up as high as he can. He unhooks a device from his utility belt and pulls the trigger on it, shooting out a long telescoping fishing-pole with a scoop on the end. Reaching down, he scoops up a sample of the slime and starts retracting the pole. <b>SLIME </b> Suddenly, a grotesque arm with a long skeletal fingers reaches up out of the slime and snatches at Stantz's dangling feet. He jerks his legs up as several more arms poke up out of the slime and reach for him. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Haul me up, Venkman! Now! <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman and Spengler start hauling in the cable as a Con Ed Supervisor's car drives up, and behind it, the same police car they saw earlier. A burly SUPERVISOR gets out and crosses toward them, followed by the two cops. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (no nonsense) Okay, what's the story here? Venkman and Spengler stop pulling up the cable and Venkman tries the belligerent worker ploy again, only this time he's wearing a Nynex hardhat. <b> VENKMAN </b> What, I got time for this? We got three thousand phones out in the Village and about eight million miles of cable to check. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (not buying it) The phone lines are over there. (points to the curb) Venkman pops Spengler on the head. <b> VENKMAN </b> I told ya! Stantz can be heard ranting over Venkman's walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (filtered) Help! Help! Pull me up! It's alive! It's eating my boots. Venkman switches off the walkie-talkie. <b> FIRST COP </b> You ain't with Con Ed or the phone company. We checked. Tell me another one. Venkman stares at the Cop for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Gas leak? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - SAME TIME </b> Stantz is hanging there, looking down into the shaft at the slime which is now bubbling up the shaft after him. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouting) Get me out of here!! Desperate now, he kicks wildly and knocks loose a section of an old, rusting conduit. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - BOTTOM OF THE SHAFT </b> The conduit falls on a heavy electrical transmission line, ripping through the cable with a SHOWER OF SPARKS. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman, Spengler, the cops and the supervisor all react to a bright FLASH deep down in the hole and a SHOUT from Stantz. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - STREET - NIGHT </b> One by one, all the streetlights go out; then the lights on all the buildings along East 77th street; then the whole neighborhood blacks out, and finally the entire city is plunged into darkness. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> Sorry. <b>INT. DANA BARRETT'S APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> She walks around in the dark lighting candles and placing them all over the living room. Then she finds a transistor radio and turns it on for information about the blackout. She listens to a special news report for a moment, then has a compelling impulse to go check on the baby. She crosses to the nursery carrying a candle and quietly opens the door and looks in. Suddenly the DOORBELL RINGS, scaring her half to death. Leaving the chain on the door, she opens it a crack and sees Janosz standing in the hall, eerily lit by a red emergency spot at the end of the hallway. He looks slightly dazed and even creepier. <b> DANA </b> (surprised) Janosz? <b> JANOSZ </b> Hello, Dana. I happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop by to see if everything's all right with you -- you know, with the blackout and everything? Are you okay? Is the baby all right? His affected concern is chilling. She is frightened but conceals it from him. <b> DANA </b> (mechanically and cautiously) We're fine, Janosz. He tires to look around her into the apartment. <b> JANOSZ </b> Do you need anything? You want me to come in? <b> DANA </b> No, everything's fine. Honestly. Thanks anyway. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, just thought I'd check. Good night, Dana. Sleep well. Don't let the bedbugs bite you. <b> DANA </b> Good night, Janosz. She closes the door behind him and double locks it, then stands there staring into the candlelight, alone and afraid. <b>INT. HALLWAY OF DANA'S BUILDING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz stands there in semi-darkness, then his eyes light up like headlights and he walks off down the hall. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - NEXT DAY </b> The JUDGE, a rather sour-looking jurist of the old school, calls the court to order. <b> JUDGE </b> I want to make one thing very clear before we go any further. The law does not recognize the existence of ghosts, and I don't believe in them either, so I don't want to hear a lot of malarkey about goblins and spooks and demons. We're going to stick to the facts in this case and save the ghost stories for the kiddies. Understood? <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz leans over and whispers to Spengler. <b> STANTZ </b> Seems like a pretty open-minded guy, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> His nickname is "The Hammer." Stantz and Spengler are seated with their attorney LOUIS TULLY, lawyer, CPA and former demonic possession victim. Louis is desperately paging through a mountain of legal textbooks. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervous) I think you're making a big mistake here, fellas. I do mostly tax law and some probate stuff occasionally. I got my law degree at night school. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right. We got arrested at night. <b>SPECTATORS' GALLERY </b> Venkman is talking to Dana at the wooden rail in front of the gallery. <b> DANA </b> I wish I could stay. I feel personally responsible for you being here. <b> VENKMAN </b> You are personally responsible. If I can get conjugal rights, will you visit me at Sing Sing? <b> DANA </b> Please don't say that. You won't go to prison. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry about me. I'm like a cat. <b> DANA </b> You mean you cough up hairballs all over the rug? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm El Gato. I always land on my feet. <b> DANA </b> (sincerely) Good luck. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thanks. She gives him a quick, unexpected kiss and exits. Venkman savors it for a moment then goes back to the defense table. <b>PROSECUTION TABLE </b> Jack Hardemeyer, the mayor's principal aide, is goading the PROSECUTOR, a very sober, humorless woman in her late thirties. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> How are you doing, hon? Just put these guys away fast and make sure they go away for a long, long time. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> It shouldn't be hard with this list of charges. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Good. Very good. The mayor and future governor won't forget this. He smiles conspiratorially and makes a point of passing the defense table on his way out of the courtroom. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> The Ghostbusters look up as Hardemeyer approaches. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (gloating) Nice going, Venkman. Violating a judicial restraining order, willful destruction of public property, fraud, malicious mischief -- smooth move. See you in a couple years -- at your first parole hearing. Herdemeyer exits. Louis looks devastated. <b> LOUIS </b> Gee, the whole city's against us. I think I'm going to be sick. Spengler hands him a waste basket as the Prosecutor calls her first witness. <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - DAY (LATER) </b> The Con Ed Supervisor is testifying. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Mr. Fianella, please look at Exhibits A through F on the table over there. Do you recognize that equipment? <b>EXHIBIT TABLE </b> Lying on the table are the basic tools of the Ghostbusting trade: three proton packs and particle throwers, a couple of ghost traps, and various meters and detection devices. <b> CON ED </b> (o.c.) That's the stuff the cops found in their truck. <b>WITNESS STAND </b> She continues. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Do you know what this equipment is used for? <b> CON ED </b> (shrugs) I don't know. Catching ghosts, I guess. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> (to the Judge) May I remind the court that the defendants are under a judicial restraining order that specifically forbids them from performing services as paranormal investigators and eliminators. <b> JUDGE </b> So noted. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Now, Mr. Fianella, can you identify the substance in the jar on the table marked Exhibit F? <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She goes to the exhibit table and picks up a specimen jar containing the slime sample Stantz removed from the tunnel. <b> CON ED </b> I been working underground for Con Ed for 27 years and I never saw anything like that in my life. We checked out that tunnel the next day and we didn't find nothing. If it was down there, they must have put it there. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Venkman and Spengler look at Stantz. <b> STANTZ </b> (defensively) Hey, I didn't imagine it. There must have been ten thousand gallons of it down there. <b> SPENGLER </b> It may be ebbing and flowing from some tidal source. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervously) Should I say that? <b> SPENGLER </b> I doubt that they'd believe us. Louis moans and goes back to his notes. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - LATER </b> Venkman himself is on the stand and Louis is questioning him. <b> LOUIS </b> So like you were just trying to help out your old friend because she was scared and you didn't really mean to do anything bad and you really love the city and won't ever do anything like this again, right? <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection, your Honor. He's leading the witness. <b> JUDGE </b> The witness is leading him. Sustained. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, let me rephrase that question. (to venkman) Didn't you once coach a basketball team for underprivileged children? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yes, I did. We were city champs. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection. Irrelevant and immaterial. <b> JUDGE </b> Sustained. Mr. Tully, do you have anything to ask this witness that may have some bearing on this case? <b> LOUIS </b> (to Venkman) Do I? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I think you've helped them enough already. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the Judge) No, I guess not. (to the Prosecutor) Your witness. The Prosecutor rises and approaches the witness stand with relish. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So, Dr. Venkman, please explain to the court why it is you and your co-defendants took it upon yourselves to dig a big hole in the middle of the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Seventy-seventh and First Avenue has so many holes already we didn't think anyone would notice. The gallery laughs and the Judge gavels for order. <b> JUDGE </b> Keep that up, mister, and I'll find you in contempt. <b> VENKMAN </b> Sorry, your Honor, but when somebody sets me up like that I can't resist. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> I'll ask you again, Dr. Venkman. Why were you digging the hole? And please remember that you're under oath. <b> VENKMAN </b> I had my fingers crossed when they swore me in, but I'm going to tell you the truth. There are things in this world that go way beyond human understanding, things that can't be explained and that most people don't want to know about anyway. That's where we come in. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So what are you saying? That the world of the supernatural is your special province? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I guess I'm just saying that shit happens and somebody has to deal with it. The spectators in the gallery cheer and the judge gavels for order. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - LATER </b> The trial is nearing its end. The Judge calls on Louis to make his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> Does the counsel for the defense wish to make any final arguements? Louis rises. <b> LOUIS </b> Your honor, may I approach the bench? <b> JUDGE </b> (impatient) Yes. Louis crosses to the judge's bench. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the judge) Can I have some of your water? <b> JUDGE </b> Get on with it, counselor! <b> LOUIS </b> (scared) Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the -- (he remembers there's no jury) audience. I don't think it's fair to call my clients frauds. Okay, the blackout was a big problem for everybody. I was stuck in an elevator for about three hours and I had to go to the bathroom the whole time, but I don't blame them because once I turned into a dog and they helped me. Thank you. He goes back to the defense table and sits down. Stantz and Spengler hang their heads. Venkman pats Louis on the back. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Louis) Way to go. Concise and to the point. <b>JUDGE </b> He stares at Louis, astonished at his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> That's it? That's all you have to say? <b> LOUIS </b> Did I forget something? He searches through a disorderly pile of notes. <b> JUDGE </b> That was unquestionably the worst presentation of a case I've ever heard in a court of law! I ought to cite you for contempt and have you disbarred. As for your clients, Peter Venkman, Raymond Stantz and Egon Spengler, on the charges of conspiracy, fraud and the willful destruction of public property, I find you guilty on all counts. I order you to pay fines in the amount of $25,000 each and I sentence you to eighteen months in the city correctional facility at Ryker's Island. <b>STANTZ </b> He sees the activity in the jar <b> STANTZ </b> Uh-oh, she's twitchin'. <b>THE BENCH </b> The Judge continues <b> JUDGE </b> And on a more personal note, let me go on record as saying that there is no place in decent society for fakes, charlatans and tricksters like you who prey on the gullibility of innocent people. You're beneath the contempt of this court. And believe me, if my hands were not tied by the unalterable fetters of the law, a law which has become in my view far too permissive and inadequate in it's standards of punishment, I would invoke the tradition of our illustrious forebearers, reach back to a sterner, purer justice and have you burned at the stake! He hammers the bench with his gravel as the gallery erupts noisily. Then he feels a LOW RUMBLING TREMOR in the courtroom. <b>SPECIMEN JAR </b> The slime starts to pulse and swell, pushing up the lid on the jar. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz anticipates big trouble. <b> STANTZ </b> Under the table, boys! The Ghostbusters duck under the defense table. <b>LOUIS </b> He stands up and looks around fearfully. <b>INT. COURTROOM - GHOST BATTLE - DAY </b> Everybody is silent now as the rumbling increases. All eyes turn to the exhibit table. Then suddenly all Hell breaks loose as TWO FULL-TORSO APPARITIONS explode out of the specimen jar. <b>JUDGE </b> He looks up in terror at the two huge apparitions looming above him and recognizes them immediately. <b> JUDGE </b> (in horror) Oh, my God! The Scoleri Brothers! <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> Big in life, even bigger in death, the ghostly Scoleri brothers seem ten feet tall. They are strapped into electric chairs and on their heads are metal electrocution caps with live, sparking electrical wires still attached. Twenty-five hundred volts of electricity shoot through their bodies as they start to break free of the leather restraints, trying to get at the Judge. <b>JUDGE </b> Holding his gavel like a pitiful weapon, he crawls over to the defense table where Venkman, Stantz and Spengler are now crouched, assessing the spectral intruders. <b> JUDGE </b> (terrified) You've got to do something! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who are they? <b> JUDGE </b> They're the Scoleri Brothers. I tried them for murder. They were electrocuted up at Ossining in '48. Now they want to kill me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Maybe they just want to appeal. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They break loose from the electric chairs, then turn toward the defense table and BLAST it with HIGH-VOLTAGE FINGER-LIGHTNING. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She sprints for the door, pursued by one of the Scoleri brothers. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They jump to safety behind the rail of the jury box, pulling the Judge with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These boys aren't playing around. <b> JUDGE </b> (desperately) You've got to stop them. Please! <b> LOUIS </b> (thinking like a lawyer) Violating a judicial restraining order could expose my clients to serious criminal penalties. As their attorney I'd have to advise them against it. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They start punching through the jury box. <b>JUDGE </b> He is just about hysterical with fear. <b> JUDGE </b> All right! All right! I'm recinding the order. Case dismissed!! (he pounds his gavel on the floor) Now do something! <b> STANTZ </b> Let's go to work, boys. With that, the Ghostbusters leap over the rail of the jury box and dash across the courtroom to the exhibit table where their proton packs were being displayed as evidence. They strap them on hastily as the Brothers continue tearing up the seats looing for the Judge. <b> VENKMAN </b> (slinging the pack onto his back) Geez, I forgot how heavy these things are. <b> STANTZ </b> (grabbing other gear) Okay, let's heat 'em up! They flip the power switches on their packs and draw their particle throwers. <b> STANTZ </b> All right, throwers. Set for full neutronas on stream. They switch on their throwers and turn to face the raging phantasms. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They are just about to wipe out the Judge when a loud shout distracts them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size? The towering ghosts turn in a fury and raise their arms, ready to shoot lightning at their new adversaries. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the others) On my signal, boys. Open 'em up -- Now! They all pull their triggers and the wands EXPLODE with incredible powerful STREAMS OF ENERGY, doing even more damage to the courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Spengs, take the door. Ray, let's try and work them down and into the corner. Working as a team, they gradually confine the Scoleri Brothers with the streams, forcing them closer and closer to the traps Ray has set out on the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch it! I'm coming under you, Pete. They circle around the two ghosts, prodding them with the streams while ducking the lightning bolts shooting from their fingers. Finally, Ray sees his chance and pops open the traps which emit inverted pyramids of light energy. <b> STANTZ </b> Steady -- watch your streams -- easy now -- Venky, bring him left -- Spengy, pull him down -- trapping -- trapping -- now! He stomps on a control pedal and the Scoleri Brothers are drawn into the traps which snap shut. <b>INT. COURTROOM - TRAPS - DAY </b> LEDs on the outer casing start flashing, indicating the presence of a ghost inside each trap. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking the trap) Occupado. <b>INT. COURTROOM - JUDGE - DAY (AFTER GHOST BATTLE) </b> He sticks his head up slowly from behind the debris of his bench and looks around in total amazement. <b>LOUIS </b> He crawls out from under a chair. Reporters and spectators get back on their feet and start buzzing about the incredible manifestation. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She's lying on the floor, attended to by the Bailiff and the Court Clerk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Prosecutor) Brilliant summation. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They break into big smiles as photographers start snapping pictures of them standing in the wrecked courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Case closed, boys. We're back in business. The spectators cheer and applaud. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> The old, dilapidated Ghostbusters logo comes crashing to the ground, dropped by a pair of workmen on a ladder, and the new logo is hoisted into place over the main entrance. It's just like the original "No Ghosts" logo, but in the new one the ghost in the red circle is holding up two fingers. Venkman enters the firehouse. <b>INT. BEDROOM SET (TV COMMERCIAL - FULL SCREEN VIDEO) - NIGHT </b> A man and his wife are lying in bed reading. The man is played by Louis Tully and JANINE MELNITZ, the Ghostbusters' once and future receptionist, is playing his wife. They are both terrible actors. Suddenly, a ghost, actually a very bad puppet on a wire, floats through the bedroom. Janine sees it and screams. <b> LOUIS </b> What is it, honey? <b> JANINE </b> It's that darn ghost again! I don't know what to do anymore. He just won't leave us alone. I guess we'll just have to move. <b> LOUIS </b> Don't worry. We're not moving. He is. He picks up the phone. <b> JANINE </b> Who are you going to call? <b> LOUIS </b> (with a wink) Ghostbusters. As he starts to dial, the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the Ghostbusters standing in the bedroom. Their acting isn't much better than Louis and Janine's. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> Stantz speaks directly TO the CAMERA. <b> STANTZ </b> I'm Ray -- <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm Peter -- <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm Egon -- <b> STANTZ </b> And we're the ... <b> ALL </b> (together) Ghostbusters. <b> STANTZ </b> That's right -- Ghostbusters. We're back and we're better than ever with twice the know-how and twice the particle-power to deal with all your supernatural elimination needs. During his speech, Winston can be seen in the b.g. pretending to trap the fake ghost. <b> STANTZ </b> Careful, Winston. He's a mean one. <b> (TO CAMERA) </b> And to celebrate our grand reopening, we're giving you twice the value with our special half-price 'Welcome Back' service plan. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hold on, Ray! Half-price! Have you gone crazy? <b> STANTZ </b> I guess so, Pete, because that's not all. Tell them what else we've got, Egon. Spengler actually mouths everyone else's dialogue along with them, waiting for his cue. <b> SPENGLER </b> You mean the Ghostbusters hot beverage thermal mugs and free balloons for the kids? He holds up a mug and a limp, uninflated balloon. <b> STANTZ </b> You bet. As Stantz wraps it up, SUPERS APPEAR at the bottom of the SCREEN: FULLY <b>BONDED - FULLY LICENSED - SE HABLA ESPANOL. </b> <b> STANTZ </b><b> (TO CAMERA) </b> So don't wait another minute. Make your supernatural problem our supernatural problem. Call now, because we're still -- <b> ALL </b> (in unison, mechanically) -- Ready to believe you. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. JACK HARDEMEYER'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Hardemeyer is watching the Ghostbusters commercial on a TV in his office. He bangs his fist on his desk and angrily switches OFF the TV. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY (LATER) </b> The garage door opens and the new improved ECTOMOBILE comes ROARING out onto the street, its ghostly SIREN MOANING and WAILING. Louis comes running out after it. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis comes back into the garage bay and stops as he smells a foul odor. He sniffs around, following the smell. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, geez, smells like somebody took a really big -- He freezes. <b>INT. OFFICE AREA - LOUIS'S POV </b> Slimer, a spud-like green ghost, is hovering over Louis's desk, scarfing down Louis's bag lunch. Slimer looks up and sees Louis. <b>SLIMER AND LOUIS </b> They both scream and run off in opposite directions. <b>SLIMER </b> He passes right through a wall and disappears. <b>LOUIS </b> He runs right into a wall, recovers and exits in a hurry. <b> LOUIS </b> (screaming) Help! There's a thing! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK RESERVOIR - DAY (LATER) </b> Runners of both sexes and all ages are huffing and puffing as they jog along the track that circles the reservoir. One of the runners looks behind him at the sound of APPROACHING FOOTFALLS and screams. <b>GHOSTLY JOGGER </b> A ghost jogger is loping along at a pretty fair pace. Other runners stumble and run screaming into the park as he passes them. Seemingly oblivious to the effect he's having, the ghost jogger puts two fingers to his skeletal neck and checks his watch as if taking his pulse. <b>EXT. CLEARING IN PARK - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman is sitting on a park bench near the jogging track reading the newspaper, eating a donut and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. <b>STANTZ </b> He's sitting on a bench opposite Venkman's, casually watching the jogging track. <b>GHOST JOGGER </b> He approaches the benches where the Ghostbusters are waiting. As the ghost jogger passes the benches, Stantz and Venkman simultaneously hit concealed control buttons. A ghost trap buried in the track throws up a glowing inverted pyramid and catches the ghost jogger in mid-stride. Stantz and Venkman close the trap and capture the ghost jogger. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking his watch) You know he ran that last lap in under six minutes? <b> STANTZ </b> If he wasn't dead he'd be an Olympic prospect. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. JEWELRY STORE - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters come out carrying smoking traps, wearing cheap dime-store Santa Claus hats. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the client) Merry Christmas! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - ORREFORS GLASS STORE - DAY </b> The Ectomobile is parked at the curb and a curious crowd looks on as the Ghostbusters enter the store. <b>INT. ORREFORS GLASS STORE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> All the precious crystal is floating in the air, several feet above the glass shelves and display tables. Stantz and Venkman are talking to the manager while Winston and Spengler set up an array of electronic devices positioned in each corner of the store. On a signal from Stantz, Spengler and Winston switch on the devices which throw laser-type beams around the perimeter of the store. The manager watches in horror as all the GLASSWARE suddenly drops out of the air, SMASHES through the GLASS SHELVES and SHATTERS on the display tables. There is a long pregnant pause. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the manager) So will that be cash or a check? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) </b> Everyone else has gone home. Dana is cleaning her brushes and putting her supplies away. <b>VIGO PAINTING - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Vigo turns his head and watches Dana as she walks past the painting. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis is lurking behind a pillar, peeking out at the office area. We PAN DOWN TO the floor and see a foot pedal, then PAN ALONG the cord TO a ghost trap sitting on Louis's desk. Hanging from strings over the desk are several pieces of Kentucky fried chicken. <b>WALL </b> Slimer partially emerges and furtively sniffs the air, then spots the chicken bait. He licks his lips, materializes completely and flies to the chicken. <b>LOUIS </b> His eyes light up and he stomps the foot pedal. <b> LOUIS </b> (shouts) Gotcha! <b>DESK </b> The trap pops open and shoots out a powerful cone of energy. Slimer dodges it and escapes as a big section of the ceiling comes crashing down on Louis's desk. <b> LOUIS </b> (seeing the damage) Uh-oh. He slinks off, defeated. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - SECURITY DESK - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters commercial is playing on a portable TV on the security desk. Rudy, the Security Guard, is reading a National Enquirer with a giant front-page headline: GHOSTBUSTERS SAVE JUDGE. Venkman enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm looking for Dana Barrett. <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> Room 304 -- Restorations. (recognizing him) Hey! Dr. Venkman -- 'World of the Psychic.' I'm a big, big fan. That used to be one of my two favorite shows. <b> VENKMAN </b> (flattered) Thanks. What's the other one? <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> 'Bass Masters.' It's a fishing show. Ever see it? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, really great. Take it easy. He exits. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Dana is working on a valuable Flemish still-life by Ver Meer. Janosz is at the other end of the room, still working on the painting of Vigo. Venkman enters and sneaks up behind Dana. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the Ver Meer) So this is what you do, huh? <b> DANA </b> (glad to see him) Oh, hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> You're really good, you know. <b> DANA </b> I didn't paint it. I'm just cleaning it. It's an original Ver Meer. It's worth about ten million dollars. <b>VIGO </b> He turns his head and watches Venkman and Dana. <b>VENKMAN </b> Unaware that he's being watched, Venkman squints at the still life, holding up his thumb like he's seen artists do. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know you can go to Art World and get these huge sofa-size paintings for about forty-five bucks. He starts looking around at the other artwork in the studio. <b> DANA </b> I'm sure you didn't come here just to talk about art. <b> VENKMAN </b> As a matter of fact, I stopped by to tell you that I haven't forgotten your problem and that we're still on the case. They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> (smiling at Venkman) Dana, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend? <b> DANA </b> Oh, I'm sorry. This is Peter Venkman. Peter, Janosz Poha. Venkman warily shakes his hand, trying to size him up. <b> JANOSZ </b> (avoiding his gaze) Pleasure to meet you. I've seen you on television. <b> VENKMAN </b> How are you? (looking over at the Vigo painting) What's that you're working on, Johnny? Janosz winces at the nickname but lets it go. Venkman and Dana cross to the Vigo painting. Janosz steps protectively in front of it. <b> JANOSZ </b> It's a painting I'm restoring for the new Byzantine exhibition. It's a self-portrait of Prince Vigo, the Carpathian. He ruled most of Carpathia and Moldavia in the 17th Century. <b> VENKMAN </b> (staring at the painting) Too bad for the Moldavians. <b> JANOSZ </b> (defensive) He was a very powerful magician. A genius in many ways and quite a skilled painter. <b> DANA </b> He was also a lunatic and a genocidal madman. I hate this painting. I've felt very uncomfortable since they brought it up from storage. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, it's not the kind of thing you'd want to hang in the rec room. You know what it needs? (picking up a brush) A fluffy little white kitten in the corner. Venkman reaches toward the painting, but Janosz grabs his hand. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with forced good will) We don't go around altering valuable paintings, Dr. Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, I'd make an exception in this case if I were you. Dana looks disapprovingly at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) I'll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you. <b> JANOSZ </b> My pleasure. Venkman and Dana cross back to her workspace. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) I may be wrong, but I think you've got a little crush on this guy. <b> DANA </b> Good-bye, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (dragging his feet) I'd like to stay, but I really don't have time to hang around here. I'll call you. (calls out to Janosz) Later, Johnny! He exits. <b>VIGO </b> Vigo turns his head and follows Dana as she returns to her workbench. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LIVING QUARTERS - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> Venkman and Winston enter and find Stantz and Spengler at work in the lab area. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh good, you're here. Spengler and I have something really amazing to show you. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) It's not that thing you do with your nostrils, is it? Stantz goes to the refrigerator, opens the freezer, rummages around among the TV dinners and frozen pizza and pulls out a slime specimen in a Tupperware container. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Venkman) We've been studying the stuff that we took from the subway tunnel. He pops the specimen jar in the microwave and lets it thaw for a minute. <b> VENKMAN </b> And now you're going to eat it? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm just restoring it to its normal state. He takes the specimen out of the microwave and pours some of it into a large Petri dish. <b> STANTZ </b> Now watch this. He leans over the specimen and starts shouting at it. <b> STANTZ </b> (simulating anger) You worthless piece of slime!! (as the slime starts to twitch and glow) You ignorant disgusting blob!! <b>SPECIMEN </b> It bubbles and swells, changing color with each insult. <b> STANTZ </b> You foul, obnoxious muck!! <b>STANTZ </b> He continues venting his rage on the slime. <b> STANTZ </b> I've seen some real crud in my time, but you're a chemical disgrace!! The specimen doubles its size and starts spilling over the rim of the Petri dish. <b>STANTZ AND SPENGLER </b> They turn to Venkman for his reaction. He's dumbfounded. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is what you do with your spare time? <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) This is an incredible breakthrough, Venkman. A psychoreactive substance! Whatever this is, it clearly responds to human emotional states. <b> VENKMAN </b> 'Mood slime.' We ought to bottle this stuff and sell it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We've found it at every event site we've been to lately. <b> WINSTON </b> (poking at the slime) You mean this stuff actually feeds on 'bad vibes'? <b> STANTZ </b> Like a goat on garbage. <b> STANTZ </b> We're running tests to see if we can get an equally strong positive reaction. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of tests? <b> STANTZ </b> (a little embarrassed) Well, we sing to it, we talk to it, we say supportive, nurturing things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> You're not sleeping with this stuff, are you? Spengler reacts as if he might be. <b> STANTZ </b> It really responds to music. (to Spengler) Let's calm it down. Spengler picks up a guitar and he and Stantz start singing "Cumbaya" to the slime specimen. <b>SPECIMEN </b> It stops bubbling and starts to shrink. <b> WINSTON </b> Does it have any favorites? <b> STANTZ </b> It likes all the sappy stuff: 'Cumbaya,' 'Everything is Beautiful,' 'It's a Small World' -- but it loves Jackie Wilson. Venkman and Winston watch intently as Spengler spoons some of the psych-reactive slime onto an old toaster. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch this. Stantz turns on a CASSETTE PLAYER and Jackie Wilson's "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BLASTS from the speakers. <b>TOASTER </b> It shakes, spins and actually starts moving in time with the MUSIC. <b>VENKMAN </b> He stares in disbelief at the dancing toaster as it shoots two pieces of toast into the air and catches them without missing a beat. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't care what you say. This could be a major Christmas gift item. <b> WINSTON </b> Right, and the first time someone gets mad, their toaster will eat their hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> So we'll put a warning on the label. Stantz turns OFF the MUSIC and the toaster stops moving. Venkman looks at the toaster and sticks his fingers in the slot. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the toaster) Go ahead. I dare you. Suddenly, he yelps as if the toaster has actually bitten into his hand and won't let go. The others jump in to help him, but Venkman laughs and easily withdraws his hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> Just kidding. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Dana brings Oscar into the bathroom and lays him on the bassinet. She's wearing a robe over her nightgown, preparing to bathe the baby. She turns the taps on the old claw-footed bathtub, checks the water temperature, then turns away and starts to undress the baby. <b> DANA </b> (talking sweetly to the baby) Look at you. I think we got more food on your shirt than we got in your mouth. <b>BATHTUB </b> The water pouring from the faucet changes to slime and settles at the bottom of the tub. Dana reaches over and turns off the water without looking into the tub. When she turns away, both taps start to spin by themselves and the tub flexes and bulges. <b>DANA </b> Still unaware, she routinely reaches over and squirts some bubble bath into the tub. <b>BATHTUB </b> The rim of the tub puckers up and the sides convulse as if swallowing the bubble bath. <b>DANA </b>She picks the baby up off the bassinet and turns to place him in the tub. She is just about to lower him into the water when the tub starts to close up around the baby like a hugh mouth. Dana screams, snatches the baby away and runs from the room clutching Oscar to her bosom as the bathtub convulses and vomits up buckets of slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - SAME NIGHT (LATER) </b> The big open loft space is a chaotic clutter of mismatched furniture, old magazines, books, tapes, and sports equipment. Venkman is asleep on the floor, still wearing his coat, scarf, hat and gloves, having collapsed just short of the bedroom. The DOORBELL RINGS, he wakes up, lumbers to his feet and answers it. He opens the door and sees Dana standing there. She is wearing only a nightgown under her coat and Oscar is naked, wrapped in a baby blanket. <b> DANA </b> (somewhat embarrassed to be there) I'm sorry. Were you on your way out? <b> VENKMAN </b> (surprised to see her) No, I just got in -- a couple hours ago. Come on in. (noting her apparel) Are we having a pajama party? <b> DANA </b> (upset) Peter, the bathtub tried to eat Oscar. Venkman looks at her for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know, if anyone else told me that, I'd have serious doubts. But coming from you, I can't honestly say I'm surprised. <b> DANA </b> I must be losing my mind. At the museum today I could have sworn that terrible painting of Vigo looked right at me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who could blame him? Were you wearing this nightgown? <b> DANA </b> (distraught) I don't know what to do anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll get Ray and Egon to check out the bathtub. You better stay here. He exits to the bathroom. She looks around the loft, amazed at the disorder. Venkman comes back immediately with an old sweatshirt and takes Oscar from her. <b> VENKMAN </b> Now this kid has a serious nudity problem. He spreads the sweatshirt out on the sofa, lays the baby on it and starts tying it around him like a diaper. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the baby) This is Joe Namath's old number, you know. You could get a lot of chicks with this. Just don't pee in it. <b> DANA </b> Peter, what about the bathtub? <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the phone and dials) We'll take care of that. (on the phone) Ray, Pete. Listen, get over to Dana's right away ... Her bathtub pulled a fast one -- tried to eat the kid. <b> DANA </b> It was full of this awful pink ooze. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray) Sounds like another slime job ... No, they're all right. They're here now ... Right ... Let me know. He hangs up. <b> VENKMAN </b> They're going over there right now. You might as well make yourself at home. Let me show you around. (he crosses to the kitchen area) This is the cuisine de maison -- It's an incredible mess. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes and the counters are littered with all sorts of food trash. He grabs a big open Hefty bag on the floor and starts throwing garbage into it. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the sink) We may have to wash some of these if you get hungry -- (he looks in the fridge) -- but there's no food anyway so forget about it. I have all kinds of carry-out menus if you feel like ordering. He opens a drawer full of pizza, barbecue and Chinese food menus, then crosses to the bathroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Bathroom's right here -- let me just tidy up a few things. <b> DANA </b> Peter, this is very nice, but you don't have to do any of this, you know. He goes into the bathroom and we hear WATER RUNNING, the TOILET FLUSHING and more items going into the Hefty bag. <b> VENKMAN (O.S.) </b> The shower works but it's a little tricky. They're both marked "Hot." It takes a little practice, but at least this one won't try and eat you. He comes out of the bathroom with the now-loaded Hefty bag over his shoulder. <b> VENKMAN </b> Be careful on that sofa -- it's a butt-biter. But the bed's good and I just changed the sheets so if you get tired, feel free. In fact, I think you should definitely plan on spending the night here. <b> DANA </b> Really? And how would we handle the sleeping arrangements? <b> VENKMAN </b> For me it's best if I sleep on my side and you spoon up right behind me with your arms around me. If we go the other way I'm afraid your hair will be getting in my face all night. <b> DANA </b> How about you on the sofa and me in bed with the baby. <b> VENKMAN </b> Or we could do that. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. (she picks up Oscar) Poor baby. I think I should put him down now. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll put him down for you. (taking the baby) You are way too short! And your belly-button sticks out! You're nothing but a burden to your poor mother! Venkman carries the baby into the bedroom leaving Dana in the living room, feeling more relaxed and a lot safer. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> Venkman is waiting in front of the building as ECTO-2 pulls up and Stantz, Spengler and Winston get out and report on Dana's apartment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you find anything at Dana's? <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Just some mood-slime residue in and around the bathtub. But we did turn up some interesting stuff on this Vigo character you mentioned. I found the name Vigo the Carpathian in Leon Zundinger's Magicians, Martyrs and Madmen. Listen to this: <b> SPENGLER </b> (reads from xerox of entry) "Vigo the Carpathian, born 1505, died 1610 --" <b> VENKMAN </b> A hundred and five years? He really hung on, didn't he. <b> STANTZ </b> And he didn't die of old age either. He was poisoned, stabbed, shot, hung, stretched, disemboweled, drawn and quartered. <b> WINSTON </b> I guess he wasn't too popular at the end there. <b> SPENGLER </b> No, not exactly a man of the people. (reads) "Also known as Vigo the Cruel, Vigo the Torturer, Vigo the Despised, and Vigo the Unholy." <b> STANTZ </b> This guy was a bad monkey. He dabbled in all the Black Arts, and listen to this prophecy. Just before his head died, his last words were, "Death is but a door, time is but a window. I'll be back." <b> VENKMAN </b> That's it? "I'll be back?" <b> SPENGLER </b> It's a rough translation from the Moldavian. They enter the museum carrying their monitoring equipment. <b>INT. MUSEUM - SECURITY DESK - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Rudy the guard looks up in surprise as the Ghostbusters enter. <b> RUDY </b> Hey, Dr. Venkman. What's going on? <b> VENKMAN </b> We're just going up to Restorations for a minute. <b> RUDY </b> Oh, I can't let you do that. Mr. Poha told me not to let you up there anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> (with mock seriousness) Okay, we were trying to keep this quiet but I think you can be trusted. Tell him, Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> (very official) Mister, you have an Ecto-paritic, subfusionary flux in this building. <b> RUDY </b> We got a flux? <b> WINSTON </b> You got a flux and a half. <b> STANTZ </b> Now if you don't want to be the -- (he counts) -- fifth person ever to die in meta-shock from a planar rift, I suggest you get down behind that desk and don't move until we give you the signal "Stabilize -- All Clear." Rudy gulps and starts to hunker down behind the desk as the Ghostbusters head upstairs. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Janosz is working on the Vigo painting when the Ghostbusters enter. He rushes over and stops them at the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> Dr. Venkman? Dana is not here. <b> VENKMAN </b> I know. <b> JANOSZ </b> Then why have you come? <b> VENKMAN </b> We got a major creep alert and we're just going down the list. Your name was first. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Spengler and Winston) Let's sweep it, boys. They deploy and start scanning the studio with their monitoring devices. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) You know, I never got to ask you. Where you from, Johnny? <b> JANOSZ </b> (nervous) The Upper West Side. <b> SPENGLER </b> (consulting his PKE meter) This entire room is extremely hot, Peter. <b> JANOSZ </b> What exactly are you looking for, Dr. Venkman? <b> VENKMAN </b> We'll know when we find it. You just sit tight. This won't take long. <b>STANTZ </b> Using the Giga-meter, he traces a strong psychomagnetheric reading to the painting of Vigo in the alcove at the end of the studio. Venkman comes up behind him with Janosz right on his heels. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is the one that looked at Dana. <b> JANOSZ </b> It must be the chemical fumes in the studio. People start imagining things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (interrupts) I'm going to rule out the glue-sniffing theory. If she says it looked at her, it looked at her. (to Vigo) Hey, you! Vigie! Look at me. I'm talking to you. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you. They watch the painting for any sign of movement. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes stare lifelessly into the distance. <b>STANTZ AND VENKMAN </b> Venkman starts shooting Polaroids of Vigo. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Vigo) Beautiful, beautiful. Work with me, baby. Just have fun with it. (to Stantz) Okay, he's playing it cool. Let's finish up and get out of here. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll get one more reading. Venkman walks off leaving Stantz alone with the painting. Stantz scans the painting with the Giga-meter until his eyes meet Vigo's. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes seems to burn right through to the depths of Stantz's soul. <b>STANTZ </b> He stands there transfixed, unable to look away, as a strange and subtle transformation occurs within him. Winston comes up behind him and breaks the spell. <b> WINSTON </b> (looking at the painting) Now that's one ugly dude. <b> STANTZ </b> (coming back to his senses) Huh? What? <b> WINSTON </b> You finished here? <b> STANTZ </b> (distracted) What? Yeah. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? You coming down with something? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm fine. I just got light-headed for a second there. Let's go. They head for the door. <b>JANOSZ </b> He escorts the Ghostbusters to the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> So you see, everything is in order, is it not? <b> VENKMAN </b> Not. Don't leave town and report any change in your address to the proper authorities. We'll be back. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters cross to ECTO-2. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's definitely something going on in that studio. The PKE levels were max-plus and the Giga-meter was showing all red. <b> WINSTON </b> I'd put my money on that Vigo character. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, that's a safe bet. (to Stantz) You and Spengman see what else you can dig up on Vigo and this little weasel Poha. Those two were made for each other. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are driving back to the firehouse. Stantz is at the wheel. His eyes are vacant, he seems distracted and very tense. Stantz swerves suddenly and HONKS the horn angrily. <b> STANTZ </b> (to another driver) Idiot! (honking) Move it, you jerk! Venkman and Winston exchange surprised looks. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz drives extremely fast, HONKING vindictively, weaving dangerously through traffic. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks at Ray, concerned. <b> WINSTON </b> Going a little fast, aren't we, Ray? Stantz turns on him. <b> STANTZ </b> (viciously) Are you telling me how to drive? <b> WINSTON </b> No, I just thought -- <b> STANTZ </b> Well don't think! He HONKS again and tromps hard on the accelerator. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS) </b> Ecto-2 is now barreling down the avenue. Pedestrians leap to safety as Stantz runs a red light. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They hang on to the safety straps as Stantz continues his maniacal ride. <b> WINSTON </b> (to Stantz, really worried now) Are you crazy, man? You're going to kill somebody! Stantz looks at him and smile demonically. <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm going to kill everybody! He swerves off the road. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car heads right for a big tree. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> At the last possible moment, Winston cold-cocks Stantz, grabs the wheel and steps across to stomp on the brakes. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car skids into the tree and stops. The Ghostbusters stumble out dazed and shaken, but unhurt. Stantz rubs his eyes and looks at the others, completely at a loss. <b> STANTZ </b> (himself again) What happened? <b> VENKMAN </b> You just picked up three penalty points on your driver's license. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, I guess so. It was the strangest thing. I knew what I was doing but I couldn't stop. This really terrible feeling came over me and -- I don't know -- I just felt like driving into that tree and ending it all. Whew! Sorry, boys. They inspect the damage to the car. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially, to Spengler) Watch him, Egon. Don't even let him shave. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - DAY (LATER) </b> There's a KNOCK at the front door, a key turns in the lock, and Venkman enters somewhat tentatively holding a bouquet of flowers and a small suitcase of Dana's. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calls out) I'm home! He looks around the large open loft. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to himself) I knew it. She cleaned. He hears the SHOWER RUNNING and crosses to the bathroom. The door is half-open and he can see Dana in the shower (tastefully blurred) through the transparent vinyl curtain. He closes the bathroom door and looks at the baby asleep on the bed, surrounded by pillows to prevent him rolling off. Then he turns and bumps into Dana who's just coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She jumps back into the bathroom. She comes out again, this time wearing a robe. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you all squeaky clean now? <b> DANA </b> (humoring him) Yes, I'm very clean. Did they find anything at my apartment? She squeezes past him into the bedroom and closes the door. <b> VENKMAN </b> (through the door) Nothing. They stayed there all night, went through your personal stuff, made a bunch of long-distance phone calls and cleaned out your refrigerator. And didn't find anything. Dana opens the bedroom door. <b> DANA </b> They didn't find anything? In the bathtub ... the pink ooze ... nothing? So, what do I do now? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you get dressed and we go out. I got a babysitter and everything. Trust me, you need it. <b> DANA </b> I'm not here to date. I can't leave Oscar in a strange place with someone I don't know. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's Janine Melnitz, from my staff. She's one of my most valuable employees. <b> DANA </b> Does she know anything about babies? <b> VENKMAN </b> Janine Melnitz, are you kidding? (handing her the flowers) Do I have a vase? I brought some of your clothes. Wear something intriguing. I brought along some interesting possibilities. <b> DANA </b> Okay, but it's not a date. It's a dinner. She smiles and closes the door again. He opens the closet and starts looking for his good suit. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you happen to see some shirts on the floor in here? <b> DANA (O.S.) </b> I put them in your hamper. I thought they were dirty. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shaking his head) I have a hamper? Next time ask me first, okay. I have more than two grades of laundry. There're lots of subtle levels between clean and dirty. He pulls some clothes out of the hamper and inspects them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These aren't so bad yet. You just hang them up for a while and they're fine. <b> CUT TO: </b><b>INT. FIREHOUSE - RECEPTION AREA - EARLY EVENING </b> Janine covers her computer terminal and starts turning out the lights. Then she notices that the lights are still on upstairs. She starts primping and freshening up her makeup. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LAB AREA - SAME TIME </b> Louis is strapping on a proton pack, preparing to deal with Slimer once and for all. He's wearing a bicyclist's rearview mirror on a headband. <b> LOUIS </b> (to himself) Okay, Stinky, this is it. Showdown time. You and me, pal. You think you're smarter than I am? We'll see about that. (loud) Oh, hello, Pizza Man! Oh, two larges! I only ordered one. Oh, pepperoni and pineapple. My absolute favorite. I guess I'll have to eat these both by myself. <b>THE CEILING </b> Slimer pokes his head through the ceiling and scans the room hanging upside down. <b>LOUIS </b> He spots Slimer through the rearview mirror. <b> LOUIS </b> (quietly) Okay, let's boogie! He whirls around and fires a proton stream at Slimer, slicing a burning a gash across the ceiling. <b>THE STAIRS </b> Janine comes up and ducks as a bolt of energy streaks across the room and strikes the wall behind her. Slimer disappears. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed and apologetic) Oh migod! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It was an accident. <b> JANINE </b> What are you doing up here? <b> LOUIS </b> I was trying to get that smelly green thing. The guys asked me to help out. I'm like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> JANINE </b> Why would you want to be a Ghostbuster if you're already an accountant? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, no, it's just if one of the guys calls in sick or gets hurt. Louis quickly slips off the proton pack and sets it down. <b> JANINE </b> Have you made any plans yet? You know tomorrow is New Year's Eve. <b> LOUIS </b> No, I celebrate at the beginning of my corporate tax year which is March first. That way I beat the crowds. <b> JANINE </b> That's very practical. I hate going out on New Year's Eve, too. There is an awkward silence between them and Janine starts to leave. <b> JANINE </b> Well, good night, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> (on an impulse) Janine, do you feel like maybe getting something to eat on the way home? <b> JANINE </b> I'd like to, but I told Dr. Venkman I'd babysit. (seductively) Do you want to babysit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, sure, that sounds great. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> There is a KNOCK at the door and Venkman goes to answer it. He's dressed for the evening and looking very dapper. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - ENTRANCE HALL - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman opens the door and finds Stantz, Spengler and Winston standing there wearing over-the-hip rubberized waders, firemen's slickers, and miners' helmets, carrying tons of sensing devices, meters, collection jars and photographic equipment. They look like they're rigged out for a major spelunking expedition. <b> VENKMAN </b> (ushering them in) Don't tell me, let me guess. All-you-can-eat barbecue rib night at the Sizzler? <b> STANTZ </b> We're going down into the sewer system to see if we can trace the source of the psycho-reactive slime flow. We thought you might want to come along. <b> VENKMAN </b> Darn it! I wish I'd known you were going. I'm stuck with these damn dinner reservations. <b> SPENGLER </b> You know, animals and lower life forms often anticipate major disasters. Given the new magnetheric readings we could see a tremendous breeding surge in the cockroach population. <b> VENKMAN </b> Roach breeding? Sounds better and better. (calls out) Dana? The boys are going down under the sewers tonight to look for slime. Egon thinks there might even be some kind of big roach-breeding surge. Should we forget about dinner and go with them instead? Dana steps into the living room looking very beautiful. <b> STANTZ </b> Wow. Dana looks curiously at their outfits. <b> DANA </b> Hi. They nod and wave back. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray and Egon) I think we're going to have to pass on the sewer trip, boys. Let me know what you find out. <b> STANTZ </b> (on his exit) Okay, but you're missing all the fun. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Stantz, Spengler and Winston come down the stairs into the station, guided by a very old map of the underground city. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. Van Horne Station. Right where the old transit map said it would be. They cross to the edge of the platform and look into the river of slime. <b> STANTZ </b> Let's get a sounding on the depth of that flow. Stantz has a long, coiled, graduated cord with a plumb bob on the end of it attached to his utility belt. <b> STANTZ </b> Stand back. He takes the cord in his hand, swings the plumb bob over his head and casts it out into the middle of the flow. The plumb bob sinks and Spengler reads the depth. <b> SPENGLER </b> Six feet -- seven -- eight -- <b> STANTZ </b> That's it. It's on the bottom. <b> SPENGLER </b> Nine feet -- ten -- <b> WINSTON </b> Is the line sinking? <b> SPENGLER </b> No, the slime is rising. Stantz looks down and notices the slime rising over the edge of the platform and around his boots. <b> STANTZ </b> (alarmed) Let's get out of here, boys. He starts to pull out the plumb line but it seems to be stuck. Spengler tries to help, but whatever is pulling on the cord is stronger than all three of them. As their unseen adversary pulls them closer and closer to the edge, Stantz works desperately to unhook the cord from his belt but finally just unhooks the whole belt. Spengler lets go in time but Winston doesn't. He is jerked off his feet and into the slime flow. Stantz and Spengler look at each other, summon their courage and jump in after him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Dana and Venkman are sitting at a table in an elegant restaurant nibbling caviar and toasting with very expensive champagne. <b> VENKMAN </b> (very intimate) Here's to -- us. She sighs and drinks. <b> VENKMAN </b> So -- are you making any New Year's resolutions? <b> DANA </b> I want to stop getting involved with men who aren't good for me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Does that start exactly at midnight tomorrow, or could you hold off for a few days maybe? <b> DANA </b> For one night in your life, do you think it's possible for us to be completely real? <b> VENKMAN </b> All right, you want to be real? So tell me why did you dump me? <b> DANA </b> Oh, Peter, I didn't dump you. I just had to protect myself. You really weren't very good for me, you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm not even good for me. <b> DANA </b> Why do you say things like that? You're so much better than you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thank you. If I had that kind of support on a daily basis, I could definitely shape up by the turn of the century. <b> DANA </b> (already feeling the effects of the champagne) So why don't you give me a jingle in the year 2000? <b> VENKMAN </b> Let me jingle you right now. He leans over to kiss her. <b> DANA </b> Maybe I should call Janine. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry. Janine has a very special way with children. They kiss. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine is on the sofa doing her nails while Louis paces with the baby. <b> JANINE </b> (looking around) I can't believe a person could actually live like this. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the baby) So these dwarfs had a limited partnership in a small mining operation and then one day a beautiful princess came to live with them. <b> JANINE </b> It's really not a bad place. It just needs a woman's touch. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) So they bartered room and board in exchange for housekeeping services, which was a good deal for all of them because then they didn't have to withhold tax and social security, which I'm not saying is right but it's just a story, so I guess it's all right. I can finish this later if you're tired. Louis goes into the bedroom and puts the baby down. <b> JANINE </b> You're really good with children, Louis. I can tell. (as he returns) Why don't you come here and sit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Okay. He sits stiffly beside her on the sofa. <b> JANINE </b> (getting close) Motherhood is a very natural instinct for me. I'd like to have a baby myself. Wouldn't you? <b> LOUIS </b> (gulps) Tonight? <b>EXT. STREET - MANHOLE COVER - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A manhole cover is dislodged and pushed up from below. It slides away, and Winston crawls out of the manhole followed by Stantz and Spengler. They are exhausted and covered with slime. <b> WINSTON </b> (uncharacteristically angry) Nice going, Ray! What were you trying to do -- drown me? <b> STANTZ </b> (unusually mean) Look, Zeddemore, it wasn't my fault you were too stupid to drop that line. <b> WINSTON </b> (shoves him) You better watch your mouth, man, or I'll punch your lights out. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh yeah? Anytime, anytime. Just go ahead and try it. Spengler steps between them with unprecedented aggression. <b> SPENGLER </b> If you two are looking for a fight, you got one. (putting up his fists) Who wants it first? Come on, Ray. Try me, sucker. <b> STANTZ </b> (squaring off) Butt out, you pencil-necked geek. I've had it with you. They grab each other and start to tussle. Suddenly Spengler comes to his senses and pulls them apart. <b> SPENGLER </b> (forcefully) Strip! Right now! Get out of those clothes! He starts yanking off his slicker and waders. Bewildered, Stantz and Winston start doing the same. Spengler helps pull off their clothes and throws them into the open manhole. Now wearing only long underwear, they seem to return to normal. <b> WINSTON </b> What are we doing? Ray, I was ready to kill you. <b> STANTZ </b> Don't you see? It's the slime. That stuff is like pure, concentrated evil. Stantz looks around and sees that they are standing right in front of the museum. <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing right to this spot. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT ENTRANCE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The MAITRE D' looks up in surprise as Stantz, Spengler and Winston enter the restaurant wearing only long underwear. <b> MAITRE D' </b> (intercepting them) Can I help you? Stantz looks around and spots Venkman. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right, I see him. They blow right by the Maitre d' who jumps back in horror as they pass. <b>VENKMAN </b> He's just about to pour more champagne when he sees Ray, Egon and Winston coming toward him through the restaurant. <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) You should've been there, Venkman. Absolutely incredible! <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, sorry I missed it. (noting their attire) I guess you guys didn't know about the dress code here. It's really kind of a coat and tie place. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all over the city, Pete -- well, under it actually. <b> WINSTON </b> Rivers of the stuff! <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing toward the museum. He gestures excitedly and a big gob of slime flies across the room and lands on a well-dressed diner. <b> STANTZ </b> (calls out) Sorry! <b> DANA </b> Maybe we should discuss this somewhere else. Venkman notes the look of alarm on Dana's face and pulls his colleagues aside. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) Boys, listen. You're scaring the straights. Let's save this until tomorrow, okay? <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Venkman) This won't wait until tomorrow, Venkman. It's hot and it's ready to pop. <b>MAITRE D' </b> He hurries through the restaurant with two city COPS right behind him and makes straight for Venkman's table. <b> MAITRE D' </b> Arrest these men. <b> COP </b> (recognizing them) Hey! It's the Ghostbusters. You're out of uniform, gentlemen Stantz suddenly realizes how ridiculous they look. <b> STANTZ </b> (self-conscious) Uh -- well -- we had a little accident, but forget that. We have to see the mayor as soon as possible. <b> COP </b> Look, Doc, why don't you just go home. You'll get a good night's sleep and then you can give the mayor a call in the morning. Come on. He takes Stantz by the arm but Stantz resists. <b> STANTZ </b> We're not going anywhere with you. I told you we have to see the mayor now. <b> COP </b> (grabbing Stantz) I'm warning you. You can come along peaceably or -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the Cop) Hey, don't be an idiot. This is serious. <b> COP </b> (angry) Look, pal, keep this up and you're going with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, yeah? <b> COP </b> (has had enough) Yeah, let's go. You're all under arrest. The Cop catches Venkman in an armlock and starts walking him out of the restaurant. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) Finish your dessert -- it's already paid for. I'll call you. They all exit, causing a major commotion among the other diners. <b>EXT. ARMAND'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The police car is parked right behind Ecto-2. Spengler stops at the police car and confronts the cops. <b> SPENGLER </b> Look, we're not drunk and we're not crazy. This is a matter of vital importance. Venkman steps in and looks at the policemen's nametags. <b> COP </b> What are you doing? <b> VENKMAN </b> I just want to get your names right for when the mayor asks us why we didn't let him know about this sooner. The Cops look at each other, uncertain about what to do. <b> COP </b> (relenting) Okay, Doc. You want to see the mayor, you got it. Follow us. They head for their respective vehicles. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are on the sofa making out when Dana enters. They jump up and start smoothing their clothes. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed) Oh, hello, Dana. we were just -- we were -- <b> DANA </b> I know what you were doing, Louis. It's all right. <b> JANINE </b> How was your date? <b> DANA </b> Typical. Peter was arrested. Has he called? <b> LOUIS </b> No, nobody called. Dana frowns. <b> DANA </b> Is everything all right with Oscar? <b> JANINE </b> Oh, he's fine. He's such a good baby. He was a little fussy at first, but we gave him a Freach bread pizza and he went right to sleep. <b> DANA </b> (relieved) Oh, good. I'll just check on him. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana looks at Oscar sleeping peacefully on the bed. She starts to change clothes. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine aren't sure what to do. <b> LOUIS </b> Should we go? <b> JANINE </b> I don't think we should leave her alone. <b> LOUIS </b> You're right. We should stay. He grabs Janine and they start making out again. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz stands before the painting of Vigo. Vigo comes to life and repeats the litany of his power. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> (heard all this before) Yes, the scourge -- <b> VIGO </b> -- the sorrow of Moldavia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> -- the sorrow -- <b> VIGO </b> I command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (checking his watch) I await the word of Vigo. <b> VIGO </b> The season of evil begins with the birth of the new year. Bring me the child that I might live again. <b> JANOSZ </b> (abjectly humble) Lord Vigo, the mother, Dana, is fine and strong. I was wondering -- well, would it be possible -- if I bring the baby, could I have the woman? <b> VIGO </b> So be it. On this the day of darkness, she will be ours, wife to you and mother to me. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CARL SCHURZ PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Preceded by a police car, Ecto-2 enters the small park on the East River at 88th Street and disappears into an underground entrance. The CAMERA PANS UP to reveal Gracie Mansion, the residence of the Mayor of New York City. <b>INT. GRACIE MANSION - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters, now wearing police raincoats over their longjohns are ushered through the house by a butler to a set of double oak doors. The butler knocks lightly, then opens the door to reveal the MAYOR sitting in front of the fireplace in his well-appointed private study, flanked by Jack Hardemeyer, both in tuxedoes. The Ghostbusters enter. <b>INT. STUDY - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> The Mayor is impatient and a little angry at having been pulled out of his formal reception. He frowns at their bizarre attire. <b> MAYOR </b> All right -- the Ghostbusters. I'll tell you right now; I've got two hundred of the heaviest campaign contributors in the city out there eating bad roast chicken waiting for me to give the speech of my life. You've got two minutes. Make it good. <b> STANTZ </b> You get enough negative energy flowing in a dense environment like Manhattan, it starts to build up, and if we don't do something fast this whole place will blow like a frog on a hotplate. <b> WINSTON </b> Tell him about the toaster. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't think he's ready for the toaster. <b> MAYOR </b> (shaking his head) Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right. What am I supposed to do -- go on television and tell eight million people they have to be nice to each other? I'm sorry, none of this makes any sense to me, and if anything does happen we've got plenty of paid professionals to deal with it. Your two minutes are up. Good night, gentlemen. The mayor exits, leaving the Ghostbusters to Hardemeyer. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (smirking) That's quite a story. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, I think the Times might be interested, don't you? The Post might have a lot of fun with it, too. Hardemeyer's eyes go cold and calculating. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Before you go running to the newspapers with this, would you consider telling this slime thing to some people downtown? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you're talking. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - PSYCHIATRIC WARD - NIGHT (LATER) </b> An attendant opens a locked door with a wire mesh window and the Ghostbusters, in straitjackets, are led into the psych ward as Hardemeyer confers with the chief PSYCHIATRIST. <b> WINSTON </b> (protesting) I'm telling you, we're not crazy. He is! <b>HARDEMEYER </b> He laughs off the remark. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to the Psychiatrist) The mayor wants them kept under strict observation for a few days. We think they're seriously disturbed and potentially dangerous. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> We'll do whatever's necessary. Hardemeyer shakes his hand and exits as the door slams shut on the Ghostbusters. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are watching an old rerun on TV, eating popcorn, while Dana is stretched out on the other sofa. <b> DANA </b> (wishing they'd leave) You know you really don't have to stay. Peter should be back soon. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh no, we don't mind. She hears a little CRY from the nursery and sits up. <b> DANA </b> Excuse me. I think Oscar is up. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana enters and immediately notices that the crib is empty and the window is open. <b> DANA </b> (screams) Louis! Frantic now, Dana rushes to the window and looks out, as Louis and Janine come running in. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - DANA'S POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The baby is standing out on the ledge at the corner of the building, fifty feet above the street, staring off into the distance as if he's waiting for something. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana climbs out onto the ledge and starts inching slowly toward the baby. Then she stops as a miraculous apparition materializes. <b>LOUIS AND JANINE </b> They lean out the window, gaping at the apparition. <b>EXT. VENKMAN'S LEDGE - APPARITION </b> A sweet, kindly-looking English nanny appears, pushing a pram, strolling on thin air parallel to the ledge high above the ground. Her face looks remarkably like Janosz Poha's. The nanny extends her hand to the BABY who GURGLES sweetly as he reaches out to take it. <b>DANA </b> She watches in helpless horror. <b> DANA </b> (screams) No!! <b>GHOST NANNY </b> She picks up the baby and lays it gently in the pram, then turns and smiles at Dana. The smile turns to a hideous grin, then the nanny shrieks at Dana and takes off like a shot with the baby. <b>DANA </b> She watches the creature fly off with Oscar, then climbs back through the window assisted by Louis and Janine. <b> DANA </b> (resolutely) Louis, you have to find Peter and tell him what happened. <b> LOUIS </b> (confused and worried) Where're you going? <b> DANA </b> To get my baby back. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (A LITTLE LATER) </b> A taxi pulls up, Dana jumps out and rushes into the museum. The moment the door closes behind her, there is a loud THUNDERCLAP, the ground trembles and a massive amount of slime erupts from around the base of the museum and starts covering the walls, sealing her inside the building. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC - PADDED ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are in a padded cell. They are handcuffed and the cuffs are chained to thick leather belts around their waists. Venkman stands there banging his head into the padded wall while the others try to explain the situation to a skeptical Psychiatrist. <b> STANTZ </b> We think the spirit of Vigo the Carpathian is alive in a painting at the Manhattan Museum. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> I see. And are there any other paintings in the museum with bad spirits in them? <b> SPENGLER </b> (impatient) You're wasting valuable time! We have reason to believe that Vigo is drawing strength from a psychomagnetheric slime flow that's been collecting under the city. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> Yes, tell me about the slime. <b> WINSTON </b> It's potent stuff. We made a toaster dance with it, then a bathtub tried to eat his friend's baby. The psychiatrist looks at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't look at me. I think they're nuts. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Moonlight streams through the skylight above, bathing the studio in eerie white light. Oscar is lying safely on a table in front of the painting of Vigo. Dana enters cautiously and sees the baby. Seeing no one else about, she quickly sneaks down to the table and picks up the baby, hugging hin tight, greatly relieved to find him unharmed and intact. <b> JANOSZ (O.S.) </b> I knew you would come. Startled, Dana turns at the sound of his voice as Janosz steps out from behind the Vigo painting. <b> DANA </b> (defiantly) What do you want with my baby? <b> JANOSZ </b> No harm will come to the child. You might even say it's a privilege. He will be the vessel for the spirit of Vigo. And you -- well, you will be the mother of the ruler of the world. Doesn't that sound nice? <b> DANA </b> If this is what the world will be like, I don't want to live in it. <b> JANOSZ </b> (confidentially, indicating Vigo) I don't believe we have the luxury of choice. <b> DANA </b> Everybody has a choice. <b> JANOSZ </b> Not in this case, my dear. Take a look. That's not Gainsborough's Blue Boy up there. He's Vigo! <b> DANA </b> I don't care who he is. He's not taking my baby. Dana walks quickly to the door but suddenly Oscar flies out of her arms, floats across the room and lands lightly back in the cradle. <b>DANA </b> She turns and looks at Vigo, for the first time feeling his power. <b> JANOSZ </b> You will see. It's all for the best. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> It's the last day of the year and the sun is shining brightly. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC WARD - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> The Ghostbusters are sitting in the dayroom, a dingy lounge for patients in the locked ward. There is a television set, a Ping-Pong table and a few tables and chairs. Stantz is looking at the sky through the heavy wire mesh covering the windows. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. boys. It's starting. Shit-storm <b> 2000. </b> Venkman is doing occupational therapy, weaving on a little hand-loom. <b> VENKMAN </b> It better not start yet. I'm trying to finish my potholder before lunch. <b> WINSTON </b> You think all those predictions about the world coming to an end in the 1990s are true? A PATIENT at the next table joins the discussion. <b> PATIENT </b> (with certainty) 1997. My dog told me. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of dog? <b> PATIENT </b> Labrador. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shakes his head) Habitual liars. They can't help it. It's in the breed. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - EXAMINING ROOM - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Louis is pleading with his cousin, SHERMAN TULLY, a doctor on the staff at Parkview. He looks and sounds just like Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> Come on, Sherm. You're my cousin. Do this for me. I'm begging you. <b> SHERMAN </b> I can't do it, Louis. It isn't ethical. I could lose my license. <b> LOUIS </b> Why can't you just have them released? You're a doctor. <b> SHERMAN </b> I'm a dermatologist. I can't write orders on the psych ward. <b> LOUIS </b> Sherman, I've done lots of favors for you. <b> SHERMAN </b> Like what? <b> LOUIS </b> I got you out of those bad tax shelters. <b> SHERMAN </b> You were the one who got me in. <b> LOUIS </b> I fixed you up with Diane Troxler and she put out, didn't she? <b> SHERMAN </b> Yeah, I had to give her free dermabrasion for a year. Forget it, Louis. I could get in a lot of trouble. <b> LOUIS </b> I'm telling you, we're all going to be in big trouble if we don't do something fast. That ghost guy came and took my friend's baby and we got to get it back. It's just a scared little baby, Sherm. <b> SHERMAN </b> Then you should go to the police. I don't believe in any of that stuff. Sherman looks out the window. <b>EXT. SKY - SHERMAN'S POV </b> The sky begins to go dark as the sun is magically eclipsed. <b>INT. EXAMINING ROOM - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> The room goes dark. Louis switches on a lamp which casts an eerie light on his face. <b> LOUIS </b> (spooky) Do you believe it now, Sherm? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. HUDSON RIVER PIER - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> A drainpipe starts dripping slime into the river near the Cunard Line docks. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PUBLIC FOUNTAIN (59TH AND FIFTH) - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> With the Plaza Hotel in the background, the fountain starts to spout psycho-reactive slime. <b>HOTEL ENTRANCE </b> A well-heeled MAN and WOMAN step out of a limousine and walk up the steps toward the revolving door. She looks up at the sky and frowns. <b> WOMAN </b> (shrewish) I told you we should have stayed in Palm Beach. The weather here gets stranger every year. <b> MAN </b> Yes, dear. She doesn't notice it, but a small amount of slime falls on the back of her luxurious, full-length, white mink coat. The doorman nods courteously and extends a hand to help her up the stairs. <b>WOMAN </b> She yelps in pain. <b> WOMAN </b> (to the doorman) Something just bit me! The doorman looks curiously at her, then recoils in shock as her coat comes alive. MINK HEADS pop out of the thick fur, SNARLING, BARKING and YAPPING, their sharp, little teeth biting the air. Reacting quickly, the doorman yanks the coat off the woman's back, throws it to the ground and starts stomping on it as the Woman and her husband look on in horror. The coat scuttles down the steps and runs off down the street. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MIDTOWN CENTRAL POLICE PRECINCT - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The squad room is busy as DETECTIVES try to answer the flood of calls regarding the wave of supernatural events sweeping the city. <b> DETECTIVE ONE </b> (on the phone) Look, lady, of course there are dead people there. It's a cemetery ... (his face falls) They were asking you for directions? <b> DETECTIVE TWO </b> (on another phone) Was this a big dinosaur or a little dinosaur? ... Oh, just the skeleton, huh? Well, where is it now? <b> DETECTIVE THREE </b> (on the phone) Wait a second -- the park bench was chasing you? You mean, someone was chasing you in the park ... No, the bench itself was chasing you. I see -- A weary SERGEANT answers a RINGING PHONE. <b> SERGEANT </b> Manhattan Central, Flaherty speaking ... Yeah ... yeah? ... What? Who is this? ... Wait a second. He puts the caller on "Hold" and turns the LIEUTENANT. <b> SERGEANT </b> Lieutenant, I think you better talk to this guy. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> (on another call) What is it? I'm talkin' here! <b> SERGEANT </b> It's some dock supervisor down at Pier 34 on the Hudson. The guy's going nuts. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> What's the problem? <b> SERGEANT </b> (takes a deep breath) He says the Titanic just arrived. <b>INT. PORT AUTHORITY OFFICE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The dock supervisor stands there with the phone in his hand, an assistant beside him, both staring out the window at the ocean liner tied up at the pier. <b>EXT. PIER 34 - THEIR POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The name "R.M.S. Titanic" is clearly visible on the side of the huge ship. The gangplank is down and dozens of drowned passengers, sopping wet and festooned with seaweed, are disembarking while drowned porters off-load their waterlogged baggage. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER)(ECLIPSE) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside as Louis and Sherman come out of the hospital with the Ghostbusters, now wearing their standard uniforms. <b> STANTZ </b> Good work, Louis. How did you get us out? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, I pulled a few strings. I wouldn't want to say any more than that. Louis winks conspiratorially at Sherman. <b> LOUIS </b> This is my cousin Sherman. Sherm, say hello to the Ghostbusters. (sotto voce to Stantz) I promised him a ride in the car if he got you out. <b> SHERMAN </b> (to the Ghostbusters) Hi, it's really great to meet you guys. I know this sounds weird but once I had a dream that my grandfather was standing at the foot of my bed, but I knew it was impossible because he died and he started to tell me that -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ectomobile and drive off, leaving him and Louis standing at the curb. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> SHERMAN </b> I thought you were like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> LOUIS </b> I let them handle all the little stuff. I just come in on the big ones. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b>(original version of the above scene - 11/27/88) (TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: These two versions of this scene were put in my copy of the script, so I have included both of them here) <b> LOUIS </b> Actually, they still think you're crazy, but I convinced them you're not dangerous. <b> VENKMAN </b> (determined) Yeah, well guess again. <b>EXT. BELLEVUE HOSPITAL - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(MOMENTS LATER) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside and the Ghostbusters are hastily donning their standard uniforms. <b> LOUIS </b> I brought everything you asked for and I gassed up the car with Super Unleaded. It cost twenty cents more than Regular Unleaded but you get much better performance and in an old car like this that'll end up saving you money in the long run. I put it on my credit card, so you can either reimburse me or I can take it out of petty cash -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ecto-2 and drive off without him. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(LATER) </b> ECTO-2 pulls to the curb across the street from the museum. Hundreds of spectators are already there gawking at the building as the Ghostbusters jump out and gape at the sight that greets them. <b>EXT. MUSEUM THEIR POV - BUILDING </b> The building is now totally covered in a shell of psycho-reactive slime. CITY WORKMEN and FIREMEN are trying to cut their way in with blowtorches, jackhammers, power tools and the "jaws of life," but they can't even make a dent. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They size up the situation as they don their proton packs. <b> STANTZ </b> It looks like a giant Jello mold. <b> VENKMAN </b> I hate Jello. They stride manfully across the street and approach the main entrance to the museum. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the Fire Captain) Okay, give it a rest, Captain. We'll take it from here. <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> (skeptical) Be my guest. We been cutting here for three hours. What the hell's going on? You know the Titanic arrived this morning? <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, better late than never. The workmen and firemen put down their tools and fall back as the Ghostbusters draw their particle throwers. <b> SPENGLER </b> (monitoring valences) Full neutronas, maser assist. They adjust their settings and prepare to fire. <b> STANTZ </b> Throw 'em! They trigger their throwers and spray the front doors of the building with bolts of proton energy, but it has no effect on the hardened slime. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the firemen) Okay, who knows "Cumbaya?" A few of the firemen and workmen tentatively raise their hands. Venkman grabs them and lines them up at the entrance of the museum. <b> VENKMAN </b> All right. Nice and sweet -- (starts singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya -- Stantz, Spengler, Winston and the firemen sing along, reluctantly holding hands and swaying to the music. <b> ALL </b> (singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Oh, Lord, cumbaya. Stantz inspects the wall of slime with his infra-goggles and finds that they have only managed to open a hole the size of a dime. <b> STANTZ </b> Forget it. The Vienna Boys Choir couldn't get through this stuff. <b> VENKMAN </b> Good effort. Now what? Should we say supportive, nurturing things to it, Ray? <b> SPENGLER </b> It won't work. There's no way we could generate enough positive energy to crack that shell. <b> STANTZ </b> I can't believe things have gotten so bad in this city that there's no way back. Sure, it's crowded, it's dirty, it's noisy. And there are too many people who'd just as soon step on your face as look at you. But there've got to be a few sparks of sweet humanity left in this burned-out burg. We just have to mobilize it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We need something that everyone can get behind, a symbol -- His eyes fall on ECTO-2's New York State license plate which features a line drawing of the Statue of Liberty. <b> STANTZ </b> (he sees it, too) Something that appeals to the best in each and every one of us -- <b> SPENGLER </b> Something good -- <b> VENKMAN </b> And pure -- <b> WINSTON </b> And decent. <b>EXT. THE STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> There is a commotion among the crowd as the Mayor's limousine arrives with a police escort. Jack Hardemeyer steps out followed by the Mayor himself and they cross to the museum entrance. Hardemeyer, his ASSISTANT and several police BODYGUARDS confront the Ghostbusters. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Look, I've had it with you. Get your stuff together, get back in that clown car and get out of here. This is a city matter and everything's under control. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, you think so? Well, I've got news for you. You've got Dracula's brother-in-law in there and he's got my girlfriend and her kid. Around about midnight tonight, when you're partying uptown, this guy's going to come to life and start doing amateur head transplants. And that's just round one. <b> MAYOR </b> Are you telling me there're people trapped in there? <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to his assistant) This is dynamite. Call A.P., U.P.I., and C.N.N. and get them down here right away. When the police bring this kid out I want them to hand it right to the mayor and I want it all on camera. <b> STANTZ </b> Mr. Mayor, if we don't do something by midnight, you're going to go down in history as the man who let New York get sucked down into the tenth level of hell. The Mayor stops to consider the situation. <b> MAYOR </b> (to the Fire Captain) Can you get into that museum? <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> If I had a nuclear warhead, maybe. The Mayor turns to Venkman. <b> MAYOR </b> You know why all these things are happening? <b> VENKMAN </b> We tried to tell you last night, but Mr. Hard-On over here packed us off to the loony bin. Hardemeyer flips out. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> This is preposterous! You can't seriously believe all this mumbo-jumbo! It's the Twentieth Century, for crying out loud! (viciously, to Venkman) Look, mister, I don't know what this stuff is or how you got it all over the museum, but you better get it off and I mean right now! He pounds the wall of slime with his fist, and they all watch in amazement as his fist goes through the wall and he is sucked bodily through the slime curtain. Only his shoes can be seen, embedded in the slime. <b> MAYOR </b> (to Venkman) Okay, just tell me what you need. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND (NEW YORK HARBOR) - NIGHT </b> With the city skyline in the b.g., the Ghostbusters prepare their equipment. Each of them dons a makeshift backpack consisting of tanks, hoses, nozzles and an abundance of gauges, valves and regulators. Venkman looks up at the Statue of Liberty looming above them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it? <b> WINSTON </b> Wonder what? <b> VENKMAN </b> If she's naked under that toga. She's French, you know. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's nothing under that toga but 300 tons of iron and steel. Stantz is looking worried. <b> STANTZ </b> I hope we have enough stuff to do the job. <b> VENKMAN </b> Only one way to find out. (to Stantz) Ready, Teddy? They enter the statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters are working from the iron staircase that spirals straight up 100 feet inside the hollow super-structure of the statue. Spengler and Winston are busy assembling hundreds of wires connected to various relays on the interior surface of the statue. Venkman and Stantz are mounting large auditorium loudspeakers near the top of the staircase. They finish the installation, then Stantz dons one of the new backpacks and gives the order. <b> STANTZ </b> Okay, boys. Let's frost it. They begin hosing the inside of the statue with the psycho-reactive slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine watches as Louis, wearing a Ghostbuster uniform, slings a heavy proton pack onto his back. <b> JANINE </b> I'm not sure this is such a good idea? Do they know you're doing this? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, yeah, sure -- no. But there's really not much to do here and they might need some back-up at the museum. <b> JANINE </b> You're very brave, Louis. Good luck. She kisses Louis and he gets extremely self-conscious. <b> LOUIS </b> Uh -- oh -- well, I better hurry. He rushes out. <b>EXT STREET OUTSIDE FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> Louis stands on the street corner waiting for a bus. Finally, a bus pulls up, Louis climbs aboard and finds Slimer behind the wheel. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - OBSERVATION DECK - MOMENTS LATER </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are standing in the observation windows in the crown of the statue. It looks like they're on the bridge of an ocean liner, then the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the head of the statue. <b>STANTZ </b> He plugs the main cable lead into a transformer. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all yours, Pete. (checks his watch) There's not much time left. Venkman plugs the speaker cable into a Walkman and gives a downbeat. <b> VENKMAN </b> (giving the downbeat) Okay, one, two, three, four -- He hits "Play" on the Walkman and "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BOOMS from the huge SPEAKERS, amplified by the statue's vast hollow interior. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The head of the statue lurches suddenly, but the Ghostbusters cling to the rail and manage to keep their feet. <b> STANTZ </b> She's moving! <b> WINSTON </b> I've lived in New York all my life and I never visited the Statue of Liberty. Now I finally get here and we're taking her out for a walk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (reading the Giga-meter) We've got full power. Stantz picks up a Nintendo control paddle from a home video game and starts pushing the buttons. <b> VENKMAN </b> (into a microphone) Okay, Libby. Let's get it in gear. They feel a strong vibration and the statue starts to move. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. SOUTH STREET SEAPORT - NIGHT </b> New Years Eve celebrants line the riverfront, pointing and gawking at an incredible sight. <b>EXT. EAST RIVER - THEIR POV - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The statue is moving up the river almost completely submerged, only her head from the nose up is visible above the surface. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks out apprehensively. <b> WINSTON </b> How deep does it get? That water's cold and I can't swim. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's okay. I have my Senior Lifesaving card. <b> SPENGLER </b> With a water temperature of forty degrees we'd survive approximately fifteen minutes. Stantz studies a maritime navigational chart. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll keep to the middle of the channel. We're okay to 59th Street, then we'll go ashore and take First Avenue to 79th. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you kidding? We'll hit all that bridge traffic at 59th. I'm going to take 72nd straight up to Fifth. Trust me, I used to drive a cab. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RIVERFRONT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Spectators cheer wildly, inspired by the sight of the Statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz is sitting next to Dana, still wheedling her with promises and self-serving logic. <b> JANOSZ </b> Time is running out, Dana. Soon it will be midnight and the city will be mine -- and Vigo's. Well, mainly Vigo's. But we have a spectacular opportunity to make the best of our relationship. <b> DANA </b> We don't have a relationship. <b> JANOSZ </b> I know. Marry me, Dana, and together we will raise Vigo as our son. There are many perks that come with being the mother of a living god. I'm sure he will supply for us a magnificent apartment. And perhaps a car and free parking. <b> DANA </b> I hate and despise you and everything you stand for with all my heart and soul. I could never forgive what you've done to me and my child. <b> JANOSZ </b> Many marriages begin with a certain amount of distance, but after a while I believe we could learn to love each other. Think about it. <b> DANA </b> I'd rather not. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> People are jammed together shoulder to shoulder filling Times Square, watching the big Seiko clock count down the last ten minutes to midnight. Suddenly, they look down Broadway and see a magnificent sight. <b>EXT. BROADWAY - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue of Liberty is walking up Broadway approaching 42nd Street, with "Higher and Higher" BOOMING from the SPEAKERS inside. A great cheer goes up, and the crowd goes wild with joy, dancing and singing along with the MUSIC. <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS) </b> Spengler reads the Giga-meter. <b> SPENGLER </b> It's working. The positive GeV's are climbing. <b> VENKMAN </b> (patting the Statue) They love you, Lib. Keep it up. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The avenue has been closed to traffic and barricades placed, blocking all the side streets. A squadron of police motorcycles comes speeding around the corner at 72nd Street and proceeds up Fifth Avenue in the direction of the museum. Then MUSIC is heard BOOMING in the distance, the ground shakes and the Statue of Liberty comes walking around the corner onto Fifth Avenue followed by a wildly cheering throng. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters can see the museum ahead. <b> VENKMAN </b> So far so good. <b> SPENGLER </b> (worried) I'm worried. The vibrations could shake her to pieces. We should have padded her feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I don't think they make Nikes in her size. <b> VENKMAN </b> We're almost there, Lib. (to Stantz) Step on it. <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue's huge foot comes down and squashes a car. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters look down at the flattened car. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts out the window) My Fault! <b> VENKMAN </b> (shouts) She's new in town. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is painting the last of the mystical symbols on the baby's chest. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> The people still in the square start counting off the last ten seconds to midnight and the New Year. <b> CROWD </b> (chanting) Ten .. nine ... eight ... seven ... <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> A strange light spreads over the painting. As the light moves onto his face, Vigo spreads his arms wide and his upper body starts to emerge from the canvas. <b> VIGO </b> Soon my life begins. Then woe to the weak, all power to me, the world is mine. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ - NIGHT </b> The baby's body begins to glow as Vigo reaches out for it. Then suddenly a dark shadow falls across the skylight. Janosz looks up. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ'S POV - SKYLIGHT - NIGHT </b> The Statue of Liberty is looming over the skylight looking down on Janosz with an expression of righteous anger on it's face. <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Kneeling beside the museum, the statue draws back it's mighty right arm and smashes the skylight with its torch. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz retreats from the shower of broken glass as the Ghostbusters come sliding down ropes into the studio and confront Janosz with their new weapons. Quick as a flash, Dana seizes the moment, dashes across the studio and snatches the baby from Vigo's outstretched arms. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) Happy New Year. <b>INT. MUSEUM - VIGO PAINTING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Vigo bellows in rage. <b>INT. MUSEUM - STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz steps in front of the painting. <b> SPENGLER </b> Hi there. Feel free to try something stupid. Janosz sneers, trusting the invincibility of Vigo. <b> JANOSZ </b> You pitiful, miserable creatures! You dare to challenge the power of darkness? Don't you realize what you are dealing with? He's Vigo! You are like the buzzing of flies to him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (sighs) Oh, Johnny. Did you back the wrong horse. With that, the Ghostbusters fire their slime-blowers and hose Janosz from head to toe, blowing him into the corner. Then they turn to Vigo. <b>VIGO </b> He is now almost completely out of the painting, but still held from the knees down. He spits and rages at the Ghostbusters, trying to unleash his magic powers. <b>THE GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They stand fast, secure in the knowledge that Vigo's power has been neutralized by the good will of the people. <b> STANTZ </b> Vigi, Vigi, Vigi -- you have been a bad little monkey. <b> VENKMAN </b> The whole city's together on this one. We took a vote. Everybody's down on you, you know. <b> WINSTON </b> (arming his slime-blower) Say goodnight now. Suddenly Vigo grabs Stantz by the neck and holds him up as a shield. <b> SPENGLER </b> Don't shoot! You'll hit Ray! <b> STANTZ </b> (strangling) Do it! Just do it! Winston fires and hoses both Vigo and Ray. <b>VIGO </b> He bellows and drops Ray, then falls back into the painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> The paint turns liquid, melts off the canvas and runs onto the floor revealing another painting underneath it. <b>INT. MUSEUM - GHOSTBUSTERS - NIGHT (AFTER BATTLE) </b> Venkman, Spengler and Winston rush over to Ray and kneel beside him. He is completely covered with slime and motionless. <b> SPENGLER </b> (examining him) He's breathing. Winston wipes the slime off Ray's face and Ray opens his eyes. <b> WINSTON </b> Ray -- Ray -- How do you feel, man? <b> STANTZ </b> (smiles lovingly) Groovy. I've never felt better in my life. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, no. We've got to live with this? They pull him to his feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I love you guys. You're the best friends I've ever had. He hugs them each in turn, leaving them slimed as well. Venkman recoils in disgust. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey, I just had this suit cleaned. (indicating Janosz) Take care of the wiggler, will you. Venkman crosses to Dana who is snuggling the baby. She hugs Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> What is this -- a love in? (notes the symbols painted on the baby's body) Hey, sailor. I think the tattoos are a little much, don't you? He picks up the baby. <b> DANA </b> (to Venkman) I think he likes you. I think I do too. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finally came to your senses, huh? They hug and kiss. <b>SPENGLER, WINSTON AND STANTZ </b> They help Janosz to his feet. He's dazed but unhurt. <b> JANOSZ </b> (restored to normalcy) What happened? <b> STANTZ </b> (calmly) Sir, you had a violent, prolonged, transformative psychic episode. But it's over now. Want a coffee? <b> JANOSZ </b> (extremely nice) That's very kind of you. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) He's fine, Ray. Physically intact, psychomagnetherically neutral. <b> JANOSZ </b> Is that good? <b> WINSTON </b> It's where you want to be. As they exit they stop to examine the painting that was concealed by Vigo's self-portrait. <b> SPENGLER </b> Late Renaissance, I think. Caravaggio or Brunelleschi. <b> WINSTON </b> (staring at it) There's something very familiar about this painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - NEW PAINTING - NIGHT </b> It's a beautiful painting in the high-Renaissance style depicting four archangels hovering protectively over a cherubic baby. One holds a harp, one, an olive branch, the third, a book, and the last, a sword. Most remarkably, their faces bear an uncanny resemblance to Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A city bus pulls up near the museum and Louis steps off. He waves his thanks to Slimer who is behind the wheel. <b> LOUIS </b> (to Slimer) Okay, so Monday night we'll get something to eat and maybe go bowling? Can you bowl with those little arms? SLIMER GRUNTS and SLOBBERS a reply, flexing his scrawny biceps. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, I have to go save Dana. I'll see you later. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are greeted by wild cheering and applause as they come out the main entrance with Dana and the baby. Everybody starts singing "Auld Lang Syne." Louis picks his way through the celebrating crowd and finds the Ghostbusters. <b> LOUIS </b> Am I too late? <b> STANTZ </b> No, you're right on time. Stantz pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and hands it to him. <b>EXT. MUSEUM ENTRANCE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Hardemeyer staggers out of the museum covered in slime. He looks at the celebrating crowd and his eyes fill with tears. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (weepy) Happy New Year, everybody! He joins in on "Auld Lang Syne." <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The Statue of Liberty is sprawled inert on her back in the park behind the museum, her toga up over her knees. The Mayor looks nearly suicidal. The Ghostbusters stand beside him commiserating. <b> VENKMAN </b> She's all right. She's just sleeping it off. <b> MAYOR </b> (stricken) We just had it restored. <b> VENKMAN </b> This probably isn't a good time to bring this up, but the last time we did a job for the city you stiffed us. <b> STANTZ </b> (handing the Mayor an invoice) This is a bill for tonight's job. The Mayor looks at it and gasps at the amount. <b> MAYOR </b> What! This is way too much. (hands the bill back to Venkman) We won't pay. Venkman looks at the Statue. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) I think she looks pretty good here, don't you? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, and a lot easier to get to than that island. Realizing he has no alternative, the Mayor sighs and takes the bill back. <b> MAYOR </b> All right, all right. If you can wait until Monday I'll issue you a check. <b> SPENGLER </b> Sorry. No checks. Company policy. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND - DAY (WEEKS LATER) </b> The sun is shining brightly and Liberty is back on her pedestal where she belongs. The Mayor and a host of officials are commemorating her return. The Ghostbusters, Dana, Janine and Louis are there as honored guests. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking up at the statue) Pretty impressive, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> (musing) It's probably the first thing my grandparents saw when they came to this country. <b> VENKMAN </b> From where -- Neptune? <b> SPENGLER </b> They came from Ostrov in Eastern Poland. <b> VENKMAN </b> Ostrov? I've been there. Good party town. <b> STANTZ </b> (in a similarly reflective mood) My great-grandparents were Swiss. I still have the pictures they took of the statue from the boat when they arrived. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, right, you told me that. They came to America seeking other kinds of cheese, as I recall. How about you, Winston? <b> WINSTON </b> My people weren't taking any pictures from those slave ships, man. And there wasn't any Statue in Charleston Harbor to welcome them, either. What are you, Dana? <b> VENKMAN </b> Miss Blue Blood? Her family's been here since the year 12. <b> DANA </b> That's not true. It was 1620. <b> VENKMAN </b> Same difference. <b> STANTZ </b> What's your story, Pete? <b> VENKMAN </b> Me? I'm a little of everything. Some Irish, some German, some French, Dutch -- the women in my family slept around. And that's what made this country great. <b> DANA </b> That's a terrible thing to say. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what? It's a free country. (looking up at the Statue) Thanks, Lib. They all look up at the Statue. <b>EXT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - HEAD OF STATUE - DAY </b> Slimer flies out one of the observation windows, THEME MUSIC KICKS IN and the CAMERA PULLS UP and AWAY FROM the island TO a HIGH SHOT of the Statue, lower Manhattan and the shining sea beyond. <b> FADE OUT. </b> <b> THE END </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who does the Witch create?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Witch of Atlas is a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. It is a narrative poem that tells the story of a witch who lives on Atlas' mountain. The poem consists of 80 stanzas, each with four lines. The witch is described as a beautiful and powerful being who has the ability to control the elements and to see into the future. She lives in a cave on the mountain, surrounded by magic and wonder. The poem describes her daily life, her interactions with other beings, and her powers and abilities. The witch is also described as being lonely and isolated, and the poem suggests that she may be searching for connection and companionship. Context Cheat Sheet: * The Witch of Atlas is a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. * The poem consists of 80 stanzas, each with four lines. * The witch lives on Atlas' mountain in a cave. * The witch is described as beautiful and powerful. * The witch has the ability to control the elements and to see into the future. * The witch lives in a world of magic and wonder. * The witch is lonely and isolated. * The witch may be searching for connection and companionship. Now, here is your question: What is the name of the mountain where the witch lives? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Hermaphroditus." ]	5,397	narrativeqa	en	null	cffc706d1ed5ecaa2b18b058e30ec11b1f8fc8a42f455048	Produced by Sue Asscher The Witch of Atlas by Percy Bysshe Shelley TO MARY (ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST). 1. How, my dear Mary,--are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, _5 May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme. 2. What hand would crush the silken-winged fly, The youngest of inconstant April's minions, _10 Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions? Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die, When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, _15 Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. 3. To thy fair feet a winged Vision came, Whose date should have been longer than a day, And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; _20 The watery bow burned in the evening flame. But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way-- And that is dead.--O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live! 4. Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years _25 Considering and retouching Peter Bell; Watering his laurels with the killing tears Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well _30 May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. 5. My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise Clothes for our grandsons--but she matches Peter, _35 Though he took nineteen years, and she three days In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays, Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress Like King Lear's 'looped and windowed raggedness.' _40 6. If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow: A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at; In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. _45 If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate Can shrive you of that sin,--if sin there be In love, when it becomes idolatry. THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 1. Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, _50 Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth All those bright natures which adorned its prime, And left us nothing to believe in, worth The pains of putting into learned rhyme, A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain _55 Within a cavern, by a secret fountain. 2. Her mother was one of the Atlantides: The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden _60 In the warm shadow of her loveliness;-- He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden The chamber of gray rock in which she lay-- She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. 3. 'Tis said, she first was changed into a vapour, _65 And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, Like splendour-winged moths about a taper, Round the red west when the sun dies in it: And then into a meteor, such as caper On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit: _70 Then, into one of those mysterious stars Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars. 4. Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden With that bright sign the billows to indent _75 The sea-deserted sand--like children chidden, At her command they ever came and went-- Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden Took shape and motion: with the living form Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm. _80 5. A lovely lady garmented in light From her own beauty--deep her eyes, as are Two openings of unfathomable night Seen through a Temple's cloven roof--her hair Dark--the dim brain whirls dizzy with delight. _85 Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar, And her low voice was heard like love, and drew All living things towards this wonder new. 6. And first the spotted cameleopard came, And then the wise and fearless elephant; _90 Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame Of his own volumes intervolved;--all gaunt And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. They drank before her at her sacred fount; And every beast of beating heart grew bold, _95 Such gentleness and power even to behold. 7. The brinded lioness led forth her young, That she might teach them how they should forego Their inborn thirst of death; the pard unstrung His sinews at her feet, and sought to know _100 With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue How he might be as gentle as the doe. The magic circle of her voice and eyes All savage natures did imparadise. 8. And old Silenus, shaking a green stick _105 Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew: And Dryope and Faunus followed quick, Teasing the God to sing them something new; _110 Till in this cave they found the lady lone, Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. 9. And universal Pan, 'tis said, was there, And though none saw him,--through the adamant Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air, _115 And through those living spirits, like a want, He passed out of his everlasting lair Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant, And felt that wondrous lady all alone,-- And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. _120 10. And every nymph of stream and spreading tree, And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks, Who drives her white waves over the green sea, And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks, And quaint Priapus with his company, _125 All came, much wondering how the enwombed rocks Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth;-- Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth. 11. The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant-- _130 Their spirits shook within them, as a flame Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt: Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name, Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt Wet clefts,--and lumps neither alive nor dead, _135 Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. 12. For she was beautiful--her beauty made The bright world dim, and everything beside Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade: No thought of living spirit could abide, _140 Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, On any object in the world so wide, On any hope within the circling skies, But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. 13. Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle _145 And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle The clouds and waves and mountains with; and she As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle In the belated moon, wound skilfully; _150 And with these threads a subtle veil she wove-- A shadow for the splendour of her love. 14. The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling Were stored with magic treasures--sounds of air, Which had the power all spirits of compelling, _155 Folded in cells of crystal silence there; Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling Will never die--yet ere we are aware, The feeling and the sound are fled and gone, And the regret they leave remains alone. _160 15. And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint, Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis, Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint With the soft burthen of intensest bliss. It was its work to bear to many a saint _165 Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is, Even Love's:--and others white, green, gray, and black, And of all shapes--and each was at her beck. 16. And odours in a kind of aviary Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, _170 Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept; As bats at the wired window of a dairy, They beat their vans; and each was an adept, When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds, _175 To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds. 17. And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep, And change eternal death into a night Of glorious dreams--or if eyes needs must weep, _180 Could make their tears all wonder and delight, She in her crystal vials did closely keep: If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said The living were not envied of the dead. 18. Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, _185 The works of some Saturnian Archimage, Which taught the expiations at whose price Men from the Gods might win that happy age Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice; And which might quench the Earth-consuming rage _190 Of gold and blood--till men should live and move Harmonious as the sacred stars above; 19. And how all things that seem untameable, Not to be checked and not to be confined, Obey the spells of Wisdom's wizard skill; _195 Time, earth, and fire--the ocean and the wind, And all their shapes--and man's imperial will; And other scrolls whose writings did unbind The inmost lore of Love--let the profane Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. _200 20. And wondrous works of substances unknown, To which the enchantment of her father's power Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, Were heaped in the recesses of her bower; Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone _205 In their own golden beams--each like a flower, Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light Under a cypress in a starless night. 21. At first she lived alone in this wild home, And her own thoughts were each a minister, _210 Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam, Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, To work whatever purposes might come Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, _215 Through all the regions which he shines upon. 22. The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks, Offered to do her bidding through the seas, Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, _220 And far beneath the matted roots of trees, And in the gnarled heart of stubborn oaks, So they might live for ever in the light Of her sweet presence--each a satellite. 23. 'This may not be,' the wizard maid replied; _225 'The fountains where the Naiades bedew Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried; The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide; The boundless ocean like a drop of dew _230 Will be consumed--the stubborn centre must Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust. 24. 'And ye with them will perish, one by one;-- If I must sigh to think that this shall be, If I must weep when the surviving Sun _235 Shall smile on your decay--oh, ask not me To love you till your little race is run; I cannot die as ye must--over me Your leaves shall glance--the streams in which ye dwell Shall be my paths henceforth, and so--farewell!'-- _240 25. She spoke and wept:--the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, And every little circlet where they fell Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres And intertangled lines of light:--a knell _245 Of sobbing voices came upon her ears From those departing Forms, o'er the serene Of the white streams and of the forest green. 26. All day the wizard lady sate aloof, Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, _250 Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; Or broidering the pictured poesy Of some high tale upon her growing woof, Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye In hues outshining heaven--and ever she _255 Added some grace to the wrought poesy. 27. While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is-- Each flame of it is as a precious stone _260 Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this Belongs to each and all who gaze upon. The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand. 28. This lady never slept, but lay in trance _265 All night within the fountain--as in sleep. Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance; Through the green splendour of the water deep She saw the constellations reel and dance Like fire-flies--and withal did ever keep _270 The tenour of her contemplations calm, With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm. 29. And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, She passed at dewfall to a space extended, _275 Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended, There yawned an inextinguishable well Of crimson fire--full even to the brim, And overflowing all the margin trim. _280 30. Within the which she lay when the fierce war Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor In many a mimic moon and bearded star O'er woods and lawns;--the serpent heard it flicker In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar-- _285 And when the windless snow descended thicker Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came Melt on the surface of the level flame. 31. She had a boat, which some say Vulcan wrought For Venus, as the chariot of her star; _290 But it was found too feeble to be fraught With all the ardours in that sphere which are, And so she sold it, and Apollo bought And gave it to this daughter: from a car Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat _295 Which ever upon mortal stream did float. 32. And others say, that, when but three hours old, The first-born Love out of his cradle lept, And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, And like a horticultural adept, _300 Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in mould, And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, And with his wings fanning it as it grew. 33. The plant grew strong and green, the snowy flower _305 Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began To turn the light and dew by inward power To its own substance; woven tracery ran Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o'er The solid rind, like a leaf's veined fan-- _310 Of which Love scooped this boat--and with soft motion Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. 34. This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit A living spirit within all its frame, Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. _315 Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit-- Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame-- Or on blind Homer's heart a winged thought,-- In joyous expectation lay the boat. _320 35. Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow Together, tempering the repugnant mass With liquid love--all things together grow Through which the harmony of love can pass; And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow-- _325 A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. 36. A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect _330 Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,-- In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, _335 Imaging forth such perfect purity. 37. From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings, Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere: _340 She led her creature to the boiling springs Where the light boat was moored, and said: 'Sit here!' And pointed to the prow, and took her seat Beside the rudder, with opposing feet. 38. And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, _345 Around their inland islets, and amid The panther-peopled forests whose shade cast Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; By many a star-surrounded pyramid _350 Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, And caverns yawning round unfathomably. 39. The silver noon into that winding dell, With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell; _355 A green and glowing light, like that which drops From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell, When Earth over her face Night's mantle wraps; Between the severed mountains lay on high, Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. _360 40. And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes; And o'er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, _365 And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had aroused from that full heart and brain. 41. And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went: _370 Now lingering on the pools, in which abode The calm and darkness of the deep content In which they paused; now o'er the shallow road Of white and dancing waters, all besprent With sand and polished pebbles:--mortal boat _375 In such a shallow rapid could not float. 42. And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver Their snow-like waters into golden air, Or under chasms unfathomable ever Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear _380 A subterranean portal for the river, It fled--the circling sunbows did upbear Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, Lighting it far upon its lampless way. 43. And when the wizard lady would ascend _385 The labyrinths of some many-winding vale, Which to the inmost mountain upward tend-- She called 'Hermaphroditus!'--and the pale And heavy hue which slumber could extend Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale _390 A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, Into the darkness of the stream did pass. 44. And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions, With stars of fire spotting the stream below; And from above into the Sun's dominions _395 Flinging a glory, like the golden glow In which Spring clothes her emerald-winged minions, All interwoven with fine feathery snow And moonlight splendour of intensest rime, With which frost paints the pines in winter time. _400 45. And then it winnowed the Elysian air Which ever hung about that lady bright, With its aethereal vans--and speeding there, Like a star up the torrent of the night, Or a swift eagle in the morning glare _405 Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight, The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings, Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs. 46. The water flashed, like sunlight by the prow Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven; _410 The still air seemed as if its waves did flow In tempest down the mountains; loosely driven The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro: Beneath, the billows having vainly striven Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel _415 The swift and steady motion of the keel. 47. Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, Or in the noon of interlunar night, The lady-witch in visions could not chain Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light _420 Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite; She to the Austral waters took her way, Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana,-- 48. Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, _425 Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake, With the Antarctic constellations paven, Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake-- There she would build herself a windless haven Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make _430 The bastions of the storm, when through the sky The spirits of the tempest thundered by: 49. A haven beneath whose translucent floor The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably, And around which the solid vapours hoar, _435 Based on the level waters, to the sky Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray, And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. _440 50. And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a wounded thing, And the incessant hail with stony clash Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash _445 Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering Fragment of inky thunder-smoke--this haven Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven,-- 51. On which that lady played her many pranks, Circling the image of a shooting star, _450 Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are, In her light boat; and many quips and cranks She played upon the water, till the car Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan, _455 To journey from the misty east began. 52. And then she called out of the hollow turrets Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion, The armies of her ministering spirits-- In mighty legions, million after million, _460 They came, each troop emblazoning its merits On meteor flags; and many a proud pavilion Of the intertexture of the atmosphere They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere. 53. They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen _465 Of woven exhalations, underlaid With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid With crimson silk--cressets from the serene Hung there, and on the water for her tread _470 A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn, Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. 54. And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, caught Upon those wandering isles of aery dew, Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, _475 She sate, and heard all that had happened new Between the earth and moon, since they had brought The last intelligence--and now she grew Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night-- And now she wept, and now she laughed outright. _480 55. These were tame pleasures; she would often climb The steepest ladder of the crudded rack Up to some beaked cape of cloud sublime, And like Arion on the dolphin's back Ride singing through the shoreless air;--oft-time _485 Following the serpent lightning's winding track, She ran upon the platforms of the wind, And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind. 56. And sometimes to those streams of upper air Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round, _490 She would ascend, and win the spirits there To let her join their chorus. Mortals found That on those days the sky was calm and fair, And mystic snatches of harmonious sound Wandered upon the earth where'er she passed, _495 And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last. 57. But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep, To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads Egypt and Aethiopia, from the steep Of utmost Axume, until he spreads, _500 Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep, His waters on the plain: and crested heads Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, And many a vapour-belted pyramid. 58. By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes, _505 Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors, Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes, Or charioteering ghastly alligators, Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes Of those huge forms--within the brazen doors _510 Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast, Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast. 59. And where within the surface of the river The shadows of the massy temples lie, And never are erased--but tremble ever _515 Like things which every cloud can doom to die, Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever The works of man pierced that serenest sky With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her delight To wander in the shadow of the night. _520 60. With motion like the spirit of that wind Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet Passed through the peopled haunts of humankind. Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet, Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined _525 With many a dark and subterranean street Under the Nile, through chambers high and deep She passed, observing mortals in their sleep. 61. A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. _530 Here lay two sister twins in infancy; There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep; Within, two lovers linked innocently In their loose locks which over both did creep Like ivy from one stem;--and there lay calm _535 Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm. 62. But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, Not to be mirrored in a holy song-- Distortions foul of supernatural awe, And pale imaginings of visioned wrong; _540 And all the code of Custom's lawless law Written upon the brows of old and young: 'This,' said the wizard maiden, 'is the strife Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life.' 63. And little did the sight disturb her soul.-- _545 We, the weak mariners of that wide lake Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, Our course unpiloted and starless make O'er its wild surface to an unknown goal:-- But she in the calm depths her way could take, _550 Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. 64. And she saw princes couched under the glow Of sunlike gems; and round each temple-court In dormitories ranged, row after row, _555 She saw the priests asleep--all of one sort-- For all were educated to be so.-- The peasants in their huts, and in the port The sailors she saw cradled on the waves, And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. _560 65. And all the forms in which those spirits lay Were to her sight like the diaphanous Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us Only their scorn of all concealment: they _565 Move in the light of their own beauty thus. But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, And little thought a Witch was looking on them. 66. She, all those human figures breathing there, Beheld as living spirits--to her eyes _570 The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And often through a rude and worn disguise She saw the inner form most bright and fair-- And then she had a charm of strange device, Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone, _575 Could make that spirit mingle with her own. 67. Alas! Aurora, what wouldst thou have given For such a charm when Tithon became gray? Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina _580 Had half (oh! why not all?) the debt forgiven Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay, To any witch who would have taught you it? The Heliad doth not know its value yet. 68. 'Tis said in after times her spirit free _585 Knew what love was, and felt itself alone-- But holy Dian could not chaster be Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, Than now this lady--like a sexless bee Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none, _590 Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen. 69. To those she saw most beautiful, she gave Strange panacea in a crystal bowl:-- They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave, _595 And lived thenceforward as if some control, Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul, Was as a green and overarching bower Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. _600 70. For on the night when they were buried, she Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook The light out of the funeral lamps, to be A mimic day within that deathy nook; And she unwound the woven imagery _605 Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, And threw it with contempt into a ditch. 71. And there the body lay, age after age. Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying, _610 Like one asleep in a green hermitage, With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing, And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind _615 And fleeting generations of mankind. 72. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain Of those who were less beautiful, and make All harsh and crooked purposes more vain Than in the desert is the serpent's wake _620 Which the sand covers--all his evil gain The miser in such dreams would rise and shake Into a beggar's lap;--the lying scribe Would his own lies betray without a bribe. 73. The priests would write an explanation full, _625 Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, How the God Apis really was a bull, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The same against the temple doors, and pull The old cant down; they licensed all to speak _630 Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese. 74. The king would dress an ape up in his crown And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat, And on the right hand of the sunlike throne _635 Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat The chatterings of the monkey.--Every one Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet Of their great Emperor, when the morning came, And kissed--alas, how many kiss the same! _640 75. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Walked out of quarters in somnambulism; Round the red anvils you might see them stand Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm, Beating their swords to ploughshares;--in a band _645 The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis, To the annoyance of king Amasis. 76. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, _650 Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done _655 Only in fancy--till the tenth moon shone; 77. And then the Witch would let them take no ill: Of many thousand schemes which lovers find, The Witch found one,--and so they took their fill Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. _660 Friends who, by practice of some envious skill, Were torn apart--a wide wound, mind from mind!-- She did unite again with visions clear Of deep affection and of truth sincere. 80. These were the pranks she played among the cities _665 Of mortal men, and what she did to Sprites And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties To do her will, and show their subtle sleights, I will declare another time; for it is A tale more fit for the weird winter nights _670 Than for these garish summer days, when we Scarcely believe much more than we can see. End of Project Gutenberg's The Witch of Atlas, by Percy Bysshe Shelley Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Where did the lover hide?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "In a closet." ]	8,139	narrativeqa	en	null	deaf226b06424a0b0603f5aba885cb4420774c9df944bbf1	Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny LA GRANDE BRETECHE (Sequel to "Another Study of Woman.") By Honore De Balzac Translated by Ellen Marriage and Clara Bell LA GRANDE BRETECHE "Ah! madame," replied the doctor, "I have some appalling stories in my collection. But each one has its proper hour in a conversation--you know the pretty jest recorded by Chamfort, and said to the Duc de Fronsac: 'Between your sally and the present moment lie ten bottles of champagne.'" "But it is two in the morning, and the story of Rosina has prepared us," said the mistress of the house. "Tell us, Monsieur Bianchon!" was the cry on every side. The obliging doctor bowed, and silence reigned. "At about a hundred paces from Vendome, on the banks of the Loir," said he, "stands an old brown house, crowned with very high roofs, and so completely isolated that there is nothing near it, not even a fetid tannery or a squalid tavern, such as are commonly seen outside small towns. In front of this house is a garden down to the river, where the box shrubs, formerly clipped close to edge the walks, now straggle at their own will. A few willows, rooted in the stream, have grown up quickly like an enclosing fence, and half hide the house. The wild plants we call weeds have clothed the bank with their beautiful luxuriance. The fruit-trees, neglected for these ten years past, no longer bear a crop, and their suckers have formed a thicket. The espaliers are like a copse. The paths, once graveled, are overgrown with purslane; but, to be accurate there is no trace of a path. "Looking down from the hilltop, to which cling the ruins of the old castle of the Dukes of Vendome, the only spot whence the eye can see into this enclosure, we think that at a time, difficult now to determine, this spot of earth must have been the joy of some country gentleman devoted to roses and tulips, in a word, to horticulture, but above all a lover of choice fruit. An arbor is visible, or rather the wreck of an arbor, and under it a table still stands not entirely destroyed by time. At the aspect of this garden that is no more, the negative joys of the peaceful life of the provinces may be divined as we divine the history of a worthy tradesman when we read the epitaph on his tomb. To complete the mournful and tender impressions which seize the soul, on one of the walls there is a sundial graced with this homely Christian motto, '_Ultimam cogita_.' "The roof of this house is dreadfully dilapidated; the outside shutters are always closed; the balconies are hung with swallows' nests; the doors are for ever shut. Straggling grasses have outlined the flagstones of the steps with green; the ironwork is rusty. Moon and sun, winter, summer, and snow have eaten into the wood, warped the boards, peeled off the paint. The dreary silence is broken only by birds and cats, polecats, rats, and mice, free to scamper round, and fight, and eat each other. An invisible hand has written over it all: 'Mystery.' "If, prompted by curiosity, you go to look at this house from the street, you will see a large gate, with a round-arched top; the children have made many holes in it. I learned later that this door had been blocked for ten years. Through these irregular breaches you will see that the side towards the courtyard is in perfect harmony with the side towards the garden. The same ruin prevails. Tufts of weeds outline the paving-stones; the walls are scored by enormous cracks, and the blackened coping is laced with a thousand festoons of pellitory. The stone steps are disjointed; the bell-cord is rotten; the gutter-spouts broken. What fire from heaven could have fallen there? By what decree has salt been sown on this dwelling? Has God been mocked here? Or was France betrayed? These are the questions we ask ourselves. Reptiles crawl over it, but give no reply. This empty and deserted house is a vast enigma of which the answer is known to none. "It was formerly a little domain, held in fief, and is known as La Grande Breteche. During my stay at Vendome, where Despleins had left me in charge of a rich patient, the sight of this strange dwelling became one of my keenest pleasures. Was it not far better than a ruin? Certain memories of indisputable authenticity attach themselves to a ruin; but this house, still standing, though being slowly destroyed by an avenging hand, contained a secret, an unrevealed thought. At the very least, it testified to a caprice. More than once in the evening I boarded the hedge, run wild, which surrounded the enclosure. I braved scratches, I got into this ownerless garden, this plot which was no longer public or private; I lingered there for hours gazing at the disorder. I would not, as the price of the story to which this strange scene no doubt was due, have asked a single question of any gossiping native. On that spot I wove delightful romances, and abandoned myself to little debauches of melancholy which enchanted me. If I had known the reason--perhaps quite commonplace--of this neglect, I should have lost the unwritten poetry which intoxicated me. To me this refuge represented the most various phases of human life, shadowed by misfortune; sometimes the peace of the graveyard without the dead, who speak in the language of epitaphs; one day I saw in it the home of lepers; another, the house of the Atridae; but, above all, I found there provincial life, with its contemplative ideas, its hour-glass existence. I often wept there, I never laughed. "More than once I felt involuntary terrors as I heard overhead the dull hum of the wings of some hurrying wood-pigeon. The earth is dank; you must be on the watch for lizards, vipers, and frogs, wandering about with the wild freedom of nature; above all, you must have no fear of cold, for in a few moments you feel an icy cloak settle on your shoulders, like the Commendatore's hand on Don Giovanni's neck. "One evening I felt a shudder; the wind had turned an old rusty weathercock, and the creaking sounded like a cry from the house, at the very moment when I was finishing a gloomy drama to account for this monumental embodiment of woe. I returned to my inn, lost in gloomy thoughts. When I had supped, the hostess came into my room with an air of mystery, and said, 'Monsieur, here is Monsieur Regnault.' "'Who is Monsieur Regnault?' "'What, sir, do you not know Monsieur Regnault?--Well, that's odd,' said she, leaving the room. "On a sudden I saw a man appear, tall, slim, dressed in black, hat in hand, who came in like a ram ready to butt his opponent, showing a receding forehead, a small pointed head, and a colorless face of the hue of a glass of dirty water. You would have taken him for an usher. The stranger wore an old coat, much worn at the seams; but he had a diamond in his shirt frill, and gold rings in his ears. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'whom have I the honor of addressing?'--He took a chair, placed himself in front of my fire, put his hat on my table, and answered while he rubbed his hands: 'Dear me, it is very cold.--Monsieur, I am Monsieur Regnault.' "I was encouraging myself by saying to myself, '_Il bondo cani!_ Seek!' "'I am,' he went on, 'notary at Vendome.' "'I am delighted to hear it, monsieur,' I exclaimed. 'But I am not in a position to make a will for reasons best known to myself.' "'One moment!' said he, holding up his hand as though to gain silence. 'Allow me, monsieur, allow me! I am informed that you sometimes go to walk in the garden of la Grande Breteche.' "'Yes, monsieur.' "'One moment!' said he, repeating his gesture. 'That constitutes a misdemeanor. Monsieur, as executor under the will of the late Comtesse de Merret, I come in her name to beg you to discontinue the practice. One moment! I am not a Turk, and do not wish to make a crime of it. And besides, you are free to be ignorant of the circumstances which compel me to leave the finest mansion in Vendome to fall into ruin. Nevertheless, monsieur, you must be a man of education, and you should know that the laws forbid, under heavy penalties, any trespass on enclosed property. A hedge is the same as a wall. But, the state in which the place is left may be an excuse for your curiosity. For my part, I should be quite content to make you free to come and go in the house; but being bound to respect the will of the testatrix, I have the honor, monsieur, to beg that you will go into the garden no more. I myself, monsieur, since the will was read, have never set foot in the house, which, as I had the honor of informing you, is part of the estate of the late Madame de Merret. We have done nothing there but verify the number of doors and windows to assess the taxes I have to pay annually out of the funds left for that purpose by the late Madame de Merret. Ah! my dear sir, her will made a great commotion in the town.' "The good man paused to blow his nose. I respected his volubility, perfectly understanding that the administration of Madame de Merret's estate had been the most important event of his life, his reputation, his glory, his Restoration. As I was forced to bid farewell to my beautiful reveries and romances, I was to reject learning the truth on official authority. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'would it be indiscreet if I were to ask you the reasons for such eccentricity?' "At these words an expression, which revealed all the pleasure which men feel who are accustomed to ride a hobby, overspread the lawyer's countenance. He pulled up the collar of his shirt with an air, took out his snuffbox, opened it, and offered me a pinch; on my refusing, he took a large one. He was happy! A man who has no hobby does not know all the good to be got out of life. A hobby is the happy medium between a passion and a monomania. At this moment I understood the whole bearing of Sterne's charming passion, and had a perfect idea of the delight with which my uncle Toby, encouraged by Trim, bestrode his hobby-horse. "'Monsieur,' said Monsieur Regnault, 'I was head-clerk in Monsieur Roguin's office, in Paris. A first-rate house, which you may have heard mentioned? No! An unfortunate bankruptcy made it famous.--Not having money enough to purchase a practice in Paris at the price to which they were run up in 1816, I came here and bought my predecessor's business. I had relations in Vendome; among others, a wealthy aunt, who allowed me to marry her daughter.--Monsieur,' he went on after a little pause, 'three months after being licensed by the Keeper of the Seals, one evening, as I was going to bed--it was before my marriage--I was sent for by Madame la Comtesse de Merret, to her Chateau of Merret. Her maid, a good girl, who is now a servant in this inn, was waiting at my door with the Countess' own carriage. Ah! one moment! I ought to tell you that Monsieur le Comte de Merret had gone to Paris to die two months before I came here. He came to a miserable end, flinging himself into every kind of dissipation. You understand? "'On the day when he left, Madame la Comtesse had quitted la Grand Breteche, having dismantled it. Some people even say that she had burnt all the furniture, the hangings--in short, all the chattels and furniture whatever used in furnishing the premises now let by the said M.--(Dear, what am I saying? I beg your pardon, I thought I was dictating a lease.)--In short, that she burnt everything in the meadow at Merret. Have you been to Merret, monsieur?--No,' said he, answering himself, 'Ah, it is a very fine place.' "'For about three months previously,' he went on, with a jerk of his head, 'the Count and Countess had lived in a very eccentric way; they admitted no visitors; Madame lived on the ground-floor, and Monsieur on the first floor. When the Countess was left alone, she was never seen excepting at church. Subsequently, at home, at the chateau, she refused to see the friends, whether gentlemen or ladies, who went to call on her. She was already very much altered when she left la Grande Breteche to go to Merret. That dear lady--I say dear lady, for it was she who gave me this diamond, but indeed I saw her but once--that kind lady was very ill; she had, no doubt, given up all hope, for she died without choosing to send for a doctor; indeed, many of our ladies fancied she was not quite right in her head. Well, sir, my curiosity was strangely excited by hearing that Madame de Merret had need of my services. Nor was I the only person who took an interest in the affair. That very night, though it was already late, all the town knew that I was going to Merret. "'The waiting-woman replied but vaguely to the questions I asked her on the way; nevertheless, she told me that her mistress had received the Sacrament in the course of the day at the hands of the Cure of Merret, and seemed unlikely to live through the night. It was about eleven when I reached the chateau. I went up the great staircase. After crossing some large, lofty, dark rooms, diabolically cold and damp, I reached the state bedroom where the Countess lay. From the rumors that were current concerning this lady (monsieur, I should never end if I were to repeat all the tales that were told about her), I had imagined her a coquette. Imagine, then, that I had great difficulty in seeing her in the great bed where she was lying. To be sure, to light this enormous room, with old-fashioned heavy cornices, and so thick with dust that merely to see it was enough to make you sneeze, she had only an old Argand lamp. Ah! but you have not been to Merret. Well, the bed is one of those old world beds, with a high tester hung with flowered chintz. A small table stood by the bed, on which I saw an "Imitation of Christ," which, by the way, I bought for my wife, as well as the lamp. There were also a deep armchair for her confidential maid, and two small chairs. There was no fire. That was all the furniture, not enough to fill ten lines in an inventory. "'My dear sir, if you had seen, as I then saw, that vast room, papered and hung with brown, you would have felt yourself transported into a scene of a romance. It was icy, nay more, funereal,' and he lifted his hand with a theatrical gesture and paused. "'By dint of seeking, as I approached the bed, at last I saw Madame de Merret, under the glimmer of the lamp, which fell on the pillows. Her face was as yellow as wax, and as narrow as two folded hands. The Countess had a lace cap showing her abundant hair, but as white as linen thread. She was sitting up in bed, and seemed to keep upright with great difficulty. Her large black eyes, dimmed by fever, no doubt, and half-dead already, hardly moved under the bony arch of her eyebrows.--There,' he added, pointing to his own brow. 'Her forehead was clammy; her fleshless hands were like bones covered with soft skin; the veins and muscles were perfectly visible. She must have been very handsome; but at this moment I was startled into an indescribable emotion at the sight. Never, said those who wrapped her in her shroud, had any living creature been so emaciated and lived. In short, it was awful to behold! Sickness so consumed that woman, that she was no more than a phantom. Her lips, which were pale violet, seemed to me not to move when she spoke to me. "'Though my profession has familiarized me with such spectacles, by calling me not infrequently to the bedside of the dying to record their last wishes, I confess that families in tears and the agonies I have seen were as nothing in comparison with this lonely and silent woman in her vast chateau. I heard not the least sound, I did not perceive the movement which the sufferer's breathing ought to have given to the sheets that covered her, and I stood motionless, absorbed in looking at her in a sort of stupor. In fancy I am there still. At last her large eyes moved; she tried to raise her right hand, but it fell back on the bed, and she uttered these words, which came like a breath, for her voice was no longer a voice: "I have waited for you with the greatest impatience." A bright flush rose to her cheeks. It was a great effort to her to speak. "'"Madame," I began. She signed to me to be silent. At that moment the old housekeeper rose and said in my ear, "Do not speak; Madame la Comtesse is not in a state to bear the slightest noise, and what you say might agitate her." "'I sat down. A few instants after, Madame de Merret collected all her remaining strength to move her right hand, and slipped it, not without infinite difficulty, under the bolster; she then paused a moment. With a last effort she withdrew her hand; and when she brought out a sealed paper, drops of perspiration rolled from her brow. "I place my will in your hands--Oh! God! Oh!" and that was all. She clutched a crucifix that lay on the bed, lifted it hastily to her lips, and died. "'The expression of her eyes still makes me shudder as I think of it. She must have suffered much! There was joy in her last glance, and it remained stamped on her dead eyes. "'I brought away the will, and when it was opened I found that Madame de Merret had appointed me her executor. She left the whole of her property to the hospital at Vendome excepting a few legacies. But these were her instructions as relating to la Grande Breteche: She ordered me to leave the place, for fifty years counting from the day of her death, in the state in which it might be at the time of her death, forbidding any one, whoever he might be, to enter the apartments, prohibiting any repairs whatever, and even settling a salary to pay watchmen if it were needful to secure the absolute fulfilment of her intentions. At the expiration of that term, if the will of the testatrix has been duly carried out, the house is to become the property of my heirs, for, as you know, a notary cannot take a bequest. Otherwise la Grande Breteche reverts to the heirs-at-law, but on condition of fulfilling certain conditions set forth in a codicil to the will, which is not to be opened till the expiration of the said term of fifty years. The will has not been disputed, so----' And without finishing his sentence, the lanky notary looked at me with an air of triumph; I made him quite happy by offering him my congratulations. "'Monsieur,' I said in conclusion, 'you have so vividly impressed me that I fancy I see the dying woman whiter than her sheets; her glittering eyes frighten me; I shall dream of her to-night.--But you must have formed some idea as to the instructions contained in that extraordinary will.' "'Monsieur,' said he, with comical reticence, 'I never allow myself to criticise the conduct of a person who honors me with the gift of a diamond.' "However, I soon loosened the tongue of the discreet notary of Vendome, who communicated to me, not without long digressions, the opinions of the deep politicians of both sexes whose judgments are law in Vendome. But these opinions were so contradictory, so diffuse, that I was near falling asleep in spite of the interest I felt in this authentic history. The notary's ponderous voice and monotonous accent, accustomed no doubt to listen to himself and to make himself listened to by his clients or fellow-townsmen, were too much for my curiosity. Happily, he soon went away. "'Ah, ha, monsieur,' said he on the stairs, 'a good many persons would be glad to live five-and-forty years longer; but--one moment!' and he laid the first finger of his right hand to his nostril with a cunning look, as much as to say, 'Mark my words!--To last as long as that--as long as that,' said he, 'you must not be past sixty now.' "I closed my door, having been roused from my apathy by this last speech, which the notary thought very funny; then I sat down in my armchair, with my feet on the fire-dogs. I had lost myself in a romance _a la_ Radcliffe, constructed on the juridical base given me by Monsieur Regnault, when the door, opened by a woman's cautious hand, turned on the hinges. I saw my landlady come in, a buxom, florid dame, always good-humored, who had missed her calling in life. She was a Fleming, who ought to have seen the light in a picture by Teniers. "'Well, monsieur,' said she, 'Monsieur Regnault has no doubt been giving you his history of la Grande Breteche?' "'Yes, Madame Lepas.' "'And what did he tell you?' "I repeated in a few words the creepy and sinister story of Madame de Merret. At each sentence my hostess put her head forward, looking at me with an innkeeper's keen scrutiny, a happy compromise between the instinct of a police constable, the astuteness of a spy, and the cunning of a dealer. "'My good Madame Lepas,' said I as I ended, 'you seem to know more about it. Heh? If not, why have you come up to me?' "'On my word, as an honest woman----' "'Do not swear; your eyes are big with a secret. You knew Monsieur de Merret; what sort of man was he?' "'Monsieur de Merret--well, you see he was a man you never could see the top of, he was so tall! A very good gentleman, from Picardy, and who had, as we say, his head close to his cap. He paid for everything down, so as never to have difficulties with any one. He was hot-tempered, you see! All our ladies liked him very much.' "'Because he was hot-tempered?' I asked her. "'Well, may be,' said she; 'and you may suppose, sir, that a man had to have something to show for a figurehead before he could marry Madame de Merret, who, without any reflection on others, was the handsomest and richest heiress in our parts. She had about twenty thousand francs a year. All the town was at the wedding; the bride was pretty and sweet-looking, quite a gem of a woman. Oh, they were a handsome couple in their day!' "'And were they happy together?' "'Hm, hm! so-so--so far as can be guessed, for, as you may suppose, we of the common sort were not hail-fellow-well-met with them.--Madame de Merret was a kind woman and very pleasant, who had no doubt sometimes to put up with her husband's tantrums. But though he was rather haughty, we were fond of him. After all, it was his place to behave so. When a man is a born nobleman, you see----' "'Still, there must have been some catastrophe for Monsieur and Madame de Merret to part so violently?' "'I did not say there was any catastrophe, sir. I know nothing about it.' "'Indeed. Well, now, I am sure you know everything.' "'Well, sir, I will tell you the whole story.--When I saw Monsieur Regnault go up to see you, it struck me that he would speak to you about Madame de Merret as having to do with la Grande Breteche. That put it into my head to ask your advice, sir, seeming to me that you are a man of good judgment and incapable of playing a poor woman like me false--for I never did any one a wrong, and yet I am tormented by my conscience. Up to now I have never dared to say a word to the people of these parts; they are all chatter-mags, with tongues like knives. And never till now, sir, have I had any traveler here who stayed so long in the inn as you have, and to whom I could tell the history of the fifteen thousand francs----' "'My dear Madame Lepas, if there is anything in your story of a nature to compromise me,' I said, interrupting the flow of her words, 'I would not hear it for all the world.' "'You need have no fears,' said she; 'you will see.' "Her eagerness made me suspect that I was not the only person to whom my worthy landlady had communicated the secret of which I was to be the sole possessor, but I listened. "'Monsieur,' said she, 'when the Emperor sent the Spaniards here, prisoners of war and others, I was required to lodge at the charge of the Government a young Spaniard sent to Vendome on parole. Notwithstanding his parole, he had to show himself every day to the sub-prefect. He was a Spanish grandee--neither more nor less. He had a name in _os_ and _dia_, something like Bagos de Feredia. I wrote his name down in my books, and you may see it if you like. Ah! he was a handsome young fellow for a Spaniard, who are all ugly they say. He was not more than five feet two or three in height, but so well made; and he had little hands that he kept so beautifully! Ah! you should have seen them. He had as many brushes for his hands as a woman has for her toilet. He had thick, black hair, a flame in his eye, a somewhat coppery complexion, but which I admired all the same. He wore the finest linen I have ever seen, though I have had princesses to lodge here, and, among others, General Bertrand, the Duc and Duchesse d'Abrantes, Monsieur Descazes, and the King of Spain. He did not eat much, but he had such polite and amiable ways that it was impossible to owe him a grudge for that. Oh! I was very fond of him, though he did not say four words to me in a day, and it was impossible to have the least bit of talk with him; if he was spoken to, he did not answer; it is a way, a mania they all have, it would seem. "'He read his breviary like a priest, and went to mass and all the services quite regularly. And where did he post himself?--we found this out later.--Within two yards of Madame de Merret's chapel. As he took that place the very first time he entered the church, no one imagined that there was any purpose in it. Besides, he never raised his nose above his book, poor young man! And then, monsieur, of an evening he went for a walk on the hill among the ruins of the old castle. It was his only amusement, poor man; it reminded him of his native land. They say that Spain is all hills! "'One evening, a few days after he was sent here, he was out very late. I was rather uneasy when he did not come in till just on the stroke of midnight; but we all got used to his whims; he took the key of the door, and we never sat up for him. He lived in a house belonging to us in the Rue des Casernes. Well, then, one of our stable-boys told us one evening that, going down to wash the horses in the river, he fancied he had seen the Spanish Grandee swimming some little way off, just like a fish. When he came in, I told him to be careful of the weeds, and he seemed put out at having been seen in the water. "'At last, monsieur, one day, or rather one morning, we did not find him in his room; he had not come back. By hunting through his things, I found a written paper in the drawer of his table, with fifty pieces of Spanish gold of the kind they call doubloons, worth about five thousand francs; and in a little sealed box ten thousand francs worth of diamonds. The paper said that in case he should not return, he left us this money and these diamonds in trust to found masses to thank God for his escape and for his salvation. "'At that time I still had my husband, who ran off in search of him. And this is the queer part of the story: he brought back the Spaniard's clothes, which he had found under a big stone on a sort of breakwater along the river bank, nearly opposite la Grande Breteche. My husband went so early that no one saw him. After reading the letter, he burnt the clothes, and, in obedience to Count Feredia's wish, we announced that he had escaped. "'The sub-prefect set all the constabulary at his heels; but, pshaw! he was never caught. Lepas believed that the Spaniard had drowned himself. I, sir, have never thought so; I believe, on the contrary, that he had something to do with the business about Madame de Merret, seeing that Rosalie told me that the crucifix her mistress was so fond of that she had it buried with her, was made of ebony and silver; now in the early days of his stay here, Monsieur Feredia had one of ebony and silver which I never saw later.--And now, monsieur, do not you say that I need have no remorse about the Spaniard's fifteen thousand francs? Are they not really and truly mine?' "'Certainly.--But have you never tried to question Rosalie?' said I. "'Oh, to be sure I have, sir. But what is to be done? That girl is like a wall. She knows something, but it is impossible to make her talk.' "After chatting with me for a few minutes, my hostess left me a prey to vague and sinister thoughts, to romantic curiosity, and a religious dread, not unlike the deep emotion which comes upon us when we go into a dark church at night and discern a feeble light glimmering under a lofty vault--a dim figure glides across--the sweep of a gown or of a priest's cassock is audible--and we shiver! La Grande Breteche, with its rank grasses, its shuttered windows, its rusty iron-work, its locked doors, its deserted rooms, suddenly rose before me in fantastic vividness. I tried to get into the mysterious dwelling to search out the heart of this solemn story, this drama which had killed three persons. "Rosalie became in my eyes the most interesting being in Vendome. As I studied her, I detected signs of an inmost thought, in spite of the blooming health that glowed in her dimpled face. There was in her soul some element of ruth or of hope; her manner suggested a secret, like the expression of devout souls who pray in excess, or of a girl who has killed her child and for ever hears its last cry. Nevertheless, she was simple and clumsy in her ways; her vacant smile had nothing criminal in it, and you would have pronounced her innocent only from seeing the large red and blue checked kerchief that covered her stalwart bust, tucked into the tight-laced bodice of a lilac- and white-striped gown. 'No,' said I to myself, 'I will not quit Vendome without knowing the whole history of la Grande Breteche. To achieve this end, I will make love to Rosalie if it proves necessary.' "'Rosalie!' said I one evening. "'Your servant, sir?' "'You are not married?' She started a little. "'Oh! there is no lack of men if ever I take a fancy to be miserable!' she replied, laughing. She got over her agitation at once; for every woman, from the highest lady to the inn-servant inclusive, has a native presence of mind. "'Yes; you are fresh and good-looking enough never to lack lovers! But tell me, Rosalie, why did you become an inn-servant on leaving Madame de Merret? Did she not leave you some little annuity?' "'Oh yes, sir. But my place here is the best in all the town of Vendome.' "This reply was such an one as judges and attorneys call evasive. Rosalie, as it seemed to me, held in this romantic affair the place of the middle square of the chess-board: she was at the very centre of the interest and of the truth; she appeared to me to be tied into the knot of it. It was not a case for ordinary love-making; this girl contained the last chapter of a romance, and from that moment all my attentions were devoted to Rosalie. By dint of studying the girl, I observed in her, as in every woman whom we make our ruling thought, a variety of good qualities; she was clean and neat; she was handsome, I need not say; she soon was possessed of every charm that desire can lend to a woman in whatever rank of life. A fortnight after the notary's visit, one evening, or rather one morning, in the small hours, I said to Rosalie: "'Come, tell me all you know about Madame de Merret.' "'Oh!' she said, 'I will tell you; but keep the secret carefully.' "'All right, my child; I will keep all your secrets with a thief's honor, which is the most loyal known.' "'If it is all the same to you,' said she, 'I would rather it should be with your own.' "Thereupon she set her head-kerchief straight, and settled herself to tell the tale; for there is no doubt a particular attitude of confidence and security is necessary to the telling of a narrative. The best tales are told at a certain hour--just as we are all here at table. No one ever told a story well standing up, or fasting. "If I were to reproduce exactly Rosalie's diffuse eloquence, a whole volume would scarcely contain it. Now, as the event of which she gave me a confused account stands exactly midway between the notary's gossip and that of Madame Lepas, as precisely as the middle term of a rule-of-three sum stands between the first and third, I have only to relate it in as few words as may be. I shall therefore be brief. "The room at la Grande Breteche in which Madame de Merret slept was on the ground floor; a little cupboard in the wall, about four feet deep, served her to hang her dresses in. Three months before the evening of which I have to relate the events, Madame de Merret had been seriously ailing, so much so that her husband had left her to herself, and had his own bedroom on the first floor. By one of those accidents which it is impossible to foresee, he came in that evening two hours later than usual from the club, where he went to read the papers and talk politics with the residents in the neighborhood. His wife supposed him to have come in, to be in bed and asleep. But the invasion of France had been the subject of a very animated discussion; the game of billiards had waxed vehement; he had lost forty francs, an enormous sum at Vendome, where everybody is thrifty, and where social habits are restrained within the bounds of a simplicity worthy of all praise, and the foundation perhaps of a form of true happiness which no Parisian would care for. "For some time past Monsieur de Merret had been satisfied to ask Rosalie whether his wife was in bed; on the girl's replying always in the affirmative, he at once went to his own room, with the good faith that comes of habit and confidence. But this evening, on coming in, he took it into his head to go to see Madame de Merret, to tell her of his ill-luck, and perhaps to find consolation. During dinner he had observed that his wife was very becomingly dressed; he reflected as he came home from the club that his wife was certainly much better, that convalescence had improved her beauty, discovering it, as husbands discover everything, a little too late. Instead of calling Rosalie, who was in the kitchen at the moment watching the cook and the coachman playing a puzzling hand at cards, Monsieur de Merret made his way to his wife's room by the light of his lantern, which he set down at the lowest step of the stairs. His step, easy to recognize, rang under the vaulted passage. "At the instant when the gentleman turned the key to enter his wife's room, he fancied he heard the door shut of the closet of which I have spoken; but when he went in, Madame de Merret was alone, standing in front of the fireplace. The unsuspecting husband fancied that Rosalie was in the cupboard; nevertheless, a doubt, ringing in his ears like a peal of bells, put him on his guard; he looked at his wife, and read in her eyes an indescribably anxious and haunted expression. "'You are very late,' said she.--Her voice, usually so clear and sweet, struck him as being slightly husky. "Monsieur de Merret made no reply, for at this moment Rosalie came in. This was like a thunder-clap. He walked up and down the room, going from one window to another at a regular pace, his arms folded. "'Have you had bad news, or are you ill?' his wife asked him timidly, while Rosalie helped her to undress. He made no reply. "'You can go, Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret to her maid; 'I can put in my curl-papers myself.'--She scented disaster at the mere aspect of her husband's face, and wished to be alone with him. As soon as Rosalie was gone, or supposed to be gone, for she lingered a few minutes in the passage, Monsieur de Merret came and stood facing his wife, and said coldly, 'Madame, there is some one in your cupboard!' She looked at her husband calmly, and replied quite simply, 'No, monsieur.' "This 'No' wrung Monsieur de Merret's heart; he did not believe it; and yet his wife had never appeared purer or more saintly than she seemed to be at this moment. He rose to go and open the closet door. Madame de Merret took his hand, stopped him, looked at him sadly, and said in a voice of strange emotion, 'Remember, if you should find no one there, everything must be at an end between you and me.' "The extraordinary dignity of his wife's attitude filled him with deep esteem for her, and inspired him with one of those resolves which need only a grander stage to become immortal. "'No, Josephine,' he said, 'I will not open it. In either event we should be parted for ever. Listen; I know all the purity of your soul, I know you lead a saintly life, and would not commit a deadly sin to save your life.'--At these words Madame de Merret looked at her husband with a haggard stare.--'See, here is your crucifix,' he went on. 'Swear to me before God that there is no one in there; I will believe you--I will never open that door.' "Madame de Merret took up the crucifix and said, 'I swear it.' "'Louder,' said her husband; 'and repeat: "I swear before God that there is nobody in that closet."' She repeated the words without flinching. "'That will do,' said Monsieur de Merret coldly. After a moment's silence: 'You have there a fine piece of work which I never saw before,' said he, examining the crucifix of ebony and silver, very artistically wrought. "'I found it at Duvivier's; last year when that troop of Spanish prisoners came through Vendome, he bought it of a Spanish monk.' "'Indeed,' said Monsieur de Merret, hanging the crucifix on its nail; and he rang the bell. "He had to wait for Rosalie. Monsieur de Merret went forward quickly to meet her, led her into the bay of the window that looked on to the garden, and said to her in an undertone: "'I know that Gorenflot wants to marry you, that poverty alone prevents your setting up house, and that you told him you would not be his wife till he found means to become a master mason.--Well, go and fetch him; tell him to come here with his trowel and tools. Contrive to wake no one in his house but himself. His reward will be beyond your wishes. Above all, go out without saying a word--or else!' and he frowned. "Rosalie was going, and he called her back. 'Here, take my latch-key,' said he. "'Jean!' Monsieur de Merret called in a voice of thunder down the passage. Jean, who was both coachman and confidential servant, left his cards and came. "'Go to bed, all of you,' said his master, beckoning him to come close; and the gentleman added in a whisper, 'When they are all asleep--mind, _asleep_--you understand?--come down and tell me.' "Monsieur de Merret, who had never lost sight of his wife while giving his orders, quietly came back to her at the fireside, and began to tell her the details of the game of billiards and the discussion at the club. When Rosalie returned she found Monsieur and Madame de Merret conversing amiably. "Not long before this Monsieur de Merret had had new ceilings made to all the reception-rooms on the ground floor. Plaster is very scarce at Vendome; the price is enhanced by the cost of carriage; the gentleman had therefore had a considerable quantity delivered to him, knowing that he could always find purchasers for what might be left. It was this circumstance which suggested the plan he carried out. "'Gorenflot is here, sir,' said Rosalie in a whisper. "'Tell him to come in,' said her master aloud. "Madame de Merret turned paler when she saw the mason. "'Gorenflot,' said her husband, 'go and fetch some bricks from the coach-house; bring enough to wall up the door of this cupboard; you can use the plaster that is left for cement.' Then, dragging Rosalie and the workman close to him--'Listen, Gorenflot,' said he, in a low voice, 'you are to sleep here to-night; but to-morrow morning you shall have a passport to take you abroad to a place I will tell you of. I will give you six thousand francs for your journey. You must live in that town for ten years; if you find you do not like it, you may settle in another, but it must be in the same country. Go through Paris and wait there till I join you. I will there give you an agreement for six thousand francs more, to be paid to you on your return, provided you have carried out the conditions of the bargain. For that price you are to keep perfect silence as to what you have to do this night. To you, Rosalie, I will secure ten thousand francs, which will not be paid to you till your wedding day, and on condition of your marrying Gorenflot; but, to get married, you must hold your tongue. If not, no wedding gift!' "'Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret, 'come and brush my hair.' "Her husband quietly walked up and down the room, keeping an eye on the door, on the mason, and on his wife, but without any insulting display of suspicion. Gorenflot could not help making some noise. Madame de Merret seized a moment when he was unloading some bricks, and when her husband was at the other end of the room to say to Rosalie: 'My dear child, I will give you a thousand francs a year if only you will tell Gorenflot to leave a crack at the bottom.' Then she added aloud quite coolly: 'You had better help him.' "Monsieur and Madame de Merret were silent all the time while Gorenflot was walling up the door. This silence was intentional on the husband's part; he did not wish to give his wife the opportunity of saying anything with a double meaning. On Madame de Merret's side it was pride or prudence. When the wall was half built up the cunning mason took advantage of his master's back being turned to break one of the two panes in the top of the door with a blow of his pick. By this Madame de Merret understood that Rosalie had spoken to Gorenflot. They all three then saw the face of a dark, gloomy-looking man, with black hair and flaming eyes. "Before her husband turned round again the poor woman had nodded to the stranger, to whom the signal was meant to convey, 'Hope.' "At four o'clock, as the day was dawning, for it was the month of September, the work was done. The mason was placed in charge of Jean, and Monsieur de Merret slept in his wife's room. "Next morning when he got up he said with apparent carelessness, 'Oh, by the way, I must go to the Maire for the passport.' He put on his hat, took two or three steps towards the door, paused, and took the crucifix. His wife was trembling with joy. "'He will go to Duvivier's,' thought she. "As soon as he had left, Madame de Merret rang for Rosalie, and then in a terrible voice she cried: 'The pick! Bring the pick! and set to work. I saw how Gorenflot did it yesterday; we shall have time to make a gap and build it up again.' "In an instant Rosalie had brought her mistress a sort of cleaver; she, with a vehemence of which no words can give an idea, set to work to demolish the wall. She had already got out a few bricks, when, turning to deal a stronger blow than before, she saw behind her Monsieur de Merret. She fainted away. "'Lay madame on her bed,' said he coldly. "Foreseeing what would certainly happen in his absence, he had laid this trap for his wife; he had merely written to the Maire and sent for Duvivier. The jeweler arrived just as the disorder in the room had been repaired. "'Duvivier,' asked Monsieur de Merret, 'did not you buy some crucifixes of the Spaniards who passed through the town?' "'No, monsieur.' "'Very good; thank you,' said he, flashing a tiger's glare at his wife. 'Jean,' he added, turning to his confidential valet, 'you can serve my meals here in Madame de Merret's room. She is ill, and I shall not leave her till she recovers.' "The cruel man remained in his wife's room for twenty days. During the earlier time, when there was some little noise in the closet, and Josephine wanted to intercede for the dying man, he said, without allowing her to utter a word, 'You swore on the Cross that there was no one there.'" After this story all the ladies rose from table, and thus the spell under which Bianchon had held them was broken. But there were some among them who had almost shivered at the last words. ADDENDUM The following personage appears in other stories of the Human Comedy. Bianchon, Horace Father Goriot The Atheist's Mass Cesar Birotteau The Commission in Lunacy Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Government Clerks Pierrette A Study of Woman Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Honorine The Seamy Side of History The Magic Skin A Second Home A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two Brides The Muse of the Department The Imaginary Mistress The Middle Classes Cousin Betty The Country Parson In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: Another Study of Woman End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of La Grande Breteche, by Honore de Balzac Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who greeted Jacob in his apartment after Jacob finally came to terms with his military ordeal?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and memorize the context. I will wait for your confirmation before providing the question. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "His son Gabe" ]	36,418	narrativeqa	en	null	acc4bde34060bc451a73e0e1e0d0bc7e1ca93695bc8112a1	<b>"JACOB'S LADDER" </b> by Bruce Joel Rubin <b>EXT. VIETNAM - DUSK </b> A swarm of helicopters swoops out of a yellow sky and deposits an army of men over a Vietnamese hillside. The SOLDIERS scramble over the terraced rice paddies for the protection of the jungle. Falling into coulmns, like strands of soldier ants, seventy-five men, at combat readiness, assemble on the edge of a sweltering wilderness. It is dusk. The mood is lazy, soporific. Members of one platoon huddle close to the ground smoking a joint. <b> </b><b> JERRY </b> Strong stuff. <b> ROD </b> (to JACOB, a soldier squatting several yards away) Hey, Professor, how many times can you shit in an hour? <b> GEORGE </b> Don't bug 'im. <b> DOUG </b> Where are those gooks already? <b> FRANK </b> Some offensive. I don't even think they're out there. <b> PAUL </b> Jesus, this grass is something else. JACOB SINGER returns to the group, pulling up his pants. <b> ROD </b> Why even bother to pull 'em up? <b> FRANK </b> You jackin' off out there again, huh Jake? <b> PAUL </b> Hey, get off his back. <b> ROD </b> It's called philosophizing, right Professor? JACOB gives them the finger. <b> JACOB </b> Up yours, you adolescent scum. Laughter. <b> SERGEANT (V.O.) </b> Mount your bayonets. <b> FRANK </b> (frightened) Oh shit! <b> PAUL </b> Goddam! <b> ROD </b> Gimme that joint! <b> JERRY </b> Hey, something's wrong. <b> GEORGE </b> What is it? <b> JERRY </b> My head. <b> GEORGE </b> It's nerves. Take another toke. GEORGE reaches out, extending a joint. Suddenly he gasps and falls to the ground, his body convulsing uncontrollably. The others stand back, startled. JACOB grabs him and shoves a rifle barrel between his chattering teeth. <b> ROD </b> What's going on? Before anyone can answer JERRY grabs his head, screaming. He turns frantically in all directions. <b> JERRY </b> Help me! Help me! <b> PAUL </b> What the hell ... ? In seconds JERRY is spinning wildly out of control, his head shaking into a terrific blur. He crashes into FRANK with the force of a truck. FRANK slams into the ground as all the air rushes from his lungs. He begins gasping and hyperventilating. His eyes grow wide and frenzied as he gulps for air. Fear and confusion sweep across his face. The MEN watch, horrified, as FRANK's terror escalates beyond reason into all- out panic. Suddenly FRANK begins howling. He lunges for his bayonet and, without warning, attacks the MEN around him. <b> PAUL </b> God Almighty! PAUL spins out of the way as FRANK's bayonet impales the ground. JACOB jumps on top of FRANK and wrestles him into the tall grass. PAUL rushes to his assistance. JACOB stares at FRANK's face as FRANK struggles beneath him. It is the face of a madman. <b> PAUL </b> Good God! What's happening? The sudden chaos is intensified by the sound of fighting erupting behind them. Guns crackle and bursts of light penetrate the darkening sky. <b> ROD </b> Behind you! Look out! This is it! The MEN spin around. PAUL panics and jumps to his feet, leaving JACOB alone with FRANK. FRANK's eyes burn with demonic force as he gathers his strength. <b> JACOB </b> Don't leave me. Dark figures, silhouetted by the setting sun, are storming at them. SOLDIERS squint to see. It is a horrifying vision. <b> PAUL </b> They're coming! Gunfire explodes on all sides. Suddenly PAUL flips out. He begins screaming uncontrollably, ripping at his clothes and skin. FRANK is struggling like four men and JACOB is weakening in his effort to restrain him. Bayonets glimmer in the exchange of fire. Bodies fall. More bodies keep coming. The first wave is upon them. ROD shoots into the air. Shadowy forms hurl forward screaming like banshees. ROD, squinting, jabs with his bayonet, piercing the belly of his attacker. Agonizing cries accompany his fall. ROD yanks the bayonet out and stabs again. In the midst of this madness FRANK shoots to his feet and slams the butt of his rifle into JACOB's back. There is a cracking sound. JACOB's eyes freeze with pain. His hands rush for his spine. As he spins around one of the ATTACKERS jams all eight inches of his bayonet blade into JACOB's stomach. JACOB screams. It is a loud and piercing wail. CUT ON THE SOUND OF THE SCREAM to a sudden rush through a long dark tunnel. There is a sense of enormous speed accelerating toward a brilliant light. The rush suggests a passage between life and death, but as the light bursts upon us we realize that we are passing through a SUBWAY STATION far below the city of NEW YORK. <b>INT. SUBWAY - NIGHT </b> THE WHEELS OF AN EXPRESS TRAIN screech through the station. JACOB SINGER, sitting alone in the last car, wakes up. The sounds of the scream and the grating wheels merge. He is dazed and confused, not certain where he is. JACOB glances around the empty car. His eyes gravitate to overhead advertisements for hemorrhoid perparations and savings banks. Gradually his confusion subsides. Shifting uncomfortably he pulls a thick book out of his back pocket, "The Stranger" by Albert Camus. He begins reading. Another station blurs by. JACOB is a good-looking man, of obvious intelligence. He is in his mid- thirties. It is surprising that he is wearing a mailman's uniform. He doesn't look like one. The subway ride seems to go on interminably. JACOB is restless and concerned. He glances at his watch. It is 3:30 A.M. Putting his book in his back pocket, JACOB stands up and makes his way through the deserted car. <b>INT. SUBWAY TRACKS - NIGHT </b> JACOB enters the rumbling passageway between the cars. The wheels spark against the rails. The dark tunnel walls flash by. He pulls the handle on the door to the next car. It is stuck. He struggles with it. A LADY sitting alone inside turns to look at him. She seems threatened by his effort. He motions for her to help. She turns away. A look of disgust crosses JACOB's face. He kicks the door. It slides open. The WOMAN seems frightened as he approaches her. <b> JACOB </b> Excuse me, do you know if we've passed Nostrand Avenue yet? (she doesn't answer) Excuse me. (she does not acknowledge his existence) Look, I'm asking a simple question. Have we hit Nostrand Avenue? I fell asleep. <b> WOMAN </b> (speaking with a Puerto Rican accent) I no from around here. <b> JACOB </b> (glad for a response) Yeah, you and everyone else. JACOB walks to the other end of the car and sits down. The only other passenger is an OLD MAN lying asleep on the fiberglass bench. Occasionally his body shudders. It is the only sign of life in him. The train begins to slow down. JACOB peers out of the window. Nostrand Avenue signs appear. He is relieved. He gets up and grabs hold of the overhead bar. The OLD MAN shudders and stretches out on the seat. As he adjusts his position, tugging at his coat, JACOB catches a brief glimpse of something protruding from beneath the coat's hem. His eyes fixate on the spot, waiting for another look. There is a slight movement and it appears - a long, red, fleshy protuberance. The sight of it sends shivers up JACOB's spine. It looks strangely like a tail. Only the stopping of the train breaks JACOB's stare. <b>INT. SUBWAY STATION - NIGHT </b> JACOB is the only passenger getting off. The doors close quickly behind him. He glances at the LADY sitting by the window. There is a fearful expression on her face as the train carries her back into the dark tunnel, out of his sight. JACOB reaches the exit, a huge metal revolving door surrounded by floor to ceiling gates. He is about to push when he notices a chain locking it shut. He stares at it in disbelief. <b> JACOB </b> Goddam it. He turns in a huff and hikes to the other end of the platform. As he approaches the far exit, his eyes widen. The gate there is also locked. His hands reach for his hips as he studies an impossible situation. CUT TO JACOB stepping cautiously onto the ladder going down to the tracks. A rat scampers by and he gasps. <b> JACOB </b> No way! He starts to climb back up the ladder but sees that there is nowhere else to go. He juts out his jaw and steps back down. JACOB is not comfortable on the tracks. He cannot see where he is stepping. His shoes slpash in unseen liquid which makes him grimace. The steel girders are coated in subway grime. The oily substance coats his hands as he reaches for support. <b> JACOB </b> Goddam fucking city! He wipes the grime on his postal uniform as he steps toward the center track. He reaches for another girder when it begins to vibrate. Two pinpoints of light hurl toward him. Then the noise arrives confirming his fear. A train is bearing down on him. JACOB looks frightened, not sure which way to go. He steps forward, up to his ankle in slime. He cannot tell which track the train is on. It is moving at phenomenal speed. The station is spinning. The train's lights merge into one brilliant intensity. In near panic JACOB jumps across the track as the train spins by. Its velocity blows his hair straight up as though it is standing on end. He clings to a pillar for support, gasping in short breaths. A few PEOPLE are staring at JACOB from the train. Their faces, pressed up against the glass, seem deformed. A lone figure waves at him from the rear window. The train bears them all away. Then it is quiet again. For a moment JACOB is afraid to move but slowly regains his composure. He continues to the other side of the tracks and stumbles up the ladder to the UPTOWN PLATFORM. <b> CUT TO: </b> JACOB smiling. The smile, however, is one of irony, not amusement. This exit too is locked. A heavy chain is wrapped through the bars. JACOB stares at it with an expression of total bewilderment. A sudden muffled scream alerts JACOB that he is not alone. His head turns but sees no one. He hears the scream again. He senses its direction and walks toward the MEN'S ROOM. A crack of light appears under the door. He can hear someone moaning inside. JACOB knocks softly and the moaning stops. The lights click off. <b> JACOB </b> Hey, is someone in there? There is no answer. JACOB stands silently for a moment, not sure what to do. He can hear whispering. He chews his lower lip nervously and then reaches for the door. It pushes open. The light from the station penetrates the darkness. He gasps. He sees a MAN tied naked to the stall with ANOTHER NAKED MAN grabbing quickly for his clothes. The BOUND MAN screams. <b> BOUND MAN </b> Fuck off! Mind your own business! A THIRD MAN spins out of the shadows, pointing a kinfe at JACOB's throat. <b> MAN </b> You cocksucker! Get outta here. The MAN's face is barely human. Before JACOB can even react the door slams shut. The lock engages. The crack of light reappears. JACOB can hear laughter coming from inside, followed by a scream. He backs away from the door. His face is white. JACOB turns with full fury and storms the gate. The chain gives wayto his anger. It flies apart and the gate flings open. He stands in amazement, observing the chain as it slides from between the bars and drops to the concrete below. The gate squeaks loudly as JACOB pushes it aside and clangs with an almost painful burst as he slams it shut. <b>EXT. WILMINGTON TOWERS - DAWN </b> JACOB walks toward the towering shadows of a massive PUBLIC HOUSING PROJECT. It is dark and the moonlight silhouettes the huge monolithic structures. JACOB passes through a vast COURTYARD dominated by the imposing shapes. Aside from his moving body everything is still. <b>INT. HALLWAY - DAWN </b> JACOB steps off a graffiti-festooned ELEVATOR into a long impersonal hallway. He uses three keys to unlock the door to his APARTMENT. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - DAWN </b> JACOB enters the darkness without turning on the light. He tries to navigate his way to the BATHROOM, illuminated by a tiny nightlight in the distance. His effort is unsuccessful. He bangs loudly into a table. A WOMAN"s voice calls out. <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> Jake, is that you? <b> JACOB </b> What the hell did you do, move all the furniture? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> Why didn't you turn on the light? <b> JACOB </b> I didn't want to wake you. <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> (sleepy but pleasant) Gee, thanks a lot. <b> JACOB </b> Where is the lamp? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> Where are you? <b> JACOB </b> If I knew I wouldn't have to ask. What did you do? I was happy the way it was. <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> I moved the couch. That's all. <b> JACOB </b> Where to? JACOB crashes into it. A light suddenly goes on. JEZEBEL "JEZZIE" PIPKIN, 33, is standing in the BEDROOM door tying a man's terrycloth bathrobe around her waist. Although sleepy, disheveled, and not looking her best, it is obvious that JEZZIE is a beefy woman, juicy and sensual. <b> JEZZIE </b> That help? <b> JACOB </b> (nearly sprawled over the couch) Thanks. He pushes himself up. <b> JEZZIE </b> What do you think? <b> JACOB </b> What do you mean? <b> JEZZIE </b> The room! <b> JACOB </b> Oh God, Jezzie, ask me tomorrow. <b> JEZZIE </b> It is tomorrow. Four A.M. How come you're so late? <b> JACOB </b> Roberts didn't show up. What could I say? Besides, it's double time. <b> JEZZIE </b> (seeing the grease on his uniform) What happened to you? <b> JACOB </b> (unbuttoning his shirt as he walks to the <b> BATHROOM) </b> Don't ask. JACOB steps into the BATHROOM and pulls at his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He reaches for the faucet and sends a stream of water pouding against the porcelain tub. JEZZIE enjoys JACOB's nakedness. She reaches out to his chest and squeezes one of his nipples. His body tenses slightly. JEZZIE drops her robe. They enter the shower together. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> A DENSE RAIN falls on a dark night filling puddles of water. JACOB is crawling through the underbrush in the Vietnamese JUNGLE. His shirt is bloodsoaked. He moves slowly, creeping on his right forearm. His left arm is holding his intestines from spilling onto the grass. <b> JACOB </b> Help me. Someone. Suddenly a flashlight beam can be seen in the distance. It dances around the bamboo trees and draws closer to JACOB. It is impossible to see who is carrying it. The light darts near the ground where JACOB is lying and then bursts directly into his eyes. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - DAY </b> SUNLIGHT pours through the BEDROOM window. JACOB is sleeping fitfully as a bar of light saturates his face. His hand rushes up to cover and protect his eyes but the damage is done. He is awake. JACOB lies in bed for a few moments, dazed. Slowly his hand gropes along the shelf at the head of the bed, searching for his glasses. He has trouble finding them. As his hand sweeps blindly across the headboard it hits the telephone and sends it crashing to the floor. He sits up with a disgusted look on his face and searches the out-of-focus shelf behind him. Suddenly JEZZIE enters. <b> JEZZIE </b> You up? <b> JACOB </b> No. Have you seen my glasses? <b> JEZZIE </b> (shaking her head) Where'd you leave 'em? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. <b> JEZZIE </b> Did you look around the headboard? <b> JACOB </b> (wearily) Jezzie, I can't see. <b> JEZZIE </b> (she scans the shelf) Maybe you left 'em in the bathroom. She leaves and returns moments later with his glasses and a large paper bag. She tosses them both onto the bed. <b> JACOB </b> Thanks. (he puts on his glasses and notices the bag) What's that? <b> JEZZIE </b> Your kid dropped it off. <b> JACOB </b> Who? Jed? <b> JEZZIE </b> (stooping to pick up the phone) No. The little one. <b> JACOB </b> Eli. Why can't you remember their names? <b> JEZZIE </b> They're weird names. <b> JACOB </b> They're Biblical. They were prophets. <b> JEZZIE </b> Well, personally, I never went for church names. <b> JACOB </b> And where do you think Jezebel comes from? <b> JEZZIE </b> I don't let anybody call me that. <b> JACOB </b> (shaking his head) You're a real heathen, you know that, Jezzie? Jesus, how did I ever get involved with such a ninny? <b> JEZZIE </b> You sold your soul, remember? That's what you told me. <b> JACOB </b> Yeah, but for what? <b> JEZZIE </b> A good lay. <b> JACOB </b> And look what I got. <b> JEZZIE </b> The best. <b> JACOB </b> I must have been out of my head. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake, you are never out of your head! <b> JACOB </b> (ignoring the criticism and reaching for the paper bag) What's in here? <b> JEZZIE </b> Pictures. Your wife was gonna toss 'em so "what's his name" brought 'em over on his way to school. JACOB lifts the bag and pours the photographs onto the bed. There are hundreds of them. He examines them with growing delight. <b> JACOB </b> Look at these, will ya? I don't believe it. Jesus, these are fantastic. Look, here's my Dad ... And here's my brother, when we were down in Florida. <b> JEZZIE </b> Lemme see. <b> JACOB </b> (rummaging excitedly through the pile) Here. Look. This is me and Sarah when I was still at City College. <b> JEZZIE </b> (looking closely) That's Sarah? (she studies the photo) I can see what you mean. <b> JACOB </b> What? <b> JEZZIE </b> Why you left. <b> JACOB </b> What do you mean you can see? <b> JEZZIE </b> Look at her face. A real bitch. <b> JACOB </b> She looked good then. <b> JEZZIE </b> Not to me. <b> JACOB </b> Well, you didn't marry her. He digs through more photos. Suddenly he stops. <b> JEZZIE </b> What's wrong? To JEZZIE's surprise and his own, tears well up in his eyes. For a moment JACOB is unable to speak. He just stares at one of the photos. JEZZIE looks at the picture. It is an image of JACOB carrying a small child on his shoulders. <b> JEZZIE </b> Is that the one who died? <b> JACOB </b> (nodding) Gabe. JEZZIE is silent. JACOB grabs a Kleenex and blows his nose. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Sorry. it just took me by surprise. I didn't expect to see him this morning ... God, what I wouldn't ... He was the cutest little guy. Like an angel, you know. He had this smile ... (choking up again) Fuck, I don't even remember this picture. Hiding his emotions, JACOB scrambles over the bed and reaches for a pair of pants. He pulls out his wallet and then carefully puts the photo of GABE inside. It joins photos of his two other boys. JEZZIE begins shoving the remaining pictures back into the paper bag. <b> JACOB </b> Wait. Don't. <b> JEZZIE </b> I don't like things that make you cry. <b> JACOB </b> I just want to look ... He reaches into the pile for other snapshots. We see an array of frozen moments, happy, unfocused, obscure. Suddenly he stops and stares at a yellowing snapshot. <b> JACOB </b> God, this is me! (he holds up a baby photo) Look. It's dated right after I was born. (he stares at it intently) What a kid. Cute, huh? So much promise. JEZZIE surveys the scene. <b> JEZZIE </b> It's amazing, huh Jake? Your whole life ... right in front of you. (she pauses before making her final pronouncement) What a mess! <b>INT. HALLWAY - DAY </b> JEZZIE carries the garbage to an INCINERATOR ROOM down the hall. She is carrying several bags. Two of them are tossed instantly down the chute. She hesitates with the third. After a moment she reaches into it and pulls out a handful of photos. They are pictures of JACOB and SARAH. With cool deliberation she drops them down the chute. An apartment door slams shut. Quickly she disposes of the pictures remaining in her hand. JACOB opens the door to the tiny room as the bag filled with the memories of his life falls to the fire below. <b> JACOB </b> Ready? <b> JEZZIE </b> Just gettin' rid of the garbage. JACOB and JEZZIE, both wearing postal uniforms, head for the ELEVATOR. They are surprised that it has arrived promptly. JEZZIE reaches out and playfully sticks her tongue into JACOB's ear. He pulls her into the ELEVATOR. They disappear, laughing, behind its closing doors. <b>EXT. NEW YORK CITY - DAY </b> JACOB is driving a mail truck through the crowded streets of midtown Manhattan. As he drives he is humming to himself a rendition of Al Jolson's "Sonny Boy." JACOB stops his truck in front of a LAUNDRY on West 46th Street. He opens the back door and pulls a stack of boxes toward him. He lifts them with effort and slams the door with his foot. It doesn't close. He considers giving it another whack but the boxes are heavy. He turns instead and waddles toward the store. <b>INT. LAUNDRY - DAY </b> A heavyset WOMAN with a dark tan is standing behind a counter cluttered with laundry. A picture of Richard Nixon is still stapled to the wall. She looks at JACOB. <b> WOMAN </b> Where do you expect me to put those? I don't have any room. She tries clearing the counter, but it doesn't help. <b> WOMAN </b> (continuing) How 'bout over there? (she points to a table) No wait. Do me a favor. Bring 'em to the back room. <b> JACOB </b> They're awfully heavy. <b> WOMAN </b> I know. That's why I'm asking. JACOB waddles reluctantly toward the back of the store. CHINESE LAUNDERERS are hovering over piles of clothes. Steam from the pressing machines shoots into the air. <b> JACOB </b> (huffing and puffing) Where's Wong? <b> WOMAN </b> That's what I'd like to know. If you see him on the street somewhere, tell him he's fired. JACOB stoops to put the boxes on the shelf. There is a snapping sound and he winces in pain. Massaging his back, JACOB unfolds some papers for the WOMAN's signature. <b> JACOB </b> How was Palm Springs? <b> WOMAN </b> Hot. Where do I sign? <b> JACOB </b> (pointing to the line) You got a nice tan, though. <b> WOMAN </b> Tan? What tan? It faded on the airplane. I'd try to get my money back, but who do you ask? (she looks heavenward) Two hundred dollars a night, for what? She hands JACOB the wrong sheet. <b> JACOB </b> No. I'll take the other one. (he takes it) Right. Well it's good to have you back. See you tomorrow, probably. <b> WOMAN </b> If you're lucky. JACOB smiles to himself as he leaves the store. He walks carefully. His back is out. <b>INT. MAIL TRUCK - DAY </b> ANGLE ON THE MAIL TRUCK stuck in traffic. Nothing is moving. Horns are blaring and drivers are agitated. JACOB reaches for a newspaper lying on top of his mail bags. To his shock one of the bags appears to move. Curious, JACOB pokes at it. Instantly a terrifying figure pops out from beneath it and stares at him with a frightening glare. JACOB jumps back, stunned. It is a moment before he realizes that he is looking at an old WINO who has been sleeping in the truck. The man's face is covered in strange bumps. <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it! What the hell ... ? <b> WINO </b> (pleading) I didn't take nothin'. I was just napping. Don't hit me. I was cold. <b> JACOB </b> (lifting the man up) What the hell do you think you're doing? You can't do this. This is government property. He begins opening the door. The WINO begs. <b> WINO </b> Don't throw me out. They're gonna get me. They'll tear me to pieces. He holds on to JACOB's leg. JACOB tries to pull away. <b> JACOB </b> Come on. You can't stay here. <b> WINO </b> Please! I never hurt anybody when I was alive. Believe me. I don't belong here. JACOB gives the WINO a strange look and then escorts him from the truck. A hundred eyes peer out of motionless cars and follow him as he leads the WINO to the sidewalk. JACOB pulls a dollar bill from his pocket and places it in the WINO's hand. The OLD MAN crumples it into a ball and turns away. He has a frightened look on his face. JACOB returns to the truck shaking his head. <b> JACOB </b> New York! He climbs into his seat and glances into his rear view mirror. He notices the WINO edging fearfully along the side of a building. A horn honks and traffic begins moving. When JACOB looks back the WINO is no longer there. <b>INT. GARAGE - DAY </b> JACOB drives his mail truck into the huge POST OFFICE PARKING GARAGE on 34th Street. His mind seems distracted. He has difficulty parking. <b>INT. POST OFFICE - DAY </b> We see a vast room filled with hundreds of PEOPLE sorting and moving mail. JACOB, carrying a bag of McDonald's hamburgers, walks stiffly through the aisles, his left hand rubbing his back. Several workers greet him and grab for his french fries. He offers them around. ANGLE ON a conveyor belt sorting mail. A hand reaches in, correcting mistakes. Suddenly a hamburger passes by. JEZZIE looks up and smiles. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake! <b> JACOB </b> How's it going? She takes the hamburger and shrugs. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) I'm going home. <b> JEZZIE </b> What's wrong? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. One of these days, I'm gonna see Louis. My back's killing me. <b> JEZZIE </b> Now? What about the boss? He's not gonna like it. JACOB shrugs. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Well, I'll miss riding home with you. I was looking forward to it. <b> JACOB </b> I'll be glad to avoid the crush. <b> JEZZIE </b> I enjoy crushing into you. She grabs him and hugs him tightly. <b> JACOB </b> Gently. My back. JEZZIE ignores him and squeezes again. <b>INT. CHIROPRACTIC OFFICE - DAY </b> CUT ON A SCREAM to JACOB in a CHIROPRACTOR'S OFFICE. He is lying on a long leather padded device that looks like an instrument of torture. LOUIS, the Chiropractor, is a giant of a man, 280 pounds. He is adjusting JACOB's spine. <b> LOUIS </b> Come on, Jake. That didn't hurt. <b> JACOB </b> How do you know? <b> LOUIS </b> I know you. How come you're so tense today? <b> JACOB </b> What can I tell you? <b> LOUIS </b> I saw Sarah the other day. <b> JACOB </b> Her knee acting up? <b> LOUIS </b> A bit. <b> JACOB </b> What did she have to say? <b> LOUIS </b> Turn on your right side. (he turns on his left) How about the other "right?" (JACOB turns back) I don't understand you philosphers. You've got the whole world figured out but you can't remember the difference between right and left. <b> JACOB </b> I was absent the day they taught that in school. What did she say? <b> LOUIS </b> Who? <b> JACOB </b> Sarah. <b> LOUIS </b> Not much. She's like you that way. Two clams. No wonder your marriage didn't last. Put your hand under your head. Take a breath and then let it out. He makes a rapid adjustment pushing down on JACOB's thigh. JACOB groans. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) Ah, good. Now turn to your left. <b> JACOB </b> She talk about the boys? <b> LOUIS </b> She says she can't get them new coats because you haven't sent the alimony for three months. <b> JACOB </b> She told you that? (he shakes his head) Did she tell you about the $2,000 I'm still paying for the orthodontist? I'll bet she didn't mention that. <b> LOUIS </b> She said you were a son of a bitch and she regrets the day she set eyes on you. <b> JACOB </b> I thought you said she didn't say much. <b> LOUIS </b> She didn't. That's about all she said. Put your hand up. Good. I think she still loves you. Take a breath and let it out. He makes an adjustment. JACOB screams. <b> JACOB </b> Loves me!? She hasn't said a kind word about me in years! <b> LOUIS </b> Right. She doesn't stop talking about you. You're always on her mind. That's love, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> She hates me, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> You should go back to her. <b> JACOB </b> What? She threw me out, remember. She wanted some professor to carry her far away from Brooklyn. Only we didn't make it. She can't forgive me that she still lives in the same house she grew up in. <b> LOUIS </b> Her problem is that you spent eight years getting a PhD and then went to work for the post office. <b> JACOB </b> What can I tell you, Louis? After Nam I didn't want to think anymore. I decided my brain was too small an organ to comprehend this chaos. <b> LOUIS </b> (looking at JACOB with affection) If it was any other brain but yours, I might agree. Relax, this is going to be strong. <b> JACOB </b> I can't relax. <b> LOUIS </b> Wiggle your toes. JACOB wiggles his toes. At that instant, LOUIS twists JACOB's neck rapidly. There is a loud cracking sound. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> THERE IS A FLASH OF LIGHT. A MAN rushes at the camera yelling. <b> MAN </b> I found one. He's alive. He shines a flashlight into the lens creating rings and halos. <b>CHIROPRACTIC OFFICE - DAY </b> Suddenly LOUIS reappears, a halo effect still visible behind his head. <b> JACOB </b> God almighty. What did you do to me? <b> LOUIS </b> I had to get in there. A deep adjustment. Rest a moment and let it set a bit. <b> JACOB </b> I had this weird flash just then. <b> LOUIS </b> What? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. I've been having them recently. (he thinks a moment, then changes the subject) You know, you look like an angel, Louis, an overgrown cherub. Anyone ever tell you that? <b> LOUIS </b> Yeah. You. Every time I see you. No more Errol Flynn, okay? Your back won't take it. You tell your girl friend to calm down if she knows what's good for you. <b> JACOB </b> Louis, you're a life saver. <b> LOUIS </b> I know. <b>EXT. BROOKLYN STREETS - EVENING </b> JACOB is walking down Nostrand Avenue. He is singing to himself and imitating Al Jolson. <b> JACOB </b> When there are gray skies, I don't mind the gray skies, as long as there's you ... He hums. It is near dusk and lights are just coming on. The shop windows have a particularly garish look about them. The mannequins are dressed in inexpensive, almost tawdry, clothes and have a pathetic appearance. A few shops have set up their Christmas decorations. The ornamentation seems strangely out of place; almost blasphemous. JACOB passes a street gang standing in the doorway of a local drug store. They chortle and make taunting sounds. <b> GIRL </b> (shaking her tits, singing) "Hey, Mr. Postman ... " JACOB stops and stares at them. To their surprise, he begins to sing with them. He knows the words. They like that. It is a sweet moment. JACOB continues walking. He comes to a cross street. The light is green. He is still singing to himself and does not notice a BLACK CAR sharging around the corner. The car is moving at full speed, heading straight toward him. A YOUNG MAN walking a few steps behind yells out. <b> YOUNG MAN </b> Look out! JACOB turns and sees the car. He scoots out of the way but it swerves in his direction. The YOUNG MAN calls out again. <b> YOUNG MAN </b> Jump! With a huge thrust, JACOB hurls himself onto the curb as the car shoots by. Two MEN are peering at him from the back seat. They are laughing like madmen and shaking their heads. They do not look human. JACOB yells and waves his fist, to no effect. After a moment he turns to thank the YOUNG MAN whose scream had saved him, but he is gone. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - DUSK </b> JACOB and JEZZIE are lying in bed. They are a sensual couple and even in quiet, reflective moments such as this, their positioning is erotic and stimulating. Both of them are nude. JACOB's hands are clasped behind his neck and he is staring mournfully at the ceiling. JEZZIE is lying on her side, her left leg draped across JACOB's pelvis. Her head is propped up on her right arm while her left hand strokes the bayonet scar on JACOB's stomach. Neither are talking. Suddenly, out of the blue, JEZZIE speaks. <b> JEZZIE </b> Maybe it's all the pressure, Jake. The money. Things like that. Or your wife. <b> JACOB </b> Why do you bring her up? <b> JEZZIE </b> 'Cause she's always on your mind. <b> JACOB </b> When was the last time I said a word? <b> JEZZIE </b> It has nothin' to do with talkin'. She pauses for a while, long enough to suppose that the conversation is over. Then she continues. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Or maybe it's the war. JACOB closes his eyes. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) It's still there, Jake. (she points to his brain) Even if you never say a word about it. You can't spend two years in Vietnam ... <b> JACOB </b> (annoyed) What does that have to do with anything? Does it explain the barricaded subway stations? Does it explain those Godforsaken creatures? <b> JEZZIE </b> New York is filled with creatures. Everywhere. And lots of stations are closed. <b> JACOB </b> They're like demons, Jez. <b> JEZZIE </b> Demons, Jake? Come on. They're winos and bag ladies. Low life. That's all they are. The streets are crawling with 'em. Don't make em into somethin' they're not. (she rubs his forehead) It's the pressure, honey. That's all it is. <b> JACOB </b> Those guys tried to kill me tonight. They were aiming right at me. <b> JEZZIE </b> Kids on a joy ride. Happens all the time. <b> JACOB </b> They weren't human! <b> JEZZIE </b> Come on. What were they, Jake? JACOB doesn't answer. He turns over on his stomach. JEZZIE stares at his naked back and drags her fingernails down to his buttocks. Scratch marks follow in their wake. <b> JEZZIE </b> You still love me? He does not respond. <b>INT. JACOB'S KITCHEN - DAY </b> JACOB and JEZZIE are sitting at the breakfast table. JEZZIE is reading the National Enquirer and chewing at her lip. Suddenly a drop of blood forms and falls onto the formica table top. Staring at it for a moment, she wipes it with her finger and then licks it with her tongue. JACOB is nursing a cup of coffee and staring out the window at the housing project across the way. The toaster pops. JEZZIE jumps. She gets up, butters her toast, and returns to her paper. <b> JEZZIE </b> Says here the world's comin' to an end. The battle of heaven and hell they call it. Should be quite a show; fireworks, H-bombs, and everything. You believe them, Jake? JACOB doesn't answer. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Me neither ... God, look at this. Two heads. Only lived two days. A day for each head. Could you imagine me with two heads? We'd probably keep each other up all night - arguing and whatnot. You wanna see the picture? He does not respond. JEZZIE gets up and walks over to JACOB. Standing in front of him she slowly unties her robe and lets it fall apart. She is naked underneath it. Sensuously she leans forward, unbuttons his shirt, and strokes his chest. She waits for a response from him, but there is none. He sits silently, disinterested. Furious, JEZZIE turns away. Grabbing the vacuum cleaner from the broom closet she angrily unravels the cord and switches it on. Breasts flash from beneath her gown as the vacuum roars back and forth across the floor. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Goddamn you son-of-a-bitch! My uncle's dogs used to treat me better than you do. At least they'd lick my toes once in a while. At least they showed some fucking interest. A NEIGHBOR bangs on the wall, shouting. <b> JEZZIE </b> All right! All right! All right! JACOB peers at the courtyard eighteen stories below and watches the patterns of early morning movement. Tiny figures drift purposefully over the concrete. Suddenly the vasuum cleaner goes off. In the silence, JACOB realizes that JEZZIE is crying and turns to see her curled over the kitchen table. He walks to her side and strokes her hair. JEZZIE begins to sob. After a moment she looks at him with puffy eyes. <b> JEZZIE </b> You love me? He nods his head "yes." She smiles coyly and rubs her hair like a kitten against his crotch. After a few moments she speaks. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Della's party's tonight. Why don't we go? It'll take your minf offa things. And I won't make you dance. I promise. Huh? (he nods his head in consent. JEZZIE hugs him) You still love me, Jake? He nods his head again, only heavily, as though the question exhausts him. <b>INT. BELLVUE HOSPITAL - DAY </b> JACOB is in the "Mental Health Clinic" at BELLVUE HOSPITAL walking through the PSYCHIATRIC EMERGENCY ROOM. It is overflowing with people. Some are handcuffed to their chairs. POLICEMEN are with them. JACOB approaches the main RECEPTION DESK. He speaks nervously. <b> JACOB </b> I'd like to speak to Dr. Carlson, please. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> Carlson? Is he new here? <b> JACOB </b> New? He's been here for years. She shrugs and looks at a log book. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> Not according to my charts. Do you have an appointment? <b> JACOB </b> (shaking his head) Look, I need to see him. I know where his room is. Just give me a pass. I won't be long. Ten minutes. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> Our doctors are seen by appointment only. <b> JACOB </b> Damn it. I was in the veteran's out- patient program. He knows me. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> (not happy) What's your name? <b> JACOB </b> Jacob Singer. She walks over to a file drawer and goes through it several times before coming back over to JACOB. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> I'm sorry but there's no record of a Jacob Singer in our files. <b> JACOB </b> Whataya mean, no record? <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> You want me to spell it out? There's nothing here. <b> JACOB </b> That's ridiculous. I've been coming here for years. Listen to me. I'm going out of my fucking mind here. I need to see him. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> If this is an emergency we have a staff of psychiatric social workers. There's about an hour's wait. I'll be glad to take your name. Why don't you just fill out this form? <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it! I don't want a social worker. Carlson knows me. JACOB pounds the desk, rattling a tiny African violet and knocking the RECEPTIONIST's forms to the floor. She grunts angrily and stoops to retrieve them. Standing up her cap hits a drawer handle and slips off. TWO KNUCKLE-LIKE HORNS protrude from her skull where the cap had been. JACOB's eyes lock on them like radar. He backs away. She immediately replaces her cap and breaks the spell, but her eyes glare at him with demonic intensity. JACOB, freaked, angry, turns and runs toward the "In Patient" door. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> Hey! You can't go in there! JACOB doesn't stop. A POLICEMAN, guarding the entrance, runs after him. JACOB charges through the interior corridors of the aging institution. A LINE OF MENTAL PATIENTS, all holding hands, is moving down the hall. They break ranks as he charges by and begin to scream. Their ATTENDANT tries to calm them down but the sight of the POLICEMAN increases their hysteria. They grab hold of him as he tries to get by. <b> POLICEMAN </b><b> LET GO! GET AWAY! </b> <b>INT. GROUP ROOM - DAY </b> JACOB dashes out of view. He runs down another corridor, wildly searching for a specific room. He finds it and rushes inside. He is surprised to find A GROUP OF MEN AND WOMEN seated in a circle. They all look up at him. <b> LEADER </b> Can I help you? <b> JACOB </b> I'm looking for Dr. Carlson. Isn't this his office? The LEADER stares at him uncomfortably. After a moment he gets up and takes JACOB into a corner of the room. Everyone is watching them. The LEADER speaks quietly. <b> LEADER </b> I'm so sorry. Obviously you haven't ... Dr. Carlson died. <b> JACOB </b> (stunned) Died? <b> LEADER </b> A car accident. <b> JACOB </b> Jesus, Jesus! ... When? <b> LEADER </b> Last month, before Thanksgiving. <b> JACOB </b> How did it happen? <b> LEADER </b> No one knows. They say it blew up. <b> JACOB </b> (growing pale) Blew up? What do you mean it blew up? The LEADER shrugs and tries to put his arm around JACOB, but he pulls away. <b> LEADER </b> Do you want me to get someone? <b> JACOB </b> No. No. It's okay. I'm okay. He backs quickly to the door. As he turns to leave he realizes that all of the PEOPLE in the group are watching him intently. Unsettled, JACOB hurries back into the hallway. He is frightened and confused. Suddenly a voice calls out. <b> POLICEMAN </b><b> HEY YOU! MAILMAN! </b> JACOB turns and sees the POLICEMAN waiting for him. His gun is drawn. <b> POLICEMAN </b> Hold it. Just hold it. Where the hell do you think you are? This is Bellevue, for God's sake. People running around here get shot. The GROUP LEADER pokes his head out of the door and motions to the <b>POLICEMAN. </b> <b> LEADER </b> It's alright. He's okay. <b> POLICEMAN </b> (nodding, reholstering his gun) Come on, get out of here. I wouldn't want to interfere with the U.S. Mail. He leads JACOB toward the lobby. JACOB does not look back. <b>INT. DELLA'S APT. - NIGHT </b> WE HEAR LOUD DANCE MUSIC. SLY AND THE FAMILY STONE. JACOB is with some POST OFFICE EMPLOYEES at a crowded party in a small apartment. A DRUNK is telling a bad joke and trying to hold a glass of wine at the same time. It is constantly on the verge of spilling. JACOB is fixated on it. In the background, we see JEZZIE dancing and motioning for JACOB to join her. He nods no. The DRUNK, who keeps asking people if they "get it," takes JACOB's head nodding as a sign of confusion and keeps trying to re-explain the joke. JACOB hears a strange noise and looks around. It seems to be coming from a covered bird cage. He goes over to it and lifts the cover. The BIRD is flapping its wings wildly as if trying to get out. The sound, loud and insistent, startles him. He lowers the cover. In the DINING ROOM, several people are gathered around ELSA, an attractive black woman who is reading palms. She sees JACOB and calls over the music. <b> ELSA </b> Hey, you! Let me look at your hand! JACOB shrugs. DELLA, dancing nearby, calls out. <b> DELLA </b> Go on Jake. She reads 'em like a book. <b> JACOB </b> No, thanks. <b> DELLA </b> It's fun. CUT TO A CLOSE UP OF JACOB'S HAND. ELSA is squeezing the mounds and examining the lines. What begins as a playful expression on her face turns suddenly serious. She reaches for his other hand and compares the two of them. JEZZIE looks over from her dancing and eyes the scene jealously. <b> ELSA </b> You have an unusual hand. <b> JACOB </b> I could have told you that. <b> ELSA </b> You see this line here? It's your life line. Here's where you were born. And this is where you got married. You're a married man, huh? Oh oh. Nope. Divorce. See this split. She studies his life line with growing concern. JEZZIE tries to get JACOB's attention. He ignores her. <b> ELSA </b> (continuing) You know, you got a strange line here. <b> JACOB </b> (examining it) It's short, huh? <b> ELSA </b> Short? It's ended. <b> JACOB </b> (laughing) Oh, terrific. <b> ELSA </b> It's not funny. According to this ... you're already dead. <b> JACOB </b> (smiling) Just my luck. <b> CUT TO: </b> THE DANCERS. Their movements are loose and getting looser. The music is strong and insistent. The smokey atmosphere disfigures the dancers and gives them a strange, distorted appearance. Suddenly JEZZIE breaks from the crowd and reaches for JACOB. He pulls away. Some of the MALE DANCERS call out to him. <b> DANCERS </b> Come on man, show your stuff. JACOB is easily intimidated. Relenting, he glares at JEZZIE and nods apologetically to ELSA. It is obvious that he is embarrassed at his inadequacy on the dance floor. <b> MAN </b> Come on professor. You got feet, too. JACOB tries to smile but it is pained and unconvincing. JEZZIE is playing with him, mimicking his movement. A number of DANCERS notice and laugh, which only increases his discomfort. JEZZIE's taunting has a strange effect on JACOB. He grows distant and withdrawn, even though his body is still going through the motions of the dance. A MAN taps JEZZIE on the shoulder. She spins around, smiling, and begins dancing with him. JACOB is left alone, dancing by himself. He looks away, uncomfortable. In the shadows a WOMAN kneels close to the floor. She seems to be urinating on the carpet. JACOB is shocked. Several DANCERS obscure his view. He turns around. A PREGNANT WOMAN stands half naked in the kitchen. JACOB cannot believe what he sees. In the next room, past JEZZIE, JACOB glimpses a terrifying image, a MAN whose head seems to be vibrating at such enormous speed that it has lost all definition. Something about the image compels and frightens JACOB. Slowly he approaches it. As he draws nearer to it the tortured image lets out a scream of such pain and unearthly terror that JACOB backs away. A WOMAN, laughing, grabs JACOB, spins him around, and begins dancing with him. He is totally disoriented. <b> WOMAN </b> Hold me, baby! She takes JACOB's arm and guides it to her back. THE CAMERA follows his hand as it reaches the smooth skin beneath her sexy, loose fitting dress. He runs his fingers up to her shoulder blades. Then, suddenly, he recoils. Her back is a mass of shoulder blades, hundreds of strange, bony protrusions. JACOB gasps. Out of the blue, JEZZIE leans into him and wiggles her tongue in his ear. JACOB, startled, jerks his head and his glasses go flying to the floor. <b> JACOB </b> Shit! He stoops down blindly to pick them up. Shoes just miss his fingers as he digs between dancing legs trying to recover them. Miraculously, he grabs the spectacles just before they are crushed and slips them back on. Instantly his world comes back into focus. As he stands, JACOB is surprised to find JEZZIE facing him, gyrating in wild abandon. There is a huge, satisfied smile on her face. She grabs his hand as if encouraging him to dance but it is obvious that she is dancing to her own rhythm. JACOB stares at her, confused. It takes him a moment to realize that her smile is not for him. Standing behind JEZZIE is another DANCER, his hands around her waist. They are moving together, locked in erotic embrace. It appears that he is mounting her from behind. Looking down we see that the DANCER's feet are deformed. They have a bizarre clubbed appearance and look very much like hooves. They skid and careen amidst the dancing feet. Something horrible and winglike flaps behind JEZZIE's back. We cannot make out what it is, but it elicits a primal terror. Before JACOB can react, JEZZIE opens her mouth. With a roaring sound, a spiked horn erupts from her throat. It juts menacingly from between her teeth and thrusts into the air. A CIRCLE OF DANCERS scream out in excited approval. CUT TO JACOB's face as it registers terror and disbelief. He stares at the DANCERS who are crowding around him. They have become perverse, corrupt aspects of their normal selves. JACOB grabs his eyes as though trying to pull the vision from his head but it won't go away. The music throbs. His actions become spastic, almost delirious. JACOB is out of control. His frenzy becomes a kind of exorcism, a desperate attempt to free himself from his body and his mind. WE MOVE IN ON HIM as his eyes pass beyond pain. The dark walls of the APARTMENT fade away. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> Strange faces in infantry helmets appear in the darkness, outlined by a bright moon that is emerging from behind a cloud. The faces are looking down and voices are speaking. <b> VOICE </b> He's burning up. <b> VOICE </b> Total delirium. <b> VOICE </b> That's some gash. His guts keep spilling out. <b> VOICE </b> Push 'em back. <b> JACOB (V.O.) </b> Help me! His eyes focus on the moon. Rings of light emenate from it filling the sky with their sparkling brilliance. The rings draw us forward with a quickening intensity that grows into exhilarating speed. The rush causes them to flash stroboscopically and produces a dazzling, almost sensual, surge of color. The display is spectacular and compelling. Music can be heard in the distance, growing hard and insistent, like a heart beat. Heavy breathing accompanies the sound. The stroboscopic flashes are replaced by intense flashes of red and blue light. The music grows louder and reaches a thundering crescendo. Then silence. <b>INT. DELLA'S APT. - NIGHT </b> The APARTMENT reappears in all its normalcy. The neon sign is still flashing outside the window. DANCERS are smiling and sweating. Cheers and applause ring out for JACOB and JEZZIE but JACOB barely hears them. JEZZIE hugs him tightly. PEOPLE smack him on the back. <b> ADMIRER </b> You are out of your mind, man. Out of your fuckin' mind. <b> WOMAN </b> Jake, you little devil. You never told me you could dance like that. <b> MAN </b> Jezzie, what did you put in his drink? JEZZIE smiles while pulling JACOB to a corner chair. He plops down. His chest is heaving and he is grabbing hold of his stomach. Hie face is frightened and distorted. <b> JEZZIE </b> You okay? <b> JACOB </b> I wanna leave. Get me out of here. <b> JEZZIE </b> Oh, come on. It's early. <b> JACOB </b> (pulling JEZZIE close to him, his voice filled with paranoia) Where are we? <b> JEZZIE </b> (surprised by the question) We're at Della's. <b> JACOB </b> Where? <b> JEZZIE </b> What do you mean? Where do you think? <b> JACOB </b> Where's Della? Bring her here? <b> JEZZIE </b> Why? What for? <b> JACOB </b> Show me Della! <b> JEZZIE </b> (confused) Hey, I'm here. JACOB eyes her with a pleading look. Annoyed, JEZZIE leaves JACOB and crosses the room. He watches her as she goes. JACOB is holding his stomach and rocking painfully. Moments later JEZZIE returns with DELLA. <b> DELLA </b> Hiya Jake. That was some dance. <b> JACOB </b> (staring at her closely) Della? <b> DELLA </b> (feeling the strangeness) You want to see me? Well, here I am. <b> JACOB </b> I see. <b> DELLA </b> What do you want? <b> JACOB </b> Just to see you. That's all. <b> DELLA </b> (a bit uncomfortable) Well, how do I look? <b> JACOB </b> Like Della. Suddenly JACOB breaks out in a dense sweat and begins shaking. His entire body is convulsive. <b> JEZZIE </b> Are you feeling all right? Shit, you're burning up. Feel his forehead. <b> DELLA </b> (checking his forehead and cheeks) Damn, that's hot. Maybe from dancing. <b> JEZZIE </b> I think you should lie down. JACOB is shaking uncontrollably. People are gathering around. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Can't you stop it? <b> JACOB </b> If I could stop it, I'd stop it. <b> WOMAN </b> Is he sick? <b> DELLA </b> He's on fire. <b> ELSA </b> Let me help you. She reaches out to JACOB. Unexpectedly he recoils, jumping to his feet like a wild man. He begins to scream. <b> JACOB </b> Stay away from me! Don't you come near me! All of you. Go to hell! Go to hell, goddamn you! Stay away! JEZZIE stares at JACOB with a confused and embarrassed look. A MAN whispers to her. <b> MAN </b> I'll call a cab. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - NIGHT </b> JACOB is lying in bed in his own BEDROOM with a thermometer in his mouth. JEZZIE is pacing the floor with great agitation. <b> JEZZIE </b> I've never been so mortified in my whole life. Never! Screaming like that. I don't understand what's gotten into you, Jake, to make you do a thing like that. You're not acting normal. I've lived with too many crazies in my life. I don't want it anymore. I can't handle it. I'm tired of men flipping out on me. Shit, you'd think it was my fault. Well you picked me, remember that. I don't need this. The NEIGHBOR pounds on the wall. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) All right! All right! JEZZIE jabs her finger at the wall. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) If you go crazy on me you're goin' crazy by yourself. You understand? JEZZIE reaches for his mouth and pulls out the thermometer. She looks at it closely and then squints to see it better. <b> JACOB </b> What's it say? A hundred and two? <b> JEZZIE </b> I don't believe this. I'm calling the doctor. She runs out of the room. JACOB calls after her. <b> JACOB </b> What does it say? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> It's gone to the top. <b> JACOB </b> How high is that? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> The numbers stop at 107. JEZZIE is on the phone to the doctor in the next room. JACOB begins shaking again and reaches for the extra blanket at the foot of the bed. He pulls it up around his shoulders. The whole bed vibrates with his shivering. Suddenly JEZZIE rushes through the BEDROOM and into the BATHROOM. SHe turns on the bath water. <b> JACOB </b> What the hell are you doin'? <b> JEZZIE </b> Get your clothes off. <b> JACOB </b> What are you talking about? I'm freezing. <b> JEZZIE </b> Get your clothes off! JACOB gives her a confused look as she rushes back to the KITCHEN. <b> JACOB </b> What'd the doctor say? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> That you'd die on the way to the hospital. Now get into that tub. JACOB stares at her as she bursts back into the BEDROOM carrying four trays of ice cubes. She hurries into the BATHROOM and dumps them in the tub. <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> He's coming right over. <b> JACOB </b> Coming here? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> Goddamn it. Get in here. I can't stand around waiting. She rushes out of the BATHROOM and pulls JACOB out of bed. He is shaking violently and she has difficulty navigating across the room and undressing him at the same time. She maneuvers him into the BATHROOM next to the tub. He looks down at the ice cubes floating in the water. <b> JACOB </b> You're out of your mind. I'm not getting in there. I'd rather die. <b> JEZZIE </b> That's your decision. <b> JACOB </b> Look at me. I'm ice cold. <b> JEZZIE </b> You're red hot, damn it. Get in there. I've got to get more ice. She runs out of the room. The door to the apartment slams shut. JACOB sticks his toe into the water and pulls it out again instantly. <b> JACOB </b> Oh Jesus! He sticks his whole foot in and grits his teeth as the ice cold water turns his foot bright red. He keeps it in as long as he can and then yanks it out, quickly wrapping it in a towel. JACOB rubs his foot vigorously to get rid of the sting and stares at the water, afraid of its pain. <b>INT. CORRIDOR - NIGHT </b> JEZZIE is running up and down the CORRIDOR knocking on doors and collecting ice cubes from those who will answer. She hurries back to the BATHROOM with several PEOPLE behind her carrying additional ice trays. One of the MEN is shifting the trays in his hands to avoid the burning cold. <b>INT. JACOB'S BATHROOM </b> As JEZZIE enters the BATHROOM, JACOB is sitting on the rim of the tub with the water up to his calves, shivering vigorously. <b> JACOB </b> I can't do it. <b> JEZZIE </b> What kind of man are you? She unloads two trays into the water. <b> JACOB </b> Don't gimme that. <b> JEZZIE </b> Lie down! <b> JACOB </b> (pleading) Jezzie! My feet are throbbing! <b> JEZZIE </b> (calling out) Sam, Tony, come in here. <b> JACOB </b> Hey, I'm not dressed. <b> SAM </b> You got nothin' we ain't seen before. SAM and TONY grab hold of JACOB who wrestles to get away. <b> JACOB </b> Get the hell off me. <b> TONY </b> He's like a hot coal. <b> SAM </b> It's for your own good, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> Let go of me, you sons of bitches. The TWO MEN struggle with JACOB and force him into the water. TONY winces when the water hits his arm. JACOB nearly flies out of the tub. The TWO MEN fight to hold him down. JACOB screams and cries for the MEN to let him go but they keep him flat on his back. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) I'm freezing! I'm freezing! Goddamn you! <b> TONY </b> (his hand turning red) Sam, I can't take it. <b> SAM </b> Don't you let go. <b> TONY </b> Jez, get help. My hands are killing me. <b> JACOB </b> Help me! Help me! <b> JEZZIE </b> (to TONY) Here. I'll do it. <b> TONY </b> Take his legs. <b> SAM </b> Run your hands under hot water. MRS. CARMICHAEL comes in. <b> MRS. CARMICHAEL </b> I have some ice from the machine. <b> JEZZIE </b> Bring it in. <b> MRS. CARMICHAEL </b> Is he all right? <b> JEZZIE </b> He doesn't like it. <b> MRS. CARMICHAEL </b> I don't blame him. What should I do with the ice? <b> JEZZIE </b> Pour it in. <b> MRS. CARMICHAEL </b> On top of him? <b> JEZZIE </b> He's melting it as fast as we dump it in. <b> MRS. CARMICHAEL </b> Okay. My husband's got two more bags. He's coming. They're heavy. TONY helps her pour the ice into the water. JACOB yells. <b> JACOB </b> Oh God! You're killing me! Stop! <b>INT. A BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> CUT TO JACOB lying in a BEDROOM we have not seen before. He is tossing and turning in his bed as though struggling to get out. Suddenly he sits up and looks over at the window. It is open and the shade is flapping. Cold air is blowing in and he is shivering. <b> JACOB </b> Damn! You and your fresh air. He jumps out of bed and goes over to the window. He pushes at the frame and it comes flying down with a loud bang. A woman in the bed sits up. It is SARAH. <b> SARAH </b> What was that? <b> JACOB </b> It's freezing. <b> SARAH </b> I'm not cold. <b> JACOB </b> Of course not. You have all the blankets. It must be ten degrees in here. I'm telling you, Sarah, if you want to sleep with fresh air, you sleep on the fire escape. From now on that window is closed. <b> SARAH </b> It's not healthy with it closed. <b> JACOB </b> This is healthy? I'll probably die of pneumonia tomorrow and this is healthy. He settles back into bed and pulls the covers back over to his side. He lies quietly for a moment, thinking. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) What a dream I was having. I was living with another woman ... You know who it was? <b> SARAH </b> I don't want to know. <b> JACOB </b> Jezebel, from the post office. You remember, you met her that time at the Christmas party. I was living with her. God, it was a nightmare. There were all these demons and I was on fire. Only I was burning from ice. <b> SARAH </b> Guilty thoughts. See what happens when you cheat on me, even in your mind? <b> JACOB </b> She was good in bed, though. <b> SARAH </b> Go to sleep. <b> JACOB </b> She had these real beefy thighs. Delicious. <b> SARAH </b> I thought you said it was a nightmare? Suddenly, out of nowhere, we hear the tinkling sound of a music box. A YOUNG BOY enters the room, carrying a musical LUNCH BOX in his arms. He is wearing a long T-shirt nearly down to his ankles. We recognize him from his photograph. It is GABE. <b> GABE </b> Daddy, what was that noise? <b> JACOB </b> (surprised to see him) Gabe? (he stares curiously at his son) What are you doing ... ? <b> GABE </b> There was a bang. <b> JACOB </b> It was the window. <b> GABE </b> It's cold. <b> JACOB </b> Tell your mother. <b> GABE </b> Mom, it's ... <b> SARAH </b> I heard you. Go back to sleep. <b> GABE </b> Will you tuck me in? <b> SARAH </b> (not happily) Oh ... all right. She starts to rise. JACOB stops her and gets up instead. He whisks GABE upside down and carries him into his <b>GABE'S BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> BEDROOM, licking his belly and tickling him all the way. GABE laughs and snuggles into his pillow as soon as he hits the bed. JED, 9, and ELI, 7, are both in bunk beds across the room. JED looks up. <b> JED </b> Dad? <b> JACOB </b> Jed. It's the middle of the night. (he kisses GABE and goes over to JED in the lower bunk) What's up? <b> JED </b> You forgot my allowance. <b> JACOB </b> Your allowance? It's five A.M. We'll talk at breakfast. <b> JED </b> Okay, but don't forget. Suddenly another voice pipes in from the top bunk. <b> ELI </b> I love you, Dad. JACOB smiles. <b> JACOB </b> What is this, a convention? I love you, too, Pickles. Now go back to sleep. He turns to leave. <b> GABE </b> Wait ... Daddy. <b> JACOB </b> Now what? <b> GABE </b> Don't go. <b> JACOB </b> Don't go? (he smiles) I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here, Gabe. (he looks at his son tenderly) Come on, go back to sleep. You can still get a couple of hours. He hugs him warmly and then walks to the door. <b> GABE </b> ... I love you. There is deep emotion and seriousness in GABE's words. JACOB is struck by them. <b> GABE </b> (continuing) Don't shut the door. JACOB nods and leaves it a tiny bit ajar. <b> GABE </b> (continuing) A bit more ... a bit more. JACOB adjusts the opening enough to please GABE and make him secure. GABE smiles and cuddles in his bed. <b>INT. SARAH'S BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> JACOB settles back into bed. SARAH turns over and gets comfortable. JACOB lies on his back facing the ceiling. He pulls the blankets up to his neck. He is overcome with feelings of sadness and longing. <b> JACOB </b> I love you, Sarah. She smiles warmly. His eyes close and in a matter of seconds he is back asleep. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - PRE DAWN </b> WE HEAR SUMMER MORNING SOUNDS, CRICKETS and BIRDS. The image of trees materializes overhead and a beautiful pink sky, just before sunrise, can be seen through the branches. It is an idyllic setting. Suddenly a strange sound can be heard in the distance, a metallic humming, growing louder. There is a scramble of feet and a sound of heavy boots moving through the tall grass. Voices can be heard. Men's voices. <b> VOICE </b> They're here. <b> VOICE </b> Thank God. Move 'em out! <b> VOICES </b> Bust your balls! <b> VOICE </b> Move it! Move it! There is an instant swell of activity. Trees and branches blur and speed by overhead. The idyllic image of moments before reveals itself as a P.O.V. SHOT. The CAMERA races out of a JUNGLE covering and into a huge CLEARING. High overhead a helicopter appears. Its blades whirl with a deafening whine. Long lines drop from its belly and dangle in mid-air. SOLDIERS leap up into the air reaching for them. The air is filled with turbulence. Tarps fly off dead bodies. SOLDIERS hold them down. Voices yell but the words are not clear. They are filled with urgency. The CAMERA leaves the ground. The edges of the sky disappear as the helicopter's gray mass fills the frame. It grows larger and darker as the CAMERA approaches. Rivets and insignias dotting the underbelly come into view. Suddenly the stretcher begins spinning, out of control. Hands emerge from inside, reaching out to grab it. Watery, womb-like sounds rise out of nowhere, the rippling of water, a heart beating. Gradually voices can be heard mumbling; distant sounds, warm and familiar. <b>INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT </b> JACOB's DOCTOR reaches down to help him out of the tub. Surprisingly JEZZIE and MRS. CARMICHAEL are standing there too. JACOB stares at them in total confusion. <b> DOCTOR </b> You are a lucky man, my friend. A lucky man. You must have friends in high places, that's all I can say. SAM and TONY appear next to the DOCTOR. They are extending their hands to the P.O.V. CAMERA. JACOB'S arms, nearly blue, reach out to them. Slowly they lift him from the icy water. JACOB takes one step onto the tile and collapses to the floor. <b> CUT TO BLACK: </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S BEDROOM - DAY </b> FADE IN sounds of feet shuffling across the carpet. A glass rattles on a tray. A television is on low in the background. Slowly the CAMERA LENS opens from JACOB's P.O.V. and we see JEZZIE puttering around the BEDROOM. Suddenly she is aware that JACOB is watching her. She smiles. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake. (she places her hand on his head and strokes his hair) You're gonna be all right, Jake. You're gonna be fine. <b> JACOB </b> Am I home? <b> JEZZIE </b> You're here. Home. The doctor said you're lucky your brains didn't boil. (she smiles) What a night, Jake. It was crazy. You kept sayin' "Sarah, close the window," over and over. And talkin' to your kids. Even the dead one. Weird. You know you melted 200 pounds of ice in 8 hours. Amazing, huh? <b> JACOB </b> Are we in Brooklyn? <b> JEZZIE </b> You're right here, Jake. You just rest. (she puffs up his pillow) The doctor said you had a virus. That's what they say when they don't know what it is. You can't do anything for a week. He says you gotta recuperate. (she strokes his forehead, and gets up) Now you just lie here. Mrs. Sandelman made you some chicken soup. It'll warm you up. JEZZIE leaves the room. JACOB watches her as she goes. He seems lost and confused. <b>INT. JACOB'S KITCHEN - DAY </b> JACOB, unshaven, wearing his bathrobe, is sitting at the KITCHEN TABLE. PILES OF BOOKS on demonology are spread out before him. He studies them to distraction. JEZZIE is standing by the counter making sandwiches. She wraps them in plastic Baggies and puts one in a lunch box, another in the refrigerator. She is dressed in her postal uniform. <b> JEZZIE </b> You know, you really ought to get out today. You can't just sit around like this all the time. It's not healthy. It's not good for your mind. Go take a walk, or somethin'. Go to a movie. Christ, who's gonna know? You think I care? I don't give a shit. Go. Enjoy yourself. One of us should be having a good time. (JEZZIE knocks on JACOB's head) Hello! Anybody home? (she looks in his ear) Anybody in there? <b> JACOB </b> What? JEZZIE just stares at him. She does not respond. JACOB returns to his books. CUT TO CLOSE UP IMAGES OF WINGED DEMONS, real demons, with spindly horns and long tails. JACOB's huge finger, magnified, scans page after page of ancient images and archaic text. JEZZIE, enraged at his lack of attention, returns to packing her lunch box. Suddenly she spins around. <b> JEZZIE </b> Goddamn it! I can't stand it anymore. I've had it up to here. Go ahead and rot if you want ... You son-of-a- bitch, I'm talking to you. CUT BACK to the DEMONS. Suddenly a crashing sound catches JACOB's attention as a KITCHEN POT flies by his head. He looks up to see JEZZIE knocking pots and pans off the kitchen counter and kicking them wildly across the room. The noise is terrible. The intensity of her rage is shocking. The pots crash into every surface, knocking all his books onto the floor. And then, suddenly, she stops. JEZZIE stoops down to the floor and picks up her sandwich, stuffs it back in its plastic Baggie, and puts it back in her lunch box. She is about to leave when she stops and looks at JACOB. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing, her anger in check) I made you a tuna fish sandwich. It's in the fridge. Eat a carrot with it. The aspirin's on the bottom shelf. We're out of soap so, if for some reason you decide to wash yourself again, use the dishwashing stuff. (she walks out of the room and returns with her coat) I'm sorry I yelled, but you get on my nerves. (she bends down and makes eye contact with <b> JACOB) </b> Hello? Listen, I gotta go. JEZZIE sits on his lap, gives him a big kiss, and then, unexpectedly, raises two fingers, like horns, over her head. The gesture catches JACOB's full attention. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Look, I'm horny. Keep it in mind. (she kisses his cheek) Love me a little? <b> JACOB </b> (speaking with affection) You are the most unbelievable woman I have ever met. One second you're a screaming banshee and the next you're Florence Nightingale. Who are you? That's what I want to know. Will the real Jezzie Pipkin please stand up. Suddenly the telephone rings. It startles them. <b> JEZZIE </b> Oh shit. Tell 'em I've left. JEZZIE grabs her jacket and shoves her arm in it upside down. A pocketful of change falls on the floor. JACOB smiles. JEZZIE curses as she struggles to pick it up and get the jacket on right. JACOB gets the phone. <b> JACOB </b> Hello. <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> Jacob Singer? <b> JACOB </b> Speaking. <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> Paul Gruneger! <b> JACOB </b> Paul Gruneger! Well I'll be goddamned! JACOB indicates it's for him. JEZZIE throws him a kiss goodbye and hurries out the door. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Paul! You son-of-a-bitch, how the hell are you? I haven't seen you in what, five, six, years? <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> A long time. <b> JACOB </b> Jesus Christ. How've you been? What's happening in your life? <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> Nothin' much. <b> JACOB </b> Me neither. Nothing too exciting. So tell me, to what do I owe the honor? <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> I need to see you, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> Shit, Paul. I'd love to see you. But I'm kind of laid up here. I've been sick. <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> I need to see you. <b>INT. PAUL'S CAR - DAY </b> JACOB and PAUL are driving through EAST NEW YORK heading toward WILLIAMSBURG. The elevated trains rumble above them. JACOB pats PAUL on the back. <b> JACOB </b> Jesus, man, you look terrific. You must have put on twenty pounds. <b> PAUL </b> I work in a bakery. <b> JACOB </b> You're lucky. How many vets you know are even employed? <b> PAUL </b> Count 'em on one hand. <b> JACOB </b> It's almost like a conspiracy, huh? <b> PAUL </b> No joke. Fuckin' army! That goddamn war. I'm still fightin' it. <b> JACOB </b> It's not worth it. You'll never win. <b> PAUL </b> You tellin' me? How many times can you die, huh? PAUL looks in his rear view mirror before changing lanes. He sees a black car tagging close behind him. He pulls out. So does the car. <b> PAUL </b> (continuing) Still married, Jake? <b> JACOB </b> Nope. <b> PAUL </b> You and everybody else. God I hate this area. Makes me nervous. <b> JACOB </b> Why the hell we drivin' here? <b> PAUL </b> I just need to talk. <b> JACOB </b> You can't talk in Brownsville? <b> PAUL </b> I'm not sure where I can talk anymore. <b> JACOB </b> What's wrong? <b> PAUL </b> Let's get a couple drinks, okay? (he looks at his rear view mirror) Hey, take a look behind us. Do you think that car is followin' us? <b> JACOB </b> (turning to look) That black car? <b> PAUL </b> Pull the mirror down on the sun visor. (JACOB does) Just watch 'em. <b> JACOB </b> What's goin' on Paul? <b> PAUL </b> I don't know. <b> JACOB </b> You in trouble? <b> PAUL </b> Yeah. JACOB notices PAUL's left arm. It is shaking. The black car passes on the left. Both PAUL and JACOB stare at it as it speeds by. <b>INT. BAR - DAY </b> JACOB and PAUL are sitting in a dark booth in an obscure WILLIAMSBURG BAR. It is nearly empty. PAUL is leaning across the table in a very intimate fashion. <b> PAUL </b> Somethin's wrong, Jake. I don't know what it is but I can't talk to anybody about it. I figured I could with you. You always used to listen, you know? JACOB nods. PAUL takes a sip of his drink and stares deliberately into JACOB's eyes. <b> PAUL </b> (continuing) I'm going to Hell! JACOB's face grows suddenly tense. <b> PAUL </b> (continuing) That's as straight as I can put it. And don't tell me that I'm crazy 'cause I know I'm not. I'm goin' to Hell. They're comin' after me. <b> JACOB </b> (frightened, but holding back) Who is? <b> PAUL </b> They've been followin' me. They're comin' outta the walls. I don't trust anyone. I'm not even sure I trust you. But I gotta talk to someone. I'm gonna fly outta my fuckin' mind. PAUL cannot contain his fear. He jumps up suddenly and walks away from the booth. JACOB follows him with his eyes but does not go after him. A YOUNG MAN in the next booth observes the scene with interest. He looks vaguely familiar, like we have seen him before. PAUL stares out the window for a moment and then walks over to the juke box. He pulls a quarter out of his pocket and drops it in the slot. His finger pushes a selection at random. Some '60's rock hit blares out. JACOB's mind is reeling by the time PAUL sits back down. <b> PAUL </b> (continuing) Sorry. Sometimes I think I'm just gonna jump outta my skin. They're just drivin' me wild. <b> JACOB </b> Who, Paul? What exactly ... ? <b> PAUL </b> I don't know who they are, or what they are. But they're gonna get me and I'm scared, Jake. I'm so scared I can't do anything. I can't go to my sisters. I can't even go home. <b> JACOB </b> Why not? <b> PAUL </b> They're waitin' for me, that's why. PAUL's hand starts to shake. The tremor spreads rapidly to his whole body. The booth begins to rattle. <b> PAUL </b> (continuing) I can't stop it. I try. Oh God! Help me Jake. JACOB slides quickly out of his side of the booth and moves in toward PAUL. He puts his arm around him and holds him tightly, offering comfort as best he can. PAUL is obviously terrified and grateful for JACOB's gesture. A few PEOPLE at the bar look over in their direction. <b> JACOB </b> It's okay, Paul. It's okay. <b> PAUL </b> (crying) I don't know what to do. <b> JACOB </b> Don't do anything. (PAUL begins to relax a bit and the shaking subsides) Paul, I know what you're talking about. <b> PAUL </b> What do you mean? <b> JACOB </b> I've seen them too ... the demons! <b> PAUL </b> (staring at JACOB) You've seen them? <b> JACOB </b> Everywhere, like a plague. <b> PAUL </b> God almighty. I thought I was the only one. <b> JACOB </b> Me, too. I had no idea. It's like I was coming apart at the seams. <b> PAUL </b> Oh God. I know. I know. <b> JACOB </b> What is it Paul? What's happening to me? <b> PAUL </b> They keep telling me I'm already dead, that they're gonna tear me apart, piece by piece, and throw me into the fire. (he fumbles in his coat pocket and pulls out a small Bible and silver cross) I carry these everywhere but they don't help. Nothing helps. Everyone thinks I'm crazy. My mother filed a report with the army. <b> JACOB </b> (stunned) The army? <b> PAUL </b> She said I haven't been the same since then. Since that night. There's still this big hole in my brain. It's so dark in there, Jake. And these creatures. It's like they're crawling out of my brain. What happened that night? Why won't they tell us? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. I don't know. <b> PAUL </b> They're monsters, Jake. We're both seein' 'em. There's gotta be a connection. Something. JACOB leans back in the booth, his mind racing. The YOUNG MAN in the next booth is watching them with rapt attention. <b>INT. MEN'S ROOM - DAY </b> PAUL and JACOB are in the MEN'S ROOM. PAUL flushes the urinal. <b> PAUL </b> I'm afraid to go by myself anymore. I keep thinkin' one of 'em's gonna come up behind me. Somethin's wrong when a guy can't even take a leak by himself. I've seen 'em take people right off the street. I used to go home a different way every night. Now I can't even go home. <b> JACOB </b> You come home with me. <b> PAUL </b> What about your girlfriend? You don't think she'll mind? <b> JACOB </b> Are you kidding? We've put up more of her cousins. You wouldn't believe how they breed down there. PAUL smiles. <b>EXT. BAR - DAY </b> The TWO MEN leave the bar on a dingy side street. It is cold outside. Christmas lights seem ludicrous dangling in the bar's front window. PAUL looks at them and smiles. <b> PAUL </b> Merry Christmas. PAUL steps into the street and walks to the driver's side of his car. He pulls out his keys and opens the door. JACOB looks down on the sidewalk and notices a dime. <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn, this is my lucky day. He bends down to pick it up. PAUL inserts the key into the ignition and steps on the gas. He turns the key. THE CAR EXPLODES. Pieces of metal and flesh fly into the air. JACOB sprawls out flat on the ground as the debris hurls above him. He covers his head. <b>EXT. VIETNAM </b> CUT TO A HELICOPTER suffering an air bombardment. Flack is exploding all around it and the shock waves are rocking the craft violently. JACOB's eyes peer to the left. INFANTRY GUNNERS are firing rockets into the JUNGLE below. A pair of MEDICS are huddled over him. A sudden gush of arterial bleeding sends a stream of blood splattering over the inside of the windshield. The PILOT, unable to see, clears it away with his hands. JACOB screams over the roar of the chopper. One of the MEDICS presses his ear close to JACOB to hear. <b> JACOB </b> Help me! <b> MEDIC </b> We're doing the best we can. <b> JACOB </b> Get me out of here! <b>EXT. BAR - DAY </b> THE YOUNG MAN from the bar grabs JACOB under the arms and drags him down the sidewalk. <b> YOUNG MAN </b> Just hold on. <b> JACOB </b> Where am I? Who are you? The YOUNG MAN yanks JACOB around the corner just as another explosion consumes the car. The air is filled with flames and flying debris. The YOUNG MAN pulls JACOB into the bar. <b> YOUNG MAN </b> Just lie still. You're okay. You're not hurt. The CUSTOMERS are in a state of bedlam. Part of the wall has blown apart and bricks and glass are everywhere. The cross from around PAUL's neck is buried in the debris. Sirens are heard in the distance. A BLACK CAR speeds off down the street. JACOB looks for the YOUNG MAN who had helped him. He is gone. <b>EXT. FUNERAL PROCESSION - DAY </b> A FUNERAL PROCESSION heads down Ocean Parkway. <b>INT. JACOB'S CAR - DAY </b> JACOB and JEZZIE are driving in an old Chevy Nova. They are dressed up. JACOB's face is bruised and he has a gauze pad over his ear. They drive in silence. JACOB appears very sad. Slowly his right hand reaches across the seat, seeking JEZZIE's. Their fingers embrace. <b>EXT. CEMETERY - DAY </b> The FUNERAL PROCESSION enters the CEMETERY. Cars park along the length of the narrow road. MEN IN DARK SUITS emerge from their cars along with WIVES and GIRLFRIENDS. They are the SOLDIERS we have seen at the opening of the film, only they are older now. A small group of FAMILY MEMBERS are helped to the graveside. JACOB joins the other VETERANS as pallbearers. They carry the casket in semi-military formation to the grave. <b>INT. PAUL'S LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> JACOB'S OLD ARMY BUDDIES are sitting together in Paul's living room, talking. PAUL'S WIFE can be seen in the BEDROOM. Several WOMEN are comforting her. JEZZIE is talking to a small group of LADIES in the DINING ROOM and nibbling off a tray of cold cuts. PAUL'S SISTER is with her and they seem to be having a lively, almost intimate, conversation. JACOB and his BUDDIES are drinking beer. They all have a tired, defeated look about them. <b> FRANK </b> Did anyone see the police report? It sounds like a detonation job to me. <b> JERRY </b> The paper said it was electrical; a freak accident. <b> ROD </b> Bullshit. Someone's covering somethin'. That was no accident. <b> GEORGE </b> Why do you say that? <b> ROD </b> Cars don't explode that way. Any simpleton knows that. <b> GEORGE </b> But the paper ... <b> ROD </b> That was set. I'm tellin' you. <b> DOUG </b> By who? Why? Paul didn't have an enemy in the world. <b> JERRY </b> How do you know? <b> DOUG </b> Hey, you're talkin' about Paul. Who'd want to hurt him? <b> FRANK </b> What did he talk about when you guys went out? Did he say anything? <b> JACOB </b> He was upset. He thought people were following him. <b> JERRY </b> You're kidding. Who? <b> JACOB </b> He didn't know ... Demons. <b> GEORGE </b> (obviously struck by the word) What do you mean, demons? <b> JACOB </b> He told me he was going to Hell. The statement has a surprising impact on the group. There is immediate silence and eyes averted from one another. <b> ROD </b> What'd he say that for? What made him say that? Strange, huh? Strange. <b> GEORGE </b> What else did he say, Jake? <b> JACOB </b> He was scared. He saw these creatures coming out of the woodwork. They were tryin' to get him, he said. <b> GEORGE </b> (his arm shaking) How long had that been going on? <b> JACOB </b> A couple of weeks, I think. He notices GEORGE's beer can rattling. <b> GEORGE </b> He say what they looked like? <b> JACOB </b> No. Not really ... <b> GEORGE </b> Excuse me a minute. I'll be right back. <b> ROD </b> In one end, out the other, huh George? GEORGE tries to smile as he hurries to the bathroom. His arm is nearly out of control and beer is spilling on the carpet as he walks. <b> ROD </b> (continuing) Still a spastic, huh? I hope you can hold your dick better than you hold that can. No one laughs. There is an uncomfortable silence. <b>EXT. A BACK ALLEY - DAY </b> The SIX MEN are walking quietly through an unpaved alley. It is already gray and getting darker. <b> DOUG </b> I know what Paul was talking about. I don't know how to say this ... but in a way it's a relief knowing that someone else saw them, too. <b> ROD </b> You're seeing ... ? <b> DOUG </b> They're not human, I'll tell you that. A car tried to run over me the other day. It was aiming straight for me. I saw their faces. They weren't from Brooklyn. <b> ROD </b> What are you tellin' me? They're from the Bronx? <b> DOUG </b> It was no joke, Rod. <b> JERRY </b> Something weird is going on here. What is it about us? Even in Nam it was always weird. Are we all crazy or something? <b> DOUG </b> Yeah, ever since that ... He hesitates. They all understand. <b> ROD </b> What's that have to do with anything? <b> FRANK </b> It was bad grass. That's all it was. <b> JERRY </b> Grass never did that to me. <b> DOUG </b> You know, I've been to three shrinks and a hypnotist. Nothing penetrates that night. Nothing. <b> ROD </b> It's not worth goin' over again and again. Whatever happened, happened. It's over. <b> JACOB </b> ... I've seen them, too. <b> ROD </b> Shit! <b> JERRY </b> So have I. <b> JACOB </b> Look, there's something fucking strange going on here. You know Paul's not the only one who's died. You remember Dr. Carlson over at Bellevue? His car blew up, too. <b> ROD </b> Dr. Carlson's dead? <b> JACOB </b> An explosion, just like Paul's. <b> JERRY </b> No! <b> FRANK </b> Jesus! <b> GEORGE </b> You think they're connected? <b> JACOB </b> (he nods) I think something's fucking connect- ed. I mean, a car tried to run me over the other day. Doug too, right? We've got six guys here going fucking crazy. <b> ROD </b> Not me, buddy. <b> JACOB </b> Okay, not you Rod. But the rest of us are flipping out for some goddamn reason. They're tryin' to kill us. Fuck it man, we need to find out what's going on. <b> DOUG </b> Do you think it has something to do with ... the offensive? <b> JACOB </b> It's got something to do with some- thing. I think we've got to confront the army. If they're hiding shit from us, we better find out what it is. <b> ROD </b> Come on, Professor. The army's not gonna give you any answers. You'll be buttin' your head against a stone wall. <b> JACOB </b> Maybe that's the only way to get through. Besides, six heads'll be better than one. <b> ROD </b> Not my head, buddy. Not me. I'm gettin' a headache just listenin' to you. <b> JACOB </b> We should get ourselves a lawyer. <b> ROD </b> I say you should get a shrink. <b> DOUG </b> Too late. I've tried. I think you're right, Jake. I'm game. <b> JERRY </b> Me, too. <b> ROD </b> You guys are fucking paranoid. It was bad grass. That's all it was. There's no such thing as demons. <b>INT. LAW OFFICE - DAY </b> JACOB, FRANK, JERRY, GEORGE, DOUG, and ROD are sitting on plush chairs in the LAW OFFICE of DONALD GEARY. GEARY, a red-faced man with three chins, is sucking on an ice cube. He looks at each of the men, and then spits the ice cube into an empty glass. It clinks. <b> GEARY </b> I'm sorry, Mr. Singer, but do you have any idea how many people come to me with the injustices of the world? It'd break your heart. <b> JACOB </b> This isn't injustice, Mr. Geary. The army did something to us and we've got to find out what. <b> GEARY </b> The army. The army. What is it with you guys? We're not talking about a trip to the library here. This is the United States Government for God's sake. This is red tape coming out of your ass. You know what I mean? <b> JACOB </b> Exactly. And we need someone to cut through it. We hear you're the man. <b> GEARY </b> Oh yeah? What am I - Perry Mason here? GEARY stands up and grabs a bag of Cheetos from a file drawer. He chomps down a few and offers the bag to the others. There are no takers. Thirsty, he downs the ice cube and cracks it between his teeth. <b> GEARY </b> (continuing) Okay. I'll look into it. The MEN are surprised and excited. <b> PAUL </b> Wow! Do you think we have a chance? <b> GEARY </b> What do you want, a fortune teller or a lawyer? ... I'll need sworn depositions from each of you and a list of the other members of the platoon, or their survivors. <b> DOUG </b> Hey, this is great. <b> GEARY </b> I'll tell you, if we find the military is implicated in any way, you could stand to recover quite a lot of money. Not that I can predict anything, but some class action suits of this kind have been awarded fairly generous judgements. That wouldn't be so bad, would it Mr. Singer? <b> JACOB </b> Doctor. (GEARY looks at him oddly) Ph.D. <b> GEARY </b> Ah! I thought you were a mailman. <b> JACOB </b> I am. <b> GEARY </b> (confused) Then why aren't you teaching? Why aren't you in a university? <b> JACOB </b> I'm too messed up to teach. <b> GEARY </b> (smiling) Ah! Well then, they're going to have to pay for that, aren't they? The MEN all nod in agreement. <b>EXT. OFFICE BUILDING - DAY </b> JACOB and the others exit the OFFICE BUILDING. They are jubilant, clasping hands and smacking each other on the back. We watch as they break up. JACOB heads for the subway. FRANK and another group hop a cab. As the cab pulls away we notice that a black car pulls out behind it. It follows them out of sight. <b>INT. JACOB'S KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> JACOB and JEZZIE are making wild and unadulterated love on the kitchen floor. The wastebasket flips over. JACOB's hand splashes into the dog's bowl. Nothing impedes their passion. JEZZIE laughs, hollers, and swoons. Hands grab hold of table legs. Chairs topple. Feet bang wildly against the stove. It is all mayhem and ecstacy. And then it ends. JACOB's face is ecstatic. He can barely talk and simply basks in JEZZIE's glow. She looks especially lovely and radiant. They lie exhausted and exhilarated on the linoleum floor. <b> JEZZIE </b> So tell me ... am I still an angel? <b> JACOB </b> (smiling broadly) With wings. You transport me, you know that? You carry me away. JEZZIE kisses him softly around his face and gently probes his ear with her pinky. JACOB loves it. <b> JEZZIE </b> We're all angels, you know ... (she bites his earlobe. He winces) ... and devils. It's just what you choose to see. <b> JACOB </b> I love you, Jez. <b> JEZZIE </b> I know. <b> JACOB </b> Underneath all the bullshit, just love. <b> JEZZIE </b> Remember that. <b> JACOB </b> You know what? I feel ... exorcised ... like the demons are gone. <b> JEZZIE </b> How come? The army? <b> JACOB </b> In a way. At least now I have some idea of what was happening. If we can only get them to admit ... to explain what they did ... I don't know. Maybe it'd clear things up in my head. I'll tell you something, Jez, honestly ... I thought they were real. Silence. Suddenly JEZZIE roars like a monster and scares JACOB half to death. They laugh and tumble back to the floor. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - EVENING </b> JACOB emerges from the bathroom shower and pulls on a robe. JEZZIE is moving rapidly around the KITCHEN. <b> JEZZIE </b> I put a frozen dinner in the oven, a Manhandler. It'll be ready at a quarter of. I threw a little salad together. It's in the fridge. I also bought some apple juice, Red Cheek. Don't drink it all. Oh, and Jake, your lawyer called. <b> JACOB </b> He did? When? <b> JEZZIE </b> (grabbing her coat) While you were in the shower. <b> JACOB </b> Why didn't you call me? <b> JEZZIE </b> He didn't give me a chance. (she pauses nervously) Look, honey, don't get upset, but he's not taking your case. <b> JACOB </b> (stunned) What? What do you mean? <b> JEZZIE </b> He said you didn't have one. <b> JACOB </b> What's he talking about? <b> JEZZIE </b> I don't know. That's all he said. He wasn't very friendly. Oh, yeah. He said your buddies backed down. They chickened out, he said. <b> JACOB </b> I don't believe this. <b> JEZZIE </b> Baby, I'm sorry. I feel terrible. I'd stay and talk but I'm so late. Look, don't be upset. We'll talk when I get home. See you around midnight. (she kisses him on the cheek) Bye. And don't brood. Watch T.V. or something. <b>JACOB'S APT./FRANK'S APT. - INTERCUT </b> The door slams securely. The locks set. JACOB begins instantly rifling through a desk drawer. He comes up with a frayed address book and looks up a number. He dials. <b> FRANK (V.O.) </b> Hello. <b> JACOB </b> Frank. It's Jake. Jacob SInger. We see FRANK standing at a window fingering the Venetian blinds. He does not reply. The scene intercuts between the two men. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Listen, I just got a strange call from Geary. He said the guys backed down. What's he talking about? <b> FRANK </b> (fingering the Venetian blinds) That's right. We did. <b> JACOB </b> What does that mean, Frank? I don't get it. Why? <b> FRANK </b> It's hard to explain. <b> JACOB </b> (angry) Well, try, huh. <b> FRANK </b> I don't know if I can. It's just that war is war. Things happen. <b> JACOB </b> Things happen? What the fuck are you talking about? They did something to us, Frank. We have to expose this. <b> FRANK </b> There's nothing to expose. <b> JACOB </b> Jesus Christ! Who's been talking to you? (silence) What's going on? How can you just turn away? (no response) What about the others? <b> FRANK </b> They're not interested, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> Shit! You know it's not half the case if I go it alone. We're all suffering the same symptoms, Frank. The army is to blame. They've done something to us. How can you not want to know? <b> FRANK </b> (pausing) Maybe it's not the army, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> What do you mean? <b> FRANK </b> Maybe there's a larger truth. <b> JACOB </b> What are you talking about? <b> FRANK </b> Maybe the demons are real. <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it. What kind of bullshit is that? <b> FRANK </b> Listen, Jake. I gotta go. <b> JACOB </b> What the hell? What kind of mumbo jumbo ... ? <b> FRANK </b> I'm hanging up. <b> JACOB </b> Hey, wait! <b> FRANK </b> Don't bother to call again, okay? FRANK hangs up. JACOB stands holding the phone for a long time, until the high pitched whine from the receiver reminds him it's off the hook. The sound frightens him and he slams the receiver down. QUickly JACOB tears through his address book looking for other phone numbers. They aren't there. <b> JACOB </b> Shit! <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. </b> JACOB hurries into the BEDROOM and pulls an old shoe box from the closet. The box is filled with yellowing army papers, dog tags, and photos of old comrades. Beneath his discharge papers he finds a sheet scribbled with the names and addresses of platoon buddies. JACOB grabs it. Then his eyes fall on the frayed remains of an old letter. He picks it up and unfolds it with great care. The letter is written in a child's handwriting. "DEAR DADDY, I LOVE YOU. PLEASE COME HOME. JED GOT <b>A FROG. ELI LOST MY KEY. MOM WANTS YOU TO SEND HER MONEY. LOVE, GABE." </b> <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. BROOKLYN SIDEWALK - DAY </b> GABE, on a BICYCLE, is rushing down the sidewalk. JACOB is running alongside him, holding onto the seat. Plastic streamers trail from the handlebars. GABE is a bit wobbly, but determined. After a couple of false starts, JACOB lets go and GABE is riding by himself. For an instant, GABE looks back at his father with a huge grin on his face. JACOB is grinning, too. THE CAMERA HOLDS ON GABE as he pulls away from us and heads into the distance. <b> CUT BACK TO: </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - NIGHT </b> JACOB swallows hard as he stands there, holding the letter. Suddenly his eyes lift off the page and glance at a full length mirror mounted on the bedroom door. Something in the mirror, like the image of a child, seems to move. He looks over. There is nothing there. Curious, JACOB walks toward the mirror. As his image appears, he gasps and stops moving. To his horror and ours, it is his own back that is reflected in the mirror. The impossibility of the moment startles him. He lifts his hand. The reflection moves with him. Frightened but defiant, JACOB moves toward the mirror. The image in the mirror spins around. It is the FRIGHTENING VIBRATING FACE he saw at the party with JEZZIE. An unearthly scream comes from both their mouths. <b> JACOB </b><b> NO!!! </b> <b>INT. BROOKLYN COURT HOUSE - LATE AFTERNOON </b> A huge wooden door slams open. JACOB charges through it. He is chasing his lawyer, DONALD GEARY, through a crowded court house corridor. GEARY, sweaty and unshaven, is cradling a Coke in one hand, a sandwich and a briefcase in the other. His stomach bounces wildly as he walks. <b> JACOB </b> Geary! Mr. Geary! Listen, goddamn it! You can't just walk away from this. GEARY keeps walking. JACOB catches up to him. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Who's been talking to you? The army? Have they been talking to you, huh? <b> GEARY </b> Nobody's been talking to nobody. You don't have a case, you hear me? It's pure and simple. Now leave me alone. Okay? JACOB grabs the back of GEARY's jacket and pulls him up short. <b> GEARY </b> (continuing) Take your hands off me! JACOB lets go. He stares into GEARY's eyes. <b> JACOB </b> Listen, will you listen? They're trying to get me. They're comin' out of the walls. The army's done something to me. I need you. <b> GEARY </b> You need ... a doctor. <b> JACOB </b> A doctor? And what's he gonna do, tell me I'm crazy? They've fucked with my head. I've got to prove it. You've got to do something. GEARY gives JACOB a pitiful look. <b> GEARY </b> There's nothing I can do. He turns and walks away. JACOB stands there a moment, and then rushes after him. GEARY is biting into his sandwich. Mayonnaise spills onto his hand. He licks it with his tongue. JACOB catches up to him. <b> GEARY </b> You mind? I'm eating, huh? <b> JACOB </b> Something's going on here. You're not telling me something. What the hell's gotten into you? <b> GEARY </b> I'll tell you what's gotten into me. I don't know you from Adam, right? You come to my office with this bizarro story and demand I look into it. Okay. I said I'd check it out and I did. Now I don't know what kind of fool you take me for, but you have used and abused me, and I don't like it. <b> JACOB </b> Used you? <b> GEARY </b> I talked to the Army's Bureau of Records. You've never even been to Viet Nam. <b> JACOB </b> What the hell is that supposed to mean? <b> GEARY </b> It means that you and your buddies are whacko, that you were discharged on psychological grounds after some war games in Thailand. <b> JACOB </b> (stunned) War games? Thailand? That's not true! How can you believe that? Can't you see what they're doing? It's all a lie. We were in Da Nang, for God's sake. You've got to believe me. <b> GEARY </b> I don't have to do any such thing. I'm eating my lunch, okay? GEARY takes a swig of his COKE and begins walking away. JACOB, enraged, charges after him. With a wild swipe he sends the COKE CAN shooting out of GEARY's hand. It reverberates down the corridor. GEARY is stunned. <b> JACOB </b> You slimy bastard! You goddamn piece of shit! With a powerful thrust, JACOB rips the sandwich from GEARY's other hand. Tossing it on the floor, he grinds his heel in it. Tomato and mayonnaise squirt onto GEARY's shoe. JACOB turns away. CUT TO JACOB walking down the COURT HOUSE CORRIDOR to the elevators. There is a look of satisfaction on his face. CUT BACK TO GEARY. He picks up a telephone and dials. Someone comes on the line. GEARY speaks quietly. <b> GEARY </b> He's on his way. CUT TO JACOB stepping onto the elevator. The doors close. The Muzak is playing "Sonny Boy" with Al Jolson singing. JACOB is surprised to hear it. He presses the down button for the main floor. The elevator stops at the LOBBY. The doors open swiftly. SEVERAL SOLDIERS are standing there. They approach JACOB. <b> SOLDIER 1 </b> Let's go, Singer. JACOB is shocked to see them. He tries to get away but two of the SOLDIERS yank him toward the LOBBY doors. <b> SOLDIER 2 </b> You're coming with us. <b>INT. CAR - LATE AFTERNOON </b> JACOB is hustled to a waiting car and shoved inside, in between two officious looking MEN. The doors lock from the DRIVER's command. <b> ARMY OFFICIAL #1 </b> Mr. Singer. What an appropriate name for a man who can't keep his mouth shut. The car drives off. <b> JACOB </b> Who are you? What do you want? <b> ARMY OFFICIAL #2 </b> We've been watching you for a long time. You and your friends. You've been exhibiting some very odd behavior. Frightening people with foolish talk about demons - and experiments. JACOB tries to speak but the other MAN grabs his mouth. <b> ARMY OFFICIAL #1 </b> You're in over your head, Mr. Singer. Men drown that way. The army was another part of your life. Forget it. It is dead and buried. Let it lie. <b> ARMY OFFICIAL #2 </b> I hope we have made our point, Mr. Singer. JACOB stares at the men for a moment and then goes totally berserk. Letting out a howl, he begins pounding and thrashing like a madman. He is totally out of control. With a wild leap, he grabs for the door handle. The door flies open. It flaps back and forth, slamming into parked cars. JACOB tries to jump out, but the men yank him back in. One of them pulls out a gun. JACOB sees it and goes crazy. His feet kick in all directions, slamming the DRIVER's nose into the steering wheel and shattering the side window. The car careens around a corner sending the gun flying to the floor. The men dive for it. It lodges beneath the seat. In the mayhem, JACOB throws himself out of the flapping door and sprawls onto the pavement. People look down at him as the car speeds away. <b>EXT. BROOKLYN - LATE AFTERNOON </b> JACOB grabs his back. He is in excruciating pain. He tries to get up, but can't move. He reaches out to people passing by, but they ignore him and hurry past. A SALVATION ARMY SANTA has been watching the entire scene. After a moment's consideration he leaves his post and ambles over to JACOB. He leans down and steals his wallet. <b> SANTA </b> Merry Christmas. <b>EXT. BROOKLYN STREETS - EVENING </b> CUT TO THE SOUND OF A SIREN as an AMBULANCE races through the streets. <b>INT. HOSPITAL - EVENING </b> AN AMBULANCE CREW rushes JACOB to a HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM. <b> BEARER </b> He's been screaming like a madman. You better get something in him. <b> RESIDENT </b> (approaching JACOB) Hi. I'm Doctor Stewart. Can you tell me what happened? <b> JACOB </b> My back. I can't move. I need my chiropractor. <b> RESIDENT </b> Your back? Did you fall? <b> BEARER </b> They said he slipped on the ice. May have hit his head. <b> ATTENDANT </b> Does he have any identification? <b> BEARER </b> No waller. Nothing. <b> JACOB </b> They stole it. <b> RESIDENT </b> Who did? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. Santa Claus. I had my son's picture in it. Gabe's picture. It's the only one I had. <b> RESIDENT </b> We better get an orthopedic man in here. Is Dr. Davis on call? <b> NURSE </b> I'll page him. <b> JACOB </b> Call my chiropractor. <b> NURSE </b> We're doing everything we can. <b> JACOB </b> Louis Schwartz. Nostrand Avenue. <b> RESIDENT </b> I'm going to have to move you a bit, just to check for injuries. This may hurt a little. <b> JACOB </b> No. Don't move me. The RESIDENT ignores him. JACOB screams. <b> RESIDENT </b> I don't have to ask if you can feel that. <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it. I want Louis. <b> NURSE </b> Who's Louis? <b> RESIDENT </b> He's out of it. I'm taking him down to X-ray. An ORDERLY pushes the gurney through a pair of sliding doors. JACOB tries to get up but the pain keeps him immobilized. <b>INT. CORRIDORS - NIGHT </b> JACOB begins a journey down what appears to be an endless series of corridors. The wheels of the gurney turn with a hypnotic regularity. The smooth tile floor gives way to roguh cement. The ORDERLY's feet plod through pools of blood that coagulate in cracks and crevices along the way. The surface grows rougher, the wheels more insistent. Body parts and human bile splash against the walls as the gurney moves faster. <b> JACOB </b> Where are you taking me? Where am I? <b> ORDERLY </b> You know where you are. JACOB, panicked, tries again to get up but to no effect. He glances to the side and sees mournful CREATURES being led into dark rooms. No one fights or struggles. We hear muffled screams from behind closed doors. Occasionally he glances inside the rooms and sees mangled bodies in strange contraptions, people in rusty iron lungs, and hanging from metal cages. Dark eyes peer out in horror. In one room a baseboard heater bursts into flame. No one seems concerned. A door opens. A bicycle with plastic streamers on the handlebars lies crushed and mangled. One of its wheels is still spinning. JACOB cries out but it is not his voice we hear. Rather it is a familiar unearthly roar. His whole body stiffens. As he rounds the corner he sees a figure, its head vibrating in endless terror. it is the same image he has seen before. JACOB screams. <b>INT. ROOM - NIGHT </b> JACOB is wheeled into a tiny ROOM. A numer of "DOCTORS" are waiting. As they draw closer JACOB notices that something about them is not right. They bear a subtle resemblance to Bosch-like DEMONS, creatures of another world. JACOB tries to sit up but winces in pain. He cannot move. He tries to scream but no sound comes out. Chains and pulleys hang from the ceiling. They are lowered and attached with speed and efficiency to JACOB's arms and legs. He screams. <b> JACOB </b> Oh God! The "DOCTORS" laugh. There is the sound of a huge door closing. JACOB is left in semi-darkness. Suddenly a new group of "DOCTORS" emerges from the shadows. They are carrying sharp surgical instruments. They surround JACOB, their eyes glistening as bright as their blades. JACOB is panting and sweating in fear. One of the "DOCTORS" leans over JACOB. He gasps with horror. It is JEZZIE. <b> JACOB </b><b> JEZZIE! </b> She pays no attention to him. He stares at her, THE CAMERA TILTING DOWN HER BODY. As it gets to her foot we see it is a decaying mass, swarming with maggots. The "DOCTORS" laugh. They take great pleasure in his suffering. Their voices are strange and not human. Each utterance contains a multitude of contradictory tones, sincere and compassionate, taunting and mocking at the same time. The confusion of meanings is a torment of its own. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Get me out of here. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> Where do you want to go? <b> JACOB </b> Take me home. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> Home? (they all laugh) This is your home. You're dead. <b> JACOB </b> Dead? No. I just hurt my back. I'm not dead. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> What are you then? <b> JACOB </b> I'm alive. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> Then what are you doing here? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. I don't know. (he struggles like an animal) This isn't happening. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> What isn't happening? <b> JACOB </b> Let me out of here! <b> "DOCTOR" </b> There is no out of here. You've been killed. Don't you remember? A "DOCTOR" approaches JACOB. As he turns, we notice with horror that he has no eyes or eye sockets. He extracts a long needle from his belt and positions it over JACOB's head. Like a divining rod it locates a particular point near the crown of his head. With a powerful thrust the "DOCTOR" shoves the needle into JACOB's skull and pushes it slowly into his brain. JACOB howls. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> CUT RAPIDLY TO VIETNAM and a replay of flashes of the opening sequence of the film. SOLDIERS with bayonets are charging over rice paddies in the dark of the night. ONE OF THE SOLDIERS charges at JACOB with a long bayonet blade and jams it into his intestines. JACOB cries out. <b>INT. ROOM - NIGHT </b> <b>CUT BACK TO THE "DOCTORS". </b> <b> "DOCTOR" </b> Remember? <b> JACOB </b> No! That was years ago! I've lived years since then. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> It's all been a dream. <b> JACOB </b> No! The army did this to me! They've done something to my brain. (he raves like a madman) Jezzie! I want my boys! Sarah! I'm not dead! I want my family! The "DOCTORS" laugh and back away, disappearing into the darkness. <b>INT. HOSPITAL - NIGHT </b> Suddenly a fluorescent light flashes overhead. NORMAL HOSPITAL WALLS materialize instantaneously around him. A NURSE enters the room followed by SARAH, ELI, and JED. They approach JACOB who is lying in traction, suspended over a hospital bed. <b> NURSE </b> He's still pretty doped up. I don't think he'll be able to talk yet and I doubt that he'll recognize you. <b> SARAH </b> I just want to see him. <b> JED </b> (eating a Snickers bar) Dad. Hi. It's us. We just found out. <b> ELI </b> You look terrible. Does that hurt? <b> NURSE </b> I'll be outside if you need me. <b> SARAH </b> Jake. It's me. We heard what happened. <b> JACOB </b> (his voice hoarse, nearly whispering) I'm not dead. I am not dead. <b> SARAH </b> No. Of course you're not. You've just hurt your back. That's all. You're going to be fine. It'll just take some time. <b> JED </b> A month, they said. <b> ELI </b> (trying to joke) You just hang in there, Dad. <b> SARAH </b> (smacking him) That's not funny. (she reaches over and rubs JACOB's brow) What a mess, huh? God I wish there was something I could do. I love you, Jacob. For whatever that's worth. I do. There is a sudden sound of "DOCTORS" laughing. JACOB jerks his head painfully, but does not see them. <b> "DOCTOR" (O.S.) </b> Dream on! <b> JACOB </b> (yelling at the unseen voice) No! Oh God. <b> SARAH </b> Jacob, what can I do? <b> JACOB </b> Save me! JACOB's plea confuses SARAH. She responds with a kiss. <b>INT. HOSPITAL - DAY </b> DAYLIGHT streams through the window in JACOB's ROOM. He is still in traction and looks very uncomfortable. A new NURSE enters holding a plastic container with a straw poking out. <b> NURSE </b> Well, don't we look better this morning? That was a hard night, wasn't it? <b> JACOB </b> Where am I? <b> NURSE </b> Lennox Hospital. <b> JACOB </b> I'm awake? <b> NURSE </b> You look awake to me. Here. (she holds the straw to his lips) Drink some of this. <b> JACOB </b> (staring at her intently) Where's Sarah? Where did she go? (the NURSE gives him a strange look) She was here ... <b> NURSE </b> No. No. You haven't had any visitors. <b> JACOB </b> That's a lie. My family was here. <b> NURSE </b> I'm sorry. <b> JACOB </b> Last night! They were as real as you are! The NURSE smiles and nods in appeasement. <b> JACOB </b> This is not a dream! This is my life. <b> NURSE </b> Of course it is. What else could it be? She giggles nervously. There is a funny glint in her eyes. JACOB looks away. He doesn't want to see it. <b>OMIT </b> <b>INT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - EVENING </b> There is a loud commotion in the HALL. We see LOUIS SCHWARTZ, JACOB's chiropractor, screaming JACOB's name. <b> LOUIS </b> Jacob! Jacob Singer! JACOB yells. <b> JACOB </b> Louis! I'm here! In here! <b>INT. JACOB'S ROOM - DAY </b> LOUIS storms through JACOB's door followed by several NURSES and <b>ORDERLIES. </b> <b> JACOB </b><b> LOUIS! </b> <b> NURSE 1 </b> You can't go in there! <b> ORDERLY </b> You're going to have to leave. LOUIS stares furiously at JACOB stretched out on the traction apparatus. He begins to yell. <b> LOUIS </b> Good God, Jake. What have they done? (he examines JACOB and screams at the NURSES) What is this, the Middle Ages? And they call this modern medicine. This is barbaric! Barbaric! (turning to JACOB) It's okay, Jake. It's not serious. I'll get you out of here. (yelling at the ORDERLY) What is this, the Inquisition? Why don't you just burn him at the stake and put him out of his misery? LOUIS charges over to the traction equipment and begins working the pulleys that suspend JACOB over the bed. The NURSES and ORDERLIES become instantly hysterical and start screaming. <b> ORDERLY </b> What the hell do you think ... ? <b> LOUIS </b> Don't you come near me. <b> NURSE 2 </b> You can't do that! <b> LOUIS </b> What is this, a prison? Stay back. <b> NURSE 1 </b> You can't. Call the police. One of the ORDERLIES lunges at LOUIS who swings back at him with one of the pulley chains. It just misses. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the ORDERLIES) You take one step and I'll wrap this around your neck. LOUIS lowers JACOB into a wheelchair while holding the others at bay. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) Hold on, Jake, we're getting out of here. NURSES and ORDERLIES part as he pushes him quickly from the room. <b>OMIT </b> <b>INT. CHIROPRACTIC OFFICE - EVENING </b> LOUIS helps JACOB over to an adjusting table in a room that, compared with the hospital, is comfortable and serene. He pushes a lever and the table rises to a vertical position. JACOB leans against it and rides it down to a horizontal position. Every moment is agony for him. <b> LOUIS </b> Half an hour from now and you'll be walking out of here all by yourself. Mark my words. (JACOB barely hears them) Well, you've done it to yourself this time, haven't you? <b> JACOB </b> (nearly whispering) Am I dead, Louis? (LOUIS leans over to hear) Am I dead? <b> LOUIS </b> (smiling) From a slipped disc? That'd be a first. <b> JACOB </b> I was in Hell. I've been there. It's horrible. I don't want to die, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> Well, I'll see what I can do about it. <b> JACOB </b> I've seen it. It's all pain. <b> LOUIS </b> (working on JACOB's spine like a master mechanic) You ever read Meister Eckart? (JACOB shakes his head "no") How did you ever get your Doctorate without reading Eckart? (LOUIS takes hold of JACOB's legs and yanks them swiftly) Good. Okay, let's turn over gently. Right side. JACOB turns to his left. LOUIS shakes his head in dismay. <b> LOUIS </b> The other "right," okay? (he helps JACOB turn over) You're a regular basket case, you know that? (he moves JACOB's arm over his head) Eckart saw Hell, too. LOUIS positions JACOB's other arm, bends his legs, and then pushes down on his thigh. His spine moves with a cracking sound. JACOB groans. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) You know what he said? The only thing that burns in Hell is the part of you that won't let go of your life; your memories, your attachments. They burn 'em all away. But they're not punish- ing you, he said. They're freeing your soul. Okay, other side. He helps JACOB and repositions him. Again he pushes and the spine cracks. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) Wonderful. So the way he sees it, if you're frightened of dying and hold- ing on, you'll see devils tearing your life away. But if you've made your peace then the devils are really angels freeing you from the earth. It's just a matter of how you look at it, that's all. So don't worry, okay? Relax. Wiggle your toes. JACOB's toes dance as LOUIS gives him a quick, unexpected jab to the lower vertebrae in his back. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) Perfect. We got it. (LOUIS pushes a lever and the table rises back up) Okay. Let's just give it a little try. See if you can stand. <b> JACOB </b> What? By myself? <b> LOUIS </b> You can do it. Come on. Easy. Just give it a try. JACOB steps cautiously away from the table. He moves hesitantly, with deliberate restraint. LOUIS encourages him like a faith healer coaxing the lame. His first steps have an aura of the miraculous about them. JACOB walks slowly, without help. LOUIS smiles impishly. He looks like a giant cherub. <b> LOUIS </b> Hallelujah. LOUIS puts his arm around him. Then JACOB tries again, gradually rediscovering his balance and strength. With each step his confidence returns. LOUIS is pleased. Then, suddenly, without warning, JACOB turns and heads toward the door. <b> LOUIS </b> What are you doing? <b> JACOB </b> There's something I've gotta take care of, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> What are you talking about? You can barely stand. <b> JACOB </b> I'm walking, aren't I? <b> LOUIS </b> Jake, you need to rest. <b> JACOB </b> Not tonight, Louis. No more rest. He walks slowly out the door. LOUIS starts to go after him. JACOB turns around and shakes his head "no." The look on his face is firm and defiant. LOUIS stands back and lets him go. <b> JACOB </b> I love you, Louis. <b>EXT. U.S. ARMY RECRUITING HEADQUARTERS - NIGHT </b> CUT TO A SDIREN BLARING and a fire engine racing through the streets of lower MANHATTAN. A CROWD is forming. Banks of lights and television cameras amass in the cold night air. Police cars and mobile units rush to the scene. CUT TO JACOB. In one hand he is holding a brightly lit torch. In the other he is holding a container of gasoline and pouring it on the steps of the U.S. ARMY RECRUITING HEADQUARTERS. The volatile liquid splashes against his pants and shoes and runs down the pavement. A five gallon container lies emptying nearby. Gasoline belches from it insistently and pours onto the street. Bystanders back away as the gasoline snakes toward them. Television cameras and microphones are pointing in JACOB's direction, but at a safe distance. He is yelling at them, his teeth chattering from the cold. <b> JACOB </b> Listen to me. There were four companies in our batallion. Five hundred men. Seven of us were left when it was over. Seven! Four companies engaged in an enemy offensive that not one of us who survived can remember fighting. <b> BYSTANDERS </b> Use the torch! <b> ONLOOKER </b> Shut up! Let him talk! POLICE AMBULANCES are arriving at the scene. FIREMEN ready hoses at nearby hydrants. T.V. CAMERAS are rolling. <b> JACOB </b> (shouting) You don't forget a battle where 500 men were killed. They did something to us. I want to know the truth, the goddamn truth. We have a right to know. (he yells toward the cameras) Are you getting all this? I want this on national T.V. I want the whole country, the whole world to know. He holds up the torch. A loudspeaker blares through the crowd. <b> VOICE </b> Throw that torch away, young man. Give yourself up. You're under arrest. <b> JACOB </b> For what? For seeking the truth? <b> VOICE </b> Please come quietly. <b> JACOB </b> You come near me and I'll blow us all up. <b> VOICE </b> We're not going to hurt you. <b> ONLOOKER </b> Give him a chance to talk! <b> JACOB </b> The army will deny it. They've falsified my records. They've lied to my lawyer, threatened my buddies. But they can't threaten me. <b> BYSTANDER </b> You tell 'em! <b> BYSTANDER </b> Use the torch! <b> VOICE </b> Okay, let's clear the area. Everyone out. Suddenly a lighted match flies in JACOB's direction. JACOB is enraged. He brandishes the torch at the crowd. <b> JACOB </b> What the fuck do you think you're doing? Another match hurls toward him and dies in mid-air. PEOPLE on the fringe of the crowd begin to run. JACOB does not move. <b> VOICE </b> Clear the area. This is an order! <b> JACOB </b> What is wrong with you? We hear laughter from PEOPLE in the crowd. As JACOB looks out into some of their eyes he sees demons looking back. One of them throws another match. Crazed, JACOB runs toward them. PEOPLE jump back. Suddenly JACOB freezes. Standing on the sidelines, he sees one of the ARMY OFFICIALS who trapped him in the car. He is reaching for a gun. JACOB, stunned, yells at the top of hhis lungs. <b> JACOB </b><b> NO! </b> With a defiant roar, he hurls the torch straight up into the air. We see it from high above the crowd spinning higher and higher. All eyes stare upward watching it in a kind of wonder. Then, reaching its apex, just below the camera, it begins its descent. The eyes of the crowd turn to fear. SOMEONE yells. <b> ONLOOKER </b> He'll burn us all! Screams fill the air as PEOPLE scramble to escape the potential conflagration. Only JACOB remains motionless, standing silently, almost heroically, in the middle of it all. Suddenly the torch hits the ground and a pool of gasoline ignites with a blinding flare that sends flames shooting in all directions. PEOPLE panic. T.V. REPORTERS and CAMERAMEN run for their lives. The ARMY OFFICIALS run, too. The flames travel toward the Army Headquarters and rush along the curb. Water hoses are trying to douse them as they spread. JACOB, surprisingly untouched by the fire, walks slowly through the frightened crowds, as if in a daze. Viewed through the flames the scene momentarily resembles a vision of Hell. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - NIGHT </b> JACOB, stark naked and covered with goose bumps, runs his hands under a shower spray. The water is freezing and taking forever to warm up. Anxious, he dashes past his gasoline drenched clothes, grabs a suitcase from the BEDROOM closet, and stuffs it with clothes. Then he hurries back to the shower, tests it, and jumps in. Lather covers JACOB's hair and hangs over his tightly closed eyes. His entire body is covered in suds. He is washing as quickly as he can. Suddenly he hears a noise as someone enters the BATHROOM. He tenses. <b> JACOB </b> Who's there? Who is it? JACOB struggles to rinse the soap from his eyes. They are burning. There is a shadow behind the curtain. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Goddamn it! Who's there? JACOB rubs his eyes, fighting to see. Suddenly the shower curtain is thrown back. JACOB backs against the wall. A hand reaches in and pulls his nipple, pinching hard. <b> JEZZIE </b> It's just me. <b> JACOB </b> Jezzie? <b> JEZZIE </b> Who else were you expecting? <b> JACOB </b> Let go! <b> JEZZIE </b> Where were you, Jake? Where've you been? Why haven't you called? <b> JACOB </b> Stay away from me, Jez. <b> JEZZIE </b> I want to know. You tell me! <b> JACOB </b> You wanna know? Turn on the T.V. Watch the fucking news! He pushes her away and jumps out of the shower. CUT TO JACOB dressing and piling the last of his clothes into his suitcase. JEZZIE, in a robe, is watching him. <b> JEZZIE </b> Why are you doing this to me? You can't just go away like that. <b> JACOB </b> I can do anything I want. She stares at him with confusion. THE PHONE RINGS. <b> JACOB </b> Don't! <b> JEZZIE </b> It might be for me. <b> JACOB </b> I'm not here. You haven't seen me. <b> JEZZIE </b> (picking up the receiver) Hello ... No. He's not here. I haven't seen him all night ... I don't know when ... What? Tell him what? (JACOB looks up) Vietnam? ... What experiments? JACOB lunges for the phone. <b> JACOB </b> Hello. This is Jacob Singer. (he listens with growing fascination) God almighty! ... Yes. Yes. Right. Where would you like to meet? (he listens) How will I know you. (JACOB seems uncomfortable) Okay. I'll be there. He hangs up the phone and stands silently for a moment. <b> JEZZIE </b> Who was that? <b> JACOB </b> A chemist. Part of a chemical warfare unit out of Saigon. He said he knows me and that I'll know him when I see him. <b> JEZZIE </b> How? <b> JACOB </b> I have no idea. (he thinks) I was right. There were experiments. I knew it. I knew it. My God. <b> JEZZIE </b> How do you know he's telling the truth? JACOB stares at JEZZIE for several moments but does not respond. The 11:00 NEWS is coming on. JACOB's image can be seen on the screen. We hear the NEWSCASTER speaking. <b> NEWSCASTER </b> Leading the news tonight, a bizarre demonstration on the steps of the U.S. Army Recruiting Headquarters, in downtown Manhattan. Jacob Singer, an alleged Vietnam vet ... <b> JACOB </b> Alleged? Alleged? <b> NEWSCASTER </b> ... challenged the United States Army to admit conducting secret experi- ments involving hundreds of American soldiers during the Vietnam war. JEZZIE stares at the T.V., dumbfounded. JACOB takes his suitcase and hurries to the front door. He opens it a crack and peers into the hallway. JEZZIE runs after him. <b> JEZZIE </b> (almost threatening) Don't leave me, Jake. <b>INT. BUILDING CORRIDOR - NIGHT </b> JACOB gazes at JEZZIE for a moment and then hurries down the HALL. He stops at the stairwell and looks back. JEZZIE is still standing there. She is very angry. JACOB just stares at her for a moment and then disappears down the stairwell. <b>EXT. WESTSIDE HIGHWAY - NIGHT </b> JACOB is standing near the WESTSIDE HIGHWAY. GROUPS OF MEN in black leather jackets are crusing the area and look at JACOB with curiosity. One MAN in particular cruises by several times and then approaches him. <b> MICHAEL </b> Jacob? Hi. I'm Michael Newman. Friends call me Mike. JACOB is startled when he sees him. He is the same YOUNG MAN who has appeared throughout the film, assisting JACOB in moments of crisis. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) Surprised, huh? I told you you'd know me. I've been tracking you for a long time. I just wish I'd spoken to you before tonight. <b> JACOB </b> I don't get it. Who are you? Why have you been following me? <b> MICHAEL </b> Observation, mainly. Clinical study. You were one of the survivors. A POLICE CAR passes them on the street. MICHAEL grabs JACOB's shoulder and turns him away nervously. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) Come on, we're not safe around here. <b>HUDSON RIVER PIER - NIGHT </b> JACOB and MICHAEL are sitting on a deserted WEST SIDE PIER that juts into the Hudson River. JACOB is wide-eyed as he listens to MICHAEL's story. <b> MICHAEL </b> So first I'm arrested, right? Best LSD I ever made, right down the drain. I figure this is it, twenty years in the joint, if I'm lucky. That was '68. <b> JACOB </b> Long time ago. <b> MICHAEL </b> (nodding his head) Next thing I know I'm on Rikers Island. Ever been there? (JACOB shakes his head) Suddenly they take me from my cell to the visitors room with those bank teller windows, you know. Four army colonels, medals up their asses, are standing on the other side. They tell me if I'll come to Vietnam for two years, no action, mind you, just work in a lab, they'll drop all the charges and wipe the record clean. Well, I'd only been in jail for thirteen hours and I already knew that Nam couldn't be any worse. <b> JACOB </b> Shows how much you knew. <b> MICHAEL </b> No shit. They had me by the balls. Next thing I know I'm in Saigon ... in a secret lab synthesizing mind- altering drugs. Not the street stuff mind you. They had us isolating special properties. The dark side, you know? They wanted a drug that increased aggressive tendencies. <b> JACOB </b> Yeah, sure. We were losing the war. <b> MICHAEL </b> Right. They were worried. They figured you guys were too soft. They wanted something to stir you up, tap into your anger, you know? And we did it. The most powerful thing I ever saw. Even a bad trip, and I had my share, never compared to the fury of the Ladder. <b> JACOB </b> The Ladder? <b> MICHAEL </b> That's what they called it. A fast trip right down the ladder. (he makes a downward dive with his hand) Right to the primal fear, the base anger. I'm tellin' you, it was powerful stuff. But I don't need to tell you. You know. JACOB can barely catch his breath, the information he is receiving is so powerful to his mind. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) We did experiments on jungle monkeys. They bashed each other's heads in, gouged out their eyes, chewed off their tails. The brass loved it. Then they made us try it on Charlie. (he pauses) They took these POW's, just kids really, and put 'em in a courtyard. We fed 'em huge doses of the stuff. (he stops for a moment; a tear rolls down his cheek) They were worse than the monkeys. I never knew men could do such things. The whole thing still blows me away. MICHAEL stands up and begins walking in circles around the PIER. JACOB, astounded, gets up and walks beside him. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) Anyway, this big offensive was coming up. Everyone knew it; Time Magazine, Huntley-Brinkley. And the brass was scared 'cause they knew we couldn't win. Morale was down. It was gettin' ugly in the States. Hell, you remember. <b> JACOB </b> Like it was yesterday. <b> MICHAEL </b> A couple days later they decided to use the Ladder, on one test battalion. Yours. Just in an infintessimal dose in the food supply, to prove its effectiveness in the field. They were sure your unit would have the highest kill ratio in the whole goddamn offensive. And you did, too. But not the way they tnought. JACOB is beginning to shake. MICHAEL pulls a container of pills out of his jacket pocket. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) Hey, want something to calm you down? Made 'em myself. JACOB shakes his head no. <b> JACOB </b> None of us can remember that night. I get flashes of it but they don't make sense. We saw shrinks for years. But nothing they did could ever touch it. What happened? Was there ever an offensive? <b> MICHAEL </b> A couple of days later. It was fierce. You guys never saw it. <b> JACOB </b> But there was an attack. I can still see them coming. There was a fight, wasn't there? <b> MICHAEL </b> Yeah. But not with the Cong. <b> JACOB </b> Who then? He hesitates, obviously uncomfortable. His eyes grow puffy. He looks at the river for a moment and then turns to JACOB. <b> MICHAEL </b> You killed each other. JACOB's mouth drops open. The words hit him like a truck. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> Gunfire explodes in the darkening sky. We are in Vietnam. JACOB is at the bottom of a trench fighting with FRANK. Chaos surrounds them. Men are screaming. The ENEMY is storming at them from the rear. ROD raises his bayonet and jams it into the belly of his ATTACKER. It is only after a series of jabs that he sees it's another American he's killed. ROD's eyes go blank with confusion and terror. <b> ROD </b> Oh my God! WHAT'S HAPPENING? JACOB looks up from the trench and sees a continuing wave of AMERICAN SOLDIERS bearing down on them. FRANK jumps up, knocking JACOB to the ground and slamming his rifle into JACOB's back. As he spins around JACOB sees another SOLDIER charging at him. His bayonet is aimed at JACOB's stomach. For the first time JACOB remembers the face of his attacker. He is a YOUNG MAN, about 19 years old, clean cut, wearing glasses. The two men stare at each other in terrible confusion. It seems like a moment out of time. And then the SOLDIER lurches forward and rams his bayonet deep into JACOB's abdomen. CUT TO MICHAEL BACK ON THE PIER. JACOB is ashen-faced. <b> MICHAEL </b> It was brother against brother. No discrimination. You tore each other to pieces. I knew it would happen. I warned them. I WARNED THEM. But I was just a hippie chemist, right? Jesus! And I helped 'em make the stuff ... I talked to the guys who bagged the bodies. They're in worse shape than you, believe me. They saw what was left. It's a blessing you don't remember. Of course the brass covered the whole thing up right away. Blamed it all on a surprise attack. he pauses) I needed to find you. The Ladder was my baby. Tears start flowing down MICHAEL's face. He wipes them with his sleeve. It takes him a moment to regain his composure. JACOB is shivering. MICHAEL takes off his jacket, drapes it over JACOB, and leads him to the wooden planks overhanging the water. They sit and gaze at the <b>JERSEY SHORE. </b> CUT TO A WIDE SHOT OF MICHAEL AND JACOB in pre-dawn light. <b> MICHAEL </b> I always suspected the effects might come back. That's why I had to follow you. I had a hell of a time getting hold of your records. <b> JACOB </b> If you knew, why didn't you say anything? <b> MICHAEL </b> The truth can kill, my friend. Five hundred men died out there. This isn't a story they'd ever want out. When Paul's car blew up I realized the scope of the thing. I knew they meant business. <b> JACOB </b> So why tell me now? <b> MICHAEL </b> Because I can get rid of the demons. I can block the Ladder. I have an antidote. We can kill them off, chemically speaking. They'll all disappear. It's chemistry, my friend. I know. I created it. Come with me. I can help. <b>INT. HOTEL - DAWM </b> JACOB and MICHAEL enter a sleazy HOTEL near the docks, obviously frequented by a gay clientele. JACOB is uncomfortable as they check in. MICHAEL, however, seems to know the ropes. They go to a small room. <b> JACOB </b> You come here often? <b> MICHAEL </b> Sometimes. When it's convenient. <b> JACOB </b> How do I know this isn't just some kind of, you know, seduction or something? <b> MICHAEL </b> Hey, I'm not the problem. You've got bigger problems than me. MICHAEL reaches into his pocket and casually extracts a vial. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) I came up with the formula back in Nam but I never got a chance to use it. <b> JACOB </b> Never? <b> MICHAEL </b> I'd hoped I'd never have to. Just open your mouth and stick out your tongue. <b> JACOB </b> What is it? <b> MICHAEL </b> Don't worry. Take it. It'll free your head. Come on. <b> JACOB </b> (fearful) I don't know. <b> MICHAEL </b> "Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil," but no one ever said I wouldn't be shittin' in my pants every step of the way, huh? (JACOB smiles, his mouth open) Stick out your tongue. (JACOB obeys as an eyedropper deposits a drop of liquid on the back of his tongue) That'a boy. Now why don't you just lie down and relax. <b> JACOB </b> One drop? <b> MICHAEL </b> It's strong stuff. JACOB stretches out on the bed. He stares up at the ceiling and examines its pock-marked lunar look. Long cracks and shallow craters erode the surface. It is an alien terrain. <b> JACOB </b> I think I'm falling asleep. <b> MICHAEL </b> Pleasant dreams. The words send a jolt through JACOB's body. He tries to get up but can't. He's frightened. <b> JACOB </b> I can't move. <b> MICHAEL </b> Just relax. <b> JACOB </b> What's happening? Help me. The ceiling begins to rumble. Cracks split wide open. Huge crevasses tear through the plaster. JACOB's world is crumbling. He stares in horror as DEMONIC FORMS attempt to surge through the rupture above him. Piercing eyes and sharp teeth glimmer in the darkness. Hooved feet and pointed claws clamor to break through. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) <b> HELP ME! </b> Instantly MICHAEL appears standing over him. He is holding the vial with the antidote. He draws an eyedropper full of the fluid and holds it over JACOB's mouth. <b> MICHAEL </b> Take it! JACOB fights him, but MICHAEL forces the entire contents of the eyedropper down his throat. JACOB gags. He tries to spit it out, but can't. Suddenly the ceiling erupts in violent clashes as whole chunks break off and collide like continental plates. The collisons wreak havoc on the DEMONS, chopping and dismembering them. Body parts fall from the ceiling like a Devil's rain. Horrible screams echo from the other side. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) Don't fight it. It's your own mind. It's your own fears. Flashes of light and dark storm over JACOB's head, thundering like a war in the heavens. It is a scene of raw power and growing catastrophe. It builds in fury and rage until suddenly the ceiling explodes. JACOB's eyes stare into the formlessness expanding around him. All space is becoming a dark liquid void. Gradually the liquid grows bluer, clearer. There is an undulating sense to the imagery, a feeling of womb-like comfort. Strange lights appear and sparkle before us like sunlight on the ocean. JACOB is rushing upward, toward the surface. With the delirious sound of water giving way to air, JACOB breaks through. To his amazement, he finds himself floating out-stretched on shimmering sunlit water. Above him are clouds of such wondrous beauty that they cannot possibly be of the earth. Pillars of golden light reach down from the heavens creating a cathedral of light. It is a vision of heaven, a vast, almost mythic paradise. JACOB is awed. A sudden movement catches his attention. He looks over and sees MICHAEL standing before him. Only MICHAEL looks different. His face seems to radiate an inner light, a transcendental beauty. JACOB is nearly blinded by his presence and must shield his eyes to look at him. <b> MICHAEL </b> So, how you doin'? The casualness of the words catches JACOB by surprise. He sits up. To his shock and amazement, he finds that he is back in THE HOTEL ROOM. MICHAEL is standing at the foot of the bed. JACOB is totally disoriented. His eyes move slowly around the room, taking everything in. He doesn't speak. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) It was better than you expected, huh? JACOB just stares at him for a while and then suddenly begins to laugh. It is a huge laugh, full of energy and life. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) And no more demons. I told you they'd be gone. <b> JACOB </b> I don't believe this. It's a miracle, Michael. A miracle. <b> MICHAEL </b> Better living through chemistry, that's my motto. <b>EXT. GREENWICH VILLAGE - DAY </b> JACOB and MICHAEL are walking through the STREETS OF GREENWICH VILLAGE. It is early MORNING and the sidewalks are bustling with PEOPLE. JACOB stares into their faces and beams when they smile back. MICHAEL enjoys JACOB's happiness. <b>EXT. WASHINGTON SQUARE - DAY </b> JACOB and MICHAEL walk through WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK. <b> JACOB </b> It was paradise, Michael. You showed it to me. You were there. <b> MICHAEL </b> Well that's good to know. <b> JACOB </b> Mike, it was real. It was glorious. <b> MICHAEL </b> Glorious. I'm not surprised. I fed you enough of that stuff to send a horse to heaven. I'm just glad you came back. <b> JACOB </b> I would have stayed there if I could. <b> MICHAEL </b> I'm sure. You've got nothing but troubles waitin' for you here. He points to two POLICEMEN on the far side of the SQUARE. <b> MICHAEL </b> (taking JACOB's arm) Come on. <b>EXT. GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL - DAY </b> The TWO MEN head up to GRAMERCY PARK and stop in front of the GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL. Reaching into his wallet, MICHAEL pulls out a huge stack of credit cards and hands one to JACOB. <b> MICHAEL </b> Here. I've got every credit card ever printed. Take this. Stay here till you can arrange to get away. It's on me. <b> JACOB </b> No. I couldn't. <b> MICHAEL </b> What? You want the Plaza? Don't be foolish. Here. Take this, too. (he pulls out a business card) This is my place on Prince Street. It's got my phone, everything. Call if you need me ... but you won't. Everything's gonna work out. You just get outta town as fast as you can. The New York police can be effective when they want to be. <b> JACOB </b> I don't know what to say. <b> MICHAEL </b> Save the words ... Just send back my credit card. MICHAEL laughs, hugs JACOB, and walks away. <b>INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY </b> JACOB is in a lovely MOTEL ROOM overlooking GRAMERCY SQUARE. He is sprawled out happily on the bed when there is a knock at the door. He jumps up and opens it. JEZZIE is standing there. She looks at JACOB quizzically. He smiles and takes her in his arms, swinging her into the room. <b> JEZZIE </b> What are you doing here? Are you all right? How do you expect to pay for this? (JACOB smiles) Everyone's looking for you, Jake. I dodged people all over the place, reporters, police. I don't know what you're gonna do. <b> JACOB </b> I'm gonna make love to you. That's what I'm gonna do. <b> JEZZIE </b> Are you out of your mind? <b> JACOB </b> Yep. Finally. I love you, Jez. <b> JEZZIE </b> God, I can't keep up with all your changes. <b> JACOB </b> Me neither. <b> JEZZIE </b> What's gotten into you? JACOB grins. CUT TO JACOB and JEZZIE lying in bed gently caressing one another. For all his ardor JACOB is exhausted from the events of the preceding day. While stroking JEZZIE's hair he begins to fall asleep. JEZZIE crawls on top of him and shoves her hand down his pants. JACOB smiles. DISSOLVE TO JACOB and JEZZIE making love. <b> TIME CUT: </b> DISSOLVE TO JACOB and JEZZIE lying in front of the T.V. watching a romantic movie. JEZZIE snuggles up to JACOB. <b> JEZZIE </b> It's amazing, you know, that a drug could change things like that, destroy a life and then give it back. It's hard to believe that the world could be so hellish on day and like heaven the next. <b> JACOB </b> I tell you, it was so wonderful. I felt like a little boy. I saw Paradise, Jezzie. <b> JEZZIE </b> It's so hard to believe. There is a knock at the door. JACOB throws on a bathrobe. JEZZIE jumps under the sheets. <b> JACOB </b> Who's there? <b> BELLBOY (V.O.) </b> It's your dinner, sir. JEZZIE's eyes brighten. JACOB opens the door. A BELLBOY wheels in a table set for dinner. He sets it in a corner of the room. JEZZIE jumps out of bed, runs to the table, sniffs at the food, and squeals excitedly. <b> JEZZIE </b> This is one of my dreams, Jake. Ever since I was a little girl. I never thought it would happen. <b> JACOB </b> Stick with me, kid. JEZZIE smiles. <b> TIME CUT: </b> DISSOLVE to JACOB and JEZZIE sitting next to a large window overlooking GRAMERCY PARK. They are sipping champagne. <b> JEZZIE </b> I want to go with you, Jake. Wherever you go. <b> JACOB </b> It's not practical, Jez. It'll be hard enough alone. <b> JEZZIE </b> I can waitress. I'm good. <b> JACOB </b> No. Things are too hot. Later. I'll send for you. <b> JEZZIE </b> Bullshit! <b> JACOB </b> I promise. <b> JEZZIE </b> Please. <b> JACOB </b> No. I'm a marked man, Jez. I'm the only one left. I don't want to expose you to that. It's not right for you or me. Be reasonable. <b> JEZZIE </b> Reasonable? Reasonable? Jake ... You're gettin' me angry. <b> JACOB </b> I love you when you're angry. <b> JEZZIE </b> Oh yeah? (her eyes twinkle suggestively) Try leavin' without me. JACOB laughs. JEZZIE doesn't. Unexpectedly she grabs JACOB and pushes him onto the bed. In seconds they are all over each other, their clothes flying in all directions. They seem as happy as could be. <b>OMIT </b> <b>INT. GRAND CENTRAL STATION - DAY </b> JACOB enters GRAND CENTRAL STATION. He checks out all the PEOPLE around him. Not a DEMON in sight. Hurrying to the TICKET WINDOW he gets in line. The TICKET SELLER looks up. <b> JACOB </b> Chicago. One way. For tomorrow. <b> SELLER </b> How many? <b> JACOB </b> One. <b> SELLER </b> That'll be $119.75. JACOB pulls out MICHAEL's credit card. The SELLER rings it up. While he is waiting JACOB notices a POLICEMAN looking at him. The stare unsettles him. The SELLER hands JACOB his ticket. He takes it and hurries into the CROWD. Looking back he notices the POLICEMAN is following him. <b>INT. MEN'S ROOM - DAY </b> JACOB enters the MEN'S ROOM. He hurries into one of the stalsls, drops his pants, and sits. He eyes the graffiti on the walls and then notices a wad of tissue stuffed into a hole between him and the next stall. It is moving. Suddenly the tissue falls to the floor. JACOB glances at the hole curiously and leans forward to examine it. He is shocked to see an eye staring back at him. <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it! (he covers it with his hand. A pencil jabs his palm. He yells) Fucking pervert. Two lips form around the hole. A tongue wags obscenely. <b> VOICE </b> Dream on! <b> JACOB </b> (shocked) What?! The mouth is gone. JACOB hears the stall door fly open and feet running from the room. He jumps up and grabs his pants. He dashes out of the MEN'S ROOM. He hears footsteps and chases after them. <b>INT. GRAND CENTRAL STATION - DAY </b> JACOB bursts into the MAIN TERMINAL. He sees someone rushing toward the main doors and speeds after him. HOMELESS PEOPLE, huddling along the corridors, watch as they run past. Escaping to the street, the MAN disappears in the holiday throngs. JACOB, crazed, stands gasping for breath. His fists dig into his coat pocket. Suddenly he feels something and seems surprised when MICHAEL's CARD emerges in his hands. <b>OMIT </b> <b>INT. SOHO LOFT BUILDING - EVENING </b> JACOB runs up the stairs in a SOHO LOFT BUILDING. It is a dingy, industrial staircase, poorly lit. He reaches a door with MICHAEL's name painted on it in large black letters. He knocks loudly. There is no answer. He pounds on it. Another door opens on the floor above. A head sticks out. <b> MAN </b> You lookin' for Mike? <b> JACOB </b> (panting hard) Where is he? <b> MAN </b> Don't know. Hasn't picked his mail up in days. It's not like him. JACOB has a frenzied look in his eyes. He searches around the staircase and sees a pile of lumber stacked in a corner. He grabs a two-by-four and lunges at the door. <b> MAN </b> What the hell are you doing? JACOB doesn't answer. He smashes wildly at the door until the lock flies open. <b>INT. MICHAEL'S LOFT - EVENING </b> JACOB charges into the dark space groping for a light. He finds it. The LOFT is a disaster area. Nothing is standing. JACOB runs from room to room. In the back he discovers a large private chemistry lab. Glass vials and bottles are shattered on the floor. JACOB rifles through the cabinets. A few bottles are intact but their labels mean nothing to him. He reaches for one cabinet and notices a reddish liquid oozing out from the bottom. He opens it. MICHAEL's severed head stares him in the face. It is smiling. A scream rings out as the MAN from upstairs sees what JACOB has seen. JACOB jumps back, trips, and falls over MICHAEL's headless body. It is lying sprawled across the floor. <b> MAN </b> Oh my God! JACOB stumbles to pull himself up. He is in a state of unrelieved panic. He runs past the MAN and spills out the doorr. He takes two and three stairs at a time, nearly flying to the street. <b>EXT. SOHO STREETS - NIGHT </b> JACOB rushes into the icy air and runs wildly down the sidewalk as fast as his legs will move. With unexpected violence he charges into the side of a building. Over and over he hurls himself against it. He grabs for the bricks. His fingers insert themselves into the crevices. It is as though he is trying to merge with the wall. Suddenly JACOB turns and dashes into the street. A taxi is speeding toward him, its lights the only sign of life and warmth in the dark night. JACOB steps into its path. It is hard to tell if he is trying to stop the cab or waiting to be hit. The taxi screeches to a halt. JACOB stares at it a moment and then steps to get in. The DRIVER tries to pull off but JACOB yanks at the door and drags himself inside. <b>INT. TAXI - NIGHT </b> Rain is beginning to fall. It streaks the windows. <b> JACOB </b> (barely audible) I'm going to Brooklyn. <b> DRIVER </b> Sorry, Mac. Not with me you're not. I get lost in Brooklyn. <b> JACOB </b> I know the way. JACOB reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out a twenty dollar bill, and hands it to the DRIVER. He takes it. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Look, this is all the money I've got in the world. Take me home and it's yours. <b> DRIVER </b> ... Where's your home? CUT TO THE TAXI heading down WEST BROADWAY, approaching the BROOKLYN BRIDGE, crossing the EAST RIVER, and driving through dark BROOKLYN <b>STREETS. </b> JACOB's face passes in and out of dense shadows. Every time he is bathed in light his image seems to alter. Something in him is falling away. <b>EXT. SARAH'S APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT </b> JACOB gets out of the TAXI and approaches the LOBBY of SARAH'S APARTMENT BUILDING. JACOB is greeted by the DOORMAN. <b> DOORMAN </b> Dr. Singer. It's been a long time. <b> JACOB </b> (greeting him warmly) Hello, Sam. <b> DOORMAN </b> (noticing JACOB's battered condition) Are you all right? <b> JACOB </b> I'm okay. <b> DOORMAN </b> Do you want some help? I can call upstairs. <b> JACOB </b> No, don't. But thanks. <b>INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> JACOB stops in front of the APARTMENT door and reaches his hand underneath a section of the hallway carpet. It comes back with a key. He inserts it into the lock and gently opens the door. He calls out. <b> JACOB </b> Hello. It's me. <b>INT. SARAH'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Some lights are on. The APARTMENT looks comfortable and cozy. <b> JACOB </b> Hello? Is anybody home? Jed? Eli? Daddy's here. There is still no answer. JACOB is surprised. He peers into the dark LIVING ROOM and then walks to the KITCHEN. No one is around. A photo of JACOB, SARAH, AND THEIR BOYS is sitting on the counter. He picks it up and carries it with him through the apartment. He walks into his old BEDROOM and then into the BOYS' ROOM. The beds are still unmade. There is no one home. He sees his image in the BATHROOM mirror and turns away in disgust. He walks back to the LIVING ROOM. He is about to switch the lights on when he hears footsteps coming down the hall. He calls out. <b> JACOB </b> Sarah, is that you? I hope you don't mind. I needed to come home. JACOB is startled to see JEZZIE enter the room. She does not seem he usual self. She appears larger, more imposing. <b> JEZZIE </b> Hello, Jake. I knew you'd come here in the end. JACOB is nervous. <b> JACOB </b> What're you ... ? Where's Sarah? Where are the boys? <b> JEZZIE </b> Sit down, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> Where are they? <b> JEZZIE </b> Sit down. <b> JACOB </b> No! What's going on? Where's my family? <b> JEZZIE </b> It's over, Jake. It's all over. <b> JACOB </b> Where have they gone? <b> JEZZIE </b> Wake up. Stop playing with yourself. It's finished. JEZZIE stares at JACOB with a frightening, powerful glare. The edge of her coat rustles and flutters as she moves toward him. It is an innocent sound at first, but after a moment it transforms into something else, an obsessive flapping noise, the sound of a wing. JACOB's body feels the first waves of an inner tremor. His legs are shaking. <b> JACOB </b> What's going on? <b> JEZZIE </b> Your capacity for self-delusion is remarkable, Dr. Singer. JEZZIE begins walking around the dark living room as she talks to him. Something about her walk is very unnatural. JACOB eyes her fearfully. In the darkness JEZZIE's movements become increasingly strange and elusive. We see her pass before a shadow and disappear within it, only to reappear, seconds later, in a doorway on the other side of the room. JACOB spins around, confused. Suddenly JEZZIE is inches from his face, although it seems like there has been no time for her to get there. Her movements are totally impossible, defying all logic, all physical laws. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) What's wrong, Jake? (she mocks him) Forget to take your antidote? <b> JACOB </b> Who are you? What are you doing to me? <b> JEZZIE </b> You have quite a mind, Jake. I loved your friends. That chemist - the Ladder. What an imagination you have! JACOB freezes. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) And your vision of paradise ... fantastic! You're a real dreamer, you know that? Only it's time to wake up. JEZZIE has disappeared in the darkness of the room. Only the sounds of flapping wings remain. They grow louder and more menacing, whooshing past him with no visible source. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Your mind is crumbling, Jake. No more "army." No more conspiracies. You're dying, Dr. Singer. It's over. JACOB, frightened, turns toward the door as if to hurry out. "JEZZIE" laughs. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Where's to run, Jacob? Where's to go? JACOB pauses a moment and then turns to confront the terror behind him. <b> JACOB </b><b> WHO ARE YOU? </b> <b> JEZZIE </b> How many times have you asked me that? How many times? <b> JACOB </b><b> TELL ME, DAMN YOU! </b> <b> JEZZIE </b> (with consummate power) <b> YOU KNOW WHO I AM. </b> JEZZIE appears from the shadows. Her coat collar obscures her and it seems for a moment that she has no face. Then, to JACOB's horror, she turns around. He is staring at the vibrating creature he has seen so often before. Glimpsed almost in abstraction it is a living terror, dark and undefinable. Its face is a black and impenetrable void in constant vibration. Its voice is an unspeakable demonic cry, the essence of fear and suffering. JACOB pulls away from it, overhwelmed by confusion. He is rooted in fear. A sudden wind howls through the room, great gales blowing JACOB's hair straight up. It is like a hurricane pushing him into the wall. He can barely stand. He struggles to pull himself away. The flapping sound returns, charging at him from all directions. It is as if the darkness itself is swooping down, trying to envelop him. <b> JACOB </b> (whispering to himself) This isn't happening. New terrible sounds arise, chain saws slashing through the air, knives, and sabers ripping through space with unrelenting anger. Guns fire and explode past his head. It is as though all the sounds of destruction are closing in on him. JACOB yells but his own voice is lost in the melee. Terrified, he looks heavenward, as if crying for help. Suddenly, from the noise, a calm voice rises, speaking, as if from a distance. It is LOUIS. JACOB is shocked to hear him. He stands motionless. <b> LOUIS (V.O.) </b> If you're frightened of dying you'll see devils tearing you apart. If you've made your peace then they're angels freeing you from the world. The voice fades. JACOB just stands there, not sure what to do. And then the sounds return. Only now they are more terrifying than ever. Hideously loud, they become a cacophony of sounds, voices of parents, friends, lovers, the sounds of battle, fighting, and dying. JACOB looks up and sees the creature in the center of the room. All the sounds seem to emenate from it. The more JACOB stares at it the louder they become. After a moment, JACOB takes a huge breath. We sense a great resolve forming inside him. Then, slowly, courageously, he begins moving toward it. NEw and more terrifying noises assault JACOB, attempting to drive him back, but he will not be stopped. He continues walking toward the creature. In the hallway a standing lamp slams sparking to the floor. It rolls back and forth like a living thing, with a maddening hypnotic regularity. Doors slam open and closed, unlatching, snapping, shutting, with deafening force. The room itself seems like an organic presence. It is alive, angry, and threatening. The CREATURE sits in the midst of the insanity like the source of madness itself. It writhes, contorts and vibrates with unstoppable fury. JACOB, terrified, but unrelenting, continues to approach it. AS THE CAMERA DRAWS CLOSER TO THE CREATURE'S HEAD the density of its featureless form overwhelms the screen. It is like staring into emptiness itself, the ultimate darkness. With superhuman effort JACOB grabs hold of the creature. It is like grabbing hold of a live wire. His body begins shaking uncontrollably like a man being electrocuted. He is flying in all directions but does not let go. His fingers claw at the creature's head. JACOB struggles defiantly with the monster. Suddenly a terrible voice emerges from within it. <b> CREATURE </b><b> WHO DO YOU THINK YOU'RE FIGHTING! </b> JACOB does not respond. It cries out again. <b> CREATURE </b><b> WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE </b><b> FIGHTING? </b> Deep inside the darkness JACOB begins to make out the presence of a form, something writhing and tortured lurking before us. It looks briefly like an animal until we realize it is the image of a human face. It is covered by a dark suffocating film, like a mask. JACOB digs into it with all his might and pulls it off. <b> CUT TO: </b> DEAD SILENCE as JACOB SEES HIS OWN FACE staring back at him from beneath the mask. It is JACOB SINGER as we first saw him on the battlefield in Vietnam. Only now his image is pale and lifeless. It takes JACOB a moment to realize that he is dead. The recognition is one of terrible confusion and pain. JACOB stares at himself for a long time as a huge cry wells up inside him. It bursts forth with devastating sadness. As that instant the whole of space seems to explode in a flash of catacylsmic power. Hundreds of images from JACOB's life flash before us, his birth, his childhood, his adulthood. The demons, the room, JEZZIE, LOUIS, MICHAEL, SARAH, all seem to assail us in a rush of blinding intensity. We are flying over a landscape of memories, zooming across a constantly changing field of images. Some of the images move, some of the people in them speak. They are not particularly significant memories, in some ways they are quite banal, but something about them is infused with life and joy. Even the painful moments resonate with vital force. Some of the moments we recognize from the time we've spent with JACOB. Some we have not seen before. There is no order to them, no logic to why they have been recalled. A newborn baby takes its first breath and screams. SARAH pulls clothes off a clothes line on a rainy day. JACOB's FATHER stands in the Florida surf as sea foam laps gently at his legs. PAUL, FRANK, and JACOB play cards on the edge of a rice paddy. GABE rides his bike into the path of an oncoming car. A child puts his ear next to a bowl of cereal, listening to it talk. A young girl standing in a doorway lifts up her blouse to show her new breasts. JACOB and SARAH slice a wedding cake that topples to the floor. JEZZIE looks at JACOB and asks "Love me a little?" And then it is over. Total silence overwhelms the screen, a wonderful soothing calm. JACOB's eyes open and he is shocked to find himself sitting on the floor in SARAH's apartment. He is all alone. The first rays of early morning sunlight are filtering through the window. Something about the apartment seems transfigured, magical. JACOB sits motionless, stunned to be back there. The faint sound of music can be heard coming from the hallway. It is warm and familiar, the tinkling of a music box. JACOB listens to it for a few moments and then something registers inside him. Curious, he gets up and approaches the corridor. <b> JACOB </b> Hello? There is no response. Suddenly the music stops. JACOB freezes for a moment. He sees someone standing in the shadows at the other end. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Who is it? Who's there? Tentatively JACOB moves forward. As he draws closer he begins to see the outline of a child. Then, all of a sudden, he realizes who it is. His eyes well up as he stands there, the full impact of the moment registering inside him. It's his son, GABE. He is carrying the same musical lunch box we have seen before. The young boy smiles warmly at his father. It is the smile of an angel. JACOB swallows hard. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Gabe? Gabe! JACOB runs to his son. Unable to hold back the tears, he embraces him in a rush of love and emotion. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Gabe. Oh God. I don't believe ... They hug one another over and over. JACOB, overcome, sits down on the stiars. After a moment GABE puts his arm around his father's shoulder in a gesture of surprising maturity and compassion. We sense for an instant that their roles have reversed. GABE reaches for JACOB's hand and gently encourages him to stand up. With a sweet tug GABE leads his father up the steps. Sunlight streams down from the top of the stiars, hitting the first landing. GABE is bathed in its warm glow. As JACOB reaches the landing, he too is surrounded by the comforting light. GABE hurries up the last set of stairs. JACOB turns to follow but is stunned by the brilliance of the light pouring in from above. Squinting, he cannot see his son. Then suddenly GABE steps back out of the light and takes his father's hand once more. His eyes sparkle with excitement. <b> GABE </b> Come on Dad ... You know what we've got? A sandbox just like the Williston's, only it's bigger and the sand's all white. You won't believe it. JACOB smiles at his son. GABE smiles at him. It is a moment of total euphoria. THE CAMERA HOLDS as they continue up the stairs. <b> GABE </b> (continuing) And my parakeet. Remember, the one grandma let out of the cage? He's okay. And he's talking now. He knows my name. GABE's voice slowly trails off as he and his father disappear in the intenstity of the light. THE CAMERA HOLDS on the image. For a brief but stunning moment there appears to be a huge ethereal staircase shimmering before us. It rises up into infinite dimensions. Then the brilliance of its blinding light overwhelms the screen. Suddenly the brightness condenses into a smaller light source. It holds for a second and then flashes off. An overhead surgical lamp remains stubbornly in view. <b>INT. VIETNAM FIELD HOSPITAL - DAY </b> A DOCTOR leans his head in front of the lamp and removes his mask. His expression is somber. He shakes his head. His words are simple and final. <b> DOCTOR </b> He's gone. CUT TO JACOB SINGER lying on an operating table in a large ARMY FIELD TENT in VIETNAM. The DOCTOR steps away. A NURSE rudely pulls a green sheet over his head. The DOCTOR turns to one of the aides and throws up his hands in defeat. AN ORDERLY wheels JACOB's body past rows of other DOCTORS and NURSES fighting to save lives. A YOUNG VIETNAMESE BOY pulls back a screen door to let them out of the tent. It is a bright, fresh morning. The sun is rising. <b> THE END </b> <b>"JACOB'S LADDER" (DELETED SCENES) </b> by Bruce Joel Rubin <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 1: PROFESSOR STERN </b> <b>-- </b> <b>INT. CITY COLLEGE LECTURE HALL - DAY </b> CUT TO a huge ampitheatre-style LECTURE HALL at CITY COLLEGE. It is almost empty. No more than FORTY STUDENTS are scattered near the front of nearly three hundred seats. All are listening to PROFESSOR EMANUEL STERN who is nearing the end of his lecture. <b> STERN </b> Thus at the core of today's discu- sion we find four fundamental doc- trines. First, that the world of matter and individual consciousness are both manifestations of one Divine Reality. One of the STUDENTS seems about to fall asleep and keeps nodding his head. <b> STERN </b> Even you, Mr. Palmer, are part of it, as amazing as that may seem. MR. PALMER sits up quickly in his seat as other STUDENTS smile. <b> STERN </b> Second, human beings are capable not only of kowledge about this Divine Re- ality by inference but can realize its existence by direct intuition, superior even to reason. A door opens in the upper reaches of the lecture hall. JACOB enters and walks quietly down the stairs to within hearing range of the professor. <b> STERN </b> Third, man possesses a double nature, an ego and an eternal self, what we call "spirit" or "soul." JACOB takes a seat at one of the desks. There is a pencil lying on it which he fingers distractedly. <b> STERN </b> Fourth, and most important, man's life on earth has only one end and purpose, to learn to let go of the separate ego and to identify with the Divine spark within. MR. PALMER is nodding off again. <b> STERN </b> Almost impossible to believe, isn't it Mr. Palmer, that somewhere in that unconscious head of yours lies the source of all consciousness? <b> PALMER </b> Yes, Sir. Very hard. <b> STERN </b> (nodding his head) Well now, having reached this apotheosis there seems little, if anything, left to say. So rather than try, you are dismissed. The STUDENTS seem surprised but not unhappy with the sudden dismissal. They quickly gather their books and begin the long climb to the exits. Only JACOB remains seated. <b> JACOB </b> Hello Prof. PROFESSOR STERN looks up and stares at KACOB for several seconds before recognizing him. <b> STERN </b> My oh my. Doctor Singer. Isn't this a happy surprise? JACOB comes down the aisle and clasps hands with his old <b>PROFESSOR. </b> <b> STERN </b> (looking at JACOB's uni- form) Are you in the service? <b> JACOB </b> The postal service. I'm a mailman. <b> STERN </b> (surprised but non- judgemental) Ah. Neither snow nor sleet, nor dark of night ... I always admired that. <b> JACOB </b> (smiling) It's good to see you. <b> STERN </b> Likewise. <b>EXT. CITY COLLEGE - DAY </b> JACOB AND PROFESSOR STERN walk down the city streets that constitute the CAMPUS of CITY COLLEGE. <b> STERN </b> And how is your wife? Sarah, no? <b> JACOB </b> (shrugging his shoul- ders) I haven't seen her in months. <b> STERN </b> (understanding) Ah! <b> JACOB </b> I'm with another woman now. We're both with the post office, Midtown, 34th Street branch. <b> STERN </b> Hmm. I don't suppose there are too many philosophers in the post office? <b> JACOB </b> Oh, you'd be surprised. They just don't have their doctorates, that's all. <b> STERN </b> (he smiles) Last I heard you were offered a posi- tion in the West somewhere. Tuscon was it? <b> JACOB </b> Oh, that goes way back. They had a hiring freeze, one of those last min- ute things. Bad timing for me though. Middle of the war. The draft. (STERN nods his head. They walk a moment in silence) I'll tell you Prof, after Viet Nam ... I didn't want to think anymore. I decided my brain was just too small an organ to comprehend this chaos. <b> STERN </b> (looking at JACOB with affection) Jacob, if it was any other brain but yours, I might agree. (he pauses) Tell me, does your lady friend know what a brilliant thinker, what a sub- lime intellect she's living with? <b> JACOB </b> (smiling coyly) I doubt it's my mind that interests her. I tell you Prof, she's a fiery lady. <b> STERN </b> (with a fatherly demeanor) Well, try not to get burned. You have a great mind, Jacob. Don't let anyone tempt you away from it. <b>INT. OFF CAMPUS COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> JACOB and PROFESSOR STERN are sitting at a quiet table in a nearly empty coffee shop. They are both fixing cups of tea, not speaking. Suddenly JACOB looks at STERN. <b> JACOB </b> I've got a problem, Prof. More Augus- tine than Kierkegaard, if you know what I mean. (STERN looks at him questioningly) I need to know about ... demons. <b> STERN </b> (surprised) Demons, Jacob? Why demons? Are you writing ... ? <b> JACOB </b> No. (he pauses a moment) I see them. <b> STERN </b> See them? (he smiles uncomforta- bly) What do you mean? Physically? <b> JACOB </b> (hesitantly) Yes. STERN pauses. He looks at JACOB. The intensity of his gaze is unsettling and JACOB reaches for his tea. The cup rattles. <b> STERN </b> I know very little about demons, Ja- cob, fleshy ones anyway. I know them as literary figures, biblical ones ... Dante, Milton ... but Jacob, (he pauses) this is the 20th Century. We don't see demons now. <b> JACOB </b> I see them, Prof. Everywhere. They're invading my life. A look of concern fills STERN's eyes. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Christ, I know how it sounds. <b> STERN </b> Have you considered a doctor? A psy- chiatrist? <b> JACOB </b> Yes. (suddenly uneasy) I don't want them. I'm not looking for analysis or drugs. It's too easy to dismiss as some kind of psychosis. (he pauses uncomforta- bly) It's more than that. I can feel it. I need you Prof. You're the only one I can talk to. <b> STERN </b> I don't know what to say. <b> JACOB </b> I need your insight, your intuition. STERN sips his tea slowly. He is thinking. <b> STERN </b> Demons? I don't know what to tell you. It sounds like a spiritual mat- ter to me. The problem, Jacob, is that you have no context for it. You're a renegade Existentialist suf- fering demons a hundred years after Freud. How the hell am I supposed to make it fit? <b> JACOB </b> I'm afraid, Prof. Nothing makes sense. (he pauses) Please help me. <b> STERN </b> (trying to be delicate) Jacob, I don't believe in demons, not in the empirical sense. I don't be- lieve in devils fighting for our souls. I don't believe in enternal damnation. I don't believe in other- worldly creatures tormenting us. We don't need them. We do a good enough job on ourselves. <b> JACOB </b> (disturbed) But I see them. <b> STERN </b> Look. I don't pretend to know what's going on inside your head. For all I know it's pathological and they should be pumping Valium into your veins by the quart. But if you're not willing to accept the help of sci- ence; and believe me, I admire you for that: then you'll have to do bat- tle on your own. What can I say? It's a lonely pilgrimage through our times even for the strongest souls. But to be pursued by ... demons no less ... There are no guides, Jacob. (he muses) You wanna know what I'd do if I sud- denly started seeing demons? I'd hail the first taxi that came along, shoot over to Bellvue and beg them for shock treatment. I'm no saint. <b> JACOB </b> Hell, you think I am? <b> STERN </b> I'venever understood you, you know that? You were by far the best pupil I've ever had, bar none. Intellectu- ally, you were the most original, the most imaginative. Who knows, maybe you've been "elected" to see demons. Maybe you're in touch with ... some- thing. Nothing would surprise me about you Jacob. Nothing. JACOB gazes at his old friend and mentor, frustration blazing in his eyes. They are both surprised to see tears form and run down his cheek. JACOB reaches for a napkin and dries them quickly. STERN, uncomfortable in the face of emotion, turns away. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 2: THE PARTY AT DELLA'S </b> <b>--- </b> Suddenly a strange and terrifying spectacle unfolds before him. The DANCERS undergo a shocking transformation, a full three- dimensional alteration of their physical forms. Clothes fuse to their bodies like new skin. Horns and tails emerge and grow like exotic genitalia, exciting a frenzy among the DANCERS. New appendages appear unfolding from their flesh. Dorsal fins protrude from their backs. Armored scales run in scallops down their legs. Tails entwine sensuously. Long tongues lick at the undersides of reptilian bellies. The metamorphosis holds a biological fascination. Bones and flesh mold into new forms of life, creatures of another world. CUT TO JACOB's face as it registers terror and disbelief. He stares at the DANCERS. They are perverse, corrupt aspects of their normal selves. He is mesmerized by JEZZIE. Her flesh has grown hard and wrinkled and has the markings of a snake. Her tongue, long and curled, darts in and out of her mouth repeatedly. Her eyes are thin and domineering. They lock JACOB in their gaze. He wants to stop, to run, but JEZZIE won't release him. JACOB grabs his eyes as though trying to pull the vision from them but it won't go away. The music throbs. His actions become spastic, almost delirious. His hysteria attracts the attention of the other DANCERS. A circle forms around JACOB and JEZZIE as their frenzy transcends the boundaries of dance and erupts into an almost orgiastic display. JACOB is out of control. His fury becomes a kind of exorcism, a desperate attempt to free himself from his body and his mind. CUT TO JACOB as his eyes pass beyond pain. The dark walls of the APARTMENT fade away. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> Strange faces in infantry helmets appear in the darkness, outlined by a bright moon that is emerging from behind a large cloud. The faces are looking down and voices are speaking. <b> VOICE </b> He's burning up. <b> VOICE </b> Total delirium. <b> VOICE </b> He'll never make it. <b> VOICE </b> That's some gash. His guts keep spilling out. <b> VOICE </b> Push 'em back. <b> JACOB (V.O.) </b> (crying weakly) Help me! His eyes focus on the moon. Rings of light emanate from it filling the sky with their sparkling brilliance. The rings draw us forward with a quickening intensity that grows into exhilarating speed. The rush causes them to flash stroboscopically and produce a dazzling, almost sensual, surge of color. The display is spectacular and compelling. A voice can be heard in the distance. <b> VOICE </b> I think we're losing him. Suddenly the flickering rings begin to define a tangible image, a kind of CELESTIAL STAIRCASE, rising up into infinite dimensions. As we speed toward it, it grows increasingly majestic. The image is so awesome and other-worldly that it is difficult to grasp what is being seen. Music can be heard in the distance. It too is celestial in its beauty. Then, unexpectedly, it grows hard and insistent, like a heartbeat. Heavy breathing accompanies the sound. The image of the STAIRCASE shatters and disappears, replaced by intense flashes of red and blue light. The music grows louder and reaches a thundering crescendo. Then silence. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 3: JACOB'S LIVING ROOM </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> CUT TO APPLAUSE from a real television game show as JACOB switches channels on the LIVING ROOM T.V. He stops on an interview program, turns up the sound, and runs to the BATHROOM. The CAMERA stays on the television. JACOB can be heard urinating in the distance. MAC HAYES, a young, virile, and smug REPORTER is speaking. <b> HAYES </b> The Reverend Norman Murphy, leader of one of the largest groups supporting the Armageddon Committee, told our cameras that we are no longer dealing in decades but years. THE REVEREND fills the T.V. screen. <b> MURPHY </b> The battleground is being readied. Our planet is the battlefield. Our souls are the prize. All the signs point to the inevitable confrontation between the forces of good and evil. People must choose sides. There is no draft evasions in this war. All are called. All must take up weapons. Are you prepared? That's the question we ask. The toilet flushes and JACOB walks back into the LIVING ROOM and turns down the sound. <b> HAYES </b> Do you find people scoffing at you, Reverend? After all, there have been doomsayers for thousands of years and we're still here. <b> MURPHY </b> People are less apt to laugh these days. The prophecies are too close for comfort. I mean, all you have to do is watch the news. <b> HAYES </b> There are some who claim that your pessimism is defeatist and what the world needs now is hope, a positive thrust. <b> MURPHY </b> I think the time for hope has passed. The seeds have been planted. We shall reap what we've sown. (he pauses) Pessimists, no. I think we are percieved as the only realists around. <b> HAYES </b> Other movement leaders agree. In an interview ... Suddenly the telephone rings. It startles JACOB. He jumps. It rings again. He reaches down, turns off the T.V., and picks up the phone. His eyes continue to stare at the blank screen as he talks. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 4: JACOB'S BEDROOM </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> THE BEDROOM is dark. JACOB and JEZZIE are making love. A half- smoked joint is smouldering in an ashtray by the bed. JEZZIE is poised on top of JACOB and his eyes are focused on her face. A hurricane lamp casts a warm glow over their bodies. Its flickering light plays games with JACOB's eyes and for a moment JEZZIE seems to disappear. JACOB reaches out for her breasts and his hands seem to vanish into the shadows dancing across her. With sudden, hallucinogenic impact, JACOB feels himself drawn into a starry universe opening from inside her. THE CAMERA plunges through her image into a galxy of stars and rushes toward one that is twinkling brightly. Pulsations of its light whiten the screen. Out of the whiteness appears a momentary flash of the CELESTIAL STAIRCASE, accompanied by sounds of sexual climax. The STAIRCASE sparkles for an instant and then it's gone. The sparkle becomes a glimmer in JEZZIE's eye as her face fills the screen. She looks especially lovely and radiant. Her image moves with the lamplight. JACOB's face is ecstatic. He can barely talk and simply basks in JEZZIE's glow. Slowly, she leans forward and whispers in his ear. <b> JEZZIE </b> So tell me ... am I still an angel? <b> JACOB </b> (smiling broadly) With wings. (he strokes her hair) You transport me, you know that? You carry me away. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 5: DEMON IN THE WALL </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S APARTMENT - DAY </b> JACOB is sitting in a comfortable chair in his living room. He is reading. The room is dark, lit only by a reading light. The walls are mostly in shadow. The light, however, falls on one section of the wall, a portion that has been lined in fake wood paneling. JACOB's eyes suddenly lift off the page and roam over the wood grain on the wall. All of a sudden he notices something strange, an image in the grain. He stares at it. The more he stares the more precise its definition. The image of a DEMON appears in the wall. JACOB sits up quickly and stares at the walll. It is impossible to get the DEMON's image out of the grain. It seems etched, even imbedded, in the paneling. JACOB looks away and returns to his book. He is reading about archetypes and the primordial mind. But the book does not hold his attention. He is obsessed with the wall. Its molecules seem suddenly active, the wood grain suddenly animate. Layers begin to appear in the surface of the wall as the grain patterns slowly define a rocky, barren landscape. The DEMON is growing solid. Cries and screams rise up in the distance. Flames and a red glow emanate from the space extending rapidly into the wall. The image of Hell erupts before him. JACOB stands up. He can see bodies suffering beyond the wall, masses of PEOPLE wailing and enduring the torments of a fiery world. The DEMON's arm slowly extends from the plane of the wall and reaches into the room. He is huge, covered in flames and skulls, a living horror. He grabs hold of JACOB and pulls him toward the wall. JACOB tries to back away but he cannot. His face is white with fear. The DEMON draws JACOB toward the inferno. <b> JACOB </b> (yelling at the top of his lungs) <b> NO! </b> Suddenly JEZZIE appears, the light from the BEDROOM flooding the paneled wall. The DEMON vanishes instantly. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake, are you all ... ? She stops dead in her tracks. CUT TO JACOB pressed up against the wall, defying gravity and logic, as though about to merge with the solid surface. His body holds there for a moment and then collapses to the floor. JEZZIE goes to him. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake? Jake? He doesn't answer. He looks at JEZZIE with a blank stare. His body begins shaking. <b>INT. JACOB'S BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> JACOB is lying on the bed, curled up in a fetal pose. JEZZIE is stroking his hair and trying to calm him. <b> JEZZIE </b> It's going to be all right, Jake. It's going to be all right. Don't be afraid. I've got you now. <b> JACOB </b> Hold me, Jezzie. Hold me. JEZZIE wraps herself around his shivering body and warms him with her own. The image seems tender and comforting until we notice JEZZIE's tongue darting nervously in and out. It looks strangely like a snake's. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 6: THE HOSPITAL </b> <b>--- </b> The RESIDENT injects the serum into JACOB's veins while two ORDERLIES hold him still. JACOB barely struggles. His eyes fixate on the EMERGENCY ROOM WALL. It is white and sterile. Within moments it begins to emit a reddish glow. JACOB watches with astonishment as the wall's two-dimensional surface separates into three-dimensional planes. The solid surface gives way to a DARK CHAMBER that was not there before. Out of the transmuted space CREATURES begin to form. Bosch-like DEMONS with horns and tails, undeniably of another world. Slowly several of them emerge from the wall and approach JACOB. They look like parodies of doctors and nurses, wearing traditional hospital gowns. Without a word they wheel him through the space where the wall had been. JACOB tries to scream but no sound comes out. <b>INT. HELL - NIGHT </b> The DARK CHAMBER is filled with mournful CREATURES being led by DEMONS through a series of CORRIDORS. No one fights or struggles. JACOB's stretcher is moved through the darkness. He tries to sit up but is forced back down. He is obviously drugged. JACOB is wheeled into a tiny CHAMBER. A number of DEMONS are waiting for him. Chains and pulleys hang from the ceiling. They are lowered and attached with speed and efficiency to JACOB's arms and legs. The devices are manipulated smoothly and JACOB is lifted off the stretcher. The chains retract, stretching him spread-eagle in the air. He screams loudly. <b> JACOB </b> Oh God! The DEMONS laugh. There is the sound of a huge door closing. JACOB is left in darkness. The darkness is hallucinogenic. Fires appear beyond the boundaries of the wall; images of Dante's Inferno, souls of the dead in endless torment. JACOB is but one of countless beings sharing a vastness of torment. His own screams for help are lost in the magnitude of voices crying. Suddenly, out of the meancing shadows, a contingent of DEMONS emerges. They are carrying sharp surgical instruments. They surround JACOB, their eyes glistening as bright as their blades. JACOB is panting and sweating with fear. For an instant, one of the DEMONS looks like JEZZIE. JACOB calls out to her. <b> JACOB </b> Jezzie! Help me! The DEMONS laugh as she changes form. They take great pleasure in his suffering. Their voices are strange and not human. Each utterance contains a multitude of contradictory tones, sincere and compassionate, taunting and mocking at the same time. The confusion of meanings is a torment of its own. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 7: JACOB'S BEDROOM </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S BEDROOM </b> JACOB is lying on the floor of his BEDROOM doing exercises for his back. He has several days' growth of beard and does not look well. His mind is drifting and only the occasional pain in his back reminds him of what he is doing. JEZZIE can be heard vacuuming the carpet in the LIVING ROOM. Suddenly the door swings open. The wail of the vacuum cleaner causes JACOB to tense. His eyes drift down from the ceiling. JEZZIE vacuums around him and seems insensitive to his presence. JEZZIE shoves the vacuum cleaner under the bed and hits something. JACOB tightens. She looks and is shocked to discover a can of gasoline and boxes of kitchen matches. It takes her a second to understand the implications of what she has found. JACOB is ready when she begins yelling. <b> JEZZIE </b> You're completely off your rocker, you know that? You'd think you fell on your head instead of your back. What are you planning to do, burn down the apartment along with your demons? She begins to remove the gasoline can. <b> JACOB </b> (yelling) Don't you touch it. (he glares at her) JEZZIE lets go of the can and grabs the vacuum. She moves it furiously across the carpet. Suddenly JACOB sees her tongue darting in and out, unconsciously. She looks strange, not human. JACOB freezes. He yells out. <b> JACOB </b> Who are you? The sound of the vacuum cleaner drowns out his voice. He yells again. JEZZIE sees him and turns off the machine. His voice booms out. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Who the hell are you? JEZZIE ignores the question and turns the vacuum cleaner back on. JACOB rolls over and pulls out the plug. <b> JACOB </b> Why won't you answer me? <b> JEZZIE </b> (angry) Cause you know goddamn well who I am. <b> JACOB </b> I don't know you. <b> JEZZIE </b> You've lived with me for two years. <b> JACOB </b> That doesn't mean shit. Where do you come from, huh? And I don't mean Indiana. <b> JEZZIE </b> What do you want me to say? My mother's tummy? <b> JACOB </b> You know goddamn well what I mean. <b> JEZZIE </b> You're out of your fucking mind. I'm not gonna stand around here gettin' interrogated by you. <b> JACOB </b> Well leave then. Go to Hell. <b> JEZZIE </b> (furious) You son-of-a-bitch. Who do you think you are? I don't deserve this. Who takes care of you day and night? Who cleans the floor and washes your goddamn underwear? Well, I've had it. You flip out on your own, you ungrateful bastard. I'm done holding your hand. I don't want anything to do with you, you hear? Nothing! She storms out of the room, kicking the vacuum cleaner as she goes. JACOB can see flashes of her through the open crack of the bedroom door. Occasional curses and epithets hurl through the opening along with a flood of tears. JACOB catches glimpses of her as she grabs her coat from the hall closet and as she pulls her money out of the desk drawer. He can see the lamp as she shoves it to the floor and hears it shatter as she stomps on it with her foot. There is a blur as she heads to the front door and a deafening bang as she leaves. JACOB's eyes drift up to the ceiling. They hardly blink. He stares at the plaster, chipped and cracked, above him. Suddenly the cracks begin to move. JACOB jumps up. A DEMON is materializing over his head. JACOB yells and grabs hold of the extension pole for the vacuum cleaner. With a furious cry he begins jamming it at the ceiling. Rather than blot out the evolving image his attack helps to define it. JACOB slams harder. Plaster and wood lath cover the floor. The DEMON is gone. Panting hard, JACOB reaches for matches and the gasoline can. He stops and stares at them with great intensity. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 8: THE ANTIDOTE SEQUENCE </b> <b>--- </b> The ceiling begins to rumble. Cracks split wide open. Huge crevasses tear through the plaster. JACOB's world is crumbling. He stares in horror as DEMONIC FORMS attempt to surge through the rupture above him. Piercing eyes and sharp teeth glimmer in the darkness. Hooved feet and pointed claws clamor to break through. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) <b> HELP ME! </b> Instantly MICHAEL appears standing over him. He is holding the vial with the antidote. He draws an eyedropper full of the fluid and holds it over JACOB's mouth. <b> MICHAEL </b> Take it! JACOB fights him but MICHAEL forces the entire contents of the eyedropper down his throat. JACOB gags. He tries to spit it out, but can't. Suddenly the ceiling erupts in violent clashes as whole chunks break off and collide with one another like continental plates. The collisions wreak havoc on the DEMONS, chopping and dismembering them. Body parts fall from the ceiling like a Devil's rain. Horrible screams echo from the other side. Flashes of light and dark storm over JACOB's head, thundering like a war in the heavens. It is a scene of raw power and growing catastrophe. It builds in fury and rage until suddenly the ceiling explodes. Matter atomizes instantly. Trillions of particles hurl chaotically in all directions. The walls shatter into a dazzling brightness. For a moment there is a sense of intense forward movement, a rush toward oblivion. And then, suddenly, it stops. There is absolute quiet and stillness. JACOB's eyes stare into the formlessness sparkling around him. All space has become a shining void. Gradually faint pastel colors appear like colored molecules, dancing and spinning, redirecting space into new formations. They weave patterns of intricate complexity and stunning beauty. As the colors grow brighter and more vivid their abstraction gives way to solid form. A GARDEN SCENE emerges. It is a GARDEN OF LIGHT, a vast, almost mythic, Rousseau paradise. It radiates an intense shimmering light. JACOB's eyes are cpativated by the vision before him. A sudden movement catches his attention. He looks up and notices MICHAEL still standing beside him. MICHAEL, however, is rapidly changing form. It is a full, plastic, three-dimensional metamorphosis. His very flesh seems to expand and glow with its own inner light. His face shines and radiates an almost transcendental beauty. JACOB is nearly blinded by MICHAEL's presence and must shield his eyes to look at him. MICHAEL smiles an extraordinary and joyous smile that radiates such intense luminosity that JACOB has to squint to see it. Suddenly MICHAEL steps off the ground. He rises into the air and floats above JACOB. JACOB can barely breathe as he watches him. MICHAEL rises into a sky filled with orbs and blazing lights. The lights shine on JACOB's head. He effervesces and shimmers in their glow. One of the orbs sends a burst of light exploding over JACOB. So intense is the light that JACOB grabs his eyes. As he opens them again he sees that the GARDEN is fading back into pure light. MICHAEL, too, is fading. Another burst of light and the GARDEN is reabsorbed by the void. Only the brightness remains. It is many seconds before we realize that the HOTEL ROOM is coming together, reconstructed by the light. In moments it is fully formed. Sunlight is pouring through the window. MICHAEL is sleeping lightly in a chair. He hears JACOB stare and sits up. JACOB is sitting on the bed. He does not seem to know where he is. His eyes are filled with awe. They move slowly around the room, taking everything in. He doesn't speak. MICHAEL gets up and sits beside him. He respects his silence. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 9: HOTEL ROOM </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY </b> JACOB enters the HOTEL ROOM. JEZZIE is already there watching the evening news. She is still in her postal uniform, lying on the bed. She taps the mattress, inviting JACOB to lie next to her. A WOMAN is crying to a REPORTER on the T.V. <b> WOMAN </b> It's been four days. No word. It's not like him. He's never done any- thing like this before. It's like he just disappeared from the face of the earth. <b> REPORTER </b> The Bureau of Missing Persons is con- founded by the continuing surge of reports ... JACOB snaps off the T.V. <b> JEZZIE </b> What'd you do that for? It's an in- teresting story. All these people are still disappearing. Right off the street. (staring at JACOB) Hey, what's wrong? Are you all right? <b> JACOB </b> I'm okay. I just don't want to lis- ten. <b> JEZZIE </b> You look upset. <b> JACOB </b> (angry) I'm not upset. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake, what is it? <b> JACOB </b> I'm tired. <b> JEZZIE </b> You look terrible. What happened? (he turns away. She stares at him for a mo- ment, concerned) Jake ... is it the antidote? <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it. Why do you say that? <b> JEZZIE </b> Look at yourself. You look like you've seen a ghost. <b> JACOB </b> Shit! Can't I just have a bad day? <b> JEZZIE </b> You can have anything you want. <b> JACOB </b> Then don't bug me. <b> JEZZIE </b> I'm not bugging you. Come and lie down. I'll give you a massage. (she taps the mattress again and JACOB joins her. She unbuttons his shirt) Where'd you go today? <b> JACOB </b> (evasively) Mid-town mostly. <b> JEZZIE </b> Oh yeah? What was happenin' there? <b> JACOB </b> (looking away from her) I picked up my ticket. (he pauses) I'm leaving in the morning, Jez. <b> JEZZIE </b> (tensing) Oh? (acting innocent) Where you going? <b> JACOB </b> (nervously) West. <b> JEZZIE </b> (growing angry) Where's West? New Jersey? <b> JACOB </b> Don't be funny. <b> JEZZIE </b> I always liked the West, west of Il- linois anyway. But you gotta give me time to pack. <b> JACOB </b> Stop it, Jez. Don't do that. <b> JEZZIE </b> Do what? I haven't done a thing. <b> JACOB </b> Don't play games with me. There's nothing more to say. There is a quiet rage building in JEZZIE's eyes as she continues to stroke JACOB's chest. He tries to relax and give himself over to the movement of her hand. Silently she leans over and begins licking his stomach. JACOB's eyes close. His stomach hardens. He reaches back and adjusts the pillow beneath his head. Slowly, JEZZIE works her way back up to his chest. Her tongue darts in and out suggestively. He eyes are burning with anger. Her mouth poises itself over his nipple. She toys with it for a few seconds and then chomps down hard. The bite draws blood. JACOB screams. His eyes shoot open. For the flash of an instant he sees a DEMON hovering over him, a hideous horned creature licking his blood. JACOB flies off the bed as the creature hurls to the floor. JACOB is ready to pounce on it when he sees that it is JEZZIE lying at his feet. His head begins reeling. He backs away from the bed, not taking his eyes off JEZZIE for a second. He backs to the closet and grabs his coat. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake. What are you doing? Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bite. Let me get you a towel. JACOB grabs his wallet and his glasses. He backs toward the door. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake, don't. You can't leave. You're not seeing things clearly. The drug's wearing off. She stands up and begins to approach him. JACOB lifts up a desk chair and holds it in front of him. Blood is running down his chest. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake, don't leave me! JACOB throws the chair at the floor, opens the door, and hurries into the HALLWAY. JEZZIE scurries around the chair and runs to the door. She yells after him, but he is already gone. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 10: THE END OF THE MOVIE </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> JACOB stoops in front of the APARTMENT door and reaches his hand underneath a section of the hallway carpet. It comes back with a key. He inserts it into the lock and gently opens the door. <b> JACOB </b> (calling out) Hello. It's me. <b>INT. SARAH'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> The lights are on and the APARTMENT looks comfortable and cozy. <b> JACOB </b> Hello? Is anyone home? Jed? Elie? Dad- dy's here. There is still no answer. JACOB is surprised. He walks into the LIVING ROOM and then the KITCHEN. No one is around. He walks into his old BEDROOM and then the BOYS' ROOM. He is surprised to hear footsteps coming down the hall. He turns around and calls out. <b> JACOB </b> Sarah, is that you? I hope you don't mind. I needed to come home. JACOB is startled to see JEZZIE enter the room. She does not seem to be her usual self. She seems larger, more imposing. <b> JEZZIE </b> Hello, Jake. I knew you'd come here in the end. JACOB is nervous. <b> JACOB </b> Where's Sarah? Where are the boys? <b> JEZZIE </b> Sit down, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> Where are they? <b> JEZZIE </b> Sit down! <b> JACOB </b> No! What's going on? Where's my family? <b> JEZZIE </b> It's over, Jake. It's all over. <b> JACOB </b> Where have they gone? <b> JEZZIE </b> Wake up! Stop playing with yourself. It's finished. JEZZIE stares at JACOB with a frightening, powerful glare. Her lips snarl. Her tongue begins darting in and out, only now it is not a nervous habit but a conscious act. JACOB's body feels the first waves of an inner tremor. His legs are shaking. <b> JACOB </b> What's going on? JEZZIE smiles at him. Her tongue wags and suddenly shoots from her mouth beyond human extension. JACOB recoils. <b> JACOB </b> (whispering to himself) This isn't happening. <b> JEZZIE </b> Your capacity for self-delusion is remarkable, Dr. Singer. JEZZIE's head begins to tighten and squeeze, as though she is suffering from cramps. JACOB watches in horror as her skull gives birth to pointed horns. <b> JACOB </b> Oh God! <b> JEZZIE </b> What's wrong, Jake? (she mocks him) Forget to take your antidote? <b> JACOB </b> (screaming) Goddamn you! <b> JEZZIE </b> (smiling and then laughing) I loved your chemist, Jake. The height of fantasy. And your vision of paradise. (she laughs with a hu- miliating tone) A most romantic creation. You're quite a dreamer, Jake. Only it's time to wake up. JACOB's eyes are locked on JEZZIE. His mouth is wide open. His body is shaking badly. He tries to back away from her but his legs barely move. <b> JEZZIE </b> There is nowhere to run, Jacob. You're home. Suddenly the pictures on the wall crash to the floor. Plaster from the ceiling breaks off in huge chunks and slams to the carpet. Light bulbs and lamps explode. JACOB runs to the door. He pulls it open and screams. He is on the edge of a fiery abyss. JEZZIE laughs with a new intensity of demonic force. JACOB spins around. <b> JACOB </b><b> WHO ARE YOU? </b> <b> JEZZIE </b> How many times have you asked me that? How many times? <b> JACOB </b><b> TELL ME, DAMN YOU! </b> <b> JEZZIE </b> (with consummate power) You know who I am. Suddenly JEZZIE reaches for her tongue and pulls at it with all her might. It is an act of total, unrelieved grotesqueness. With each yank the horror grows as JEZZIE literally pulls herself inside out before JACOB's eyes. The emerging creature is JEZZIE transfigured, a demonic presence beyond anything we have seen before. It is black and covered with a thick oozing slime. Its head, still recognizable as JEZZIE, is rodent-like, with piercing green eyes and terrible horns protruding from its brow. Its powerful arms have long spiked claws. Its feet are cloven hooves. Extending from its back is a long, thick, muscular tail that whips around the room with devastating force. It throws furniture crashing through the air. A sudden cracking sound emerges from the DEMON's back. Dark forms penetrate the air. JACOB is breathless as huge wings unfold and spread out to the living room walls. The sound of their flapping is deafening. The walls shatter from their blows. As they crumble darkness appears on the other side. There are no other rooms. The VOID envelops them. The INFERNO emerges in all directions. The DEMON roars. <b> DEMON </b> (with JEZZIE's voice) Still love me, Jake? (it laughs and reaches out to him) <b> COME! </b> CUT TO JACOB's face. He has gone beyond fear. An intensity of rage is building in him that we have not witnessed before. His whole image seems transformed by it. He glows like a volcano before it erupts. Suddenly he explodes. The full fury of the Ladder detonates inside him. He yells at the DEMON with all his might. <b> JACOB </b><b> NO!!!!! </b> With a power and energy of devastating force he attacks the DEMON. JACOB is battling for his very soul and tears at the DEMON with an animalistic fury that takes it by surprise. Its giant wings flap furiously, lifting them both up off the floor. JACOB keeps fighting. He claws, bites, and rips at the wings, decimating their delicate fabric. The DEMON, shocked, and trying to gain control, crashes up through the last fragments of the ceiling. JACOB does not let go. They burst into the fiery darkness. The room crumbles beneath them and disappears into the void. The abyss opens beneath them. JACOB continues his attack. His legs are locked around the DEMON's waist. His hands dig into her eyes. The DEMON shrieks and surges downward with awesome velocity. The DEMON charges into a rocky slope, smashing JACOB into its cliffs. JACOB claws at her wings, shredding as much of them as he can reach. The DEMON takes a huge chunk out of JACOB's arm. JACOB screams, grabs a rock, and shatters the DEMON's teeth. The DEMON falls to the ground. JACOB holds on. All of a sudden the DEMON begins to shrink. JACOB is shocked and struggles to contain it. As it dwindles in size it reorders its shape. Within seconds a powerful INSECT is cupped in his hands. JACOB tries to crush it but it stings with such force that JACOB's entire body recoils. The stinging persists. JACOB hurls himself to the ground on top of his arms to hold the CREATURE down. So massive is the INSECT's attack. however, that JACOB's whole body heaves off the ground with each sting. Then the attacks subside. JACOB waits for the next blow. Suddenly JACOB's body shoots straight up. His hands fly apart as a new life form erupts between them. He holds on tightly as flesh and blood mold and expand between his fingers. The new body takes rapid shape. It is a CHILD. JACOB grasps it with all his might as it completes its identity. He is horrified when he sees it. It is his son. <b> ELI </b> Daddy! <b> JACOB </b> Oh God! <b> ELI </b> You're hurting me! <b> JACOB </b> (yelling) Stop!!!! <b> ELI </b> Daddy. Let go. <b> JACOB </b> What do you want from me? <b> ELI </b><b> LET GO! </b> JACOB does not let up. In an instant his SON explodes into a gelatinous form, constantly undulating and changing shape. Within its translucent mass a new body is forming. JACOB stares at it with growing terror. It is himself. A terrible perplexity fills JACOB's eyes as he struggles to dig in and destroy his own image. He recoils as his own voice calls out to him. <b> VOICE </b> Who the Hell do you think you're fighting? The words shock him and for the first time, he lets go. Instantly the image disappears and the jelly-like mass dissolves into an oily liquid rapidly encircling his feet. JACOB looks down at the shallow pool spreading out beneath him. Its surface reflects a smoky, unearthly light. JACOB gazes into the darkness. He is all alone. The quiet overwhelms him. The only sound is his own breath. He looks around, in all directions, but can see nothing. The CAMERA holds on him as he stands waiting for the next assault, but nothing comes. He is left only with his anticipation and with hinself. He stares at the terrible darkness. A subtle phospheresence begins to glow in the liquid beneath JACOB's feet. He steps away from it, but it follows his movement. Suddenly, as if by spontaneous combustion, it bursts into flames. JACOB screams and tries to run but the flames move with him, lapping at his legs. He cannot escape them. As far and as fast as he runs the fire is with him. He yells and cries and screams as the fire eats at his lower limbs. He falls and jumps back up again, his hands charred. His eyes grow wild. <b> JACOB </b> Oh God, help me. Instantly the flames roar and engulf him. It is total conflagration. JACOB's skin blisters and turns black. His flesh crackles. Writhing in pain he runs through the flames but can find no freedom from his suffering. All at once JACOB stops running. He throws his hands up into the burning air and stands motionless, in absolute agony. It is a gesture of total submission and surrender to forces beyond himself. His flesh bubbles and chars but something is suddenly quiet inside him. Through the flames JACOB's dark form can be seen as it slowly sits down, like a Buddhist monk, in the midst of the holocaust. He appears a figure of sudden nobility as the flames annihilate him. Gradually the fire dies. JACOB's body, his flesh like a charred and brittle shell, sits motionless, beyond pain. An orange glow from the embers of his body slowly fades, leaving him in the final darkness. The SCREEN stays dark for as long as possible. Then, slowly, an eerie light appears in an unfamiliar sky. It backlights JACOB, revealing his silhouette. The CAMERA dollies slowly toward him. It approaches the burned and unrecognizable remains of JACOB's face. It is the face of death. The CAMERA holds on the image. Suddenly, with shocking impact, JACOB's eyes move. Within the crumbling shell of a body something is still alive, still conscious. The eyes survey the darkness and the first stirrings of a new light. It is dawn. JACOB's dark remains are suffused by a preternatural glow. Slowly, huge orbs begin to appear on the horizon. JACOB's eyes open to the growing light as they seek out the familiar in the still dark lansdcape. Gradually the orbs begin their ascent like a thousand suns rising at the same time. JACOB's eyes widen as his new world stands revealed. He is sitting in a GARDEN OF LIGHT, the Rousseau paradise he has visited once before. A sudden burst of light fills the sky directly overhead. The vegetation around him is instantly illuminated with its soft glow. Like a gentle breeze MICHAEL descends from the light and stands radiant before JACOB. He smiles and the air itself seems to brighten. MICHAEL quietly approaches JACOB's body. <b> MICHAEL </b> I am with you, Jacob. JACOB stares at him through dark eyes with a mixture of awe and disbelief. <b> MICHAEL </b> (speaking with a gentle compassion) It's all right now. It's over. You've won. You're here. (JACOB stares at him questioningly. MICHAEL reaches out his hands) Trust me. Softly MICHAEL places his hands on top of JACOB's head and begins to peel at the charred flesh. Layer by layer he strips it away. Then, with an unexpected gesture, he rips away a whole section with one quick pull. A BLAZE OF LIGHT bursts through the gaping hole in JACOB's head and beams into the air around them. It is an astounding sight. <b> MICHAEL </b> Come on. Don't make me do it all. (his eyes sparkle) Stand up. (JACOB's eyes are burst- ing with wonder) You can do it. Slowly JACOB begins to stir. He moves feebly at first, like an old man. His black flesh creaks and cracks and through each sudden fissure another beam of light blasts out with laserlike intensity. <b> MICHAEL </b> Stop hobbling. Your flesh can't hold you anymore. JACOB nods in response and takes a huge, gigantic breath. His lungs expand and suddenly all the old flesh bursts from his body as a radiant being of light breaks through beneath it. JACOB stands transfigured, filled with his own luminosity. His face is like a child's as he stares in amazement at his own hands, glowing with light. MICHAEL directs JACOB's vision to the sunrise. It is majestic, almost Biblical in its grandeur. Great rays of light penetrate vast cloud formations and descend into the GARDEN. Slowly the clouds, as if orchestrated by some higher power, begin to part. A massive light complex emerges from behind them. JACOB watches, awestruck, as the CELESTIAL STAIRWAY stands revealed. It reaches down from unknown heights, radiating an infinite power and grace. It touches down far in the distance, hovering over many acres of teh GARDEN. JACOB's eyes are filled with its splendor. MICHAEL looks at him and nods. <b> MICHAEL </b> Go on, Jacob. It has come for you. JACOB cannot speak. His eyes are fixed on the STAIRWAY dazzling him from afar. He can see ANGELIC FORMS moving up and down it. Suddenly, as if transported by light itself, he feels himself floating up into the air. He looks down upon EDEN sparkling below him. His mouth is wide open as he soars above it. The light pulsating from the STAIRWAY is brilliant and thrilling. JACOB's own inner light intensifies as he approaches it. The STAIRWAY grows increasingly wondrous as we draw nearer. It pulls JACOB toward it. STREAMS OF ANGELS enter the STAIRWAY like a fast flowing river. It carries them instantly within its current up beyond the visible reaches of the glittering sky. Billowing clouds glow in a parade of colors and the starry heavens seem to part as the STAIRWAY reaches beyond all known dimensions. JACOB stares at the light that is about to absorb him. It is a moment of total euphoria. He surges into the stream as the brilliant light of the STAIRWAY overwhelms the screen. Slowly the brightness of the screen condenses into a smaller light source. An overhead surgical lamp remains stubbornly in view. <b>INT. VIETNAM FIELD HOSPITAL - DAY </b> A DOCTOR leans his head in front of the lamp and removes his mask. His expression is somber. He shakes his head. His words are simple and final. <b> DOCTOR </b> He's gone. CUT TO JACOB SINGER lying on an operating table in a large ARMY FIELD TENT in VIET NAM. The DOCTOR steps away. A NURSE rudely pulls a green sheet up over his head. The DOCTOR turns to one of the aides and throws up his hands in defeat. TWO ORDERLIES wheel JACOB's body past rows of other DOCTORS and NURSES fighting to save lives. A YOUNG VIETNAMESE BOY pulls back a screen door to let them out of the tent. It is a bright, fresh morning. The sun is rising. <b>THE END </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Where were Jim and Dave from?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Eatonville" ]	14,761	narrativeqa	en	null	15ff32c8af396eaac6495b631f649886830d897c008bdc84	Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress) [Transcriber's Note: A few obvious typo's in stage directions have been fixed, though nothing in the dialogue has been changed.] THE MULE-BONE A COMEDY OF NEGRO LIFE IN THREE ACTS BY LANGSTON HUGHES and ZORA HURSTON CHARACTERS JIM WESTON: Guitarist, Methodist, slightly arrogant, agressive, somewhat self-important, ready with his tongue. DAVE CARTER: Dancer, Baptist, soft, happy-go-lucky character, slightly dumb and unable to talk rapidly and wittily. DAISY TAYLOR: Methodist, domestic servant, plump, dark and sexy, self-conscious of clothes and appeal, fickle. JOE CLARK: The Mayor, storekeeper and postmaster, arrogant, ignorant and powerful in a self-assertive way, large, fat man, Methodist. ELDER SIMMS: Methodist minister, newcomer in town, ambitious, small and fly, but not very intelligent. ELDER CHILDERS: Big, loose-jointed, slow spoken but not dumb. Long resident in the town, calm and sure of himself. KATIE CARTER: Dave's aunt, little old wizened dried-up lady. MRS. HATTIE CLARK: The Mayor's wife, fat and flabby mulatto high-pitched voice. THE MRS. REV. SIMMS: Large and agressive. THE MRS. REV. Just a wife who thinks of details. CHILDERS: LUM BOGER: Young town marshall about twenty, tall, gangly, with big flat feet, liked to show off in public. TEET MILLER: Village vamp who is jealous of DAISY. LIGE MOSELY: A village wag. WALTER THOMAS: Another village wag. ADA LEWIS: A promiscuous lover. DELLA LEWIS: Baptist, poor housekeeper, mother of ADA. BOOTSIE PITTS: A local vamp. MRS. DILCIE ANDERSON: Village housewife, Methodist. WILLIE NIXON: Methodist, short runt. ACT I SETTING: The raised porch of JOE CLARK'S Store and the street in front. Porch stretches almost completely across the stage, with a plank bench at either end. At the center of the porch three steps leading from street. Rear of porch, center, door to the store. On either side are single windows on which signs, at left, "POST OFFICE", and at right, "GENERAL STORE" are painted. Soap boxes, axe handles, small kegs, etc., on porch on which townspeople sit and lounge during action. Above the roof of the porch the "false front", or imitation second story of the shop is seen with large sign painted across it "JOE CLARK'S GENERAL STORE". Large kerosine street lamp on post at right in front of porch. Saturday afternoon and the villagers are gathered around the store. Several men sitting on boxes at edge of porch chewing sugar cane, spitting tobacco juice, arguing, some whittling, others eating peanuts. During the act the women all dressed up in starched dresses parade in and out of store. People buying groceries, kids playing in the street, etc. General noise of conversation, laughter and children shouting. But when the curtain rises there is momentary lull for cane-chewing. At left of porch four men are playing cards on a soap box, and seated on the edge of the porch at extreme right two children are engaged in a checker game, with the board on the floor between them. When the curtain goes up the following characters are discovered on the porch: MAYOR JOE CLARK, the storekeeper; DEACON HAMBO; DEACON GOODWIN; Old Man MATT BRAZZLE; WILL CODY; SYKES JONES; LUM BOGER, the young town marshall; LIGE MOSELY and WALTER THOMAS, two village wags; TOM NIXON and SAM MOSELY, and several others, seated on boxes, kegs, benches and floor of the porch. TONY TAYLOR is sitting on steps of porch with empty basket. MRS. TAYLOR comes out with her arms full of groceries, empties them into basket and goes back in store. All the men are chewing sugar cane earnestly with varying facial expressions. The noise of the breaking and sucking of cane can be clearly heard in the silence. Occasionally the laughter and shouting of children is heard nearby off stage. HAMBO: (To BRAZZLE) Say, Matt, gimme a jint or two of dat green cane--dis ribbon cane is hard. LIGE: Yeah, and you ain't got de chears in yo' parlor you useter have. HAMBO: Dat's all right, Lige, but I betcha right now wid dese few teeth I got I kin eat up more cane'n you kin grow. LIGE: I know you kin and that's de reason I ain't going to tempt you. But youse gettin' old in lots of ways--look at dat bald-head--just as clean as my hand. (Exposes his palm). HAMBO: Don't keer if it tis--I don't want nothin'--not even hair--between me and God. (General laughter--LIGE joins in as well. Cane chewing keeps up. Silence for a moment.) (Off stage a high shrill voice can be heard calling:) VOICE: Sister Mosely, Oh, Sister Mosely! (A pause) Miz Mosely! (Very irritated) Oh, Sister Mattie! You hear me out here--you just won't answer! VOICE OF MRS. MOSELY: Whoo-ee ... somebody calling me? VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (Angrily) Never mind now--you couldn't come when I called you. I don't want yo' lil ole weasley turnip greens. (Silence) MATT BRAZZLE: Sister Roberts is en town agin! If she was mine, I'll be hen-fired if I wouldn't break her down in de lines (loins)--good as dat man is to her! HAMBO: I wish she was mine jes' one day--de first time she open her mouf to beg _anybody_, I'd lam her wid lightning. JOE CLARK: I God, Jake Roberts buys mo' rations out dis store than any man in dis town. I don't see to my Maker whut she do wid it all.... Here she come.... (ENTER MRS. JAKE ROBERTS, a heavy light brown woman with a basket on her arm. A boy about ten walks beside her carrying a small child about a year old straddle of his back. Her skirts are sweeping the ground. She walks up to the step, puts one foot upon the steps and looks forlornly at all the men, then fixes her look on JOE CLARK.) MRS. ROBERTS: Evenin', Brother Mayor. CLARK: Howdy do, Mrs. Roberts. How's yo' husband? MRS. ROBERTS: (Beginning her professional whine): He ain't much and I ain't much and my chillun is poly. We ain't got 'nough to eat! Lawd, Mr. Clark, gimme a lil piece of side meat to cook us a pot of greens. CLARK: Aw gwan, Sister Roberts. You got plenty bacon home. Last week Jake bought.... MRS. ROBERTS: (Frantically) Lawd, Mist' Clark, how long you think dat lil piece of meat last me an' my chillun? Lawd, me and my chillun is _hongry_! God knows, Jake don't fee-eed me! (MR. CLARK sits unmoved. MRS. ROBERTS advances upon him) Mist' Clark! CLARK: I God, woman, don't keep on after me! Every time I look, youse round here beggin' for everything you see. LIGE: And whut she don't see she whoops for it just de same. MRS. ROBERTS: (In dramatic begging pose) Mist' Clark! Ain't you boin' do nuthin' for me? And you see me and my poor chillun is starvin'.... CLARK: (Exasperated rises) I God, woman, a man can't git no peace wid somebody like you in town. (He goes angrily into the store followed by MRS. ROBERTS. The boy sits down on the edge of the porch sucking the baby's thumb.) VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: A piece 'bout dis wide.... VOICE OF CLARK: I God, naw! Yo' husband done bought you plenty meat, nohow. VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (In great anguish) Ow! Mist' Clark! Don't you cut dat lil tee-ninchy piece of meat for me and my chillun! (Sound of running feet inside the store.) I ain't a going to tetch it! VOICE OF CLARK: Well, don't touch it then. That's all you'll git outa me. VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (Calmer) Well, hand it chear den. Lawd, me and my chillun is _so_ hongry.... Jake don't fee-eed me. (She re-enters by door of store with the slab of meat in her hand and an outraged look on her face. She gazes all about her for sympathy.) Lawd, me and my poor chillun is _so_ hongry ... and some folks has _every_thing and they's so _stingy_ and gripin'.... Lawd knows, Jake don't fee-eed me! (She exits right on this line followed by the boy with the baby on his back.) (All the men gaze behind her, then at each other and shake their heads.) HAMBO: Poor Jak.... I'm really sorry for dat man. If she was mine I'd beat her till her ears hung down like a Georgy mule. WALTER THOMAS: I'd beat her till she smell like onions. LIGE: I'd romp on her till she slack like lime. NIXON: I'd stomp her till she rope like okra. VOICE OF MRS. ROBERTS: (Off stage right) Lawd, Miz Lewis, you goin' give me dat lil han'ful of greens for me and my chillun. Why dat ain't a eye-full. I ought not to take 'em ... but me and my chillun is _so_ hongry.... Some folks is so stingy and gripin'! Lawd knows, Tony don't _feed_ me! (The noise of cane-chewing is heard again. Enter JOE LINDSAY left with a gun over his shoulder and the large leg bone of a mule in the other hand. He approaches the step wearily.) HAMBO: Well, did you git any partridges, Joe? JOE: (Resting his gun and seating himself) Nope, but I made de feathers fly. HAMBO: I don't see no birds. JOE: Oh, the feathers flew off on de birds. LIGE: I don't see nothin' but dat bone. Look lak you done kilt a cow and et 'im raw out in de woods. JOE: Don't y'all know dat hock-bone? WALTER: How you reckon we gointer know every hock-bone in Orange County sight unseen? JOE: (Standing the bone up on the floor of the porch) Dis is a hock-bone of Brazzle's ole yaller mule. (General pleased interest. Everybody wants to touch it.) BRAZZLE: (Coming forward) Well, sir! (Takes bone in both hands and looks up and down the length of it) If 'tain't my ole mule! This sho was one hell of a mule, too. He'd fight every inch in front of de plow ... he'd turn over de mowing machine ... run away wid de wagon ... and you better not look like you wanter _ride_ 'im! LINDSAY: (Laughing) Yeah, I 'member seein' you comin' down de road just so ... (He limps wid one hand on his buttocks) one day. BRAZZLE: Dis mule was so evil he used to try to bite and kick when I'd go in de stable to feed 'im. WALTER: He was too mean to git fat. He was so skinny you could do a week's washing on his ribs for a washboard and hang 'em up on his hip-bones to dry. LIGE: I 'member one day, Brazzle, you sent yo' boy to Winter Park after some groceries wid a basket. So here he went down de road ridin' dis mule wid dis basket on his arm.... Whut you reckon dat ole contrary mule done when he got to dat crooked place in de road going round Park Lake? He turnt right round and went through de handle of dat basket ... wid de boy still up on his back. (General laughter) BRAZZLE: Yeah, he up and died one Sat'day just for spite ... but he was too contrary to lay down on his side like a mule orter and die decent. Naw, he made out to lay down on his narrer contracted back and die wid his feets sticking straight up in de air just so. (He gets down on his back and illustrates.) We drug him out to de swamp wid 'im dat way, didn't we, Hambo? JOE CLARK: I God, Brazzle, we all seen it. Didn't we all go to de draggin' out? More folks went to yo' mule's draggin' out than went to last school closing.... Bet there ain't been a thing right in mule-hell for four years. HAMBO: Been dat long since he been dead? CLARK: I God, yes. He died de week after I started to cutting' dat new ground. (The bone is passing from hand to hand. At last a boy about twelve takes it. He has just walked up and is proudly handling the bone when a woman's voice is heard off stage right.) VOICE: Senator! Senator!! Oh, you Senator? BOY: (Turning displeased mutters) Aw, shux. (Loudly) Ma'm? VOICE: If you don't come here you better! SENATOR: Yes ma'am. (He drops bone on ground down stage and trots off frowning.) Soon as we men git to doing something dese wimmen.... (Exits, right.) (Enter TEET and BOOTSIE left, clean and primped in voile dresses just alike. They speak diffidently and enter store. The men admire them casually.) LIGE: Them girls done turned out to be right good-looking. WALTER: Teet ain't as pretty now as she was a few years back. She used to be fat as a butter ball wid legs just like two whiskey-kegs. She's too skinny since she got her growth. CODY: Ain't none of 'em pretty as dat Miss Daisy. God! She's pretty as a speckled pup. LIGE: But she was sho nuff ugly when she was little ... little ole hard black knot. She sho has changed since she been away up North. If she ain't pretty now, there ain't a hound dog in Georgy. (Re-enter SENATOR BAILEY and stops on the steps. He addresses JOE CLARK.) SENATOR: Mist' Clark.... HAMBO: (To Senator) Ain't you got no manners? We all didn't sleep wid you last night. SENATOR: (Embarrassed) Good evening, everybody. ALL THE MEN: Good evening, son, boy, Senator, etc. SENATOR: Mist' Clark, mama said is Daisy been here dis evenin'? JOE CLARK: Ain't laid my eyes on her. Ain't she working over in Maitland? SENATOR: Yessuh ... but she's off today and mama sent her down here to get de groceries. JOE CLARK: Well, tell yo' ma I ain't seen her. SENATOR: Well, she say to tell you when she come, to tell her ma say she better git home and dat quick. JOE CLARK: I will. (Exit BOY right.) LIGE: Bet she's off somewhere wid Dave or Jim. WALTER: I don't bet it ... I know it. She's got them two in de go-long. (Re-enter TEET and BOOTSIE from store. TEET has a letter and BOOTSIE two or three small parcels. The men look up with interest as they come out on the porch.) WALTER: (Winking) Whut's dat you got, Teet ... letter from Dave? TEET: (Flouncing) Naw indeed! It's a letter from my B-I-T-sweetie! (Rolls her eyes and hips.) WALTER: (Winking) Well, ain't Dave yo' B-I-T-sweetie? I thought y'all was 'bout to git married. Everywhere I looked dis summer 'twas you and Dave, Bootsie and Jim. I thought all of y'all would've done jumped over de broomstick by now. TEET: (Flourishing letter) Don't tell it to me ... tell it to the ever-loving Mr. Albert Johnson way over in Apopka. BOOTSIE: (Rolling her eyes) Oh, tell 'em 'bout the ever-loving Mr. Jimmy Cox from Altamont. Oh, I can't stand to see my baby lose. HAMBO: It's lucky y'all girls done got some more fellers, cause look like Daisy done treed both Jim and Dave at once, or they done treed here one. TEET: Let her have 'em ... nobody don't keer. They don't handle de "In God we trust" lak my Johnson. He's head bellman at de hotel. BOOTSIE: Mr. Cox got money's grandma and old grandpa change. (The girls exit huffily.) LINDSAY: (To HAMBO, pseudo-seriously) You oughtn't tease dem gals lak dat. HAMBO: Oh, I laks to see gals all mad. But dem boys is crazy sho nuff. Before Daisy come back here they both had a good-looking gal a piece. Now they 'bout to fall out and fight over half a gal a piece. Neither one won't give over and let de other one have her. LIGE: And she ain't thinking too much 'bout no one man. (Looks off left.) Here she come now. God! She got a mean walk on her! WALTER: Yeah, man. She handles a lot of traffic! Oh, mama, throw it in de river ... papa'll come git it! LINDSAY: Aw, shut up, you married men! LIGE: Man don't go blind cause he gits married, do he? (Enter DAISY hurriedly. Stops at step a moment. She is dressed in sheer organdie, white shoes and stockings.) DAISY: Good evening, everybody. (Walks up on the porch.) ALL THE MEN: (Very pleasantly) Good evening, Miss Daisy. DAISY: (To CLARK) Mama sent me after some meal and flour and some bacon and sausage oil. CLARK: Senator been here long time ago hunting you. DAISY: (Frightened) Did he? Oo ... Mist' Clark, hurry up and fix it for me. (She starts on in the store.) LINDSAY: (Giving her his seat) You better wait here, Daisy. (WALTER kicks LIGE to call his attention to LINDSAY'S attitude) It's powerful hot in dat store. Lemme run fetch 'em out to you. LIGE: (To LINDSAY) _Run!_ Joe Lindsay, you ain't been able to run since de big bell rung. Look at dat gray beard. LINDSAY: Thank God, I ain't gray all over. I'm just as good a man right now as any of you young 'uns. (He hurries on into the store.) WALTER: Daisy, where's yo' two body guards? It don't look natural to see you thout nary one of 'em. DAISY: (Archly) I ain't got no body guards. I don't know what you talkin' about. LIGE: Aw, don' try to come dat over us, Daisy. You know who we talkin' 'bout all right ... but if you want me to come out flat footed ... where's Jim and Dave? DAISY: Ain't they playin' somewhere for de white folks? LIGE: (To WALTER) Will you listen at dis gal, Walter? (To DAISY) When I ain't been long seen you and Dave going down to de Lake. DAISY: (Frightened) Don't y'all run tell mama where I been. WALTER: Well, you tell us which one you laks de best and we'll wipe our mouf (Gesture) and say nothin'. Dem boys been de best of friends all they life, till both of 'em took after you ... then good-bye, Katy bar de door! DAISY: (Affected innocence) Ain't they still playin' and dancin' together? LIGE: Yeah, but that's 'bout all they do 'gree on these days. That's de way it is wid men, young and old.... I don't keer how long they been friends and how thick they been ... a woman kin come between 'em. David and Jonather never would have been friends so long if Jonather had of been any great hand wid de wimmen. You ain't never seen no two roosters that likes one another. DAISY: I ain't tried to break 'em up. WALTER: Course you ain't. You don't have to. All two boys need to do is to git stuck on de same girl and they done broke up ... _right now_! Wimmen is something can't be divided equal. (Re-enter JOE LINDSAY and CLARK with the groceries. DAISY jumps up and grabs the packages.) LIGE: (To DAISY) Want some of us ... me ... to go long and tote yo' things for you? DAISY: (Nervously) Naw, mama is riding her high horse today. Long as I been gone it wouldn't do for me to come walking up wid nobody. (She exits hurriedly right.) (All the men watch her out of sight in silence.) CLARK: (Sighing) I God, know whut Daisy puts me in de mind of? HAMBO: No, what? (They all lean together.) CLARK: I God, a great big mango ... a sweet smell, you know, Th a strong flavor, but not something you could mash up like a strawberry. Something with a body to it. (General laughter, but not obscene.) HAMBO: (Admiringly) Joe Clark! I didn't know you had it in you! (MRS. CLARK enters from store door and they all straighten up guiltily) CLARK: (Angrily to his wife) Now whut do you want? I God, the minute I set down, here you come.... MRS. CLARK: Somebody want a stamp, Jody. You know you don't 'low me to bove wid de post office. (HE rises sullenly and goes inside the store.) BRAZZLE: Say, Hambo, I didn't see you at our Sunday School picnic. HAMBO: (Slicing some plug-cut tobacco) Nope, wan't there dis time. WALTER: Looka here, Hambo. Y'all Baptist carry dis close-communion business too far. If a person ain't half drownded in de lake and half et up by alligators, y'all think he ain't baptized, so you can't take communion wid him. Now I reckon you can't even drink lemonade and eat chicken perlow wid us. HAMBO: My Lord, boy, youse just _full_ of words. Now, in de first place, if this year's picnic was lak de one y'all had last year ... you ain't had no lemonade for us Baptists to turn down. You had a big ole barrel of rain water wid about a pound of sugar in it and one lemon cut up over de top of it. LIGE: Man, you sho kin mold 'em! WALTER: Well, I went to de Baptist picnic wid my mouf all set to eat chicken, when lo and behold y'all had chitlings! Do Jesus! LINDSAY: Hold on there a minute. There was plenty chicken at dat picnic, which I do know is right. WALTER: Only chicken I seen was half a chicken yo' pastor musta tried to swaller whole cause he was choked stiff as a board when I come long ... wid de whole deacon's board beating him in de back, trying to knock it out his throat. LIGE: Say, dat puts me in de mind of a Baptist brother that was crazy 'bout de preachers and de preacher was crazy 'bout feeding his face. So his son got tired of trying to beat dese stump-knockers to de grub on the table, so one day he throwed out some slams 'bout dese preachers. Dat made his old man mad, so he tole his son to git out. He boy ast him "Where must I go, papa?" He says, "Go on to hell I reckon ... I don't keer where you go." So de boy left and was gone seven years. He come back one cold, windy night and rapped on de door. "Who dat?" de old man ast him "It's me, Jack." De old man opened de door, so glad to see his son agin, and tole Jack to come in. He did and looked all round de place. Seven or eight preachers was sitting round de fire eatin' and drinkin'. "Where you been all dis time, Jack?" de old man ast him. "I been to hell," Jack tole him. "Tell us how it is down there, Jack." "Well," he says, "It's just like it is here ... you cain't git to de fire for de preachers." HAMBO: Boy, you kin lie just like de cross-ties from Jacksonville to Key West. De presidin' elder must come round on his circuit teaching y'all how to tell 'em, cause you couldn't lie dat good just natural. WALTER: Can't nobody beat Baptist folks lying ... and I ain't never found out how come you think youse so important. LINDSAY: Ain't we got de finest and de biggest church? Macedonia Baptist will hold more folks than any two buildings in town. LIGE: Thass right, y'all got a heap more church than you got members to go in it. HAMBO: Thass all right ... y'all ain't got neither de church nor de members. Everything that's had in this town got to be held in our church. (Re-enter JOE CLARK.) CLARK: What you-all talkin'? HAMBO: Come on out, Tush Hawg, lemme beat you some checkers. I'm tired of fending and proving wid dese boys ain't got no hair on they chest yet. CLARK: I God, you mean you gointer get beat. You can't handle me ... I'm a tush hawg. HAMBO: Well, I'm going to draw dem tushes right now. (To two small boys using checker board on edge of porch.) Here you chilluns, let de Mayor and me have that board. Go on out an' play an' give us grown folks a little peace. (The children go down stage and call out:) SMALL BOY: Hey, Senator. Hey, Marthy. Come on let's play chick-me, chick-me, cranie-crow. CHILD'S VOICE: (Off stage) All right! Come on, Jessie! (Enter several children, led by SENATOR, and a game begins in front of the store as JOE CLARK and HAMBO play checkers.) JOE CLARK: I God! Hambo, you can't play no checkers. HAMBO: (As they seat themselves at the check board) Aw, man, if you wasn't de Mayor I'd beat you all de time. (The children get louder and louder, drowning out the men's voices.) SMALL GIRL: I'm gointer be de hen. BOY: And I'm gointer be de hawk. Lemme git maself a stick to mark wid. (The boy who is the hawk squats center stage with a short twig in his hand. The largest girl lines up the other children behind her.) GIRL: (Mother Hen) (Looking back over her flock): Y'all ketch holt of one 'Nother's clothes so de hawk can't git yuh. (They do.) You all straight now? CHILDREN: Yeah. (The march around the hawk commences.) HEN AND CHICKS: Chick mah chick mah craney crow Went to de well to wash ma toe When I come back ma chick was gone What time, ole witch? HAWK: (Making a tally on the ground) One! HEN AND CHICKS: (Repeat song and march.) HAWK: (Scoring again) Two! (Can be repeated any number of times.) HAWK: Four. (He rises and imitates a hawk flying and trying to catch a chicken. Calling in a high voice:) Chickee. HEN: (Flapping wings to protect her young) My chickens sleep. HAWK: Chickee. (During all this the hawk is feinting and darting in his efforts to catch a chicken, and the chickens are dancing defensively, the hen trying to protect them.) HEN: My chicken's sleep. HAWK: I shall have a chick. HEN: You shan't have a chick. HAWK: I'm goin' home. (Flies off) HEN: Dere's de road. HAWK: My pot's a boilin'. HEN: Let it boil. HAWK: My guts a growlin'. HEN: Let 'em growl. HAWK: I must have a chick. HEN: You shan't have n'airn. HAWK: My mama's sick. HEN: Let her die. HAWK: Chickie! HEN: My chicken's sleep. (HAWK darts quickly around the hen and grabs a chicken and leads him off and places his captive on his knees at the store porch. After a brief bit of dancing he catches another, then a third, etc.) HAMBO: (At the checker board, his voice rising above the noise of the playing children, slapping his sides jubilantly) Ha! Ha! I got you now. Go ahead on and move, Joe Clark ... jus' go ahead on and move. LOUNGERS: (Standing around two checker players) Ol' Deacon's got you now. ANOTHER VOICE: Don't see how he can beat the Mayor like that. ANOTHER VOICE: Got him in the Louisville loop. (These remarks are drowned by the laughter of the playing children directly in front of the porch. MAYOR JOE CLARK disturbed in his concentration on the checkers and peeved at being beaten suddenly turns toward the children, throwing up his hands.) CLARK: Get on 'way from here, you limbs of Satan, making all that racket so a man can't hear his ears. Go on, go on! (THE MAYOR looks about excitedly for the town marshall. Seeing him playing cards on the other side of porch, he bellows:) Lum Boger, whyn't you git these kids away from here! What kind of a marshall is you? All this passle of young'uns around here under grown people's feet, creatin' disorder in front of my store. (LUM BOGER puts his cards down lazily, comes down stage and scatters the children away. One saucy little girl refuses to move.) LUM BOGER: Why'nt you go on away from here, Matilda? Didn't you hear me tell you-all to move? LITTLE MATILDA: (Defiantly) I ain't goin' nowhere. You ain't none of my mama. (Jerking herself free from him as LUM touches her.) My mama in the store and she told me to wait out here. So take that, ol' Lum. LUM BOGER: You impudent little huzzy, you! You must smell yourself ... youse so fresh. MATILDA: The wind musta changed and you smell your own top lip. LUM BOGER: Don't make me have to grab you and take you down a buttonhole lower. MATILDA: (Switching her little head) Go ahead on and grab me. You sho can't kill me, and if you kill me, you sho can't eat me. (She marches into the store.) SENATOR: (Derisively from behind stump) Ol' dumb Lum! Hey! Hey! (LITTLE BOY at edge of stage thumbs his nose at the marshall.) (LUM lumbers after the small boy. Both exit.) HAMBO: (To CLARK who has been thinking all this while what move to make) You ain't got but one move ... go ahead on and make it. What's de matter, Mayor? CLARK: (Moving his checker) Aw, here. HAMBO: (Triumphant) Now! Look at him, boys. I'm gonna laugh in notes. (Laughing to the scale and jumping a checker each time) Do, sol, fa, me, lo ... one! (Jumping another checker) La, sol, fa, me, do ... two! (Another jump.) Do sol, re, me, lo ... three! (Jumping a third.) Lo sol, fa, me, re ... four! (The crowd begins to roar with laughter. LUM BOGER returns, looking on. Children come drifting back again playing chick-me-chick-me-cranie crow.) VOICE: Oh, ha! Done got the ol' tush hog. ANOTHER VOICE: Thought you couldn't be beat, Brother Mayor? CLARK: (Peeved, gets up and goes into the store mumbling) Oh, I coulda beat you if I didn't have this store on my mind. Saturday afternoon and I got work to do. Lum, ain't I told you to keep them kids from playin' right in front of this store? (LUM makes a pass at the nearest half-grown boy. The kids dart around him teasingly.) ANOTHER VOICE: Eh, heh.... Hambo done run him on his store ... done run the ol' coon in his hole. ANOTHER VOICE: That ain't good politics, Hambo, beatin' the Mayor. ANOTHER VOICE: Well, Hambo, you don't got to be so hard at checkers, come on let's see what you can do with de cards. Lum Boger there got his hands full nursin' the chilluns. ANOTHER VOICE: (At the table) We ain't playin' for money, nohow, Deacon. We just playin' a little Florida Flip. HAMBO: Ya all can't play no Florida Flip. When I was a sinner there wasn't a man in this state could beat me playin' that game. But I'm a deacon in Macedonia Baptist now and I don't bother with the cards no more. VOICE AT CARD TABLE: All right, then, come on here Tony (To man with basket on steps.) let me catch your jack. TAYLOR: (Looking toward door) I don't reckon I got time. I guess my wife gonna get through buying out that store some time or other and want to go home. OLD MAN: (On opposite side of porch from card game) I bet my wife would know better than expect me to sit around and wait for her with a basket. Whyn't you tell her to tote it on home herself? TAYLOR: (Sighing and shaking his head.) Eh, Lawd! VOICE AT CARD TABLE: Look like we can't get nobody to come into this game. Seem like everybody's scared a us. Come on back here, Lum, and take your hand. (LUM makes a final futile gesture at the children.) LUM: Ain't I tole you little haitians to stay away from here? (CHILDREN scatter teasingly only to return to their play in front of the store later on. LUM comes up on the porch and re-joins the card game. Just as he gets seated, MRS. CLARK comes to the door of the store and calls him.) MRS. CLARK: (Drawlingly) Columbus! LUM: (Wearily) Ma'am? MRS. CLARK: De Mayor say for you to go round in de back yard and tie up old lady Jackson's mule what's trampin' aup all de tomatoes in my garden. LUM: All right. (Leaving card game.) Wait till I come back, folkses. LIGE: Oh, hum! (Yawning and putting down the deck of cards) Lum's sho a busy marshall. Say, ain't Dave and Jim been round here yet? I feel kinder like hearin' a little music 'bout now. BOY: Naw, they ain't been here today. You-all know they ain't so thick nohow as they was since Daisy Bailey come back and they started runnin' after her. WOMAN: You mean since she started runnin' after them, the young hussy. MRS. CLARK: (In doorway) She don't mean 'em no good. WALTER: That's a shame, ain't it now? (Enter LUM from around back of store. He jumps on the porch and takes his place at the card box.) LUM: (To the waiting players) All right, boys! Turn it on and let the bad luck happen. LIGE: My deal. (He begins shuffling the cards with an elaborate fan-shape movement.) VOICE AT TABLE: Look out there, Lige, you shuffling mighty lot. Don't carry the cub to us. LIGE: Aw, we ain't gonna cheat you ... we gonna beat you. (He slams down the cards for LUM BOGER to cut.) Wanta cut 'em? LUM: No, ain't no need of cutting a rabbit out when you can twist him out. Deal 'em. (LIGE deals out the cards.) CLARK'S VOICE: (Inside the store) You, Mattie! (MRS. CLARK, who has been standing in the DOE, quickly turns and goes inside.) LIGE: Y-e-e-e! Spades! (The game is started.) LUM: Didn't snatch that jack, did you? LIGE: Aw, no, ain't snatched no jack. Play. WALTER: (LUM'S partner) Well, here it is, partner. What you want me to play for you? LUM: Play jus' like I'm in New York, partner. But we gotta try to catch that jack. LIGE: (Threateningly) Stick out your hand and draw back a nub. (WALTER THOMAS plays.) WALTER: I'm playin' a diamond for you, partner. LUM: I done tole you you ain't got no partner. LIGE: Heh, Heh! Partner, we got 'em. Pull off wid your king. Dey got to play 'em. (When that trick is turned, triumphantly:) Didn't I tell you, partner? (Stands on his feet and slams down with his ace violently) Now, come up under this ace. Aw, hah, look at ol' low, partner. I knew I was gonna catch 'em. (When LUM plays) Ho, ho, there goes the queen.... Now, the jack's a gentleman.... Now, I'm playin' my knots. (Everybody plays and the hand is ended.) Partner, high, low, jack and the game and four. WALTER: Give me them cards. I believe you-all done give me the cub that time. Look at me ... this is Booker T Washington dealing these cards. (Shuffles cards grandly and gives them to LIGE to cut.) Wanta cut 'em? LIGE: Yeah, cut 'em and shoot 'em. I'd cut behind my ma. (He cuts the cards.) WALTER: (Turning to player at left, FRANK, LIGE'S partner) What you saying, Frank? FRANK: I'm beggin'. (LIGE is trying to peep at cards.) WALTER: (Turning to LIGE) Stop peepin' at them cards, Lige. (To FRANK) Did you say you was beggin' or standin'? FRANK: I'm beggin'. WALTER: Get up off your knees. Go ahead and tell 'em I sent you. FRANK: Well, that makes us four. WALTER: I don't care if you is. (Pulls a quarter out of his pocket and lays it down on the box.) Twenty-five cents says I know the best one. Let's go. (Everybody puts down a quarter.) FRANK: What you want me to play for you partner? LIGE: Play me a club. (The play goes around to dealer, WALTER, who gets up and takes the card off the top of the deck and slams it down on the table.) WALTER: Get up ol' deuce of deamonds and gallop off with your load. (TO LUM) Partner, how many times you seen the deck? LUM: Two times. WALTER: Well, then I'm gonna pull off, partner. Watch this ol' queen. (Everyone plays) Ha! Ha! Wash day and no soap. (Takes the jack of diamonds and sticks him up on his forehead. Stands up on his feet.) Partner, I'm dumping to you ... play your king. (When it comes to his play LUM, too, stands up. The others get up and they, too, excitedly slam their cards down.) Now, come on in this kitchen and let me splice that cabbage! (He slams down the ace of diamonds. Pats the jack on his for head, sings:) Hey, hey, back up, jenny, get your load. (Talking) Dump to that jack, boys, dump to it. High, low, jack and the game and four. One to go. We're four wid you, boys. LIGE: Yeah, but you-all playin' catch-up. FRANK: Gimme them cards ... lemme deal some. LIGE: Frank, now you really got responsibility on you. They's got one game on us. FRANK: Aw, man, I'm gonna deal 'em up a mess. This deal's in the White House. (He shuffles and puts the cards down for WALTER to cut.) Cut 'em. WALTER: Nope, I never cut green timber. (FRANK deals and turns the card up.) FRANK: Hearts, boys. (He turns up an ace.) LUM: Aw, you snatched that ace, nigger. WALTER: Yeah, they done carried the cub to us, partner. LIGE: Oh, he didn't do no such a thing. That ace was turned fair. We jus' too hard for you ... we eats our dinner out a the blacksmith shop. WALTER: Aw, you all cheatin'. You know it wasn't fair. FRANK: Aw, shut up, you all jus' whoopin' and hollerin' for nothin'. Tryin' to bully the game. (FRANK and LIGE rise and shake hands grandly.) LIGE: Mr. Hoover, you sho is a noble president. We done stuck these niggers full of cobs. They done got scared to play us. LIGE (?) Scared to play you? Get back down to this table, let me spread my mess. LOUNGER: Yonder comes Elder Simms. You all better squat that rabbit. They'll be having you all up in the church for playin' cards. (FRANK grabs up the cards and puts them in his pocket quickly. Everybody picks up the money and looks unconcerned as the preacher enters. Enter ELDER SIMMS with his two prim-looking little children by the hand.) ELDER SIMMS: How do, children. Right warm for this time in November, ain't it? VOICE: Yes sir, Reverend, sho is. How's Sister Simms? SIMMS: She's feelin' kinda po'ly today. (Goes on in store with his children) VOICE: (Whispering loudly) Don't see how that great big ole powerful woman could be sick. Look like she could go bear huntin' with her fist. ANOTHER VOICE: She look jus' as good as you-all's Baptist pastor's wife. Pshaw, you ain't seen no big woman, nohow, man. I seen one once so big she went to whip her little boy and he run up under her belly and hid six months 'fore she could find him. ANOTHER VOICE: Well, I knowed a woman so little that she had to get up on a soap box to look over a grain of sand. (REV. SIMMS comes out of store, each child behind him sucking a stick of candy.) SIMMS: (To his children) Run on home to your mother and don't get dirty on the way. (The two children start primly off down the street but just out of sight one of them utters a loud cry.) SIMMS'S CHILD: (Off stage) Papa, papa. Nunkie's trying to lick my candy. SIMMS: I told you to go on and leave them other children alone. VOICE ON PORCH: (Kidding) Lum, whyn't you tend to your business. (TOWN MARSHALL rises and shoos the children off again.) LUM: You all varmints leave them nice chillun alone. LIGE: (Continuing the lying on porch) Well, you all done seen so much, but I bet you ain't never seen a snake as big as the one I saw when I was a boy up in middle Georgia. He was so big couldn't hardly move his self. He laid in one spot so long he growed moss on him and everybody thought he was a log, till one day I set down on him and went to sleep, and when I woke up that snake done crawled to Florida. (Loud laughter.) FRANK: (Seriously) Layin' all jokes aside though now, you all remember that rattlesnake I killed last year was almost as big as that Georgia snake. VOICE: How big, you say it was, Frank? FRANK: Maybe not quite as big as that, but jus' about fourteen feet. VOICE: (Derisively) Gimme that lyin' snake. That snake wasn't but four foot long when you killed him last year and you done growed him ten feet in a year. ANOTHER VOICE: Well, I don't know about that. Some of the snakes around here is powerful long. I went out in my front yard yesterday right after the rain and killed a great big ol' cottonmouth. SIMMS: This sho is a snake town. I certainly can't raise no chickens for 'em. They kill my little biddies jus' as fast as they hatch out. And yes ... if I hadn't cut them weeds out of the street in front of my parsonage, me or some of my folks woulda been snake-bit right at our front door. (To whole crowd) Whyn't you all cut down these weeds and clean up these streets? HAMBO: Well, the Mayor ain't said nothin' 'bout it. SIMMS: When the folks misbehaves in this town I think they oughta lock 'em up in a jail and make 'em work their fine out on the streets, then these weeds would be cut down. VOICE: How we gonna do that when we ain't got no jail? SIMMS: Well, you sho needs a jail ... you-all needs a whole lot of improvements round this town. I ain't never pastored no town so way-back as this one here. CLARK: (Who has lately emerged from the store, fanning himself, overhears this last remark and bristles up) What's that you say 'bout this town? SIMMS: I say we needs some improvements here in this town ... that's what. CLARK: (In a powerful voice) And what improvements you figgers we needs? SIMMS: A whole heap. Now, for one thing we really does need a jail, Mayor. We oughta stop runnin' these people out of town that misbehaves, and lock 'em up. Others towns has jails, everytown I ever pastored had a jail. Don't see how come we can't have one. CLARK: (Towering angrily above the preacher) Now, wait a minute, Simms. Don't you reckon the man who knows how to start a town knows how to run it? I paid two hundred dollars out of this right hand for this land and walked out here and started this town befo' you was born. I ain't like some of you new niggers, come here when grapes' ripe. I was here to cut new ground, and I been Mayor ever since. SIMMS: Well, there ain't no sense in no one man stayin' Mayor all the time. CLARK: Well, it's my town and I can be mayor jus' as long as I want to. It was me that put this town on the map. SIMMS: What map you put it on, Joe Clark? I ain't seen it on no map. CLARK: (Indignant) I God! Listen here, Elder Simms. If you don't like the way I run this town, just' take your flat feets right on out and git yonder crost the woods. You ain't been here long enough to say nothin' nohow. HAMBO: (From a nail keg) Yeah, you Methodist niggers always telling people how to run things. TAYLOR: (Practically unheard by the others) We do so know how to run things, don't we? Ain't Brother Mayor a Methodist, and ain't the school-teacher a ...? (His remarks are drowned out by the others.) SIMMS: No, we don't like the way you're runnin' things. Now looka here, (Pointing at the Marshall) You got that lazy Lum Boger here for marshall and he ain't old enough to be dry behind his ears yet ... and all these able-bodied means in this town! You won't 'low nobody else to run a store 'ceptin' you. And looka yonder (happening to notice the street light) only street lamp in town, you got in front of your place. (Indignantly) We pay the taxes and you got the lamp. VILLAGER: Don't you-all fuss now. How come you two always yam-yamming at each other? CLARK: How come this fly-by-night Methodist preacher over here ... ain't been here three months ... tries to stand up on my store porch and tries to tell me how to run my town? (MATTIE CLARK, the Mayor's wife, comes timidly to the door, wiping her hands on her apron.) Ain't no man gonna tell me how to run my town. I God, I 'lected myself in and I'm gonna run it. (Turns and sees wife standing in door. Commandingly.) I God, Mattie, git on back in there and wait on that store! MATTIE: (Timidly) Jody, somebody else wantin' stamps. CLARK: I God, woman, what good is you? Gwan, git in. Look like between women and preachers a man can't have no peace. (Exit CLARK.) SIMMS: (Continuing his argument) Now, when I pastored in Jacksonville you oughta see what kinda jails they got there.... LOUNGER: White folks needs jails. We colored folks don't need no jail. ANOTHER VILLAGER: Yes, we do, too. Elder Simms is right.... (The argument becomes a hubbub of voices.) TAYLOR: (Putting down his basket) Now, I tell you a jail.... MRS. TAYLOR: (Emerging from the store door, arms full of groceries, looking at her husband) Yeah, and if you don't shut up and git these rations home I'm gonna be worse on you than a jail and six judges. Pickup that basket and let's go. (TONY meekly picks up the basket and he and his wife exit as the sound of an approaching guitar is heard off stage.) (Two carelessly dressed, happy-go-lucky fellows enter together. One is fingering a guitar without playing any particular tune, and the other has his hat cocked over his eyes in a burlesque, dude-like manner. There are casual greetings.) WALTER: Hey, there, bums, how's tricks? LIGE: What yo' sayin', boys? HAMBO: Good evenin' sons. LIGE: How did you-all make out this evenin', boys? JIM: Oh, them white folks at the party shelled out right well. Kept Dave busy pickin' it up. How much did we make today, Dave? DAVE: (Striking his pocket) I don't know, boy, but feels right heavy here. Kept me pickin' up money just like this.... (As JIM picks a few dance chords, Dave gives a dance imitation of how he picked up the coins from the ground as the white folks threw them.) We count it after while. Woulda divided up with you already if you hadn't left me when you seen Daisy comin' by. Let's sit down on the porch and rest now. LIGE: She sho is lookin' stylish and pretty since she come back with her white folks from up North. Wearin' the swellest clothes. And that coal-black hair of hers jus' won't quit. MATTIE CLARK: (In doorway) I don't see what the mens always hanging after Daisy Taylor for. CLARK: (Turning around on the porch) I God, you back here again. Who's tendin' that store? (MATTIE disappears inside.) DAVE: Well, she always did look like new money to me when she was here before. JIM: Well, that's all you ever did get was a look. DAVE: That's all you know! I bet I get more than that now. JIM: You might git it but I'm the man to use it. I'm a bottom fish. DAVE: Aw, man. You musta been walking round here fast asleep when Daisy was in this county last. You ain't seen de go I had with her. JIM: No, I ain't seen it. Bet you didn't have no letter from her while she been away. DAVE: Bet you didn't neither. JIM: Well, it's just cause she can't write. If she knew how to scratch with a pencil I'd had a ton of 'em. DAVE: Shaw, man! I'd had a post office full of 'em. OLD WOMAN: You-all ought to be shame, carrying on over a brazen heifer like Daisy Taylor. Jus' cause she's been up North and come back, I reckon you cutting de fool sho 'nough now. She ain't studying none of you-all nohow. All she wants is what you got in your pocket. JIM: I likes her but she won't git nothin' outa me. She never did. I wouldn't give a poor consumpted cripple crab a crutch to cross the River Jurdon. DAVE: I know I ain't gonna give no woman nothin'. I wouldn't give a dog a doughnut if he treed a terrapin. LIGE: Youse a cottontail dispute ... both of you. You'd give her anything you got. You'd give her Georgia with a fence 'round it. OLD MAN: Yeah, and she'd take it, too. LINDSAY: Don't distriminate the woman like that. That ain't nothing but hogism. Ain't nothin' the matter with Daisy, she's all right. (Enter TEETS and BOOTSIE tittering coyly and switching themselves.) BOOTSIE: Is you seen my mama? OLD WOMAN: You know you ain't lookin' for no mama. Jus' come back down here to show your shape and fan around awhile. (BOOTSIE and TEETS going into the store.) BOOTSIE & TEETS: No, we ain't. We'se come to get our mail. OLD WOMAN: (After girls enter store) Why don't you all keep up some attention to these nice girls here, Bootsie and Teets. They wants to marry. DAVE: Aw, who thinkin' 'bout marryin' now? They better stay home and eat their own pa's rations. I gotta buy myself some shoes. JIM: The woman I'm gonna marry ain't born yet and her maw is dead. (GIRLS come out giggling and exit.) (JIM begins to strum his guitar lightly at first as the talk goes on.) CLARK: (To DAVE and JIM) Two of the finest gals that ever lived and friendly jus' like you-all is. You two boys better take 'em back and stop them shiftless ways. HAMBO: Yeah, hurry up and do somethin'! I wants to taste a piece yo' weddin' cake. JIM: (Embarrassed but trying to be jocular) Whut you trying to rush me up so fast?... Look at Will Cody here (Pointing to little man on porch) he been promising to bring his already wife down for two months ... and nair one of us ain't seen her yet. DAVE: Yeah, how you speck me to haul in a brand new wife when he can't lead a wagon-broke wife eighteen miles? Me, I'm going git one soon's Cody show me his'n. (General sly laughter at CODY'S expense.) WALTER: (Snaps his fingers and pretends to remember something) Thass right, Cody. I been intending to tell you.... I know where you kin buy a ready-built house for you and yo' wife. (Calls into the store.) Hey, Clark, cime on out here and tell Cody 'bout dat Bradley house. (To CODY.) I know you wants to git a place of yo' own so you kin settle down. HAMBO: He done moved so much since he been here till every time he walk out in his back yeard his chickens lay down and cross they legs. LINDSAY: Cody, I thought you tole us you was going up to Sanford to bring dat 'oman down here last Sat'day. LIGE: That ain't de way he tole me 'bout it. Look, fellers, (Getting up and putting one hand on his hips and one finger of the other hand against his chin coquettishly) Where you reckon I'll be next Sat'day night?... Sittin' up side of Miz Cody. (Great burst of laughter.) SYKES JONES: (Laughing) Know what de folks tole me in Sanford? Dat was another man's wife. (Guffaws.) CODY: (Feebly) Aw, you don't know whut you talkin' bout. JONES: Naw, I don't know, but de folks in Sanford does. (Laughing) Dey tell me when dat lady's husband come home Sat'day night, ole Cody jumped out de window. De man grabbed his old repeater and run out in de yard to head him off. When Cody seen him come round de corner de house (Gesture) he flopped his wings and flew up on de fence. De man thowed dat shotgun dead on him. (Laughs) Den, man! Cody flopped his wings lak a buzzard (Gesture) and sailed on off. De man dropped to his knees lak dis (Gesture of kneeling on one knee and taking aim) Die! die! die! (Supposedly sound of shots as the gun is moved in a circle following the course of Cody's supposed flight) Cody just flew right on off and lit on a hill two miles off. Then, man! (Gesture of swift flight) In ten minutes he was back here in Eatonville and in he bed. WALTER: I passed there and seen his house shakin', but I didn't know how come. HAMBO: Aw, leave de boy alone.... If you don't look out some of y'all going to have to break his record. LIGE: I'm prepared to break it now. (General laughter.) JIM: Well, anyhow, I don't want to marry and leave Dave ... yet awhile. (Picking a chord.) DAVE: And I ain't gonna leave Jim. We been palling around together ever since we hollered titty mama, ain't we, boy? JIM: Sho is. (Music of the guitar increases in volume. DAVE shuffles a few steps and the two begin to sing.) JIM: Rabbit on the log. I ain't got no dog. How am I gonna git him? God knows. DAVE: Rabbit on the log. Ain't got no dog. Shoot him with my rifle Bam! Bam! (Some of the villagers join in song and others get up and march around the porch in time with the music. BOOTSIE and TEETS re-enter, TEETS sticking her letter down the neck of her blouse. JOE LINDSAY grabs TEETS and WALTER THOMAS grabs BOOTSIE. There is dancing, treating and general jollification. Little children dance the parse-me-la. The music fills the air just as the sun begins to go down. Enter DAISY TAYLOR coming down the road toward the store.) CLARK: (Bawls out from the store porch) I God, there's Daisy again. (Most of the dancing stops, the music slows down and then stops completely. DAVE and JIM greet DAISY casually as she approaches the porch.) JIM: Well, Daisy, we knows you, too. DAVE: Gal, youse jus' as pretty as a speckled pup. DAISY: (Giggling) I see you two boys always playin' and singin' together. That music sounded right good floating down the road. JIM: Yeah, child, we'se been playin' for the white folks all week. We'se playin' for the colored now. DAVE: (Showing off, twirling his dancing feet) Yeah, we're standin' on our abstract and livin' on our income. OLD MAN: Um-ump, but they ain't never workin'. Just round here playing as usual. JIM: Some folks think you ain't workin' lessen you smellin' a mule. (He sits back down on box and picks at his guitar.) Think you gotta be beatin' a man to his barn every mornin'. VOICE: Glad to be round home with we-all again, ain't you Daisy? DAISY: Is I glad? I jus' got off special early this evenin' to come over here and see everybody. I was kinda 'fraid sundown would catch me 'fore I got round that lake. Don't know how I'm gonna walk back to my workin' place in the dark by muself. DAVE: Don't no girl as good-lookin' as you is have to go home by herself tonight. JIM: No, cause I'm here. DAVE: (To DAISY) Don't you trust yourself round that like wid all them 'gators and moccasins with that nigger there, Daisy (Pointing at JIM) He's jus' full of rabbit blood. What you need is a real man ... with good feet. (Cutting a dance step.) DAISY: I ain't thinking 'bout goin' home yet. I'm goin' in the store. JIM: What you want in the store? DAISY: I want some gum. DAVE: (Starting toward door) Girl, you don't have to go in there to git no gum. I'll go in there and buy you a carload of gum. What kind you want? DAISY: Bubble gum. (DAVE goes in the store with his hand in his pocket. The sun is setting and the twilight deepens.) JIM: (Pulling package out of his pocket and laughing) Here your gum, baby. What it takes to please the ladies, I totes it. I don't have to go get it, like Dave. What you gimme for it? DAISY: A bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck. (She embraces JIM playfully. He hands her the gum, patting his shoulder as he sits on box.) Oh, thank you. Youse a ready man. JIM: Yeah, there's a lot of good parts to me. You can have West Tampa if you want it. DAISY: You always was a nice quiet boy, Jim. DAVE: (Emerging from the store with a package of gum) Here's your gum, Daisy. JIM: Oh, youse late. She's done got gum now. Chaw that yourself. DAVE: (Slightly peeved and surprised) Hunh, you mighty fast here now with Daisy but you wasn't that fast gettin' out of that white man's chicken house last week. JIM: Who you talkin' 'bout? DAVE: Hoo-oo? (Facetiously) You ain't no owl. Your feet don't fit no limb. JIM: Aw, nigger, hush. DAVE: Aw, hush, yourself. (He walks away for a minute as DAISY turns to meet some newcomers. DAVE throws his package of gum down on the ground. It breaks and several children scramble for the pieces. An old man, very drunk, carrying an empty jug enters on left and staggers tipsily across stage.) (MAYOR JOE CLARK emerges from the store and looks about for his marshall.) CLARK: (Bellowing) Lum Boger! LUM BOGER: (Eating a stalk of cane) Yessir! CLARK: I God, Lum, take your lazy self off that keg and go light that town lamp. All summer long you eatin' up my melon, and all winter long you chawin' up my cane. What you think this town is payin' you for? Laying round here doin' nothin'? Can't you see it's gettin' dark? (LUM BOGER rises lazily and takes the soap box down stage, stands on it to light the lamp, discovers no oil in it and goes in store. In a few moments he comes out of store, fills the lamp and lights it.) DAISY: (Coming back toward JIM) Ain't you all gonna play and sing a little somethin' for me? I ain't heard your all's music much for so long. JIM: Play anything you want, Daisy. Don't make no difference what 'tis I can pick it. Where's that old coon, Dave? (Looking around for his partner.) LIGE: (Calling Dave, who is leaning against post at opposite end of porch) Come here, an' get warmed up for Daisy. DAVE: Aw, ma throat's tired. JIM: Leave the baby be. DAISY: Come on, sing a little, Dave. DAVE: (Going back toward Jim) Well, seeing who's asking ... all right. What song yo like, Daisy? DAISY: Um-m. Lemme think. VOICE ON PORCH: "Got on the train, didn't have no fare". DAISY: (Gaily) Yes, that one. That's a good one. JIM: (Begins to tune up. DAVE touches Daisy's hand.) VOICE: (In fun) Hunh, you all wouldn't play at the hall last week when we asked you. VOICE OF SPITEFUL OLD WOMAN: Daisy wasn't here then. ANOTHER VOICE: (Teasingly) All you got to do to some men is to shake a skirt tail in their face and they goes off their head. DAVE: (To JIM who is still tuning up) Come if you're comin' boy, let's go if you gwine. (The full melody of the guitar comes out in a lively, old-fashioned tune.) VOICE: All right now, boys, do it for Daisy jus' as good as you do for dem white folks over in Maitland. DAVE & JIM: (Beginning to sing) Got on the train, Didn't have no fare, But I rode some, I rode some. Got on the train, Didn't have no fare, But I rode some, But I rode some. Got on the train, Didn't have no fare, Conductor asked me what I'm doin' there, But I rode some! Grabbed me by the neck And led me to the door. But I rode some, But I rode some. Grabbed me by the neck And led me to the door. But I rode some, But I rode some. Grabbed me by the neck, And led me to the door. Rapped me cross the head with a forty-four, But I rode some. First thing I saw in jail Was a pot of peas. But I rode some, But I rode some. First thing I saw in jail Was a pot of peas. But I rode some, But I rode some. The peas was good, The meat was fat, Fell in love with the chain gang jus' for that, But I rode some. (DAVE acts out the song in dancing pantomime and when it ends there are shouts and general exclamations of approval from the crowd.) VOICES: I don't blame them white folks for goin' crazy 'bout that.... OLD MAN: Oh, when I was a young boy I used to swing the gals round on that piece. DAISY: (TO JIM) Seem like your playin' gits better and better. DAVE: (Quickly) And how 'bout my singin'? (Everybody laughs.) VOICES IN THE CROWD: Ha! Ha! Ol' Dave's gittin' jealous when she speaks o' Jim. JIM: (To DAVE, in fun) Ain't nothin' to it but my playin'. You ain't got no singin' voice. If that's singin', God's a gopher. DAVE: (Half-seriously) My singin' is a whole lot better'n your playin'. You jus' go along and fram. The reason why the white folks gives us money is cause I'm singin'. JIM: Yeah? DAVE: And you can't dance. VOICE IN THE CROWD: You oughta dance. Big as your feet is, Dave. DAISY: (Diplomatically) Both of you all is wonderful and I would like to see Dave dance a little. DAVE: There now, I told you. What did I tell you. (To JIM) Stop woofing and pick a little tune there so that I can show Daisy somethin'. JIM: Pick a tune? I bet if you fool with me I'll pick your bones jus' like a buzzard did the rabbit. You can't sing and now you wants to dance. DAVE: Yeah, and I'll lam your head. Come on and play, good-for-nothing. JIM: All right, then. You say you can dance ... show these people what you can do. But don't bring that little stuff I been seein' you doin' all these years. (JIM plays and DAVE dances, various members of the crowd keep time with their hands and feet, DAISY looks on enjoying herself immensely.) DAISY: (As DAVE cuts a very fancy step) I ain't seen nothin' like this up North. Dave you sho hot. (As DAVE cuts a more complicated step the crowd applauds, but just as the show begins to get good, suddenly JIM stops playing.) DAVE: (Surprised) What's the matter, buddy? JIM: (Envious of the attention DAVE has been getting from DAISY, disgustedly) Oh, nigger, I'm tired of seein' you cut the fool. 'Sides that, I been playin' all afternoon for the white folks. DAISY: But I though you was playin' for me now, Jim. JIM: Yeah, I'd play all night long for you, but I'm gettin' sick of Dave round here showin' off. Let him git somethin' and play for himself if he can. (An OLD MAN with a lighted lantern enters.) DAISY: (Coyly) Well, honey, play some more for me, then, and don't mind Dave. I reckon he done danced enough. Play me "Shake That Thing". OLD MAN WITH LANTERN: Sho, you ain't stopped, is you, boy? Music sound mighty good floatin' down that dark road. OLD WOMAN: Yeah, Jim, go on play a little more. Don't get to acting so niggerish this evening. DAVE: Aw, let the ol' darky alone. Nobody don't want to hear him play, nohow. I know I don't. JIM: Well, I'm gonna play. (And he begins to pick "Shake That Thing". TEETS and BOOTSIE begin to dance with LIGE MOSELY and FRANK WARRICK. As the tune gets good, DAVE cannot resist the music either.) DAVE: Old nigger's eveil but he sho can play. (He begins to do a few steps by himself, then twirls around in front of DAISY and approaches her. DAISY, overcome by the music, begins to step rhythmically toward DAVE and together they dance unobserved by JIM, absorbed in picking his guitar.) DAISY: Look here, baby, at this new step I learned up North. DAVE: You can show me anything, sugar lump. DAISY: Hold me tight now. (But just as they begin the new movement JIM notices DAISY and DAVE. He stops playing again and lays his guitar down.) VOICES IN THE CROWD: (Disgustedly) Aw, come on, Jim.... You must be jealous.... JIM: No, I ain't jealous. I jus' get tired of seein' that ol' nigger clownin' all the time. DAVE: (Laughing and pointing to JIM on porch) Look at that mad baby. Take that lip up off the ground. Got your mouth stuck out jus' because some one is enjoying themselves. (He comes up and pushes JIM playfully.) JIM: You better go head and let me alone. (TO DAISY) Come here, Daisy! LIGE: That's just what I say. Niggers can't have no fun without someone getting mad ... specially over a woman. JIM: I ain't mad.... Daisy, 'scuse me, honey, but that fool, Dave.... DAVE: I ain't mad neither.... Jim always tryin' to throw off on me. But you can't joke him. DAISY: (Soothingly) Aw, now, now! JIM: You ain't jokin'. You means that, nigger. And if you tryin' to get hot, first thing, you can pull of my blue shirt you put on this morning. DAVE: Youse a got that wrong. I ain't got on no shirt of yours. JIM: Yes, you is got on my shirt, too. Don't tell me you ain't got on my shirt. DAVE: Well, even if I is, you can just lift your big plantations out of my shoes. You can just foot it home barefooted. JIM: You try to take any shoes offa me! LIGE: (Pacifying them) Aw, there ain't no use of all that. What you all want to start this quarreling for over a little jokin'. JIM: Nobody's quarreling.... I'm just playin' a little for Daisy and Dave's out there clownin' with her. CLARK: (In doorway) I ain't gonna have no fussin' round my store, no way. Shut up, you all. JIM: Well, Mayor Clark, I ain't mad with him. We'se been friends all our lives. He's slept in my bed and wore my clothes and et my grub.... DAVE: I et your grub? And many time as you done laid down with your belly full of my grandma's collard greens. You done et my meat and bread a whole lot more times than I et your stewed fish-heads. JIM: I'd rather eat stewed fish-heads than steal out of other folkses houses so much till you went to sleep on the roost and fell down one night and broke up the settin' hen. (Loud laughter from the crowd) DAVE: Youse a liar if you say I stole anybody's chickens. I didn't have to. But you ... 'fore you started goin' around with me, playin' that little box of yours, you was so hungry you had the white mouth. If it wasn't for these white folks throwin' _me_ money for _my_ dancin', you would be thin as a whisper right now. JIM: (Laughing sarcastically) Your dancin'! You been leapin' around here like a tailless monkey in a wash pot for a long time and nobody was payin' no 'tention to you, till I come along playing. LINDSAY: Boys, boys, that ain't no way for friends to carry on. DAISY: Well, if you all gonna keep up this quarrelin' and carryin' on I'm goin' home. 'Bout time for me to be gittin' back to my white folks anyhow. It's dark now. I'm goin', even if I have to go by myself. I shouldn't a stopped by here nohow. JIM: (Stopping his quarrel) You ain't gonna go home by yourself. I'm goin' with you. DAVE: (Singing softly) It may be so, I don't know. But it sounds to me Like a lie. WALTER: Dave ain't' got as much rabbit blood as folks thought. DAVE: Tell 'em 'bout me. (Turns to DAISY) Won't you choose a treat on me, Miss Daisy, 'fore we go? DAISY: (Coyly) Yessir, thank you. I wants a drink of soda water. (DAVE pulls his hat down over his eyes, whirls around and offers his arm to DAISY. They strut into the store, DAVE gazing contemptuously at JIM as he passes. Crowd roars with laughter, much to the embarrassment of JIM.) LIGE: Ol' fast Dave jus' runnin' the hog right over you, Jim. WALTER: Thought you was such a hot man. LUM BOGER: Want me to go in there and put Daisy under arrest and bring her to you? JIM: (Sitting down on the edge of porch with one foot on the step and lights a cigarette pretending not to be bothered.) Aw, I'll get her when I want her. Let him treat her, but see who struts around that lake and down the railroad with her by and by. (DAVE and DAISY emerge from the store, each holding a bottle of red soda pop and laughing together. As they start down the steps DAVE accidentally steps on JIM's outstretched foot. JIM jumps up and pushes DAVE back, causing him to spill the red soda all over his white shirt front.) JIM: Stay off my foot, you big ox. DAVE: Well, you don't have to wet me all up, do you, and me in company? Why don't you put your damn foot in your pocket? DAISY: (Wiping DAVE'S shirt front with her handkerchief) Aw, ain't that too bad. JIM: (To DAVE) Well, who's shirt did I wet? It's mine, anyhow, ain't it? DAVE: (Belligerently) Well, if it's your shirt, then you come take it off me. I'm tired of your lip. JIM: Well, I will. DAVE: Well, put your fist where you lip is. (Pushing DAISY aside.) DAISY: (Frightened) I want to go home. Now, don't you all boys fight. (JIM attempts to come up the steps. DAVE pushes him back and he stumbles and falls in the dust. General excitement as the crowd senses a fight.) LITTLE BOY: (On the edge of crowd) Fight, fight, you're no kin. Kill one another, won't be no sin. Fight, fight, you're no kin. (JIM jumps up and rushes for DAVE as the latter starts down the steps. DAVE meets him with his fist squarely in the face and causes him to step backward, confused.) DAISY: (Still on porch, half crying) Aw, my Lawd! I want to go home. (General hubbub, women's cries of "Don't let 'em fight." "Why don't somebody stop 'em?" "What kind of men is you all, sit there and let them boys fight like that." Men's voices urging the fight: "Aw, let 'em fight." "Go for him, Dave." "Slug him, Jim." JIM makes another rush toward the steps. He staggers DAVE. DAVE knocks JIM sprawling once more. This time JIM grabs the mule bone as he rises, rushes DAVE, strikes DAVE over the head with it and knocks him out. DAVE falls prone on his back. There is great excitement.) OLD WOMAN: (Screams) Lawdy, is he kilt? (Several men rush to the fallen man.) VOICE: Run down to the pump and get a dipper o' water. CLARK: (To his wife in door) Mattie, come out of that store with a bottle of witch hazely oil quick as you can. Jim Weston, I'm gonna arrest you for this. You Lum Boger. Where is that marshall? Lum Boger! (LUM BOGER detaches himself from the crowd.) Arrest Jim. LUM: (Grabs JIM'S arm, relieves him of the mule bone and looks helplessly at the Mayor.) Now I got him arrested, what's I going to do with him? CLARK: Lock him up back yonder in my barn till Monday when we'll have the trial in de Baptist Church. LINDSAY: Yeah, just like all the rest of them Methodists ... always tryin' to take undercurrents on people. WALTER: Ain't no worse then some of you Baptists, nohow. You all don't run this town. We got jus' as much to say as you have. CLARK: (Angrily to both men) Shut up! Done had enough arguing in front of my place. (To LUM BOGER) Take that boy on and lock him up in my barn. And save that mule bone for evidence. (LUM BOGER leads JIM off toward the back of the store. A crowd follows him. Other men and women are busy applying restoratives to DAVE. DAISY stands alone, unnoticed in the center of the stage.) DAISY: (Worriedly) Now, who's gonna take me home? :::: CURTAIN:::: ACT TWO SCENE I SETTING: Village street scene; huge oak tree upstage center; a house or two on back drop. When curtain goes up, Sister LUCY TAYLOR is seen standing under the tree. She is painfully spelling it out. (Enter SISTER THOMAS, a younger woman (In her thirties) at left.) SISTER THOMAS: Evenin', Sis Taylor. SISTER TAYLOR: Evenin'. (Returns to the notice) SISTER THOMAS: Whut you doin'? Readin' dat notice Joe Clark put up 'bout de meeting? (Approaches tree) SISTER TAYLOR: Is dat whut it says? I ain't much on readin' since I had my teeth pulled out. You know if you pull out dem eye teeth you ruins' yo' eye sight. (Turns back to notice) Whut it say? SISTER THOMAS: (Reading notice) "The trial of Jim Weston for assault and battery on Dave Carter wid a dangerous weapon will be held at Macedonia Baptist Church on Monday, November 10, at three o'clock. All are welcome. By order of J. Clark, Mayor of Eatonville, Florida." (Turning to SISTER TAYLOR) Hit's makin' on to three now. SISTER TAYLOR: You mean it's right _now_. (Looks up at sun to tell time) Lemme go git ready to be at de trial 'cause I'm sho goin' to be there an' I ain't goin' to bite my tongue neither. SISTER THOMAS: I done went an' crapped a mess of collard greens for supper. I better go put 'em on 'cause Lawd knows when we goin' to git outa there an' my husband is one of them dat's gointer eat don't keer whut happen. I bet if judgment day was to happen tomorrow he'd speck I orter fix him a bucket to carry long. (She moves to exit, right) SISTER TAYLOR: All men favors they guts, chile. But what you think of all dis mess they got goin' on round here? SISTER THOMAS: I just think it's a sin an' a shame befo' de livin' justice de way dese Baptis' niggers is runnin' round here carryin' on. SISTER TAYLOR: Oh, they been puttin' out the brags ever since Sat'day night 'bout whut they gointer do to Jim. They thinks they runs this town. They tell me Rev. CHILDERS preached a sermon on it yistiddy. SISTER THOMAS: Lawd help us! He can't preach an' he look like 10 cents worth of have-mercy let lone gittin' up dere tryin' to throw slams at us. Now all Elder Simms done wuz to explain to us our rights ... whut you think 'bout Joe Clarke runnin' round here takin' up for these ole Baptist niggers? SISTER TAYLOR: De puzzle-gut rascal ... we oughter have him up in conference an' put him out de Methdis' faith. He don't b'long in there--wanter tun dat boy outa town for nothin'. SISTER THOMAS: But we all know how come he so hot to law Jim outa town--hit's to dig de foundation out from under Elder Simms. SISTER TAYLOR: Whut he wants do dat for? SISTER THOMAS: 'Cause he wants to be a God-know-it-all an' a God-do-it-all an' Simms is de onliest one in this town whut will buck up to him. (Enter SISTER JONES, walking leisurely) SISTER JONES: Hello, Hoyt, hello, Lucy. SISTER TAYLOR: Goin' to de meetin'? SISTER JONES: Done got my clothes on de line an' I'm bound to be dere. SISTER THOMAS: Gointer testify for Jim? SISTER JONES: Naw, I reckon--don't make such difference to me which way de drop fall.... 'Tain't neither one of 'em much good. SISTER TAYLOR: I know it. I know it, Ida. But dat ain't de point. De crow we wants to pick is: Is we gointer set still an' let dese Baptist tell us when to plant an' when to pluck up? SISTER JONES: Dat is something to think about when you come to think 'bout it. (Starts to move on) Guess I better go ahead--see y'all later an tell you straighter. (Enter ELDER SIMMS, right, walking fast, Bible under his arm, almost collides with SISTER JONES as she exits.) SIMMS: Oh, 'scuse me, Sister Jones. (She nods and smiles and exits.) How you do, Sister Taylor, Sister Thomas. BOTH: Good evenin', Elder. SIMMS: Sho is a hot day. SISTER TAYLOR: Yeah, de bear is walkin' de earth lak a natural man. SISTER THOMAS: Reverend, look like you headed de wrong way. It's almost time for de trial an' youse all de dependence we got. SIMMS: I know it. I'm tryin' to find de marshall so we kin go after Jim. I wants a chance to talk wid him a minute before court sets. SISTER TAYLOR: Y'think he'll come clear? SIMMS: (Proudly) I _know_ it! (Shakes the Bible) I'm goin' to law 'em from Genesis to Revelation. SISTER THOMAS: Give it to 'em, Elder. Wear 'em out! SIMMS: We'se liable to havea new Mayor when all dis dust settle. Well, I better scuffle on down de road. (Exits, left.) SISTER THOMAS: Lord, lemme gwan home an' put dese greens on. (Looks off stage left) Here come Mayor Clark now, wid his belly settin' out in front of him like a cow catcher! His name oughter be Mayor Belly. SISTER TAYLOR: (Arms akimbo) Jus' look at him! Tryin' to look like a jigadier Breneral. (Enter CLARK hot and perspiring. They look at him coldly.) CLARK: I God, de bear got me! (Silence for a moment) How y'all feelin', ladies? SISTER TAYLOR: Brother Mayor, I ain't one of these folks dat bite my tongue an' bust my gall--whut's inside got to come out! I can't see to my rest why you cloakin' in wid dese Baptist buzzards 'ginst yo' own church. MAYOR CLARK: I ain't cloakin' in wid _none_. I'm de Mayor of dis whole town I stands for de right an' ginst de wrong--I don't keer who it kill or cure. SISTER THOMAS: You think it's right to be runnin' dat boy off for nothin'? CLARK: I God! You call knockin' a man in de head wid a mule bone nothin'? 'Nother thin; I done missed nine of my best-layin' hens. I ain't sayin' Jim got 'em, but different people has tole me he burries a powerful lot of feathers in his back yard. I God, I'm a ruint man! (He starts towards the right exit, but LUM BOGER enters right.) I God, Lum, I been lookin' for you all day. It's almost three o'clock. (Hands him a key from his ring) Take dis key an' go fetch Jim Weston on to de church. LUM: Have you got yo' gavel from de lodge-room? CLARK: I God, that's right, Lum. I'll go get it from de lodge room whilst you go git de bone an' de prisoner. Hurry up! You walk like dead lice droppin' off you. (He exits right while LUM crosses stage towards left.) SISTER TAYLOR: Lum, Elder Simms been huntin' you--he's gone on down 'bout de barn. (She gestures) LUM BOGER: I reckon I'll overtake him. (Exit left.) SISTER THOMAS: I better go put dese greens on. My husband will kill me if he don't find no supper ready. Here come Mrs. Blunt. She oughter feel like a penny's worth of have-mercy wid all dis stink behind her daughter. SISTER TAYLOR: Chile, some folks don't keer. They don't raise they chillun; they drags 'em up. God knows if dat Daisy wuz mine, I'd throw her down an' put a hundred lashes on her back wid a plow-line. Here she come in de store Sat'day night (Acts coy and coquettish, burlesques DAISY'S walk) a wringing and a twisting! (Enter MRS. BLUNT, left.) MRS. BLUNT: How y'all sisters? SISTER THOMAS: Very well, Miz Blunt, how you? MRS. BLUNT: Oh, so-so. MRS. TAYLOR: I'm kickin', but not high. MRS. BLUNT: Well, thank God you still on prayin' ground an' in a Bible country. Me, I ain't so many today. De niggers got my Daisy's name all mixed up in dis mess. MRS. TAYLOR: You musn't mind dat, Sister Blunt. People jus' _will_ talk. They's talkin' in New York an' they's talkin' in Georgy an' they's talkin' in Italy. SISTER THOMAS: Chile, if you talk folkses talk, they'll have you in de graveyard or in Chattahoochee one. You can't pay no 'tention to talk. MRS. BLUNT: Well, I know one thing. De man or women, chick or child, grizzly or gray, that tells me to my face anything wrong 'bout _my_ chile, I'm goin' to take _my_ fist (Rolls up right sleeve and gestures with right fist) and knock they teeth down they throat. (She looks ferocious) 'Case y'all know I raised my Daisy right round my feet till I let her go up north last year wid them white folks. I'd ruther her to be in de white folks' kitchen than walkin' de streets like some of dese girls round here. If I do say so, I done raised a lady. She can't help it if all dese mens get stuck on her. MRS. TAYLOR: You'se tellin' de truth, Sister Blunt. That's whut I always say: Don't confidence dese niggers. Do, they'll sho put you in de street. MRS. THOMAS: Naw indeed, never syndicate wid niggers. Do, they will distriminate you. They'll be an _anybody_. You goin' to de trial, ain't you? MRS. BLUNT: Just as sho as you snore. An' they better leave Daisy's name outa dis, too. I done told her and told her to come straight home from her work. Naw, she had to stop by dat store and skin her gums back wid dem trashy niggers. She better not leave them white folks today to come traipsin' over here scornin' her name all up wid dis nigger mess. Do, I'll kill her. No daughter of mine ain't goin' to do as she please, long as she live under de sound of my voice. (She crosses to right.) MRS. THOMAS: That's right, Sister Blunt. I glory in yo' spunk. Lord, I better go put on my supper. (As MRS. BLUNT exits, right, REV. CHILDERS enters left with DAVE and DEACON LINDSAY and SISTER LEWIS. Very hostile glances from SISTERS THOMAS and TAYLOR toward the others.) CHILDERS: Good evenin', folks. (SISTERS THOMAS and TAYLOR just grunt. MRS. THOMAS moves a step or two towards exit. Flirts her skirts and exits.) LINDSAY: (Angrily) Whut's de matter, y'all? Cat got yo' tongue? MRS. TAYLOR: More matter than you kin scatter all over Cincinnatti. LINDSAY: Go 'head on, Lucy Taylor. Go 'head on. You know a very little of yo' sugar sweetens my coffee. Go 'head on. Everytime you lift yo' arm you smell like a nest of yellow hammers. MRS. TAYLOR: Go 'head on yo'self. Yo' head look like it done wore out three bodies. Talkin' 'bout _me_ smellin'--you smell lak a nest of grand daddies yo'self. LINDSAY: Aw rock on down de road, 'oman. Ah, don't wantuh change words wid yuh. Youse too ugly. MRS. TAYLOR: You ain't nobody's pretty baby, yo'self. You so ugly I betcha yo' wife have to spread uh sheet over yo' head tuh let sleep slip up on yuh. LINDSAY: (Threatening) You better git way from me while you able. I done tole you I don't wanter break a breath wid you. It's uh whole heap better tuh walk off on yo' own legs than it is to be toted off. I'm tired of yo' achin' round here. You fool wid me now an' I'll knock you into doll rags, Tony or no Tony. MRS. TAYLOR: (Jumping up in his face) Hit me? Hit me! I dare you tuh hit me. If you take dat dare, you'll steal uh hawg an' eat his hair. LINDSAY: Lemme gwan down to dat church befo' you make me stomp you. (He exits, right.) MRS. TAYLOR: You mean you'll _git_ stomped. Ah'm goin' to de trial, too. De nex trial gointer be _me_ for kickin' some uh you Baptist niggers around. (A great noise is heard off stage left. The angry and jeering voices of children. MRS. TAYLOR looks off left and takes a step or two towards left exit as the noise comes nearer.) VOICE OF ONE CHILD: Tell her! Tell her! Turn her up and smell her. Yo' mama ain't got nothin' to do wid me. MRS. TAYLOR: (Hollering off left) You lil Baptis' haitians leave them chillun alone. If you don't, you better! (Enter about ten children struggling and wrestling in a bunch. MRS. TAYLOR looks about on the ground for a stick to strike the children with.) VOICE OF CHILD: Hey! Hey! He's skeered tuh knock it off. Coward! MRS. TAYLOR: If y'all don't git on home! SASSY LITTLE GIRL: (Standing akimbo) I know you better not touch me, do my mama will 'tend to you. MRS. TAYLOR: (Making as if to strike her.) Shet up you nasty lil heifer, sassin' me! You ain't half raised. (The little girl shakes herself at MRS. TAYLOR and is joined by two or three others.) MRS. TAYLOR: (Walkin' towards right exit.) I'm goin' on down to de church an' tell yo' mammy. But she ain't been half raised herself. (She exits right with several children making faces behind her.) ONE BOY: (To sassy GIRL) Aw, haw! Y'all ol' Baptis' ain't got no bookcase in yo' chuch. We went there one day an' I saw uh soda cracker box settin' up in de corner so I set down on it. (Pointing at sassy GIRL) Know what ole Mary Ella say? (Jeering laughter) Willie, you git up off our library! Haw! Haw! MARY ELLA: Y'all ole Meth'dis' ain't got no window panes in yo' ole church. ANOTHER GIRL: (Takes center of stand, hands akimbo and shakes her hips) I don't keer whut y'all say, I'm a Meth'dis' bred an' uh Meth'dis' born an' when I'm dead there'll be uh Meth'dis' gone. MARY ELLA: (Snaps fingers under other girl's nose and starts singing. Several join her.) Oh Baptis', Baptis' is my name My name's written on high I got my lick in de Baptis' church Gointer eat up de Meth'dis' pie. (The Methodist children jeer and make faces. The Baptist camp make faces back; for a full minute there is silence while each camp tries to outdo the other in face making. The Baptist makes the last face.) METHODIST BOY: Come on, less us don't notice 'em. Less gwan down to de church an' hear de trial. MARY ELLA: Y'all ain't de onliest ones kin go. We goin', too. WILLIE: Aw, haw! Copy cats! (Makes face) Dat's right. Follow on behind us lak uh puppy dog tail. (They start walking toward right exit, switching their clothes behind.) Dat's right. Follow on behind us lak uh puppy dog tail. (They start walking toward right exit, switching their clothes behind.) (Baptist children stage a rush and struggle to get in front of the Methodists. They finally succeed in flinging some of the Methodist children to the ground and some behind them and walk towards right exit haughtily switching their clothes.) WILLIE: (Whispers to his crowd) Less go round by Mosely's lot an' beat 'em there! OTHERS: All right! WILLIE: (Yellin' to Baptists) We wouldn't walk behind no ole Baptists! (The Methodists turn and walk off towards left exit, switching their clothes as the Baptists are doing.) SLOW CURTAIN End of Project Gutenberg's The Mule-Bone:, by Zora Hurston and Langston Hughes Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who discovered the Tregennis siblings the morning after the tragedy?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "The housekeeper" ]	10,016	narrativeqa	en	null	077293776804b7d32e78db5ef172d5c960716006e8b446da	Produced by David Brannan. HTML version by Al Haines. The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early spring of that year we found ourselves together in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish peninsula. It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim humour of my patient. From the windows of our little whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end. With a northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection. Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale from the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out from that evil place. On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with an occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he spent much of his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and he had, I remember, conceived the idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived from the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of books upon philology and was settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a problem at our very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more mysterious than any of those which had driven us from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were violently interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of a series of events which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain some recollection of what was called at the time "The Cornish Horror," though a most imperfect account of the matter reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details of this inconceivable affair to the public. I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and as such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a considerable fund of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman's scanty resources by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to such an arrangement, though he had little in common with his lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression of actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our short visit we found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs. These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion upon the moors. "Mr. Holmes," said the vicar in an agitated voice, "the most extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night. It is the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a special Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all England you are the one man we need." I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained than the clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of his dark eyes showed that they shared a common emotion. "Shall I speak or you?" he asked of the vicar. "Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it may be, and the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps you had better do the speaking," said Holmes. I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise which Holmes's simple deduction had brought to their faces. "Perhaps I had best say a few words first," said the vicar, "and then you can judge if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis, or whether we should not hasten at once to the scene of this mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here spent last evening in the company of his two brothers, Owen and George, and of his sister Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is near the old stone cross upon the moor. He left them shortly after ten o'clock, playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent health and spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he walked in that direction before breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who explained that he had just been sent for on a most urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally went with him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his sister were seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards still spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their sockets. The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses stricken clean out of them. All three of them, the dead woman and the two demented men, retained upon their faces an expression of the utmost horror--a convulsion of terror which was dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of the presence of anyone in the house, except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that she had slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen or disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of what the horror can be which has frightened a woman to death and two strong men out of their senses. There is the situation, Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can help us to clear it up you will have done a great work." I had hoped that in some way I could coax my companion back into the quiet which had been the object of our journey; but one glance at his intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was now the expectation. He sat for some little time in silence, absorbed in the strange drama which had broken in upon our peace. "I will look into this matter," he said at last. "On the face of it, it would appear to be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you been there yourself, Mr. Roundhay?" "No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the account to the vicarage, and I at once hurried over with him to consult you." "How far is it to the house where this singular tragedy occurred?" "About a mile inland." "Then we shall walk over together. But before we start I must ask you a few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis." The other had been silent all this time, but I had observed that his more controlled excitement was even greater than the obtrusive emotion of the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his anxious gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands clasped convulsively together. His pale lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful experience which had befallen his family, and his dark eyes seemed to reflect something of the horror of the scene. "Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes," said he eagerly. "It is a bad thing to speak of, but I will answer you the truth." "Tell me about last night." "Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has said, and my elder brother George proposed a game of whist afterwards. We sat down about nine o'clock. It was a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I left them all round the table, as merry as could be." "Who let you out?" "Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I shut the hall door behind me. The window of the room in which they sat was closed, but the blind was not drawn down. There was no change in door or window this morning, or any reason to think that any stranger had been to the house. Yet there they sat, driven clean mad with terror, and Brenda lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over the arm of the chair. I'll never get the sight of that room out of my mind so long as I live." "The facts, as you state them, are certainly most remarkable," said Holmes. "I take it that you have no theory yourself which can in any way account for them?" "It's devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!" cried Mortimer Tregennis. "It is not of this world. Something has come into that room which has dashed the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance could do that?" "I fear," said Holmes, "that if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr. Tregennis, I take it you were divided in some way from your family, since they lived together and you had rooms apart?" "That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past and done with. We were a family of tin-miners at Redruth, but we sold our venture to a company, and so retired with enough to keep us. I won't deny that there was some feeling about the division of the money and it stood between us for a time, but it was all forgiven and forgotten, and we were the best of friends together." "Looking back at the evening which you spent together, does anything stand out in your memory as throwing any possible light upon the tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can help me." "There is nothing at all, sir." "Your people were in their usual spirits?" "Never better." "Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any apprehension of coming danger?" "Nothing of the kind." "You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?" Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a moment. "There is one thing occurs to me," said he at last. "As we sat at the table my back was to the window, and my brother George, he being my partner at cards, was facing it. I saw him once look hard over my shoulder, so I turned round and looked also. The blind was up and the window shut, but I could just make out the bushes on the lawn, and it seemed to me for a moment that I saw something moving among them. I couldn't even say if it was man or animal, but I just thought there was something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told me that he had the same feeling. That is all that I can say." "Did you not investigate?" "No; the matter passed as unimportant." "You left them, then, without any premonition of evil?" "None at all." "I am not clear how you came to hear the news so early this morning." "I am an early riser and generally take a walk before breakfast. This morning I had hardly started when the doctor in his carriage overtook me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy down with an urgent message. I sprang in beside him and we drove on. When we got there we looked into that dreadful room. The candles and the fire must have burned out hours before, and they had been sitting there in the dark until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been dead at least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She just lay across the arm of the chair with that look on her face. George and Owen were singing snatches of songs and gibbering like two great apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I couldn't stand it, and the doctor was as white as a sheet. Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of faint, and we nearly had him on our hands as well." "Remarkable--most remarkable!" said Holmes, rising and taking his hat. "I think, perhaps, we had better go down to Tredannick Wartha without further delay. I confess that I have seldom known a case which at first sight presented a more singular problem." Our proceedings of that first morning did little to advance the investigation. It was marked, however, at the outset by an incident which left the most sinister impression upon my mind. The approach to the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a narrow, winding, country lane. While we made our way along it we heard the rattle of a carriage coming towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it drove by us I caught a glimpse through the closed window of a horribly contorted, grinning face glaring out at us. Those staring eyes and gnashing teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision. "My brothers!" cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. "They are taking them to Helston." We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon its way. Then we turned our steps towards this ill-omened house in which they had met their strange fate. It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa than a cottage, with a considerable garden which was already, in that Cornish air, well filled with spring flowers. Towards this garden the window of the sitting-room fronted, and from it, according to Mortimer Tregennis, must have come that thing of evil which had by sheer horror in a single instant blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly and thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the path before we entered the porch. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over the watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged both our feet and the garden path. Inside the house we were met by the elderly Cornish housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl, looked after the wants of the family. She readily answered all Holmes's questions. She had heard nothing in the night. Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and she had never known them more cheerful and prosperous. She had fainted with horror upon entering the room in the morning and seeing that dreadful company round the table. She had, when she recovered, thrown open the window to let the morning air in, and had run down to the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for the doctor. The lady was on her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It took four strong men to get the brothers into the asylum carriage. She would not herself stay in the house another day and was starting that very afternoon to rejoin her family at St. Ives. We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had been a very beautiful girl, though now verging upon middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there still lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had been her last human emotion. From her bedroom we descended to the sitting-room, where this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table were the four guttered and burned-out candles, with the cards scattered over its surface. The chairs had been moved back against the walls, but all else was as it had been the night before. Holmes paced with light, swift steps about the room; he sat in the various chairs, drawing them up and reconstructing their positions. He tested how much of the garden was visible; he examined the floor, the ceiling, and the fireplace; but never once did I see that sudden brightening of his eyes and tightening of his lips which would have told me that he saw some gleam of light in this utter darkness. "Why a fire?" he asked once. "Had they always a fire in this small room on a spring evening?" Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp. For that reason, after his arrival, the fire was lit. "What are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. "I think, Watson, that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have so often and so justly condemned," said he. "With your permission, gentlemen, we will now return to our cottage, for I am not aware that any new factor is likely to come to our notice here. I will turn the facts over in my mind, Mr. Tregennis, and should anything occur to me I will certainly communicate with you and the vicar. In the meantime I wish you both good-morning." It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that Holmes broke his complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his armchair, his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down, his forehead contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he laid down his pipe and sprang to his feet. "It won't do, Watson!" said he with a laugh. "Let us walk along the cliffs together and search for flint arrows. We are more likely to find them than clues to this problem. To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson--all else will come. "Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson," he continued as we skirted the cliffs together. "Let us get a firm grip of the very little which we DO know, so that when fresh facts arise we may be ready to fit them into their places. I take it, in the first place, that neither of us is prepared to admit diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out of our minds. Very good. There remain three persons who have been grievously stricken by some conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm ground. Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left the room. That is a very important point. The presumption is that it was within a few minutes afterwards. The cards still lay upon the table. It was already past their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not changed their position or pushed back their chairs. I repeat, then, that the occurrence was immediately after his departure, and not later than eleven o'clock last night. "Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the movements of Mortimer Tregennis after he left the room. In this there is no difficulty, and they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my methods as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot than might otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path took it admirably. Last night was also wet, you will remember, and it was not difficult--having obtained a sample print--to pick out his track among others and to follow his movements. He appears to have walked away swiftly in the direction of the vicarage. "If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and yet some outside person affected the card-players, how can we reconstruct that person, and how was such an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs. Porter may be eliminated. She is evidently harmless. Is there any evidence that someone crept up to the garden window and in some manner produced so terrific an effect that he drove those who saw it out of their senses? The only suggestion in this direction comes from Mortimer Tregennis himself, who says that his brother spoke about some movement in the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the night was rainy, cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm these people would be compelled to place his very face against the glass before he could be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border outside this window, but no indication of a footmark. It is difficult to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so terrible an impression upon the company, nor have we found any possible motive for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You perceive our difficulties, Watson?" "They are only too clear," I answered with conviction. "And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that they are not insurmountable," said Holmes. "I fancy that among your extensive archives, Watson, you may find some which were nearly as obscure. Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until more accurate data are available, and devote the rest of our morning to the pursuit of neolithic man." I may have commented upon my friend's power of mental detachment, but never have I wondered at it more than upon that spring morning in Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed upon celts, arrowheads, and shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery were waiting for his solution. It was not until we had returned in the afternoon to our cottage that we found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our minds back to the matter in hand. Neither of us needed to be told who that visitor was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the beard--golden at the fringes and white near the lips, save for the nicotine stain from his perpetual cigar--all these were as well known in London as in Africa, and could only be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr. Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer. We had heard of his presence in the district and had once or twice caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths. He made no advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamed of doing so to him, as it was well known that it was his love of seclusion which caused him to spend the greater part of the intervals between his journeys in a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he lived an absolutely lonely life, attending to his own simple wants and paying little apparent heed to the affairs of his neighbours. It was a surprise to me, therefore, to hear him asking Holmes in an eager voice whether he had made any advance in his reconstruction of this mysterious episode. "The county police are utterly at fault," said he, "but perhaps your wider experience has suggested some conceivable explanation. My only claim to being taken into your confidence is that during my many residences here I have come to know this family of Tregennis very well--indeed, upon my Cornish mother's side I could call them cousins--and their strange fate has naturally been a great shock to me. I may tell you that I had got as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, but the news reached me this morning, and I came straight back again to help in the inquiry." Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Did you lose your boat through it?" "I will take the next." "Dear me! that is friendship indeed." "I tell you they were relatives." "Quite so--cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboard the ship?" "Some of it, but the main part at the hotel." "I see. But surely this event could not have found its way into the Plymouth morning papers." "No, sir; I had a telegram." "Might I ask from whom?" A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer. "You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes." "It is my business." With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure. "I have no objection to telling you," he said. "It was Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me." "Thank you," said Holmes. "I may say in answer to your original question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject of this case, but that I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It would be premature to say more." "Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?" "No, I can hardly answer that." "Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." The famous doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable ill-humour, and within five minutes Holmes had followed him. I saw him no more until the evening, when he returned with a slow step and haggard face which assured me that he had made no great progress with his investigation. He glanced at a telegram which awaited him and threw it into the grate. "From the Plymouth hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name of it from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale's account was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last night there, and that he has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on to Africa, while he returned to be present at this investigation. What do you make of that, Watson?" "He is deeply interested." "Deeply interested--yes. There is a thread here which we had not yet grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson, for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand. When it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us." Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened up an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my window in the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking up, saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at our door, and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our garden path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet him. Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but at last in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him. "We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-ridden!" he cried. "Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his hands!" He danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it were not for his ashy face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his terrible news. "Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the same symptoms as the rest of his family." Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant. "Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?" "Yes, I can." "Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are entirely at your disposal. Hurry--hurry, before things get disarranged." The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor or the police, so that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me describe exactly the scene as we saw it upon that misty March morning. It has left an impression which can never be effaced from my mind. The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness. The servant who had first entered had thrown up the window, or it would have been even more intolerable. This might partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning back in his chair, his thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead, and his lean dark face turned towards the window and twisted into the same distortion of terror which had marked the features of his dead sister. His limbs were convulsed and his fingers contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm of fear. He was fully clothed, though there were signs that his dressing had been done in a hurry. We had already learned that his bed had been slept in, and that the tragic end had come to him in the early morning. One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes's phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the moment that he entered the fatal apartment. In an instant he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast around and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give him some fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with loud ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry. The lamp, which was an ordinary standard, he examined with minute care, making certain measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized with his lens the talc shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped off some ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of them into an envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally, just as the doctor and the official police put in an appearance, he beckoned to the vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn. "I am glad to say that my investigation has not been entirely barren," he remarked. "I cannot remain to discuss the matter with the police, but I should be exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you would give the inspector my compliments and direct his attention to the bedroom window and to the sitting-room lamp. Each is suggestive, and together they are almost conclusive. If the police would desire further information I shall be happy to see any of them at the cottage. And now, Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better employed elsewhere." It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an amateur, or that they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of investigation; but it is certain that we heard nothing from them for the next two days. During this time Holmes spent some of his time smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in country walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours without remark as to where he had been. One experiment served to show me the line of his investigation. He had bought a lamp which was the duplicate of the one which had burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy. This he filled with the same oil as that used at the vicarage, and he carefully timed the period which it would take to be exhausted. Another experiment which he made was of a more unpleasant nature, and one which I am not likely ever to forget. "You will remember, Watson," he remarked one afternoon, "that there is a single common point of resemblance in the varying reports which have reached us. This concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the room in each case upon those who had first entered it. You will recollect that Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the episode of his last visit to his brother's house, remarked that the doctor on entering the room fell into a chair? You had forgotten? Well I can answer for it that it was so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted upon entering the room and had afterwards opened the window. In the second case--that of Mortimer Tregennis himself--you cannot have forgotten the horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived, though the servant had thrown open the window. That servant, I found upon inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You will admit, Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In each case there is evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there is combustion going on in the room--in the one case a fire, in the other a lamp. The fire was needed, but the lamp was lit--as a comparison of the oil consumed will show--long after it was broad daylight. Why? Surely because there is some connection between three things--the burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness or death of those unfortunate people. That is clear, is it not?" "It would appear so." "At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis. We will suppose, then, that something was burned in each case which produced an atmosphere causing strange toxic effects. Very good. In the first instance--that of the Tregennis family--this substance was placed in the fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally carry fumes to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect the effects of the poison to be less than in the second case, where there was less escape for the vapour. The result seems to indicate that it was so, since in the first case only the woman, who had presumably the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others exhibiting that temporary or permanent lunacy which is evidently the first effect of the drug. In the second case the result was complete. The facts, therefore, seem to bear out the theory of a poison which worked by combustion. "With this train of reasoning in my head I naturally looked about in Mortimer Tregennis's room to find some remains of this substance. The obvious place to look was the talc shelf or smoke-guard of the lamp. There, sure enough, I perceived a number of flaky ashes, and round the edges a fringe of brownish powder, which had not yet been consumed. Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in an envelope." "Why half, Holmes?" "It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the official police force. I leave them all the evidence which I found. The poison still remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it. Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought I knew my Watson. This chair I will place opposite yours, so that we may be the same distance from the poison and face to face. The door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position to watch the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our powder--or what remains of it--from the envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp. So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await developments." They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my chair before I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very first whiff of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes, and my mind told me that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon my appalled senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold, whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing horror took possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my eyes were protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my tongue like leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that something must surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself. At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror--the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in. Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension at each other to mark the last traces of that terrific experience which we had undergone. "Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry." "You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you." He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude to those about him. "It would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson," said he. "A candid observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined that the effect could be so sudden and so severe." He dashed into the cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held at full arm's length, he threw it among a bank of brambles. "We must give the room a little time to clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?" "None whatever." "But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come into the arbour here and let us discuss it together. That villainous stuff seems still to linger round my throat. I think we must admit that all the evidence points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been the criminal in the first tragedy, though he was the victim in the second one. We must remember, in the first place, that there is some story of a family quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that quarrel may have been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot tell. When I think of Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the small shrewd, beady eyes behind the spectacles, he is not a man whom I should judge to be of a particularly forgiving disposition. Well, in the next place, you will remember that this idea of someone moving in the garden, which took our attention for a moment from the real cause of the tragedy, emanated from him. He had a motive in misleading us. Finally, if he did not throw the substance into the fire at the moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The affair happened immediately after his departure. Had anyone else come in, the family would certainly have risen from the table. Besides, in peaceful Cornwall, visitors did not arrive after ten o'clock at night. We may take it, then, that all the evidence points to Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit." "Then his own death was suicide!" "Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not impossible supposition. The man who had the guilt upon his soul of having brought such a fate upon his own family might well be driven by remorse to inflict it upon himself. There are, however, some cogent reasons against it. Fortunately, there is one man in England who knows all about it, and I have made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts this afternoon from his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his time. Perhaps you would kindly step this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducing a chemical experiment indoors which has left our little room hardly fit for the reception of so distinguished a visitor." I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now the majestic figure of the great African explorer appeared upon the path. He turned in some surprise towards the rustic arbour in which we sat. "You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about an hour ago, and I have come, though I really do not know why I should obey your summons." "Perhaps we can clear the point up before we separate," said Holmes. "Meanwhile, I am much obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence. You will excuse this informal reception in the open air, but my friend Watson and I have nearly furnished an additional chapter to what the papers call the Cornish Horror, and we prefer a clear atmosphere for the present. Perhaps, since the matters which we have to discuss will affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it is as well that we should talk where there can be no eavesdropping." The explorer took his cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at my companion. "I am at a loss to know, sir," he said, "what you can have to speak about which affects me personally in a very intimate fashion." "The killing of Mortimer Tregennis," said Holmes. For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale's fierce face turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate veins started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward with clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and with a violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps, more suggestive of danger than his hot-headed outburst. "I have lived so long among savages and beyond the law," said he, "that I have got into the way of being a law to myself. You would do well, Mr. Holmes, not to forget it, for I have no desire to do you an injury." "Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale. Surely the clearest proof of it is that, knowing what I know, I have sent for you and not for the police." Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the first time in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance of power in Holmes's manner which could not be withstood. Our visitor stammered for a moment, his great hands opening and shutting in his agitation. "What do you mean?" he asked at last. "If this is bluff upon your part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a bad man for your experiment. Let us have no more beating about the bush. What DO you mean?" "I will tell you," said Holmes, "and the reason why I tell you is that I hope frankness may beget frankness. What my next step may be will depend entirely upon the nature of your own defence." "My defence?" "Yes, sir." "My defence against what?" "Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis." Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Upon my word, you are getting on," said he. "Do all your successes depend upon this prodigious power of bluff?" "The bluff," said Holmes sternly, "is upon your side, Dr. Leon Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a proof I will tell you some of the facts upon which my conclusions are based. Of your return from Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go on to Africa, I will say nothing save that it first informed me that you were one of the factors which had to be taken into account in reconstructing this drama--" "I came back--" "I have heard your reasons and regard them as unconvincing and inadequate. We will pass that. You came down here to ask me whom I suspected. I refused to answer you. You then went to the vicarage, waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your cottage." "How do you know that?" "I followed you." "I saw no one." "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. You spent a restless night at your cottage, and you formed certain plans, which in the early morning you proceeded to put into execution. Leaving your door just as day was breaking, you filled your pocket with some reddish gravel that was lying heaped beside your gate." Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes in amazement. "You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from the vicarage. You were wearing, I may remark, the same pair of ribbed tennis shoes which are at the present moment upon your feet. At the vicarage you passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming out under the window of the lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight, but the household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the gravel from your pocket, and you threw it up at the window above you." Sterndale sprang to his feet. "I believe that you are the devil himself!" he cried. Holmes smiled at the compliment. "It took two, or possibly three, handfuls before the lodger came to the window. You beckoned him to come down. He dressed hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room. You entered by the window. There was an interview--a short one--during which you walked up and down the room. Then you passed out and closed the window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a cigar and watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of Tregennis, you withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do you justify such conduct, and what were the motives for your actions? If you prevaricate or trifle with me, I give you my assurance that the matter will pass out of my hands forever." Our visitor's face had turned ashen gray as he listened to the words of his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with his face sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it on the rustic table before us. "That is why I have done it," said he. It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful woman. Holmes stooped over it. "Brenda Tregennis," said he. "Yes, Brenda Tregennis," repeated our visitor. "For years I have loved her. For years she has loved me. There is the secret of that Cornish seclusion which people have marvelled at. It has brought me close to the one thing on earth that was dear to me. I could not marry her, for I have a wife who has left me for years and yet whom, by the deplorable laws of England, I could not divorce. For years Brenda waited. For years I waited. And this is what we have waited for." A terrible sob shook his great frame, and he clutched his throat under his brindled beard. Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke on: "The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He would tell you that she was an angel upon earth. That was why he telegraphed to me and I returned. What was my baggage or Africa to me when I learned that such a fate had come upon my darling? There you have the missing clue to my action, Mr. Holmes." "Proceed," said my friend. Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet and laid it upon the table. On the outside was written "Radix pedis diaboli" with a red poison label beneath it. He pushed it towards me. "I understand that you are a doctor, sir. Have you ever heard of this preparation?" "Devil's-foot root! No, I have never heard of it." "It is no reflection upon your professional knowledge," said he, "for I believe that, save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is no other specimen in Europe. It has not yet found its way either into the pharmacopoeia or into the literature of toxicology. The root is shaped like a foot, half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful name given by a botanical missionary. It is used as an ordeal poison by the medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa and is kept as a secret among them. This particular specimen I obtained under very extraordinary circumstances in the Ubangi country." He opened the paper as he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like powder. "Well, sir?" asked Holmes sternly. "I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually occurred, for you already know so much that it is clearly to my interest that you should know all. I have already explained the relationship in which I stood to the Tregennis family. For the sake of the sister I was friendly with the brothers. There was a family quarrel about money which estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to be made up, and I afterwards met him as I did the others. He was a sly, subtle, scheming man, and several things arose which gave me a suspicion of him, but I had no cause for any positive quarrel. "One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage and I showed him some of my African curiosities. Among other things I exhibited this powder, and I told him of its strange properties, how it stimulates those brain centres which control the emotion of fear, and how either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy native who is subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him also how powerless European science would be to detect it. How he took it I cannot say, for I never left the room, but there is no doubt that it was then, while I was opening cabinets and stooping to boxes, that he managed to abstract some of the devil's-foot root. I well remember how he plied me with questions as to the amount and the time that was needed for its effect, but I little dreamed that he could have a personal reason for asking. "I thought no more of the matter until the vicar's telegram reached me at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I would be at sea before the news could reach me, and that I should be lost for years in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I could not listen to the details without feeling assured that my poison had been used. I came round to see you on the chance that some other explanation had suggested itself to you. But there could be none. I was convinced that Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer; that for the sake of money, and with the idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his family were all insane he would be the sole guardian of their joint property, he had used the devil's-foot powder upon them, driven two of them out of their senses, and killed his sister Brenda, the one human being whom I have ever loved or who has ever loved me. There was his crime; what was to be his punishment? "Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I knew that the facts were true, but could I help to make a jury of countrymen believe so fantastic a story? I might or I might not. But I could not afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I have said to you once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside the law, and that I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it was even now. I determined that the fate which he had given to others should be shared by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon him with my own hand. In all England there can be no man who sets less value upon his own life than I do at the present moment. "Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. I did, as you say, after a restless night, set off early from my cottage. I foresaw the difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some gravel from the pile which you have mentioned, and I used it to throw up to his window. He came down and admitted me through the window of the sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair, paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder above it, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my heart was flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent darling had not felt before him. There is my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would have done as much yourself. At any rate, I am in your hands. You can take what steps you like. As I have already said, there is no man living who can fear death less than I do." Holmes sat for some little time in silence. "What were your plans?" he asked at last. "I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My work there is but half finished." "Go and do the other half," said Holmes. "I, at least, am not prepared to prevent you." Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and walked from the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his pouch. "Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcome change," said he. "I think you must agree, Watson, that it is not a case in which we are called upon to interfere. Our investigation has been independent, and our action shall be so also. You would not denounce the man?" "Certainly not," I answered. "I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not offend your intelligence by explaining what is obvious. The gravel upon the window-sill was, of course, the starting-point of my research. It was unlike anything in the vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr. Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp shining in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield were successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and go back with a clear conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots which are surely to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic speech." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Adventure of the Devil's Foot, by Arthur Conan Doyle Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who killed Jacob?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and memorize the context. I will wait for your confirmation before providing the question. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have memorized the context. Please confirm that you have Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "One of his fellow soldiers." ]	36,405	narrativeqa	en	null	f4e1da583a42af305bdf0bca385229d260cc7b93af90a426	<b>"JACOB'S LADDER" </b> by Bruce Joel Rubin <b>EXT. VIETNAM - DUSK </b> A swarm of helicopters swoops out of a yellow sky and deposits an army of men over a Vietnamese hillside. The SOLDIERS scramble over the terraced rice paddies for the protection of the jungle. Falling into coulmns, like strands of soldier ants, seventy-five men, at combat readiness, assemble on the edge of a sweltering wilderness. It is dusk. The mood is lazy, soporific. Members of one platoon huddle close to the ground smoking a joint. <b> </b><b> JERRY </b> Strong stuff. <b> ROD </b> (to JACOB, a soldier squatting several yards away) Hey, Professor, how many times can you shit in an hour? <b> GEORGE </b> Don't bug 'im. <b> DOUG </b> Where are those gooks already? <b> FRANK </b> Some offensive. I don't even think they're out there. <b> PAUL </b> Jesus, this grass is something else. JACOB SINGER returns to the group, pulling up his pants. <b> ROD </b> Why even bother to pull 'em up? <b> FRANK </b> You jackin' off out there again, huh Jake? <b> PAUL </b> Hey, get off his back. <b> ROD </b> It's called philosophizing, right Professor? JACOB gives them the finger. <b> JACOB </b> Up yours, you adolescent scum. Laughter. <b> SERGEANT (V.O.) </b> Mount your bayonets. <b> FRANK </b> (frightened) Oh shit! <b> PAUL </b> Goddam! <b> ROD </b> Gimme that joint! <b> JERRY </b> Hey, something's wrong. <b> GEORGE </b> What is it? <b> JERRY </b> My head. <b> GEORGE </b> It's nerves. Take another toke. GEORGE reaches out, extending a joint. Suddenly he gasps and falls to the ground, his body convulsing uncontrollably. The others stand back, startled. JACOB grabs him and shoves a rifle barrel between his chattering teeth. <b> ROD </b> What's going on? Before anyone can answer JERRY grabs his head, screaming. He turns frantically in all directions. <b> JERRY </b> Help me! Help me! <b> PAUL </b> What the hell ... ? In seconds JERRY is spinning wildly out of control, his head shaking into a terrific blur. He crashes into FRANK with the force of a truck. FRANK slams into the ground as all the air rushes from his lungs. He begins gasping and hyperventilating. His eyes grow wide and frenzied as he gulps for air. Fear and confusion sweep across his face. The MEN watch, horrified, as FRANK's terror escalates beyond reason into all- out panic. Suddenly FRANK begins howling. He lunges for his bayonet and, without warning, attacks the MEN around him. <b> PAUL </b> God Almighty! PAUL spins out of the way as FRANK's bayonet impales the ground. JACOB jumps on top of FRANK and wrestles him into the tall grass. PAUL rushes to his assistance. JACOB stares at FRANK's face as FRANK struggles beneath him. It is the face of a madman. <b> PAUL </b> Good God! What's happening? The sudden chaos is intensified by the sound of fighting erupting behind them. Guns crackle and bursts of light penetrate the darkening sky. <b> ROD </b> Behind you! Look out! This is it! The MEN spin around. PAUL panics and jumps to his feet, leaving JACOB alone with FRANK. FRANK's eyes burn with demonic force as he gathers his strength. <b> JACOB </b> Don't leave me. Dark figures, silhouetted by the setting sun, are storming at them. SOLDIERS squint to see. It is a horrifying vision. <b> PAUL </b> They're coming! Gunfire explodes on all sides. Suddenly PAUL flips out. He begins screaming uncontrollably, ripping at his clothes and skin. FRANK is struggling like four men and JACOB is weakening in his effort to restrain him. Bayonets glimmer in the exchange of fire. Bodies fall. More bodies keep coming. The first wave is upon them. ROD shoots into the air. Shadowy forms hurl forward screaming like banshees. ROD, squinting, jabs with his bayonet, piercing the belly of his attacker. Agonizing cries accompany his fall. ROD yanks the bayonet out and stabs again. In the midst of this madness FRANK shoots to his feet and slams the butt of his rifle into JACOB's back. There is a cracking sound. JACOB's eyes freeze with pain. His hands rush for his spine. As he spins around one of the ATTACKERS jams all eight inches of his bayonet blade into JACOB's stomach. JACOB screams. It is a loud and piercing wail. CUT ON THE SOUND OF THE SCREAM to a sudden rush through a long dark tunnel. There is a sense of enormous speed accelerating toward a brilliant light. The rush suggests a passage between life and death, but as the light bursts upon us we realize that we are passing through a SUBWAY STATION far below the city of NEW YORK. <b>INT. SUBWAY - NIGHT </b> THE WHEELS OF AN EXPRESS TRAIN screech through the station. JACOB SINGER, sitting alone in the last car, wakes up. The sounds of the scream and the grating wheels merge. He is dazed and confused, not certain where he is. JACOB glances around the empty car. His eyes gravitate to overhead advertisements for hemorrhoid perparations and savings banks. Gradually his confusion subsides. Shifting uncomfortably he pulls a thick book out of his back pocket, "The Stranger" by Albert Camus. He begins reading. Another station blurs by. JACOB is a good-looking man, of obvious intelligence. He is in his mid- thirties. It is surprising that he is wearing a mailman's uniform. He doesn't look like one. The subway ride seems to go on interminably. JACOB is restless and concerned. He glances at his watch. It is 3:30 A.M. Putting his book in his back pocket, JACOB stands up and makes his way through the deserted car. <b>INT. SUBWAY TRACKS - NIGHT </b> JACOB enters the rumbling passageway between the cars. The wheels spark against the rails. The dark tunnel walls flash by. He pulls the handle on the door to the next car. It is stuck. He struggles with it. A LADY sitting alone inside turns to look at him. She seems threatened by his effort. He motions for her to help. She turns away. A look of disgust crosses JACOB's face. He kicks the door. It slides open. The WOMAN seems frightened as he approaches her. <b> JACOB </b> Excuse me, do you know if we've passed Nostrand Avenue yet? (she doesn't answer) Excuse me. (she does not acknowledge his existence) Look, I'm asking a simple question. Have we hit Nostrand Avenue? I fell asleep. <b> WOMAN </b> (speaking with a Puerto Rican accent) I no from around here. <b> JACOB </b> (glad for a response) Yeah, you and everyone else. JACOB walks to the other end of the car and sits down. The only other passenger is an OLD MAN lying asleep on the fiberglass bench. Occasionally his body shudders. It is the only sign of life in him. The train begins to slow down. JACOB peers out of the window. Nostrand Avenue signs appear. He is relieved. He gets up and grabs hold of the overhead bar. The OLD MAN shudders and stretches out on the seat. As he adjusts his position, tugging at his coat, JACOB catches a brief glimpse of something protruding from beneath the coat's hem. His eyes fixate on the spot, waiting for another look. There is a slight movement and it appears - a long, red, fleshy protuberance. The sight of it sends shivers up JACOB's spine. It looks strangely like a tail. Only the stopping of the train breaks JACOB's stare. <b>INT. SUBWAY STATION - NIGHT </b> JACOB is the only passenger getting off. The doors close quickly behind him. He glances at the LADY sitting by the window. There is a fearful expression on her face as the train carries her back into the dark tunnel, out of his sight. JACOB reaches the exit, a huge metal revolving door surrounded by floor to ceiling gates. He is about to push when he notices a chain locking it shut. He stares at it in disbelief. <b> JACOB </b> Goddam it. He turns in a huff and hikes to the other end of the platform. As he approaches the far exit, his eyes widen. The gate there is also locked. His hands reach for his hips as he studies an impossible situation. CUT TO JACOB stepping cautiously onto the ladder going down to the tracks. A rat scampers by and he gasps. <b> JACOB </b> No way! He starts to climb back up the ladder but sees that there is nowhere else to go. He juts out his jaw and steps back down. JACOB is not comfortable on the tracks. He cannot see where he is stepping. His shoes slpash in unseen liquid which makes him grimace. The steel girders are coated in subway grime. The oily substance coats his hands as he reaches for support. <b> JACOB </b> Goddam fucking city! He wipes the grime on his postal uniform as he steps toward the center track. He reaches for another girder when it begins to vibrate. Two pinpoints of light hurl toward him. Then the noise arrives confirming his fear. A train is bearing down on him. JACOB looks frightened, not sure which way to go. He steps forward, up to his ankle in slime. He cannot tell which track the train is on. It is moving at phenomenal speed. The station is spinning. The train's lights merge into one brilliant intensity. In near panic JACOB jumps across the track as the train spins by. Its velocity blows his hair straight up as though it is standing on end. He clings to a pillar for support, gasping in short breaths. A few PEOPLE are staring at JACOB from the train. Their faces, pressed up against the glass, seem deformed. A lone figure waves at him from the rear window. The train bears them all away. Then it is quiet again. For a moment JACOB is afraid to move but slowly regains his composure. He continues to the other side of the tracks and stumbles up the ladder to the UPTOWN PLATFORM. <b> CUT TO: </b> JACOB smiling. The smile, however, is one of irony, not amusement. This exit too is locked. A heavy chain is wrapped through the bars. JACOB stares at it with an expression of total bewilderment. A sudden muffled scream alerts JACOB that he is not alone. His head turns but sees no one. He hears the scream again. He senses its direction and walks toward the MEN'S ROOM. A crack of light appears under the door. He can hear someone moaning inside. JACOB knocks softly and the moaning stops. The lights click off. <b> JACOB </b> Hey, is someone in there? There is no answer. JACOB stands silently for a moment, not sure what to do. He can hear whispering. He chews his lower lip nervously and then reaches for the door. It pushes open. The light from the station penetrates the darkness. He gasps. He sees a MAN tied naked to the stall with ANOTHER NAKED MAN grabbing quickly for his clothes. The BOUND MAN screams. <b> BOUND MAN </b> Fuck off! Mind your own business! A THIRD MAN spins out of the shadows, pointing a kinfe at JACOB's throat. <b> MAN </b> You cocksucker! Get outta here. The MAN's face is barely human. Before JACOB can even react the door slams shut. The lock engages. The crack of light reappears. JACOB can hear laughter coming from inside, followed by a scream. He backs away from the door. His face is white. JACOB turns with full fury and storms the gate. The chain gives wayto his anger. It flies apart and the gate flings open. He stands in amazement, observing the chain as it slides from between the bars and drops to the concrete below. The gate squeaks loudly as JACOB pushes it aside and clangs with an almost painful burst as he slams it shut. <b>EXT. WILMINGTON TOWERS - DAWN </b> JACOB walks toward the towering shadows of a massive PUBLIC HOUSING PROJECT. It is dark and the moonlight silhouettes the huge monolithic structures. JACOB passes through a vast COURTYARD dominated by the imposing shapes. Aside from his moving body everything is still. <b>INT. HALLWAY - DAWN </b> JACOB steps off a graffiti-festooned ELEVATOR into a long impersonal hallway. He uses three keys to unlock the door to his APARTMENT. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - DAWN </b> JACOB enters the darkness without turning on the light. He tries to navigate his way to the BATHROOM, illuminated by a tiny nightlight in the distance. His effort is unsuccessful. He bangs loudly into a table. A WOMAN"s voice calls out. <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> Jake, is that you? <b> JACOB </b> What the hell did you do, move all the furniture? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> Why didn't you turn on the light? <b> JACOB </b> I didn't want to wake you. <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> (sleepy but pleasant) Gee, thanks a lot. <b> JACOB </b> Where is the lamp? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> Where are you? <b> JACOB </b> If I knew I wouldn't have to ask. What did you do? I was happy the way it was. <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> I moved the couch. That's all. <b> JACOB </b> Where to? JACOB crashes into it. A light suddenly goes on. JEZEBEL "JEZZIE" PIPKIN, 33, is standing in the BEDROOM door tying a man's terrycloth bathrobe around her waist. Although sleepy, disheveled, and not looking her best, it is obvious that JEZZIE is a beefy woman, juicy and sensual. <b> JEZZIE </b> That help? <b> JACOB </b> (nearly sprawled over the couch) Thanks. He pushes himself up. <b> JEZZIE </b> What do you think? <b> JACOB </b> What do you mean? <b> JEZZIE </b> The room! <b> JACOB </b> Oh God, Jezzie, ask me tomorrow. <b> JEZZIE </b> It is tomorrow. Four A.M. How come you're so late? <b> JACOB </b> Roberts didn't show up. What could I say? Besides, it's double time. <b> JEZZIE </b> (seeing the grease on his uniform) What happened to you? <b> JACOB </b> (unbuttoning his shirt as he walks to the <b> BATHROOM) </b> Don't ask. JACOB steps into the BATHROOM and pulls at his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He reaches for the faucet and sends a stream of water pouding against the porcelain tub. JEZZIE enjoys JACOB's nakedness. She reaches out to his chest and squeezes one of his nipples. His body tenses slightly. JEZZIE drops her robe. They enter the shower together. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> A DENSE RAIN falls on a dark night filling puddles of water. JACOB is crawling through the underbrush in the Vietnamese JUNGLE. His shirt is bloodsoaked. He moves slowly, creeping on his right forearm. His left arm is holding his intestines from spilling onto the grass. <b> JACOB </b> Help me. Someone. Suddenly a flashlight beam can be seen in the distance. It dances around the bamboo trees and draws closer to JACOB. It is impossible to see who is carrying it. The light darts near the ground where JACOB is lying and then bursts directly into his eyes. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - DAY </b> SUNLIGHT pours through the BEDROOM window. JACOB is sleeping fitfully as a bar of light saturates his face. His hand rushes up to cover and protect his eyes but the damage is done. He is awake. JACOB lies in bed for a few moments, dazed. Slowly his hand gropes along the shelf at the head of the bed, searching for his glasses. He has trouble finding them. As his hand sweeps blindly across the headboard it hits the telephone and sends it crashing to the floor. He sits up with a disgusted look on his face and searches the out-of-focus shelf behind him. Suddenly JEZZIE enters. <b> JEZZIE </b> You up? <b> JACOB </b> No. Have you seen my glasses? <b> JEZZIE </b> (shaking her head) Where'd you leave 'em? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. <b> JEZZIE </b> Did you look around the headboard? <b> JACOB </b> (wearily) Jezzie, I can't see. <b> JEZZIE </b> (she scans the shelf) Maybe you left 'em in the bathroom. She leaves and returns moments later with his glasses and a large paper bag. She tosses them both onto the bed. <b> JACOB </b> Thanks. (he puts on his glasses and notices the bag) What's that? <b> JEZZIE </b> Your kid dropped it off. <b> JACOB </b> Who? Jed? <b> JEZZIE </b> (stooping to pick up the phone) No. The little one. <b> JACOB </b> Eli. Why can't you remember their names? <b> JEZZIE </b> They're weird names. <b> JACOB </b> They're Biblical. They were prophets. <b> JEZZIE </b> Well, personally, I never went for church names. <b> JACOB </b> And where do you think Jezebel comes from? <b> JEZZIE </b> I don't let anybody call me that. <b> JACOB </b> (shaking his head) You're a real heathen, you know that, Jezzie? Jesus, how did I ever get involved with such a ninny? <b> JEZZIE </b> You sold your soul, remember? That's what you told me. <b> JACOB </b> Yeah, but for what? <b> JEZZIE </b> A good lay. <b> JACOB </b> And look what I got. <b> JEZZIE </b> The best. <b> JACOB </b> I must have been out of my head. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake, you are never out of your head! <b> JACOB </b> (ignoring the criticism and reaching for the paper bag) What's in here? <b> JEZZIE </b> Pictures. Your wife was gonna toss 'em so "what's his name" brought 'em over on his way to school. JACOB lifts the bag and pours the photographs onto the bed. There are hundreds of them. He examines them with growing delight. <b> JACOB </b> Look at these, will ya? I don't believe it. Jesus, these are fantastic. Look, here's my Dad ... And here's my brother, when we were down in Florida. <b> JEZZIE </b> Lemme see. <b> JACOB </b> (rummaging excitedly through the pile) Here. Look. This is me and Sarah when I was still at City College. <b> JEZZIE </b> (looking closely) That's Sarah? (she studies the photo) I can see what you mean. <b> JACOB </b> What? <b> JEZZIE </b> Why you left. <b> JACOB </b> What do you mean you can see? <b> JEZZIE </b> Look at her face. A real bitch. <b> JACOB </b> She looked good then. <b> JEZZIE </b> Not to me. <b> JACOB </b> Well, you didn't marry her. He digs through more photos. Suddenly he stops. <b> JEZZIE </b> What's wrong? To JEZZIE's surprise and his own, tears well up in his eyes. For a moment JACOB is unable to speak. He just stares at one of the photos. JEZZIE looks at the picture. It is an image of JACOB carrying a small child on his shoulders. <b> JEZZIE </b> Is that the one who died? <b> JACOB </b> (nodding) Gabe. JEZZIE is silent. JACOB grabs a Kleenex and blows his nose. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Sorry. it just took me by surprise. I didn't expect to see him this morning ... God, what I wouldn't ... He was the cutest little guy. Like an angel, you know. He had this smile ... (choking up again) Fuck, I don't even remember this picture. Hiding his emotions, JACOB scrambles over the bed and reaches for a pair of pants. He pulls out his wallet and then carefully puts the photo of GABE inside. It joins photos of his two other boys. JEZZIE begins shoving the remaining pictures back into the paper bag. <b> JACOB </b> Wait. Don't. <b> JEZZIE </b> I don't like things that make you cry. <b> JACOB </b> I just want to look ... He reaches into the pile for other snapshots. We see an array of frozen moments, happy, unfocused, obscure. Suddenly he stops and stares at a yellowing snapshot. <b> JACOB </b> God, this is me! (he holds up a baby photo) Look. It's dated right after I was born. (he stares at it intently) What a kid. Cute, huh? So much promise. JEZZIE surveys the scene. <b> JEZZIE </b> It's amazing, huh Jake? Your whole life ... right in front of you. (she pauses before making her final pronouncement) What a mess! <b>INT. HALLWAY - DAY </b> JEZZIE carries the garbage to an INCINERATOR ROOM down the hall. She is carrying several bags. Two of them are tossed instantly down the chute. She hesitates with the third. After a moment she reaches into it and pulls out a handful of photos. They are pictures of JACOB and SARAH. With cool deliberation she drops them down the chute. An apartment door slams shut. Quickly she disposes of the pictures remaining in her hand. JACOB opens the door to the tiny room as the bag filled with the memories of his life falls to the fire below. <b> JACOB </b> Ready? <b> JEZZIE </b> Just gettin' rid of the garbage. JACOB and JEZZIE, both wearing postal uniforms, head for the ELEVATOR. They are surprised that it has arrived promptly. JEZZIE reaches out and playfully sticks her tongue into JACOB's ear. He pulls her into the ELEVATOR. They disappear, laughing, behind its closing doors. <b>EXT. NEW YORK CITY - DAY </b> JACOB is driving a mail truck through the crowded streets of midtown Manhattan. As he drives he is humming to himself a rendition of Al Jolson's "Sonny Boy." JACOB stops his truck in front of a LAUNDRY on West 46th Street. He opens the back door and pulls a stack of boxes toward him. He lifts them with effort and slams the door with his foot. It doesn't close. He considers giving it another whack but the boxes are heavy. He turns instead and waddles toward the store. <b>INT. LAUNDRY - DAY </b> A heavyset WOMAN with a dark tan is standing behind a counter cluttered with laundry. A picture of Richard Nixon is still stapled to the wall. She looks at JACOB. <b> WOMAN </b> Where do you expect me to put those? I don't have any room. She tries clearing the counter, but it doesn't help. <b> WOMAN </b> (continuing) How 'bout over there? (she points to a table) No wait. Do me a favor. Bring 'em to the back room. <b> JACOB </b> They're awfully heavy. <b> WOMAN </b> I know. That's why I'm asking. JACOB waddles reluctantly toward the back of the store. CHINESE LAUNDERERS are hovering over piles of clothes. Steam from the pressing machines shoots into the air. <b> JACOB </b> (huffing and puffing) Where's Wong? <b> WOMAN </b> That's what I'd like to know. If you see him on the street somewhere, tell him he's fired. JACOB stoops to put the boxes on the shelf. There is a snapping sound and he winces in pain. Massaging his back, JACOB unfolds some papers for the WOMAN's signature. <b> JACOB </b> How was Palm Springs? <b> WOMAN </b> Hot. Where do I sign? <b> JACOB </b> (pointing to the line) You got a nice tan, though. <b> WOMAN </b> Tan? What tan? It faded on the airplane. I'd try to get my money back, but who do you ask? (she looks heavenward) Two hundred dollars a night, for what? She hands JACOB the wrong sheet. <b> JACOB </b> No. I'll take the other one. (he takes it) Right. Well it's good to have you back. See you tomorrow, probably. <b> WOMAN </b> If you're lucky. JACOB smiles to himself as he leaves the store. He walks carefully. His back is out. <b>INT. MAIL TRUCK - DAY </b> ANGLE ON THE MAIL TRUCK stuck in traffic. Nothing is moving. Horns are blaring and drivers are agitated. JACOB reaches for a newspaper lying on top of his mail bags. To his shock one of the bags appears to move. Curious, JACOB pokes at it. Instantly a terrifying figure pops out from beneath it and stares at him with a frightening glare. JACOB jumps back, stunned. It is a moment before he realizes that he is looking at an old WINO who has been sleeping in the truck. The man's face is covered in strange bumps. <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it! What the hell ... ? <b> WINO </b> (pleading) I didn't take nothin'. I was just napping. Don't hit me. I was cold. <b> JACOB </b> (lifting the man up) What the hell do you think you're doing? You can't do this. This is government property. He begins opening the door. The WINO begs. <b> WINO </b> Don't throw me out. They're gonna get me. They'll tear me to pieces. He holds on to JACOB's leg. JACOB tries to pull away. <b> JACOB </b> Come on. You can't stay here. <b> WINO </b> Please! I never hurt anybody when I was alive. Believe me. I don't belong here. JACOB gives the WINO a strange look and then escorts him from the truck. A hundred eyes peer out of motionless cars and follow him as he leads the WINO to the sidewalk. JACOB pulls a dollar bill from his pocket and places it in the WINO's hand. The OLD MAN crumples it into a ball and turns away. He has a frightened look on his face. JACOB returns to the truck shaking his head. <b> JACOB </b> New York! He climbs into his seat and glances into his rear view mirror. He notices the WINO edging fearfully along the side of a building. A horn honks and traffic begins moving. When JACOB looks back the WINO is no longer there. <b>INT. GARAGE - DAY </b> JACOB drives his mail truck into the huge POST OFFICE PARKING GARAGE on 34th Street. His mind seems distracted. He has difficulty parking. <b>INT. POST OFFICE - DAY </b> We see a vast room filled with hundreds of PEOPLE sorting and moving mail. JACOB, carrying a bag of McDonald's hamburgers, walks stiffly through the aisles, his left hand rubbing his back. Several workers greet him and grab for his french fries. He offers them around. ANGLE ON a conveyor belt sorting mail. A hand reaches in, correcting mistakes. Suddenly a hamburger passes by. JEZZIE looks up and smiles. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake! <b> JACOB </b> How's it going? She takes the hamburger and shrugs. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) I'm going home. <b> JEZZIE </b> What's wrong? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. One of these days, I'm gonna see Louis. My back's killing me. <b> JEZZIE </b> Now? What about the boss? He's not gonna like it. JACOB shrugs. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Well, I'll miss riding home with you. I was looking forward to it. <b> JACOB </b> I'll be glad to avoid the crush. <b> JEZZIE </b> I enjoy crushing into you. She grabs him and hugs him tightly. <b> JACOB </b> Gently. My back. JEZZIE ignores him and squeezes again. <b>INT. CHIROPRACTIC OFFICE - DAY </b> CUT ON A SCREAM to JACOB in a CHIROPRACTOR'S OFFICE. He is lying on a long leather padded device that looks like an instrument of torture. LOUIS, the Chiropractor, is a giant of a man, 280 pounds. He is adjusting JACOB's spine. <b> LOUIS </b> Come on, Jake. That didn't hurt. <b> JACOB </b> How do you know? <b> LOUIS </b> I know you. How come you're so tense today? <b> JACOB </b> What can I tell you? <b> LOUIS </b> I saw Sarah the other day. <b> JACOB </b> Her knee acting up? <b> LOUIS </b> A bit. <b> JACOB </b> What did she have to say? <b> LOUIS </b> Turn on your right side. (he turns on his left) How about the other "right?" (JACOB turns back) I don't understand you philosphers. You've got the whole world figured out but you can't remember the difference between right and left. <b> JACOB </b> I was absent the day they taught that in school. What did she say? <b> LOUIS </b> Who? <b> JACOB </b> Sarah. <b> LOUIS </b> Not much. She's like you that way. Two clams. No wonder your marriage didn't last. Put your hand under your head. Take a breath and then let it out. He makes a rapid adjustment pushing down on JACOB's thigh. JACOB groans. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) Ah, good. Now turn to your left. <b> JACOB </b> She talk about the boys? <b> LOUIS </b> She says she can't get them new coats because you haven't sent the alimony for three months. <b> JACOB </b> She told you that? (he shakes his head) Did she tell you about the $2,000 I'm still paying for the orthodontist? I'll bet she didn't mention that. <b> LOUIS </b> She said you were a son of a bitch and she regrets the day she set eyes on you. <b> JACOB </b> I thought you said she didn't say much. <b> LOUIS </b> She didn't. That's about all she said. Put your hand up. Good. I think she still loves you. Take a breath and let it out. He makes an adjustment. JACOB screams. <b> JACOB </b> Loves me!? She hasn't said a kind word about me in years! <b> LOUIS </b> Right. She doesn't stop talking about you. You're always on her mind. That's love, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> She hates me, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> You should go back to her. <b> JACOB </b> What? She threw me out, remember. She wanted some professor to carry her far away from Brooklyn. Only we didn't make it. She can't forgive me that she still lives in the same house she grew up in. <b> LOUIS </b> Her problem is that you spent eight years getting a PhD and then went to work for the post office. <b> JACOB </b> What can I tell you, Louis? After Nam I didn't want to think anymore. I decided my brain was too small an organ to comprehend this chaos. <b> LOUIS </b> (looking at JACOB with affection) If it was any other brain but yours, I might agree. Relax, this is going to be strong. <b> JACOB </b> I can't relax. <b> LOUIS </b> Wiggle your toes. JACOB wiggles his toes. At that instant, LOUIS twists JACOB's neck rapidly. There is a loud cracking sound. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> THERE IS A FLASH OF LIGHT. A MAN rushes at the camera yelling. <b> MAN </b> I found one. He's alive. He shines a flashlight into the lens creating rings and halos. <b>CHIROPRACTIC OFFICE - DAY </b> Suddenly LOUIS reappears, a halo effect still visible behind his head. <b> JACOB </b> God almighty. What did you do to me? <b> LOUIS </b> I had to get in there. A deep adjustment. Rest a moment and let it set a bit. <b> JACOB </b> I had this weird flash just then. <b> LOUIS </b> What? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. I've been having them recently. (he thinks a moment, then changes the subject) You know, you look like an angel, Louis, an overgrown cherub. Anyone ever tell you that? <b> LOUIS </b> Yeah. You. Every time I see you. No more Errol Flynn, okay? Your back won't take it. You tell your girl friend to calm down if she knows what's good for you. <b> JACOB </b> Louis, you're a life saver. <b> LOUIS </b> I know. <b>EXT. BROOKLYN STREETS - EVENING </b> JACOB is walking down Nostrand Avenue. He is singing to himself and imitating Al Jolson. <b> JACOB </b> When there are gray skies, I don't mind the gray skies, as long as there's you ... He hums. It is near dusk and lights are just coming on. The shop windows have a particularly garish look about them. The mannequins are dressed in inexpensive, almost tawdry, clothes and have a pathetic appearance. A few shops have set up their Christmas decorations. The ornamentation seems strangely out of place; almost blasphemous. JACOB passes a street gang standing in the doorway of a local drug store. They chortle and make taunting sounds. <b> GIRL </b> (shaking her tits, singing) "Hey, Mr. Postman ... " JACOB stops and stares at them. To their surprise, he begins to sing with them. He knows the words. They like that. It is a sweet moment. JACOB continues walking. He comes to a cross street. The light is green. He is still singing to himself and does not notice a BLACK CAR sharging around the corner. The car is moving at full speed, heading straight toward him. A YOUNG MAN walking a few steps behind yells out. <b> YOUNG MAN </b> Look out! JACOB turns and sees the car. He scoots out of the way but it swerves in his direction. The YOUNG MAN calls out again. <b> YOUNG MAN </b> Jump! With a huge thrust, JACOB hurls himself onto the curb as the car shoots by. Two MEN are peering at him from the back seat. They are laughing like madmen and shaking their heads. They do not look human. JACOB yells and waves his fist, to no effect. After a moment he turns to thank the YOUNG MAN whose scream had saved him, but he is gone. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - DUSK </b> JACOB and JEZZIE are lying in bed. They are a sensual couple and even in quiet, reflective moments such as this, their positioning is erotic and stimulating. Both of them are nude. JACOB's hands are clasped behind his neck and he is staring mournfully at the ceiling. JEZZIE is lying on her side, her left leg draped across JACOB's pelvis. Her head is propped up on her right arm while her left hand strokes the bayonet scar on JACOB's stomach. Neither are talking. Suddenly, out of the blue, JEZZIE speaks. <b> JEZZIE </b> Maybe it's all the pressure, Jake. The money. Things like that. Or your wife. <b> JACOB </b> Why do you bring her up? <b> JEZZIE </b> 'Cause she's always on your mind. <b> JACOB </b> When was the last time I said a word? <b> JEZZIE </b> It has nothin' to do with talkin'. She pauses for a while, long enough to suppose that the conversation is over. Then she continues. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Or maybe it's the war. JACOB closes his eyes. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) It's still there, Jake. (she points to his brain) Even if you never say a word about it. You can't spend two years in Vietnam ... <b> JACOB </b> (annoyed) What does that have to do with anything? Does it explain the barricaded subway stations? Does it explain those Godforsaken creatures? <b> JEZZIE </b> New York is filled with creatures. Everywhere. And lots of stations are closed. <b> JACOB </b> They're like demons, Jez. <b> JEZZIE </b> Demons, Jake? Come on. They're winos and bag ladies. Low life. That's all they are. The streets are crawling with 'em. Don't make em into somethin' they're not. (she rubs his forehead) It's the pressure, honey. That's all it is. <b> JACOB </b> Those guys tried to kill me tonight. They were aiming right at me. <b> JEZZIE </b> Kids on a joy ride. Happens all the time. <b> JACOB </b> They weren't human! <b> JEZZIE </b> Come on. What were they, Jake? JACOB doesn't answer. He turns over on his stomach. JEZZIE stares at his naked back and drags her fingernails down to his buttocks. Scratch marks follow in their wake. <b> JEZZIE </b> You still love me? He does not respond. <b>INT. JACOB'S KITCHEN - DAY </b> JACOB and JEZZIE are sitting at the breakfast table. JEZZIE is reading the National Enquirer and chewing at her lip. Suddenly a drop of blood forms and falls onto the formica table top. Staring at it for a moment, she wipes it with her finger and then licks it with her tongue. JACOB is nursing a cup of coffee and staring out the window at the housing project across the way. The toaster pops. JEZZIE jumps. She gets up, butters her toast, and returns to her paper. <b> JEZZIE </b> Says here the world's comin' to an end. The battle of heaven and hell they call it. Should be quite a show; fireworks, H-bombs, and everything. You believe them, Jake? JACOB doesn't answer. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Me neither ... God, look at this. Two heads. Only lived two days. A day for each head. Could you imagine me with two heads? We'd probably keep each other up all night - arguing and whatnot. You wanna see the picture? He does not respond. JEZZIE gets up and walks over to JACOB. Standing in front of him she slowly unties her robe and lets it fall apart. She is naked underneath it. Sensuously she leans forward, unbuttons his shirt, and strokes his chest. She waits for a response from him, but there is none. He sits silently, disinterested. Furious, JEZZIE turns away. Grabbing the vacuum cleaner from the broom closet she angrily unravels the cord and switches it on. Breasts flash from beneath her gown as the vacuum roars back and forth across the floor. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Goddamn you son-of-a-bitch! My uncle's dogs used to treat me better than you do. At least they'd lick my toes once in a while. At least they showed some fucking interest. A NEIGHBOR bangs on the wall, shouting. <b> JEZZIE </b> All right! All right! All right! JACOB peers at the courtyard eighteen stories below and watches the patterns of early morning movement. Tiny figures drift purposefully over the concrete. Suddenly the vasuum cleaner goes off. In the silence, JACOB realizes that JEZZIE is crying and turns to see her curled over the kitchen table. He walks to her side and strokes her hair. JEZZIE begins to sob. After a moment she looks at him with puffy eyes. <b> JEZZIE </b> You love me? He nods his head "yes." She smiles coyly and rubs her hair like a kitten against his crotch. After a few moments she speaks. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Della's party's tonight. Why don't we go? It'll take your minf offa things. And I won't make you dance. I promise. Huh? (he nods his head in consent. JEZZIE hugs him) You still love me, Jake? He nods his head again, only heavily, as though the question exhausts him. <b>INT. BELLVUE HOSPITAL - DAY </b> JACOB is in the "Mental Health Clinic" at BELLVUE HOSPITAL walking through the PSYCHIATRIC EMERGENCY ROOM. It is overflowing with people. Some are handcuffed to their chairs. POLICEMEN are with them. JACOB approaches the main RECEPTION DESK. He speaks nervously. <b> JACOB </b> I'd like to speak to Dr. Carlson, please. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> Carlson? Is he new here? <b> JACOB </b> New? He's been here for years. She shrugs and looks at a log book. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> Not according to my charts. Do you have an appointment? <b> JACOB </b> (shaking his head) Look, I need to see him. I know where his room is. Just give me a pass. I won't be long. Ten minutes. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> Our doctors are seen by appointment only. <b> JACOB </b> Damn it. I was in the veteran's out- patient program. He knows me. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> (not happy) What's your name? <b> JACOB </b> Jacob Singer. She walks over to a file drawer and goes through it several times before coming back over to JACOB. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> I'm sorry but there's no record of a Jacob Singer in our files. <b> JACOB </b> Whataya mean, no record? <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> You want me to spell it out? There's nothing here. <b> JACOB </b> That's ridiculous. I've been coming here for years. Listen to me. I'm going out of my fucking mind here. I need to see him. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> If this is an emergency we have a staff of psychiatric social workers. There's about an hour's wait. I'll be glad to take your name. Why don't you just fill out this form? <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it! I don't want a social worker. Carlson knows me. JACOB pounds the desk, rattling a tiny African violet and knocking the RECEPTIONIST's forms to the floor. She grunts angrily and stoops to retrieve them. Standing up her cap hits a drawer handle and slips off. TWO KNUCKLE-LIKE HORNS protrude from her skull where the cap had been. JACOB's eyes lock on them like radar. He backs away. She immediately replaces her cap and breaks the spell, but her eyes glare at him with demonic intensity. JACOB, freaked, angry, turns and runs toward the "In Patient" door. <b> RECEPTIONIST </b> Hey! You can't go in there! JACOB doesn't stop. A POLICEMAN, guarding the entrance, runs after him. JACOB charges through the interior corridors of the aging institution. A LINE OF MENTAL PATIENTS, all holding hands, is moving down the hall. They break ranks as he charges by and begin to scream. Their ATTENDANT tries to calm them down but the sight of the POLICEMAN increases their hysteria. They grab hold of him as he tries to get by. <b> POLICEMAN </b><b> LET GO! GET AWAY! </b> <b>INT. GROUP ROOM - DAY </b> JACOB dashes out of view. He runs down another corridor, wildly searching for a specific room. He finds it and rushes inside. He is surprised to find A GROUP OF MEN AND WOMEN seated in a circle. They all look up at him. <b> LEADER </b> Can I help you? <b> JACOB </b> I'm looking for Dr. Carlson. Isn't this his office? The LEADER stares at him uncomfortably. After a moment he gets up and takes JACOB into a corner of the room. Everyone is watching them. The LEADER speaks quietly. <b> LEADER </b> I'm so sorry. Obviously you haven't ... Dr. Carlson died. <b> JACOB </b> (stunned) Died? <b> LEADER </b> A car accident. <b> JACOB </b> Jesus, Jesus! ... When? <b> LEADER </b> Last month, before Thanksgiving. <b> JACOB </b> How did it happen? <b> LEADER </b> No one knows. They say it blew up. <b> JACOB </b> (growing pale) Blew up? What do you mean it blew up? The LEADER shrugs and tries to put his arm around JACOB, but he pulls away. <b> LEADER </b> Do you want me to get someone? <b> JACOB </b> No. No. It's okay. I'm okay. He backs quickly to the door. As he turns to leave he realizes that all of the PEOPLE in the group are watching him intently. Unsettled, JACOB hurries back into the hallway. He is frightened and confused. Suddenly a voice calls out. <b> POLICEMAN </b><b> HEY YOU! MAILMAN! </b> JACOB turns and sees the POLICEMAN waiting for him. His gun is drawn. <b> POLICEMAN </b> Hold it. Just hold it. Where the hell do you think you are? This is Bellevue, for God's sake. People running around here get shot. The GROUP LEADER pokes his head out of the door and motions to the <b>POLICEMAN. </b> <b> LEADER </b> It's alright. He's okay. <b> POLICEMAN </b> (nodding, reholstering his gun) Come on, get out of here. I wouldn't want to interfere with the U.S. Mail. He leads JACOB toward the lobby. JACOB does not look back. <b>INT. DELLA'S APT. - NIGHT </b> WE HEAR LOUD DANCE MUSIC. SLY AND THE FAMILY STONE. JACOB is with some POST OFFICE EMPLOYEES at a crowded party in a small apartment. A DRUNK is telling a bad joke and trying to hold a glass of wine at the same time. It is constantly on the verge of spilling. JACOB is fixated on it. In the background, we see JEZZIE dancing and motioning for JACOB to join her. He nods no. The DRUNK, who keeps asking people if they "get it," takes JACOB's head nodding as a sign of confusion and keeps trying to re-explain the joke. JACOB hears a strange noise and looks around. It seems to be coming from a covered bird cage. He goes over to it and lifts the cover. The BIRD is flapping its wings wildly as if trying to get out. The sound, loud and insistent, startles him. He lowers the cover. In the DINING ROOM, several people are gathered around ELSA, an attractive black woman who is reading palms. She sees JACOB and calls over the music. <b> ELSA </b> Hey, you! Let me look at your hand! JACOB shrugs. DELLA, dancing nearby, calls out. <b> DELLA </b> Go on Jake. She reads 'em like a book. <b> JACOB </b> No, thanks. <b> DELLA </b> It's fun. CUT TO A CLOSE UP OF JACOB'S HAND. ELSA is squeezing the mounds and examining the lines. What begins as a playful expression on her face turns suddenly serious. She reaches for his other hand and compares the two of them. JEZZIE looks over from her dancing and eyes the scene jealously. <b> ELSA </b> You have an unusual hand. <b> JACOB </b> I could have told you that. <b> ELSA </b> You see this line here? It's your life line. Here's where you were born. And this is where you got married. You're a married man, huh? Oh oh. Nope. Divorce. See this split. She studies his life line with growing concern. JEZZIE tries to get JACOB's attention. He ignores her. <b> ELSA </b> (continuing) You know, you got a strange line here. <b> JACOB </b> (examining it) It's short, huh? <b> ELSA </b> Short? It's ended. <b> JACOB </b> (laughing) Oh, terrific. <b> ELSA </b> It's not funny. According to this ... you're already dead. <b> JACOB </b> (smiling) Just my luck. <b> CUT TO: </b> THE DANCERS. Their movements are loose and getting looser. The music is strong and insistent. The smokey atmosphere disfigures the dancers and gives them a strange, distorted appearance. Suddenly JEZZIE breaks from the crowd and reaches for JACOB. He pulls away. Some of the MALE DANCERS call out to him. <b> DANCERS </b> Come on man, show your stuff. JACOB is easily intimidated. Relenting, he glares at JEZZIE and nods apologetically to ELSA. It is obvious that he is embarrassed at his inadequacy on the dance floor. <b> MAN </b> Come on professor. You got feet, too. JACOB tries to smile but it is pained and unconvincing. JEZZIE is playing with him, mimicking his movement. A number of DANCERS notice and laugh, which only increases his discomfort. JEZZIE's taunting has a strange effect on JACOB. He grows distant and withdrawn, even though his body is still going through the motions of the dance. A MAN taps JEZZIE on the shoulder. She spins around, smiling, and begins dancing with him. JACOB is left alone, dancing by himself. He looks away, uncomfortable. In the shadows a WOMAN kneels close to the floor. She seems to be urinating on the carpet. JACOB is shocked. Several DANCERS obscure his view. He turns around. A PREGNANT WOMAN stands half naked in the kitchen. JACOB cannot believe what he sees. In the next room, past JEZZIE, JACOB glimpses a terrifying image, a MAN whose head seems to be vibrating at such enormous speed that it has lost all definition. Something about the image compels and frightens JACOB. Slowly he approaches it. As he draws nearer to it the tortured image lets out a scream of such pain and unearthly terror that JACOB backs away. A WOMAN, laughing, grabs JACOB, spins him around, and begins dancing with him. He is totally disoriented. <b> WOMAN </b> Hold me, baby! She takes JACOB's arm and guides it to her back. THE CAMERA follows his hand as it reaches the smooth skin beneath her sexy, loose fitting dress. He runs his fingers up to her shoulder blades. Then, suddenly, he recoils. Her back is a mass of shoulder blades, hundreds of strange, bony protrusions. JACOB gasps. Out of the blue, JEZZIE leans into him and wiggles her tongue in his ear. JACOB, startled, jerks his head and his glasses go flying to the floor. <b> JACOB </b> Shit! He stoops down blindly to pick them up. Shoes just miss his fingers as he digs between dancing legs trying to recover them. Miraculously, he grabs the spectacles just before they are crushed and slips them back on. Instantly his world comes back into focus. As he stands, JACOB is surprised to find JEZZIE facing him, gyrating in wild abandon. There is a huge, satisfied smile on her face. She grabs his hand as if encouraging him to dance but it is obvious that she is dancing to her own rhythm. JACOB stares at her, confused. It takes him a moment to realize that her smile is not for him. Standing behind JEZZIE is another DANCER, his hands around her waist. They are moving together, locked in erotic embrace. It appears that he is mounting her from behind. Looking down we see that the DANCER's feet are deformed. They have a bizarre clubbed appearance and look very much like hooves. They skid and careen amidst the dancing feet. Something horrible and winglike flaps behind JEZZIE's back. We cannot make out what it is, but it elicits a primal terror. Before JACOB can react, JEZZIE opens her mouth. With a roaring sound, a spiked horn erupts from her throat. It juts menacingly from between her teeth and thrusts into the air. A CIRCLE OF DANCERS scream out in excited approval. CUT TO JACOB's face as it registers terror and disbelief. He stares at the DANCERS who are crowding around him. They have become perverse, corrupt aspects of their normal selves. JACOB grabs his eyes as though trying to pull the vision from his head but it won't go away. The music throbs. His actions become spastic, almost delirious. JACOB is out of control. His frenzy becomes a kind of exorcism, a desperate attempt to free himself from his body and his mind. WE MOVE IN ON HIM as his eyes pass beyond pain. The dark walls of the APARTMENT fade away. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> Strange faces in infantry helmets appear in the darkness, outlined by a bright moon that is emerging from behind a cloud. The faces are looking down and voices are speaking. <b> VOICE </b> He's burning up. <b> VOICE </b> Total delirium. <b> VOICE </b> That's some gash. His guts keep spilling out. <b> VOICE </b> Push 'em back. <b> JACOB (V.O.) </b> Help me! His eyes focus on the moon. Rings of light emenate from it filling the sky with their sparkling brilliance. The rings draw us forward with a quickening intensity that grows into exhilarating speed. The rush causes them to flash stroboscopically and produces a dazzling, almost sensual, surge of color. The display is spectacular and compelling. Music can be heard in the distance, growing hard and insistent, like a heart beat. Heavy breathing accompanies the sound. The stroboscopic flashes are replaced by intense flashes of red and blue light. The music grows louder and reaches a thundering crescendo. Then silence. <b>INT. DELLA'S APT. - NIGHT </b> The APARTMENT reappears in all its normalcy. The neon sign is still flashing outside the window. DANCERS are smiling and sweating. Cheers and applause ring out for JACOB and JEZZIE but JACOB barely hears them. JEZZIE hugs him tightly. PEOPLE smack him on the back. <b> ADMIRER </b> You are out of your mind, man. Out of your fuckin' mind. <b> WOMAN </b> Jake, you little devil. You never told me you could dance like that. <b> MAN </b> Jezzie, what did you put in his drink? JEZZIE smiles while pulling JACOB to a corner chair. He plops down. His chest is heaving and he is grabbing hold of his stomach. Hie face is frightened and distorted. <b> JEZZIE </b> You okay? <b> JACOB </b> I wanna leave. Get me out of here. <b> JEZZIE </b> Oh, come on. It's early. <b> JACOB </b> (pulling JEZZIE close to him, his voice filled with paranoia) Where are we? <b> JEZZIE </b> (surprised by the question) We're at Della's. <b> JACOB </b> Where? <b> JEZZIE </b> What do you mean? Where do you think? <b> JACOB </b> Where's Della? Bring her here? <b> JEZZIE </b> Why? What for? <b> JACOB </b> Show me Della! <b> JEZZIE </b> (confused) Hey, I'm here. JACOB eyes her with a pleading look. Annoyed, JEZZIE leaves JACOB and crosses the room. He watches her as she goes. JACOB is holding his stomach and rocking painfully. Moments later JEZZIE returns with DELLA. <b> DELLA </b> Hiya Jake. That was some dance. <b> JACOB </b> (staring at her closely) Della? <b> DELLA </b> (feeling the strangeness) You want to see me? Well, here I am. <b> JACOB </b> I see. <b> DELLA </b> What do you want? <b> JACOB </b> Just to see you. That's all. <b> DELLA </b> (a bit uncomfortable) Well, how do I look? <b> JACOB </b> Like Della. Suddenly JACOB breaks out in a dense sweat and begins shaking. His entire body is convulsive. <b> JEZZIE </b> Are you feeling all right? Shit, you're burning up. Feel his forehead. <b> DELLA </b> (checking his forehead and cheeks) Damn, that's hot. Maybe from dancing. <b> JEZZIE </b> I think you should lie down. JACOB is shaking uncontrollably. People are gathering around. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Can't you stop it? <b> JACOB </b> If I could stop it, I'd stop it. <b> WOMAN </b> Is he sick? <b> DELLA </b> He's on fire. <b> ELSA </b> Let me help you. She reaches out to JACOB. Unexpectedly he recoils, jumping to his feet like a wild man. He begins to scream. <b> JACOB </b> Stay away from me! Don't you come near me! All of you. Go to hell! Go to hell, goddamn you! Stay away! JEZZIE stares at JACOB with a confused and embarrassed look. A MAN whispers to her. <b> MAN </b> I'll call a cab. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - NIGHT </b> JACOB is lying in bed in his own BEDROOM with a thermometer in his mouth. JEZZIE is pacing the floor with great agitation. <b> JEZZIE </b> I've never been so mortified in my whole life. Never! Screaming like that. I don't understand what's gotten into you, Jake, to make you do a thing like that. You're not acting normal. I've lived with too many crazies in my life. I don't want it anymore. I can't handle it. I'm tired of men flipping out on me. Shit, you'd think it was my fault. Well you picked me, remember that. I don't need this. The NEIGHBOR pounds on the wall. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) All right! All right! JEZZIE jabs her finger at the wall. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) If you go crazy on me you're goin' crazy by yourself. You understand? JEZZIE reaches for his mouth and pulls out the thermometer. She looks at it closely and then squints to see it better. <b> JACOB </b> What's it say? A hundred and two? <b> JEZZIE </b> I don't believe this. I'm calling the doctor. She runs out of the room. JACOB calls after her. <b> JACOB </b> What does it say? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> It's gone to the top. <b> JACOB </b> How high is that? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> The numbers stop at 107. JEZZIE is on the phone to the doctor in the next room. JACOB begins shaking again and reaches for the extra blanket at the foot of the bed. He pulls it up around his shoulders. The whole bed vibrates with his shivering. Suddenly JEZZIE rushes through the BEDROOM and into the BATHROOM. SHe turns on the bath water. <b> JACOB </b> What the hell are you doin'? <b> JEZZIE </b> Get your clothes off. <b> JACOB </b> What are you talking about? I'm freezing. <b> JEZZIE </b> Get your clothes off! JACOB gives her a confused look as she rushes back to the KITCHEN. <b> JACOB </b> What'd the doctor say? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> That you'd die on the way to the hospital. Now get into that tub. JACOB stares at her as she bursts back into the BEDROOM carrying four trays of ice cubes. She hurries into the BATHROOM and dumps them in the tub. <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> He's coming right over. <b> JACOB </b> Coming here? <b> JEZZIE (V.O.) </b> Goddamn it. Get in here. I can't stand around waiting. She rushes out of the BATHROOM and pulls JACOB out of bed. He is shaking violently and she has difficulty navigating across the room and undressing him at the same time. She maneuvers him into the BATHROOM next to the tub. He looks down at the ice cubes floating in the water. <b> JACOB </b> You're out of your mind. I'm not getting in there. I'd rather die. <b> JEZZIE </b> That's your decision. <b> JACOB </b> Look at me. I'm ice cold. <b> JEZZIE </b> You're red hot, damn it. Get in there. I've got to get more ice. She runs out of the room. The door to the apartment slams shut. JACOB sticks his toe into the water and pulls it out again instantly. <b> JACOB </b> Oh Jesus! He sticks his whole foot in and grits his teeth as the ice cold water turns his foot bright red. He keeps it in as long as he can and then yanks it out, quickly wrapping it in a towel. JACOB rubs his foot vigorously to get rid of the sting and stares at the water, afraid of its pain. <b>INT. CORRIDOR - NIGHT </b> JEZZIE is running up and down the CORRIDOR knocking on doors and collecting ice cubes from those who will answer. She hurries back to the BATHROOM with several PEOPLE behind her carrying additional ice trays. One of the MEN is shifting the trays in his hands to avoid the burning cold. <b>INT. JACOB'S BATHROOM </b> As JEZZIE enters the BATHROOM, JACOB is sitting on the rim of the tub with the water up to his calves, shivering vigorously. <b> JACOB </b> I can't do it. <b> JEZZIE </b> What kind of man are you? She unloads two trays into the water. <b> JACOB </b> Don't gimme that. <b> JEZZIE </b> Lie down! <b> JACOB </b> (pleading) Jezzie! My feet are throbbing! <b> JEZZIE </b> (calling out) Sam, Tony, come in here. <b> JACOB </b> Hey, I'm not dressed. <b> SAM </b> You got nothin' we ain't seen before. SAM and TONY grab hold of JACOB who wrestles to get away. <b> JACOB </b> Get the hell off me. <b> TONY </b> He's like a hot coal. <b> SAM </b> It's for your own good, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> Let go of me, you sons of bitches. The TWO MEN struggle with JACOB and force him into the water. TONY winces when the water hits his arm. JACOB nearly flies out of the tub. The TWO MEN fight to hold him down. JACOB screams and cries for the MEN to let him go but they keep him flat on his back. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) I'm freezing! I'm freezing! Goddamn you! <b> TONY </b> (his hand turning red) Sam, I can't take it. <b> SAM </b> Don't you let go. <b> TONY </b> Jez, get help. My hands are killing me. <b> JACOB </b> Help me! Help me! <b> JEZZIE </b> (to TONY) Here. I'll do it. <b> TONY </b> Take his legs. <b> SAM </b> Run your hands under hot water. MRS. CARMICHAEL comes in. <b> MRS. CARMICHAEL </b> I have some ice from the machine. <b> JEZZIE </b> Bring it in. <b> MRS. CARMICHAEL </b> Is he all right? <b> JEZZIE </b> He doesn't like it. <b> MRS. CARMICHAEL </b> I don't blame him. What should I do with the ice? <b> JEZZIE </b> Pour it in. <b> MRS. CARMICHAEL </b> On top of him? <b> JEZZIE </b> He's melting it as fast as we dump it in. <b> MRS. CARMICHAEL </b> Okay. My husband's got two more bags. He's coming. They're heavy. TONY helps her pour the ice into the water. JACOB yells. <b> JACOB </b> Oh God! You're killing me! Stop! <b>INT. A BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> CUT TO JACOB lying in a BEDROOM we have not seen before. He is tossing and turning in his bed as though struggling to get out. Suddenly he sits up and looks over at the window. It is open and the shade is flapping. Cold air is blowing in and he is shivering. <b> JACOB </b> Damn! You and your fresh air. He jumps out of bed and goes over to the window. He pushes at the frame and it comes flying down with a loud bang. A woman in the bed sits up. It is SARAH. <b> SARAH </b> What was that? <b> JACOB </b> It's freezing. <b> SARAH </b> I'm not cold. <b> JACOB </b> Of course not. You have all the blankets. It must be ten degrees in here. I'm telling you, Sarah, if you want to sleep with fresh air, you sleep on the fire escape. From now on that window is closed. <b> SARAH </b> It's not healthy with it closed. <b> JACOB </b> This is healthy? I'll probably die of pneumonia tomorrow and this is healthy. He settles back into bed and pulls the covers back over to his side. He lies quietly for a moment, thinking. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) What a dream I was having. I was living with another woman ... You know who it was? <b> SARAH </b> I don't want to know. <b> JACOB </b> Jezebel, from the post office. You remember, you met her that time at the Christmas party. I was living with her. God, it was a nightmare. There were all these demons and I was on fire. Only I was burning from ice. <b> SARAH </b> Guilty thoughts. See what happens when you cheat on me, even in your mind? <b> JACOB </b> She was good in bed, though. <b> SARAH </b> Go to sleep. <b> JACOB </b> She had these real beefy thighs. Delicious. <b> SARAH </b> I thought you said it was a nightmare? Suddenly, out of nowhere, we hear the tinkling sound of a music box. A YOUNG BOY enters the room, carrying a musical LUNCH BOX in his arms. He is wearing a long T-shirt nearly down to his ankles. We recognize him from his photograph. It is GABE. <b> GABE </b> Daddy, what was that noise? <b> JACOB </b> (surprised to see him) Gabe? (he stares curiously at his son) What are you doing ... ? <b> GABE </b> There was a bang. <b> JACOB </b> It was the window. <b> GABE </b> It's cold. <b> JACOB </b> Tell your mother. <b> GABE </b> Mom, it's ... <b> SARAH </b> I heard you. Go back to sleep. <b> GABE </b> Will you tuck me in? <b> SARAH </b> (not happily) Oh ... all right. She starts to rise. JACOB stops her and gets up instead. He whisks GABE upside down and carries him into his <b>GABE'S BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> BEDROOM, licking his belly and tickling him all the way. GABE laughs and snuggles into his pillow as soon as he hits the bed. JED, 9, and ELI, 7, are both in bunk beds across the room. JED looks up. <b> JED </b> Dad? <b> JACOB </b> Jed. It's the middle of the night. (he kisses GABE and goes over to JED in the lower bunk) What's up? <b> JED </b> You forgot my allowance. <b> JACOB </b> Your allowance? It's five A.M. We'll talk at breakfast. <b> JED </b> Okay, but don't forget. Suddenly another voice pipes in from the top bunk. <b> ELI </b> I love you, Dad. JACOB smiles. <b> JACOB </b> What is this, a convention? I love you, too, Pickles. Now go back to sleep. He turns to leave. <b> GABE </b> Wait ... Daddy. <b> JACOB </b> Now what? <b> GABE </b> Don't go. <b> JACOB </b> Don't go? (he smiles) I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here, Gabe. (he looks at his son tenderly) Come on, go back to sleep. You can still get a couple of hours. He hugs him warmly and then walks to the door. <b> GABE </b> ... I love you. There is deep emotion and seriousness in GABE's words. JACOB is struck by them. <b> GABE </b> (continuing) Don't shut the door. JACOB nods and leaves it a tiny bit ajar. <b> GABE </b> (continuing) A bit more ... a bit more. JACOB adjusts the opening enough to please GABE and make him secure. GABE smiles and cuddles in his bed. <b>INT. SARAH'S BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> JACOB settles back into bed. SARAH turns over and gets comfortable. JACOB lies on his back facing the ceiling. He pulls the blankets up to his neck. He is overcome with feelings of sadness and longing. <b> JACOB </b> I love you, Sarah. She smiles warmly. His eyes close and in a matter of seconds he is back asleep. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - PRE DAWN </b> WE HEAR SUMMER MORNING SOUNDS, CRICKETS and BIRDS. The image of trees materializes overhead and a beautiful pink sky, just before sunrise, can be seen through the branches. It is an idyllic setting. Suddenly a strange sound can be heard in the distance, a metallic humming, growing louder. There is a scramble of feet and a sound of heavy boots moving through the tall grass. Voices can be heard. Men's voices. <b> VOICE </b> They're here. <b> VOICE </b> Thank God. Move 'em out! <b> VOICES </b> Bust your balls! <b> VOICE </b> Move it! Move it! There is an instant swell of activity. Trees and branches blur and speed by overhead. The idyllic image of moments before reveals itself as a P.O.V. SHOT. The CAMERA races out of a JUNGLE covering and into a huge CLEARING. High overhead a helicopter appears. Its blades whirl with a deafening whine. Long lines drop from its belly and dangle in mid-air. SOLDIERS leap up into the air reaching for them. The air is filled with turbulence. Tarps fly off dead bodies. SOLDIERS hold them down. Voices yell but the words are not clear. They are filled with urgency. The CAMERA leaves the ground. The edges of the sky disappear as the helicopter's gray mass fills the frame. It grows larger and darker as the CAMERA approaches. Rivets and insignias dotting the underbelly come into view. Suddenly the stretcher begins spinning, out of control. Hands emerge from inside, reaching out to grab it. Watery, womb-like sounds rise out of nowhere, the rippling of water, a heart beating. Gradually voices can be heard mumbling; distant sounds, warm and familiar. <b>INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT </b> JACOB's DOCTOR reaches down to help him out of the tub. Surprisingly JEZZIE and MRS. CARMICHAEL are standing there too. JACOB stares at them in total confusion. <b> DOCTOR </b> You are a lucky man, my friend. A lucky man. You must have friends in high places, that's all I can say. SAM and TONY appear next to the DOCTOR. They are extending their hands to the P.O.V. CAMERA. JACOB'S arms, nearly blue, reach out to them. Slowly they lift him from the icy water. JACOB takes one step onto the tile and collapses to the floor. <b> CUT TO BLACK: </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S BEDROOM - DAY </b> FADE IN sounds of feet shuffling across the carpet. A glass rattles on a tray. A television is on low in the background. Slowly the CAMERA LENS opens from JACOB's P.O.V. and we see JEZZIE puttering around the BEDROOM. Suddenly she is aware that JACOB is watching her. She smiles. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake. (she places her hand on his head and strokes his hair) You're gonna be all right, Jake. You're gonna be fine. <b> JACOB </b> Am I home? <b> JEZZIE </b> You're here. Home. The doctor said you're lucky your brains didn't boil. (she smiles) What a night, Jake. It was crazy. You kept sayin' "Sarah, close the window," over and over. And talkin' to your kids. Even the dead one. Weird. You know you melted 200 pounds of ice in 8 hours. Amazing, huh? <b> JACOB </b> Are we in Brooklyn? <b> JEZZIE </b> You're right here, Jake. You just rest. (she puffs up his pillow) The doctor said you had a virus. That's what they say when they don't know what it is. You can't do anything for a week. He says you gotta recuperate. (she strokes his forehead, and gets up) Now you just lie here. Mrs. Sandelman made you some chicken soup. It'll warm you up. JEZZIE leaves the room. JACOB watches her as she goes. He seems lost and confused. <b>INT. JACOB'S KITCHEN - DAY </b> JACOB, unshaven, wearing his bathrobe, is sitting at the KITCHEN TABLE. PILES OF BOOKS on demonology are spread out before him. He studies them to distraction. JEZZIE is standing by the counter making sandwiches. She wraps them in plastic Baggies and puts one in a lunch box, another in the refrigerator. She is dressed in her postal uniform. <b> JEZZIE </b> You know, you really ought to get out today. You can't just sit around like this all the time. It's not healthy. It's not good for your mind. Go take a walk, or somethin'. Go to a movie. Christ, who's gonna know? You think I care? I don't give a shit. Go. Enjoy yourself. One of us should be having a good time. (JEZZIE knocks on JACOB's head) Hello! Anybody home? (she looks in his ear) Anybody in there? <b> JACOB </b> What? JEZZIE just stares at him. She does not respond. JACOB returns to his books. CUT TO CLOSE UP IMAGES OF WINGED DEMONS, real demons, with spindly horns and long tails. JACOB's huge finger, magnified, scans page after page of ancient images and archaic text. JEZZIE, enraged at his lack of attention, returns to packing her lunch box. Suddenly she spins around. <b> JEZZIE </b> Goddamn it! I can't stand it anymore. I've had it up to here. Go ahead and rot if you want ... You son-of-a- bitch, I'm talking to you. CUT BACK to the DEMONS. Suddenly a crashing sound catches JACOB's attention as a KITCHEN POT flies by his head. He looks up to see JEZZIE knocking pots and pans off the kitchen counter and kicking them wildly across the room. The noise is terrible. The intensity of her rage is shocking. The pots crash into every surface, knocking all his books onto the floor. And then, suddenly, she stops. JEZZIE stoops down to the floor and picks up her sandwich, stuffs it back in its plastic Baggie, and puts it back in her lunch box. She is about to leave when she stops and looks at JACOB. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing, her anger in check) I made you a tuna fish sandwich. It's in the fridge. Eat a carrot with it. The aspirin's on the bottom shelf. We're out of soap so, if for some reason you decide to wash yourself again, use the dishwashing stuff. (she walks out of the room and returns with her coat) I'm sorry I yelled, but you get on my nerves. (she bends down and makes eye contact with <b> JACOB) </b> Hello? Listen, I gotta go. JEZZIE sits on his lap, gives him a big kiss, and then, unexpectedly, raises two fingers, like horns, over her head. The gesture catches JACOB's full attention. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Look, I'm horny. Keep it in mind. (she kisses his cheek) Love me a little? <b> JACOB </b> (speaking with affection) You are the most unbelievable woman I have ever met. One second you're a screaming banshee and the next you're Florence Nightingale. Who are you? That's what I want to know. Will the real Jezzie Pipkin please stand up. Suddenly the telephone rings. It startles them. <b> JEZZIE </b> Oh shit. Tell 'em I've left. JEZZIE grabs her jacket and shoves her arm in it upside down. A pocketful of change falls on the floor. JACOB smiles. JEZZIE curses as she struggles to pick it up and get the jacket on right. JACOB gets the phone. <b> JACOB </b> Hello. <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> Jacob Singer? <b> JACOB </b> Speaking. <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> Paul Gruneger! <b> JACOB </b> Paul Gruneger! Well I'll be goddamned! JACOB indicates it's for him. JEZZIE throws him a kiss goodbye and hurries out the door. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Paul! You son-of-a-bitch, how the hell are you? I haven't seen you in what, five, six, years? <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> A long time. <b> JACOB </b> Jesus Christ. How've you been? What's happening in your life? <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> Nothin' much. <b> JACOB </b> Me neither. Nothing too exciting. So tell me, to what do I owe the honor? <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> I need to see you, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> Shit, Paul. I'd love to see you. But I'm kind of laid up here. I've been sick. <b> PAUL (V.O.) </b> I need to see you. <b>INT. PAUL'S CAR - DAY </b> JACOB and PAUL are driving through EAST NEW YORK heading toward WILLIAMSBURG. The elevated trains rumble above them. JACOB pats PAUL on the back. <b> JACOB </b> Jesus, man, you look terrific. You must have put on twenty pounds. <b> PAUL </b> I work in a bakery. <b> JACOB </b> You're lucky. How many vets you know are even employed? <b> PAUL </b> Count 'em on one hand. <b> JACOB </b> It's almost like a conspiracy, huh? <b> PAUL </b> No joke. Fuckin' army! That goddamn war. I'm still fightin' it. <b> JACOB </b> It's not worth it. You'll never win. <b> PAUL </b> You tellin' me? How many times can you die, huh? PAUL looks in his rear view mirror before changing lanes. He sees a black car tagging close behind him. He pulls out. So does the car. <b> PAUL </b> (continuing) Still married, Jake? <b> JACOB </b> Nope. <b> PAUL </b> You and everybody else. God I hate this area. Makes me nervous. <b> JACOB </b> Why the hell we drivin' here? <b> PAUL </b> I just need to talk. <b> JACOB </b> You can't talk in Brownsville? <b> PAUL </b> I'm not sure where I can talk anymore. <b> JACOB </b> What's wrong? <b> PAUL </b> Let's get a couple drinks, okay? (he looks at his rear view mirror) Hey, take a look behind us. Do you think that car is followin' us? <b> JACOB </b> (turning to look) That black car? <b> PAUL </b> Pull the mirror down on the sun visor. (JACOB does) Just watch 'em. <b> JACOB </b> What's goin' on Paul? <b> PAUL </b> I don't know. <b> JACOB </b> You in trouble? <b> PAUL </b> Yeah. JACOB notices PAUL's left arm. It is shaking. The black car passes on the left. Both PAUL and JACOB stare at it as it speeds by. <b>INT. BAR - DAY </b> JACOB and PAUL are sitting in a dark booth in an obscure WILLIAMSBURG BAR. It is nearly empty. PAUL is leaning across the table in a very intimate fashion. <b> PAUL </b> Somethin's wrong, Jake. I don't know what it is but I can't talk to anybody about it. I figured I could with you. You always used to listen, you know? JACOB nods. PAUL takes a sip of his drink and stares deliberately into JACOB's eyes. <b> PAUL </b> (continuing) I'm going to Hell! JACOB's face grows suddenly tense. <b> PAUL </b> (continuing) That's as straight as I can put it. And don't tell me that I'm crazy 'cause I know I'm not. I'm goin' to Hell. They're comin' after me. <b> JACOB </b> (frightened, but holding back) Who is? <b> PAUL </b> They've been followin' me. They're comin' outta the walls. I don't trust anyone. I'm not even sure I trust you. But I gotta talk to someone. I'm gonna fly outta my fuckin' mind. PAUL cannot contain his fear. He jumps up suddenly and walks away from the booth. JACOB follows him with his eyes but does not go after him. A YOUNG MAN in the next booth observes the scene with interest. He looks vaguely familiar, like we have seen him before. PAUL stares out the window for a moment and then walks over to the juke box. He pulls a quarter out of his pocket and drops it in the slot. His finger pushes a selection at random. Some '60's rock hit blares out. JACOB's mind is reeling by the time PAUL sits back down. <b> PAUL </b> (continuing) Sorry. Sometimes I think I'm just gonna jump outta my skin. They're just drivin' me wild. <b> JACOB </b> Who, Paul? What exactly ... ? <b> PAUL </b> I don't know who they are, or what they are. But they're gonna get me and I'm scared, Jake. I'm so scared I can't do anything. I can't go to my sisters. I can't even go home. <b> JACOB </b> Why not? <b> PAUL </b> They're waitin' for me, that's why. PAUL's hand starts to shake. The tremor spreads rapidly to his whole body. The booth begins to rattle. <b> PAUL </b> (continuing) I can't stop it. I try. Oh God! Help me Jake. JACOB slides quickly out of his side of the booth and moves in toward PAUL. He puts his arm around him and holds him tightly, offering comfort as best he can. PAUL is obviously terrified and grateful for JACOB's gesture. A few PEOPLE at the bar look over in their direction. <b> JACOB </b> It's okay, Paul. It's okay. <b> PAUL </b> (crying) I don't know what to do. <b> JACOB </b> Don't do anything. (PAUL begins to relax a bit and the shaking subsides) Paul, I know what you're talking about. <b> PAUL </b> What do you mean? <b> JACOB </b> I've seen them too ... the demons! <b> PAUL </b> (staring at JACOB) You've seen them? <b> JACOB </b> Everywhere, like a plague. <b> PAUL </b> God almighty. I thought I was the only one. <b> JACOB </b> Me, too. I had no idea. It's like I was coming apart at the seams. <b> PAUL </b> Oh God. I know. I know. <b> JACOB </b> What is it Paul? What's happening to me? <b> PAUL </b> They keep telling me I'm already dead, that they're gonna tear me apart, piece by piece, and throw me into the fire. (he fumbles in his coat pocket and pulls out a small Bible and silver cross) I carry these everywhere but they don't help. Nothing helps. Everyone thinks I'm crazy. My mother filed a report with the army. <b> JACOB </b> (stunned) The army? <b> PAUL </b> She said I haven't been the same since then. Since that night. There's still this big hole in my brain. It's so dark in there, Jake. And these creatures. It's like they're crawling out of my brain. What happened that night? Why won't they tell us? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. I don't know. <b> PAUL </b> They're monsters, Jake. We're both seein' 'em. There's gotta be a connection. Something. JACOB leans back in the booth, his mind racing. The YOUNG MAN in the next booth is watching them with rapt attention. <b>INT. MEN'S ROOM - DAY </b> PAUL and JACOB are in the MEN'S ROOM. PAUL flushes the urinal. <b> PAUL </b> I'm afraid to go by myself anymore. I keep thinkin' one of 'em's gonna come up behind me. Somethin's wrong when a guy can't even take a leak by himself. I've seen 'em take people right off the street. I used to go home a different way every night. Now I can't even go home. <b> JACOB </b> You come home with me. <b> PAUL </b> What about your girlfriend? You don't think she'll mind? <b> JACOB </b> Are you kidding? We've put up more of her cousins. You wouldn't believe how they breed down there. PAUL smiles. <b>EXT. BAR - DAY </b> The TWO MEN leave the bar on a dingy side street. It is cold outside. Christmas lights seem ludicrous dangling in the bar's front window. PAUL looks at them and smiles. <b> PAUL </b> Merry Christmas. PAUL steps into the street and walks to the driver's side of his car. He pulls out his keys and opens the door. JACOB looks down on the sidewalk and notices a dime. <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn, this is my lucky day. He bends down to pick it up. PAUL inserts the key into the ignition and steps on the gas. He turns the key. THE CAR EXPLODES. Pieces of metal and flesh fly into the air. JACOB sprawls out flat on the ground as the debris hurls above him. He covers his head. <b>EXT. VIETNAM </b> CUT TO A HELICOPTER suffering an air bombardment. Flack is exploding all around it and the shock waves are rocking the craft violently. JACOB's eyes peer to the left. INFANTRY GUNNERS are firing rockets into the JUNGLE below. A pair of MEDICS are huddled over him. A sudden gush of arterial bleeding sends a stream of blood splattering over the inside of the windshield. The PILOT, unable to see, clears it away with his hands. JACOB screams over the roar of the chopper. One of the MEDICS presses his ear close to JACOB to hear. <b> JACOB </b> Help me! <b> MEDIC </b> We're doing the best we can. <b> JACOB </b> Get me out of here! <b>EXT. BAR - DAY </b> THE YOUNG MAN from the bar grabs JACOB under the arms and drags him down the sidewalk. <b> YOUNG MAN </b> Just hold on. <b> JACOB </b> Where am I? Who are you? The YOUNG MAN yanks JACOB around the corner just as another explosion consumes the car. The air is filled with flames and flying debris. The YOUNG MAN pulls JACOB into the bar. <b> YOUNG MAN </b> Just lie still. You're okay. You're not hurt. The CUSTOMERS are in a state of bedlam. Part of the wall has blown apart and bricks and glass are everywhere. The cross from around PAUL's neck is buried in the debris. Sirens are heard in the distance. A BLACK CAR speeds off down the street. JACOB looks for the YOUNG MAN who had helped him. He is gone. <b>EXT. FUNERAL PROCESSION - DAY </b> A FUNERAL PROCESSION heads down Ocean Parkway. <b>INT. JACOB'S CAR - DAY </b> JACOB and JEZZIE are driving in an old Chevy Nova. They are dressed up. JACOB's face is bruised and he has a gauze pad over his ear. They drive in silence. JACOB appears very sad. Slowly his right hand reaches across the seat, seeking JEZZIE's. Their fingers embrace. <b>EXT. CEMETERY - DAY </b> The FUNERAL PROCESSION enters the CEMETERY. Cars park along the length of the narrow road. MEN IN DARK SUITS emerge from their cars along with WIVES and GIRLFRIENDS. They are the SOLDIERS we have seen at the opening of the film, only they are older now. A small group of FAMILY MEMBERS are helped to the graveside. JACOB joins the other VETERANS as pallbearers. They carry the casket in semi-military formation to the grave. <b>INT. PAUL'S LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> JACOB'S OLD ARMY BUDDIES are sitting together in Paul's living room, talking. PAUL'S WIFE can be seen in the BEDROOM. Several WOMEN are comforting her. JEZZIE is talking to a small group of LADIES in the DINING ROOM and nibbling off a tray of cold cuts. PAUL'S SISTER is with her and they seem to be having a lively, almost intimate, conversation. JACOB and his BUDDIES are drinking beer. They all have a tired, defeated look about them. <b> FRANK </b> Did anyone see the police report? It sounds like a detonation job to me. <b> JERRY </b> The paper said it was electrical; a freak accident. <b> ROD </b> Bullshit. Someone's covering somethin'. That was no accident. <b> GEORGE </b> Why do you say that? <b> ROD </b> Cars don't explode that way. Any simpleton knows that. <b> GEORGE </b> But the paper ... <b> ROD </b> That was set. I'm tellin' you. <b> DOUG </b> By who? Why? Paul didn't have an enemy in the world. <b> JERRY </b> How do you know? <b> DOUG </b> Hey, you're talkin' about Paul. Who'd want to hurt him? <b> FRANK </b> What did he talk about when you guys went out? Did he say anything? <b> JACOB </b> He was upset. He thought people were following him. <b> JERRY </b> You're kidding. Who? <b> JACOB </b> He didn't know ... Demons. <b> GEORGE </b> (obviously struck by the word) What do you mean, demons? <b> JACOB </b> He told me he was going to Hell. The statement has a surprising impact on the group. There is immediate silence and eyes averted from one another. <b> ROD </b> What'd he say that for? What made him say that? Strange, huh? Strange. <b> GEORGE </b> What else did he say, Jake? <b> JACOB </b> He was scared. He saw these creatures coming out of the woodwork. They were tryin' to get him, he said. <b> GEORGE </b> (his arm shaking) How long had that been going on? <b> JACOB </b> A couple of weeks, I think. He notices GEORGE's beer can rattling. <b> GEORGE </b> He say what they looked like? <b> JACOB </b> No. Not really ... <b> GEORGE </b> Excuse me a minute. I'll be right back. <b> ROD </b> In one end, out the other, huh George? GEORGE tries to smile as he hurries to the bathroom. His arm is nearly out of control and beer is spilling on the carpet as he walks. <b> ROD </b> (continuing) Still a spastic, huh? I hope you can hold your dick better than you hold that can. No one laughs. There is an uncomfortable silence. <b>EXT. A BACK ALLEY - DAY </b> The SIX MEN are walking quietly through an unpaved alley. It is already gray and getting darker. <b> DOUG </b> I know what Paul was talking about. I don't know how to say this ... but in a way it's a relief knowing that someone else saw them, too. <b> ROD </b> You're seeing ... ? <b> DOUG </b> They're not human, I'll tell you that. A car tried to run over me the other day. It was aiming straight for me. I saw their faces. They weren't from Brooklyn. <b> ROD </b> What are you tellin' me? They're from the Bronx? <b> DOUG </b> It was no joke, Rod. <b> JERRY </b> Something weird is going on here. What is it about us? Even in Nam it was always weird. Are we all crazy or something? <b> DOUG </b> Yeah, ever since that ... He hesitates. They all understand. <b> ROD </b> What's that have to do with anything? <b> FRANK </b> It was bad grass. That's all it was. <b> JERRY </b> Grass never did that to me. <b> DOUG </b> You know, I've been to three shrinks and a hypnotist. Nothing penetrates that night. Nothing. <b> ROD </b> It's not worth goin' over again and again. Whatever happened, happened. It's over. <b> JACOB </b> ... I've seen them, too. <b> ROD </b> Shit! <b> JERRY </b> So have I. <b> JACOB </b> Look, there's something fucking strange going on here. You know Paul's not the only one who's died. You remember Dr. Carlson over at Bellevue? His car blew up, too. <b> ROD </b> Dr. Carlson's dead? <b> JACOB </b> An explosion, just like Paul's. <b> JERRY </b> No! <b> FRANK </b> Jesus! <b> GEORGE </b> You think they're connected? <b> JACOB </b> (he nods) I think something's fucking connect- ed. I mean, a car tried to run me over the other day. Doug too, right? We've got six guys here going fucking crazy. <b> ROD </b> Not me, buddy. <b> JACOB </b> Okay, not you Rod. But the rest of us are flipping out for some goddamn reason. They're tryin' to kill us. Fuck it man, we need to find out what's going on. <b> DOUG </b> Do you think it has something to do with ... the offensive? <b> JACOB </b> It's got something to do with some- thing. I think we've got to confront the army. If they're hiding shit from us, we better find out what it is. <b> ROD </b> Come on, Professor. The army's not gonna give you any answers. You'll be buttin' your head against a stone wall. <b> JACOB </b> Maybe that's the only way to get through. Besides, six heads'll be better than one. <b> ROD </b> Not my head, buddy. Not me. I'm gettin' a headache just listenin' to you. <b> JACOB </b> We should get ourselves a lawyer. <b> ROD </b> I say you should get a shrink. <b> DOUG </b> Too late. I've tried. I think you're right, Jake. I'm game. <b> JERRY </b> Me, too. <b> ROD </b> You guys are fucking paranoid. It was bad grass. That's all it was. There's no such thing as demons. <b>INT. LAW OFFICE - DAY </b> JACOB, FRANK, JERRY, GEORGE, DOUG, and ROD are sitting on plush chairs in the LAW OFFICE of DONALD GEARY. GEARY, a red-faced man with three chins, is sucking on an ice cube. He looks at each of the men, and then spits the ice cube into an empty glass. It clinks. <b> GEARY </b> I'm sorry, Mr. Singer, but do you have any idea how many people come to me with the injustices of the world? It'd break your heart. <b> JACOB </b> This isn't injustice, Mr. Geary. The army did something to us and we've got to find out what. <b> GEARY </b> The army. The army. What is it with you guys? We're not talking about a trip to the library here. This is the United States Government for God's sake. This is red tape coming out of your ass. You know what I mean? <b> JACOB </b> Exactly. And we need someone to cut through it. We hear you're the man. <b> GEARY </b> Oh yeah? What am I - Perry Mason here? GEARY stands up and grabs a bag of Cheetos from a file drawer. He chomps down a few and offers the bag to the others. There are no takers. Thirsty, he downs the ice cube and cracks it between his teeth. <b> GEARY </b> (continuing) Okay. I'll look into it. The MEN are surprised and excited. <b> PAUL </b> Wow! Do you think we have a chance? <b> GEARY </b> What do you want, a fortune teller or a lawyer? ... I'll need sworn depositions from each of you and a list of the other members of the platoon, or their survivors. <b> DOUG </b> Hey, this is great. <b> GEARY </b> I'll tell you, if we find the military is implicated in any way, you could stand to recover quite a lot of money. Not that I can predict anything, but some class action suits of this kind have been awarded fairly generous judgements. That wouldn't be so bad, would it Mr. Singer? <b> JACOB </b> Doctor. (GEARY looks at him oddly) Ph.D. <b> GEARY </b> Ah! I thought you were a mailman. <b> JACOB </b> I am. <b> GEARY </b> (confused) Then why aren't you teaching? Why aren't you in a university? <b> JACOB </b> I'm too messed up to teach. <b> GEARY </b> (smiling) Ah! Well then, they're going to have to pay for that, aren't they? The MEN all nod in agreement. <b>EXT. OFFICE BUILDING - DAY </b> JACOB and the others exit the OFFICE BUILDING. They are jubilant, clasping hands and smacking each other on the back. We watch as they break up. JACOB heads for the subway. FRANK and another group hop a cab. As the cab pulls away we notice that a black car pulls out behind it. It follows them out of sight. <b>INT. JACOB'S KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> JACOB and JEZZIE are making wild and unadulterated love on the kitchen floor. The wastebasket flips over. JACOB's hand splashes into the dog's bowl. Nothing impedes their passion. JEZZIE laughs, hollers, and swoons. Hands grab hold of table legs. Chairs topple. Feet bang wildly against the stove. It is all mayhem and ecstacy. And then it ends. JACOB's face is ecstatic. He can barely talk and simply basks in JEZZIE's glow. She looks especially lovely and radiant. They lie exhausted and exhilarated on the linoleum floor. <b> JEZZIE </b> So tell me ... am I still an angel? <b> JACOB </b> (smiling broadly) With wings. You transport me, you know that? You carry me away. JEZZIE kisses him softly around his face and gently probes his ear with her pinky. JACOB loves it. <b> JEZZIE </b> We're all angels, you know ... (she bites his earlobe. He winces) ... and devils. It's just what you choose to see. <b> JACOB </b> I love you, Jez. <b> JEZZIE </b> I know. <b> JACOB </b> Underneath all the bullshit, just love. <b> JEZZIE </b> Remember that. <b> JACOB </b> You know what? I feel ... exorcised ... like the demons are gone. <b> JEZZIE </b> How come? The army? <b> JACOB </b> In a way. At least now I have some idea of what was happening. If we can only get them to admit ... to explain what they did ... I don't know. Maybe it'd clear things up in my head. I'll tell you something, Jez, honestly ... I thought they were real. Silence. Suddenly JEZZIE roars like a monster and scares JACOB half to death. They laugh and tumble back to the floor. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - EVENING </b> JACOB emerges from the bathroom shower and pulls on a robe. JEZZIE is moving rapidly around the KITCHEN. <b> JEZZIE </b> I put a frozen dinner in the oven, a Manhandler. It'll be ready at a quarter of. I threw a little salad together. It's in the fridge. I also bought some apple juice, Red Cheek. Don't drink it all. Oh, and Jake, your lawyer called. <b> JACOB </b> He did? When? <b> JEZZIE </b> (grabbing her coat) While you were in the shower. <b> JACOB </b> Why didn't you call me? <b> JEZZIE </b> He didn't give me a chance. (she pauses nervously) Look, honey, don't get upset, but he's not taking your case. <b> JACOB </b> (stunned) What? What do you mean? <b> JEZZIE </b> He said you didn't have one. <b> JACOB </b> What's he talking about? <b> JEZZIE </b> I don't know. That's all he said. He wasn't very friendly. Oh, yeah. He said your buddies backed down. They chickened out, he said. <b> JACOB </b> I don't believe this. <b> JEZZIE </b> Baby, I'm sorry. I feel terrible. I'd stay and talk but I'm so late. Look, don't be upset. We'll talk when I get home. See you around midnight. (she kisses him on the cheek) Bye. And don't brood. Watch T.V. or something. <b>JACOB'S APT./FRANK'S APT. - INTERCUT </b> The door slams securely. The locks set. JACOB begins instantly rifling through a desk drawer. He comes up with a frayed address book and looks up a number. He dials. <b> FRANK (V.O.) </b> Hello. <b> JACOB </b> Frank. It's Jake. Jacob SInger. We see FRANK standing at a window fingering the Venetian blinds. He does not reply. The scene intercuts between the two men. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Listen, I just got a strange call from Geary. He said the guys backed down. What's he talking about? <b> FRANK </b> (fingering the Venetian blinds) That's right. We did. <b> JACOB </b> What does that mean, Frank? I don't get it. Why? <b> FRANK </b> It's hard to explain. <b> JACOB </b> (angry) Well, try, huh. <b> FRANK </b> I don't know if I can. It's just that war is war. Things happen. <b> JACOB </b> Things happen? What the fuck are you talking about? They did something to us, Frank. We have to expose this. <b> FRANK </b> There's nothing to expose. <b> JACOB </b> Jesus Christ! Who's been talking to you? (silence) What's going on? How can you just turn away? (no response) What about the others? <b> FRANK </b> They're not interested, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> Shit! You know it's not half the case if I go it alone. We're all suffering the same symptoms, Frank. The army is to blame. They've done something to us. How can you not want to know? <b> FRANK </b> (pausing) Maybe it's not the army, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> What do you mean? <b> FRANK </b> Maybe there's a larger truth. <b> JACOB </b> What are you talking about? <b> FRANK </b> Maybe the demons are real. <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it. What kind of bullshit is that? <b> FRANK </b> Listen, Jake. I gotta go. <b> JACOB </b> What the hell? What kind of mumbo jumbo ... ? <b> FRANK </b> I'm hanging up. <b> JACOB </b> Hey, wait! <b> FRANK </b> Don't bother to call again, okay? FRANK hangs up. JACOB stands holding the phone for a long time, until the high pitched whine from the receiver reminds him it's off the hook. The sound frightens him and he slams the receiver down. QUickly JACOB tears through his address book looking for other phone numbers. They aren't there. <b> JACOB </b> Shit! <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. </b> JACOB hurries into the BEDROOM and pulls an old shoe box from the closet. The box is filled with yellowing army papers, dog tags, and photos of old comrades. Beneath his discharge papers he finds a sheet scribbled with the names and addresses of platoon buddies. JACOB grabs it. Then his eyes fall on the frayed remains of an old letter. He picks it up and unfolds it with great care. The letter is written in a child's handwriting. "DEAR DADDY, I LOVE YOU. PLEASE COME HOME. JED GOT <b>A FROG. ELI LOST MY KEY. MOM WANTS YOU TO SEND HER MONEY. LOVE, GABE." </b> <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. BROOKLYN SIDEWALK - DAY </b> GABE, on a BICYCLE, is rushing down the sidewalk. JACOB is running alongside him, holding onto the seat. Plastic streamers trail from the handlebars. GABE is a bit wobbly, but determined. After a couple of false starts, JACOB lets go and GABE is riding by himself. For an instant, GABE looks back at his father with a huge grin on his face. JACOB is grinning, too. THE CAMERA HOLDS ON GABE as he pulls away from us and heads into the distance. <b> CUT BACK TO: </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - NIGHT </b> JACOB swallows hard as he stands there, holding the letter. Suddenly his eyes lift off the page and glance at a full length mirror mounted on the bedroom door. Something in the mirror, like the image of a child, seems to move. He looks over. There is nothing there. Curious, JACOB walks toward the mirror. As his image appears, he gasps and stops moving. To his horror and ours, it is his own back that is reflected in the mirror. The impossibility of the moment startles him. He lifts his hand. The reflection moves with him. Frightened but defiant, JACOB moves toward the mirror. The image in the mirror spins around. It is the FRIGHTENING VIBRATING FACE he saw at the party with JEZZIE. An unearthly scream comes from both their mouths. <b> JACOB </b><b> NO!!! </b> <b>INT. BROOKLYN COURT HOUSE - LATE AFTERNOON </b> A huge wooden door slams open. JACOB charges through it. He is chasing his lawyer, DONALD GEARY, through a crowded court house corridor. GEARY, sweaty and unshaven, is cradling a Coke in one hand, a sandwich and a briefcase in the other. His stomach bounces wildly as he walks. <b> JACOB </b> Geary! Mr. Geary! Listen, goddamn it! You can't just walk away from this. GEARY keeps walking. JACOB catches up to him. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Who's been talking to you? The army? Have they been talking to you, huh? <b> GEARY </b> Nobody's been talking to nobody. You don't have a case, you hear me? It's pure and simple. Now leave me alone. Okay? JACOB grabs the back of GEARY's jacket and pulls him up short. <b> GEARY </b> (continuing) Take your hands off me! JACOB lets go. He stares into GEARY's eyes. <b> JACOB </b> Listen, will you listen? They're trying to get me. They're comin' out of the walls. The army's done something to me. I need you. <b> GEARY </b> You need ... a doctor. <b> JACOB </b> A doctor? And what's he gonna do, tell me I'm crazy? They've fucked with my head. I've got to prove it. You've got to do something. GEARY gives JACOB a pitiful look. <b> GEARY </b> There's nothing I can do. He turns and walks away. JACOB stands there a moment, and then rushes after him. GEARY is biting into his sandwich. Mayonnaise spills onto his hand. He licks it with his tongue. JACOB catches up to him. <b> GEARY </b> You mind? I'm eating, huh? <b> JACOB </b> Something's going on here. You're not telling me something. What the hell's gotten into you? <b> GEARY </b> I'll tell you what's gotten into me. I don't know you from Adam, right? You come to my office with this bizarro story and demand I look into it. Okay. I said I'd check it out and I did. Now I don't know what kind of fool you take me for, but you have used and abused me, and I don't like it. <b> JACOB </b> Used you? <b> GEARY </b> I talked to the Army's Bureau of Records. You've never even been to Viet Nam. <b> JACOB </b> What the hell is that supposed to mean? <b> GEARY </b> It means that you and your buddies are whacko, that you were discharged on psychological grounds after some war games in Thailand. <b> JACOB </b> (stunned) War games? Thailand? That's not true! How can you believe that? Can't you see what they're doing? It's all a lie. We were in Da Nang, for God's sake. You've got to believe me. <b> GEARY </b> I don't have to do any such thing. I'm eating my lunch, okay? GEARY takes a swig of his COKE and begins walking away. JACOB, enraged, charges after him. With a wild swipe he sends the COKE CAN shooting out of GEARY's hand. It reverberates down the corridor. GEARY is stunned. <b> JACOB </b> You slimy bastard! You goddamn piece of shit! With a powerful thrust, JACOB rips the sandwich from GEARY's other hand. Tossing it on the floor, he grinds his heel in it. Tomato and mayonnaise squirt onto GEARY's shoe. JACOB turns away. CUT TO JACOB walking down the COURT HOUSE CORRIDOR to the elevators. There is a look of satisfaction on his face. CUT BACK TO GEARY. He picks up a telephone and dials. Someone comes on the line. GEARY speaks quietly. <b> GEARY </b> He's on his way. CUT TO JACOB stepping onto the elevator. The doors close. The Muzak is playing "Sonny Boy" with Al Jolson singing. JACOB is surprised to hear it. He presses the down button for the main floor. The elevator stops at the LOBBY. The doors open swiftly. SEVERAL SOLDIERS are standing there. They approach JACOB. <b> SOLDIER 1 </b> Let's go, Singer. JACOB is shocked to see them. He tries to get away but two of the SOLDIERS yank him toward the LOBBY doors. <b> SOLDIER 2 </b> You're coming with us. <b>INT. CAR - LATE AFTERNOON </b> JACOB is hustled to a waiting car and shoved inside, in between two officious looking MEN. The doors lock from the DRIVER's command. <b> ARMY OFFICIAL #1 </b> Mr. Singer. What an appropriate name for a man who can't keep his mouth shut. The car drives off. <b> JACOB </b> Who are you? What do you want? <b> ARMY OFFICIAL #2 </b> We've been watching you for a long time. You and your friends. You've been exhibiting some very odd behavior. Frightening people with foolish talk about demons - and experiments. JACOB tries to speak but the other MAN grabs his mouth. <b> ARMY OFFICIAL #1 </b> You're in over your head, Mr. Singer. Men drown that way. The army was another part of your life. Forget it. It is dead and buried. Let it lie. <b> ARMY OFFICIAL #2 </b> I hope we have made our point, Mr. Singer. JACOB stares at the men for a moment and then goes totally berserk. Letting out a howl, he begins pounding and thrashing like a madman. He is totally out of control. With a wild leap, he grabs for the door handle. The door flies open. It flaps back and forth, slamming into parked cars. JACOB tries to jump out, but the men yank him back in. One of them pulls out a gun. JACOB sees it and goes crazy. His feet kick in all directions, slamming the DRIVER's nose into the steering wheel and shattering the side window. The car careens around a corner sending the gun flying to the floor. The men dive for it. It lodges beneath the seat. In the mayhem, JACOB throws himself out of the flapping door and sprawls onto the pavement. People look down at him as the car speeds away. <b>EXT. BROOKLYN - LATE AFTERNOON </b> JACOB grabs his back. He is in excruciating pain. He tries to get up, but can't move. He reaches out to people passing by, but they ignore him and hurry past. A SALVATION ARMY SANTA has been watching the entire scene. After a moment's consideration he leaves his post and ambles over to JACOB. He leans down and steals his wallet. <b> SANTA </b> Merry Christmas. <b>EXT. BROOKLYN STREETS - EVENING </b> CUT TO THE SOUND OF A SIREN as an AMBULANCE races through the streets. <b>INT. HOSPITAL - EVENING </b> AN AMBULANCE CREW rushes JACOB to a HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM. <b> BEARER </b> He's been screaming like a madman. You better get something in him. <b> RESIDENT </b> (approaching JACOB) Hi. I'm Doctor Stewart. Can you tell me what happened? <b> JACOB </b> My back. I can't move. I need my chiropractor. <b> RESIDENT </b> Your back? Did you fall? <b> BEARER </b> They said he slipped on the ice. May have hit his head. <b> ATTENDANT </b> Does he have any identification? <b> BEARER </b> No waller. Nothing. <b> JACOB </b> They stole it. <b> RESIDENT </b> Who did? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. Santa Claus. I had my son's picture in it. Gabe's picture. It's the only one I had. <b> RESIDENT </b> We better get an orthopedic man in here. Is Dr. Davis on call? <b> NURSE </b> I'll page him. <b> JACOB </b> Call my chiropractor. <b> NURSE </b> We're doing everything we can. <b> JACOB </b> Louis Schwartz. Nostrand Avenue. <b> RESIDENT </b> I'm going to have to move you a bit, just to check for injuries. This may hurt a little. <b> JACOB </b> No. Don't move me. The RESIDENT ignores him. JACOB screams. <b> RESIDENT </b> I don't have to ask if you can feel that. <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it. I want Louis. <b> NURSE </b> Who's Louis? <b> RESIDENT </b> He's out of it. I'm taking him down to X-ray. An ORDERLY pushes the gurney through a pair of sliding doors. JACOB tries to get up but the pain keeps him immobilized. <b>INT. CORRIDORS - NIGHT </b> JACOB begins a journey down what appears to be an endless series of corridors. The wheels of the gurney turn with a hypnotic regularity. The smooth tile floor gives way to roguh cement. The ORDERLY's feet plod through pools of blood that coagulate in cracks and crevices along the way. The surface grows rougher, the wheels more insistent. Body parts and human bile splash against the walls as the gurney moves faster. <b> JACOB </b> Where are you taking me? Where am I? <b> ORDERLY </b> You know where you are. JACOB, panicked, tries again to get up but to no effect. He glances to the side and sees mournful CREATURES being led into dark rooms. No one fights or struggles. We hear muffled screams from behind closed doors. Occasionally he glances inside the rooms and sees mangled bodies in strange contraptions, people in rusty iron lungs, and hanging from metal cages. Dark eyes peer out in horror. In one room a baseboard heater bursts into flame. No one seems concerned. A door opens. A bicycle with plastic streamers on the handlebars lies crushed and mangled. One of its wheels is still spinning. JACOB cries out but it is not his voice we hear. Rather it is a familiar unearthly roar. His whole body stiffens. As he rounds the corner he sees a figure, its head vibrating in endless terror. it is the same image he has seen before. JACOB screams. <b>INT. ROOM - NIGHT </b> JACOB is wheeled into a tiny ROOM. A numer of "DOCTORS" are waiting. As they draw closer JACOB notices that something about them is not right. They bear a subtle resemblance to Bosch-like DEMONS, creatures of another world. JACOB tries to sit up but winces in pain. He cannot move. He tries to scream but no sound comes out. Chains and pulleys hang from the ceiling. They are lowered and attached with speed and efficiency to JACOB's arms and legs. He screams. <b> JACOB </b> Oh God! The "DOCTORS" laugh. There is the sound of a huge door closing. JACOB is left in semi-darkness. Suddenly a new group of "DOCTORS" emerges from the shadows. They are carrying sharp surgical instruments. They surround JACOB, their eyes glistening as bright as their blades. JACOB is panting and sweating in fear. One of the "DOCTORS" leans over JACOB. He gasps with horror. It is JEZZIE. <b> JACOB </b><b> JEZZIE! </b> She pays no attention to him. He stares at her, THE CAMERA TILTING DOWN HER BODY. As it gets to her foot we see it is a decaying mass, swarming with maggots. The "DOCTORS" laugh. They take great pleasure in his suffering. Their voices are strange and not human. Each utterance contains a multitude of contradictory tones, sincere and compassionate, taunting and mocking at the same time. The confusion of meanings is a torment of its own. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Get me out of here. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> Where do you want to go? <b> JACOB </b> Take me home. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> Home? (they all laugh) This is your home. You're dead. <b> JACOB </b> Dead? No. I just hurt my back. I'm not dead. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> What are you then? <b> JACOB </b> I'm alive. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> Then what are you doing here? <b> JACOB </b> I don't know. I don't know. (he struggles like an animal) This isn't happening. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> What isn't happening? <b> JACOB </b> Let me out of here! <b> "DOCTOR" </b> There is no out of here. You've been killed. Don't you remember? A "DOCTOR" approaches JACOB. As he turns, we notice with horror that he has no eyes or eye sockets. He extracts a long needle from his belt and positions it over JACOB's head. Like a divining rod it locates a particular point near the crown of his head. With a powerful thrust the "DOCTOR" shoves the needle into JACOB's skull and pushes it slowly into his brain. JACOB howls. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> CUT RAPIDLY TO VIETNAM and a replay of flashes of the opening sequence of the film. SOLDIERS with bayonets are charging over rice paddies in the dark of the night. ONE OF THE SOLDIERS charges at JACOB with a long bayonet blade and jams it into his intestines. JACOB cries out. <b>INT. ROOM - NIGHT </b> <b>CUT BACK TO THE "DOCTORS". </b> <b> "DOCTOR" </b> Remember? <b> JACOB </b> No! That was years ago! I've lived years since then. <b> "DOCTOR" </b> It's all been a dream. <b> JACOB </b> No! The army did this to me! They've done something to my brain. (he raves like a madman) Jezzie! I want my boys! Sarah! I'm not dead! I want my family! The "DOCTORS" laugh and back away, disappearing into the darkness. <b>INT. HOSPITAL - NIGHT </b> Suddenly a fluorescent light flashes overhead. NORMAL HOSPITAL WALLS materialize instantaneously around him. A NURSE enters the room followed by SARAH, ELI, and JED. They approach JACOB who is lying in traction, suspended over a hospital bed. <b> NURSE </b> He's still pretty doped up. I don't think he'll be able to talk yet and I doubt that he'll recognize you. <b> SARAH </b> I just want to see him. <b> JED </b> (eating a Snickers bar) Dad. Hi. It's us. We just found out. <b> ELI </b> You look terrible. Does that hurt? <b> NURSE </b> I'll be outside if you need me. <b> SARAH </b> Jake. It's me. We heard what happened. <b> JACOB </b> (his voice hoarse, nearly whispering) I'm not dead. I am not dead. <b> SARAH </b> No. Of course you're not. You've just hurt your back. That's all. You're going to be fine. It'll just take some time. <b> JED </b> A month, they said. <b> ELI </b> (trying to joke) You just hang in there, Dad. <b> SARAH </b> (smacking him) That's not funny. (she reaches over and rubs JACOB's brow) What a mess, huh? God I wish there was something I could do. I love you, Jacob. For whatever that's worth. I do. There is a sudden sound of "DOCTORS" laughing. JACOB jerks his head painfully, but does not see them. <b> "DOCTOR" (O.S.) </b> Dream on! <b> JACOB </b> (yelling at the unseen voice) No! Oh God. <b> SARAH </b> Jacob, what can I do? <b> JACOB </b> Save me! JACOB's plea confuses SARAH. She responds with a kiss. <b>INT. HOSPITAL - DAY </b> DAYLIGHT streams through the window in JACOB's ROOM. He is still in traction and looks very uncomfortable. A new NURSE enters holding a plastic container with a straw poking out. <b> NURSE </b> Well, don't we look better this morning? That was a hard night, wasn't it? <b> JACOB </b> Where am I? <b> NURSE </b> Lennox Hospital. <b> JACOB </b> I'm awake? <b> NURSE </b> You look awake to me. Here. (she holds the straw to his lips) Drink some of this. <b> JACOB </b> (staring at her intently) Where's Sarah? Where did she go? (the NURSE gives him a strange look) She was here ... <b> NURSE </b> No. No. You haven't had any visitors. <b> JACOB </b> That's a lie. My family was here. <b> NURSE </b> I'm sorry. <b> JACOB </b> Last night! They were as real as you are! The NURSE smiles and nods in appeasement. <b> JACOB </b> This is not a dream! This is my life. <b> NURSE </b> Of course it is. What else could it be? She giggles nervously. There is a funny glint in her eyes. JACOB looks away. He doesn't want to see it. <b>OMIT </b> <b>INT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - EVENING </b> There is a loud commotion in the HALL. We see LOUIS SCHWARTZ, JACOB's chiropractor, screaming JACOB's name. <b> LOUIS </b> Jacob! Jacob Singer! JACOB yells. <b> JACOB </b> Louis! I'm here! In here! <b>INT. JACOB'S ROOM - DAY </b> LOUIS storms through JACOB's door followed by several NURSES and <b>ORDERLIES. </b> <b> JACOB </b><b> LOUIS! </b> <b> NURSE 1 </b> You can't go in there! <b> ORDERLY </b> You're going to have to leave. LOUIS stares furiously at JACOB stretched out on the traction apparatus. He begins to yell. <b> LOUIS </b> Good God, Jake. What have they done? (he examines JACOB and screams at the NURSES) What is this, the Middle Ages? And they call this modern medicine. This is barbaric! Barbaric! (turning to JACOB) It's okay, Jake. It's not serious. I'll get you out of here. (yelling at the ORDERLY) What is this, the Inquisition? Why don't you just burn him at the stake and put him out of his misery? LOUIS charges over to the traction equipment and begins working the pulleys that suspend JACOB over the bed. The NURSES and ORDERLIES become instantly hysterical and start screaming. <b> ORDERLY </b> What the hell do you think ... ? <b> LOUIS </b> Don't you come near me. <b> NURSE 2 </b> You can't do that! <b> LOUIS </b> What is this, a prison? Stay back. <b> NURSE 1 </b> You can't. Call the police. One of the ORDERLIES lunges at LOUIS who swings back at him with one of the pulley chains. It just misses. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the ORDERLIES) You take one step and I'll wrap this around your neck. LOUIS lowers JACOB into a wheelchair while holding the others at bay. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) Hold on, Jake, we're getting out of here. NURSES and ORDERLIES part as he pushes him quickly from the room. <b>OMIT </b> <b>INT. CHIROPRACTIC OFFICE - EVENING </b> LOUIS helps JACOB over to an adjusting table in a room that, compared with the hospital, is comfortable and serene. He pushes a lever and the table rises to a vertical position. JACOB leans against it and rides it down to a horizontal position. Every moment is agony for him. <b> LOUIS </b> Half an hour from now and you'll be walking out of here all by yourself. Mark my words. (JACOB barely hears them) Well, you've done it to yourself this time, haven't you? <b> JACOB </b> (nearly whispering) Am I dead, Louis? (LOUIS leans over to hear) Am I dead? <b> LOUIS </b> (smiling) From a slipped disc? That'd be a first. <b> JACOB </b> I was in Hell. I've been there. It's horrible. I don't want to die, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> Well, I'll see what I can do about it. <b> JACOB </b> I've seen it. It's all pain. <b> LOUIS </b> (working on JACOB's spine like a master mechanic) You ever read Meister Eckart? (JACOB shakes his head "no") How did you ever get your Doctorate without reading Eckart? (LOUIS takes hold of JACOB's legs and yanks them swiftly) Good. Okay, let's turn over gently. Right side. JACOB turns to his left. LOUIS shakes his head in dismay. <b> LOUIS </b> The other "right," okay? (he helps JACOB turn over) You're a regular basket case, you know that? (he moves JACOB's arm over his head) Eckart saw Hell, too. LOUIS positions JACOB's other arm, bends his legs, and then pushes down on his thigh. His spine moves with a cracking sound. JACOB groans. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) You know what he said? The only thing that burns in Hell is the part of you that won't let go of your life; your memories, your attachments. They burn 'em all away. But they're not punish- ing you, he said. They're freeing your soul. Okay, other side. He helps JACOB and repositions him. Again he pushes and the spine cracks. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) Wonderful. So the way he sees it, if you're frightened of dying and hold- ing on, you'll see devils tearing your life away. But if you've made your peace then the devils are really angels freeing you from the earth. It's just a matter of how you look at it, that's all. So don't worry, okay? Relax. Wiggle your toes. JACOB's toes dance as LOUIS gives him a quick, unexpected jab to the lower vertebrae in his back. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) Perfect. We got it. (LOUIS pushes a lever and the table rises back up) Okay. Let's just give it a little try. See if you can stand. <b> JACOB </b> What? By myself? <b> LOUIS </b> You can do it. Come on. Easy. Just give it a try. JACOB steps cautiously away from the table. He moves hesitantly, with deliberate restraint. LOUIS encourages him like a faith healer coaxing the lame. His first steps have an aura of the miraculous about them. JACOB walks slowly, without help. LOUIS smiles impishly. He looks like a giant cherub. <b> LOUIS </b> Hallelujah. LOUIS puts his arm around him. Then JACOB tries again, gradually rediscovering his balance and strength. With each step his confidence returns. LOUIS is pleased. Then, suddenly, without warning, JACOB turns and heads toward the door. <b> LOUIS </b> What are you doing? <b> JACOB </b> There's something I've gotta take care of, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> What are you talking about? You can barely stand. <b> JACOB </b> I'm walking, aren't I? <b> LOUIS </b> Jake, you need to rest. <b> JACOB </b> Not tonight, Louis. No more rest. He walks slowly out the door. LOUIS starts to go after him. JACOB turns around and shakes his head "no." The look on his face is firm and defiant. LOUIS stands back and lets him go. <b> JACOB </b> I love you, Louis. <b>EXT. U.S. ARMY RECRUITING HEADQUARTERS - NIGHT </b> CUT TO A SDIREN BLARING and a fire engine racing through the streets of lower MANHATTAN. A CROWD is forming. Banks of lights and television cameras amass in the cold night air. Police cars and mobile units rush to the scene. CUT TO JACOB. In one hand he is holding a brightly lit torch. In the other he is holding a container of gasoline and pouring it on the steps of the U.S. ARMY RECRUITING HEADQUARTERS. The volatile liquid splashes against his pants and shoes and runs down the pavement. A five gallon container lies emptying nearby. Gasoline belches from it insistently and pours onto the street. Bystanders back away as the gasoline snakes toward them. Television cameras and microphones are pointing in JACOB's direction, but at a safe distance. He is yelling at them, his teeth chattering from the cold. <b> JACOB </b> Listen to me. There were four companies in our batallion. Five hundred men. Seven of us were left when it was over. Seven! Four companies engaged in an enemy offensive that not one of us who survived can remember fighting. <b> BYSTANDERS </b> Use the torch! <b> ONLOOKER </b> Shut up! Let him talk! POLICE AMBULANCES are arriving at the scene. FIREMEN ready hoses at nearby hydrants. T.V. CAMERAS are rolling. <b> JACOB </b> (shouting) You don't forget a battle where 500 men were killed. They did something to us. I want to know the truth, the goddamn truth. We have a right to know. (he yells toward the cameras) Are you getting all this? I want this on national T.V. I want the whole country, the whole world to know. He holds up the torch. A loudspeaker blares through the crowd. <b> VOICE </b> Throw that torch away, young man. Give yourself up. You're under arrest. <b> JACOB </b> For what? For seeking the truth? <b> VOICE </b> Please come quietly. <b> JACOB </b> You come near me and I'll blow us all up. <b> VOICE </b> We're not going to hurt you. <b> ONLOOKER </b> Give him a chance to talk! <b> JACOB </b> The army will deny it. They've falsified my records. They've lied to my lawyer, threatened my buddies. But they can't threaten me. <b> BYSTANDER </b> You tell 'em! <b> BYSTANDER </b> Use the torch! <b> VOICE </b> Okay, let's clear the area. Everyone out. Suddenly a lighted match flies in JACOB's direction. JACOB is enraged. He brandishes the torch at the crowd. <b> JACOB </b> What the fuck do you think you're doing? Another match hurls toward him and dies in mid-air. PEOPLE on the fringe of the crowd begin to run. JACOB does not move. <b> VOICE </b> Clear the area. This is an order! <b> JACOB </b> What is wrong with you? We hear laughter from PEOPLE in the crowd. As JACOB looks out into some of their eyes he sees demons looking back. One of them throws another match. Crazed, JACOB runs toward them. PEOPLE jump back. Suddenly JACOB freezes. Standing on the sidelines, he sees one of the ARMY OFFICIALS who trapped him in the car. He is reaching for a gun. JACOB, stunned, yells at the top of hhis lungs. <b> JACOB </b><b> NO! </b> With a defiant roar, he hurls the torch straight up into the air. We see it from high above the crowd spinning higher and higher. All eyes stare upward watching it in a kind of wonder. Then, reaching its apex, just below the camera, it begins its descent. The eyes of the crowd turn to fear. SOMEONE yells. <b> ONLOOKER </b> He'll burn us all! Screams fill the air as PEOPLE scramble to escape the potential conflagration. Only JACOB remains motionless, standing silently, almost heroically, in the middle of it all. Suddenly the torch hits the ground and a pool of gasoline ignites with a blinding flare that sends flames shooting in all directions. PEOPLE panic. T.V. REPORTERS and CAMERAMEN run for their lives. The ARMY OFFICIALS run, too. The flames travel toward the Army Headquarters and rush along the curb. Water hoses are trying to douse them as they spread. JACOB, surprisingly untouched by the fire, walks slowly through the frightened crowds, as if in a daze. Viewed through the flames the scene momentarily resembles a vision of Hell. <b>INT. JACOB'S APT. - NIGHT </b> JACOB, stark naked and covered with goose bumps, runs his hands under a shower spray. The water is freezing and taking forever to warm up. Anxious, he dashes past his gasoline drenched clothes, grabs a suitcase from the BEDROOM closet, and stuffs it with clothes. Then he hurries back to the shower, tests it, and jumps in. Lather covers JACOB's hair and hangs over his tightly closed eyes. His entire body is covered in suds. He is washing as quickly as he can. Suddenly he hears a noise as someone enters the BATHROOM. He tenses. <b> JACOB </b> Who's there? Who is it? JACOB struggles to rinse the soap from his eyes. They are burning. There is a shadow behind the curtain. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Goddamn it! Who's there? JACOB rubs his eyes, fighting to see. Suddenly the shower curtain is thrown back. JACOB backs against the wall. A hand reaches in and pulls his nipple, pinching hard. <b> JEZZIE </b> It's just me. <b> JACOB </b> Jezzie? <b> JEZZIE </b> Who else were you expecting? <b> JACOB </b> Let go! <b> JEZZIE </b> Where were you, Jake? Where've you been? Why haven't you called? <b> JACOB </b> Stay away from me, Jez. <b> JEZZIE </b> I want to know. You tell me! <b> JACOB </b> You wanna know? Turn on the T.V. Watch the fucking news! He pushes her away and jumps out of the shower. CUT TO JACOB dressing and piling the last of his clothes into his suitcase. JEZZIE, in a robe, is watching him. <b> JEZZIE </b> Why are you doing this to me? You can't just go away like that. <b> JACOB </b> I can do anything I want. She stares at him with confusion. THE PHONE RINGS. <b> JACOB </b> Don't! <b> JEZZIE </b> It might be for me. <b> JACOB </b> I'm not here. You haven't seen me. <b> JEZZIE </b> (picking up the receiver) Hello ... No. He's not here. I haven't seen him all night ... I don't know when ... What? Tell him what? (JACOB looks up) Vietnam? ... What experiments? JACOB lunges for the phone. <b> JACOB </b> Hello. This is Jacob Singer. (he listens with growing fascination) God almighty! ... Yes. Yes. Right. Where would you like to meet? (he listens) How will I know you. (JACOB seems uncomfortable) Okay. I'll be there. He hangs up the phone and stands silently for a moment. <b> JEZZIE </b> Who was that? <b> JACOB </b> A chemist. Part of a chemical warfare unit out of Saigon. He said he knows me and that I'll know him when I see him. <b> JEZZIE </b> How? <b> JACOB </b> I have no idea. (he thinks) I was right. There were experiments. I knew it. I knew it. My God. <b> JEZZIE </b> How do you know he's telling the truth? JACOB stares at JEZZIE for several moments but does not respond. The 11:00 NEWS is coming on. JACOB's image can be seen on the screen. We hear the NEWSCASTER speaking. <b> NEWSCASTER </b> Leading the news tonight, a bizarre demonstration on the steps of the U.S. Army Recruiting Headquarters, in downtown Manhattan. Jacob Singer, an alleged Vietnam vet ... <b> JACOB </b> Alleged? Alleged? <b> NEWSCASTER </b> ... challenged the United States Army to admit conducting secret experi- ments involving hundreds of American soldiers during the Vietnam war. JEZZIE stares at the T.V., dumbfounded. JACOB takes his suitcase and hurries to the front door. He opens it a crack and peers into the hallway. JEZZIE runs after him. <b> JEZZIE </b> (almost threatening) Don't leave me, Jake. <b>INT. BUILDING CORRIDOR - NIGHT </b> JACOB gazes at JEZZIE for a moment and then hurries down the HALL. He stops at the stairwell and looks back. JEZZIE is still standing there. She is very angry. JACOB just stares at her for a moment and then disappears down the stairwell. <b>EXT. WESTSIDE HIGHWAY - NIGHT </b> JACOB is standing near the WESTSIDE HIGHWAY. GROUPS OF MEN in black leather jackets are crusing the area and look at JACOB with curiosity. One MAN in particular cruises by several times and then approaches him. <b> MICHAEL </b> Jacob? Hi. I'm Michael Newman. Friends call me Mike. JACOB is startled when he sees him. He is the same YOUNG MAN who has appeared throughout the film, assisting JACOB in moments of crisis. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) Surprised, huh? I told you you'd know me. I've been tracking you for a long time. I just wish I'd spoken to you before tonight. <b> JACOB </b> I don't get it. Who are you? Why have you been following me? <b> MICHAEL </b> Observation, mainly. Clinical study. You were one of the survivors. A POLICE CAR passes them on the street. MICHAEL grabs JACOB's shoulder and turns him away nervously. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) Come on, we're not safe around here. <b>HUDSON RIVER PIER - NIGHT </b> JACOB and MICHAEL are sitting on a deserted WEST SIDE PIER that juts into the Hudson River. JACOB is wide-eyed as he listens to MICHAEL's story. <b> MICHAEL </b> So first I'm arrested, right? Best LSD I ever made, right down the drain. I figure this is it, twenty years in the joint, if I'm lucky. That was '68. <b> JACOB </b> Long time ago. <b> MICHAEL </b> (nodding his head) Next thing I know I'm on Rikers Island. Ever been there? (JACOB shakes his head) Suddenly they take me from my cell to the visitors room with those bank teller windows, you know. Four army colonels, medals up their asses, are standing on the other side. They tell me if I'll come to Vietnam for two years, no action, mind you, just work in a lab, they'll drop all the charges and wipe the record clean. Well, I'd only been in jail for thirteen hours and I already knew that Nam couldn't be any worse. <b> JACOB </b> Shows how much you knew. <b> MICHAEL </b> No shit. They had me by the balls. Next thing I know I'm in Saigon ... in a secret lab synthesizing mind- altering drugs. Not the street stuff mind you. They had us isolating special properties. The dark side, you know? They wanted a drug that increased aggressive tendencies. <b> JACOB </b> Yeah, sure. We were losing the war. <b> MICHAEL </b> Right. They were worried. They figured you guys were too soft. They wanted something to stir you up, tap into your anger, you know? And we did it. The most powerful thing I ever saw. Even a bad trip, and I had my share, never compared to the fury of the Ladder. <b> JACOB </b> The Ladder? <b> MICHAEL </b> That's what they called it. A fast trip right down the ladder. (he makes a downward dive with his hand) Right to the primal fear, the base anger. I'm tellin' you, it was powerful stuff. But I don't need to tell you. You know. JACOB can barely catch his breath, the information he is receiving is so powerful to his mind. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) We did experiments on jungle monkeys. They bashed each other's heads in, gouged out their eyes, chewed off their tails. The brass loved it. Then they made us try it on Charlie. (he pauses) They took these POW's, just kids really, and put 'em in a courtyard. We fed 'em huge doses of the stuff. (he stops for a moment; a tear rolls down his cheek) They were worse than the monkeys. I never knew men could do such things. The whole thing still blows me away. MICHAEL stands up and begins walking in circles around the PIER. JACOB, astounded, gets up and walks beside him. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) Anyway, this big offensive was coming up. Everyone knew it; Time Magazine, Huntley-Brinkley. And the brass was scared 'cause they knew we couldn't win. Morale was down. It was gettin' ugly in the States. Hell, you remember. <b> JACOB </b> Like it was yesterday. <b> MICHAEL </b> A couple days later they decided to use the Ladder, on one test battalion. Yours. Just in an infintessimal dose in the food supply, to prove its effectiveness in the field. They were sure your unit would have the highest kill ratio in the whole goddamn offensive. And you did, too. But not the way they tnought. JACOB is beginning to shake. MICHAEL pulls a container of pills out of his jacket pocket. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) Hey, want something to calm you down? Made 'em myself. JACOB shakes his head no. <b> JACOB </b> None of us can remember that night. I get flashes of it but they don't make sense. We saw shrinks for years. But nothing they did could ever touch it. What happened? Was there ever an offensive? <b> MICHAEL </b> A couple of days later. It was fierce. You guys never saw it. <b> JACOB </b> But there was an attack. I can still see them coming. There was a fight, wasn't there? <b> MICHAEL </b> Yeah. But not with the Cong. <b> JACOB </b> Who then? He hesitates, obviously uncomfortable. His eyes grow puffy. He looks at the river for a moment and then turns to JACOB. <b> MICHAEL </b> You killed each other. JACOB's mouth drops open. The words hit him like a truck. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> Gunfire explodes in the darkening sky. We are in Vietnam. JACOB is at the bottom of a trench fighting with FRANK. Chaos surrounds them. Men are screaming. The ENEMY is storming at them from the rear. ROD raises his bayonet and jams it into the belly of his ATTACKER. It is only after a series of jabs that he sees it's another American he's killed. ROD's eyes go blank with confusion and terror. <b> ROD </b> Oh my God! WHAT'S HAPPENING? JACOB looks up from the trench and sees a continuing wave of AMERICAN SOLDIERS bearing down on them. FRANK jumps up, knocking JACOB to the ground and slamming his rifle into JACOB's back. As he spins around JACOB sees another SOLDIER charging at him. His bayonet is aimed at JACOB's stomach. For the first time JACOB remembers the face of his attacker. He is a YOUNG MAN, about 19 years old, clean cut, wearing glasses. The two men stare at each other in terrible confusion. It seems like a moment out of time. And then the SOLDIER lurches forward and rams his bayonet deep into JACOB's abdomen. CUT TO MICHAEL BACK ON THE PIER. JACOB is ashen-faced. <b> MICHAEL </b> It was brother against brother. No discrimination. You tore each other to pieces. I knew it would happen. I warned them. I WARNED THEM. But I was just a hippie chemist, right? Jesus! And I helped 'em make the stuff ... I talked to the guys who bagged the bodies. They're in worse shape than you, believe me. They saw what was left. It's a blessing you don't remember. Of course the brass covered the whole thing up right away. Blamed it all on a surprise attack. he pauses) I needed to find you. The Ladder was my baby. Tears start flowing down MICHAEL's face. He wipes them with his sleeve. It takes him a moment to regain his composure. JACOB is shivering. MICHAEL takes off his jacket, drapes it over JACOB, and leads him to the wooden planks overhanging the water. They sit and gaze at the <b>JERSEY SHORE. </b> CUT TO A WIDE SHOT OF MICHAEL AND JACOB in pre-dawn light. <b> MICHAEL </b> I always suspected the effects might come back. That's why I had to follow you. I had a hell of a time getting hold of your records. <b> JACOB </b> If you knew, why didn't you say anything? <b> MICHAEL </b> The truth can kill, my friend. Five hundred men died out there. This isn't a story they'd ever want out. When Paul's car blew up I realized the scope of the thing. I knew they meant business. <b> JACOB </b> So why tell me now? <b> MICHAEL </b> Because I can get rid of the demons. I can block the Ladder. I have an antidote. We can kill them off, chemically speaking. They'll all disappear. It's chemistry, my friend. I know. I created it. Come with me. I can help. <b>INT. HOTEL - DAWM </b> JACOB and MICHAEL enter a sleazy HOTEL near the docks, obviously frequented by a gay clientele. JACOB is uncomfortable as they check in. MICHAEL, however, seems to know the ropes. They go to a small room. <b> JACOB </b> You come here often? <b> MICHAEL </b> Sometimes. When it's convenient. <b> JACOB </b> How do I know this isn't just some kind of, you know, seduction or something? <b> MICHAEL </b> Hey, I'm not the problem. You've got bigger problems than me. MICHAEL reaches into his pocket and casually extracts a vial. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) I came up with the formula back in Nam but I never got a chance to use it. <b> JACOB </b> Never? <b> MICHAEL </b> I'd hoped I'd never have to. Just open your mouth and stick out your tongue. <b> JACOB </b> What is it? <b> MICHAEL </b> Don't worry. Take it. It'll free your head. Come on. <b> JACOB </b> (fearful) I don't know. <b> MICHAEL </b> "Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil," but no one ever said I wouldn't be shittin' in my pants every step of the way, huh? (JACOB smiles, his mouth open) Stick out your tongue. (JACOB obeys as an eyedropper deposits a drop of liquid on the back of his tongue) That'a boy. Now why don't you just lie down and relax. <b> JACOB </b> One drop? <b> MICHAEL </b> It's strong stuff. JACOB stretches out on the bed. He stares up at the ceiling and examines its pock-marked lunar look. Long cracks and shallow craters erode the surface. It is an alien terrain. <b> JACOB </b> I think I'm falling asleep. <b> MICHAEL </b> Pleasant dreams. The words send a jolt through JACOB's body. He tries to get up but can't. He's frightened. <b> JACOB </b> I can't move. <b> MICHAEL </b> Just relax. <b> JACOB </b> What's happening? Help me. The ceiling begins to rumble. Cracks split wide open. Huge crevasses tear through the plaster. JACOB's world is crumbling. He stares in horror as DEMONIC FORMS attempt to surge through the rupture above him. Piercing eyes and sharp teeth glimmer in the darkness. Hooved feet and pointed claws clamor to break through. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) <b> HELP ME! </b> Instantly MICHAEL appears standing over him. He is holding the vial with the antidote. He draws an eyedropper full of the fluid and holds it over JACOB's mouth. <b> MICHAEL </b> Take it! JACOB fights him, but MICHAEL forces the entire contents of the eyedropper down his throat. JACOB gags. He tries to spit it out, but can't. Suddenly the ceiling erupts in violent clashes as whole chunks break off and collide like continental plates. The collisons wreak havoc on the DEMONS, chopping and dismembering them. Body parts fall from the ceiling like a Devil's rain. Horrible screams echo from the other side. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) Don't fight it. It's your own mind. It's your own fears. Flashes of light and dark storm over JACOB's head, thundering like a war in the heavens. It is a scene of raw power and growing catastrophe. It builds in fury and rage until suddenly the ceiling explodes. JACOB's eyes stare into the formlessness expanding around him. All space is becoming a dark liquid void. Gradually the liquid grows bluer, clearer. There is an undulating sense to the imagery, a feeling of womb-like comfort. Strange lights appear and sparkle before us like sunlight on the ocean. JACOB is rushing upward, toward the surface. With the delirious sound of water giving way to air, JACOB breaks through. To his amazement, he finds himself floating out-stretched on shimmering sunlit water. Above him are clouds of such wondrous beauty that they cannot possibly be of the earth. Pillars of golden light reach down from the heavens creating a cathedral of light. It is a vision of heaven, a vast, almost mythic paradise. JACOB is awed. A sudden movement catches his attention. He looks over and sees MICHAEL standing before him. Only MICHAEL looks different. His face seems to radiate an inner light, a transcendental beauty. JACOB is nearly blinded by his presence and must shield his eyes to look at him. <b> MICHAEL </b> So, how you doin'? The casualness of the words catches JACOB by surprise. He sits up. To his shock and amazement, he finds that he is back in THE HOTEL ROOM. MICHAEL is standing at the foot of the bed. JACOB is totally disoriented. His eyes move slowly around the room, taking everything in. He doesn't speak. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) It was better than you expected, huh? JACOB just stares at him for a while and then suddenly begins to laugh. It is a huge laugh, full of energy and life. <b> MICHAEL </b> (continuing) And no more demons. I told you they'd be gone. <b> JACOB </b> I don't believe this. It's a miracle, Michael. A miracle. <b> MICHAEL </b> Better living through chemistry, that's my motto. <b>EXT. GREENWICH VILLAGE - DAY </b> JACOB and MICHAEL are walking through the STREETS OF GREENWICH VILLAGE. It is early MORNING and the sidewalks are bustling with PEOPLE. JACOB stares into their faces and beams when they smile back. MICHAEL enjoys JACOB's happiness. <b>EXT. WASHINGTON SQUARE - DAY </b> JACOB and MICHAEL walk through WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK. <b> JACOB </b> It was paradise, Michael. You showed it to me. You were there. <b> MICHAEL </b> Well that's good to know. <b> JACOB </b> Mike, it was real. It was glorious. <b> MICHAEL </b> Glorious. I'm not surprised. I fed you enough of that stuff to send a horse to heaven. I'm just glad you came back. <b> JACOB </b> I would have stayed there if I could. <b> MICHAEL </b> I'm sure. You've got nothing but troubles waitin' for you here. He points to two POLICEMEN on the far side of the SQUARE. <b> MICHAEL </b> (taking JACOB's arm) Come on. <b>EXT. GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL - DAY </b> The TWO MEN head up to GRAMERCY PARK and stop in front of the GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL. Reaching into his wallet, MICHAEL pulls out a huge stack of credit cards and hands one to JACOB. <b> MICHAEL </b> Here. I've got every credit card ever printed. Take this. Stay here till you can arrange to get away. It's on me. <b> JACOB </b> No. I couldn't. <b> MICHAEL </b> What? You want the Plaza? Don't be foolish. Here. Take this, too. (he pulls out a business card) This is my place on Prince Street. It's got my phone, everything. Call if you need me ... but you won't. Everything's gonna work out. You just get outta town as fast as you can. The New York police can be effective when they want to be. <b> JACOB </b> I don't know what to say. <b> MICHAEL </b> Save the words ... Just send back my credit card. MICHAEL laughs, hugs JACOB, and walks away. <b>INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY </b> JACOB is in a lovely MOTEL ROOM overlooking GRAMERCY SQUARE. He is sprawled out happily on the bed when there is a knock at the door. He jumps up and opens it. JEZZIE is standing there. She looks at JACOB quizzically. He smiles and takes her in his arms, swinging her into the room. <b> JEZZIE </b> What are you doing here? Are you all right? How do you expect to pay for this? (JACOB smiles) Everyone's looking for you, Jake. I dodged people all over the place, reporters, police. I don't know what you're gonna do. <b> JACOB </b> I'm gonna make love to you. That's what I'm gonna do. <b> JEZZIE </b> Are you out of your mind? <b> JACOB </b> Yep. Finally. I love you, Jez. <b> JEZZIE </b> God, I can't keep up with all your changes. <b> JACOB </b> Me neither. <b> JEZZIE </b> What's gotten into you? JACOB grins. CUT TO JACOB and JEZZIE lying in bed gently caressing one another. For all his ardor JACOB is exhausted from the events of the preceding day. While stroking JEZZIE's hair he begins to fall asleep. JEZZIE crawls on top of him and shoves her hand down his pants. JACOB smiles. DISSOLVE TO JACOB and JEZZIE making love. <b> TIME CUT: </b> DISSOLVE TO JACOB and JEZZIE lying in front of the T.V. watching a romantic movie. JEZZIE snuggles up to JACOB. <b> JEZZIE </b> It's amazing, you know, that a drug could change things like that, destroy a life and then give it back. It's hard to believe that the world could be so hellish on day and like heaven the next. <b> JACOB </b> I tell you, it was so wonderful. I felt like a little boy. I saw Paradise, Jezzie. <b> JEZZIE </b> It's so hard to believe. There is a knock at the door. JACOB throws on a bathrobe. JEZZIE jumps under the sheets. <b> JACOB </b> Who's there? <b> BELLBOY (V.O.) </b> It's your dinner, sir. JEZZIE's eyes brighten. JACOB opens the door. A BELLBOY wheels in a table set for dinner. He sets it in a corner of the room. JEZZIE jumps out of bed, runs to the table, sniffs at the food, and squeals excitedly. <b> JEZZIE </b> This is one of my dreams, Jake. Ever since I was a little girl. I never thought it would happen. <b> JACOB </b> Stick with me, kid. JEZZIE smiles. <b> TIME CUT: </b> DISSOLVE to JACOB and JEZZIE sitting next to a large window overlooking GRAMERCY PARK. They are sipping champagne. <b> JEZZIE </b> I want to go with you, Jake. Wherever you go. <b> JACOB </b> It's not practical, Jez. It'll be hard enough alone. <b> JEZZIE </b> I can waitress. I'm good. <b> JACOB </b> No. Things are too hot. Later. I'll send for you. <b> JEZZIE </b> Bullshit! <b> JACOB </b> I promise. <b> JEZZIE </b> Please. <b> JACOB </b> No. I'm a marked man, Jez. I'm the only one left. I don't want to expose you to that. It's not right for you or me. Be reasonable. <b> JEZZIE </b> Reasonable? Reasonable? Jake ... You're gettin' me angry. <b> JACOB </b> I love you when you're angry. <b> JEZZIE </b> Oh yeah? (her eyes twinkle suggestively) Try leavin' without me. JACOB laughs. JEZZIE doesn't. Unexpectedly she grabs JACOB and pushes him onto the bed. In seconds they are all over each other, their clothes flying in all directions. They seem as happy as could be. <b>OMIT </b> <b>INT. GRAND CENTRAL STATION - DAY </b> JACOB enters GRAND CENTRAL STATION. He checks out all the PEOPLE around him. Not a DEMON in sight. Hurrying to the TICKET WINDOW he gets in line. The TICKET SELLER looks up. <b> JACOB </b> Chicago. One way. For tomorrow. <b> SELLER </b> How many? <b> JACOB </b> One. <b> SELLER </b> That'll be $119.75. JACOB pulls out MICHAEL's credit card. The SELLER rings it up. While he is waiting JACOB notices a POLICEMAN looking at him. The stare unsettles him. The SELLER hands JACOB his ticket. He takes it and hurries into the CROWD. Looking back he notices the POLICEMAN is following him. <b>INT. MEN'S ROOM - DAY </b> JACOB enters the MEN'S ROOM. He hurries into one of the stalsls, drops his pants, and sits. He eyes the graffiti on the walls and then notices a wad of tissue stuffed into a hole between him and the next stall. It is moving. Suddenly the tissue falls to the floor. JACOB glances at the hole curiously and leans forward to examine it. He is shocked to see an eye staring back at him. <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it! (he covers it with his hand. A pencil jabs his palm. He yells) Fucking pervert. Two lips form around the hole. A tongue wags obscenely. <b> VOICE </b> Dream on! <b> JACOB </b> (shocked) What?! The mouth is gone. JACOB hears the stall door fly open and feet running from the room. He jumps up and grabs his pants. He dashes out of the MEN'S ROOM. He hears footsteps and chases after them. <b>INT. GRAND CENTRAL STATION - DAY </b> JACOB bursts into the MAIN TERMINAL. He sees someone rushing toward the main doors and speeds after him. HOMELESS PEOPLE, huddling along the corridors, watch as they run past. Escaping to the street, the MAN disappears in the holiday throngs. JACOB, crazed, stands gasping for breath. His fists dig into his coat pocket. Suddenly he feels something and seems surprised when MICHAEL's CARD emerges in his hands. <b>OMIT </b> <b>INT. SOHO LOFT BUILDING - EVENING </b> JACOB runs up the stairs in a SOHO LOFT BUILDING. It is a dingy, industrial staircase, poorly lit. He reaches a door with MICHAEL's name painted on it in large black letters. He knocks loudly. There is no answer. He pounds on it. Another door opens on the floor above. A head sticks out. <b> MAN </b> You lookin' for Mike? <b> JACOB </b> (panting hard) Where is he? <b> MAN </b> Don't know. Hasn't picked his mail up in days. It's not like him. JACOB has a frenzied look in his eyes. He searches around the staircase and sees a pile of lumber stacked in a corner. He grabs a two-by-four and lunges at the door. <b> MAN </b> What the hell are you doing? JACOB doesn't answer. He smashes wildly at the door until the lock flies open. <b>INT. MICHAEL'S LOFT - EVENING </b> JACOB charges into the dark space groping for a light. He finds it. The LOFT is a disaster area. Nothing is standing. JACOB runs from room to room. In the back he discovers a large private chemistry lab. Glass vials and bottles are shattered on the floor. JACOB rifles through the cabinets. A few bottles are intact but their labels mean nothing to him. He reaches for one cabinet and notices a reddish liquid oozing out from the bottom. He opens it. MICHAEL's severed head stares him in the face. It is smiling. A scream rings out as the MAN from upstairs sees what JACOB has seen. JACOB jumps back, trips, and falls over MICHAEL's headless body. It is lying sprawled across the floor. <b> MAN </b> Oh my God! JACOB stumbles to pull himself up. He is in a state of unrelieved panic. He runs past the MAN and spills out the doorr. He takes two and three stairs at a time, nearly flying to the street. <b>EXT. SOHO STREETS - NIGHT </b> JACOB rushes into the icy air and runs wildly down the sidewalk as fast as his legs will move. With unexpected violence he charges into the side of a building. Over and over he hurls himself against it. He grabs for the bricks. His fingers insert themselves into the crevices. It is as though he is trying to merge with the wall. Suddenly JACOB turns and dashes into the street. A taxi is speeding toward him, its lights the only sign of life and warmth in the dark night. JACOB steps into its path. It is hard to tell if he is trying to stop the cab or waiting to be hit. The taxi screeches to a halt. JACOB stares at it a moment and then steps to get in. The DRIVER tries to pull off but JACOB yanks at the door and drags himself inside. <b>INT. TAXI - NIGHT </b> Rain is beginning to fall. It streaks the windows. <b> JACOB </b> (barely audible) I'm going to Brooklyn. <b> DRIVER </b> Sorry, Mac. Not with me you're not. I get lost in Brooklyn. <b> JACOB </b> I know the way. JACOB reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out a twenty dollar bill, and hands it to the DRIVER. He takes it. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Look, this is all the money I've got in the world. Take me home and it's yours. <b> DRIVER </b> ... Where's your home? CUT TO THE TAXI heading down WEST BROADWAY, approaching the BROOKLYN BRIDGE, crossing the EAST RIVER, and driving through dark BROOKLYN <b>STREETS. </b> JACOB's face passes in and out of dense shadows. Every time he is bathed in light his image seems to alter. Something in him is falling away. <b>EXT. SARAH'S APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT </b> JACOB gets out of the TAXI and approaches the LOBBY of SARAH'S APARTMENT BUILDING. JACOB is greeted by the DOORMAN. <b> DOORMAN </b> Dr. Singer. It's been a long time. <b> JACOB </b> (greeting him warmly) Hello, Sam. <b> DOORMAN </b> (noticing JACOB's battered condition) Are you all right? <b> JACOB </b> I'm okay. <b> DOORMAN </b> Do you want some help? I can call upstairs. <b> JACOB </b> No, don't. But thanks. <b>INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> JACOB stops in front of the APARTMENT door and reaches his hand underneath a section of the hallway carpet. It comes back with a key. He inserts it into the lock and gently opens the door. He calls out. <b> JACOB </b> Hello. It's me. <b>INT. SARAH'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Some lights are on. The APARTMENT looks comfortable and cozy. <b> JACOB </b> Hello? Is anybody home? Jed? Eli? Daddy's here. There is still no answer. JACOB is surprised. He peers into the dark LIVING ROOM and then walks to the KITCHEN. No one is around. A photo of JACOB, SARAH, AND THEIR BOYS is sitting on the counter. He picks it up and carries it with him through the apartment. He walks into his old BEDROOM and then into the BOYS' ROOM. The beds are still unmade. There is no one home. He sees his image in the BATHROOM mirror and turns away in disgust. He walks back to the LIVING ROOM. He is about to switch the lights on when he hears footsteps coming down the hall. He calls out. <b> JACOB </b> Sarah, is that you? I hope you don't mind. I needed to come home. JACOB is startled to see JEZZIE enter the room. She does not seem he usual self. She appears larger, more imposing. <b> JEZZIE </b> Hello, Jake. I knew you'd come here in the end. JACOB is nervous. <b> JACOB </b> What're you ... ? Where's Sarah? Where are the boys? <b> JEZZIE </b> Sit down, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> Where are they? <b> JEZZIE </b> Sit down. <b> JACOB </b> No! What's going on? Where's my family? <b> JEZZIE </b> It's over, Jake. It's all over. <b> JACOB </b> Where have they gone? <b> JEZZIE </b> Wake up. Stop playing with yourself. It's finished. JEZZIE stares at JACOB with a frightening, powerful glare. The edge of her coat rustles and flutters as she moves toward him. It is an innocent sound at first, but after a moment it transforms into something else, an obsessive flapping noise, the sound of a wing. JACOB's body feels the first waves of an inner tremor. His legs are shaking. <b> JACOB </b> What's going on? <b> JEZZIE </b> Your capacity for self-delusion is remarkable, Dr. Singer. JEZZIE begins walking around the dark living room as she talks to him. Something about her walk is very unnatural. JACOB eyes her fearfully. In the darkness JEZZIE's movements become increasingly strange and elusive. We see her pass before a shadow and disappear within it, only to reappear, seconds later, in a doorway on the other side of the room. JACOB spins around, confused. Suddenly JEZZIE is inches from his face, although it seems like there has been no time for her to get there. Her movements are totally impossible, defying all logic, all physical laws. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) What's wrong, Jake? (she mocks him) Forget to take your antidote? <b> JACOB </b> Who are you? What are you doing to me? <b> JEZZIE </b> You have quite a mind, Jake. I loved your friends. That chemist - the Ladder. What an imagination you have! JACOB freezes. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) And your vision of paradise ... fantastic! You're a real dreamer, you know that? Only it's time to wake up. JEZZIE has disappeared in the darkness of the room. Only the sounds of flapping wings remain. They grow louder and more menacing, whooshing past him with no visible source. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Your mind is crumbling, Jake. No more "army." No more conspiracies. You're dying, Dr. Singer. It's over. JACOB, frightened, turns toward the door as if to hurry out. "JEZZIE" laughs. <b> JEZZIE </b> (continuing) Where's to run, Jacob? Where's to go? JACOB pauses a moment and then turns to confront the terror behind him. <b> JACOB </b><b> WHO ARE YOU? </b> <b> JEZZIE </b> How many times have you asked me that? How many times? <b> JACOB </b><b> TELL ME, DAMN YOU! </b> <b> JEZZIE </b> (with consummate power) <b> YOU KNOW WHO I AM. </b> JEZZIE appears from the shadows. Her coat collar obscures her and it seems for a moment that she has no face. Then, to JACOB's horror, she turns around. He is staring at the vibrating creature he has seen so often before. Glimpsed almost in abstraction it is a living terror, dark and undefinable. Its face is a black and impenetrable void in constant vibration. Its voice is an unspeakable demonic cry, the essence of fear and suffering. JACOB pulls away from it, overhwelmed by confusion. He is rooted in fear. A sudden wind howls through the room, great gales blowing JACOB's hair straight up. It is like a hurricane pushing him into the wall. He can barely stand. He struggles to pull himself away. The flapping sound returns, charging at him from all directions. It is as if the darkness itself is swooping down, trying to envelop him. <b> JACOB </b> (whispering to himself) This isn't happening. New terrible sounds arise, chain saws slashing through the air, knives, and sabers ripping through space with unrelenting anger. Guns fire and explode past his head. It is as though all the sounds of destruction are closing in on him. JACOB yells but his own voice is lost in the melee. Terrified, he looks heavenward, as if crying for help. Suddenly, from the noise, a calm voice rises, speaking, as if from a distance. It is LOUIS. JACOB is shocked to hear him. He stands motionless. <b> LOUIS (V.O.) </b> If you're frightened of dying you'll see devils tearing you apart. If you've made your peace then they're angels freeing you from the world. The voice fades. JACOB just stands there, not sure what to do. And then the sounds return. Only now they are more terrifying than ever. Hideously loud, they become a cacophony of sounds, voices of parents, friends, lovers, the sounds of battle, fighting, and dying. JACOB looks up and sees the creature in the center of the room. All the sounds seem to emenate from it. The more JACOB stares at it the louder they become. After a moment, JACOB takes a huge breath. We sense a great resolve forming inside him. Then, slowly, courageously, he begins moving toward it. NEw and more terrifying noises assault JACOB, attempting to drive him back, but he will not be stopped. He continues walking toward the creature. In the hallway a standing lamp slams sparking to the floor. It rolls back and forth like a living thing, with a maddening hypnotic regularity. Doors slam open and closed, unlatching, snapping, shutting, with deafening force. The room itself seems like an organic presence. It is alive, angry, and threatening. The CREATURE sits in the midst of the insanity like the source of madness itself. It writhes, contorts and vibrates with unstoppable fury. JACOB, terrified, but unrelenting, continues to approach it. AS THE CAMERA DRAWS CLOSER TO THE CREATURE'S HEAD the density of its featureless form overwhelms the screen. It is like staring into emptiness itself, the ultimate darkness. With superhuman effort JACOB grabs hold of the creature. It is like grabbing hold of a live wire. His body begins shaking uncontrollably like a man being electrocuted. He is flying in all directions but does not let go. His fingers claw at the creature's head. JACOB struggles defiantly with the monster. Suddenly a terrible voice emerges from within it. <b> CREATURE </b><b> WHO DO YOU THINK YOU'RE FIGHTING! </b> JACOB does not respond. It cries out again. <b> CREATURE </b><b> WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE </b><b> FIGHTING? </b> Deep inside the darkness JACOB begins to make out the presence of a form, something writhing and tortured lurking before us. It looks briefly like an animal until we realize it is the image of a human face. It is covered by a dark suffocating film, like a mask. JACOB digs into it with all his might and pulls it off. <b> CUT TO: </b> DEAD SILENCE as JACOB SEES HIS OWN FACE staring back at him from beneath the mask. It is JACOB SINGER as we first saw him on the battlefield in Vietnam. Only now his image is pale and lifeless. It takes JACOB a moment to realize that he is dead. The recognition is one of terrible confusion and pain. JACOB stares at himself for a long time as a huge cry wells up inside him. It bursts forth with devastating sadness. As that instant the whole of space seems to explode in a flash of catacylsmic power. Hundreds of images from JACOB's life flash before us, his birth, his childhood, his adulthood. The demons, the room, JEZZIE, LOUIS, MICHAEL, SARAH, all seem to assail us in a rush of blinding intensity. We are flying over a landscape of memories, zooming across a constantly changing field of images. Some of the images move, some of the people in them speak. They are not particularly significant memories, in some ways they are quite banal, but something about them is infused with life and joy. Even the painful moments resonate with vital force. Some of the moments we recognize from the time we've spent with JACOB. Some we have not seen before. There is no order to them, no logic to why they have been recalled. A newborn baby takes its first breath and screams. SARAH pulls clothes off a clothes line on a rainy day. JACOB's FATHER stands in the Florida surf as sea foam laps gently at his legs. PAUL, FRANK, and JACOB play cards on the edge of a rice paddy. GABE rides his bike into the path of an oncoming car. A child puts his ear next to a bowl of cereal, listening to it talk. A young girl standing in a doorway lifts up her blouse to show her new breasts. JACOB and SARAH slice a wedding cake that topples to the floor. JEZZIE looks at JACOB and asks "Love me a little?" And then it is over. Total silence overwhelms the screen, a wonderful soothing calm. JACOB's eyes open and he is shocked to find himself sitting on the floor in SARAH's apartment. He is all alone. The first rays of early morning sunlight are filtering through the window. Something about the apartment seems transfigured, magical. JACOB sits motionless, stunned to be back there. The faint sound of music can be heard coming from the hallway. It is warm and familiar, the tinkling of a music box. JACOB listens to it for a few moments and then something registers inside him. Curious, he gets up and approaches the corridor. <b> JACOB </b> Hello? There is no response. Suddenly the music stops. JACOB freezes for a moment. He sees someone standing in the shadows at the other end. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Who is it? Who's there? Tentatively JACOB moves forward. As he draws closer he begins to see the outline of a child. Then, all of a sudden, he realizes who it is. His eyes well up as he stands there, the full impact of the moment registering inside him. It's his son, GABE. He is carrying the same musical lunch box we have seen before. The young boy smiles warmly at his father. It is the smile of an angel. JACOB swallows hard. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Gabe? Gabe! JACOB runs to his son. Unable to hold back the tears, he embraces him in a rush of love and emotion. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Gabe. Oh God. I don't believe ... They hug one another over and over. JACOB, overcome, sits down on the stiars. After a moment GABE puts his arm around his father's shoulder in a gesture of surprising maturity and compassion. We sense for an instant that their roles have reversed. GABE reaches for JACOB's hand and gently encourages him to stand up. With a sweet tug GABE leads his father up the steps. Sunlight streams down from the top of the stiars, hitting the first landing. GABE is bathed in its warm glow. As JACOB reaches the landing, he too is surrounded by the comforting light. GABE hurries up the last set of stairs. JACOB turns to follow but is stunned by the brilliance of the light pouring in from above. Squinting, he cannot see his son. Then suddenly GABE steps back out of the light and takes his father's hand once more. His eyes sparkle with excitement. <b> GABE </b> Come on Dad ... You know what we've got? A sandbox just like the Williston's, only it's bigger and the sand's all white. You won't believe it. JACOB smiles at his son. GABE smiles at him. It is a moment of total euphoria. THE CAMERA HOLDS as they continue up the stairs. <b> GABE </b> (continuing) And my parakeet. Remember, the one grandma let out of the cage? He's okay. And he's talking now. He knows my name. GABE's voice slowly trails off as he and his father disappear in the intenstity of the light. THE CAMERA HOLDS on the image. For a brief but stunning moment there appears to be a huge ethereal staircase shimmering before us. It rises up into infinite dimensions. Then the brilliance of its blinding light overwhelms the screen. Suddenly the brightness condenses into a smaller light source. It holds for a second and then flashes off. An overhead surgical lamp remains stubbornly in view. <b>INT. VIETNAM FIELD HOSPITAL - DAY </b> A DOCTOR leans his head in front of the lamp and removes his mask. His expression is somber. He shakes his head. His words are simple and final. <b> DOCTOR </b> He's gone. CUT TO JACOB SINGER lying on an operating table in a large ARMY FIELD TENT in VIETNAM. The DOCTOR steps away. A NURSE rudely pulls a green sheet over his head. The DOCTOR turns to one of the aides and throws up his hands in defeat. AN ORDERLY wheels JACOB's body past rows of other DOCTORS and NURSES fighting to save lives. A YOUNG VIETNAMESE BOY pulls back a screen door to let them out of the tent. It is a bright, fresh morning. The sun is rising. <b> THE END </b> <b>"JACOB'S LADDER" (DELETED SCENES) </b> by Bruce Joel Rubin <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 1: PROFESSOR STERN </b> <b>-- </b> <b>INT. CITY COLLEGE LECTURE HALL - DAY </b> CUT TO a huge ampitheatre-style LECTURE HALL at CITY COLLEGE. It is almost empty. No more than FORTY STUDENTS are scattered near the front of nearly three hundred seats. All are listening to PROFESSOR EMANUEL STERN who is nearing the end of his lecture. <b> STERN </b> Thus at the core of today's discu- sion we find four fundamental doc- trines. First, that the world of matter and individual consciousness are both manifestations of one Divine Reality. One of the STUDENTS seems about to fall asleep and keeps nodding his head. <b> STERN </b> Even you, Mr. Palmer, are part of it, as amazing as that may seem. MR. PALMER sits up quickly in his seat as other STUDENTS smile. <b> STERN </b> Second, human beings are capable not only of kowledge about this Divine Re- ality by inference but can realize its existence by direct intuition, superior even to reason. A door opens in the upper reaches of the lecture hall. JACOB enters and walks quietly down the stairs to within hearing range of the professor. <b> STERN </b> Third, man possesses a double nature, an ego and an eternal self, what we call "spirit" or "soul." JACOB takes a seat at one of the desks. There is a pencil lying on it which he fingers distractedly. <b> STERN </b> Fourth, and most important, man's life on earth has only one end and purpose, to learn to let go of the separate ego and to identify with the Divine spark within. MR. PALMER is nodding off again. <b> STERN </b> Almost impossible to believe, isn't it Mr. Palmer, that somewhere in that unconscious head of yours lies the source of all consciousness? <b> PALMER </b> Yes, Sir. Very hard. <b> STERN </b> (nodding his head) Well now, having reached this apotheosis there seems little, if anything, left to say. So rather than try, you are dismissed. The STUDENTS seem surprised but not unhappy with the sudden dismissal. They quickly gather their books and begin the long climb to the exits. Only JACOB remains seated. <b> JACOB </b> Hello Prof. PROFESSOR STERN looks up and stares at KACOB for several seconds before recognizing him. <b> STERN </b> My oh my. Doctor Singer. Isn't this a happy surprise? JACOB comes down the aisle and clasps hands with his old <b>PROFESSOR. </b> <b> STERN </b> (looking at JACOB's uni- form) Are you in the service? <b> JACOB </b> The postal service. I'm a mailman. <b> STERN </b> (surprised but non- judgemental) Ah. Neither snow nor sleet, nor dark of night ... I always admired that. <b> JACOB </b> (smiling) It's good to see you. <b> STERN </b> Likewise. <b>EXT. CITY COLLEGE - DAY </b> JACOB AND PROFESSOR STERN walk down the city streets that constitute the CAMPUS of CITY COLLEGE. <b> STERN </b> And how is your wife? Sarah, no? <b> JACOB </b> (shrugging his shoul- ders) I haven't seen her in months. <b> STERN </b> (understanding) Ah! <b> JACOB </b> I'm with another woman now. We're both with the post office, Midtown, 34th Street branch. <b> STERN </b> Hmm. I don't suppose there are too many philosophers in the post office? <b> JACOB </b> Oh, you'd be surprised. They just don't have their doctorates, that's all. <b> STERN </b> (he smiles) Last I heard you were offered a posi- tion in the West somewhere. Tuscon was it? <b> JACOB </b> Oh, that goes way back. They had a hiring freeze, one of those last min- ute things. Bad timing for me though. Middle of the war. The draft. (STERN nods his head. They walk a moment in silence) I'll tell you Prof, after Viet Nam ... I didn't want to think anymore. I decided my brain was just too small an organ to comprehend this chaos. <b> STERN </b> (looking at JACOB with affection) Jacob, if it was any other brain but yours, I might agree. (he pauses) Tell me, does your lady friend know what a brilliant thinker, what a sub- lime intellect she's living with? <b> JACOB </b> (smiling coyly) I doubt it's my mind that interests her. I tell you Prof, she's a fiery lady. <b> STERN </b> (with a fatherly demeanor) Well, try not to get burned. You have a great mind, Jacob. Don't let anyone tempt you away from it. <b>INT. OFF CAMPUS COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> JACOB and PROFESSOR STERN are sitting at a quiet table in a nearly empty coffee shop. They are both fixing cups of tea, not speaking. Suddenly JACOB looks at STERN. <b> JACOB </b> I've got a problem, Prof. More Augus- tine than Kierkegaard, if you know what I mean. (STERN looks at him questioningly) I need to know about ... demons. <b> STERN </b> (surprised) Demons, Jacob? Why demons? Are you writing ... ? <b> JACOB </b> No. (he pauses a moment) I see them. <b> STERN </b> See them? (he smiles uncomforta- bly) What do you mean? Physically? <b> JACOB </b> (hesitantly) Yes. STERN pauses. He looks at JACOB. The intensity of his gaze is unsettling and JACOB reaches for his tea. The cup rattles. <b> STERN </b> I know very little about demons, Ja- cob, fleshy ones anyway. I know them as literary figures, biblical ones ... Dante, Milton ... but Jacob, (he pauses) this is the 20th Century. We don't see demons now. <b> JACOB </b> I see them, Prof. Everywhere. They're invading my life. A look of concern fills STERN's eyes. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Christ, I know how it sounds. <b> STERN </b> Have you considered a doctor? A psy- chiatrist? <b> JACOB </b> Yes. (suddenly uneasy) I don't want them. I'm not looking for analysis or drugs. It's too easy to dismiss as some kind of psychosis. (he pauses uncomforta- bly) It's more than that. I can feel it. I need you Prof. You're the only one I can talk to. <b> STERN </b> I don't know what to say. <b> JACOB </b> I need your insight, your intuition. STERN sips his tea slowly. He is thinking. <b> STERN </b> Demons? I don't know what to tell you. It sounds like a spiritual mat- ter to me. The problem, Jacob, is that you have no context for it. You're a renegade Existentialist suf- fering demons a hundred years after Freud. How the hell am I supposed to make it fit? <b> JACOB </b> I'm afraid, Prof. Nothing makes sense. (he pauses) Please help me. <b> STERN </b> (trying to be delicate) Jacob, I don't believe in demons, not in the empirical sense. I don't be- lieve in devils fighting for our souls. I don't believe in enternal damnation. I don't believe in other- worldly creatures tormenting us. We don't need them. We do a good enough job on ourselves. <b> JACOB </b> (disturbed) But I see them. <b> STERN </b> Look. I don't pretend to know what's going on inside your head. For all I know it's pathological and they should be pumping Valium into your veins by the quart. But if you're not willing to accept the help of sci- ence; and believe me, I admire you for that: then you'll have to do bat- tle on your own. What can I say? It's a lonely pilgrimage through our times even for the strongest souls. But to be pursued by ... demons no less ... There are no guides, Jacob. (he muses) You wanna know what I'd do if I sud- denly started seeing demons? I'd hail the first taxi that came along, shoot over to Bellvue and beg them for shock treatment. I'm no saint. <b> JACOB </b> Hell, you think I am? <b> STERN </b> I'venever understood you, you know that? You were by far the best pupil I've ever had, bar none. Intellectu- ally, you were the most original, the most imaginative. Who knows, maybe you've been "elected" to see demons. Maybe you're in touch with ... some- thing. Nothing would surprise me about you Jacob. Nothing. JACOB gazes at his old friend and mentor, frustration blazing in his eyes. They are both surprised to see tears form and run down his cheek. JACOB reaches for a napkin and dries them quickly. STERN, uncomfortable in the face of emotion, turns away. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 2: THE PARTY AT DELLA'S </b> <b>--- </b> Suddenly a strange and terrifying spectacle unfolds before him. The DANCERS undergo a shocking transformation, a full three- dimensional alteration of their physical forms. Clothes fuse to their bodies like new skin. Horns and tails emerge and grow like exotic genitalia, exciting a frenzy among the DANCERS. New appendages appear unfolding from their flesh. Dorsal fins protrude from their backs. Armored scales run in scallops down their legs. Tails entwine sensuously. Long tongues lick at the undersides of reptilian bellies. The metamorphosis holds a biological fascination. Bones and flesh mold into new forms of life, creatures of another world. CUT TO JACOB's face as it registers terror and disbelief. He stares at the DANCERS. They are perverse, corrupt aspects of their normal selves. He is mesmerized by JEZZIE. Her flesh has grown hard and wrinkled and has the markings of a snake. Her tongue, long and curled, darts in and out of her mouth repeatedly. Her eyes are thin and domineering. They lock JACOB in their gaze. He wants to stop, to run, but JEZZIE won't release him. JACOB grabs his eyes as though trying to pull the vision from them but it won't go away. The music throbs. His actions become spastic, almost delirious. His hysteria attracts the attention of the other DANCERS. A circle forms around JACOB and JEZZIE as their frenzy transcends the boundaries of dance and erupts into an almost orgiastic display. JACOB is out of control. His fury becomes a kind of exorcism, a desperate attempt to free himself from his body and his mind. CUT TO JACOB as his eyes pass beyond pain. The dark walls of the APARTMENT fade away. <b>EXT. VIETNAM - NIGHT </b> Strange faces in infantry helmets appear in the darkness, outlined by a bright moon that is emerging from behind a large cloud. The faces are looking down and voices are speaking. <b> VOICE </b> He's burning up. <b> VOICE </b> Total delirium. <b> VOICE </b> He'll never make it. <b> VOICE </b> That's some gash. His guts keep spilling out. <b> VOICE </b> Push 'em back. <b> JACOB (V.O.) </b> (crying weakly) Help me! His eyes focus on the moon. Rings of light emanate from it filling the sky with their sparkling brilliance. The rings draw us forward with a quickening intensity that grows into exhilarating speed. The rush causes them to flash stroboscopically and produce a dazzling, almost sensual, surge of color. The display is spectacular and compelling. A voice can be heard in the distance. <b> VOICE </b> I think we're losing him. Suddenly the flickering rings begin to define a tangible image, a kind of CELESTIAL STAIRCASE, rising up into infinite dimensions. As we speed toward it, it grows increasingly majestic. The image is so awesome and other-worldly that it is difficult to grasp what is being seen. Music can be heard in the distance. It too is celestial in its beauty. Then, unexpectedly, it grows hard and insistent, like a heartbeat. Heavy breathing accompanies the sound. The image of the STAIRCASE shatters and disappears, replaced by intense flashes of red and blue light. The music grows louder and reaches a thundering crescendo. Then silence. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 3: JACOB'S LIVING ROOM </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> CUT TO APPLAUSE from a real television game show as JACOB switches channels on the LIVING ROOM T.V. He stops on an interview program, turns up the sound, and runs to the BATHROOM. The CAMERA stays on the television. JACOB can be heard urinating in the distance. MAC HAYES, a young, virile, and smug REPORTER is speaking. <b> HAYES </b> The Reverend Norman Murphy, leader of one of the largest groups supporting the Armageddon Committee, told our cameras that we are no longer dealing in decades but years. THE REVEREND fills the T.V. screen. <b> MURPHY </b> The battleground is being readied. Our planet is the battlefield. Our souls are the prize. All the signs point to the inevitable confrontation between the forces of good and evil. People must choose sides. There is no draft evasions in this war. All are called. All must take up weapons. Are you prepared? That's the question we ask. The toilet flushes and JACOB walks back into the LIVING ROOM and turns down the sound. <b> HAYES </b> Do you find people scoffing at you, Reverend? After all, there have been doomsayers for thousands of years and we're still here. <b> MURPHY </b> People are less apt to laugh these days. The prophecies are too close for comfort. I mean, all you have to do is watch the news. <b> HAYES </b> There are some who claim that your pessimism is defeatist and what the world needs now is hope, a positive thrust. <b> MURPHY </b> I think the time for hope has passed. The seeds have been planted. We shall reap what we've sown. (he pauses) Pessimists, no. I think we are percieved as the only realists around. <b> HAYES </b> Other movement leaders agree. In an interview ... Suddenly the telephone rings. It startles JACOB. He jumps. It rings again. He reaches down, turns off the T.V., and picks up the phone. His eyes continue to stare at the blank screen as he talks. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 4: JACOB'S BEDROOM </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> THE BEDROOM is dark. JACOB and JEZZIE are making love. A half- smoked joint is smouldering in an ashtray by the bed. JEZZIE is poised on top of JACOB and his eyes are focused on her face. A hurricane lamp casts a warm glow over their bodies. Its flickering light plays games with JACOB's eyes and for a moment JEZZIE seems to disappear. JACOB reaches out for her breasts and his hands seem to vanish into the shadows dancing across her. With sudden, hallucinogenic impact, JACOB feels himself drawn into a starry universe opening from inside her. THE CAMERA plunges through her image into a galxy of stars and rushes toward one that is twinkling brightly. Pulsations of its light whiten the screen. Out of the whiteness appears a momentary flash of the CELESTIAL STAIRCASE, accompanied by sounds of sexual climax. The STAIRCASE sparkles for an instant and then it's gone. The sparkle becomes a glimmer in JEZZIE's eye as her face fills the screen. She looks especially lovely and radiant. Her image moves with the lamplight. JACOB's face is ecstatic. He can barely talk and simply basks in JEZZIE's glow. Slowly, she leans forward and whispers in his ear. <b> JEZZIE </b> So tell me ... am I still an angel? <b> JACOB </b> (smiling broadly) With wings. (he strokes her hair) You transport me, you know that? You carry me away. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 5: DEMON IN THE WALL </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S APARTMENT - DAY </b> JACOB is sitting in a comfortable chair in his living room. He is reading. The room is dark, lit only by a reading light. The walls are mostly in shadow. The light, however, falls on one section of the wall, a portion that has been lined in fake wood paneling. JACOB's eyes suddenly lift off the page and roam over the wood grain on the wall. All of a sudden he notices something strange, an image in the grain. He stares at it. The more he stares the more precise its definition. The image of a DEMON appears in the wall. JACOB sits up quickly and stares at the walll. It is impossible to get the DEMON's image out of the grain. It seems etched, even imbedded, in the paneling. JACOB looks away and returns to his book. He is reading about archetypes and the primordial mind. But the book does not hold his attention. He is obsessed with the wall. Its molecules seem suddenly active, the wood grain suddenly animate. Layers begin to appear in the surface of the wall as the grain patterns slowly define a rocky, barren landscape. The DEMON is growing solid. Cries and screams rise up in the distance. Flames and a red glow emanate from the space extending rapidly into the wall. The image of Hell erupts before him. JACOB stands up. He can see bodies suffering beyond the wall, masses of PEOPLE wailing and enduring the torments of a fiery world. The DEMON's arm slowly extends from the plane of the wall and reaches into the room. He is huge, covered in flames and skulls, a living horror. He grabs hold of JACOB and pulls him toward the wall. JACOB tries to back away but he cannot. His face is white with fear. The DEMON draws JACOB toward the inferno. <b> JACOB </b> (yelling at the top of his lungs) <b> NO! </b> Suddenly JEZZIE appears, the light from the BEDROOM flooding the paneled wall. The DEMON vanishes instantly. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake, are you all ... ? She stops dead in her tracks. CUT TO JACOB pressed up against the wall, defying gravity and logic, as though about to merge with the solid surface. His body holds there for a moment and then collapses to the floor. JEZZIE goes to him. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake? Jake? He doesn't answer. He looks at JEZZIE with a blank stare. His body begins shaking. <b>INT. JACOB'S BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> JACOB is lying on the bed, curled up in a fetal pose. JEZZIE is stroking his hair and trying to calm him. <b> JEZZIE </b> It's going to be all right, Jake. It's going to be all right. Don't be afraid. I've got you now. <b> JACOB </b> Hold me, Jezzie. Hold me. JEZZIE wraps herself around his shivering body and warms him with her own. The image seems tender and comforting until we notice JEZZIE's tongue darting nervously in and out. It looks strangely like a snake's. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 6: THE HOSPITAL </b> <b>--- </b> The RESIDENT injects the serum into JACOB's veins while two ORDERLIES hold him still. JACOB barely struggles. His eyes fixate on the EMERGENCY ROOM WALL. It is white and sterile. Within moments it begins to emit a reddish glow. JACOB watches with astonishment as the wall's two-dimensional surface separates into three-dimensional planes. The solid surface gives way to a DARK CHAMBER that was not there before. Out of the transmuted space CREATURES begin to form. Bosch-like DEMONS with horns and tails, undeniably of another world. Slowly several of them emerge from the wall and approach JACOB. They look like parodies of doctors and nurses, wearing traditional hospital gowns. Without a word they wheel him through the space where the wall had been. JACOB tries to scream but no sound comes out. <b>INT. HELL - NIGHT </b> The DARK CHAMBER is filled with mournful CREATURES being led by DEMONS through a series of CORRIDORS. No one fights or struggles. JACOB's stretcher is moved through the darkness. He tries to sit up but is forced back down. He is obviously drugged. JACOB is wheeled into a tiny CHAMBER. A number of DEMONS are waiting for him. Chains and pulleys hang from the ceiling. They are lowered and attached with speed and efficiency to JACOB's arms and legs. The devices are manipulated smoothly and JACOB is lifted off the stretcher. The chains retract, stretching him spread-eagle in the air. He screams loudly. <b> JACOB </b> Oh God! The DEMONS laugh. There is the sound of a huge door closing. JACOB is left in darkness. The darkness is hallucinogenic. Fires appear beyond the boundaries of the wall; images of Dante's Inferno, souls of the dead in endless torment. JACOB is but one of countless beings sharing a vastness of torment. His own screams for help are lost in the magnitude of voices crying. Suddenly, out of the meancing shadows, a contingent of DEMONS emerges. They are carrying sharp surgical instruments. They surround JACOB, their eyes glistening as bright as their blades. JACOB is panting and sweating with fear. For an instant, one of the DEMONS looks like JEZZIE. JACOB calls out to her. <b> JACOB </b> Jezzie! Help me! The DEMONS laugh as she changes form. They take great pleasure in his suffering. Their voices are strange and not human. Each utterance contains a multitude of contradictory tones, sincere and compassionate, taunting and mocking at the same time. The confusion of meanings is a torment of its own. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 7: JACOB'S BEDROOM </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. JACOB'S BEDROOM </b> JACOB is lying on the floor of his BEDROOM doing exercises for his back. He has several days' growth of beard and does not look well. His mind is drifting and only the occasional pain in his back reminds him of what he is doing. JEZZIE can be heard vacuuming the carpet in the LIVING ROOM. Suddenly the door swings open. The wail of the vacuum cleaner causes JACOB to tense. His eyes drift down from the ceiling. JEZZIE vacuums around him and seems insensitive to his presence. JEZZIE shoves the vacuum cleaner under the bed and hits something. JACOB tightens. She looks and is shocked to discover a can of gasoline and boxes of kitchen matches. It takes her a second to understand the implications of what she has found. JACOB is ready when she begins yelling. <b> JEZZIE </b> You're completely off your rocker, you know that? You'd think you fell on your head instead of your back. What are you planning to do, burn down the apartment along with your demons? She begins to remove the gasoline can. <b> JACOB </b> (yelling) Don't you touch it. (he glares at her) JEZZIE lets go of the can and grabs the vacuum. She moves it furiously across the carpet. Suddenly JACOB sees her tongue darting in and out, unconsciously. She looks strange, not human. JACOB freezes. He yells out. <b> JACOB </b> Who are you? The sound of the vacuum cleaner drowns out his voice. He yells again. JEZZIE sees him and turns off the machine. His voice booms out. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) Who the hell are you? JEZZIE ignores the question and turns the vacuum cleaner back on. JACOB rolls over and pulls out the plug. <b> JACOB </b> Why won't you answer me? <b> JEZZIE </b> (angry) Cause you know goddamn well who I am. <b> JACOB </b> I don't know you. <b> JEZZIE </b> You've lived with me for two years. <b> JACOB </b> That doesn't mean shit. Where do you come from, huh? And I don't mean Indiana. <b> JEZZIE </b> What do you want me to say? My mother's tummy? <b> JACOB </b> You know goddamn well what I mean. <b> JEZZIE </b> You're out of your fucking mind. I'm not gonna stand around here gettin' interrogated by you. <b> JACOB </b> Well leave then. Go to Hell. <b> JEZZIE </b> (furious) You son-of-a-bitch. Who do you think you are? I don't deserve this. Who takes care of you day and night? Who cleans the floor and washes your goddamn underwear? Well, I've had it. You flip out on your own, you ungrateful bastard. I'm done holding your hand. I don't want anything to do with you, you hear? Nothing! She storms out of the room, kicking the vacuum cleaner as she goes. JACOB can see flashes of her through the open crack of the bedroom door. Occasional curses and epithets hurl through the opening along with a flood of tears. JACOB catches glimpses of her as she grabs her coat from the hall closet and as she pulls her money out of the desk drawer. He can see the lamp as she shoves it to the floor and hears it shatter as she stomps on it with her foot. There is a blur as she heads to the front door and a deafening bang as she leaves. JACOB's eyes drift up to the ceiling. They hardly blink. He stares at the plaster, chipped and cracked, above him. Suddenly the cracks begin to move. JACOB jumps up. A DEMON is materializing over his head. JACOB yells and grabs hold of the extension pole for the vacuum cleaner. With a furious cry he begins jamming it at the ceiling. Rather than blot out the evolving image his attack helps to define it. JACOB slams harder. Plaster and wood lath cover the floor. The DEMON is gone. Panting hard, JACOB reaches for matches and the gasoline can. He stops and stares at them with great intensity. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 8: THE ANTIDOTE SEQUENCE </b> <b>--- </b> The ceiling begins to rumble. Cracks split wide open. Huge crevasses tear through the plaster. JACOB's world is crumbling. He stares in horror as DEMONIC FORMS attempt to surge through the rupture above him. Piercing eyes and sharp teeth glimmer in the darkness. Hooved feet and pointed claws clamor to break through. <b> JACOB </b> (continuing) <b> HELP ME! </b> Instantly MICHAEL appears standing over him. He is holding the vial with the antidote. He draws an eyedropper full of the fluid and holds it over JACOB's mouth. <b> MICHAEL </b> Take it! JACOB fights him but MICHAEL forces the entire contents of the eyedropper down his throat. JACOB gags. He tries to spit it out, but can't. Suddenly the ceiling erupts in violent clashes as whole chunks break off and collide with one another like continental plates. The collisions wreak havoc on the DEMONS, chopping and dismembering them. Body parts fall from the ceiling like a Devil's rain. Horrible screams echo from the other side. Flashes of light and dark storm over JACOB's head, thundering like a war in the heavens. It is a scene of raw power and growing catastrophe. It builds in fury and rage until suddenly the ceiling explodes. Matter atomizes instantly. Trillions of particles hurl chaotically in all directions. The walls shatter into a dazzling brightness. For a moment there is a sense of intense forward movement, a rush toward oblivion. And then, suddenly, it stops. There is absolute quiet and stillness. JACOB's eyes stare into the formlessness sparkling around him. All space has become a shining void. Gradually faint pastel colors appear like colored molecules, dancing and spinning, redirecting space into new formations. They weave patterns of intricate complexity and stunning beauty. As the colors grow brighter and more vivid their abstraction gives way to solid form. A GARDEN SCENE emerges. It is a GARDEN OF LIGHT, a vast, almost mythic, Rousseau paradise. It radiates an intense shimmering light. JACOB's eyes are cpativated by the vision before him. A sudden movement catches his attention. He looks up and notices MICHAEL still standing beside him. MICHAEL, however, is rapidly changing form. It is a full, plastic, three-dimensional metamorphosis. His very flesh seems to expand and glow with its own inner light. His face shines and radiates an almost transcendental beauty. JACOB is nearly blinded by MICHAEL's presence and must shield his eyes to look at him. MICHAEL smiles an extraordinary and joyous smile that radiates such intense luminosity that JACOB has to squint to see it. Suddenly MICHAEL steps off the ground. He rises into the air and floats above JACOB. JACOB can barely breathe as he watches him. MICHAEL rises into a sky filled with orbs and blazing lights. The lights shine on JACOB's head. He effervesces and shimmers in their glow. One of the orbs sends a burst of light exploding over JACOB. So intense is the light that JACOB grabs his eyes. As he opens them again he sees that the GARDEN is fading back into pure light. MICHAEL, too, is fading. Another burst of light and the GARDEN is reabsorbed by the void. Only the brightness remains. It is many seconds before we realize that the HOTEL ROOM is coming together, reconstructed by the light. In moments it is fully formed. Sunlight is pouring through the window. MICHAEL is sleeping lightly in a chair. He hears JACOB stare and sits up. JACOB is sitting on the bed. He does not seem to know where he is. His eyes are filled with awe. They move slowly around the room, taking everything in. He doesn't speak. MICHAEL gets up and sits beside him. He respects his silence. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 9: HOTEL ROOM </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY </b> JACOB enters the HOTEL ROOM. JEZZIE is already there watching the evening news. She is still in her postal uniform, lying on the bed. She taps the mattress, inviting JACOB to lie next to her. A WOMAN is crying to a REPORTER on the T.V. <b> WOMAN </b> It's been four days. No word. It's not like him. He's never done any- thing like this before. It's like he just disappeared from the face of the earth. <b> REPORTER </b> The Bureau of Missing Persons is con- founded by the continuing surge of reports ... JACOB snaps off the T.V. <b> JEZZIE </b> What'd you do that for? It's an in- teresting story. All these people are still disappearing. Right off the street. (staring at JACOB) Hey, what's wrong? Are you all right? <b> JACOB </b> I'm okay. I just don't want to lis- ten. <b> JEZZIE </b> You look upset. <b> JACOB </b> (angry) I'm not upset. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake, what is it? <b> JACOB </b> I'm tired. <b> JEZZIE </b> You look terrible. What happened? (he turns away. She stares at him for a mo- ment, concerned) Jake ... is it the antidote? <b> JACOB </b> Goddamn it. Why do you say that? <b> JEZZIE </b> Look at yourself. You look like you've seen a ghost. <b> JACOB </b> Shit! Can't I just have a bad day? <b> JEZZIE </b> You can have anything you want. <b> JACOB </b> Then don't bug me. <b> JEZZIE </b> I'm not bugging you. Come and lie down. I'll give you a massage. (she taps the mattress again and JACOB joins her. She unbuttons his shirt) Where'd you go today? <b> JACOB </b> (evasively) Mid-town mostly. <b> JEZZIE </b> Oh yeah? What was happenin' there? <b> JACOB </b> (looking away from her) I picked up my ticket. (he pauses) I'm leaving in the morning, Jez. <b> JEZZIE </b> (tensing) Oh? (acting innocent) Where you going? <b> JACOB </b> (nervously) West. <b> JEZZIE </b> (growing angry) Where's West? New Jersey? <b> JACOB </b> Don't be funny. <b> JEZZIE </b> I always liked the West, west of Il- linois anyway. But you gotta give me time to pack. <b> JACOB </b> Stop it, Jez. Don't do that. <b> JEZZIE </b> Do what? I haven't done a thing. <b> JACOB </b> Don't play games with me. There's nothing more to say. There is a quiet rage building in JEZZIE's eyes as she continues to stroke JACOB's chest. He tries to relax and give himself over to the movement of her hand. Silently she leans over and begins licking his stomach. JACOB's eyes close. His stomach hardens. He reaches back and adjusts the pillow beneath his head. Slowly, JEZZIE works her way back up to his chest. Her tongue darts in and out suggestively. He eyes are burning with anger. Her mouth poises itself over his nipple. She toys with it for a few seconds and then chomps down hard. The bite draws blood. JACOB screams. His eyes shoot open. For the flash of an instant he sees a DEMON hovering over him, a hideous horned creature licking his blood. JACOB flies off the bed as the creature hurls to the floor. JACOB is ready to pounce on it when he sees that it is JEZZIE lying at his feet. His head begins reeling. He backs away from the bed, not taking his eyes off JEZZIE for a second. He backs to the closet and grabs his coat. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake. What are you doing? Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bite. Let me get you a towel. JACOB grabs his wallet and his glasses. He backs toward the door. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake, don't. You can't leave. You're not seeing things clearly. The drug's wearing off. She stands up and begins to approach him. JACOB lifts up a desk chair and holds it in front of him. Blood is running down his chest. <b> JEZZIE </b> Jake, don't leave me! JACOB throws the chair at the floor, opens the door, and hurries into the HALLWAY. JEZZIE scurries around the chair and runs to the door. She yells after him, but he is already gone. <b>--- </b> <b>ADDENDUM 10: THE END OF THE MOVIE </b> <b>--- </b> <b>INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> JACOB stoops in front of the APARTMENT door and reaches his hand underneath a section of the hallway carpet. It comes back with a key. He inserts it into the lock and gently opens the door. <b> JACOB </b> (calling out) Hello. It's me. <b>INT. SARAH'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> The lights are on and the APARTMENT looks comfortable and cozy. <b> JACOB </b> Hello? Is anyone home? Jed? Elie? Dad- dy's here. There is still no answer. JACOB is surprised. He walks into the LIVING ROOM and then the KITCHEN. No one is around. He walks into his old BEDROOM and then the BOYS' ROOM. He is surprised to hear footsteps coming down the hall. He turns around and calls out. <b> JACOB </b> Sarah, is that you? I hope you don't mind. I needed to come home. JACOB is startled to see JEZZIE enter the room. She does not seem to be her usual self. She seems larger, more imposing. <b> JEZZIE </b> Hello, Jake. I knew you'd come here in the end. JACOB is nervous. <b> JACOB </b> Where's Sarah? Where are the boys? <b> JEZZIE </b> Sit down, Jake. <b> JACOB </b> Where are they? <b> JEZZIE </b> Sit down! <b> JACOB </b> No! What's going on? Where's my family? <b> JEZZIE </b> It's over, Jake. It's all over. <b> JACOB </b> Where have they gone? <b> JEZZIE </b> Wake up! Stop playing with yourself. It's finished. JEZZIE stares at JACOB with a frightening, powerful glare. Her lips snarl. Her tongue begins darting in and out, only now it is not a nervous habit but a conscious act. JACOB's body feels the first waves of an inner tremor. His legs are shaking. <b> JACOB </b> What's going on? JEZZIE smiles at him. Her tongue wags and suddenly shoots from her mouth beyond human extension. JACOB recoils. <b> JACOB </b> (whispering to himself) This isn't happening. <b> JEZZIE </b> Your capacity for self-delusion is remarkable, Dr. Singer. JEZZIE's head begins to tighten and squeeze, as though she is suffering from cramps. JACOB watches in horror as her skull gives birth to pointed horns. <b> JACOB </b> Oh God! <b> JEZZIE </b> What's wrong, Jake? (she mocks him) Forget to take your antidote? <b> JACOB </b> (screaming) Goddamn you! <b> JEZZIE </b> (smiling and then laughing) I loved your chemist, Jake. The height of fantasy. And your vision of paradise. (she laughs with a hu- miliating tone) A most romantic creation. You're quite a dreamer, Jake. Only it's time to wake up. JACOB's eyes are locked on JEZZIE. His mouth is wide open. His body is shaking badly. He tries to back away from her but his legs barely move. <b> JEZZIE </b> There is nowhere to run, Jacob. You're home. Suddenly the pictures on the wall crash to the floor. Plaster from the ceiling breaks off in huge chunks and slams to the carpet. Light bulbs and lamps explode. JACOB runs to the door. He pulls it open and screams. He is on the edge of a fiery abyss. JEZZIE laughs with a new intensity of demonic force. JACOB spins around. <b> JACOB </b><b> WHO ARE YOU? </b> <b> JEZZIE </b> How many times have you asked me that? How many times? <b> JACOB </b><b> TELL ME, DAMN YOU! </b> <b> JEZZIE </b> (with consummate power) You know who I am. Suddenly JEZZIE reaches for her tongue and pulls at it with all her might. It is an act of total, unrelieved grotesqueness. With each yank the horror grows as JEZZIE literally pulls herself inside out before JACOB's eyes. The emerging creature is JEZZIE transfigured, a demonic presence beyond anything we have seen before. It is black and covered with a thick oozing slime. Its head, still recognizable as JEZZIE, is rodent-like, with piercing green eyes and terrible horns protruding from its brow. Its powerful arms have long spiked claws. Its feet are cloven hooves. Extending from its back is a long, thick, muscular tail that whips around the room with devastating force. It throws furniture crashing through the air. A sudden cracking sound emerges from the DEMON's back. Dark forms penetrate the air. JACOB is breathless as huge wings unfold and spread out to the living room walls. The sound of their flapping is deafening. The walls shatter from their blows. As they crumble darkness appears on the other side. There are no other rooms. The VOID envelops them. The INFERNO emerges in all directions. The DEMON roars. <b> DEMON </b> (with JEZZIE's voice) Still love me, Jake? (it laughs and reaches out to him) <b> COME! </b> CUT TO JACOB's face. He has gone beyond fear. An intensity of rage is building in him that we have not witnessed before. His whole image seems transformed by it. He glows like a volcano before it erupts. Suddenly he explodes. The full fury of the Ladder detonates inside him. He yells at the DEMON with all his might. <b> JACOB </b><b> NO!!!!! </b> With a power and energy of devastating force he attacks the DEMON. JACOB is battling for his very soul and tears at the DEMON with an animalistic fury that takes it by surprise. Its giant wings flap furiously, lifting them both up off the floor. JACOB keeps fighting. He claws, bites, and rips at the wings, decimating their delicate fabric. The DEMON, shocked, and trying to gain control, crashes up through the last fragments of the ceiling. JACOB does not let go. They burst into the fiery darkness. The room crumbles beneath them and disappears into the void. The abyss opens beneath them. JACOB continues his attack. His legs are locked around the DEMON's waist. His hands dig into her eyes. The DEMON shrieks and surges downward with awesome velocity. The DEMON charges into a rocky slope, smashing JACOB into its cliffs. JACOB claws at her wings, shredding as much of them as he can reach. The DEMON takes a huge chunk out of JACOB's arm. JACOB screams, grabs a rock, and shatters the DEMON's teeth. The DEMON falls to the ground. JACOB holds on. All of a sudden the DEMON begins to shrink. JACOB is shocked and struggles to contain it. As it dwindles in size it reorders its shape. Within seconds a powerful INSECT is cupped in his hands. JACOB tries to crush it but it stings with such force that JACOB's entire body recoils. The stinging persists. JACOB hurls himself to the ground on top of his arms to hold the CREATURE down. So massive is the INSECT's attack. however, that JACOB's whole body heaves off the ground with each sting. Then the attacks subside. JACOB waits for the next blow. Suddenly JACOB's body shoots straight up. His hands fly apart as a new life form erupts between them. He holds on tightly as flesh and blood mold and expand between his fingers. The new body takes rapid shape. It is a CHILD. JACOB grasps it with all his might as it completes its identity. He is horrified when he sees it. It is his son. <b> ELI </b> Daddy! <b> JACOB </b> Oh God! <b> ELI </b> You're hurting me! <b> JACOB </b> (yelling) Stop!!!! <b> ELI </b> Daddy. Let go. <b> JACOB </b> What do you want from me? <b> ELI </b><b> LET GO! </b> JACOB does not let up. In an instant his SON explodes into a gelatinous form, constantly undulating and changing shape. Within its translucent mass a new body is forming. JACOB stares at it with growing terror. It is himself. A terrible perplexity fills JACOB's eyes as he struggles to dig in and destroy his own image. He recoils as his own voice calls out to him. <b> VOICE </b> Who the Hell do you think you're fighting? The words shock him and for the first time, he lets go. Instantly the image disappears and the jelly-like mass dissolves into an oily liquid rapidly encircling his feet. JACOB looks down at the shallow pool spreading out beneath him. Its surface reflects a smoky, unearthly light. JACOB gazes into the darkness. He is all alone. The quiet overwhelms him. The only sound is his own breath. He looks around, in all directions, but can see nothing. The CAMERA holds on him as he stands waiting for the next assault, but nothing comes. He is left only with his anticipation and with hinself. He stares at the terrible darkness. A subtle phospheresence begins to glow in the liquid beneath JACOB's feet. He steps away from it, but it follows his movement. Suddenly, as if by spontaneous combustion, it bursts into flames. JACOB screams and tries to run but the flames move with him, lapping at his legs. He cannot escape them. As far and as fast as he runs the fire is with him. He yells and cries and screams as the fire eats at his lower limbs. He falls and jumps back up again, his hands charred. His eyes grow wild. <b> JACOB </b> Oh God, help me. Instantly the flames roar and engulf him. It is total conflagration. JACOB's skin blisters and turns black. His flesh crackles. Writhing in pain he runs through the flames but can find no freedom from his suffering. All at once JACOB stops running. He throws his hands up into the burning air and stands motionless, in absolute agony. It is a gesture of total submission and surrender to forces beyond himself. His flesh bubbles and chars but something is suddenly quiet inside him. Through the flames JACOB's dark form can be seen as it slowly sits down, like a Buddhist monk, in the midst of the holocaust. He appears a figure of sudden nobility as the flames annihilate him. Gradually the fire dies. JACOB's body, his flesh like a charred and brittle shell, sits motionless, beyond pain. An orange glow from the embers of his body slowly fades, leaving him in the final darkness. The SCREEN stays dark for as long as possible. Then, slowly, an eerie light appears in an unfamiliar sky. It backlights JACOB, revealing his silhouette. The CAMERA dollies slowly toward him. It approaches the burned and unrecognizable remains of JACOB's face. It is the face of death. The CAMERA holds on the image. Suddenly, with shocking impact, JACOB's eyes move. Within the crumbling shell of a body something is still alive, still conscious. The eyes survey the darkness and the first stirrings of a new light. It is dawn. JACOB's dark remains are suffused by a preternatural glow. Slowly, huge orbs begin to appear on the horizon. JACOB's eyes open to the growing light as they seek out the familiar in the still dark lansdcape. Gradually the orbs begin their ascent like a thousand suns rising at the same time. JACOB's eyes widen as his new world stands revealed. He is sitting in a GARDEN OF LIGHT, the Rousseau paradise he has visited once before. A sudden burst of light fills the sky directly overhead. The vegetation around him is instantly illuminated with its soft glow. Like a gentle breeze MICHAEL descends from the light and stands radiant before JACOB. He smiles and the air itself seems to brighten. MICHAEL quietly approaches JACOB's body. <b> MICHAEL </b> I am with you, Jacob. JACOB stares at him through dark eyes with a mixture of awe and disbelief. <b> MICHAEL </b> (speaking with a gentle compassion) It's all right now. It's over. You've won. You're here. (JACOB stares at him questioningly. MICHAEL reaches out his hands) Trust me. Softly MICHAEL places his hands on top of JACOB's head and begins to peel at the charred flesh. Layer by layer he strips it away. Then, with an unexpected gesture, he rips away a whole section with one quick pull. A BLAZE OF LIGHT bursts through the gaping hole in JACOB's head and beams into the air around them. It is an astounding sight. <b> MICHAEL </b> Come on. Don't make me do it all. (his eyes sparkle) Stand up. (JACOB's eyes are burst- ing with wonder) You can do it. Slowly JACOB begins to stir. He moves feebly at first, like an old man. His black flesh creaks and cracks and through each sudden fissure another beam of light blasts out with laserlike intensity. <b> MICHAEL </b> Stop hobbling. Your flesh can't hold you anymore. JACOB nods in response and takes a huge, gigantic breath. His lungs expand and suddenly all the old flesh bursts from his body as a radiant being of light breaks through beneath it. JACOB stands transfigured, filled with his own luminosity. His face is like a child's as he stares in amazement at his own hands, glowing with light. MICHAEL directs JACOB's vision to the sunrise. It is majestic, almost Biblical in its grandeur. Great rays of light penetrate vast cloud formations and descend into the GARDEN. Slowly the clouds, as if orchestrated by some higher power, begin to part. A massive light complex emerges from behind them. JACOB watches, awestruck, as the CELESTIAL STAIRWAY stands revealed. It reaches down from unknown heights, radiating an infinite power and grace. It touches down far in the distance, hovering over many acres of teh GARDEN. JACOB's eyes are filled with its splendor. MICHAEL looks at him and nods. <b> MICHAEL </b> Go on, Jacob. It has come for you. JACOB cannot speak. His eyes are fixed on the STAIRWAY dazzling him from afar. He can see ANGELIC FORMS moving up and down it. Suddenly, as if transported by light itself, he feels himself floating up into the air. He looks down upon EDEN sparkling below him. His mouth is wide open as he soars above it. The light pulsating from the STAIRWAY is brilliant and thrilling. JACOB's own inner light intensifies as he approaches it. The STAIRWAY grows increasingly wondrous as we draw nearer. It pulls JACOB toward it. STREAMS OF ANGELS enter the STAIRWAY like a fast flowing river. It carries them instantly within its current up beyond the visible reaches of the glittering sky. Billowing clouds glow in a parade of colors and the starry heavens seem to part as the STAIRWAY reaches beyond all known dimensions. JACOB stares at the light that is about to absorb him. It is a moment of total euphoria. He surges into the stream as the brilliant light of the STAIRWAY overwhelms the screen. Slowly the brightness of the screen condenses into a smaller light source. An overhead surgical lamp remains stubbornly in view. <b>INT. VIETNAM FIELD HOSPITAL - DAY </b> A DOCTOR leans his head in front of the lamp and removes his mask. His expression is somber. He shakes his head. His words are simple and final. <b> DOCTOR </b> He's gone. CUT TO JACOB SINGER lying on an operating table in a large ARMY FIELD TENT in VIET NAM. The DOCTOR steps away. A NURSE rudely pulls a green sheet up over his head. The DOCTOR turns to one of the aides and throws up his hands in defeat. TWO ORDERLIES wheel JACOB's body past rows of other DOCTORS and NURSES fighting to save lives. A YOUNG VIETNAMESE BOY pulls back a screen door to let them out of the tent. It is a bright, fresh morning. The sun is rising. <b>THE END </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What is Landsmann's ultimate profession?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "A lawyer" ]	8,721	narrativeqa	en	null	90cd90dd2b5ecaa57b899f172cabca1baa2db41646acedd2	Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net DOCTOR BY MURRAY LEINSTER Illustrated by FINLAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine February 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly the biggest thing in the universe was the very tiniest. There were suns, which were nearby, and there were stars which were so far away that no way of telling their distance had any meaning. The suns had planets, most of which did not matter, but the ones that did count had seas and continents, and the continents had cities and highways and spaceports. And people. The people paid no attention to their insignificance. They built ships which went through emptiness beyond imagining, and they landed upon planets and rebuilt them to their own liking. Suns flamed terribly, renting their impertinence, and storms swept across the planets they preëmpted, but the people built more strongly and were secure. Everything in the universe was bigger or stronger than the people, but they ignored the fact. They went about the businesses they had contrived for themselves. They were not afraid of anything until somewhere on a certain small planet an infinitesimal single molecule changed itself. It was one molecule among unthinkably many, upon one planet of one solar system among uncountable star clusters. It was not exactly alive, but it acted as if it were, in which it was like all the important matter of the cosmos. It was actually a combination of two complicated substances not too firmly joined together. When one of the parts changed, it became a new molecule. But, like the original one, it was still capable of a process called autocatalysis. It practiced that process and catalyzed other molecules into existence, which in each case were duplicates of itself. Then mankind had to take notice, though it ignored flaming suns and monstrous storms and emptiness past belief. Men called the new molecule a virus and gave it a name. They called it and its duplicates "chlorophage." And chlorophage was, to people, the most terrifying thing in the universe. * * * * * In a strictly temporary orbit around the planet Altaira, the _Star Queen_ floated, while lift-ships brought passengers and cargo up to it. The ship was too large to be landed economically at an unimportant spaceport like Altaira. It was a very modern ship and it made the Regulus-to-Cassim run, which is five hundred light-years, in only fifty days of Earthtime. Now the lift-ships were busy. There was an unusual number of passengers to board the _Star Queen_ at Altaira and an unusual number of them were women and children. The children tended to pudginess and the women had the dieted look of the wives of well-to-do men. Most of them looked red-eyed, as if they had been crying. One by one the lift-ships hooked onto the airlock of the _Star Queen_ and delivered passengers and cargo to the ship. Presently the last of them was hooked on, and the last batch of passengers came through to the liner, and the ship's doctor watched them stream past him. His air was negligent, but he was actually impatient. Like most doctors, Nordenfeld approved of lean children and wiry women. They had fewer things wrong with them and they responded better to treatment. Well, he was the doctor of the _Star Queen_ and he had much authority. He'd exerted it back on Regulus to insist that a shipment of botanical specimens for Cassim travel in quarantine--to be exact, in the ship's practically unused hospital compartment--and he was prepared to exercise authority over the passengers. He had a sheaf of health slips from the examiners on the ground below. There was one slip for each passenger. It certified that so-and-so had been examined and could safely be admitted to the _Star Queen's_ air, her four restaurants, her two swimming pools, her recreation areas and the six levels of passenger cabins the ship contained. He impatiently watched the people go by. Health slips or no health slips, he looked them over. A characteristic gait or a typical complexion tint, or even a certain lack of hair luster, could tell him things that ground physicians might miss. In such a case the passenger would go back down again. It was not desirable to have deaths on a liner in space. Of course nobody was ever refused passage because of chlorophage. If it were ever discovered, the discovery would already be too late. But the health regulations for space travel were very, very strict. He looked twice at a young woman as she passed. Despite applied complexion, there was a trace of waxiness in her skin. Nordenfeld had never actually seen a case of chlorophage. No doctor alive ever had. The best authorities were those who'd been in Patrol ships during the quarantine of Kamerun when chlorophage was loose on that planet. They'd seen beamed-up pictures of patients, but not patients themselves. The Patrol ships stayed in orbit while the planet died. Most doctors, and Nordenfeld was among them, had only seen pictures of the screens which showed the patients. * * * * * He looked sharply at the young woman. Then he glanced at her hands. They were normal. The young woman went on, unaware that for the fraction of an instant there had been the possibility of the landing of the _Star Queen_ on Altaira, and the destruction of her space drive, and the establishment of a quarantine which, if justified, would mean that nobody could ever leave Altaira again, but must wait there to die. Which would not be a long wait. A fat man puffed past. The gravity on Altaira was some five per cent under ship-normal and he felt the difference at once. But the veins at his temples were ungorged. Nordenfeld let him go by. There appeared a white-haired, space-tanned man with a briefcase under his arm. He saw Nordenfeld and lifted a hand in greeting. The doctor knew him. He stepped aside from the passengers and stood there. His name was Jensen, and he represented a fund which invested the surplus money of insurance companies. He traveled a great deal to check on the business interests of that organization. The doctor grunted, "What're you doing here? I thought you'd be on the far side of the cluster." "Oh, I get about," said Jensen. His manner was not quite normal. He was tense. "I got here two weeks ago on a Q-and-C tramp from Regulus. We were a ship load of salt meat. There's romance for you! Salt meat by the spaceship load!" The doctor grunted again. All sorts of things moved through space, naturally. The _Star Queen_ carried a botanical collection for a museum and pig-beryllium and furs and enzymes and a list of items no man could remember. He watched the passengers go by, automatically counting them against the number of health slips in his hand. "Lots of passengers this trip," said Jensen. "Yes," said the doctor, watching a man with a limp. "Why?" Jensen shrugged and did not answer. He was uneasy, the doctor noted. He and Jensen were as much unlike as two men could very well be, but Jensen was good company. A ship's doctor does not have much congenial society. The file of passengers ended abruptly. There was no one in the _Star Queen's_ airlock, but the "Connected" lights still burned and the doctor could look through into the small lift-ship from the planet down below. He frowned. He fingered the sheaf of papers. "Unless I missed count," he said annoyedly, "there's supposed to be one more passenger. I don't see--" A door opened far back in the lift-ship. A small figure appeared. It was a little girl perhaps ten years old. She was very neatly dressed, though not quite the way a mother would have done it. She wore the carefully composed expression of a child with no adult in charge of her. She walked precisely from the lift-ship into the _Star Queen's_ lock. The opening closed briskly behind her. There was the rumbling of seals making themselves tight. The lights flickered for "Disconnect" and then "All Clear." They went out, and the lift-ship had pulled away from the _Star Queen_. "There's my missing passenger," said the doctor. * * * * * The child looked soberly about. She saw him. "Excuse me," she said very politely. "Is this the way I'm supposed to go?" "Through that door," said the doctor gruffly. "Thank you," said the little girl. She followed his direction. She vanished through the door. It closed. There came a deep, droning sound, which was the interplanetary drive of the _Star Queen_, building up that directional stress in space which had seemed such a triumph when it was first contrived. The ship swung gently. It would be turning out from orbit around Altaira. It swung again. The doctor knew that its astrogators were feeling for the incredibly exact pointing of its nose toward the next port which modern commercial ship operation required. An error of fractional seconds of arc would mean valuable time lost in making port some ten light-years of distance away. The drive droned and droned, building up velocity while the ship's aiming was refined and re-refined. The drive cut off abruptly. Jensen turned white. The doctor said impatiently, "There's nothing wrong. Probably a message or a report should have been beamed down to the planet and somebody forgot. We'll go on in a minute." But Jensen stood frozen. He was very pale. The interplanetary drive stayed off. Thirty seconds. A minute. Jensen swallowed audibly. Two minutes. Three. The steady, monotonous drone began again. It continued interminably, as if while it was off the ship's head had swung wide of its destination and the whole business of lining up for a jump in overdrive had to be done all over again. Then there came that "Ping-g-g-g!" and the sensation of spiral fall which meant overdrive. The droning ceased. Jensen breathed again. The ship's doctor looked at him sharply. Jensen had been taut. Now the tensions had left his body, but he looked as if he were going to shiver. Instead, he mopped a suddenly streaming forehead. "I think," said Jensen in a strange voice, "that I'll have a drink. Or several. Will you join me?" Nordenfeld searched his face. A ship's doctor has many duties in space. Passengers can have many things wrong with them, and in the absolute isolation of overdrive they can be remarkably affected by each other. "I'll be at the fourth-level bar in twenty minutes," said Nordenfeld. "Can you wait that long?" "I probably won't wait to have a drink," said Jensen. "But I'll be there." The doctor nodded curtly. He went away. He made no guesses, though he'd just observed the new passengers carefully and was fully aware of the strict health regulations that affect space travel. As a physician he knew that the most deadly thing in the universe was chlorophage and that the planet Kamerun was only one solar system away. It had been a stop for the _Star Queen_ until four years ago. He puzzled over Jensen's tenseness and the relief he'd displayed when the overdrive field came on. But he didn't guess. Chlorophage didn't enter his mind. Not until later. * * * * * He saw the little girl who'd come out of the airlock last of all the passengers. She sat on a sofa as if someone had told her to wait there until something or other was arranged. Doctor Nordenfeld barely glanced at her. He'd known Jensen for a considerable time. Jensen had been a passenger on the _Star Queen_ half a dozen times, and he shouldn't have been upset by the temporary stoppage of an interplanetary drive. Nordenfeld divided people into two classes, those who were not and those who were worth talking to. There weren't many of the latter. Jensen was. He filed away the health slips. Then, thinking of Jensen's pallor, he asked what had happened to make the _Star Queen_ interrupt her slow-speed drive away from orbit around Altaira. The purser told him. But the purser was fussily concerned because there were so many extra passengers from Altaira. He might not be able to take on the expected number of passengers at the next stop-over point. It would be bad business to have to refuse passengers! It would give the space line a bad name. Then the air officer stopped Nordenfeld as he was about to join Jensen in the fourth-level bar. It was time for a medical inspection of the quarter-acre of Banthyan jungle which purified and renewed the air of the ship. Nordenfeld was expected to check the complex ecological system of the air room. Specifically, he was expected to look for and identify any patches of colorlessness appearing on the foliage of the jungle plants the _Star Queen_ carried through space. The air officer was discreet and Nordenfeld was silent about the ultimate reason for the inspection. Nobody liked to think about it. But if a particular kind of bleaching appeared, as if the chlorophyll of the leaves were being devoured by something too small to be seen by an optical microscope--why, that would be chlorophage. It would also be a death sentence for the _Star Queen_ and everybody in her. But the jungle passed medical inspection. The plants grew lushly in soil which periodically was flushed with hydroponic solution and then drained away again. The UV lamps were properly distributed and the different quarters of the air room were alternately lighted and darkened. And there were no colorless patches. A steady wind blew through the air room and had its excess moisture and unpleasing smells wrung out before it recirculated through the ship. Doctor Nordenfeld authorized the trimming of some liana-like growths which were developing woody tissue at the expense of leaves. The air officer also told him about the reason for the turning off of the interplanetary drive. He considered it a very curious happening. The doctor left the air room and passed the place where the little girl--the last passenger to board the _Star Queen_--waited patiently for somebody to arrange something. Doctor Nordenfeld took a lift to the fourth level and went into the bar where Jensen should be waiting. He was. He had an empty glass before him. Nordenfeld sat down and dialed for a drink. He had an indefinite feeling that something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. There are always things going wrong for a ship's doctor, though. There are so many demands on his patience that he is usually short of it. Jensen watched him sip at his drink. "A bad day?" he asked. He'd gotten over his own tension. * * * * * Nordenfeld shrugged, but his scowl deepened. "There are a lot of new passengers." He realized that he was trying to explain his feelings to himself. "They'll come to me feeling miserable. I have to tell each one that if they feel heavy and depressed, it may be the gravity-constant of the ship, which is greater than their home planet. If they feel light-headed and giddy, it may be because the gravity-constant of the ship is less than they're used to. But it doesn't make them feel better, so they come back for a second assurance. I'll be overwhelmed with such complaints within two hours." Jensen waited. Then he said casually--too casually, "Does anybody ever suspect chlorophage?" "No," said Nordenfeld shortly. Jensen fidgeted. He sipped. Then he said, "What's the news from Kamerun, anyhow?" "There isn't any," said Nordenfeld. "Naturally! Why ask?" "I just wondered," said Jensen. After a moment: "What was the last news?" "There hasn't been a message from Kamerun in two years," said Nordenfeld curtly. "There's no sign of anything green anywhere on the planet. It's considered to be--uninhabited." Jensen licked his lips. "That's what I understood. Yes." Nordenfeld drank half his drink and said unpleasantly, "There were thirty million people on Kamerun when the chlorophage appeared. At first it was apparently a virus which fed on the chlorophyll of plants. They died. Then it was discovered that it could also feed on hemoglobin, which is chemically close to chlorophyll. Hemoglobin is the red coloring matter of the blood. When the virus consumed it, people began to die. Kamerun doctors found that the chlorophage virus was transmitted by contact, by inhalation, by ingestion. It traveled as dust particles and on the feet of insects, and it was in drinking water and the air one breathed. The doctors on Kamerun warned spaceships off and the Patrol put a quarantine fleet in orbit around it to keep anybody from leaving. And nobody left. And everybody died. _And_ so did every living thing that had chlorophyll in its leaves or hemoglobin in its blood, or that needed plant or animal tissues to feed on. There's not a person left alive on Kamerun, nor an animal or bird or insect, nor a fish nor a tree, or plant or weed or blade of grass. There's no longer a quarantine fleet there. Nobody'll go there and there's nobody left to leave. But there are beacon satellites to record any calls and to warn any fool against landing. If the chlorophage got loose and was carried about by spaceships, it could kill the other forty billion humans in the galaxy, together with every green plant or animal with hemoglobin in its blood." "That," said Jensen, and tried to smile, "sounds final." "It isn't," Nordenfeld told him. "If there's something in the universe which can kill every living thing except its maker, that something should be killed. There should be research going on about the chlorophage. It would be deadly dangerous work, but it should be done. A quarantine won't stop contagion. It can only hinder it. That's useful, but not enough." Jensen moistened his lips. Nordenfeld said abruptly, "I've answered your questions. Now what's on your mind and what has it to do with chlorophage?" Jensen started. He went very pale. "It's too late to do anything about it," said Nordenfeld. "It's probably nonsense anyhow. But what is it?" Jensen stammered out his story. It explained why there were so many passengers for the _Star Queen_. It even explained his departure from Altaira. But it was only a rumor--the kind of rumor that starts up untraceably and can never be verified. This one was officially denied by the Altairan planetary government. But it was widely believed by the sort of people who usually were well-informed. Those who could sent their families up to the _Star Queen_. And that was why Jensen had been tense and worried until the liner had actually left Altaira behind. Then he felt safe. Nordenfeld's jaw set as Jensen told his tale. He made no comment, but when Jensen was through he nodded and went away, leaving his drink unfinished. Jensen couldn't see his face; it was hard as granite. And Nordenfeld, the ship's doctor of the _Star Queen_, went into the nearest bathroom and was violently sick. It was a reaction to what he'd just learned. * * * * * There were stars which were so far away that their distance didn't mean anything. There were planets beyond counting in a single star cluster, let alone the galaxy. There were comets and gas clouds in space, and worlds where there was life, and other worlds where life was impossible. The quantity of matter which was associated with life was infinitesimal, and the quantity associated with consciousness--animal life--was so much less that the difference couldn't be expressed. But the amount of animal life which could reason was so minute by comparison that the nearest ratio would be that of a single atom to a sun. Mankind, in fact, was the least impressive fraction of the smallest category of substance in the galaxy. But men did curious things. There was the cutting off of the _Star Queen's_ short-distance drive before she'd gotten well away from Altaira. There had been a lift-ship locked to the liner's passenger airlock. When the last passenger entered the big ship--a little girl--the airlocks disconnected and the lift-ship pulled swiftly away. It was not quite two miles from the _Star Queen_ when its emergency airlocks opened and spacesuited figures plunged out of it to emptiness. Simultaneously, the ports of the lift-ship glowed and almost immediately the whole plating turned cherry-red, crimson, and then orange, from unlimited heat developed within it. The lift-ship went incandescent and ruptured and there was a spout of white-hot air, and then it turned blue-white and puffed itself to nothing in metallic steam. Where it had been there was only shining gas, which cooled. Beyond it there were figures in spacesuits which tried to swim away from it. The _Star Queen's_ control room, obviously, saw the happening. The lift-ship's atomic pile had flared out of control and melted down the ship. It had developed something like sixty thousand degrees Fahrenheit when it ceased to flare. It did not blow up; it only vaporized. But the process must have begun within seconds after the lift-ship broke contact with the _Star Queen_. In automatic reaction, the man in control of the liner cut her drive and offered to turn back and pick up the spacesuited figures in emptiness. The offer was declined with almost hysterical haste. In fact, it was barely made before the other lift-ships moved in on rescue missions. They had waited. And they were picking up castaways before the _Star Queen_ resumed its merely interplanetary drive and the process of aiming for a solar system some thirty light-years away. When the liner flicked into overdrive, more than half the floating figures had been recovered, which was remarkable. It was almost as remarkable as the flare-up of the lift-ship's atomic pile. One has to know exactly what to do to make a properly designed atomic pile vaporize metal. Somebody had known. Somebody had done it. And the other lift-ships were waiting to pick up the destroyed lift-ship's crew when it happened. The matter of the lift-ship's destruction was fresh in Nordenfeld's mind when Jensen had told his story. The two items fitted together with an appalling completeness. They left little doubt or hope. * * * * * Nordenfeld consulted the passenger records and presently was engaged in conversation with the sober-faced, composed little girl on a sofa in one of the cabin levels of the _Star Queen_. "You're Kathy Brand, I believe," he said matter-of-factly. "I understand you've been having a rather bad time of it." She seemed to consider. "It hasn't been too bad," she assured him. "At least I've been seeing new things. I got dreadfully tired of seeing the same things all the time." "What things?" asked Nordenfeld. His expression was not stern now, though his inner sensations were not pleasant. He needed to talk to this child, and he had learned how to talk to children. The secret is to talk exactly as to an adult, with respect and interest. "There weren't any windows," she explained, "and my father couldn't play with me, and all the toys and books were ruined by the water. It was dreadfully tedious. There weren't any other children, you see. And presently there weren't any grownups but my father." Nordenfeld only looked more interested. He'd been almost sure ever since knowing of the lift-ship's destruction and listening to Jensen's account of the rumor the government of Altaira denied. He was horribly sure now. "How long were you in the place that hadn't any windows?" "Oh, dreadfully long!" she said. "Since I was only six years old! Almost half my life!" She smiled brightly at him. "I remember looking out of windows and even playing out-of-doors, but my father and mother said I had to live in this place. My father talked to me often and often. He was very nice. But he had to wear that funny suit and keep the glass over his face because he didn't live in the room. The glass was because he went under the water, you know." Nordenfeld asked carefully conversational-sounding questions. Kathy Brand, now aged ten, had been taken by her father to live in a big room without any windows. It hadn't any doors, either. There were plants in it, and there were bluish lights to shine on the plants, and there was a place in one corner where there was water. When her father came in to talk to her, he came up out of the water wearing the funny suit with glass over his face. He went out the same way. There was a place in the wall where she could look out into another room, and at first her mother used to come and smile at her through the glass, and she talked into something she held in her hand, and her voice came inside. But later she stopped coming. * * * * * There was only one possible kind of place which would answer Kathy's description. When she was six years old she had been put into some university's aseptic-environment room. And she had stayed there. Such rooms were designed for biological research. They were built and then made sterile of all bacterial life and afterward entered through a tank of antiseptic. Anyone who entered wore a suit which was made germ-free by its passage through the antiseptic, and he did not breathe the air of the aseptic room, but air which was supplied him through a hose, the exhaled-air hose also passing under the antiseptic outside. No germ or microbe or virus could possibly get into such a room without being bathed in corrosive fluid which would kill it. So long as there was someone alive outside to take care of her, a little girl could live there and defy even chlorophage. And Kathy Brand had done it. But, on the other hand, Kamerun was the only planet where it would be necessary, and it was the only world from which a father would land his small daughter on another planet's spaceport. There was no doubt. Nordenfeld grimly imagined someone--he would have had to be a microbiologist even to attempt it--fighting to survive and defeat the chlorophage while he kept his little girl in an aseptic-environment room. She explained quite pleasantly as Nordenfeld asked more questions. There had been other people besides her father, but for a long time there had been only him. And Nordenfeld computed that somehow she'd been kept alive on the dead planet Kamerun for four long years. Recently, though--very recently--her father told her that they were leaving. Wearing his funny, antiseptic-wetted suit, he'd enclosed her in a plastic bag with a tank attached to it. Air flowed from the tank into the bag and out through a hose that was all wetted inside. She breathed quite comfortably. It made sense. An air tank could be heated and its contents sterilized to supply germ-free--or virus-free--air. And Kathy's father took an axe and chopped away a wall of the room. He picked her up, still inside the plastic bag, and carried her out. There was nobody about. There was no grass. There were no trees. Nothing moved. Here Kathy's account was vague, but Nordenfeld could guess at the strangeness of a dead planet, to the child who barely remembered anything but the walls of an aseptic-environment room. Her father carried her to a little ship, said Kathy, and they talked a lot after the ship took off. He told her that he was taking her to a place where she could run about outdoors and play, but he had to go somewhere else. He did mysterious things which to Nordenfeld meant a most scrupulous decontamination of a small spaceship's interior and its airlock. Its outer surface would reach a temperature at which no organic material could remain uncooked. And finally, said Kathy, her father had opened a door and told her to step out and good-by, and she did, and the ship went away--her father still wearing his funny suit--and people came and asked her questions she did not understand. * * * * * Kathy's narrative fitted perfectly into the rumor Jensen said circulated among usually well-informed people on Altaira. They believed, said Jensen, that a small spaceship had appeared in the sky above Altaira's spaceport. It ignored all calls, landed swiftly, opened an airlock and let someone out, and plunged for the sky again. And the story said that radar telescopes immediately searched for and found the ship in space. They trailed it, calling vainly for it to identify itself, while it drove at top speed for Altaira's sun. It reached the sun and dived in. Nordenfeld reached the skipper on intercom vision-phone. Jensen had been called there to repeat his tale to the skipper. "I've talked to the child," said Nordenfeld grimly, "and I'm putting her into isolation quarters in the hospital compartment. She's from Kamerun. She was kept in an aseptic-environment room at some university or other. She says her father looked after her. I get an impression of a last-ditch fight by microbiologists against the chlorophage. They lost it. Apparently her father landed her on Altaira and dived into the sun. From her story, he took every possible precaution to keep her from contagion or carrying contagion with her to Altaira. Maybe he succeeded. There's no way to tell--yet." The skipper listened in silence. Jensen said thinly, "Then the story about the landing was true." "Yes. The authorities isolated her, and then shipped her off on the _Star Queen_. Your well-informed friends, Jensen, didn't know what their government was going to do!" Nordenfeld paused, and said more coldly still, "They didn't handle it right. They should have killed her, painlessly but at once. Her body should have been immersed, with everything that had touched it, in full-strength nitric acid. The same acid should have saturated the place where the ship landed and every place she walked. Every room she entered, and every hall she passed through, should have been doused with nitric and then burned. It would still not have been all one could wish. The air she breathed couldn't be recaptured and heated white-hot. But the chances for Altaira's population to go on living would be improved. Instead, they isolated her and they shipped her off with us--and thought they were accomplishing something by destroying the lift-ship that had her in an airtight compartment until she walked into the _Star Queen's_ lock!" The skipper said heavily, "Do you think she's brought chlorophage on board?" "I've no idea," said Nordenfeld. "If she did, it's too late to do anything but drive the _Star Queen_ into the nearest sun.... No. Before that, one should give warning that she was aground on Altaira. No ship should land there. No ship should take off. Altaira should be blocked off from the rest of the galaxy like Kamerun was. And to the same end result." Jensen said unsteadily; "There'll be trouble if this is known on the ship. There'll be some unwilling to sacrifice themselves." "Sacrifice?" said Nordenfeld. "They're dead! But before they lie down, they can keep everybody they care about from dying too! Would you want to land and have your wife and family die of it?" The skipper said in the same heavy voice, "What are the probabilities? You say there was an effort to keep her from contagion. What are the odds?" "Bad," said Nordenfeld. "The man tried, for the child's sake. But I doubt he managed to make a completely aseptic transfer from the room she lived in to the spaceport on Altaira. The authorities on Altaira should have known it. They should have killed her and destroyed everything she'd touched. And _still_ the odds would have been bad!" Jensen said, "But you can't do that, Nordenfeld! Not now!" "I shall take every measure that seems likely to be useful." Then Nordenfeld snapped, "Damnation, man! Do you realize that this chlorophage can wipe out the human race if it really gets loose? Do you think I'll let sentiment keep me from doing what has to be done?" He flicked off the vision-phone. * * * * * The _Star Queen_ came out of overdrive. Her skipper arranged it to be done at the time when the largest possible number of her passengers and crew would be asleep. Those who were awake, of course, felt the peculiar inaudible sensation which one subjectively translated into sound. They felt the momentary giddiness which--having no natural parallel--feels like the sensation of treading on a stair-step that isn't there, combined with a twisting sensation so it is like a spiral fall. The passengers who were awake were mostly in the bars, and the bartenders explained that the ship had shifted overdrive generators and there was nothing to it. Those who were asleep started awake, but there was nothing in their surroundings to cause alarm. Some blinked in the darkness of their cabins and perhaps turned on the cabin lights, but everything seemed normal. They turned off the lights again. Some babies cried and had to be soothed. But there was nothing except wakening to alarm anybody. Babies went back to sleep and mothers returned to their beds and--such awakenings being customary--went back to sleep also. It was natural enough. There were vague and commonplace noises, together making an indefinite hum. Fans circulated the ship's purified and reinvigorated air. Service motors turned in remote parts of the hull. Cooks and bakers moved about in the kitchens. Nobody could tell by any physical sensation that the _Star Queen_ was not in overdrive, except in the control room. There the stars could be seen. They were unthinkably remote. The ship was light-years from any place where humans lived. She did not drive. Her skipper had a family on Cassim. He would not land a plague ship which might destroy them. The executive officer had a small son. If his return meant that small son's death as well as his own, he would not return. All through the ship, the officers who had to know the situation recognized that if chlorophage had gotten into the _Star Queen_, the ship must not land anywhere. Nobody could survive. Nobody must attempt it. So the huge liner hung in the emptiness between the stars, waiting until it could be known definitely that chlorophage was aboard or that with absolute certainty it was absent. The question was up to Doctor Nordenfeld. He had isolated himself with Kathy in the ship's hospital compartment. Since the ship was built it had been used once by a grown man who developed mumps, and once by an adolescent boy who developed a raging fever which antibiotics stopped. Health measures for space travel were strict. The hospital compartment had only been used those two times. * * * * * On this voyage it had been used to contain an assortment of botanical specimens from a planet seventy light-years beyond Regulus. They were on their way to the botanical research laboratory on Cassim. As a routine precaution they'd been placed in the hospital, which could be fumigated when they were taken out. Now the doctor had piled them in one side of the compartment, which he had divided in half with a transparent plastic sheet. He stayed in that side. Kathy occupied the other. She had some flowering plants to look at and admire. They'd come from the air room and she was delighted with their coloring and beauty. But Doctor Nordenfeld had put them there as a continuing test for chlorophage. If Kathy carried that murderous virus on her person, the flowering plants would die of it--probably even before she did. It was a scrupulously scientific test for the deadly stuff. Completely sealed off except for a circulator to freshen the air she breathed, Kathy was settled with toys and picture books. It was an improvised but well-designed germproof room. The air for Kathy to breathe was sterilized before it reached her. The air she had breathed was sterilized as it left her plastic-sided residence. It should be the perfection of protection for the ship--if it was not already too late. The vision-phone buzzed. Doctor Nordenfeld stirred in his chair and flipped the switch. The _Star Queen's_ skipper looked at him out of the screen. "I've cut the overdrive," said the skipper. "The passengers haven't been told." "Very sensible," said the doctor. "When will we know?" "That we can go on living? When the other possibility is exhausted." "Then, how will we know?" asked skipper stonily. Doctor Nordenfeld ticked off the possibilities. He bent down a finger. "One, her father took great pains. Maybe he did manage an aseptic transfer from a germ-free room to Altaira. Kathy may not have been exposed to the chlorophage. If she hasn't, no bleached spots will show up on the air-room foliage or among the flowering plants in the room with her. Nobody in the crew or among the passengers will die." He bent down a second finger. "It is probably more likely that white spots will appear on the plants in the air room _and_ here, and people will start to die. That will mean Kathy brought contagion here the instant she arrived, and almost certainly that Altaira will become like Kamerun--uninhabited. In such a case we are finished." * * * * * He bent down a third finger. "Not so likely, but preferable, white spots may appear on the foliage inside the plastic with Kathy, but not in the ship's air room. In that case she was exposed, but the virus was incubating when she came on board, and only developed and spread after she was isolated. Possibly, in such a case, we can save the passengers and crew, but the ship will probably have to be melted down in space. It would be tricky, but it might be done." The skipper hesitated. "If that last happened, she--" "I will take whatever measures are necessary," said Doctor Nordenfeld. "To save your conscience, we won't discuss them. They should have been taken on Altaira." He reached over and flipped off the phone. Then he looked up and into the other part of the ship's hospital space. Kathy came out from behind a screen, where she'd made ready for bed. She was beaming. She had a large picture book under one arm and a doll under the other. "It's all right for me to have these with me, isn't it, Doctor Nordenfeld?" she asked hopefully. "I didn't have any picture books but one, and it got worn out. And my doll--it was dreadful how shabby she was!" The doctor frowned. She smiled at him. He said, "After all, picture books are made to be looked at and dolls to be played with." She skipped to the tiny hospital bed on the far side of the presumably virusproof partition. She climbed into it and zestfully arranged the doll to share it. She placed the book within easy reach. She said, "I think my father would say you were very nice, Doctor Nordenfeld, to look after me so well." "No-o-o-o," said the doctor in a detached voice. "I'm just doing what anybody ought to do." She snuggled down under the covers. He looked at his watch and shrugged. It was very easy to confuse official night with official day, in space. Everybody else was asleep. He'd been putting Kathy through tests which began with measurements of pulse and respiration and temperature and went on from there. Kathy managed them herself, under his direction. He settled down with one of the medical books he'd brought into the isolation section with him. Its title was _Decontamination of Infectious Material from Different Planets_. He read it grimly. * * * * * The time came when the _Star Queen_ should have come out of overdrive with the sun Circe blazing fiercely nearby, and a green planet with ice caps to be approached on interplanetary drive. There should have been droning, comforting drive noises to assure the passengers--who naturally could not see beyond the ship's steel walls--that they were within a mere few million miles of a world where sunshine was normal, and skies were higher than ship's ceilings, and there were fascinating things to see and do. Some of the passengers packed their luggage and put it outside their cabins to be picked up for landing. But no stewards came for it. Presently there was an explanation. The ship had run under maximum speed and the planetfall would be delayed. The passengers were disappointed but not concerned. The luggage vanished into cabins again. The _Star Queen_ floated in space among a thousand thousand million stars. Her astrogators had computed a course to the nearest star into which to drive the _Star Queen_, but it would not be used unless there was mutiny among the crew. It would be better to go in remote orbit around Circe III and give the news of chlorophage on Altaira, if Doctor Nordenfeld reported it on the ship. Time passed. One day. Two. Three. Then Jensen called the hospital compartment on vision-phone. His expression was dazed. Nordenfeld saw the interior of the control room behind Jensen. He said, "You're a passenger, Jensen. How is it you're in the control room?" Jensen moistened his lips. "The skipper thought I'd better not associate with the other passengers. I've stayed with the officers the past few days. We--the ones who know what's in prospect--we're keeping separate from the others so--nobody will let anything out by accident." "Very wise. When the skipper comes back on duty, ask him to call me. I've something interesting to tell him." "He's--checking something now," said Jensen. His voice was thin and reedy. "The--air officer reports there are white patches on the plants in the air room. They're growing. Fast. He told me to tell you. He's--gone to make sure." "No need," said Nordenfeld bitterly. He swung the vision-screen. It faced that part of the hospital space beyond the plastic sheeting. There were potted flowering plants there. They had pleased Kathy. They shared her air. And there were white patches on their leaves. "I thought," said Nordenfeld with an odd mirthless levity, "that the skipper'd be interested. It is of no importance whatever now, but I accomplished something remarkable. Kathy's father didn't manage an aseptic transfer. She brought the chlorophage with her. But I confined it. The plants on the far side of that plastic sheet show the chlorophage patches plainly. I expect Kathy to show signs of anemia shortly. I'd decided that drastic measures would have to be taken, and it looked like they might work, because I've confined the virus. It's there where Kathy is, but it isn't where I am. All the botanical specimens on my side of the sheet are untouched. The phage hasn't hit them. It is remarkable. But it doesn't matter a damn if the air room's infected. And I was so proud!" Jensen did not respond. * * * * * Nordenfeld said ironically, "Look what I accomplished! I protected the air plants on my side See? They're beautifully green! No sign of infection! It means that a man can work with chlorophage! A laboratory ship could land on Kamerun and keep itself the equivalent of an aseptic-environment room while the damned chlorophage was investigated and ultimately whipped! And it doesn't matter!" Jensen said numbly, "We can't ever make port. We ought--we ought to--" "We'll take the necessary measures," Nordenfeld told him. "Very quietly and very efficiently, with neither the crew nor the passengers knowing that Altaira sent the chlorophage on board the _Star Queen_ in the hope of banishing it from there. The passengers won't know that their own officials shipped it off with them as they tried to run away.... And I was so proud that I'd improvised an aseptic room to keep Kathy in! I sterilized the air that went in to her, and I sterilized--" Then he stopped. He stopped quite short. He stared at the air unit, set up and with two pipes passing through the plastic partition which cut the hospital space in two. He turned utterly white. He went roughly to the air machine. He jerked back its cover. He put his hand inside. Minutes later he faced back to the vision-screen from which Jensen looked apathetically at him. "Tell the skipper to call me," he said in a savage tone. "Tell him to call me instantly he comes back! Before he issues any orders at all!" He bent over the sterilizing equipment and very carefully began to disassemble it. He had it completely apart when Kathy waked. She peered at him through the plastic separation sheet. "Good morning, Doctor Nordenfeld," she said cheerfully. The doctor grunted. Kathy smiled at him. She had gotten on very good terms with the doctor, since she'd been kept in the ship's hospital. She did not feel that she was isolated. In having the doctor where she could talk to him at any time, she had much more company than ever before. She had read her entire picture book to him and discussed her doll at length. She took it for granted that when he did not answer or frowned that he was simply busy. But he was company because she could see him. Doctor Nordenfeld put the air apparatus together with an extremely peculiar expression on his face. It had been built for Kathy's special isolation by a ship's mechanic. It should sterilize the used air going into Kathy's part of the compartment, and it should sterilize the used air pushed out by the supplied fresh air. The hospital itself was an independent sealed unit, with its own chemical air freshener, and it had been divided into two. The air freshener was where Doctor Nordenfeld could attend to it, and the sterilizer pump simply shared the freshening with Kathy. But-- But the pipe that pumped air to Kathy was brown and discolored from having been used for sterilizing, and the pipe that brought air back was not. It was cold. It had never been heated. So Doctor Nordenfeld had been exposed to any contagion Kathy could spread. He hadn't been protected at all. Yet the potted plants on Kathy's side of the barrier were marked with great white splotches which grew almost as one looked, while the botanical specimens in the doctor's part of the hospital--as much infected as Kathy's could have been, by failure of the ship's mechanic to build the sterilizer to work two ways: the stacked plants, the alien plants, the strange plants from seventy light-years beyond Regulus--they were vividly green. There was no trace of chlorophage on them. Yet they had been as thoroughly exposed as Doctor Nordenfeld himself! The doctor's hands shook. His eyes burned. He took out a surgeon's scalpel and ripped the plastic partition from floor to ceiling. Kathy watched interestedly. "Why did you do that, Doctor Nordenfeld?" she asked. He said in an emotionless, unnatural voice, "I'm going to do something that it was very stupid of me not to do before. It should have been done when you were six years old, Kathy. It should have been done on Kamerun, and after that on Altaira. Now we're going to do it here. You can help me." * * * * * The _Star Queen_ had floated out of overdrive long enough to throw all distance computations off. But she swung about, and swam back, and presently she was not too far from the world where she was now many days overdue. Lift-ships started up from the planet's surface. But the _Star Queen_ ordered them back. "Get your spaceport health officer on the vision-phone," ordered the _Star Queen's_ skipper. "We've had chlorophage on board." There was panic. Even at a distance of a hundred thousand miles, chlorophage could strike stark terror into anybody. But presently the image of the spaceport health officer appeared on the _Star Queen's_ screen. "We're not landing," said Doctor Nordenfeld. "There's almost certainly an outbreak of chlorophage on Altaira, and we're going back to do something about it. It got on our ship with passengers from there. We've whipped it, but we may need some help." The image of the health officer aground was a mask of horror for seconds after Nordenfeld's last statement. Then his expression became incredulous, though still horrified. "We came on to here," said Doctor Nordenfeld, "to get you to send word by the first other ship to the Patrol that a quarantine has to be set up on Altaira, and we need to be inspected for recovery from chlorophage infection. And we need to pass on, officially, the discovery that whipped the contagion on this ship. We were carrying botanical specimens to Cassim and we discovered that they were immune to chlorophage. That's absurd, of course. Their green coloring is the same substance as in plants under Sol-type suns anywhere. They couldn't be immune to chlorophage. So there had to be something else." "Was--was there?" asked the health officer. "There was. Those specimens came from somewhere beyond Regulus. They carried, as normal symbiotes on their foliage, microörganisms unknown both on Kamerun and Altaira. The alien bugs are almost the size of virus particles, feed on virus particles, and are carried by contact, air, and so on, as readily as virus particles themselves. We discovered that those microörganisms devoured chlorophage. We washed them off the leaves of the plants, sprayed them in our air-room jungle, and they multiplied faster than the chlorophage. Our whole air supply is now loaded with an airborne antichlorophage organism which has made our crew and passengers immune. We're heading back to Altaira to turn loose our merry little bugs on that planet. It appears that they grow on certain vegetation, but they'll live anywhere there's phage to eat. We're keeping some chlorophage cultures alive so our microörganisms don't die out for lack of food!" The medical officer on the ground gasped. "Keeping phage _alive_?" * * * * * "I hope you've recorded this," said Nordenfeld. "It's rather important. This trick should have been tried on Kamerun and Altaira and everywhere else new diseases have turned up. When there's a bug on one planet that's deadly to us, there's bound to be a bug on some other planet that's deadly to it! The same goes for any pests or vermin--the principle of natural enemies. All we have to do is find the enemies!" There was more communication between the _Star Queen_ and the spaceport on Circe III, which the _Star Queen_ would not make other contact with on this trip, and presently the big liner headed back to Altaira. It was necessary for official as well as humanitarian reasons. There would need to be a health examination of the _Star Queen_ to certify that it was safe for passengers to breathe her air and eat in her restaurants and swim in her swimming pools and occupy the six levels of passenger cabins she contained. This would have to be done by a Patrol ship, which would turn up at Altaira. The _Star Queen's_ skipper would be praised by his owners for not having driven the liner into a star, and the purser would be forgiven for the confusion in his records due to off-schedule operations of the big ship, and Jensen would find in the ending of all terror of chlorophage an excellent reason to look for appreciation in the value of the investments he was checking up. And Doctor Nordenfeld.... He talked very gravely to Kathy. "I'm afraid," he told her, "that your father isn't coming back. What would you like to do?" She smiled at him hopefully. "Could I be your little girl?" she asked. Doctor Nordenfeld grunted. "Hm ... I'll think about it." But he smiled at her. She grinned at him. And it was settled. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Doctor, by Murray Leinster Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What does Gravener want Ruth to do with the money?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Keep it to buy a house " ]	22,697	narrativeqa	en	null	8ac0d86e207a81bc5c11e419220042c59535dc8f50204439	Transcribed from the 1915 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org [Picture: Book cover] THE COXON FUND BY HENRY JAMES [Picture: Decorative graphic] * * * * * LONDON: MARTIN SECKER NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI * * * * * This edition first published 1915 The text follows that of the Definitive Edition * * * * * I “THEY’VE got him for life!” I said to myself that evening on my way back to the station; but later on, alone in the compartment (from Wimbledon to Waterloo, before the glory of the District Railway) I amended this declaration in the light of the sense that my friends would probably after all not enjoy a monopoly of Mr. Saltram. I won’t pretend to have taken his vast measure on that first occasion, but I think I had achieved a glimpse of what the privilege of his acquaintance might mean for many persons in the way of charges accepted. He had been a great experience, and it was this perhaps that had put me into the frame of foreseeing how we should all, sooner or later, have the honour of dealing with him as a whole. Whatever impression I then received of the amount of this total, I had a full enough vision of the patience of the Mulvilles. He was to stay all the winter: Adelaide dropped it in a tone that drew the sting from the inevitable emphasis. These excellent people might indeed have been content to give the circle of hospitality a diameter of six months; but if they didn’t say he was to stay all summer as well it was only because this was more than they ventured to hope. I remember that at dinner that evening he wore slippers, new and predominantly purple, of some queer carpet-stuff; but the Mulvilles were still in the stage of supposing that he might be snatched from them by higher bidders. At a later time they grew, poor dears, to fear no snatching; but theirs was a fidelity which needed no help from competition to make them proud. Wonderful indeed as, when all was said, you inevitably pronounced Frank Saltram, it was not to be overlooked that the Kent Mulvilles were in their way still more extraordinary: as striking an instance as could easily be encountered of the familiar truth that remarkable men find remarkable conveniences. They had sent for me from Wimbledon to come out and dine, and there had been an implication in Adelaide’s note—judged by her notes alone she might have been thought silly—that it was a case in which something momentous was to be determined or done. I had never known them not be in a “state” about somebody, and I dare say I tried to be droll on this point in accepting their invitation. On finding myself in the presence of their latest discovery I had not at first felt irreverence droop—and, thank heaven, I have never been absolutely deprived of that alternative in Mr. Saltram’s company. I saw, however—I hasten to declare it—that compared to this specimen their other phoenixes had been birds of inconsiderable feather, and I afterwards took credit to myself for not having even in primal bewilderments made a mistake about the essence of the man. He had an incomparable gift; I never was blind to it—it dazzles me still. It dazzles me perhaps even more in remembrance than in fact, for I’m not unaware that for so rare a subject the imagination goes to some expense, inserting a jewel here and there or giving a twist to a plume. How the art of portraiture would rejoice in this figure if the art of portraiture had only the canvas! Nature, in truth, had largely rounded it, and if memory, hovering about it, sometimes holds her breath, this is because the voice that comes back was really golden. Though the great man was an inmate and didn’t dress, he kept dinner on this occasion waiting, and the first words he uttered on coming into the room were an elated announcement to Mulville that he had found out something. Not catching the allusion and gaping doubtless a little at his face, I privately asked Adelaide what he had found out. I shall never forget the look she gave me as she replied: “Everything!” She really believed it. At that moment, at any rate, he had found out that the mercy of the Mulvilles was infinite. He had previously of course discovered, as I had myself for that matter, that their dinners were soignés. Let me not indeed, in saying this, neglect to declare that I shall falsify my counterfeit if I seem to hint that there was in his nature any ounce of calculation. He took whatever came, but he never plotted for it, and no man who was so much of an absorbent can ever have been so little of a parasite. He had a system of the universe, but he had no system of sponging—that was quite hand-to-mouth. He had fine gross easy senses, but it was not his good-natured appetite that wrought confusion. If he had loved us for our dinners we could have paid with our dinners, and it would have been a great economy of finer matter. I make free in these connexions with the plural possessive because if I was never able to do what the Mulvilles did, and people with still bigger houses and simpler charities, I met, first and last, every demand of reflexion, of emotion—particularly perhaps those of gratitude and of resentment. No one, I think, paid the tribute of giving him up so often, and if it’s rendering honour to borrow wisdom I’ve a right to talk of my sacrifices. He yielded lessons as the sea yields fish—I lived for a while on this diet. Sometimes it almost appeared to me that his massive monstrous failure—if failure after all it was—had been designed for my private recreation. He fairly pampered my curiosity; but the history of that experience would take me too far. This is not the large canvas I just now spoke of, and I wouldn’t have approached him with my present hand had it been a question of all the features. Frank Saltram’s features, for artistic purposes, are verily the anecdotes that are to be gathered. Their name is legion, and this is only one, of which the interest is that it concerns even more closely several other persons. Such episodes, as one looks back, are the little dramas that made up the innumerable facets of the big drama—which is yet to be reported. II IT is furthermore remarkable that though the two stories are distinct—my own, as it were, and this other—they equally began, in a manner, the first night of my acquaintance with Frank Saltram, the night I came back from Wimbledon so agitated with a new sense of life that, in London, for the very thrill of it, I could only walk home. Walking and swinging my stick, I overtook, at Buckingham Gate, George Gravener, and George Gravener’s story may be said to have begun with my making him, as our paths lay together, come home with me for a talk. I duly remember, let me parenthesise, that it was still more that of another person, and also that several years were to elapse before it was to extend to a second chapter. I had much to say to him, none the less, about my visit to the Mulvilles, whom he more indifferently knew, and I was at any rate so amusing that for long afterwards he never encountered me without asking for news of the old man of the sea. I hadn’t said Mr. Saltram was old, and it was to be seen that he was of an age to outweather George Gravener. I had at that time a lodging in Ebury Street, and Gravener was staying at his brother’s empty house in Eaton Square. At Cambridge, five years before, even in our devastating set, his intellectual power had seemed to me almost awful. Some one had once asked me privately, with blanched cheeks, what it was then that after all such a mind as that left standing. “It leaves itself!” I could recollect devoutly replying. I could smile at present for this remembrance, since before we got to Ebury Street I was struck with the fact that, save in the sense of being well set up on his legs, George Gravener had actually ceased to tower. The universe he laid low had somehow bloomed again—the usual eminences were visible. I wondered whether he had lost his humour, or only, dreadful thought, had never had any—not even when I had fancied him most Aristophanesque. What was the need of appealing to laughter, however, I could enviously enquire, where you might appeal so confidently to measurement? Mr. Saltram’s queer figure, his thick nose and hanging lip, were fresh to me: in the light of my old friend’s fine cold symmetry they presented mere success in amusing as the refuge of conscious ugliness. Already, at hungry twenty-six, Gravener looked as blank and parliamentary as if he were fifty and popular. In my scrap of a residence—he had a worldling’s eye for its futile conveniences, but never a comrade’s joke—I sounded Frank Saltram in his ears; a circumstance I mention in order to note that even then I was surprised at his impatience of my enlivenment. As he had never before heard of the personage it took indeed the form of impatience of the preposterous Mulvilles, his relation to whom, like mine, had had its origin in an early, a childish intimacy with the young Adelaide, the fruit of multiplied ties in the previous generation. When she married Kent Mulville, who was older than Gravener and I and much more amiable, I gained a friend, but Gravener practically lost one. We reacted in different ways from the form taken by what he called their deplorable social action—the form (the term was also his) of nasty second-rate gush. I may have held in my ‘for intérieur’ that the good people at Wimbledon were beautiful fools, but when he sniffed at them I couldn’t help taking the opposite line, for I already felt that even should we happen to agree it would always be for reasons that differed. It came home to me that he was admirably British as, without so much as a sociable sneer at my bookbinder, he turned away from the serried rows of my little French library. “Of course I’ve never seen the fellow, but it’s clear enough he’s a humbug.” “Clear ‘enough’ is just what it isn’t,” I replied; “if it only were!” That ejaculation on my part must have been the beginning of what was to be later a long ache for final frivolous rest. Gravener was profound enough to remark after a moment that in the first place he couldn’t be anything but a Dissenter, and when I answered that the very note of his fascination was his extraordinary speculative breadth my friend retorted that there was no cad like your cultivated cad, and that I might depend upon discovering—since I had had the levity not already to have enquired—that my shining light proceeded, a generation back, from a Methodist cheesemonger. I confess I was struck with his insistence, and I said, after reflexion: “It may be—I admit it may be; but why on earth are you so sure?”—asking the question mainly to lay him the trap of saying that it was because the poor man didn’t dress for dinner. He took an instant to circumvent my trap and come blandly out the other side. “Because the Kent Mulvilles have invented him. They’ve an infallible hand for frauds. All their geese are swans. They were born to be duped, they like it, they cry for it, they don’t know anything from anything, and they disgust one—luckily perhaps!—with Christian charity.” His vehemence was doubtless an accident, but it might have been a strange foreknowledge. I forget what protest I dropped; it was at any rate something that led him to go on after a moment: “I only ask one thing—it’s perfectly simple. Is a man, in a given case, a real gentleman?” “A real gentleman, my dear fellow—that’s so soon said!” “Not so soon when he isn’t! If they’ve got hold of one this time he must be a great rascal!” “I might feel injured,” I answered, “if I didn’t reflect that they don’t rave about me.” “Don’t be too sure! I’ll grant that he’s a gentleman,” Gravener presently added, “if you’ll admit that he’s a scamp.” “I don’t know which to admire most, your logic or your benevolence.” My friend coloured at this, but he didn’t change the subject. “Where did they pick him up?” “I think they were struck with something he had published.” “I can fancy the dreary thing!” “I believe they found out he had all sorts of worries and difficulties.” “That of course wasn’t to be endured, so they jumped at the privilege of paying his debts!” I professed that I knew nothing about his debts, and I reminded my visitor that though the dear Mulvilles were angels they were neither idiots nor millionaires. What they mainly aimed at was reuniting Mr. Saltram to his wife. “I was expecting to hear he has basely abandoned her,” Gravener went on, at this, “and I’m too glad you don’t disappoint me.” I tried to recall exactly what Mrs. Mulville had told me. “He didn’t leave her—no. It’s she who has left him.” “Left him to us?” Gravener asked. “The monster—many thanks! I decline to take him.” “You’ll hear more about him in spite of yourself. I can’t, no, I really can’t resist the impression that he’s a big man.” I was already mastering—to my shame perhaps be it said—just the tone my old friend least liked. “It’s doubtless only a trifle,” he returned, “but you haven’t happened to mention what his reputation’s to rest on.” “Why on what I began by boring you with—his extraordinary mind.” “As exhibited in his writings?” “Possibly in his writings, but certainly in his talk, which is far and away the richest I ever listened to.” “And what’s it all about?” “My dear fellow, don’t ask me! About everything!” I pursued, reminding myself of poor Adelaide. “About his ideas of things,” I then more charitably added. “You must have heard him to know what I mean—it’s unlike anything that ever was heard.” I coloured, I admit, I overcharged a little, for such a picture was an anticipation of Saltram’s later development and still more of my fuller acquaintance with him. However, I really expressed, a little lyrically perhaps, my actual imagination of him when I proceeded to declare that, in a cloud of tradition, of legend, he might very well go down to posterity as the greatest of all great talkers. Before we parted George Gravener had wondered why such a row should be made about a chatterbox the more and why he should be pampered and pensioned. The greater the wind-bag the greater the calamity. Out of proportion to everything else on earth had come to be this wagging of the tongue. We were drenched with talk—our wretched age was dying of it. I differed from him here sincerely, only going so far as to concede, and gladly, that we were drenched with sound. It was not however the mere speakers who were killing us—it was the mere stammerers. Fine talk was as rare as it was refreshing—the gift of the gods themselves, the one starry spangle on the ragged cloak of humanity. How many men were there who rose to this privilege, of how many masters of conversation could he boast the acquaintance? Dying of talk?—why we were dying of the lack of it! Bad writing wasn’t talk, as many people seemed to think, and even good wasn’t always to be compared to it. From the best talk indeed the best writing had something to learn. I fancifully added that we too should peradventure be gilded by the legend, should be pointed at for having listened, for having actually heard. Gravener, who had glanced at his watch and discovered it was midnight, found to all this a retort beautifully characteristic of him. “There’s one little fact to be borne in mind in the presence equally of the best talk and of the worst.” He looked, in saying this, as if he meant great things, and I was sure he could only mean once more that neither of them mattered if a man wasn’t a real gentleman. Perhaps it was what he did mean; he deprived me however of the exultation of being right by putting the truth in a slightly different way. “The only thing that really counts for one’s estimate of a person is his conduct.” He had his watch still in his palm, and I reproached him with unfair play in having ascertained beforehand that it was now the hour at which I always gave in. My pleasantry so far failed to mollify him that he promptly added that to the rule he had just enunciated there was absolutely no exception. “None whatever?” “None whatever.” “Trust me then to try to be good at any price!” I laughed as I went with him to the door. “I declare I will be, if I have to be horrible!” III IF that first night was one of the liveliest, or at any rate was the freshest, of my exaltations, there was another, four years later, that was one of my great discomposures. Repetition, I well knew by this time, was the secret of Saltram’s power to alienate, and of course one would never have seen him at his finest if one hadn’t seen him in his remorses. They set in mainly at this season and were magnificent, elemental, orchestral. I was quite aware that one of these atmospheric disturbances was now due; but none the less, in our arduous attempt to set him on his feet as a lecturer, it was impossible not to feel that two failures were a large order, as we said, for a short course of five. This was the second time, and it was past nine o’clock; the audience, a muster unprecedented and really encouraging, had fortunately the attitude of blandness that might have been looked for in persons whom the promise of (if I’m not mistaken) An Analysis of Primary Ideas had drawn to the neighbourhood of Upper Baker Street. There was in those days in that region a petty lecture-hall to be secured on terms as moderate as the funds left at our disposal by the irrepressible question of the maintenance of five small Saltrams—I include the mother—and one large one. By the time the Saltrams, of different sizes, were all maintained we had pretty well poured out the oil that might have lubricated the machinery for enabling the most original of men to appear to maintain them. It was I, the other time, who had been forced into the breach, standing up there for an odious lamplit moment to explain to half a dozen thin benches, where earnest brows were virtuously void of anything so cynical as a suspicion, that we couldn’t so much as put a finger on Mr. Saltram. There was nothing to plead but that our scouts had been out from the early hours and that we were afraid that on one of his walks abroad—he took one, for meditation, whenever he was to address such a company—some accident had disabled or delayed him. The meditative walks were a fiction, for he never, that any one could discover, prepared anything but a magnificent prospectus; hence his circulars and programmes, of which I possess an almost complete collection, are the solemn ghosts of generations never born. I put the case, as it seemed to me, at the best; but I admit I had been angry, and Kent Mulville was shocked at my want of public optimism. This time therefore I left the excuses to his more practised patience, only relieving myself in response to a direct appeal from a young lady next whom, in the hall, I found myself sitting. My position was an accident, but if it had been calculated the reason would scarce have eluded an observer of the fact that no one else in the room had an approach to an appearance. Our philosopher’s “tail” was deplorably limp. This visitor was the only person who looked at her ease, who had come a little in the spirit of adventure. She seemed to carry amusement in her handsome young head, and her presence spoke, a little mystifyingly, of a sudden extension of Saltram’s sphere of influence. He was doing better than we hoped, and he had chosen such an occasion, of all occasions, to succumb to heaven knew which of his fond infirmities. The young lady produced an impression of auburn hair and black velvet, and had on her other hand a companion of obscurer type, presumably a waiting-maid. She herself might perhaps have been a foreign countess, and before she addressed me I had beguiled our sorry interval by finding in her a vague recall of the opening of some novel of Madame Sand. It didn’t make her more fathomable to pass in a few minutes from this to the certitude that she was American; it simply engendered depressing reflexions as to the possible check to contributions from Boston. She asked me if, as a person apparently more initiated, I would recommend further waiting, and I answered that if she considered I was on my honour I would privately deprecate it. Perhaps she didn’t; at any rate our talk took a turn that prolonged it till she became aware we were left almost alone. I presently ascertained she knew Mrs. Saltram, and this explained in a manner the miracle. The brotherhood of the friends of the husband was as nothing to the brotherhood, or perhaps I should say the sisterhood, of the friends of the wife. Like the Kent Mulvilles I belonged to both fraternities, and even better than they I think I had sounded the abyss of Mrs. Saltram’s wrongs. She bored me to extinction, and I knew but too well how she had bored her husband; but there were those who stood by her, the most efficient of whom were indeed the handful of poor Saltram’s backers. They did her liberal justice, whereas her mere patrons and partisans had nothing but hatred for our philosopher. I’m bound to say it was we, however—we of both camps, as it were—who had always done most for her. I thought my young lady looked rich—I scarcely knew why; and I hoped she had put her hand in her pocket. I soon made her out, however, not at all a fine fanatic—she was but a generous, irresponsible enquirer. She had come to England to see her aunt, and it was at her aunt’s she had met the dreary lady we had all so much on our mind. I saw she’d help to pass the time when she observed that it was a pity this lady wasn’t intrinsically more interesting. That was refreshing, for it was an article of faith in Mrs. Saltram’s circle—at least among those who scorned to know her horrid husband—that she was attractive on her merits. She was in truth a most ordinary person, as Saltram himself would have been if he hadn’t been a prodigy. The question of vulgarity had no application to him, but it was a measure his wife kept challenging you to apply. I hasten to add that the consequences of your doing so were no sufficient reason for his having left her to starve. “He doesn’t seem to have much force of character,” said my young lady; at which I laughed out so loud that my departing friends looked back at me over their shoulders as if I were making a joke of their discomfiture. My joke probably cost Saltram a subscription or two, but it helped me on with my interlocutress. “She says he drinks like a fish,” she sociably continued, “and yet she allows that his mind’s wonderfully clear.” It was amusing to converse with a pretty girl who could talk of the clearness of Saltram’s mind. I expected next to hear she had been assured he was awfully clever. I tried to tell her—I had it almost on my conscience—what was the proper way to regard him; an effort attended perhaps more than ever on this occasion with the usual effect of my feeling that I wasn’t after all very sure of it. She had come to-night out of high curiosity—she had wanted to learn this proper way for herself. She had read some of his papers and hadn’t understood them; but it was at home, at her aunt’s, that her curiosity had been kindled—kindled mainly by his wife’s remarkable stories of his want of virtue. “I suppose they ought to have kept me away,” my companion dropped, “and I suppose they’d have done so if I hadn’t somehow got an idea that he’s fascinating. In fact Mrs. Saltram herself says he is.” “So you came to see where the fascination resides? Well, you’ve seen!” My young lady raised fine eyebrows. “Do you mean in his bad faith?” “In the extraordinary effects of it; his possession, that is, of some quality or other that condemns us in advance to forgive him the humiliation, as I may call it, to which he has subjected us.” “The humiliation?” “Why mine, for instance, as one of his guarantors, before you as the purchaser of a ticket.” She let her charming gay eyes rest on me. “You don’t look humiliated a bit, and if you did I should let you off, disappointed as I am; for the mysterious quality you speak of is just the quality I came to see.” “Oh, you can’t ‘see’ it!” I cried. “How then do you get at it?” “You don’t! You mustn’t suppose he’s good-looking,” I added. “Why his wife says he’s lovely!” My hilarity may have struck her as excessive, but I confess it broke out afresh. Had she acted only in obedience to this singular plea, so characteristic, on Mrs. Saltram’s part, of what was irritating in the narrowness of that lady’s point of view? “Mrs. Saltram,” I explained, “undervalues him where he’s strongest, so that, to make up for it perhaps, she overpraises him where he’s weak. He’s not, assuredly, superficially attractive; he’s middle-aged, fat, featureless save for his great eyes.” “Yes, his great eyes,” said my young lady attentively. She had evidently heard all about his great eyes—the beaux yeux for which alone we had really done it all. “They’re tragic and splendid—lights on a dangerous coast. But he moves badly and dresses worse, and altogether he’s anything but smart.” My companion, who appeared to reflect on this, after a moment appealed. “Do you call him a real gentleman?” I started slightly at the question, for I had a sense of recognising it: George Gravener, years before, that first flushed night, had put me face to face with it. It had embarrassed me then, but it didn’t embarrass me now, for I had lived with it and overcome it and disposed of it. “A real gentleman? Emphatically not!” My promptitude surprised her a little, but I quickly felt how little it was to Gravener I was now talking. “Do you say that because he’s—what do you call it in England?—of humble extraction?” “Not a bit. His father was a country school-master and his mother the widow of a sexton, but that has nothing to do with it. I say it simply because I know him well.” “But isn’t it an awful drawback?” “Awful—quite awful.” “I mean isn’t it positively fatal?” “Fatal to what? Not to his magnificent vitality.” Again she had a meditative moment. “And is his magnificent vitality the cause of his vices?” “Your questions are formidable, but I’m glad you put them. I was thinking of his noble intellect. His vices, as you say, have been much exaggerated: they consist mainly after all in one comprehensive defect.” “A want of will?” “A want of dignity.” “He doesn’t recognise his obligations?” “On the contrary, he recognises them with effusion, especially in public: he smiles and bows and beckons across the street to them. But when they pass over he turns away, and he speedily loses them in the crowd. The recognition’s purely spiritual—it isn’t in the least social. So he leaves all his belongings to other people to take care of. He accepts favours, loans, sacrifices—all with nothing more deterrent than an agony of shame. Fortunately we’re a little faithful band, and we do what we can.” I held my tongue about the natural children, engendered, to the number of three, in the wantonness of his youth. I only remarked that he did make efforts—often tremendous ones. “But the efforts,” I said, “never come to much: the only things that come to much are the abandonments, the surrenders.” “And how much do they come to?” “You’re right to put it as if we had a big bill to pay, but, as I’ve told you before, your questions are rather terrible. They come, these mere exercises of genius, to a great sum total of poetry, of philosophy, a mighty mass of speculation, notation, quotation. The genius is there, you see, to meet the surrender; but there’s no genius to support the defence.” “But what is there, after all, at his age, to show?” “In the way of achievement recognised and reputation established?” I asked. “To ‘show’ if you will, there isn’t much, since his writing, mostly, isn’t as fine, isn’t certainly as showy, as his talk. Moreover two-thirds of his work are merely colossal projects and announcements. ‘Showing’ Frank Saltram is often a poor business,” I went on: “we endeavoured, you’ll have observed, to show him to-night! However, if he had lectured he’d have lectured divinely. It would just have been his talk.” “And what would his talk just have been?” I was conscious of some ineffectiveness, as well perhaps as of a little impatience, as I replied: “The exhibition of a splendid intellect.” My young lady looked not quite satisfied at this, but as I wasn’t prepared for another question I hastily pursued: “The sight of a great suspended swinging crystal—huge lucid lustrous, a block of light—flashing back every impression of life and every possibility of thought!” This gave her something to turn over till we had passed out to the dusky porch of the hall, in front of which the lamps of a quiet brougham were almost the only thing Saltram’s treachery hadn’t extinguished. I went with her to the door of her carriage, out of which she leaned a moment after she had thanked me and taken her seat. Her smile even in the darkness was pretty. “I do want to see that crystal!” “You’ve only to come to the next lecture.” “I go abroad in a day or two with my aunt.” “Wait over till next week,” I suggested. “It’s quite worth it.” She became grave. “Not unless he really comes!” At which the brougham started off, carrying her away too fast, fortunately for my manners, to allow me to exclaim “Ingratitude!” IV MRS. SALTRAM made a great affair of her right to be informed where her husband had been the second evening he failed to meet his audience. She came to me to ascertain, but I couldn’t satisfy her, for in spite of my ingenuity I remained in ignorance. It wasn’t till much later that I found this had not been the case with Kent Mulville, whose hope for the best never twirled the thumbs of him more placidly than when he happened to know the worst. He had known it on the occasion I speak of—that is immediately after. He was impenetrable then, but ultimately confessed. What he confessed was more than I shall now venture to make public. It was of course familiar to me that Saltram was incapable of keeping the engagements which, after their separation, he had entered into with regard to his wife, a deeply wronged, justly resentful, quite irreproachable and insufferable person. She often appeared at my chambers to talk over his lapses; for if, as she declared, she had washed her hands of him, she had carefully preserved the water of this ablution, which she handed about for analysis. She had arts of her own of exciting one’s impatience, the most infallible of which was perhaps her assumption that we were kind to her because we liked her. In reality her personal fall had been a sort of social rise—since I had seen the moment when, in our little conscientious circle, her desolation almost made her the fashion. Her voice was grating and her children ugly; moreover she hated the good Mulvilles, whom I more and more loved. They were the people who by doing most for her husband had in the long run done most for herself; and the warm confidence with which he had laid his length upon them was a pressure gentle compared with her stiffer persuadability. I’m bound to say he didn’t criticise his benefactors, though practically he got tired of them; she, however, had the highest standards about eleemosynary forms. She offered the odd spectacle of a spirit puffed up by dependence, and indeed it had introduced her to some excellent society. She pitied me for not knowing certain people who aided her and whom she doubtless patronised in turn for their luck in not knowing me. I dare say I should have got on with her better if she had had a ray of imagination—if it had occasionally seemed to occur to her to regard Saltram’s expressions of his nature in any other manner than as separate subjects of woe. They were all flowers of his character, pearls strung on an endless thread; but she had a stubborn little way of challenging them one after the other, as if she never suspected that he had a character, such as it was, or that deficiencies might be organic; the irritating effect of a mind incapable of a generalisation. One might doubtless have overdone the idea that there was a general licence for such a man; but if this had happened it would have been through one’s feeling that there could be none for such a woman. I recognised her superiority when I asked her about the aunt of the disappointed young lady: it sounded like a sentence from an English-French or other phrase-book. She triumphed in what she told me and she may have triumphed still more in what she withheld. My friend of the other evening, Miss Anvoy, had but lately come to England; Lady Coxon, the aunt, had been established here for years in consequence of her marriage with the late Sir Gregory of that name. She had a house in the Regent’s Park, a Bath-chair and a fernery; and above all she had sympathy. Mrs. Saltram had made her acquaintance through mutual friends. This vagueness caused me to feel how much I was out of it and how large an independent circle Mrs. Saltram had at her command. I should have been glad to know more about the disappointed young lady, but I felt I should know most by not depriving her of her advantage, as she might have mysterious means of depriving me of my knowledge. For the present, moreover, this experience was stayed, Lady Coxon having in fact gone abroad accompanied by her niece. The niece, besides being immensely clever, was an heiress, Mrs. Saltram said; the only daughter and the light of the eyes of some great American merchant, a man, over there, of endless indulgences and dollars. She had pretty clothes and pretty manners, and she had, what was prettier still, the great thing of all. The great thing of all for Mrs. Saltram was always sympathy, and she spoke as if during the absence of these ladies she mightn’t know where to turn for it. A few months later indeed, when they had come back, her tone perceptibly changed: she alluded to them, on my leading her up to it, rather as to persons in her debt for favours received. What had happened I didn’t know, but I saw it would take only a little more or a little less to make her speak of them as thankless subjects of social countenance—people for whom she had vainly tried to do something. I confess I saw how it wouldn’t be in a mere week or two that I should rid myself of the image of Ruth Anvoy, in whose very name, when I learnt it, I found something secretly to like. I should probably neither see her nor hear of her again: the knight’s widow (he had been mayor of Clockborough) would pass away and the heiress would return to her inheritance. I gathered with surprise that she had not communicated to his wife the story of her attempt to hear Mr..Saltram, and I founded this reticence on the easy supposition that Mrs. Saltram had fatigued by overpressure the spring of the sympathy of which she boasted. The girl at any rate would forget the small adventure, be distracted, take a husband; besides which she would lack occasion to repeat her experiment. We clung to the idea of the brilliant course, delivered without an accident, that, as a lecturer, would still make the paying public aware of our great man, but the fact remained that in the case of an inspiration so unequal there was treachery, there was fallacy at least, in the very conception of a series. In our scrutiny of ways and means we were inevitably subject to the old convention of the synopsis, the syllabus, partly of course not to lose the advantage of his grand free hand in drawing up such things; but for myself I laughed at our playbills even while I stickled for them. It was indeed amusing work to be scrupulous for Frank Saltram, who also at moments laughed about it, so far as the comfort of a sigh so unstudied as to be cheerful might pass for such a sound. He admitted with a candour all his own that he was in truth only to be depended on in the Mulvilles’ drawing-room. “Yes,” he suggestively allowed, “it’s there, I think, that I’m at my best; quite late, when it gets toward eleven—and if I’ve not been too much worried.” We all knew what too much worry meant; it meant too enslaved for the hour to the superstition of sobriety. On the Saturdays I used to bring my portmanteau, so as not to have to think of eleven o’clock trains. I had a bold theory that as regards this temple of talk and its altars of cushioned chintz, its pictures and its flowers, its large fireside and clear lamplight, we might really arrive at something if the Mulvilles would but charge for admission. Here it was, however, that they shamelessly broke down; as there’s a flaw in every perfection this was the inexpugnable refuge of their egotism. They declined to make their saloon a market, so that Saltram’s golden words continued the sole coin that rang there. It can have happened to no man, however, to be paid a greater price than such an enchanted hush as surrounded him on his greatest nights. The most profane, on these occasions, felt a presence; all minor eloquence grew dumb. Adelaide Mulville, for the pride of her hospitality, anxiously watched the door or stealthily poked the fire. I used to call it the music-room, for we had anticipated Bayreuth. The very gates of the kingdom of light seemed to open and the horizon of thought to flash with the beauty of a sunrise at sea. In the consideration of ways and means, the sittings of our little board, we were always conscious of the creak of Mrs. Saltram’s shoes. She hovered, she interrupted, she almost presided, the state of affairs being mostly such as to supply her with every incentive for enquiring what was to be done next. It was the pressing pursuit of this knowledge that, in concatenations of omnibuses and usually in very wet weather, led her so often to my door. She thought us spiritless creatures with editors and publishers; but she carried matters to no great effect when she personally pushed into back-shops. She wanted all moneys to be paid to herself: they were otherwise liable to such strange adventures. They trickled away into the desert—they were mainly at best, alas, a slender stream. The editors and the publishers were the last people to take this remarkable thinker at the valuation that has now pretty well come to be established. The former were half-distraught between the desire to “cut” him and the difficulty of finding a crevice for their shears; and when a volume on this or that portentous subject was proposed to the latter they suggested alternative titles which, as reported to our friend, brought into his face the noble blank melancholy that sometimes made it handsome. The title of an unwritten book didn’t after all much matter, but some masterpiece of Saltram’s may have died in his bosom of the shudder with which it was then convulsed. The ideal solution, failing the fee at Kent Mulville’s door, would have been some system of subscription to projected treatises with their non-appearance provided for—provided for, I mean, by the indulgence of subscribers. The author’s real misfortune was that subscribers were so wretchedly literal. When they tastelessly enquired why publication hadn’t ensued I was tempted to ask who in the world had ever been so published. Nature herself had brought him out in voluminous form, and the money was simply a deposit on borrowing the work. V I WAS doubtless often a nuisance to my friends in those years; but there were sacrifices I declined to make, and I never passed the hat to George Gravener. I never forgot our little discussion in Ebury Street, and I think it stuck in my throat to have to treat him to the avowal I had found so easy to Mss Anvoy. It had cost me nothing to confide to this charming girl, but it would have cost me much to confide to the friend of my youth, that the character of the “real gentleman” wasn’t an attribute of the man I took such pains for. Was this because I had already generalised to the point of perceiving that women are really the unfastidious sex? I knew at any rate that Gravener, already quite in view but still hungry and frugal, had naturally enough more ambition than charity. He had sharp aims for stray sovereigns, being in view most from the tall steeple of Clockborough. His immediate ambition was to occupy à lui seul the field of vision of that smokily-seeing city, and all his movements and postures were calculated for the favouring angle. The movement of the hand as to the pocket had thus to alternate gracefully with the posture of the hand on the heart. He talked to Clockborough in short only less beguilingly than Frank Saltram talked to his electors; with the difference to our credit, however, that we had already voted and that our candidate had no antagonist but himself. He had more than once been at Wimbledon—it was Mrs. Mulville’s work not mine—and by the time the claret was served had seen the god descend. He took more pains to swing his censer than I had expected, but on our way back to town he forestalled any little triumph I might have been so artless as to express by the observation that such a man was—a hundred times!—a man to use and never a man to be used by. I remember that this neat remark humiliated me almost as much as if virtually, in the fever of broken slumbers, I hadn’t often made it myself. The difference was that on Gravener’s part a force attached to it that could never attach to it on mine. He was able to use people—he had the machinery; and the irony of Saltram’s being made showy at Clockborough came out to me when he said, as if he had no memory of our original talk and the idea were quite fresh to him: “I hate his type, you know, but I’ll be hanged if I don’t put some of those things in. I can find a place for them: we might even find a place for the fellow himself.” I myself should have had some fear—not, I need scarcely say, for the “things” themselves, but for some other things very near them; in fine for the rest of my eloquence. Later on I could see that the oracle of Wimbledon was not in this case so appropriate as he would have been had the polities of the gods only coincided more exactly with those of the party. There was a distinct moment when, without saying anything more definite to me, Gravener entertained the idea of annexing Mr. Saltram. Such a project was delusive, for the discovery of analogies between his body of doctrine and that pressed from headquarters upon Clockborough—the bottling, in a word, of the air of those lungs for convenient public uncorking in corn-exchanges—was an experiment for which no one had the leisure. The only thing would have been to carry him massively about, paid, caged, clipped; to turn him on for a particular occasion in a particular channel. Frank Saltram’s channel, however, was essentially not calculable, and there was no knowing what disastrous floods might have ensued. For what there would have been to do The Empire, the great newspaper, was there to look to; but it was no new misfortune that there were delicate situations in which The Empire broke down. In fine there was an instinctive apprehension that a clever young journalist commissioned to report on Mr. Saltram might never come back from the errand. No one knew better than George Gravener that that was a time when prompt returns counted double. If he therefore found our friend an exasperating waste of orthodoxy it was because of his being, as he said, poor Gravener, up in the clouds, not because he was down in the dust. The man would have been, just as he was, a real enough gentleman if he could have helped to put in a real gentleman. Gravener’s great objection to the actual member was that he was not one. Lady Coxon had a fine old house, a house with “grounds,” at Clockborough, which she had let; but after she returned from abroad I learned from Mrs. Saltram that the lease had fallen in and that she had gone down to resume possession. I could see the faded red livery, the big square shoulders, the high-walled garden of this decent abode. As the rumble of dissolution grew louder the suitor would have pressed his suit, and I found myself hoping the politics of the late Mayor’s widow wouldn’t be such as to admonish her to ask him to dinner; perhaps indeed I went so far as to pray, they would naturally form a bar to any contact. I tried to focus the many-buttoned page, in the daily airing, as he perhaps even pushed the Bath-chair over somebody’s toes. I was destined to hear, none the less, through Mrs. Saltram—who, I afterwards learned, was in correspondence with Lady Coxon’s housekeeper—that Gravener was known to have spoken of the habitation I had in my eye as the pleasantest thing at Clockborough. On his part, I was sure, this was the voice not of envy but of experience. The vivid scene was now peopled, and I could see him in the old-time garden with Miss Anvoy, who would be certain, and very justly, to think him good-looking. It would be too much to describe myself as troubled by this play of surmise; but I occur to remember the relief, singular enough, of feeling it suddenly brushed away by an annoyance really much greater; an annoyance the result of its happening to come over me about that time with a rush that I was simply ashamed of Frank Saltram. There were limits after all, and my mark at last had been reached. I had had my disgusts, if I may allow myself to-day such an expression; but this was a supreme revolt. Certain things cleared up in my mind, certain values stood out. It was all very well to have an unfortunate temperament; there was nothing so unfortunate as to have, for practical purposes, nothing else. I avoided George Gravener at this moment and reflected that at such a time I should do so most effectually by leaving England. I wanted to forget Frank Saltram—that was all. I didn’t want to do anything in the world to him but that. Indignation had withered on the stalk, and I felt that one could pity him as much as one ought only by never thinking of him again. It wasn’t for anything he had done to me; it was for what he had done to the Mulvilles. Adelaide cried about it for a week, and her husband, profiting by the example so signally given him of the fatal effect of a want of character, left the letter, the drop too much, unanswered. The letter, an incredible one, addressed by Saltram to Wimbledon during a stay with the Pudneys at Ramsgate, was the central feature of the incident, which, however, had many features, each more painful than whichever other we compared it with. The Pudneys had behaved shockingly, but that was no excuse. Base ingratitude, gross indecency—one had one’s choice only of such formulas as that the more they fitted the less they gave one rest. These are dead aches now, and I am under no obligation, thank heaven, to be definite about the business. There are things which if I had had to tell them—well, would have stopped me off here altogether. I went abroad for the general election, and if I don’t know how much, on the Continent, I forgot, I at least know how much I missed, him. At a distance, in a foreign land, ignoring, abjuring, unlearning him, I discovered what he had done for me. I owed him, oh unmistakeably, certain noble conceptions; I had lighted my little taper at his smoky lamp, and lo it continued to twinkle. But the light it gave me just showed me how much more I wanted. I was pursued of course by letters from Mrs. Saltram which I didn’t scruple not to read, though quite aware her embarrassments couldn’t but be now of the gravest. I sacrificed to propriety by simply putting them away, and this is how, one day as my absence drew to an end, my eye, while I rummaged in my desk for another paper, was caught by a name on a leaf that had detached itself from the packet. The allusion was to Miss Anvoy, who, it appeared, was engaged to be married to Mr. George Gravener; and the news was two months old. A direct question of Mrs. Saltram’s had thus remained unanswered—she had enquired of me in a postscript what sort of man this aspirant to such a hand might be. The great other fact about him just then was that he had been triumphantly returned for Clockborough in the interest of the party that had swept the country—so that I might easily have referred Mrs. Saltram to the journals of the day. Yet when I at last wrote her that I was coming home and would discharge my accumulated burden by seeing her, I but remarked in regard to her question that she must really put it to Miss Anvoy. VI I HAD almost avoided the general election, but some of its consequences, on my return, had smartly to be faced. The season, in London, began to breathe again and to flap its folded wings. Confidence, under the new Ministry, was understood to be reviving, and one of the symptoms, in a social body, was a recovery of appetite. People once more fed together, and it happened that, one Saturday night, at somebody’s house, I fed with George Gravener. When the ladies left the room I moved up to where he sat and begged to congratulate him. “On my election?” he asked after a moment; so that I could feign, jocosely, not to have heard of that triumph and to be alluding to the rumour of a victory still more personal. I dare say I coloured however, for his political success had momentarily passed out of my mind. What was present to it was that he was to marry that beautiful girl; and yet his question made me conscious of some discomposure—I hadn’t intended to put this before everything. He himself indeed ought gracefully to have done so, and I remember thinking the whole man was in this assumption that in expressing my sense of what he had won I had fixed my thoughts on his “seat.” We straightened the matter out, and he was so much lighter in hand than I had lately seen him that his spirits might well have been fed from a twofold source. He was so good as to say that he hoped I should soon make the acquaintance of Miss Anvoy, who, with her aunt, was presently coming up to town. Lady Coxon, in the country, had been seriously unwell, and this had delayed their arrival. I told him I had heard the marriage would be a splendid one; on which, brightened and humanised by his luck, he laughed and said “Do you mean for her?” When I had again explained what I meant he went on: “Oh she’s an American, but you’d scarcely know it; unless, perhaps,” he added, “by her being used to more money than most girls in England, even the daughters of rich men. That wouldn’t in the least do for a fellow like me, you know, if it wasn’t for the great liberality of her father. He really has been most kind, and everything’s quite satisfactory.” He added that his eldest brother had taken a tremendous fancy to her and that during a recent visit at Coldfield she had nearly won over Lady Maddock. I gathered from something he dropped later on that the free-handed gentleman beyond the seas had not made a settlement, but had given a handsome present and was apparently to be looked to, across the water, for other favours. People are simplified alike by great contentments and great yearnings, and, whether or no it was Gravener’s directness that begot my own, I seem to recall that in some turn taken by our talk he almost imposed it on me as an act of decorum to ask if Miss Anvoy had also by chance expectations from her aunt. My enquiry drew out that Lady Coxon, who was the oddest of women, would have in any contingency to act under her late husband’s will, which was odder still, saddling her with a mass of queer obligations complicated with queer loopholes. There were several dreary people, Coxon cousins, old maids, to whom she would have more or less to minister. Gravener laughed, without saying no, when I suggested that the young lady might come in through a loophole; then suddenly, as if he suspected my turning a lantern on him, he declared quite dryly: “That’s all rot—one’s moved by other springs!” A fortnight later, at Lady Coxon’s own house, I understood well enough the springs one was moved by. Gravener had spoken of me there as an old friend, and I received a gracious invitation to dine. The Knight’s widow was again indisposed—she had succumbed at the eleventh hour; so that I found Miss Anvoy bravely playing hostess without even Gravener’s help, since, to make matters worse, he had just sent up word that the House, the insatiable House, with which he supposed he had contracted for easier terms, positively declined to release him. I was struck with the courage, the grace and gaiety of the young lady left thus to handle the fauna and flora of the Regent’s Park. I did what I could to help her to classify them, after I had recovered from the confusion of seeing her slightly disconcerted at perceiving in the guest introduced by her intended the gentleman with whom she had had that talk about Frank Saltram. I had at this moment my first glimpse of the fact that she was a person who could carry a responsibility; but I leave the reader to judge of my sense of the aggravation, for either of us, of such a burden, when I heard the servant announce Mrs. Saltram. From what immediately passed between the two ladies I gathered that the latter had been sent for post-haste to fill the gap created by the absence of the mistress of the house. “Good!” I remember crying, “she’ll be put by me;” and my apprehension was promptly justified. Mrs. Saltram taken in to dinner, and taken in as a consequence of an appeal to her amiability, was Mrs. Saltram with a vengeance. I asked myself what Miss Anvoy meant by doing such things, but the only answer I arrived at was that Gravener was verily fortunate. She hadn’t happened to tell him of her visit to Upper Baker Street, but she’d certainly tell him to-morrow; not indeed that this would make him like any better her having had the innocence to invite such a person as Mrs. Saltram on such an occasion. It could only strike me that I had never seen a young woman put such ignorance into her cleverness, such freedom into her modesty; this, I think, was when, after dinner, she said to me frankly, with almost jubilant mirth: “Oh you don’t admire Mrs. Saltram?” Why should I? This was truly a young person without guile. I had briefly to consider before I could reply that my objection to the lady named was the objection often uttered about people met at the social board—I knew all her stories. Then as Miss Anvoy remained momentarily vague I added: “Those about her husband.” “Oh yes, but there are some new ones.” “None for me. Ah novelty would be pleasant!” “Doesn’t it appear that of late he has been particularly horrid?” “His fluctuations don’t matter”, I returned, “for at night all cats are grey. You saw the shade of this one the night we waited for him together. What will you have? He has no dignity.” Miss Anvoy, who had been introducing with her American distinctness, looked encouragingly round at some of the combinations she had risked. “It’s too bad I can’t see him.” “You mean Gravener won’t let you?” “I haven’t asked him. He lets me do everything.” “But you know he knows him and wonders what some of us see in him.” “We haven’t happened to talk of him,” the girl said. “Get him to take you some day out to see the Mulvilles.” “I thought Mr. Saltram had thrown the Mulvilles over.” “Utterly. But that won’t prevent his being planted there again, to bloom like a rose, within a month or two.” Miss Anvoy thought a moment. Then, “I should like to see them,” she said with her fostering smile. “They’re tremendously worth it. You mustn’t miss them.” “I’ll make George take me,” she went on as Mrs. Saltram came up to interrupt us. She sniffed at this unfortunate as kindly as she had smiled at me and, addressing the question to her, continued: “But the chance of a lecture—one of the wonderful lectures? Isn’t there another course announced?” “Another? There are about thirty!” I exclaimed, turning away and feeling Mrs. Saltram’s little eyes in my back. A few days after this I heard that Gravener’s marriage was near at hand—was settled for Whitsuntide; but as no invitation had reached me I had my doubts, and there presently came to me in fact the report of a postponement. Something was the matter; what was the matter was supposed to be that Lady Coxon was now critically ill. I had called on her after my dinner in the Regent’s Park, but I had neither seen her nor seen Miss Anvoy. I forget to-day the exact order in which, at this period, sundry incidents occurred and the particular stage at which it suddenly struck me, making me catch my breath a little, that the progression, the acceleration, was for all the world that of fine drama. This was probably rather late in the day, and the exact order doesn’t signify. What had already occurred was some accident determining a more patient wait. George Gravener, whom I met again, in fact told me as much, but without signs of perturbation. Lady Coxon had to be constantly attended to, and there were other good reasons as well. Lady Coxon had to be so constantly attended to that on the occasion of a second attempt in the Regent’s Park I equally failed to obtain a sight of her niece. I judged it discreet in all the conditions not to make a third; but this didn’t matter, for it was through Adelaide Mulville that the side-wind of the comedy, though I was at first unwitting, began to reach me. I went to Wimbledon at times because Saltram was there, and I went at others because he wasn’t. The Pudneys, who had taken him to Birmingham, had already got rid of him, and we had a horrible consciousness of his wandering roofless, in dishonour, about the smoky Midlands, almost as the injured Lear wandered on the storm-lashed heath. His room, upstairs, had been lately done up (I could hear the crackle of the new chintz) and the difference only made his smirches and bruises, his splendid tainted genius, the more tragic. If he wasn’t barefoot in the mire he was sure to be unconventionally shod. These were the things Adelaide and I, who were old enough friends to stare at each other in silence, talked about when we didn’t speak. When we spoke it was only about the brilliant girl George Gravener was to marry and whom he had brought out the other Sunday. I could see that this presentation had been happy, for Mrs. Mulville commemorated it after her sole fashion of showing confidence in a new relation. “She likes me—she likes me”: her native humility exulted in that measure of success. We all knew for ourselves how she liked those who liked her, and as regards Ruth Anvoy she was more easily won over than Lady Maddock. VII ONE of the consequences, for the Mulvilles, of the sacrifices they made for Frank Saltram was that they had to give up their carriage. Adelaide drove gently into London in a one-horse greenish thing, an early Victorian landau, hired, near at hand, imaginatively, from a broken-down jobmaster whose wife was in consumption—a vehicle that made people turn round all the more when her pensioner sat beside her in a soft white hat and a shawl, one of the dear woman’s own. This was his position and I dare say his costume when on an afternoon in July she went to return Miss Anvoy’s visit. The wheel of fate had now revolved, and amid silences deep and exhaustive, compunctions and condonations alike unutterable, Saltram was reinstated. Was it in pride or in penance that Mrs. Mulville had begun immediately to drive him about? If he was ashamed of his ingratitude she might have been ashamed of her forgiveness; but she was incorrigibly capable of liking him to be conspicuous in the landau while she was in shops or with her acquaintance. However, if he was in the pillory for twenty minutes in the Regent’s Park—I mean at Lady Coxon’s door while his companion paid her call—it wasn’t to the further humiliation of any one concerned that she presently came out for him in person, not even to show either of them what a fool she was that she drew him in to be introduced to the bright young American. Her account of the introduction I had in its order, but before that, very late in the season, under Gravener’s auspices, I met Miss Anvoy at tea at the House of Commons. The member for Clockborough had gathered a group of pretty ladies, and the Mulvilles were not of the party. On the great terrace, as I strolled off with her a little, the guest of honour immediately exclaimed to me: “I’ve seen him, you know—I’ve seen him!” She told me about Saltram’s call. “And how did you find him?” “Oh so strange!” “You didn’t like him?” “I can’t tell till I see him again.” “You want to do that?” She had a pause. “Immensely.” We went no further; I fancied she had become aware Gravener was looking at us. She turned back toward the knot of the others, and I said: “Dislike him as much as you will—I see you’re bitten.” “Bitten?” I thought she coloured a little. “Oh it doesn’t matter!” I laughed; “one doesn’t die of it.” “I hope I shan’t die of anything before I’ve seen more of Mrs. Mulville.” I rejoiced with her over plain Adelaide, whom she pronounced the loveliest woman she had met in England; but before we separated I remarked to her that it was an act of mere humanity to warn her that if she should see more of Frank Saltram—which would be likely to follow on any increase of acquaintance with Mrs. Mulville—she might find herself flattening her nose against the clear hard pane of an eternal question—that of the relative, that of the opposed, importances of virtue and brains. She replied that this was surely a subject on which one took everything for granted; whereupon I admitted that I had perhaps expressed myself ill. What I referred to was what I had referred to the night we met in Upper Baker Street—the relative importance (relative to virtue) of other gifts. She asked me if I called virtue a gift—a thing handed to us in a parcel on our first birthday; and I declared that this very enquiry proved to me the problem had already caught her by the skirt. She would have help however, the same help I myself had once had, in resisting its tendency to make one cross. “What help do you mean?” “That of the member for Clockborough.” She stared, smiled, then returned: “Why my idea has been to help him!” She had helped him—I had his own word for it that at Clockborough her bedevilment of the voters had really put him in. She would do so doubtless again and again, though I heard the very next month that this fine faculty had undergone a temporary eclipse. News of the catastrophe first came to me from Mrs. Saltram, and it was afterwards confirmed at Wimbledon: poor Miss Anvoy was in trouble—great disasters in America had suddenly summoned her home. Her father, in New York, had suffered reverses, lost so much money that it was really vexatious as showing how much he had had. It was Adelaide who told me she had gone off alone at less than a week’s notice. “Alone? Gravener has permitted that?” “What will you have? The House of Commons!” I’m afraid I cursed the House of Commons: I was so much interested. Of course he’d follow her as soon as he was free to make her his wife; only she mightn’t now be able to bring him anything like the marriage-portion of which he had begun by having the virtual promise. Mrs. Mulville let me know what was already said: she was charming, this American girl, but really these American fathers—! What was a man to do? Mr. Saltram, according to Mrs. Mulville, was of opinion that a man was never to suffer his relation to money to become a spiritual relation—he was to keep it exclusively material. “Moi pas comprendre!” I commented on this; in rejoinder to which Adelaide, with her beautiful sympathy, explained that she supposed he simply meant that the thing was to use it, don’t you know? but not to think too much about it. “To take it, but not to thank you for it?” I still more profanely enquired. For a quarter of an hour afterwards she wouldn’t look at me, but this didn’t prevent my asking her what had been the result, that afternoon—in the Regent’s Park, of her taking our friend to see Miss Anvoy. “Oh so charming!” she answered, brightening. “He said he recognised in her a nature he could absolutely trust.” “Yes, but I’m speaking of the effect on herself.” Mrs. Mulville had to remount the stream. “It was everything one could wish.” Something in her tone made me laugh. “Do you mean she gave him—a dole?” “Well, since you ask me!” “Right there on the spot?” Again poor Adelaide faltered. “It was to me of course she gave it.” I stared; somehow I couldn’t see the scene. “Do you mean a sum of money?” “It was very handsome.” Now at last she met my eyes, though I could see it was with an effort. “Thirty pounds.” “Straight out of her pocket?” “Out of the drawer of a table at which she had been writing. She just slipped the folded notes into my hand. He wasn’t looking; it was while he was going back to the carriage.” “Oh,” said Adelaide reassuringly, “I take care of it for him!” The dear practical soul thought my agitation, for I confess I was agitated, referred to the employment of the money. Her disclosure made me for a moment muse violently, and I dare say that during that moment I wondered if anything else in the world makes people so gross as unselfishness. I uttered, I suppose, some vague synthetic cry, for she went on as if she had had a glimpse of my inward amaze at such passages. “I assure you, my dear friend, he was in one of his happy hours.” But I wasn’t thinking of that. “Truly indeed these Americans!” I said. “With her father in the very act, as it were, of swindling her betrothed!” Mrs. Mulville stared. “Oh I suppose Mr. Anvoy has scarcely gone bankrupt—or whatever he has done—on purpose. Very likely they won’t be able to keep it up, but there it was, and it was a very beautiful impulse.” “You say Saltram was very fine?” “Beyond everything. He surprised even me.” “And I know what you’ve enjoyed.” After a moment I added: “Had he peradventure caught a glimpse of the money in the table-drawer?” At this my companion honestly flushed. “How can you be so cruel when you know how little he calculates?” “Forgive me, I do know it. But you tell me things that act on my nerves. I’m sure he hadn’t caught a glimpse of anything but some splendid idea.” Mrs. Mulville brightly concurred. “And perhaps even of her beautiful listening face.” “Perhaps even! And what was it all about?” “His talk? It was apropos of her engagement, which I had told him about: the idea of marriage, the philosophy, the poetry, the sublimity of it.” It was impossible wholly to restrain one’s mirth at this, and some rude ripple that I emitted again caused my companion to admonish me. “It sounds a little stale, but you know his freshness.” “Of illustration? Indeed I do!” “And how he has always been right on that great question.” “On what great question, dear lady, hasn’t he been right?” “Of what other great men can you equally say it?—and that he has never, but never, had a deflexion?” Mrs. Mulville exultantly demanded. I tried to think of some other great man, but I had to give it up. “Didn’t Miss Anvoy express her satisfaction in any less diffident way than by her charming present?” I was reduced to asking instead. “Oh yes, she overflowed to me on the steps while he was getting into the carriage.” These words somehow brushed up a picture of Saltram’s big shawled back as he hoisted himself into the green landau. “She said she wasn’t disappointed,” Adelaide pursued. I turned it over. “Did he wear his shawl?” “His shawl?” She hadn’t even noticed. “I mean yours.” “He looked very nice, and you know he’s really clean. Miss Anvoy used such a remarkable expression—she said his mind’s like a crystal!” I pricked up my ears. “A crystal?” “Suspended in the moral world—swinging and shining and flashing there. She’s monstrously clever, you know.” I thought again. “Monstrously!” VIII GEORGE GRAVENER didn’t follow her, for late in September, after the House had risen, I met him in a railway-carriage. He was coming up from Scotland and I had just quitted some relations who lived near Durham. The current of travel back to London wasn’t yet strong; at any rate on entering the compartment I found he had had it for some time to himself. We fared in company, and though he had a blue-book in his lap and the open jaws of his bag threatened me with the white teeth of confused papers, we inevitably, we even at last sociably conversed. I saw things weren’t well with him, but I asked no question till something dropped by himself made, as it had made on another occasion, an absence of curiosity invidious. He mentioned that he was worried about his good old friend Lady Coxon, who, with her niece likely to be detained some time in America, lay seriously ill at Clockborough, much on his mind and on his hands. “Ah Miss Anvoy’s in America?” “Her father has got into horrid straits—has lost no end of money.” I waited, after expressing due concern, but I eventually said: “I hope that raises no objection to your marriage.” “None whatever; moreover it’s my trade to meet objections. But it may create tiresome delays, of which there have been too many, from various causes, already. Lady Coxon got very bad, then she got much better. Then Mr. Anvoy suddenly began to totter, and now he seems quite on his back. I’m afraid he’s really in for some big reverse. Lady Coxon’s worse again, awfully upset by the news from America, and she sends me word that she _must_ have Ruth. How can I supply her with Ruth? I haven’t got Ruth myself!” “Surely you haven’t lost her?” I returned. “She’s everything to her wretched father. She writes me every post—telling me to smooth her aunt’s pillow. I’ve other things to smooth; but the old lady, save for her servants, is really alone. She won’t receive her Coxon relations—she’s angry at so much of her money going to them. Besides, she’s hopelessly mad,” said Gravener very frankly. I don’t remember whether it was this, or what it was, that made me ask if she hadn’t such an appreciation of Mrs. Saltram as might render that active person of some use. He gave me a cold glance, wanting to know what had put Mrs. Saltram into my head, and I replied that she was unfortunately never out of it. I happened to remember the wonderful accounts she had given me of the kindness Lady Coxon had shown her. Gravener declared this to be false; Lady Coxon, who didn’t care for her, hadn’t seen her three times. The only foundation for it was that Miss Anvoy, who used, poor girl, to chuck money about in a manner she must now regret, had for an hour seen in the miserable woman—you could never know what she’d see in people—an interesting pretext for the liberality with which her nature overflowed. But even Miss Anvoy was now quite tired of her. Gravener told me more about the crash in New York and the annoyance it had been to him, and we also glanced here and there in other directions; but by the time we got to Doncaster the principal thing he had let me see was that he was keeping something back. We stopped at that station, and, at the carriage-door, some one made a movement to get in. Gravener uttered a sound of impatience, and I felt sure that but for this I should have had the secret. Then the intruder, for some reason, spared us his company; we started afresh, and my hope of a disclosure returned. My companion held his tongue, however, and I pretended to go to sleep; in fact I really dozed for discouragement. When I reopened my eyes he was looking at me with an injured air. He tossed away with some vivacity the remnant of a cigarette and then said: “If you’re not too sleepy I want to put you a case.” I answered that I’d make every effort to attend, and welcomed the note of interest when he went on: “As I told you a while ago, Lady Coxon, poor dear, is demented.” His tone had much behind it—was full of promise. I asked if her ladyship’s misfortune were a trait of her malady or only of her character, and he pronounced it a product of both. The case he wanted to put to me was a matter on which it concerned him to have the impression—the judgement, he might also say—of another person. “I mean of the average intelligent man, but you see I take what I can get.” There would be the technical, the strictly legal view; then there would be the way the question would strike a man of the world. He had lighted another cigarette while he talked, and I saw he was glad to have it to handle when he brought out at last, with a laugh slightly artificial: “In fact it’s a subject on which Miss Anvoy and I are pulling different ways.” “And you want me to decide between you? I decide in advance for Miss Anvoy.” “In advance—that’s quite right. That’s how I decided when I proposed to her. But my story will interest you only so far as your mind isn’t made up.” Gravener puffed his cigarette a minute and then continued: “Are you familiar with the idea of the Endowment of Research?” “Of Research?” I was at sea a moment. “I give you Lady Coxon’s phrase. She has it on the brain.” “She wishes to endow—?” “Some earnest and ‘loyal’ seeker,” Gravener said. “It was a sketchy design of her late husband’s, and he handed it on to her; setting apart in his will a sum of money of which she was to enjoy the interest for life, but of which, should she eventually see her opportunity—the matter was left largely to her discretion—she would best honour his memory by determining the exemplary public use. This sum of money, no less than thirteen thousand pounds, was to be called The Coxon Fund; and poor Sir Gregory evidently proposed to himself that The Coxon Fund should cover his name with glory—be universally desired and admired. He left his wife a full declaration of his views, so far at least as that term may be applied to views vitiated by a vagueness really infantine. A little learning’s a dangerous thing, and a good citizen who happens to have been an ass is worse for a community than bad sewerage. He’s worst of all when he’s dead, because then he can’t be stopped. However, such as they were, the poor man’s aspirations are now in his wife’s bosom, or fermenting rather in her foolish brain: it lies with her to carry them out. But of course she must first catch her hare.” “Her earnest loyal seeker?” “The flower that blushes unseen for want of such a pecuniary independence as may aid the light that’s in it to shine upon the human race. The individual, in a word, who, having the rest of the machinery, the spiritual, the intellectual, is most hampered in his search.” “His search for what?” “For Moral Truth. That’s what Sir Gregory calls it.” I burst out laughing. “Delightful munificent Sir Gregory! It’s a charming idea.” “So Miss Anvoy thinks.” “Has she a candidate for the Fund?” “Not that I know of—and she’s perfectly reasonable about it. But Lady Coxon has put the matter before her, and we’ve naturally had a lot of talk.” “Talk that, as you’ve so interestingly intimated, has landed you in a disagreement.” “She considers there’s something in it,” Gravener said. “And you consider there’s nothing?” “It seems to me a piece of solemn twaddle—which can’t fail to be attended with consequences certainly grotesque and possibly immoral. To begin with, fancy constituting an endowment without establishing a tribunal—a bench of competent people, of judges.” “The sole tribunal is Lady Coxon?” “And any one she chooses to invite.” “But she has invited you,” I noted. “I’m not competent—I hate the thing. Besides, she hasn’t,” my friend went on. “The real history of the matter, I take it, is that the inspiration was originally Lady Coxon’s own, that she infected him with it, and that the flattering option left her is simply his tribute to her beautiful, her aboriginal enthusiasm. She came to England forty years ago, a thin transcendental Bostonian, and even her odd happy frumpy Clockborough marriage never really materialised her. She feels indeed that she has become very British—as if that, as a process, as a ‘Werden,’ as anything but an original sign of grace, were conceivable; but it’s precisely what makes her cling to the notion of the ‘Fund’—cling to it as to a link with the ideal.” “How can she cling if she’s dying?” “Do you mean how can she act in the matter?” Gravener asked. “That’s precisely the question. She can’t! As she has never yet caught her hare, never spied out her lucky impostor—how should she, with the life she has led?—her husband’s intention has come very near lapsing. His idea, to do him justice, was that it _should_ lapse if exactly the right person, the perfect mixture of genius and chill penury, should fail to turn up. Ah the poor dear woman’s very particular—she says there must be no mistake.” I found all this quite thrilling—I took it in with avidity. “And if she dies without doing anything, what becomes of the money?” I demanded. “It goes back to his family, if she hasn’t made some other disposition of it.” “She may do that then—she may divert it?” “Her hands are not tied. She has a grand discretion. The proof is that three months ago she offered to make the proceeds over to her niece.” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use?” “For Miss Anvoy’s own use—on the occasion of her prospective marriage. She was discouraged—the earnest seeker required so earnest a search. She was afraid of making a mistake; every one she could think of seemed either not earnest enough or not poor enough. On the receipt of the first bad news about Mr. Anvoy’s affairs she proposed to Ruth to make the sacrifice for her. As the situation in New York got worse she repeated her proposal.” “Which Miss Anvoy declined?” “Except as a formal trust.” “You mean except as committing herself legally to place the money?” “On the head of the deserving object, the great man frustrated,” said Gravener. “She only consents to act in the spirit of Sir Gregory’s scheme.” “And you blame her for that?” I asked with some intensity. My tone couldn’t have been harsh, but he coloured a little and there was a queer light in his eye. “My dear fellow, if I ‘blamed’ the young lady I’m engaged to I shouldn’t immediately say it even to so old a friend as you.” I saw that some deep discomfort, some restless desire to be sided with, reassuringly, approvingly mirrored, had been at the bottom of his drifting so far, and I was genuinely touched by his confidence. It was inconsistent with his habits; but being troubled about a woman was not, for him, a habit: that itself was an inconsistency. George Gravener could stand straight enough before any other combination of forces. It amused me to think that the combination he had succumbed to had an American accent, a transcendental aunt and an insolvent father; but all my old loyalty to him mustered to meet this unexpected hint that I could help him. I saw that I could from the insincere tone in which he pursued: “I’ve criticised her of course, I’ve contended with her, and it has been great fun.” Yet it clearly couldn’t have been such great fun as to make it improper for me presently to ask if Miss Anvoy had nothing at all settled on herself. To this he replied that she had only a trifle from her mother—a mere four hundred a year, which was exactly why it would be convenient to him that she shouldn’t decline, in the face of this total change in her prospects, an accession of income which would distinctly help them to marry. When I enquired if there were no other way in which so rich and so affectionate an aunt could cause the weight of her benevolence to be felt, he answered that Lady Coxon was affectionate indeed, but was scarcely to be called rich. She could let her project of the Fund lapse for her niece’s benefit, but she couldn’t do anything else. She had been accustomed to regard her as tremendously provided for, and she was up to her eyes in promises to anxious Coxons. She was a woman of an inordinate conscience, and her conscience was now a distress to her, hovering round her bed in irreconcilable forms of resentful husbands, portionless nieces and undiscoverable philosophers. We were by this time getting into the whirr of fleeting platforms, the multiplication of lights. “I think you’ll find,” I said with a laugh, “that your predicament will disappear in the very fact that the philosopher _is_ undiscoverable.” He began to gather up his papers. “Who can set a limit to the ingenuity of an extravagant woman?” “Yes, after all, who indeed?” I echoed as I recalled the extravagance commemorated in Adelaide’s anecdote of Miss Anvoy and the thirty pounds. IX THE thing I had been most sensible of in that talk with George Gravener was the way Saltram’s name kept out of it. It seemed to me at the time that we were quite pointedly silent about him; but afterwards it appeared more probable there had been on my companion’s part no conscious avoidance. Later on I was sure of this, and for the best of reasons—the simple reason of my perceiving more completely that, for evil as well as for good, he said nothing to Gravener’s imagination. That honest man didn’t fear him—he was too much disgusted with him. No more did I, doubtless, and for very much the same reason. I treated my friend’s story as an absolute confidence; but when before Christmas, by Mrs. Saltram, I was informed of Lady Coxon’s death without having had news of Miss Anvoy’s return, I found myself taking for granted we should hear no more of these nuptials, in which, as obscurely unnatural, I now saw I had never _too_ disconcertedly believed. I began to ask myself how people who suited each other so little could please each other so much. The charm was some material charm, some afffinity, exquisite doubtless, yet superficial some surrender to youth and beauty and passion, to force and grace and fortune, happy accidents and easy contacts. They might dote on each other’s persons, but how could they know each other’s souls? How could they have the same prejudices, how could they have the same horizon? Such questions, I confess, seemed quenched but not answered when, one day in February, going out to Wimbledon, I found our young lady in the house. A passion that had brought her back across the wintry ocean was as much of a passion as was needed. No impulse equally strong indeed had drawn George Gravener to America; a circumstance on which, however, I reflected only long enough to remind myself that it was none of my business. Ruth Anvoy was distinctly different, and I felt that the difference was not simply that of her marks of mourning. Mrs. Mulville told me soon enough what it was: it was the difference between a handsome girl with large expectations and a handsome girl with only four hundred a year. This explanation indeed didn’t wholly content me, not even when I learned that her mourning had a double cause—learned that poor Mr. Anvoy, giving way altogether, buried under the ruins of his fortune and leaving next to nothing, had died a few weeks before. “So she has come out to marry George Gravener?” I commented. “Wouldn’t it have been prettier of him to have saved her the trouble?” “Hasn’t the House just met?” Adelaide replied. “And for Mr. Gravener the House—!” Then she added: “I gather that her having come is exactly a sign that the marriage is a little shaky. If it were quite all right a self-respecting girl like Ruth would have waited for him over there.” I noted that they were already Ruth and Adelaide, but what I said was: “Do you mean she’ll have had to return to _make_ it so?” “No, I mean that she must have come out for some reason independent of it.” Adelaide could only surmise, however, as yet, and there was more, as we found, to be revealed. Mrs. Mulville, on hearing of her arrival, had brought the young lady out in the green landau for the Sunday. The Coxons were in possession of the house in Regent’s Park, and Miss Anvoy was in dreary lodgings. George Gravener had been with her when Adelaide called, but had assented graciously enough to the little visit at Wimbledon. The carriage, with Mr. Saltram in it but not mentioned, had been sent off on some errand from which it was to return and pick the ladies up. Gravener had left them together, and at the end of an hour, on the Saturday afternoon, the party of three had driven out to Wimbledon. This was the girl’s second glimpse of our great man, and I was interested in asking Mrs. Mulville if the impression made by the first appeared to have been confirmed. On her replying after consideration, that of course with time and opportunity it couldn’t fail to be, but that she was disappointed, I was sufficiently struck with her use of this last word to question her further. “Do you mean you’re disappointed because you judge Miss Anvoy to be?” “Yes; I hoped for a greater effect last evening. We had two or three people, but he scarcely opened his mouth.” “He’ll be all the better to-night,” I opined after a moment. Then I pursued: “What particular importance do you attach to the idea of her being impressed?” Adelaide turned her mild pale eyes on me as for rebuke of my levity. “Why the importance of her being as happy as _we_ are!” I’m afraid that at this my levity grew. “Oh that’s a happiness almost too great to wish a person!” I saw she hadn’t yet in her mind what I had in mine, and at any rate the visitor’s actual bliss was limited to a walk in the garden with Kent Mulville. Later in the afternoon I also took one, and I saw nothing of Miss Anvoy till dinner, at which we failed of the company of Saltram, who had caused it to be reported that he was indisposed and lying down. This made us, most of us—for there were other friends present—convey to each other in silence some of the unutterable things that in those years our eyes had inevitably acquired the art of expressing. If a fine little American enquirer hadn’t been there we would have expressed them otherwise, and Adelaide would have pretended not to hear. I had seen her, before the very fact, abstract herself nobly; and I knew that more than once, to keep it from the servants, managing, dissimulating cleverly, she had helped her husband to carry him bodily to his room. Just recently he had been so wise and so deep and so high that I had begun to get nervous—to wonder if by chance there were something behind it, if he were kept straight for instance by the knowledge that the hated Pudneys would have more to tell us if they chose. He was lying low, but unfortunately it was common wisdom with us in this connexion that the biggest splashes took place in the quietest pools. We should have had a merry life indeed if all the splashes had sprinkled us as refreshingly as the waters we were even then to feel about our ears. Kent Mulville had been up to his room, but had come back with a face that told as few tales as I had seen it succeed in telling on the evening I waited in the lecture-room with Miss Anvoy. I said to myself that our friend had gone out, but it was a comfort that the presence of a comparative stranger deprived us of the dreary duty of suggesting to each other, in respect of his errand, edifying possibilities in which we didn’t ourselves believe. At ten o’clock he came into the drawing-room with his waistcoat much awry but his eyes sending out great signals. It was precisely with his entrance that I ceased to be vividly conscious of him. I saw that the crystal, as I had called it, had begun to swing, and I had need of my immediate attention for Miss Anvoy. Even when I was told afterwards that he had, as we might have said to-day, broken the record, the manner in which that attention had been rewarded relieved me of a sense of loss. I had of course a perfect general consciousness that something great was going on: it was a little like having been etherised to hear Herr Joachim play. The old music was in the air; I felt the strong pulse of thought, the sink and swell, the flight, the poise, the plunge; but I knew something about one of the listeners that nobody else knew, and Saltram’s monologue could reach me only through that medium. To this hour I’m of no use when, as a witness, I’m appealed to—for they still absurdly contend about it—as to whether or no on that historic night he was drunk; and my position is slightly ridiculous, for I’ve never cared to tell them what it really was I was taken up with. What I got out of it is the only morsel of the total experience that is quite my own. The others were shared, but this is incommunicable. I feel that now, I’m bound to say, even in thus roughly evoking the occasion, and it takes something from my pride of clearness. However, I shall perhaps be as clear as is absolutely needful if I remark that our young lady was too much given up to her own intensity of observation to be sensible of mine. It was plainly not the question of her marriage that had brought her back. I greatly enjoyed this discovery and was sure that had that question alone been involved she would have stirred no step. In this case doubtless Gravener would, in spite of the House of Commons, have found means to rejoin her. It afterwards made me uncomfortable for her that, alone in the lodging Mrs. Mulville had put before me as dreary, she should have in any degree the air of waiting for her fate; so that I was presently relieved at hearing of her having gone to stay at Coldfield. If she was in England at all while the engagement stood the only proper place for her was under Lady Maddock’s wing. Now that she was unfortunate and relatively poor, perhaps her prospective sister-in-law would be wholly won over. There would be much to say, if I had space, about the way her behaviour, as I caught gleams of it, ministered to the image that had taken birth in my mind, to my private amusement, while that other night I listened to George Gravener in the railway-carriage. I watched her in the light of this queer possibility—a formidable thing certainly to meet—and I was aware that it coloured, extravagantly perhaps, my interpretation of her very looks and tones. At Wimbledon for instance it had appeared to me she was literally afraid of Saltram, in dread of a coercion that she had begun already to feel. I had come up to town with her the next day and had been convinced that, though deeply interested, she was immensely on her guard. She would show as little as possible before she should be ready to show everything. What this final exhibition might be on the part of a girl perceptibly so able to think things out I found it great sport to forecast. It would have been exciting to be approached by her, appealed to by her for advice; but I prayed to heaven I mightn’t find myself in such a predicament. If there was really a present rigour in the situation of which Gravener had sketched for me the elements, she would have to get out of her difficulty by herself. It wasn’t I who had launched her and it wasn’t I who could help her. I didn’t fail to ask myself why, since I couldn’t help her, I should think so much about her. It was in part my suspense that was responsible for this; I waited impatiently to see whether she wouldn’t have told Mrs. Mulville a portion at least of what I had learned from Gravener. But I saw Mrs. Mulville was still reduced to wonder what she had come out again for if she hadn’t come as a conciliatory bride. That she had come in some other character was the only thing that fitted all the appearances. Having for family reasons to spend some time that spring in the west of England, I was in a manner out of earshot of the great oceanic rumble—I mean of the continuous hum of Saltram’s thought—and my uneasiness tended to keep me quiet. There was something I wanted so little to have to say that my prudence surmounted my curiosity. I only wondered if Ruth Anvoy talked over the idea of The Coxon Fund with Lady Maddock, and also somewhat why I didn’t hear from Wimbledon. I had a reproachful note about something or other from Mrs. Saltram, but it contained no mention of Lady Coxon’s niece, on whom her eyes had been much less fixed since the recent untoward events. X POOR Adelaide’s silence was fully explained later—practically explained when in June, returning to London, I was honoured by this admirable woman with an early visit. As soon as she arrived I guessed everything, and as soon as she told me that darling Ruth had been in her house nearly a month I had my question ready. “What in the name of maidenly modesty is she staying in England for?” “Because she loves me so!” cried Adelaide gaily. But she hadn’t come to see me only to tell me Miss Anvoy loved her: that was quite sufficiently established, and what was much more to the point was that Mr. Gravener had now raised an objection to it. He had protested at least against her being at Wimbledon, where in the innocence of his heart he had originally brought her himself; he called on her to put an end to their engagement in the only proper, the only happy manner. “And why in the world doesn’t she do do?” I asked. Adelaide had a pause. “She says you know.” Then on my also hesitating she added: “A condition he makes.” “The Coxon Fund?” I panted. “He has mentioned to her his having told you about it.” “Ah but so little! Do you mean she has accepted the trust?” “In the most splendid spirit—as a duty about which there can be no two opinions.” To which my friend added: “Of course she’s thinking of Mr. Saltram.” I gave a quick cry at this, which, in its violence, made my visitor turn pale. “How very awful!” “Awful?” “Why, to have anything to do with such an idea one’s self.” “I’m sure _you_ needn’t!” and Mrs. Mulville tossed her head. “He isn’t good enough!” I went on; to which she opposed a sound almost as contentious as my own had been. This made me, with genuine immediate horror, exclaim: “You haven’t influenced her, I hope!” and my emphasis brought back the blood with a rush to poor Adelaide’s face. She declared while she blushed—for I had frightened her again—that she had never influenced anybody and that the girl had only seen and heard and judged for herself. _He_ had influenced her, if I would, as he did every one who had a soul: that word, as we knew, even expressed feebly the power of the things he said to haunt the mind. How could she, Adelaide, help it if Miss Anvoy’s mind was haunted? I demanded with a groan what right a pretty girl engaged to a rising M.P. had to _have_ a mind; but the only explanation my bewildered friend could give me was that she was so clever. She regarded Mr. Saltram naturally as a tremendous force for good. She was intelligent enough to understand him and generous enough to admire. “She’s many things enough, but is she, among them, rich enough?” I demanded. “Rich enough, I mean, to sacrifice such a lot of good money?” “That’s for herself to judge. Besides, it’s not her own money; she doesn’t in the least consider it so.” “And Gravener does, if not _his_ own; and that’s the whole difficulty?” “The difficulty that brought her back, yes: she had absolutely to see her poor aunt’s solicitor. It’s clear that by Lady Coxon’s will she may have the money, but it’s still clearer to her conscience that the original condition, definite, intensely implied on her uncle’s part, is attached to the use of it. She can only take one view of it. It’s for the Endowment or it’s for nothing.” “The Endowment,” I permitted myself to observe, “is a conception superficially sublime, but fundamentally ridiculous.” “Are you repeating Mr. Gravener’s words?” Adelaide asked. “Possibly, though I’ve not seen him for months. It’s simply the way it strikes me too. It’s an old wife’s tale. Gravener made some reference to the legal aspect, but such an absurdly loose arrangement has _no_ legal aspect.” “Ruth doesn’t insist on that,” said Mrs. Mulville; “and it’s, for her, exactly this technical weakness that constitutes the force of the moral obligation.” “Are you repeating _her_ words?” I enquired. I forget what else Adelaide said, but she said she was magnificent. I thought of George Gravener confronted with such magnificence as that, and I asked what could have made two such persons ever suppose they understood each other. Mrs. Mulville assured me the girl loved him as such a woman could love and that she suffered as such a woman could suffer. Nevertheless she wanted to see _me_. At this I sprang up with a groan. “Oh I’m so sorry!—when?” Small though her sense of humour, I think Adelaide laughed at my sequence. We discussed the day, the nearest it would be convenient I should come out; but before she went I asked my visitor how long she had been acquainted with these prodigies. “For several weeks, but I was pledged to secrecy.” “And that’s why you didn’t write?” “I couldn’t very well tell you she was with me without telling you that no time had even yet been fixed for her marriage. And I couldn’t very well tell you as much as that without telling you what I knew of the reason of it. It was not till a day or two ago,” Mrs. Mulville went on, “that she asked me to ask you if you wouldn’t come and see her. Then at last she spoke of your knowing about the idea of the Endowment.” I turned this over. “Why on earth does she want to see me?” “To talk with you, naturally, about Mr. Saltram.” “As a subject for the prize?” This was hugely obvious, and I presently returned: “I think I’ll sail to-morrow for Australia.” “Well then—sail!” said Mrs. Mulville, getting up. But I frivolously, continued. “On Thursday at five, we said?” The appointment was made definite and I enquired how, all this time, the unconscious candidate had carried himself. “In perfection, really, by the happiest of chances: he has positively been a dear. And then, as to what we revere him for, in the most wonderful form. His very highest—pure celestial light. You _won’t_ do him an ill turn?” Adelaide pleaded at the door. “What danger can equal for him the danger to which he’s exposed from himself?” I asked. “Look out sharp, if he has lately been too prim. He’ll presently take a day off, treat us to some exhibition that will make an Endowment a scandal.” “A scandal?” Mrs. Mulville dolorously echoed. “Is Miss Anvoy prepared for that?” My visitor, for a moment, screwed her parasol into my carpet. “He grows bigger every day.” “So do you!” I laughed as she went off. That girl at Wimbledon, on the Thursday afternoon, more than justified my apprehensions. I recognised fully now the cause of the agitation she had produced in me from the first—the faint foreknowledge that there was something very stiff I should have to do for her. I felt more than ever committed to my fate as, standing before her in the big drawing-room where they had tactfully left us to ourselves, I tried with a smile to string together the pearls of lucidity which, from her chair, she successively tossed me. Pale and bright, in her monotonous mourning, she was an image of intelligent purpose, of the passion of duty; but I asked myself whether any girl had ever had so charming an instinct as that which permitted her to laugh out, as for the joy of her difficulty, into the priggish old room. This remarkable young woman could be earnest without being solemn, and at moments when I ought doubtless to have cursed her obstinacy I found myself watching the unstudied play of her eyebrows or the recurrence of a singularly intense whiteness produced by the parting of her lips. These aberrations, I hasten to add, didn’t prevent my learning soon enough why she had wished to see me. Her reason for this was as distinct as her beauty: it was to make me explain what I had meant, on the occasion of our first meeting, by Mr. Saltram’s want of dignity. It wasn’t that she couldn’t imagine, but she desired it there from my lips. What she really desired of course was to know whether there was worse about him than what she had found out for herself. She hadn’t been a month so much in the house with him without discovering that he wasn’t a man of monumental bronze. He was like a jelly minus its mould, he had to be embanked; and that was precisely the source of her interest in him and the ground of her project. She put her project boldly before me: there it stood in its preposterous beauty. She was as willing to take the humorous view of it as I could be: the only difference was that for her the humorous view of a thing wasn’t necessarily prohibitive, wasn’t paralysing. Moreover she professed that she couldn’t discuss with me the primary question—the moral obligation: that was in her own breast. There were things she couldn’t go into—injunctions, impressions she had received. They were a part of the closest intimacy of her intercourse with her aunt, they were absolutely clear to her; and on questions of delicacy, the interpretation of a fidelity, of a promise, one had always in the last resort to make up one’s mind for one’s self. It was the idea of the application to the particular case, such a splendid one at last, that troubled her, and she admitted that it stirred very deep things. She didn’t pretend that such a responsibility was a simple matter; if it _had_ been she wouldn’t have attempted to saddle me with any portion of it. The Mulvilles were sympathy itself, but were they absolutely candid? Could they indeed be, in their position—would it even have been to be desired? Yes, she had sent for me to ask no less than that of me—whether there was anything dreadful kept back. She made no allusion whatever to George Gravener—I thought her silence the only good taste and her gaiety perhaps a part of the very anxiety of that discretion, the effect of a determination that people shouldn’t know from herself that her relations with the man she was to marry were strained. All the weight, however, that she left me to throw was a sufficient implication of the weight _he_ had thrown in vain. Oh she knew the question of character was immense, and that one couldn’t entertain any plan for making merit comfortable without running the gauntlet of that terrible procession of interrogation-points which, like a young ladies’ school out for a walk, hooked their uniform noses at the tail of governess Conduct. But were we absolutely to hold that there was never, never, never an exception, never, never, never an occasion for liberal acceptance, for clever charity, for suspended pedantry—for letting one side, in short, outbalance another? When Miss Anvoy threw off this appeal I could have embraced her for so delightfully emphasising her unlikeness to Mrs. Saltram. “Why not have the courage of one’s forgiveness,” she asked, “as well as the enthusiasm of one’s adhesion?” “Seeing how wonderfully you’ve threshed the whole thing out,” I evasively replied, “gives me an extraordinary notion of the point your enthusiasm has reached.” She considered this remark an instant with her eyes on mine, and I divined that it struck her I might possibly intend it as a reference to some personal subjection to our fat philosopher, to some aberration of sensibility, some perversion of taste. At least I couldn’t interpret otherwise the sudden flash that came into her face. Such a manifestation, as the result of any word of mine, embarrassed me; but while I was thinking how to reassure her the flush passed away in a smile of exquisite good nature. “Oh you see one forgets so wonderfully how one dislikes him!” she said; and if her tone simply extinguished his strange figure with the brush of its compassion, it also rings in my ear to-day as the purest of all our praises. But with what quick response of fine pity such a relegation of the man himself made me privately sigh “Ah poor Saltram!” She instantly, with this, took the measure of all I didn’t believe, and it enabled her to go on: “What can one do when a person has given such a lift to one’s interest in life?” “Yes, what can one do?” If I struck her as a little vague it was because I was thinking of another person. I indulged in another inarticulate murmur—“Poor George Gravener!” What had become of the lift _he_ had given that interest? Later on I made up my mind that she was sore and stricken at the appearance he presented of wanting the miserable money. This was the hidden reason of her alienation. The probable sincerity, in spite of the illiberality, of his scruples about the particular use of it under discussion didn’t efface the ugliness of his demand that they should buy a good house with it. Then, as for _his_ alienation, he didn’t, pardonably enough, grasp the lift Frank Saltram had given her interest in life. If a mere spectator could ask that last question, with what rage in his heart the man himself might! He wasn’t, like her, I was to see, too proud to show me why he was disappointed. XI I WAS unable this time to stay to dinner: such at any rate was the plea on which I took leave. I desired in truth to get away from my young lady, for that obviously helped me not to pretend to satisfy her. How _could_ I satisfy her? I asked myself—how could I tell her how much had been kept back? I didn’t even know and I certainly didn’t desire to know. My own policy had ever been to learn the least about poor Saltram’s weaknesses—not to learn the most. A great deal that I had in fact learned had been forced upon me by his wife. There was something even irritating in Miss Anvoy’s crude conscientiousness, and I wondered why, after all, she couldn’t have let him alone and been content to entrust George Gravener with the purchase of the good house. I was sure he would have driven a bargain, got something excellent and cheap. I laughed louder even than she, I temporised, I failed her; I told her I must think over her case. I professed a horror of responsibilities and twitted her with her own extravagant passion for them. It wasn’t really that I was afraid of the scandal, the moral discredit for the Fund; what troubled me most was a feeling of a different order. Of course, as the beneficiary of the Fund was to enjoy a simple life-interest, as it was hoped that new beneficiaries would arise and come up to new standards, it wouldn’t be a trifle that the first of these worthies shouldn’t have been a striking example of the domestic virtues. The Fund would start badly, as it were, and the laurel would, in some respects at least, scarcely be greener from the brows of the original wearer. That idea, however, was at that hour, as I have hinted, not the source of solicitude it ought perhaps to have been, for I felt less the irregularity of Saltram’s getting the money than that of this exalted young woman’s giving it up. I wanted her to have it for herself, and I told her so before I went away. She looked graver at this than she had looked at all, saying she hoped such a preference wouldn’t make me dishonest. It made me, to begin with, very restless—made me, instead of going straight to the station, fidget a little about that many-coloured Common which gives Wimbledon horizons. There was a worry for me to work off, or rather keep at a distance, for I declined even to admit to myself that I had, in Miss Anvoy’s phrase, been saddled with it. What could have been clearer indeed than the attitude of recognising perfectly what a world of trouble The Coxon Fund would in future save us, and of yet liking better to face a continuance of that trouble than see, and in fact contribute to, a deviation from attainable bliss in the life of two other persons in whom I was deeply interested? Suddenly, at the end of twenty minutes, there was projected across this clearness the image of a massive middle-aged man seated on a bench under a tree, with sad far-wandering eyes and plump white hands folded on the head of a stick—a stick I recognised, a stout gold-headed staff that I had given him in devoted days. I stopped short as he turned his face to me, and it happened that for some reason or other I took in as I had perhaps never done before the beauty of his rich blank gaze. It was charged with experience as the sky is charged with light, and I felt on the instant as if we had been overspanned and conjoined by the great arch of a bridge or the great dome of a temple. Doubtless I was rendered peculiarly sensitive to it by something in the way I had been giving him up and sinking him. While I met it I stood there smitten, and I felt myself responding to it with a sort of guilty grimace. This brought back his attention in a smile which expressed for me a cheerful weary patience, a bruised noble gentleness. I had told Miss Anvoy that he had no dignity, but what did he seem to me, all unbuttoned and fatigued as he waited for me to come up, if he didn’t seem unconcerned with small things, didn’t seem in short majestic? There was majesty in his mere unconsciousness of our little conferences and puzzlements over his maintenance and his reward. After I had sat by him a few minutes I passed my arm over his big soft shoulder—wherever you touched him you found equally little firmness—and said in a tone of which the suppliance fell oddly on my own ear: “Come back to town with me, old friend—come back and spend the evening.” I wanted to hold him, I wanted to keep him, and at Waterloo, an hour later, I telegraphed possessively to the Mulvilles. When he objected, as regards staying all night, that he had no things, I asked him if he hadn’t everything of mine. I had abstained from ordering dinner, and it was too late for preliminaries at a club; so we were reduced to tea and fried fish at my rooms—reduced also to the transcendent. Something had come up which made me want him to feel at peace with me—and which, precisely, was all the dear man himself wanted on any occasion. I had too often had to press upon him considerations irrelevant, but it gives me pleasure now to think that on that particular evening I didn’t even mention Mrs. Saltram and the children. Late into the night we smoked and talked; old shames and old rigours fell away from us; I only let him see that I was conscious of what I owed him. He was as mild as contrition and as copious as faith; he was never so fine as on a shy return, and even better at forgiving than at being forgiven. I dare say it was a smaller matter than that famous night at Wimbledon, the night of the problematical sobriety and of Miss Anvoy’s initiation; but I was as much in it on this occasion as I had been out of it then. At about 1.30 he was sublime. He never, in whatever situation, rose till all other risings were over, and his breakfasts, at Wimbledon, had always been the principal reason mentioned by departing cooks. The coast was therefore clear for me to receive her when, early the next morning, to my surprise, it was announced to me his wife had called. I hesitated, after she had come up, about telling her Saltram was in the house, but she herself settled the question, kept me reticent by drawing forth a sealed letter which, looking at me very hard in the eyes, she placed, with a pregnant absence of comment, in my hand. For a single moment there glimmered before me the fond hope that Mrs. Saltram had tendered me, as it were, her resignation and desired to embody the act in an unsparing form. To bring this about I would have feigned any humiliation; but after my eyes had caught the superscription I heard myself say with a flatness that betrayed a sense of something very different from relief: “Oh the Pudneys!” I knew their envelopes though they didn’t know mine. They always used the kind sold at post-offices with the stamp affixed, and as this letter hadn’t been posted they had wasted a penny on me. I had seen their horrid missives to the Mulvilles, but hadn’t been in direct correspondence with them. “They enclosed it to me, to be delivered. They doubtless explain to you that they hadn’t your address.” I turned the thing over without opening it. “Why in the world should they write to me?” “Because they’ve something to tell you. The worst,” Mrs. Saltram dryly added. It was another chapter, I felt, of the history of their lamentable quarrel with her husband, the episode in which, vindictively, disingenuously as they themselves had behaved, one had to admit that he had put himself more grossly in the wrong than at any moment of his life. He had begun by insulting the matchless Mulvilles for these more specious protectors, and then, according to his wont at the end of a few months, had dug a still deeper ditch for his aberration than the chasm left yawning behind. The chasm at Wimbledon was now blessedly closed; but the Pudneys, across their persistent gulf, kept up the nastiest fire. I never doubted they had a strong case, and I had been from the first for not defending him—reasoning that if they weren’t contradicted they’d perhaps subside. This was above all what I wanted, and I so far prevailed that I did arrest the correspondence in time to save our little circle an infliction heavier than it perhaps would have borne. I knew, that is I divined, that their allegations had gone as yet only as far as their courage, conscious as they were in their own virtue of an exposed place in which Saltram could have planted a blow. It was a question with them whether a man who had himself so much to cover up would dare his blow; so that these vessels of rancour were in a manner afraid of each other. I judged that on the day the Pudneys should cease for some reason or other to be afraid they would treat us to some revelation more disconcerting than any of its predecessors. As I held Mrs. Saltram’s letter in my hand it was distinctly communicated to me that the day had come—they had ceased to be afraid. “I don’t want to know the worst,” I presently declared. “You’ll have to open the letter. It also contains an enclosure.” I felt it—it was fat and uncanny. “Wheels within wheels!” I exclaimed. “There’s something for me too to deliver.” “So they tell me—to Miss Anvoy.” I stared; I felt a certain thrill. “Why don’t they send it to her directly?” Mrs. Saltram hung fire. “Because she’s staying with Mr. and Mrs. Mulville.” “And why should that prevent?” Again my visitor faltered, and I began to reflect on the grotesque, the unconscious perversity of her action. I was the only person save George Gravener and the Mulvilles who was aware of Sir Gregory Coxon’s and of Miss Anvoy’s strange bounty. Where could there have been a more signal illustration of the clumsiness of human affairs than her having complacently selected this moment to fly in the face of it? “There’s the chance of their seeing her letters. They know Mr. Pudney’s hand.” Still I didn’t understand; then it flashed upon me. “You mean they might intercept it? How can you imply anything so base?” I indignantly demanded. “It’s not I—it’s Mr. Pudney!” cried Mrs. Saltram with a flush. “It’s his own idea.” “Then why couldn’t he send the letter to you to be delivered?” Mrs. Saltram’s embarrassment increased; she gave me another hard look. “You must make that out for yourself.” I made it out quickly enough. “It’s a denunciation?” “A real lady doesn’t betray her husband!” this virtuous woman exclaimed. I burst out laughing, and I fear my laugh may have had an effect of impertinence. “Especially to Miss Anvoy, who’s so easily shocked? Why do such things concern _her_?” I asked, much at a loss. “Because she’s there, exposed to all his craft. Mr. and Mrs. Pudney have been watching this: they feel she may be taken in.” “Thank you for all the rest of us! What difference can it make when she has lost her power to contribute?” Again Mrs. Saltram considered; then very nobly: “There are other things in the world than money.” This hadn’t occurred to her so long as the young lady had any; but she now added, with a glance at my letter, that Mr. and Mrs. Pudney doubtless explained their motives. “It’s all in kindness,” she continued as she got up. “Kindness to Miss Anvoy? You took, on the whole, another view of kindness before her reverses.” My companion smiled with some acidity “Perhaps you’re no safer than the Mulvilles!” I didn’t want her to think that, nor that she should report to the Pudneys that they had not been happy in their agent; and I well remember that this was the moment at which I began, with considerable emotion, to promise myself to enjoin upon Miss Anvoy never to open any letter that should come to her in one of those penny envelopes. My emotion, and I fear I must add my confusion, quickly deepened; I presently should have been as glad to frighten Mrs. Saltram as to think I might by some diplomacy restore the Pudneys to a quieter vigilance. “It’s best you should take _my_ view of my safety,” I at any rate soon responded. When I saw she didn’t know what I meant by this I added: “You may turn out to have done, in bringing me this letter, a thing you’ll profoundly regret.” My tone had a significance which, I could see, did make her uneasy, and there was a moment, after I had made two or three more remarks of studiously bewildering effect, at which her eyes followed so hungrily the little flourish of the letter with which I emphasised them that I instinctively slipped Mr. Pudney’s communication into my pocket. She looked, in her embarrassed annoyance, capable of grabbing it to send it back to him. I felt, after she had gone, as if I had almost given her my word I wouldn’t deliver the enclosure. The passionate movement, at any rate, with which, in solitude, I transferred the whole thing, unopened, from my pocket to a drawer which I double-locked would have amounted, for an initiated observer, to some such pledge. XII MRS. SALTRAM left me drawing my breath more quickly and indeed almost in pain—as if I had just perilously grazed the loss of something precious. I didn’t quite know what it was—it had a shocking resemblance to my honour. The emotion was the livelier surely in that my pulses even yet vibrated to the pleasure with which, the night before, I had rallied to the rare analyst, the great intellectual adventurer and pathfinder. What had dropped from me like a cumbersome garment as Saltram appeared before me in the afternoon on the heath was the disposition to haggle over his value. Hang it, one had to choose, one had to put that value somewhere; so I would put it really high and have done with it. Mrs. Mulville drove in for him at a discreet hour—the earliest she could suppose him to have got up; and I learned that Miss Anvoy would also have come had she not been expecting a visit from Mr. Gravener. I was perfectly mindful that I was under bonds to see this young lady, and also that I had a letter to hand to her; but I took my time, I waited from day to day. I left Mrs. Saltram to deal as her apprehensions should prompt with the Pudneys. I knew at last what I meant—I had ceased to wince at my responsibility. I gave this supreme impression of Saltram time to fade if it would; but it didn’t fade, and, individually, it hasn’t faded even now. During the month that I thus invited myself to stiffen again, Adelaide Mulville, perplexed by my absence, wrote to me to ask why I _was_ so stiff. At that season of the year I was usually oftener “with” them. She also wrote that she feared a real estrangement had set in between Mr. Gravener and her sweet young friend—a state of things but half satisfactory to her so long as the advantage resulting to Mr. Saltram failed to disengage itself from the merely nebulous state. She intimated that her sweet young friend was, if anything, a trifle too reserved; she also intimated that there might now be an opening for another clever young man. There never was the slightest opening, I may here parenthesise, and of course the question can’t come up to-day. These are old frustrations now. Ruth Anvoy hasn’t married, I hear, and neither have I. During the month, toward the end, I wrote to George Gravener to ask if, on a special errand, I might come to see him, and his answer was to knock the very next day at my door. I saw he had immediately connected my enquiry with the talk we had had in the railway-carriage, and his promptitude showed that the ashes of his eagerness weren’t yet cold. I told him there was something I felt I ought in candour to let him know—I recognised the obligation his friendly confidence had laid on me. “You mean Miss Anvoy has talked to you? She has told me so herself,” he said. “It wasn’t to tell you so that I wanted to see you,” I replied; “for it seemed to me that such a communication would rest wholly with herself. If however she did speak to you of our conversation she probably told you I was discouraging.” “Discouraging?” “On the subject of a present application of The Coxon Fund.” “To the case of Mr. Saltram? My dear fellow, I don’t know what you call discouraging!” Gravener cried. “Well I thought I was, and I thought she thought I was.” “I believe she did, but such a thing’s measured by the effect. She’s not ‘discouraged,’” he said. “That’s her own affair. The reason I asked you to see me was that it appeared to me I ought to tell you frankly that—decidedly!—I can’t undertake to produce that effect. In fact I don’t want to!” “It’s very good of you, damn you!” my visitor laughed, red and really grave. Then he said: “You’d like to see that scoundrel publicly glorified—perched on the pedestal of a great complimentary pension?” I braced myself. “Taking one form of public recognition with another it seems to me on the whole I should be able to bear it. When I see the compliments that _are_ paid right and left I ask myself why this one shouldn’t take its course. This therefore is what you’re entitled to have looked to me to mention to you. I’ve some evidence that perhaps would be really dissuasive, but I propose to invite Mss Anvoy to remain in ignorance of it.” “And to invite me to do the same?” “Oh you don’t require it—you’ve evidence enough. I speak of a sealed letter that I’ve been requested to deliver to her.” “And you don’t mean to?” “There’s only one consideration that would make me,” I said. Gravener’s clear handsome eyes plunged into mine a minute, but evidently without fishing up a clue to this motive—a failure by which I was almost wounded. “What does the letter contain?” “It’s sealed, as I tell you, and I don’t know what it contains.” “Why is it sent through you?” “Rather than you?” I wondered how to put the thing. “The only explanation I can think of is that the person sending it may have imagined your relations with Miss Anvoy to be at an end—may have been told this is the case by Mrs. Saltram.” “My relations with Miss Anvoy are not at an end,” poor Gravener stammered. Again for an instant I thought. “The offer I propose to make you gives me the right to address you a question remarkably direct. Are you still engaged to Miss Anvoy?” “No, I’m not,” he slowly brought out. “But we’re perfectly good friends.” “Such good friends that you’ll again become prospective husband and wife if the obstacle in your path be removed?” “Removed?” he anxiously repeated. “If I send Miss Anvoy the letter I speak of she may give up her idea.” “Then for God’s sake send it!” “I’ll do so if you’re ready to assure me that her sacrifice would now presumably bring about your marriage.” “I’d marry her the next day!” my visitor cried. “Yes, but would she marry _you_? What I ask of you of course is nothing less than your word of honour as to your conviction of this. If you give it me,” I said, “I’ll engage to hand her the letter before night.” Gravener took up his hat; turning it mechanically round he stood looking a moment hard at its unruffled perfection. Then very angrily honestly and gallantly, “Hand it to the devil!” he broke out; with which he clapped the hat on his head and left me. “Will you read it or not?” I said to Ruth Anvoy, at Wimbledon, when I had told her the story of Mrs. Saltram’s visit. She debated for a time probably of the briefest, but long enough to make me nervous. “Have you brought it with you?” “No indeed. It’s at home, locked up.” There was another great silence, and then she said “Go back and destroy it.” I went back, but I didn’t destroy it till after Saltram’s death, when I burnt it unread. The Pudneys approached her again pressingly, but, prompt as they were, The Coxon Fund had already become an operative benefit and a general amaze: Mr. Saltram, while we gathered about, as it were, to watch the manna descend, had begun to draw the magnificent income. He drew it as he had always drawn everything, with a grand abstracted gesture. Its magnificence, alas, as all the world now knows, quite quenched him; it was the beginning of his decline. It was also naturally a new grievance for his wife, who began to believe in him as soon as he was blighted, and who at this hour accuses us of having bribed him, on the whim of a meddlesome American, to renounce his glorious office, to become, as she says, like everybody else. The very day he found himself able to publish he wholly ceased to produce. This deprived us, as may easily be imagined, of much of our occupation, and especially deprived the Mulvilles, whose want of self-support I never measured till they lost their great inmate. They’ve no one to live on now. Adelaide’s most frequent reference to their destitution is embodied in the remark that dear far-away Ruth’s intentions were doubtless good. She and Kent are even yet looking for another prop, but no one presents a true sphere of usefulness. They complain that people are self-sufficing. With Saltram the fine type of the child of adoption was scattered, the grander, the elder style. They’ve got their carriage back, but what’s an empty carriage? In short I think we were all happier as well as poorer before; even including George Gravener, who by the deaths of his brother and his nephew has lately become Lord Maddock. His wife, whose fortune clears the property, is criminally dull; he hates being in the Upper House, and hasn’t yet had high office. But what are these accidents, which I should perhaps apologise for mentioning, in the light of the great eventual boon promised the patient by the rate at which The Coxon Fund must be rolling up? Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: To whom does Miranda write her letters?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Her mother." ]	13,953	narrativeqa	en	null	89fa29fe98311bcd10f72a7d965065e2527f282e89594c37	Transcribed from the 1887 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk. Proofing by Andy McLauchan and David Stapleton. A BUNDLE OF LETTERS by Henry James CHAPTER I FROM MISS MIRANDA MOPE, IN PARIS, TO MRS. ABRAHAM C. MOPE, AT BANGOR, MAINE. September 5th, 1879. My dear mother--I have kept you posted as far as Tuesday week last, and, although my letter will not have reached you yet, I will begin another before my news accumulates too much. I am glad you show my letters round in the family, for I like them all to know what I am doing, and I can't write to every one, though I try to answer all reasonable expectations. But there are a great many unreasonable ones, as I suppose you know--not yours, dear mother, for I am bound to say that you never required of me more than was natural. You see you are reaping your reward: I write to you before I write to any one else. There is one thing, I hope--that you don't show any of my letters to William Platt. If he wants to see any of my letters, he knows the right way to go to work. I wouldn't have him see one of these letters, written for circulation in the family, for anything in the world. If he wants one for himself, he has got to write to me first. Let him write to me first, and then I will see about answering him. You can show him this if you like; but if you show him anything more, I will never write to you again. I told you in my last about my farewell to England, my crossing the Channel, and my first impressions of Paris. I have thought a great deal about that lovely England since I left it, and all the famous historic scenes I visited; but I have come to the conclusion that it is not a country in which I should care to reside. The position of woman does not seem to me at all satisfactory, and that is a point, you know, on which I feel very strongly. It seems to me that in England they play a very faded-out part, and those with whom I conversed had a kind of depressed and humiliated tone; a little dull, tame look, as if they were used to being snubbed and bullied, which made me want to give them a good shaking. There are a great many people--and a great many things, too--over here that I should like to perform that operation upon. I should like to shake the starch out of some of them, and the dust out of the others. I know fifty girls in Bangor that come much more up to my notion of the stand a truly noble woman should take, than those young ladies in England. But they had a most lovely way of speaking (in England), and the men are _remarkably handsome_. (You can show this to William Platt, if you like.) I gave you my first impressions of Paris, which quite came up to my expectations, much as I had heard and read about it. The objects of interest are extremely numerous, and the climate is remarkably cheerful and sunny. I should say the position of woman here was considerably higher, though by no means coming up to the American standard. The manners of the people are in some respects extremely peculiar, and I feel at last that I am indeed in _foreign parts_. It is, however, a truly elegant city (very superior to New York), and I have spent a great deal of time in visiting the various monuments and palaces. I won't give you an account of all my wanderings, though I have been most indefatigable; for I am keeping, as I told you before, a most _exhaustive_ journal, which I will allow you the _privilege_ of reading on my return to Bangor. I am getting on remarkably well, and I must say I am sometimes surprised at my universal good fortune. It only shows what a little energy and common-sense will accomplish. I have discovered none of these objections to a young lady travelling in Europe by herself of which we heard so much before I left, and I don't expect I ever shall, for I certainly don't mean to look for them. I know what I want, and I always manage to get it. I have received a great deal of politeness--some of it really most pressing, and I have experienced no drawbacks whatever. I have made a great many pleasant acquaintances in travelling round (both ladies and gentlemen), and had a great many most interesting talks. I have collected a great deal of information, for which I refer you to my journal. I assure you my journal is going to be a splendid thing. I do just exactly as I do in Bangor, and I find I do perfectly right; and at any rate, I don't care if I don't. I didn't come to Europe to lead a merely conventional life; I could do that at Bangor. You know I never _would_ do it at Bangor, so it isn't likely I am going to make myself miserable over here. So long as I accomplish what I desire, and make my money hold out, I shall regard the thing as a success. Sometimes I feel rather lonely, especially in the evening; but I generally manage to interest myself in something or in some one. In the evening I usually read up about the objects of interest I have visited during the day, or I post up my journal. Sometimes I go to the theatre; or else I play the piano in the public parlour. The public parlour at the hotel isn't much; but the piano is better than that fearful old thing at the Sebago House. Sometimes I go downstairs and talk to the lady who keeps the books--a French lady, who is remarkably polite. She is very pretty, and always wears a black dress, with the most beautiful fit; she speaks a little English; she tells me she had to learn it in order to converse with the Americans who come in such numbers to this hotel. She has given me a great deal of information about the position of woman in France, and much of it is very encouraging. But she has told me at the same time some things that I should not like to write to you (I am hesitating even about putting them into my journal), especially if my letters are to be handed round in the family. I assure you they appear to talk about things here that we never think of mentioning at Bangor, or even of thinking about. She seems to think she can tell me everything, because I told her I was travelling for general culture. Well, I _do_ want to know so much that it seems sometimes as if I wanted to know everything; and yet there are some things that I think I don't want to know. But, as a general thing, everything is intensely interesting; I don't mean only everything that this French lady tells me, but everything I see and hear for myself. I feel really as if I should gain all I desire. I meet a great many Americans, who, as a general thing, I must say, are not as polite to me as the people over here. The people over here--especially the gentlemen--are much more what I should call _attentive_. I don't know whether Americans are more _sincere_; I haven't yet made up my mind about that. The only drawback I experience is when Americans sometimes express surprise that I should be travelling round alone; so you see it doesn't come from Europeans. I always have my answer ready; "For general culture, to acquire the languages, and to see Europe for myself;" and that generally seems to satisfy them. Dear mother, my money holds out very well, and it _is_ real interesting. CHAPTER II FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. September 16th. Since I last wrote to you I have left that hotel, and come to live in a French family. It's a kind of boarding-house combined with a kind of school; only it's not like an American hoarding-house, nor like an American school either. There are four or five people here that have come to learn the language--not to take lessons, but to have an opportunity for conversation. I was very glad to come to such a place, for I had begun to realise that I was not making much progress with the French. It seemed to me that I should feel ashamed to have spent two months in Paris, and not to have acquired more insight into the language. I had always heard so much of French conversation, and I found I was having no more opportunity to practise it than if I had remained at Bangor. In fact, I used to hear a great deal more at Bangor, from those French Canadians that came down to cut the ice, than I saw I should ever hear at that hotel. The lady that kept the books seemed to want so much to talk to me in English (for the sake of practice, too, I suppose), that I couldn't bear to let her know I didn't like it. The chambermaid was Irish, and all the waiters were German, so that I never heard a word of French spoken. I suppose you might hear a great deal in the shops; only, as I don't buy anything--I prefer to spend my money for purposes of culture--I don't have that advantage. I have been thinking some of taking a teacher, but I am well acquainted with the grammar already, and teachers always keep you bothering over the verbs. I was a good deal troubled, for I felt as if I didn't want to go away without having, at least, got a general idea of French conversation. The theatre gives you a good deal of insight, and as I told you in my last, I go a good deal to places of amusement. I find no difficulty whatever in going to such places alone, and am always treated with the politeness which, as I told you before, I encounter everywhere. I see plenty of other ladies alone (mostly French), and they generally seem to be enjoying themselves as much as I. But at the theatre every one talks so fast that I can scarcely make out what they say; and, besides, there are a great many vulgar expressions which it is unnecessary to learn. But it was the theatre, nevertheless, that put me on the track. The very next day after I wrote to you last I went to the Palais Royal, which is one of the principal theatres in Paris. It is very small, but it is very celebrated, and in my guide-book it is marked with _two stars_, which is a sign of importance attached only to _first-class_ objects of interest. But after I had been there half an hour I found I couldn't understand a single word of the play, they gabbled it off so fast, and they made use of such peculiar expressions. I felt a good deal disappointed and troubled--I was afraid I shouldn't gain all I had come for. But while I was thinking it over--thinking what I _should_ do--I heard two gentlemen talking behind me. It was between the acts, and I couldn't help listening to what they said. They were talking English, but I guess they were Americans. "Well," said one of them, "it all depends on what you are after. I'm French; that's what I'm after." "Well," said the other, "I'm after Art." "Well," said the first, "I'm after Art too; but I'm after French most." Then, dear mother, I am sorry to say the second one swore a little. He said, "Oh, damn French!" "No, I won't damn French," said his friend. "I'll acquire it--that's what I'll do with it. I'll go right into a family." "What family'll you go into?" "Into some French family. That's the only way to do--to go to some place where you can talk. If you're after Art, you want to stick to the galleries; you want to go right through the Louvre, room by room; you want to take a room a day, or something of that sort. But, if you want to acquire French, the thing is to look out for a family. There are lots of French families here that take you to board and teach you. My second cousin--that young lady I told you about--she got in with a crowd like that, and they booked her right up in three months. They just took her right in and they talked to her. That's what they do to you; they set you right down and they talk _at_ you. You've got to understand them; you can't help yourself. That family my cousin was with has moved away somewhere, or I should try and get in with them. They were very smart people, that family; after she left, my cousin corresponded with them in French. But I mean to find some other crowd, if it takes a lot of trouble!" I listened to all this with great interest, and when he spoke about his cousin I was on the point of turning around to ask him the address of the family that she was with; but the next moment he said they had moved away; so I sat still. The other gentleman, however, didn't seem to be affected in the same way as I was. "Well," he said, "you may follow up that if you like; I mean to follow up the pictures. I don't believe there is ever going to be any considerable demand in the United States for French; but I can promise you that in about ten years there'll be a big demand for Art! And it won't be temporary either." That remark may be very true, but I don't care anything about the demand; I want to know French for its own sake. I don't want to think I have been all this while without having gained an insight . . . The very next day, I asked the lady who kept the books at the hotel whether she knew of any family that could take me to board and give me the benefit of their conversation. She instantly threw up her hands, with several little shrill cries (in their French way, you know), and told me that her dearest friend kept a regular place of that kind. If she had known I was looking out for such a place she would have told me before; she had not spoken of it herself, because she didn't wish to injure the hotel by being the cause of my going away. She told me this was a charming family, who had often received American ladies (and others as well) who wished to follow up the language, and she was sure I should be delighted with them. So she gave me their address, and offered to go with me to introduce me. But I was in such a hurry that I went off by myself; and I had no trouble in finding these good people. They were delighted to receive me, and I was very much pleased with what I saw of them. They seemed to have plenty of conversation, and there will be no trouble about that. I came here to stay about three days ago, and by this time I have seen a great deal of them. The price of board struck me as rather high; but I must remember that a quantity of conversation is thrown in. I have a very pretty little room--without any carpet, but with seven mirrors, two clocks, and five curtains. I was rather disappointed after I arrived to find that there are several other Americans here for the same purpose as myself. At least there are three Americans and two English people; and also a German gentleman. I am afraid, therefore, our conversation will be rather mixed, but I have not yet time to judge. I try to talk with Madame de Maisonrouge all I can (she is the lady of the house, and the _real_ family consists only of herself and her two daughters). They are all most elegant, interesting women, and I am sure we shall become intimate friends. I will write you more about them in my next. Tell William Platt I don't care what he does. CHAPTER III FROM MISS VIOLET RAY, IN PARIS, TO MISS AGNES RICH, IN NEW YORK. September 21st. We had hardly got here when father received a telegram saying he would have to come right back to New York. It was for something about his business--I don't know exactly what; you know I never understand those things, never want to. We had just got settled at the hotel, in some charming rooms, and mother and I, as you may imagine, were greatly annoyed. Father is extremely fussy, as you know, and his first idea, as soon as he found he should have to go back, was that we should go back with him. He declared he would never leave us in Paris alone, and that we must return and come out again. I don't know what he thought would happen to us; I suppose he thought we should be too extravagant. It's father's theory that we are always running up bills, whereas a little observation would show him that we wear the same old _rags_ FOR MONTHS. But father has no observation; he has nothing but theories. Mother and I, however, have, fortunately, a great deal of _practice_, and we succeeded in making him understand that we wouldn't budge from Paris, and that we would rather be chopped into small pieces than cross that dreadful ocean again. So, at last, he decided to go back alone, and to leave us here for three months. But, to show you how fussy he is, he refused to let us stay at the hotel, and insisted that we should go into a _family_. I don't know what put such an idea into his head, unless it was some advertisement that he saw in one of the American papers that are published here. There are families here who receive American and English people to live with them, under the pretence of teaching them French. You may imagine what people they are--I mean the families themselves. But the Americans who choose this peculiar manner of seeing Paris must be actually just as bad. Mother and I were horrified, and declared that main force should not remove us from the hotel. But father has a way of arriving at his ends which is more efficient than violence. He worries and fusses; he "nags," as we used to say at school; and, when mother and I are quite worn out, his triumph is assured. Mother is usually worn out more easily than I, and she ends by siding with father; so that, at last, when they combine their forces against poor little me, I have to succumb. You should have heard the way father went on about this "family" plan; he talked to every one he saw about it; he used to go round to the banker's and talk to the people there--the people in the post-office; he used to try and exchange ideas about it with the waiters at the hotel. He said it would be more safe, more respectable, more economical; that I should perfect my French; that mother would learn how a French household is conducted; that he should feel more easy, and five hundred reasons more. They were none of them good, but that made no difference. It's all humbug, his talking about economy, when every one knows that business in America has completely recovered, that the prostration is all over, and that immense fortunes are being made. We have been economising for the last five years, and I supposed we came abroad to reap the benefits of it. As for my French, it is quite as perfect as I want it to be. (I assure you I am often surprised at my own fluency, and, when I get a little more practice in the genders and the idioms, I shall do very well in this respect.) To make a long story short, however, father carried his point, as usual; mother basely deserted me at the last moment, and, after holding out alone for three days, I told them to do with me what they pleased! Father lost three steamers in succession by remaining in Paris to argue with me. You know he is like the schoolmaster in Goldsmith's "Deserted Village"--"e'en though vanquished, he would argue still." He and mother went to look at some seventeen families (they had got the addresses somewhere), while I retired to my sofa, and would have nothing to do with it. At last they made arrangements, and I was transported to the establishment from which I now write you. I write you from the bosom of a Parisian menage--from the depths of a second-rate boarding-house. Father only left Paris after he had seen us what he calls comfortably settled here, and had informed Madame de Maisonrouge (the mistress of the establishment--the head of the "family") that he wished my French pronunciation especially attended to. The pronunciation, as it happens, is just what I am most at home in; if he had said my genders or my idioms there would have been some sense. But poor father has no tact, and this defect is especially marked since he has been in Europe. He will be absent, however, for three months, and mother and I shall breathe more freely; the situation will be less intense. I must confess that we breathe more freely than I expected, in this place, where we have been for about a week. I was sure, before we came, that it would prove to be an establishment of the _lowest description_; but I must say that, in this respect, I am agreeably disappointed. The French are so clever that they know even how to manage a place of this kind. Of course it is very disagreeable to live with strangers, but as, after all, if I were not staying with Madame de Maisonrouge I should not be living in the Faubourg St. Germain, I don't know that from the point of view of exclusiveness it is any great loss to be here. Our rooms are very prettily arranged, and the table is remarkably good. Mamma thinks the whole thing--the place and the people, the manners and customs--very amusing; but mamma is very easily amused. As for me, you know, all that I ask is to be let alone, and not to have people's society forced upon me. I have never wanted for society of my own choosing, and, so long as I retain possession of my faculties, I don't suppose I ever shall. As I said, however, the place is very well managed, and I succeed in doing as I please, which, you know, is my most cherished pursuit. Madame de Maisonrouge has a great deal of tact--much more than poor father. She is what they call here a belle femme, which means that she is a tall, ugly woman, with style. She dresses very well, and has a great deal of talk; but, though she is a very good imitation of a lady, I never see her behind the dinner-table, in the evening, smiling and bowing, as the people come in, and looking all the while at the dishes and the servants, without thinking of a _dame de comptoir_ blooming in a corner of a shop or a restaurant. I am sure that, in spite of her fine name, she was once a _dame de comptoir_. I am also sure that, in spite of her smiles and the pretty things she says to every one, she hates us all, and would like to murder us. She is a hard, clever Frenchwoman, who would like to amuse herself and enjoy her Paris, and she must be bored to death at passing all her time in the midst of stupid English people who mumble broken French at her. Some day she will poison the soup or the _vin rouge_; but I hope that will not be until after mother and I shall have left her. She has two daughters, who, except that one is decidedly pretty, are meagre imitations of herself. The "family," for the rest, consists altogether of our beloved compatriots, and of still more beloved Englanders. There is an Englishman here, with his sister, and they seem to be rather nice people. He is remarkably handsome, but excessively affected and patronising, especially to us Americans; and I hope to have a chance of biting his head off before long. The sister is very pretty, and, apparently, very nice; but, in costume, she is Britannia incarnate. There is a very pleasant little Frenchman--when they are nice they are charming--and a German doctor, a big blonde man, who looks like a great white bull; and two Americans, besides mother and me. One of them is a young man from Boston,--an aesthetic young man, who talks about its being "a real Corot day," etc., and a young woman--a girl, a female, I don't know what to call her--from Vermont, or Minnesota, or some such place. This young woman is the most extraordinary specimen of artless Yankeeism that I ever encountered; she is really too horrible. I have been three times to Clementine about your underskirt, etc. CHAPTER IV FROM LOUIS LEVERETT, IN PARIS, TO HARVARD TREMONT, IN BOSTON. September 25th. My dear Harvard--I have carried out my plan, of which I gave you a hint in my last, and I only regret that I should not have done it before. It is human nature, after all, that is the most interesting thing in the world, and it only reveals itself to the truly earnest seeker. There is a want of earnestness in that life of hotels and railroad trains, which so many of our countrymen are content to lead in this strange Old World, and I was distressed to find how far I, myself; had been led along the dusty, beaten track. I had, however, constantly wanted to turn aside into more unfrequented ways; to plunge beneath the surface and see what I should discover. But the opportunity had always been missing; somehow, I never meet those opportunities that we hear about and read about--the things that happen to people in novels and biographies. And yet I am always on the watch to take advantage of any opening that may present itself; I am always looking out for experiences, for sensations--I might almost say for adventures. The great thing is to _live_, you know--to feel, to be conscious of one's possibilities; not to pass through life mechanically and insensibly, like a letter through the post-office. There are times, my dear Harvard, when I feel as if I were really capable of everything--capable _de tout_, as they say here--of the greatest excesses as well as the greatest heroism. Oh, to be able to say that one has lived--_qu'on a vecu_, as they say here--that idea exercises an indefinable attraction for me. You will, perhaps, reply, it is easy to say it; but the thing is to make people believe you! And, then, I don't want any second-hand, spurious sensations; I want the knowledge that leaves a trace--that leaves strange scars and stains and reveries behind it! But I am afraid I shock you, perhaps even frighten you. If you repeat my remarks to any of the West Cedar Street circle, be sure you tone them down as your discretion will suggest. For yourself; you will know that I have always had an intense desire to see something of _real French life_. You are acquainted with my great sympathy with the French; with my natural tendency to enter into the French way of looking at life. I sympathise with the artistic temperament; I remember you used sometimes to hint to me that you thought my own temperament too artistic. I don't think that in Boston there is any real sympathy with the artistic temperament; we tend to make everything a matter of right and wrong. And in Boston one can't _live--on ne peut pas vivre_, as they say here. I don't mean one can't reside--for a great many people manage that; but one can't live aesthetically--I may almost venture to say, sensuously. This is why I have always been so much drawn to the French, who are so aesthetic, so sensuous. I am so sorry that Theophile Gautier has passed away; I should have liked so much to go and see him, and tell him all that I owe him. He was living when I was here before; but, you know, at that time I was travelling with the Johnsons, who are not aesthetic, and who used to make me feel rather ashamed of my artistic temperament. If I had gone to see the great apostle of beauty, I should have had to go clandestinely--_en cachette_, as they say here; and that is not my nature; I like to do everything frankly, freely, _naivement, au grand jour_. That is the great thing--to be free, to be frank, to be _naif_. Doesn't Matthew Arnold say that somewhere--or is it Swinburne, or Pater? When I was with the Johnsons everything was superficial; and, as regards life, everything was brought down to the question of right and wrong. They were too didactic; art should never be didactic; and what is life but an art? Pater has said that so well, somewhere. With the Johnsons I am afraid I lost many opportunities; the tone was gray and cottony, I might almost say woolly. But now, as I tell you, I have determined to take right hold for myself; to look right into European life, and judge it without Johnsonian prejudices. I have taken up my residence in a French family, in a real Parisian house. You see I have the courage of my opinions; I don't shrink from carrying out my theory that the great thing is to _live_. You know I have always been intensely interested in Balzac, who never shrank from the reality, and whose almost _lurid_ pictures of Parisian life have often haunted me in my wanderings through the old wicked-looking streets on the other side of the river. I am only sorry that my new friends--my French family--do not live in the old city--_au coeur du vieux Paris_, as they say here. They live only in the Boulevard Haussman, which is less picturesque; but in spite of this they have a great deal of the Balzac tone. Madame de Maisonrouge belongs to one of the oldest and proudest families in France; but she has had reverses which have compelled her to open an establishment in which a limited number of travellers, who are weary of the beaten track, who have the sense of local colour--she explains it herself; she expresses it so well--in short, to open a sort of boarding-house. I don't see why I should not, after all, use that expression, for it is the correlative of the term _pension bourgeoise_, employed by Balzac in the _Pere Goriot_. Do you remember the _pension bourgeoise_ of Madame Vauquer _nee_ de Conflans? But this establishment is not at all like that: and indeed it is not at all _bourgeois_; there is something distinguished, something aristocratic, about it. The Pension Vauquer was dark, brown, sordid, _graisseuse_; but this is in quite a different tone, with high, clear, lightly-draped windows, tender, subtle, almost morbid, colours, and furniture in elegant, studied, reed-like lines. Madame de Maisonrouge reminds me of Madame Hulot--do you remember "la belle Madame Hulot?"--in _Les Barents Pauvres_. She has a great charm; a little artificial, a little fatigued, with a little suggestion of hidden things in her life; but I have always been sensitive to the charm of fatigue, of duplicity. I am rather disappointed, I confess, in the society I find here; it is not so local, so characteristic, as I could have desired. Indeed, to tell the truth, it is not local at all; but, on the other hand, it is cosmopolitan, and there is a great advantage in that. We are French, we are English, we are American, we are German; and, I believe, there are some Russians and Hungarians expected. I am much interested in the study of national types; in comparing, contrasting, seizing the strong points, the weak points, the point of view of each. It is interesting to shift one's point of view--to enter into strange, exotic ways of looking at life. The American types here are not, I am sorry to say, so interesting as they might be, and, excepting myself; are exclusively feminine. We are _thin_, my dear Harvard; we are pale, we are sharp. There is something meagre about us; our line is wanting in roundness, our composition in richness. We lack temperament; we don't know how to live; _nous ne savons pas vivre_, as they say here. The American temperament is represented (putting myself aside, and I often think that my temperament is not at all American) by a young girl and her mother, and another young girl without her mother--without her mother or any attendant or appendage whatever. These young girls are rather curious types; they have a certain interest, they have a certain grace, but they are disappointing too; they don't go far; they don't keep all they promise; they don't satisfy the imagination. They are cold, slim, sexless; the physique is not generous, not abundant; it is only the drapery, the skirts and furbelows (that is, I mean in the young lady who has her mother) that are abundant. They are very different: one of them all elegance, all expensiveness, with an air of high fashion, from New York; the other a plain, pure, clear-eyed, straight-waisted, straight-stepping maiden from the heart of New England. And yet they are very much alike too--more alike than they would care to think themselves for they eye each other with cold, mistrustful, deprecating looks. They are both specimens of the emancipated young American girl--practical, positive, passionless, subtle, and knowing, as you please, either too much or too little. And yet, as I say, they have a certain stamp, a certain grace; I like to talk with them, to study them. The fair New Yorker is, sometimes, very amusing; she asks me if every one in Boston talks like me--if every one is as "intellectual" as your poor correspondent. She is for ever throwing Boston up at me; I can't get rid of Boston. The other one rubs it into me too; but in a different way; she seems to feel about it as a good Mahommedan feels toward Mecca, and regards it as a kind of focus of light for the whole human race. Poor little Boston, what nonsense is talked in thy name! But this New England maiden is, in her way, a strange type: she is travelling all over Europe alone--"to see it," she says, "for herself." For herself! What can that stiff slim self of hers do with such sights, such visions! She looks at everything, goes everywhere, passes her way, with her clear quiet eyes wide open; skirting the edge of obscene abysses without suspecting them; pushing through brambles without tearing her robe; exciting, without knowing it, the most injurious suspicions; and always holding her course, passionless, stainless, fearless, charmless! It is a little figure in which, after all, if you can get the right point of view, there is something rather striking. By way of contrast, there is a lovely English girl, with eyes as shy as violets, and a voice as sweet! She has a sweet Gainsborough head, and a great Gainsborough hat, with a mighty plume in front of it, which makes a shadow over her quiet English eyes. Then she has a sage-green robe, "mystic, wonderful," all embroidered with subtle devices and flowers, and birds of tender tint; very straight and tight in front, and adorned behind, along the spine, with large, strange, iridescent buttons. The revival of taste, of the sense of beauty, in England, interests me deeply; what is there in a simple row of spinal buttons to make one dream--to _donnor a rever_, as they say here? I think that a great aesthetic renascence is at hand, and that a great light will be kindled in England, for all the world to see. There are spirits there that I should like to commune with; I think they would understand me. This gracious English maiden, with her clinging robes, her amulets and girdles, with something quaint and angular in her step, her carriage something mediaeval and Gothic, in the details of her person and dress, this lovely Evelyn Vane (isn't it a beautiful name?) is deeply, delightfully picturesque. She is much a woman--elle _est bien femme_, as they say here; simpler, softer, rounder, richer than the young girls I spoke of just now. Not much talk--a great, sweet silence. Then the violet eye--the very eye itself seems to blush; the great shadowy hat, making the brow so quiet; the strange, clinging, clutching, pictured raiment! As I say, it is a very gracious, tender type. She has her brother with her, who is a beautiful, fair-haired, gray-eyed young Englishman. He is purely objective; and he, too, is very plastic. CHAPTER V FROM MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER. September 26th. You must not be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it is not because I am in any trouble, but because I am getting on so well. If I were in any trouble I don't think I should write to you; I should just keep quiet and see it through myself. But that is not the case at present and, if I don't write to you, it is because I am so deeply interested over here that I don't seem to find time. It was a real providence that brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, I am able to do much good work. I wonder how I find the time for all I do; but when I think that I have only got a year in Europe, I feel as if I wouldn't sacrifice a single hour. The obstacles I refer to are the disadvantages I have in learning French, there being so many persons around me speaking English, and that, as you may say, in the very bosom of a French family. It seems as if you heard English everywhere; but I certainly didn't expect to find it in a place like this. I am not discouraged, however, and I talk French all I can, even with the other English boarders. Then I have a lesson every day from Miss Maisonrouge (the elder daughter of the lady of the house), and French conversation every evening in the salon, from eight to eleven, with Madame herself, and some friends of hers that often come in. Her cousin, Mr. Verdier, a young French gentleman, is fortunately staying with her, and I make a point of talking with him as much as possible. I have _extra private lessons_ from him, and I often go out to walk with him. Some night, soon, he is to accompany me to the opera. We have also a most interesting plan of visiting all the galleries in Paris together. Like most of the French, he converses with great fluency, and I feel as if I should really gain from him. He is remarkably handsome, and extremely polite--paying a great many compliments, which, I am afraid, are not always _sincere_. When I return to Bangor I will tell you some of the things he has said to me. I think you will consider them extremely curious, and very beautiful _in their way_. The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) is often remarkably brilliant, and I often wish that you, or some of the Bangor folks, could be there to enjoy it. Even though you couldn't understand it I think you would like to hear the way they go on; they seem to express so much. I sometimes think that at Bangor they don't express enough (but it seems as if over there, there was less to express). It seems as if; at Bangor, there were things that folks never _tried_ to say; but here, I have learned from studying French that you have no idea what you _can_ say, before you try. At Bangor they seem to give it up beforehand; they don't make any effort. (I don't say this in the least for William Platt, _in particular_.) I am sure I don't know what they will think of me when I get back. It seems as if; over here, I had learned to come out with everything. I suppose they will think I am not sincere; but isn't it more sincere to come out with things than to conceal them? I have become very good friends with every one in the house--that is (you see, I _am_ sincere), with _almost_ every one. It is the most interesting circle I ever was in. There's a girl here, an American, that I don't like so much as the rest; but that is only because she won't let me. I should like to like her, ever so much, because she is most lovely and most attractive; but she doesn't seem to want to know me or to like me. She comes from New York, and she is remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most delicate features; she is also remarkably elegant--in this respect would bear comparison with any one I have seen over here. But it seems as if she didn't want to recognise me or associate with me; as if she wanted to make a difference between us. It is like people they call "haughty" in books. I have never seen any one like that before--any one that wanted to make a difference; and at first I was right down interested, she seemed to me so like a proud young lady in a novel. I kept saying to myself all day, "haughty, haughty," and I wished she would keep on so. But she did keep on; she kept on too long; and then I began to feel hurt. I couldn't think what I have done, and I can't think yet. It's as if she had got some idea about me, or had heard some one say something. If some girls should behave like that I shouldn't make any account of it; but this one is so refined, and looks as if she might be so interesting if I once got to know her, that I think about it a good deal. I am bound to find out what her reason is--for of course she has got some reason; I am right down curious to know. I went up to her to ask her the day before yesterday; I thought that was the best way. I told her I wanted to know her better, and would like to come and see her in her room--they tell me she has got a lovely room--and that if she had heard anything against me, perhaps she would tell me when I came. But she was more distant than ever, and she just turned it off; said that she had never heard me mentioned, and that her room was too small to receive visitors. I suppose she spoke the truth, but I am sure she has got some reason, all the same. She has got some idea, and I am bound to find out before I go, if I have to ask everybody in the house. I _am_ right down curious. I wonder if she doesn't think me refined--or if she had ever heard anything against Bangor? I can't think it is that. Don't you remember when Clara Barnard went to visit New York, three years ago, how much attention she received? And you know Clara _is_ Bangor, to the soles of her shoes. Ask William Platt--so long as he isn't a native--if he doesn't consider Clara Barnard refined. Apropos, as they say here, of refinement, there is another American in the house--a gentleman from Boston--who is just crowded with it. His name is Mr. Louis Leverett (such a beautiful name, I think), and he is about thirty years old. He is rather small, and he looks pretty sick; he suffers from some affection of the liver. But his conversation is remarkably interesting, and I delight to listen to him--he has such beautiful ideas. I feel as if it were hardly right, not being in French; but, fortunately, he uses a great many French expressions. It's in a different style from the conversation of Mr. Verdier--not so complimentary, but more intellectual. He is intensely fond of pictures, and has given me a great many ideas about them which I should never have gained without him; I shouldn't have known where to look for such ideas. He thinks everything of pictures; he thinks we don't make near enough of them. They seem to make a good deal of them here; but I couldn't help telling him the other day that in Bangor I really don't think we do. If I had any money to spend I would buy some and take them back, to hang up. Mr. Leverett says it would do them good--not the pictures, but the Bangor folks. He thinks everything of the French, too, and says we don't make nearly enough of _them_. I couldn't help telling him the other day that at any rate they make enough of themselves. But it is very interesting to hear him go on about the French, and it is so much gain to me, so long as that is what I came for. I talk to him as much as I dare about Boston, but I do feel as if this were right down wrong--a stolen pleasure. I can get all the Boston culture I want when I go back, if I carry out my plan, my happy vision, of going there to reside. I ought to direct all my efforts to European culture now, and keep Boston to finish off. But it seems as if I couldn't help taking a peep now and then, in advance--with a Bostonian. I don't know when I may meet one again; but if there are many others like Mr. Leverett there, I shall be certain not to want when I carry out my dream. He is just as full of culture as he can live. But it seems strange how many different sorts there are. There are two of the English who I suppose are very cultivated too; but it doesn't seem as if I could enter into theirs so easily, though I try all I can. I do love their way of speaking, and sometimes I feel almost as if it would be right to give up trying to learn French, and just try to learn to speak our own tongue as these English speak it. It isn't the things they say so much, though these are often rather curious, but it is in the way they pronounce, and the sweetness of their voice. It seems as if they must _try_ a good deal to talk like that; but these English that are here don't seem to try at all, either to speak or do anything else. They are a young lady and her brother. I believe they belong to some noble family. I have had a good deal of intercourse with them, because I have felt more free to talk to them than to the Americans--on account of the language. It seems as if in talking with them I was almost learning a new one. I never supposed, when I left Bangor, that I was coming to Europe to learn _English_! If I do learn it, I don't think you will understand me when I get back, and I don't think you'll like it much. I should be a good deal criticised if I spoke like that at Bangor. However, I verily believe Bangor is the most critical place on earth; I have seen nothing like it over here. Tell them all I have come to the conclusion that they are _a great deal too fastidious_. But I was speaking about this English young lady and her brother. I wish I could put them before you. She is lovely to look at; she seems so modest and retiring. In spite of this, however, she dresses in a way that attracts great attention, as I couldn't help noticing when one day I went out to walk with her. She was ever so much looked at; but she didn't seem to notice it, until at last I couldn't help calling attention to it. Mr. Leverett thinks everything of it; he calls it the "costume of the future." I should call it rather the costume of the past--you know the English have such an attachment to the past. I said this the other day to Madame do Maisonrouge--that Miss Vane dressed in the costume of the past. _De l'an passe, vous voulez dire_? said Madame, with her little French laugh (you can get William Platt to translate this, he used to tell me he knew so much French). You know I told you, in writing some time ago, that I had tried to get some insight into the position of woman in England, and, being here with Miss Vane, it has seemed to me to be a good opportunity to get a little more. I have asked her a great deal about it; but she doesn't seem able to give me much information. The first time I asked her she told me the position of a lady depended upon the rank of her father, her eldest brother, her husband, etc. She told me her own position was very good, because her father was some relation--I forget what--to a lord. She thinks everything of this; and that proves to me that the position of woman in her country cannot be satisfactory; because, if it were, it wouldn't depend upon that of your relations, even your nearest. I don't know much about lords, and it does try my patience (though she is just as sweet as she can live) to hear her talk as if it were a matter of course that I should. I feel as if it were right to ask her as often as I can if she doesn't consider every one equal; but she always says she doesn't, and she confesses that she doesn't think she is equal to "Lady Something-or-other," who is the wife of that relation of her father. I try and persuade her all I can that she is; but it seems as if she didn't want to be persuaded; and when I ask her if Lady So-and-so is of the same opinion (that Miss Vane isn't her equal), she looks so soft and pretty with her eyes, and says, "Of course she is!" When I tell her that this is right down bad for Lady So-and-so, it seems as if she wouldn't believe me, and the only answer she will make is that Lady So-and-so is "extremely nice." I don't believe she is nice at all; if she were nice, she wouldn't have such ideas as that. I tell Miss Vane that at Bangor we think such ideas vulgar; but then she looks as though she had never heard of Bangor. I often want to shake her, though she _is_ so sweet. If she isn't angry with the people who make her feel that way, I am angry for her. I am angry with her brother too, for she is evidently very much afraid of him, and this gives me some further insight into the subject. She thinks everything of her brother, and thinks it natural that she should be afraid of him, not only physically (for this _is_ natural, as he is enormously tall and strong, and has very big fists), but morally and intellectually. She seems unable, however, to take in any argument, and she makes me realise what I have often heard--that if you are timid nothing will reason you out of it. Mr. Vane, also (the brother), seems to have the same prejudices, and when I tell him, as I often think it right to do, that his sister is not his subordinate, even if she does think so, but his equal, and, perhaps in some respects his superior, and that if my brother, in Bangor, were to treat me as he treates this poor young girl, who has not spirit enough to see the question in its true light, there would be an indignation, meeting of the citizens to protest against such an outrage to the sanctity of womanhood--when I tell him all this, at breakfast or dinner, he bursts out laughing so loud that all the plates clatter on the table. But at such a time as this there is always one person who seems interested in what I say--a German gentleman, a professor, who sits next to me at dinner, and whom I must tell you more about another time. He is very learned, and has a great desire for information; he appreciates a great many of my remarks, and after dinner, in the salon, he often comes to me to ask me questions about them. I have to think a little, sometimes, to know what I did say, or what I do think. He takes you right up where you left off; and he is almost as fond of discussing things as William Platt is. He is splendidly educated, in the German style, and he told me the other day that he was an "intellectual broom." Well, if he is, he sweeps clean; I told him that. After he has been talking to me I feel as if I hadn't got a speck of dust left in my mind anywhere. It's a most delightful feeling. He says he's an observer; and I am sure there is plenty over here to observe. But I have told you enough for to-day. I don't know how much longer I shall stay here; I am getting on so fast that it sometimes seems as if I shouldn't need all the time I have laid out. I suppose your cold weather has promptly begun, as usual; it sometimes makes me envy you. The fall weather here is very dull and damp, and I feel very much as if I should like to be braced up. CHAPTER VI FROM MISS EVELYN VANE, IN PARIS, TO THE LADY AUGUSTA FLEMING, AT BRIGHTON. Paris, September 30th. Dear Lady Augusta--I am afraid I shall not be able to come to you on January 7th, as you kindly proposed at Homburg. I am so very, very sorry; it is a great disappointment to me. But I have just heard that it has been settled that mamma and the children are coming abroad for a part of the winter, and mamma wishes me to go with them to Hyeres, where Georgina has been ordered for her lungs. She has not been at all well these three months, and now that the damp weather has begun she is very poorly indeed; so that last week papa decided to have a consultation, and he and mamma went with her up to town and saw some three or four doctors. They all of them ordered the south of France, but they didn't agree about the place; so that mamma herself decided for Hyeres, because it is the most economical. I believe it is very dull, but I hope it will do Georgina good. I am afraid, however, that nothing will do her good until she consents to take more care of herself; I am afraid she is very wild and wilful, and mamma tells me that all this month it has taken papa's positive orders to make her stop in-doors. She is very cross (mamma writes me) about coming abroad, and doesn't seem at all to mind the expense that papa has been put to--talks very ill-naturedly about losing the hunting, etc. She expected to begin to hunt in December, and wants to know whether anybody keeps hounds at Hyeres. Fancy a girl wanting to follow the hounds when her lungs are so bad! But I daresay that when she gets there she will he glad enough to keep quiet, as they say that the heat is intense. It may cure Georgina, but I am sure it will make the rest of us very ill. Mamma, however, is only going to bring Mary and Gus and Fred and Adelaide abroad with her; the others will remain at Kingscote until February (about the 3d), when they will go to Eastbourne for a month with Miss Turnover, the new governess, who has turned out such a very nice person. She is going to take Miss Travers, who has been with us so long, but who is only qualified for the younger children, to Hyeres, and I believe some of the Kingscote servants. She has perfect confidence in Miss T.; it is only a pity she has such an odd name. Mamma thought of asking her if she would mind taking another when she came; but papa thought she might object. Lady Battledown makes all her governesses take the same name; she gives 5 pounds more a year for the purpose. I forget what it is she calls them; I think it's Johnson (which to me always suggests a lady's maid). Governesses shouldn't have too pretty a name; they shouldn't have a nicer name than the family. I suppose you heard from the Desmonds that I did not go back to England with them. When it began to be talked about that Georgina should be taken abroad, mamma wrote to me that I had better stop in Paris for a month with Harold, so that she could pick me up on their way to Hyeres. It saves the expense of my journey to Kingscote and back, and gives me the opportunity to "finish" a little in French. You know Harold came here six weeks ago, to get up his French for those dreadful examinations that he has to pass so soon. He came to live with some French people that take in young men (and others) for this purpose; it's a kind of coaching place, only kept by women. Mamma had heard it was very nice; so she wrote to me that I was to come and stop here with Harold. The Desmonds brought me and made the arrangement, or the bargain, or whatever you call it. Poor Harold was naturally not at all pleased; but he has been very kind, and has treated me like an angel. He is getting on beautifully with his French; for though I don't think the place is so good as papa supposed, yet Harold is so immensely clever that he can scarcely help learning. I am afraid I learn much less, but, fortunately, I have not to pass an examination--except if mamma takes it into her head to examine me. But she will have so much to think of with Georgina that I hope this won't occur to her. If it does, I shall be, as Harold says, in a dreadful funk. This is not such a nice place for a girl as for a young man, and the Desmonds thought it _exceedingly odd_ that mamma should wish me to come here. As Mrs. Desmond said, it is because she is so very unconventional. But you know Paris is so very amusing, and if only Harold remains good- natured about it, I shall be content to wait for the caravan (that's what he calls mamma and the children). The person who keeps the establishment, or whatever they call it, is rather odd, and _exceedingly foreign_; but she is wonderfully civil, and is perpetually sending to my door to see if I want anything. The servants are not at all like English servants, and come bursting in, the footman (they have only one) and the maids alike, at all sorts of hours, in the _most sudden way_. Then when one rings, it is half an hour before they come. All this is very uncomfortable, and I daresay it will be worse at Hyeres. There, however, fortunately, we shall have our own people. There are some very odd Americans here, who keep throwing Harold into fits of laughter. One is a dreadful little man who is always sitting over the fire, and talking about the colour of the sky. I don't believe he ever saw the sky except through the window--pane. The other day he took hold of my frock (that green one you thought so nice at Homburg) and told me that it reminded him of the texture of the Devonshire turf. And then he talked for half an hour about the Devonshire turf; which I thought such a very extraordinary subject. Harold says he is mad. It is very strange to be living in this way with people one doesn't know. I mean that one doesn't know as one knows them in England. The other Americans (beside the madman) are two girls, about my own age, one of whom is rather nice. She has a mother; but the mother is always sitting in her bedroom, which seems so very odd. I should like mamma to ask them to Kingscote, but I am afraid mamma wouldn't like the mother, who is rather vulgar. The other girl is rather vulgar too, and is travelling about quite alone. I think she is a kind of schoolmistress; but the other girl (I mean the nicer one, with the mother) tells me she is more respectable than she seems. She has, however, the most extraordinary opinions--wishes to do away with the aristocracy, thinks it wrong that Arthur should have Kingscote when papa dies, etc. I don't see what it signifies to her that poor Arthur should come into the property, which will be so delightful--except for papa dying. But Harold says she is mad. He chaffs her tremendously about her radicalism, and he is so immensely clever that she can't answer him, though she is rather clever too. There is also a Frenchman, a nephew, or cousin, or something, of the person of the house, who is extremely nasty; and a German professor, or doctor, who eats with his knife and is a great bore. I am so very sorry about giving up my visit. I am afraid you will never ask me again. CHAPTER VII FROM LEON VERDIER, IN PARIS, TO PROSPER GOBAIN, AT LILLE. September 28th. My Dear Prosper--It is a long time since I have given you of my news, and I don't know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to your affectionate memory. I suppose it is that when we are happy the mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our exaltations and depressions, and _je t'eu ai trop dit, dans le bon temps, mon gros Prosper_, and you always listened to me too imperturbably, with your pipe in your mouth, your waistcoat unbuttoned, for me not to feel that I can count upon your sympathy to-day. _Nous en sommes nous flanquees des confidences_--in those happy days when my first thought in seeing an adventure _poindre a l'horizon_ was of the pleasure I should have in relating it to the great Prosper. As I tell thee, I am happy; decidedly, I am happy, and from this affirmation I fancy you can construct the rest. Shall I help thee a little? Take three adorable girls . . . three, my good Prosper--the mystic number--neither more nor less. Take them and place thy insatiable little Leon in the midst of them! Is the situation sufficiently indicated, and do you apprehend the motives of my felicity? You expected, perhaps, I was going to tell you that I had made my fortune, or that the Uncle Blondeau had at last decided to return into the breast of nature, after having constituted me his universal legatee. But I needn't remind you that women are always for something in the happiness of him who writes to thee--for something in his happiness, and for a good deal more in his misery. But don't let me talk of misery now; time enough when it comes; _ces demoiselles_ have gone to join the serried ranks of their amiable predecessors. Excuse me--I comprehend your impatience. I will tell you of whom _ces demoiselles_ consist. You have heard me speak of my _cousine_ de Maisonrouge, that grande _belle femme_, who, after having married, _en secondes_ noces--there had been, to tell the truth, some irregularity about her first union--a venerable relic of the old noblesse of Poitou, was left, by the death of her husband, complicated by the indulgence of expensive tastes on an income of 17,000 francs, on the pavement of Paris, with two little demons of daughters to bring up in the path of virtue. She managed to bring them up; my little cousins are rigidly virtuous. If you ask me how she managed it, I can't tell you; it's no business of mine, and, _a fortiori_ none of yours. She is now fifty years old (she confesses to thirty-seven), and her daughters, whom she has never been able to marry, are respectively twenty-seven and twenty-three (they confess to twenty and to seventeen). Three years ago she had the thrice-blessed idea of opening a sort of _pension_ for the entertainment and instruction of the blundering barbarians who come to Paris in the hope of picking up a few stray particles of the language of Voltaire--or of Zola. The idea _lui a porte bonheur_; the shop does a very good business. Until within a few months ago it was carried on by my cousins alone; but lately the need of a few extensions and embellishments has caused itself to be felt. My cousin has undertaken them, regardless of expense; she has asked me to come and stay with her--board and lodging gratis--and keep an eye on the grammatical eccentricities of her _pensionnaires_. I am the extension, my good Prosper; I am the embellishment! I live for nothing, and I straighten up the accent of the prettiest English lips. The English lips are not all pretty, heaven knows, but enough of them are so to make it a gaining bargain for me. Just now, as I told you, I am in daily conversation with three separate pairs. The owner of one of them has private lessons; she pays extra. My cousin doesn't give me a sou of the money; but I make bold, nevertheless, to say that my trouble is remunerated. But I am well, very well, with the proprietors of the two other pairs. One of them is a little Anglaise, of about twenty--a little _figure de keepsake_; the most adorable miss that you ever, or at least that I ever beheld. She is decorated all over with beads and bracelets and embroidered dandelions; but her principal decoration consists of the softest little gray eyes in the world, which rest upon you with a profundity of confidence--a confidence that I really feel some compunction in betraying. She has a tint as white as this sheet of paper, except just in the middle of each cheek, where it passes into the purest and most transparent, most liquid, carmine. Occasionally this rosy fluid overflows into the rest of her face--by which I mean that she blushes--as softly as the mark of your breath on the window-pane. Like every Anglaise, she is rather pinched and prim in public; but it is very easy to see that when no one is looking _elle ne demande qu'a se laisser aller_! Whenever she wants it I am always there, and I have given her to understand that she can count upon me. I have reason to believe that she appreciates the assurance, though I am bound in honesty to confess that with her the situation is a little less advanced than with the others. _Que voulez-vous_? The English are heavy, and the Anglaises move slowly, that's all. The movement, however, is perceptible, and once this fact is established I can let the pottage simmer. I can give her time to arrive, for I am over-well occupied with her _concurrentes_. _Celles-ci_ don't keep me waiting, _par exemple_! These young ladies are Americans, and you know that it is the national character to move fast. "All right--go ahead!" (I am learning a great deal of English, or, rather, a great deal of American.) They go ahead at a rate that sometimes makes it difficult for me to keep up. One of them is prettier than the other; but this hatter (the one that takes the private lessons) is really _une file prodigieuse_. _Ah, par exemple, elle brule ses vais-seux cella-la_! She threw herself into my arms the very first day, and I almost owed her a grudge for having deprived me of that pleasure of gradation, of carrying the defences, one by one, which is almost as great as that of entering the place. Would you believe that at the end of exactly twelve minutes she gave me a rendezvous? It is true it was in the Galerie d'Apollon, at the Louvre; but that was respectable for a beginning, and since then we have had them by the dozen; I have ceased to keep the account. _Non, c'est une file qui me depasse_. The little one (she has a mother somewhere, out of sight, shut up in a closet or a trunk) is a good deal prettier, and, perhaps, on that account _elle y met plus de facons_. She doesn't knock about Paris with me by the hour; she contents herself with long interviews in the _petit salon_, with the curtains half-drawn, beginning at about three o'clock, when every one is _a la promenade_. She is admirable, this little one; a little too thin, the bones rather accentuated, but the detail, on the whole, most satisfactory. And you can say anything to her. She takes the trouble to appear not to understand, but her conduct, half an hour afterwards, reassures you completely--oh, completely! However, it is the tall one, the one of the private lessons, that is the most remarkable. These private lessons, my good Prosper, are the most brilliant invention of the age, and a real stroke of genius on the part of Miss Miranda! They also take place in the _petit salon_, but with the doors tightly closed, and with explicit directions to every one in the house that we are not to be disturbed. And we are not, my good Prosper; we are not! Not a sound, not a shadow, interrupts our felicity. My _cousine_ is really admirable; the shop deserves to succeed. Miss Miranda is tall and rather flat; she is too pale; she hasn't the adorable _rougeurs_ of the little Anglaise. But she has bright, keen, inquisitive eyes, superb teeth, a nose modelled by a sculptor, and a way of holding up her head and looking every one in the face, which is the most finished piece of impertinence I ever beheld. She is making the _tour du monde_ entirely alone, without even a soubrette to carry the ensign, for the purpose of seeing for herself _a quoi s'en tenir sur les hommes et les choses--on les hommes_ particularly. _Dis donc_, Prosper, it must be a _drole de pays_ over there, where young persons animated by this ardent curiosity are manufactured! If we should turn the tables, some day, thou and I, and go over and see it for ourselves. It is as well that we should go and find them _chez elles_, as that they should come out here after us. _Dis donc, mon gras Prosper_ . . . CHAPTER VIII FROM DR. RUDOLF STAUB, IN PARIS, TO DR. JULIUS HIRSCH, AT GOTTINGEN. My dear brother in Science--I resume my hasty notes, of which I sent you the first instalment some weeks ago. I mentioned then that I intended to leave my hotel, not finding it sufficiently local and national. It was kept by a Pomeranian, and the waiters, without exception, were from the Fatherland. I fancied myself at Berlin, Unter den Linden, and I reflected that, having taken the serious step of visiting the head-quarters of the Gallic genius, I should try and project myself; as much as possible, into the circumstances which are in part the consequence and in part the cause of its irrepressible activity. It seemed to me that there could be no well-grounded knowledge without this preliminary operation of placing myself in relations, as slightly as possible modified by elements proceeding from a different combination of causes, with the spontaneous home-life of the country. I accordingly engaged a room in the house of a lady of pure French extraction and education, who supplements the shortcomings of an income insufficient to the ever-growing demands of the Parisian system of sense- gratification, by providing food and lodging for a limited number of distinguished strangers. I should have preferred to have my room alone in the house, and to take my meals in a brewery, of very good appearance, which I speedily discovered in the same street; but this arrangement, though very lucidly proposed by myself; was not acceptable to the mistress of the establishment (a woman with a mathematical head), and I have consoled myself for the extra expense by fixing my thoughts upon the opportunity that conformity to the customs of the house gives me of studying the table-manners of my companions, and of observing the French nature at a peculiarly physiological moment, the moment when the satisfaction of the _taste_, which is the governing quality in its composition, produces a kind of exhalation, an intellectual transpiration, which, though light and perhaps invisible to a superficial spectator, is nevertheless appreciable by a properly adjusted instrument. I have adjusted my instrument very satisfactorily (I mean the one I carry in my good square German head), and I am not afraid of losing a single drop of this valuable fluid, as it condenses itself upon the plate of my observation. A prepared surface is what I need, and I have prepared my surface. Unfortunately here, also, I find the individual native in the minority. There are only four French persons in the house--the individuals concerned in its management, three of whom are women, and one a man. This preponderance of the feminine element is, however, in itself characteristic, as I need not remind you what an abnormally--developed part this sex has played in French history. The remaining figure is apparently that of a man, but I hesitate to classify him so superficially. He appears to me less human than simian, and whenever I hear him talk I seem to myself to have paused in the street to listen to the shrill clatter of a hand-organ, to which the gambols of a hairy _homunculus_ form an accompaniment. I mentioned to you before that my expectation of rough usage, in consequence of my German nationality, had proved completely unfounded. No one seems to know or to care what my nationality is, and I am treated, on the contrary, with the civility which is the portion of every traveller who pays the bill without scanning the items too narrowly. This, I confess, has been something of a surprise to me, and I have not yet made up my mind as to the fundamental cause of the anomaly. My determination to take up my abode in a French interior was largely dictated by the supposition that I should be substantially disagreeable to its inmates. I wished to observe the different forms taken by the irritation that I should naturally produce; for it is under the influence of irritation that the French character most completely expresses itself. My presence, however, does not appear to operate as a stimulus, and in this respect I am materially disappointed. They treat me as they treat every one else; whereas, in order to be treated differently, I was resigned in advance to be treated worse. I have not, as I say, fully explained to myself this logical contradiction; but this is the explanation to which I tend. The French are so exclusively occupied with the idea of themselves, that in spite of the very definite image the German personality presented to them by the war of 1870, they have at present no distinct apprehension of its existence. They are not very sure that there are any Germans; they have already forgotten the convincing proofs of the fact that were presented to them nine years ago. A German was something disagreeable, which they determined to keep out of their conception of things. I therefore think that we are wrong to govern ourselves upon the hypothesis of the _revanche_; the French nature is too shallow for that large and powerful plant to bloom in it. The English-speaking specimens, too, I have not been willing to neglect the opportunity to examine; and among these I have paid special attention to the American varieties, of which I find here several singular examples. The two most remarkable are a young man who presents all the characteristics of a period of national decadence; reminding me strongly of some diminutive Hellenised Roman of the third century. He is an illustration of the period of culture in which the faculty of appreciation has obtained such a preponderance over that of production that the latter sinks into a kind of rank sterility, and the mental condition becomes analogous to that of a malarious bog. I learn from him that there is an immense number of Americans exactly resembling him, and that the city of Boston, indeed, is almost exclusively composed of them. (He communicated this fact very proudly, as if it were greatly to the credit of his native country; little perceiving the truly sinister impression it made upon me.) What strikes one in it is that it is a phenomenon to the best of my knowledge--and you know what my knowledge is--unprecedented and unique in the history of mankind; the arrival of a nation at an ultimate stage of evolution without having passed through the mediate one; the passage of the fruit, in other words, from crudity to rottenness, without the interposition of a period of useful (and ornamental) ripeness. With the Americans, indeed, the crudity and the rottenness are identical and simultaneous; it is impossible to say, as in the conversation of this deplorable young man, which is one and which is the other; they are inextricably mingled. I prefer the talk of the French _homunculus_; it is at least more amusing. It is interesting in this manner to perceive, so largely developed, the germs of extinction in the so-called powerful Anglo-Saxon family. I find them in almost as recognisable a form in a young woman from the State of Maine, in the province of New England, with whom I have had a good deal of conversation. She differs somewhat from the young man I just mentioned, in that the faculty of production, of action, is, in her, less inanimate; she has more of the freshness and vigour that we suppose to belong to a young civilisation. But unfortunately she produces nothing but evil, and her tastes and habits are similarly those of a Roman lady of the lower Empire. She makes no secret of them, and has, in fact, elaborated a complete system of licentious behaviour. As the opportunities she finds in her own country do not satisfy her, she has come to Europe "to try," as she says, "for herself." It is the doctrine of universal experience professed with a cynicism that is really most extraordinary, and which, presenting itself in a young woman of considerable education, appears to me to be the judgment of a society. Another observation which pushes me to the same induction--that of the premature vitiation of the American population--is the attitude of the Americans whom I have before me with regard to each other. There is another young lady here, who is less abnormally developed than the one I have just described, but who yet bears the stamp of this peculiar combination of incompleteness and effeteness. These three persons look with the greatest mistrust and aversion upon each other; and each has repeatedly taken me apart and assured me, secretly, that he or she only is the real, the genuine, the typical American. A type that has lost itself before it has been fixed--what can you look for from this? Add to this that there are two young Englanders in the house, who hate all the Americans in a lump, making between them none of the distinctions and favourable comparisons which they insist upon, and you will, I think, hold me warranted in believing that, between precipitate decay and internecine enmities, the English-speaking family is destined to consume itself; and that with its decline the prospect of general pervasiveness, to which I alluded above, will brighten for the deep-lunged children of the Fatherland! CHAPTER IX MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER. October 22d Dear Mother--I am off in a day or two to visit some new country; I haven't yet decided which. I have satisfied myself with regard to France, and obtained a good knowledge of the language. I have enjoyed my visit to Madame de Maisonrouge deeply, and feel as if I were leaving a circle of real friends. Everything has gone on beautifully up to the end, and every one has been as kind and attentive as if I were their own sister, especially Mr. Verdier, the French gentleman, from whom I have gained more than I ever expected (in six weeks), and with whom I have promised to correspond. So you can imagine me dashing off the most correct French letters; and, if you don't believe it, I will keep the rough draft to show you when I go back. The German gentleman is also more interesting, the more you know him; it seems sometimes as if I could fairly drink in his ideas. I have found out why the young lady from New York doesn't like me! It is because I said one day at dinner that I admired to go to the Louvre. Well, when I first came, it seemed as if I _did_ admire everything! Tell William Platt his letter has come. I knew he would have to write, and I was bound I would make him! I haven't decided what country I will visit yet; it seems as if there were so many to choose from. But I shall take care to pick out a good one, and to meet plenty of fresh experiences. Dearest mother, my money holds out, and it _is_ most interesting! Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How many days do viewers of the tape have to live after they watch it?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "7 days" ]	17,501	narrativeqa	en	null	aab61294906308c2c4f4410552bfe47885450370839736ad	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What was Grassou's wife's name?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: Pierre Grassou, a genre painter, lives in a small studio in the rue de Navarin. He is a hard worker and has a steady income, thanks to his pictures being sold by Elie Magus, a picture-dealer. Grassou's life is simple and quiet, and he has never had time to love. He is a bachelor and has no family. He has a notary, Cardot, who manages his finances. One day, Elie Magus brings a family, the Vervelles, to Grassou's studio to have their portraits painted. The family is wealthy and has a country house at Ville d'Avray. The father, Monsieur Vervelle, is a retired merchant who has made a fortune in the bottle trade. He is a great lover of art and has a large collection of paintings. The mother, Madame Vervelle, is a woman of fashion and has a large dowry. The daughter, Virginie, is a young woman with red hair and a beautiful face. Grassou is immediately smitten with Virginie and begins to think of marrying her. He is invited to the Vervelle's country house, where he meets the family and their friends. The family is very fond of Grassou and treats him like a member of the family. Grassou is impressed by the family's wealth and their love of art. He begins to think of himself as a great artist and a member of the aristocracy. He starts to see himself as a great painter and a master of his craft. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. He begins to think of marrying Virginie and starting a new life with her. He starts to see himself as a great artist and a great lover. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. He starts to think of marrying Virginie and starting a new life with her. He starts to see himself as a great artist and a great lover. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. Question: What is the name of the notary who manages Pierre Grassou's finances? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Virginie." ]	7,896	narrativeqa	en	null	c549a937e1ff08308e3afe359c4db27ba066adcabb4b2425	Produced by John Bickers and Dagny PIERRE GRASSOU By Honore De Balzac Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley Dedication To The Lieutenant-Colonel of Artillery, Periollas, As a Testimony of the Affectionate Esteem of the Author, De Balzac PIERRE GRASSOU Whenever you have gone to take a serious look at the exhibition of works of sculpture and painting, such as it has been since the revolution of 1830, have you not been seized by a sense of uneasiness, weariness, sadness, at the sight of those long and over-crowded galleries? Since 1830, the true Salon no longer exists. The Louvre has again been taken by assault,--this time by a populace of artists who have maintained themselves in it. In other days, when the Salon presented only the choicest works of art, it conferred the highest honor on the creations there exhibited. Among the two hundred selected paintings, the public could still choose: a crown was awarded to the masterpiece by hands unseen. Eager, impassioned discussions arose about some picture. The abuse showered on Delacroix, on Ingres, contributed no less to their fame than the praises and fanaticism of their adherents. To-day, neither the crowd nor the criticism grows impassioned about the products of that bazaar. Forced to make the selection for itself, which in former days the examining jury made for it, the attention of the public is soon wearied and the exhibition closes. Before the year 1817 the pictures admitted never went beyond the first two columns of the long gallery of the old masters; but in that year, to the great astonishment of the public, they filled the whole space. Historical, high-art, genre paintings, easel pictures, landscapes, flowers, animals, and water-colors,--these eight specialties could surely not offer more than twenty pictures in one year worthy of the eyes of the public, which, indeed, cannot give its attention to a greater number of such works. The more the number of artists increases, the more careful and exacting the jury of admission ought to be. The true character of the Salon was lost as soon as it spread along the galleries. The Salon should have remained within fixed limits of inflexible proportions, where each distinct specialty could show its masterpieces only. An experience of ten years has shown the excellence of the former institution. Now, instead of a tournament, we have a mob; instead of a noble exhibition, we have a tumultuous bazaar; instead of a choice selection we have a chaotic mass. What is the result? A great artist is swamped. Decamps' "Turkish Cafe," "Children at a Fountain," "Joseph," and "The Torture," would have redounded far more to his credit if the four pictures had been exhibited in the great Salon with the hundred good pictures of that year, than his twenty pictures could, among three thousand others, jumbled together in six galleries. By some strange contradiction, ever since the doors are open to every one there has been much talk of unknown and unrecognized genius. When, twelve years earlier, Ingres' "Courtesan," and that of Sigalon, the "Medusa" of Gericault, the "Massacre of Scio" by Delacroix, the "Baptism of Henri IV." by Eugene Deveria, admitted by celebrated artists accused of jealousy, showed the world, in spite of the denials of criticism, that young and vigorous palettes existed, no such complaint was made. Now, when the veriest dauber of canvas can send in his work, the whole talk is of genius neglected! Where judgment no longer exists, there is no longer anything judged. But whatever artists may be doing now, they will come back in time to the examination and selection which presents their works to the admiration of the crowd for whom they work. Without selection by the Academy there will be no Salon, and without the Salon art may perish. Ever since the catalogue has grown into a book, many names have appeared in it which still remain in their native obscurity, in spite of the ten or a dozen pictures attached to them. Among these names perhaps the most unknown to fame is that of an artist named Pierre Grassou, coming from Fougeres, and called simply "Fougeres" among his brother-artists, who, at the present moment holds a place, as the saying is, "in the sun," and who suggested the rather bitter reflections by which this sketch of his life is introduced,--reflections that are applicable to many other individuals of the tribe of artists. In 1832, Fougeres lived in the rue de Navarin, on the fourth floor of one of those tall, narrow houses which resemble the obelisk of Luxor, and possess an alley, a dark little stairway with dangerous turnings, three windows only on each floor, and, within the building, a courtyard, or, to speak more correctly, a square pit or well. Above the three or four rooms occupied by Grassou of Fougeres was his studio, looking over to Montmartre. This studio was painted in brick-color, for a background; the floor was tinted brown and well frotted; each chair was furnished with a bit of carpet bound round the edges; the sofa, simple enough, was clean as that in the bedroom of some worthy bourgeoise. All these things denoted the tidy ways of a small mind and the thrift of a poor man. A bureau was there, in which to put away the studio implements, a table for breakfast, a sideboard, a secretary; in short, all the articles necessary to a painter, neatly arranged and very clean. The stove participated in this Dutch cleanliness, which was all the more visible because the pure and little changing light from the north flooded with its cold clear beams the vast apartment. Fougeres, being merely a genre painter, does not need the immense machinery and outfit which ruin historical painters; he has never recognized within himself sufficient faculty to attempt high-art, and he therefore clings to easel painting. At the beginning of the month of December of that year, a season at which the bourgeois of Paris conceive, periodically, the burlesque idea of perpetuating their forms and figures already too bulky in themselves, Pierre Grassou, who had risen early, prepared his palette, and lighted his stove, was eating a roll steeped in milk, and waiting till the frost on his windows had melted sufficiently to let the full light in. The weather was fine and dry. At this moment the artist, who ate his bread with that patient, resigned air that tells so much, heard and recognized the step of a man who had upon his life the influence such men have on the lives of nearly all artists,--the step of Elie Magus, a picture-dealer, a usurer in canvas. The next moment Elie Magus entered and found the painter in the act of beginning his work in the tidy studio. "How are you, old rascal?" said the painter. Fougeres had the cross of the Legion of honor, and Elie Magus bought his pictures at two and three hundred francs apiece, so he gave himself the airs of a fine artist. "Business is very bad," replied Elie. "You artists have such pretensions! You talk of two hundred francs when you haven't put six sous' worth of color on a canvas. However, you are a good fellow, I'll say that. You are steady; and I've come to put a good bit of business in your way." "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes," said Fougeres. "Do you know Latin?" "No." "Well, it means that the Greeks never proposed a good bit of business to the Trojans without getting their fair share of it. In the olden time they used to say, 'Take my horse.' Now we say, 'Take my bear.' Well, what do you want, Ulysses-Lagingeole-Elie Magus?" These words will give an idea of the mildness and wit with which Fougeres employed what painters call studio fun. "Well, I don't deny that you are to paint me two pictures for nothing." "Oh! oh!" "I'll leave you to do it, or not; I don't ask it. But you're an honest man." "Come, out with it!" "Well, I'm prepared to bring you a father, mother, and only daughter." "All for me?" "Yes--they want their portraits taken. These bourgeois--they are crazy about art--have never dared to enter a studio. The girl has a 'dot' of a hundred thousand francs. You can paint all three,--perhaps they'll turn out family portraits." And with that the old Dutch log of wood who passed for a man and who was called Elie Magus, interrupted himself to laugh an uncanny laugh which frightened the painter. He fancied he heard Mephistopheles talking marriage. "Portraits bring five hundred francs apiece," went on Elie; "so you can very well afford to paint me three pictures." "True for you!" cried Fougeres, gleefully. "And if you marry the girl, you won't forget me." "Marry! I?" cried Pierre Grassou,--"I, who have a habit of sleeping alone; and get up at cock-crow, and all my life arranged--" "One hundred thousand francs," said Magus, "and a quiet girl, full of golden tones, as you call 'em, like a Titian." "What class of people are they?" "Retired merchants; just now in love with art; have a country-house at Ville d'Avray, and ten or twelve thousand francs a year." "What business did they do?" "Bottles." "Now don't say that word; it makes me think of corks and sets my teeth on edge." "Am I to bring them?" "Three portraits--I could put them in the Salon; I might go in for portrait-painting. Well, yes!" Old Elie descended the staircase to go in search of the Vervelle family. To know to what extend this proposition would act upon the painter, and what effect would be produced upon him by the Sieur and Dame Vervelle, adorned by their only daughter, it is necessary to cast an eye on the anterior life of Pierre Grassou of Fougeres. When a pupil, Fougeres had studied drawing with Servin, who was thought a great draughtsman in academic circles. After that he went to Schinner's, to learn the secrets of the powerful and magnificent color which distinguishes that master. Master and scholars were all discreet; at any rate Pierre discovered none of their secrets. From there he went to Sommervieux' atelier, to acquire that portion of the art of painting which is called composition, but composition was shy and distant to him. Then he tried to snatch from Decamps and Granet the mystery of their interior effects. The two masters were not robbed. Finally Fougeres ended his education with Duval-Lecamus. During these studied and these different transformations Fougeres' habits and ways of life were tranquil and moral to a degree that furnished matter of jesting to the various ateliers where he sojourned; but everywhere he disarmed his comrades by his modesty and by the patience and gentleness of a lamblike nature. The masters, however, had no sympathy for the good lad; masters prefer bright fellows, eccentric spirits, droll or fiery, or else gloomy and deeply reflective, which argue future talent. Everything about Pierre Grassou smacked of mediocrity. His nickname "Fougeres" (that of the painter in the play of "The Eglantine") was the source of much teasing; but, by force of circumstances, he accepted the name of the town in which he had first seen light. Grassou of Fougeres resembled his name. Plump and of medium height, he had a dull complexion, brown eyes, black hair, a turned-up nose, rather wide mouth, and long ears. His gentle, passive, and resigned air gave a certain relief to these leading features of a physiognomy that was full of health, but wanting in action. This young man, born to be a virtuous bourgeois, having left his native place and come to Paris to be clerk with a color-merchant (formerly of Mayenne and a distant connection of the Orgemonts) made himself a painter simply by the fact of an obstinacy which constitutes the Breton character. What he suffered, the manner in which he lived during those years of study, God only knows. He suffered as much as great men suffer when they are hounded by poverty and hunted like wild beasts by the pack of commonplace minds and by troops of vanities athirst for vengeance. As soon as he thought himself able to fly on his own wings, Fougeres took a studio in the upper part of the rue des Martyrs, where he began to delve his way. He made his first appearance in 1819. The first picture he presented to the jury of the Exhibition at the Louvre represented a village wedding rather laboriously copied from Greuze's picture. It was rejected. When Fougeres heard of the fatal decision, he did not fall into one of those fits of epileptic self-love to which strong natures give themselves up, and which sometimes end in challenges sent to the director or the secretary of the Museum, or even by threats of assassination. Fougeres quietly fetched his canvas, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and brought it home, vowing in his heart that he would still make himself a great painter. He placed his picture on the easel, and went to one of his former masters, a man of immense talent,--to Schinner, a kind and patient artist, whose triumph at that year's Salon was complete. Fougeres asked him to come and criticise the rejected work. The great painter left everything and went at once. When poor Fougeres had placed the work before him Schinner, after a glance, pressed Fougeres' hand. "You are a fine fellow," he said; "you've a heart of gold, and I must not deceive you. Listen; you are fulfilling all the promises you made in the studios. When you find such things as that at the tip of your brush, my good Fougeres, you had better leave colors with Brullon, and not take the canvas of others. Go home early, put on your cotton night-cap, and be in bed by nine o'clock. The next morning early go to some government office, ask for a place, and give up art." "My dear friend," said Fougeres, "my picture is already condemned; it is not a verdict that I want of you, but the cause of that verdict." "Well--you paint gray and sombre; you see nature being a crape veil; your drawing is heavy, pasty; your composition is a medley of Greuze, who only redeemed his defects by the qualities which you lack." While detailing these faults of the picture Schinner saw on Fougeres' face so deep an expression of sadness that he carried him off to dinner and tried to console him. The next morning at seven o'clock Fougeres was at his easel working over the rejected picture; he warmed the colors; he made the corrections suggested by Schinner, he touched up his figures. Then, disgusted with such patching, he carried the picture to Elie Magus. Elie Magus, a sort of Dutch-Flemish-Belgian, had three reasons for being what he became,--rich and avaricious. Coming last from Bordeaux, he was just starting in Paris, selling old pictures and living on the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Fougeres, who relied on his palette to go to the baker's, bravely ate bread and nuts, or bread and milk, or bread and cherries, or bread and cheese, according to the seasons. Elie Magus, to whom Pierre offered his first picture, eyed it for some time and then gave him fifteen francs. "With fifteen francs a year coming in, and a thousand francs for expenses," said Fougeres, smiling, "a man will go fast and far." Elie Magus made a gesture; he bit his thumbs, thinking that he might have had that picture for five francs. For several days Pierre walked down from the rue des Martyrs and stationed himself at the corner of the boulevard opposite to Elie's shop, whence his eye could rest upon his picture, which did not obtain any notice from the eyes of the passers along the street. At the end of a week the picture disappeared; Fougeres walked slowly up and approached the dealer's shop in a lounging manner. The Jew was at his door. "Well, I see you have sold my picture." "No, here it is," said Magus; "I've framed it, to show it to some one who fancies he knows about painting." Fougeres had not the heart to return to the boulevard. He set about another picture, and spent two months upon it,--eating mouse's meals and working like a galley-slave. One evening he went to the boulevard, his feet leading him fatefully to the dealer's shop. His picture was not to be seen. "I've sold your picture," said Elie Magus, seeing him. "For how much?" "I got back what I gave and a small interest. Make me some Flemish interiors, a lesson of anatomy, landscapes, and such like, and I'll buy them of you," said Elie. Fougeres would fain have taken old Magus in his arms; he regarded him as a father. He went home with joy in his heart; the great painter Schinner was mistaken after all! In that immense city of Paris there were some hearts that beat in unison with Pierre's; his talent was understood and appreciated. The poor fellow of twenty-seven had the innocence of a lad of sixteen. Another man, one of those distrustful, surly artists, would have noticed the diabolical look on Elie's face and seen the twitching of the hairs of his beard, the irony of his moustache, and the movement of his shoulders which betrayed the satisfaction of Walter Scott's Jew in swindling a Christian. Fougeres marched along the boulevard in a state of joy which gave to his honest face an expression of pride. He was like a schoolboy protecting a woman. He met Joseph Bridau, one of his comrades, and one of those eccentric geniuses destined to fame and sorrow. Joseph Bridau, who had, to use his own expression, a few sous in his pocket, took Fougeres to the Opera. But Fougeres didn't see the ballet, didn't hear the music; he was imagining pictures, he was painting. He left Joseph in the middle of the evening, and ran home to make sketches by lamp-light. He invented thirty pictures, all reminiscence, and felt himself a man of genius. The next day he bought colors, and canvases of various dimensions; he piled up bread and cheese on his table, he filled a water-pot with water, he laid in a provision of wood for his stove; then, to use a studio expression, he dug at his pictures. He hired several models and Magus lent him stuffs. After two months' seclusion the Breton had finished four pictures. Again he asked counsel of Schinner, this time adding Bridau to the invitation. The two painters saw in three of these pictures a servile imitation of Dutch landscapes and interiors by Metzu, in the fourth a copy of Rembrandt's "Lesson of Anatomy." "Still imitating!" said Schinner. "Ah! Fougeres can't manage to be original." "You ought to do something else than painting," said Bridau. "What?" asked Fougeres. "Fling yourself into literature." Fougeres lowered his head like a sheep when it rains. Then he asked and obtained certain useful advice, and retouched his pictures before taking them to Elie Magus. Elie paid him twenty-five francs apiece. At that price of course Fougeres earned nothing; neither did he lose, thanks to his sober living. He made a few excursions to the boulevard to see what became of his pictures, and there he underwent a singular hallucination. His neat, clean paintings, hard as tin and shiny as porcelain, were covered with a sort of mist; they looked like old daubs. Magus was out, and Pierre could obtain no information on this phenomenon. He fancied something was wrong with his eyes. The painter went back to his studio and made more pictures. After seven years of continued toil Fougeres managed to compose and execute quite passable work. He did as well as any artist of the second class. Elie bought and sold all the paintings of the poor Breton, who earned laboriously about two thousand francs a year while he spent but twelve hundred. At the Exhibition of 1829, Leon de Lora, Schinner, and Bridau, who all three occupied a great position and were, in fact, at the head of the art movement, were filled with pity for the perseverance and the poverty of their old friend; and they caused to be admitted into the grand salon of the Exhibition, a picture by Fougeres. This picture, powerful in interest but derived from Vigneron as to sentiment and from Dubufe's first manner as to execution, represented a young man in prison, whose hair was being cut around the nape of the neck. On one side was a priest, on the other two women, one old, one young, in tears. A sheriff's clerk was reading aloud a document. On a wretched table was a meal, untouched. The light came in through the bars of a window near the ceiling. It was a picture fit to make the bourgeois shudder, and the bourgeois shuddered. Fougeres had simply been inspired by the masterpiece of Gerard Douw; he had turned the group of the "Dropsical Woman" toward the window, instead of presenting it full front. The condemned man was substituted for the dying woman--same pallor, same glance, same appeal to God. Instead of the Dutch doctor, he had painted the cold, official figure of the sheriff's clerk attired in black; but he had added an old woman to the young one of Gerard Douw. The cruelly simple and good-humored face of the executioner completed and dominated the group. This plagiarism, very cleverly disguised, was not discovered. The catalogue contained the following:-- 510. Grassou de Fougeres (Pierre), rue de Navarin, 2. Death-toilet of a Chouan, condemned to execution in 1809. Though wholly second-rate, the picture had immense success, for it recalled the affair of the "chauffeurs," of Mortagne. A crowd collected every day before the now fashionable canvas; even Charles X. paused to look at it. "Madame," being told of the patient life of the poor Breton, became enthusiastic over him. The Duc d'Orleans asked the price of the picture. The clergy told Madame la Dauphine that the subject was suggestive of good thoughts; and there was, in truth, a most satisfying religious tone about it. Monseigneur the Dauphin admired the dust on the stone-floor,--a huge blunder, by the way, for Fougeres had painted greenish tones suggestive of mildew along the base of the walls. "Madame" finally bought the picture for a thousand francs, and the Dauphin ordered another like it. Charles X. gave the cross of the Legion of honor to this son of a peasant who had fought for the royal cause in 1799. (Joseph Bridau, the great painter, was not yet decorated.) The minister of the Interior ordered two church pictures of Fougeres. This Salon of 1829 was to Pierre Grassou his whole fortune, fame, future, and life. Be original, invent, and you die by inches; copy, imitate, and you'll live. After this discovery of a gold mine, Grassou de Fougeres obtained his benefit of the fatal principle to which society owes the wretched mediocrities to whom are intrusted in these days the election of leaders in all social classes; who proceed, naturally, to elect themselves and who wage a bitter war against all true talent. The principle of election applied indiscriminately is false, and France will some day abandon it. Nevertheless the modesty, simplicity, and genuine surprise of the good and gentle Fougeres silenced all envy and all recriminations. Besides, he had on his side all of his clan who had succeeded, and all who expected to succeed. Some persons, touched by the persistent energy of a man whom nothing had discouraged, talked of Domenichino and said:-- "Perseverance in the arts should be rewarded. Grassou hasn't stolen his successes; he has delved for ten years, the poor dear man!" That exclamation of "poor dear man!" counted for half in the support and the congratulations which the painter received. Pity sets up mediocrities as envy pulls down great talents, and in equal numbers. The newspapers, it is true, did not spare criticism, but the chevalier Fougeres digested them as he had digested the counsel of his friends, with angelic patience. Possessing, by this time, fifteen thousand francs, laboriously earned, he furnished an apartment and studio in the rue de Navarin, and painted the picture ordered by Monseigneur the Dauphin, also the two church pictures, and delivered them at the time agreed on, with a punctuality that was very discomforting to the exchequer of the ministry, accustomed to a different course of action. But--admire the good fortune of men who are methodical--if Grassou, belated with his work, had been caught by the revolution of July he would not have got his money. By the time he was thirty-seven Fougeres had manufactured for Elie Magus some two hundred pictures, all of them utterly unknown, by the help of which he had attained to that satisfying manner, that point of execution before which the true artist shrugs his shoulders and the bourgeoisie worships. Fougeres was dear to friends for rectitude of ideas, for steadiness of sentiment, absolute kindliness, and great loyalty; though they had no esteem for his palette, they loved the man who held it. "What a misfortune it is that Fougeres has the vice of painting!" said his comrades. But for all this, Grassou gave excellent counsel, like those feuilletonists incapable of writing a book who know very well where a book is wanting. There was this difference, however, between literary critics and Fougeres; he was eminently sensitive to beauties; he felt them, he acknowledged them, and his advice was instinct with a spirit of justice that made the justness of his remarks acceptable. After the revolution of July, Fougeres sent about ten pictures a year to the Salon, of which the jury admitted four or five. He lived with the most rigid economy, his household being managed solely by an old charwoman. For all amusement he visited his friends, he went to see works of art, he allowed himself a few little trips about France, and he planned to go to Switzerland in search of inspiration. This detestable artist was an excellent citizen; he mounted guard duly, went to reviews, and paid his rent and provision-bills with bourgeois punctuality. Having lived all his life in toil and poverty, he had never had the time to love. Poor and a bachelor, until now he did not desire to complicate his simple life. Incapable of devising any means of increasing his little fortune, he carried, every three months, to his notary, Cardot, his quarterly earnings and economies. When the notary had received about three thousand francs he invested them in some first mortgage, the interest of which he drew himself and added to the quarterly payments made to him by Fougeres. The painter was awaiting the fortunate moment when his property thus laid by would give him the imposing income of two thousand francs, to allow himself the otium cum dignitate of the artist and paint pictures; but oh! what pictures! true pictures! each a finished picture! chouette, Koxnoff, chocnosoff! His future, his dreams of happiness, the superlative of his hopes--do you know what it was? To enter the Institute and obtain the grade of officer of the Legion of honor; to side down beside Schinner and Leon de Lora, to reach the Academy before Bridau, to wear a rosette in his buttonhole! What a dream! It is only commonplace men who think of everything. Hearing the sound of several steps on the staircase, Fougeres rubbed up his hair, buttoned his jacket of bottle-green velveteen, and was not a little amazed to see, entering his doorway, a simpleton face vulgarly called in studio slang a "melon." This fruit surmounted a pumpkin, clothed in blue cloth adorned with a bunch of tintinnabulating baubles. The melon puffed like a walrus; the pumpkin advanced on turnips, improperly called legs. A true painter would have turned the little bottle-vendor off at once, assuring him that he didn't paint vegetables. This painter looked at his client without a smile, for Monsieur Vervelle wore a three-thousand-franc diamond in the bosom of his shirt. Fougeres glanced at Magus and said: "There's fat in it!" using a slang term then much in vogue in the studios. Hearing those words Monsieur Vervelle frowned. The worthy bourgeois drew after him another complication of vegetables in the persons of his wife and daughter. The wife had a fine veneer of mahogany on her face, and in figure she resembled a cocoa-nut, surmounted by a head and tied in around the waist. She pivoted on her legs, which were tap-rooted, and her gown was yellow with black stripes. She proudly exhibited unutterable mittens on a puffy pair of hands; the plumes of a first-class funeral floated on an over-flowing bonnet; laces adorned her shoulders, as round behind as they were before; consequently, the spherical form of the cocoa-nut was perfect. Her feet, of a kind that painters call abatis, rose above the varnished leather of the shoes in a swelling that was some inches high. How the feet were ever got into the shoes, no one knows. Following these vegetable parents was a young asparagus, who presented a tiny head with smoothly banded hair of the yellow-carroty tone that a Roman adores, long, stringy arms, a fairly white skin with reddish spots upon it, large innocent eyes, and white lashes, scarcely any brows, a leghorn bonnet bound with white satin and adorned with two honest bows of the same satin, hands virtuously red, and the feet of her mother. The faces of these three beings wore, as they looked round the studio, an air of happiness which bespoke in them a respectable enthusiasm for Art. "So it is you, monsieur, who are going to take our likenesses?" said the father, assuming a jaunty air. "Yes, monsieur," replied Grassou. "Vervelle, he has the cross!" whispered the wife to the husband while the painter's back was turned. "Should I be likely to have our portraits painted by an artist who wasn't decorated?" returned the former bottle-dealer. Elie Magus here bowed to the Vervelle family and went away. Grassou accompanied him to the landing. "There's no one but you who would fish up such whales." "One hundred thousand francs of 'dot'!" "Yes, but what a family!" "Three hundred thousand francs of expectations, a house in the rue Boucherat, and a country-house at Ville d'Avray!" "Bottles and corks! bottles and corks!" said the painter; "they set my teeth on edge." "Safe from want for the rest of your days," said Elie Magus as he departed. That idea entered the head of Pierre Grassou as the daylight had burst into his garret that morning. While he posed the father of the young person, he thought the bottle-dealer had a good countenance, and he admired the face full of violent tones. The mother and daughter hovered about the easel, marvelling at all his preparations; they evidently thought him a demigod. This visible admiration pleased Fougeres. The golden calf threw upon the family its fantastic reflections. "You must earn lots of money; but of course you don't spend it as you get it," said the mother. "No, madame," replied the painter; "I don't spend it; I have not the means to amuse myself. My notary invests my money; he knows what I have; as soon as I have taken him the money I never think of it again." "I've always been told," cried old Vervelle, "that artists were baskets with holes in them." "Who is your notary--if it is not indiscreet to ask?" said Madame Vervelle. "A good fellow, all round," replied Grassou. "His name is Cardot." "Well, well! if that isn't a joke!" exclaimed Vervelle. "Cardot is our notary too." "Take care! don't move," said the painter. "Do pray hold still, Antenor," said the wife. "If you move about you'll make monsieur miss; you should just see him working, and then you'd understand." "Oh! why didn't you have me taught the arts?" said Mademoiselle Vervelle to her parents. "Virginie," said her mother, "a young person ought not to learn certain things. When you are married--well, till then, keep quiet." During this first sitting the Vervelle family became almost intimate with the worthy artist. They were to come again two days later. As they went away the father told Virginie to walk in front; but in spite of this separation, she overheard the following words, which naturally awakened her curiosity. "Decorated--thirty-seven years old--an artist who gets orders--puts his money with our notary. We'll consult Cardot. Hein! Madame de Fougeres! not a bad name--doesn't look like a bad man either! One might prefer a merchant; but before a merchant retires from business one can never know what one's daughter may come to; whereas an economical artist--and then you know we love Art--Well, we'll see!" While the Vervelle family discussed Pierre Grassou, Pierre Grassou discussed in his own mind the Vervelle family. He found it impossible to stay peacefully in his studio, so he took a walk on the boulevard, and looked at all the red-haired women who passed him. He made a series of the oddest reasonings to himself: gold was the handsomest of metals; a tawny yellow represented gold; the Romans were fond of red-haired women, and he turned Roman, etc. After two years of marriage what man would ever care about the color of his wife's hair? Beauty fades,--but ugliness remains! Money is one-half of all happiness. That night when he went to bed the painter had come to think Virginie Vervelle charming. When the three Vervelles arrived on the day of the second sitting the artist received them with smiles. The rascal had shaved and put on clean linen; he had also arranged his hair in a pleasing manner, and chosen a very becoming pair of trousers and red leather slippers with pointed toes. The family replied with smiles as flattering as those of the artist. Virginie became the color of her hair, lowered her eyes, and turned aside her head to look at the sketches. Pierre Grassou thought these little affectations charming, Virginie had such grace; happily she didn't look like her father or her mother; but whom did she look like? During this sitting there were little skirmishes between the family and the painter, who had the audacity to call pere Vervelle witty. This flattery brought the family on the double-quick to the heart of the artist; he gave a drawing to the daughter, and a sketch to the mother. "What! for nothing?" they said. Pierre Grassou could not help smiling. "You shouldn't give away your pictures in that way; they are money," said old Vervelle. At the third sitting pere Vervelle mentioned a fine gallery of pictures which he had in his country-house at Ville d'Avray--Rubens, Gerard Douw, Mieris, Terburg, Rembrandt, Titian, Paul Potter, etc. "Monsieur Vervelle has been very extravagant," said Madame Vervelle, ostentatiously. "He has over one hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures." "I love Art," said the former bottle-dealer. When Madame Vervelle's portrait was begun that of her husband was nearly finished, and the enthusiasm of the family knew no bounds. The notary had spoken in the highest praise of the painter. Pierre Grassou was, he said, one of the most honest fellows on earth; he had laid by thirty-six thousand francs; his days of poverty were over; he now saved about ten thousand francs a year and capitalized the interest; in short, he was incapable of making a woman unhappy. This last remark had enormous weight in the scales. Vervelle's friends now heard of nothing but the celebrated painter Fougeres. The day on which Fougeres began the portrait of Mademoiselle Virginie, he was virtually son-in-law to the Vervelle family. The three Vervelles bloomed out in this studio, which they were now accustomed to consider as one of their residences; there was to them an inexplicable attraction in this clean, neat, pretty, and artistic abode. Abyssus abyssum, the commonplace attracts the commonplace. Toward the end of the sitting the stairway shook, the door was violently thrust open by Joseph Bridau; he came like a whirlwind, his hair flying. He showed his grand haggard face as he looked about him, casting everywhere the lightning of his glance; then he walked round the whole studio, and returned abruptly to Grassou, pulling his coat together over the gastric region, and endeavouring, but in vain, to button it, the button mould having escaped from its capsule of cloth. "Wood is dear," he said to Grassou. "Ah!" "The British are after me" (slang term for creditors) "Gracious! do you paint such things as that?" "Hold your tongue!" "Ah! to be sure, yes." The Vervelle family, extremely shocked by this extraordinary apparition, passed from its ordinary red to a cherry-red, two shades deeper. "Brings in, hey?" continued Joseph. "Any shot in your locker?" "How much do you want?" "Five hundred. I've got one of those bull-dog dealers after me, and if the fellow once gets his teeth in he won't let go while there's a bit of me left. What a crew!" "I'll write you a line for my notary." "Have you got a notary?" "Yes." "That explains to me why you still make cheeks with pink tones like a perfumer's sign." Grassou could not help coloring, for Virginie was sitting. "Take Nature as you find her," said the great painter, going on with his lecture. "Mademoiselle is red-haired. Well, is that a sin? All things are magnificent in painting. Put some vermillion on your palette, and warm up those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots; come, butter it well in. Do you pretend to have more sense than Nature?" "Look here," said Fougeres, "take my place while I go and write that note." Vervelle rolled to the table and whispered in Grassou's ear:-- "Won't that country lout spoilt it?" "If he would only paint the portrait of your Virginie it would be worth a thousand times more than mine," replied Fougeres, vehemently. Hearing that reply the bourgeois beat a quiet retreat to his wife, who was stupefied by the invasion of this ferocious animal, and very uneasy at his co-operation in her daughter's portrait. "Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette, and taking the note. "I won't thank you. I can go back now to d'Arthez' chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora the tops of the doors--masterpieces! Come and see us." And off he went without taking leave, having had enough of looking at Virginie. "Who is that man?" asked Madame Vervelle. "A great artist," answered Grassou. There was silence for a moment. "Are you quite sure," said Virginie, "that he has done no harm to my portrait? He frightened me." "He has only done it good," replied Grassou. "Well, if he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist like you," said Madame Vervelle. The ways of genius had ruffled up these orderly bourgeois. The phase of autumn so pleasantly named "Saint Martin's summer" was just beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in presence of a man of genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an invitation to come out to his country-house on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how little attraction a plain bourgeois family could offer to an artist. "You artists," he continued, "want emotions, great scenes, and witty talk; but you'll find good wines, and I rely on my collection of pictures to compensate an artist like you for the bore of dining with mere merchants." This form of idolatry, which stroked his innocent self-love, was charming to our poor Pierre Grassou, so little accustomed to such compliments. The honest artist, that atrocious mediocrity, that heart of gold, that loyal soul, that stupid draughtsman, that worthy fellow, decorated by royalty itself with the Legion of honor, put himself under arms to go out to Ville d'Avray and enjoy the last fine days of the year. The painter went modestly by public conveyance, and he could not but admire the beautiful villa of the bottle-dealer, standing in a park of five acres at the summit of Ville d'Avray, commanding a noble view of the landscape. Marry Virginie, and have that beautiful villa some day for his own! He was received by the Vervelles with an enthusiasm, a joy, a kindliness, a frank bourgeois absurdity which confounded him. It was indeed a day of triumph. The prospective son-in-law was marched about the grounds on the nankeen-colored paths, all raked as they should be for the steps of so great a man. The trees themselves looked brushed and combed, and the lawns had just been mown. The pure country air wafted to the nostrils a most enticing smell of cooking. All things about the mansion seemed to say: "We have a great artist among us." Little old Vervelle himself rolled like an apple through his park, the daughter meandered like an eel, the mother followed with dignified step. These three beings never let go for one moment of Pierre Grassou for seven hours. After dinner, the length of which equalled its magnificence, Monsieur and Madame Vervelle reached the moment of their grand theatrical effect,--the opening of the picture gallery illuminated by lamps, the reflections of which were managed with the utmost care. Three neighbours, also retired merchants, an old uncle (from whom were expectations), an elderly Demoiselle Vervelle, and a number of other guests invited to be present at this ovation to a great artist followed Grassou into the picture gallery, all curious to hear his opinion of the famous collection of pere Vervelle, who was fond of oppressing them with the fabulous value of his paintings. The bottle-merchant seemed to have the idea of competing with King Louis-Philippe and the galleries of Versailles. The pictures, magnificently framed, each bore labels on which was read in black letters on a gold ground: Rubens Dance of fauns and nymphs Rembrandt Interior of a dissecting room. The physician van Tromp instructing his pupils. In all, there were one hundred and fifty pictures, varnished and dusted. Some were covered with green baize curtains which were not undrawn in presence of young ladies. Pierre Grassou stood with arms pendent, gaping mouth, and no word upon his lips as he recognized half his own pictures in these works of art. He was Rubens, he was Rembrandt, Mieris, Metzu, Paul Potter, Gerard Douw! He was twenty great masters all by himself. "What is the matter? You've turned pale!" "Daughter, a glass of water! quick!" cried Madame Vervelle. The painter took pere Vervelle by the button of his coat and led him to a corner on pretence of looking at a Murillo. Spanish pictures were then the rage. "You bought your pictures from Elie Magus?" "Yes, all originals." "Between ourselves, tell me what he made you pay for those I shall point out to you." Together they walked round the gallery. The guests were amazed at the gravity in which the artist proceeded, in company with the host, to examine each picture. "Three thousand francs," said Vervelle in a whisper, as they reached the last, "but I tell everybody forty thousand." "Forty thousand for a Titian!" said the artist, aloud. "Why, it is nothing at all!" "Didn't I tell you," said Vervelle, "that I had three hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures?" "I painted those pictures," said Pierre Grassou in Vervelle's ear, "and I sold them one by one to Elie Magus for less than ten thousand francs the whole lot." "Prove it to me," said the bottle-dealer, "and I double my daughter's 'dot,' for if it is so, you are Rubens, Rembrandt, Titian, Gerard Douw!" "And Magus is a famous picture-dealer!" said the painter, who now saw the meaning of the misty and aged look imparted to his pictures in Elie's shop, and the utility of the subjects the picture-dealer had required of him. Far from losing the esteem of his admiring bottle-merchant, Monsieur de Fougeres (for so the family persisted in calling Pierre Grassou) advanced so much that when the portraits were finished he presented them gratuitously to his father-in-law, his mother-in-law and his wife. At the present day, Pierre Grassou, who never misses exhibiting at the Salon, passes in bourgeois regions for a fine portrait-painter. He earns some twenty thousand francs a year and spoils a thousand francs' worth of canvas. His wife has six thousand francs a year in dowry, and he lives with his father-in-law. The Vervelles and the Grassous, who agree delightfully, keep a carriage, and are the happiest people on earth. Pierre Grassou never emerges from the bourgeois circle, in which he is considered one of the greatest artists of the period. Not a family portrait is painted between the barrier du Trone and the rue du Temple that is not done by this great painter; none of them costs less than five hundred francs. The great reason which the bourgeois families have for employing him is this:-- "Say what you will of him, he lays by twenty thousand francs a year with his notary." As Grassou took a creditable part on the occasion of the riots of May 12th he was appointed an officer of the Legion of honor. He is a major in the National Guard. The Museum of Versailles felt it incumbent to order a battle-piece of so excellent a citizen, who thereupon walked about Paris to meet his old comrades and have the happiness of saying to them:-- "The King has given me an order for the Museum of Versailles." Madame de Fougeres adores her husband, to whom she has presented two children. This painter, a good father and a good husband, is unable to eradicate from his heart a fatal thought, namely, that artists laugh at his work; that his name is a term of contempt in the studios; and that the feuilletons take no notice of his pictures. But he still works on; he aims for the Academy, where, undoubtedly, he will enter. And--oh! vengeance which dilates his heart!--he buys the pictures of celebrated artists who are pinched for means, and he substitutes these true works of arts that are not his own for the wretched daubs in the collection at Ville d'Avray. There are many mediocrities more aggressive and more mischievous than that of Pierre Grassou, who is, moreover, anonymously benevolent and truly obliging. ADDENDUM The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. Bridau, Joseph The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Start in Life Modeste Mignon Another Study of Woman Letters of Two Brides Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis Cardot (Parisian notary) The Muse of the Department A Man of Business Jealousies of a Country Town The Middle Classes Cousin Pons Grassou, Pierre A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Betty The Middle Classes Cousin Pons Lora, Leon de The Unconscious Humorists A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Honorine Cousin Betty Beatrix Magus, Elie The Vendetta A Marriage Settlement A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Pons Schinner, Hippolyte The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Albert Savarus The Government Clerks Modeste Mignon The Imaginary Mistress The Unconscious Humorists End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pierre Grassou, by Honore de Balzac Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What does Reiko do differently that causes her not to die like the others?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "She made a copy of the tape and gives it to her husband to study." ]	17,500	narrativeqa	en	null	91c715bd83e23bb735511450936df79969d1871bd0dda0cc	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What is death disguised as?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The Seventh Seal <b> </b> The KNIGHT, Antonius Block, lies prostrate on some spruce branches spread over the fine sand. His eyes are wide-open and bloodshot from lack of sleep. Nearby his squire JONS is snoring loudly. He has fallen asleep where he collapsed, at the edge of the forest among the wind-gnarled fir trees. His open mouth gapes towards the dawn, and unearthly sounds come from his throat. The KNIGHT has risen and waded into the shallow water, where he rinses his sunburned face and blistered lips. JONS rolls over to face the forest and the darkness. He moans in his sleep and vigorously scratches the stubbled hair on his head. A scar stretches diagonally across his scalp, as white as lightning against the grime. The KNIGHT returns to the beach and falls on his knees. With his eyes closed and brow furrowed, he says his morning prayers. His hands are clenched together and his lips form the words silently. His face is sad and bitter. He opens his eyes and stares directly into the morning sun which wallows up from the misty sea like some bloated, dying fish. The sky is gray and immobile, a dome of lead. A cloud hangs mute and dark over the western horizon. High up, barely visible, a seagull floats on motionless wings. Its cry is weird and restless. The KNIGHT'S large gray horse lifts its head and whinnies. Antonius Block turns around. Behind him stands a man in black. His face is very pale and he keeps his hands hidden in the wide folds of his cloak. <b> KNIGHT </b> Who are you? <b> DEATH </b> I am Death. <b> KNIGHT </b> Have you come for me? <b> DEATH </b> I have been walking by your side for a long time. <b> KNIGHT </b> That I know. <b> DEATH </b> Are you prepared? <b> KNIGHT </b> My body is frightened, but I am not. <b> DEATH </b> Well Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "A monk." ]	18,050	narrativeqa	en	null	5eaa334fa7a1d55b36d65745662a6d44a0b13c32a8a773a8	The Seventh Seal <b> </b>The night had brought little relief from the heat, and at dawn a hot gust of wind blows across the colorless sea. The KNIGHT, Antonius Block, lies prostrate on some spruce branches spread over the fine sand. His eyes are wide-open and bloodshot from lack of sleep. Nearby his squire JONS is snoring loudly. He has fallen asleep where he collapsed, at the edge of the forest among the wind-gnarled fir trees. His open mouth gapes towards the dawn, and unearthly sounds come from his throat. At the sudden gust of wind, the horses stir, stretching their parched muzzles towards the sea. They are as thin and worn as their masters. The KNIGHT has risen and waded into the shallow water, where he rinses his sunburned face and blistered lips. JONS rolls over to face the forest and the darkness. He moans in his sleep and vigorously scratches the stubbled hair on his head. A scar stretches diagonally across his scalp, as white as lightning against the grime. The KNIGHT returns to the beach and falls on his knees. With his eyes closed and brow furrowed, he says his morning prayers. His hands are clenched together and his lips form the words silently. His face is sad and bitter. He opens his eyes and stares directly into the morning sun which wallows up from the misty sea like some bloated, dying fish. The sky is gray and immobile, a dome of lead. A cloud hangs mute and dark over the western horizon. High up, barely visible, a seagull floats on motionless wings. Its cry is weird and restless. The KNIGHT'S large gray horse lifts its head and whinnies. Antonius Block turns around. Behind him stands a man in black. His face is very pale and he keeps his hands hidden in the wide folds of his cloak. <b> KNIGHT </b> Who are you? <b> DEATH </b> I am Death. <b> KNIGHT </b> Have you come for me? <b> DEATH </b> I have been walking by your side for a long time. <b> KNIGHT </b> That I know. <b> DEATH </b> Are you prepared? <b> KNIGHT </b> My body is frightened, but I am not. <b> DEATH </b> Well, there is no shame in that. The KNIGHT has risen to his feet. He shivers. DEATH opens his cloak to place it around the KNIGHT'S shoulders. <b> KNIGHT </b> Wait a moment. <b> DEATH </b> That's what they all say. I grant no reprieves. <b> KNIGHT </b> You play chess, don't you? A gleam of interest kindles in DEATH'S eyes. <b> DEATH </b> How did you know that? <b> KNIGHT </b> I have seen it in paintings and heard it sung in ballads. <b> DEATH </b> Yes, in fact I'm quite a good chess player. <b> KNIGHT </b> But you can't be better than I am. The KNIGHT rummages in the big black bag which he keeps beside him and takes out a small chessboard. He places it carefully on the ground and begins setting up the pieces. <b> DEATH </b> Why do you want to play chess with me? <b> KNIGHT </b> I have my reasons. <b> DEATH </b> That is your privilege. <b> KNIGHT </b> The condition is that I may live as long as I hold out against you. If I win, you will release me. Is it agreed? The KNIGHT holds out his two fists to DEATH, who smiles at him suddenly. DEATH points to one of the KNIGHT'S hands; it contains a black pawn. <b> KNIGHT </b> You drew black! <b> DEATH </b> Very appropriate. Don't you think so? The KNIGHT and DEATH bend over the chessboard. After a moment of hesitation, Antonius Block opens with his king's pawn. DEATH moves, also using his king's pawn. <b> </b> The morning breeze has died down. The restless movement of the sea has ceased, the water is silent. The sun rises from the haze and its glow whitens. The sea gull floats under the dark cloud, frozen in space. The day is already scorchingly hot. The squire JONS is awakened by a kick in the rear. Opening his eyes, he grunts like a pig and yawns broadly. He scrambles to his feet, saddles his horse and picks up the heavy pack. The KNIGHT slowly rides away from the sea, into the forest near the beach and up towards the road. He pretends not to hear the morning prayers of his squire. JONS soon overtakes him. <b> JONS </b> (sings) Between a strumpet's legs to lie Is the life for which I sigh. He stops and looks at his master, but the KNIGHT hasn't heard JON'S song, or he pretends that he hasn't. To give further vent to his irritation, JONS sings even louder. <b> JONS </b> (sings) Up above is God Almighty So very far away, But your brother the Devil You will meet on every level. JONS finally gets the KNIGHT'S attention. He stops singing. The KNIGHT, his horse, JONS'S own horse and JONS himself know all the songs by heart. The long, dusty journey from the Holy Land hasn't made them any cleaner. They ride across a mossy heath which stretches towards the horizon. Beyond it, the sea lies shimmering in the white glitter of the sun. <b> JONS </b> In Frjestad everyone was talking about evil omens and other horrible things. Two horses had eaten each other in the night, and, in the churchyard, graves had been opened and the remains of corpses scattered all over the place. Yesterday afternoon there were as many as four suns in the heavens. <b> </b>The KNIGHT doesn't answer. Close by, a scrawny dog is whining, crawling towards its master, who is sleeping in a sitting position in the blazing hot sun. A black cloud of flies clusters around his head and shoulders. The miserable-looking dog whines incessantly as it lies flat on its stomach, wagging its tail. JONS dismounts and approaches the sleeping man. JONS addresses him politely. When he doesn't receive an answer, he walks up to the man in order to shake him awake. He bends over the sleeping man's shoulder, but quickly pulls back his hand. The man falls backward on the heath, his face turned towards JONS. It is a corpse, staring at JONS with empty eye sockets and white teeth. JONS remounts and overtakes his master. He takes a drink from his waterskin and hands the bag to the knight. <b> KNIGHT </b> Well, did he show you the way? <b> JONS </b> Not exactly. <b> KNIGHT </b> What did he say? <b> JONS </b> Nothing. <b> KNIGHT </b> Was he a mute? <b> JONS </b> No, sir, I wouldn't say that. As a matter of fact, he was quite eloquent. <b> KNIGHT </b> Oh? <b> JONS </b> He was eloquent, all right. The trouble is that what he had to say was most depressing. (sings) One moment you're bright and lively, The next you're crawling with worms. Fate is a terrible villain And you, my friend, its poor victim. <b> KNIGHT </b> Must you sing? <b> JONS </b> No. The KNIGHT hands his squire a piece of bread, which keeps him quiet for a while. The sun burns down on them cruelly, and beads of perspiration trickle down their faces. There is a cloud of dust around the horses' hooves. They ride past an inlet and along verdant groves. In the shade of some large trees stands a bulging wagon covered with a mottled canvas. A horse whinnies nearby and is answered by the KNIGHT'S horse. The two travelers do not stop to rest under the shade of the trees but continue riding until they disappear at the bend of the road. <b> </b> In his sleep, JOF the juggler hears the neighing of his horse and the answer from a distance. He tries to go on sleeping, but it is stifling inside the wagon. The rays of the sun filtering through the canvas cast streaks of light across the face of JOF'S wife, MIA, and their one-year-old son, MIKAEL, who are sleeping deeply and peacefully. Near them, JONAS SKAT, an older man, snores loudly. JOF crawls out of the wagon. There is still a spot of shade under the big trees. He takes a drink of water, gargles, stretches and talks to his scrawny old horse. <b> JOF </b> Good morning. Have you had breakfast? I can't eat grass, worse luck. Can't you teach me how? We're a little hard up. People aren't very interested in juggling in this part of the country. He has picked up the juggling balls and slowly begins to toss them. Then he stands on his head and cackles like a hen. Suddenly he stops and sits down with a look of utter astonishment on his face. The wind causes the trees to sway slightly. The leaves stir and there is a soft murmur. The flowers and the grass bend gracefully, and somewhere a bird raises its voice in a long warble. JOF'S face breaks into a smile and his eyes fill with tears. With a dazed expression he sits flat on his behind while the grass rustles softly, and bees and butterflies hum around his head. The unseen bird continues to sing. Suddenly the breeze stops blowing, the bird stops singing, JOF'S smile fades, the flowers and grass wilt in the heat. The old horse is still walking around grazing and swishing its tail to ward off the flies. JOF comes to life. He rushes into the wagon and shakes MIA awake. <b> JOF </b> Mia, wake up. Wake up! Mia, I've just seen something. I've got to tell you about it! <b> MIA </b> (sits up, terrified) What is it? What's happened? <b> JOF </b> Listen, I've had a vision. No, it wasn't a vision. It was real, absolutely real. <b> MIA </b> Oh, so you've had a vision again! MIA's voice is filled with gentle irony. JOF shakes his head and grabs her by the shoulders. <b> JOF </b> But I did see her! <b> MIA </b> Whom did you see? <b> JOF </b> The Virgin Mary. MIA can't help being impressed by her husband's fervor. She lowers her voice. <b> MIA </b> Did you really see her? <b> JOF </b> She was so close to me that I could have touched her. She had a golden crown on her head and wore a blue gown with flowers of gold. She was barefoot and had small brown hands with which she was holding the Child and teaching Him to walk. And then she saw me watching her and she smiled at me. My eyes filled with tears and when I wiped them away, she had disappeared. And everything became so still in the sky and on the earth. Can you understand ... <b> MIA </b> What an imagination you have. <b> JOF </b> You don't believe me! But it was real, I tell you, not the kind of reality you see every day, but a different kind. <b> MIA </b> Perhaps it was the kind of reality you told us about when you saw the Devil painting our wagon wheels red, using his tail as a brush. <b> JOF </b> (embarrassed) Why must you keep bringing that up? <b> MIA </b> And then you discovered that you had red paint under your nails. <b> JOF </b> Well, perhaps that time I made it up. (eagerly) I did it just so that you would believe in my other visions. The real ones. The ones that I didn't make up. <b> MIA </b> (severely) You have to keep your visions under control. Otherwise people will think that you're a half-wit, which you're not. At least not yet -- as far as I know. But, come to think of it, I'm not so sure about that. <b> JOF </b> (angry) I didn't ask to have visions. I can't help it if voices speak to me, if the Holy Virgin appears before me and angels and devils like my company. <b> SKAT </b> (sits up) Haven't I told you once and for all that I need my morning's sleep! I have asked you politely, pleaded with you, but nothing works. So now I'm telling you to shut up! His eyes are popping with rage. He turns over and continues snoring where he left off. MIA and JOF decide that it would be wisest to leave the wagon. They sit down on a crate. MIA has MIKAEL on her knees. He is naked and squirms vigorously. JOF sits close to his wife. Slumped over, he still looks dazed and astonished. A dry, hot wind blows from the sea. <b> MIA </b> If we would only get some rain. Everything is burned to cinders. We won't have anything to eat this winter. <b> JOF </b> (yawning) We'll get by. He says this smilingly, with a casual air. He stretches and laughs contentedly. <b> MIA </b> I want Mikael to have a better life than ours. <b> JOF </b> Mikael will grow up to be a great acrobat -- or a juggler who can do the one impossible trick. <b> MIA </b> What's that? <b> JOF </b> To make one of the balls stand absolutely still in the air. <b> MIA </b> But that's impossible. <b> JOF </b> Impossible for us -- but not for him. <b> MIA </b> You're dreaming again. She yawns. The sun, has made her a bit drowsy and she lies down on the grass. JOF does likewise and puts one arm around his wife's shoulders. <b> JOF </b> I've composed a song. I made it up during the night when I couldn't sleep. Do you want to hear it? <b> MIA </b> Sing it. I'm very curious. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> I have to sit up first. He sits with his legs crossed, makes a dramatic gesture with his arms and sings in a loud voice. <b> JOF </b> (sings) On a lily branch a dove is perched Against the summer sky, She sings a wondrous song of Christ And there's great joy on high. He interrupts his singing in order to be complimented by his wife. <b> JOF </b> Mia! Are you asleep? <b> MIA </b> It's a lovely song. <b> JOF </b> I haven't finished yet. <b> </b><b> MIA </b> I heard it, but I think I'll sleep a little longer. You can sing the rest to me afterwards. <b> JOF </b> All you do is sleep. JOF is a bit offended and glances over at his son, MIKAEL, but he is also sleeping soundly in the high grass. JONAS SKAT comes out from the wagon. He yawns; he is very tired and in a bad humor. In his hands he holds a crudely made death mask. <b> SKAT </b> Is this supposed to be a mask for an actor? If the priests didn't pay us so well, I'd say no thank you. <b> JOF </b> Are you going to play Death? <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> Just think, scaring decent folk out of their wits with this kind of nonsense. <b> JOF </b> When are we supposed to do this play? <b> SKAT </b> At the saints' feast in Elsinore. We're going to perform right on the church steps, believe it or not. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Wouldn't it be better to play something bawdy? People like it better, and, besides, it's more fun. <b> SKAT </b> Idiot. There's a rumor going around that there's a terrible pestilence in the land, and now the priests are prophesying sudden death and all sorts of spiritual agonies. MIA is awake now and lies contentedly on her back, sucking on a blade of grass and looking smilingly at her husband. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> And what part am I to play? <b> SKAT </b> You're such a damn fool, so you're going to be the Soul of Man. <b> JOF </b> That's a bad part, of course. <b> SKAT </b> Who makes the decisions around here? Who is the director of this company anyhow? SKAT, grinning, holds the mask in front of his face and recites dramatically. <b> SKAT </b> Bear this in mind, you fool. Your life hangs by a thread. Your time is short. (in his usual voice) Are the women going to like me in this getup? Will I make a hit? No! I feel as if I were dead already. He stumbles into the wagon muttering furiously. JOF sits, leaning forward. MIA lies beside him on the grass. <b> MIA </b> Jof! <b> </b><b> JOF </b> What is it? <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Sit still. Don't move. <b> JOF </b> What do you mean? <b> MIA </b> Don't say anything. <b> JOF </b> I'm as silent as a grave. <b> MIA </b> Shh! I love you. <b> </b> Waves of heat envelop the gray stone church in a strange white mist. The KNIGHT dismounts and enters. After tying up the horses, JONS slowly follows him in. When he comes onto the church porch he stops in surprise. To the right of the entrance there is a large fresco on the wall, not quite finished. Perched on a crude scaffolding is a PAINTER wearing a red cap and paint-stained clothes. He has one brush in his mouth, while with another in his hand he outlines a small, terrified human face amidst a sea of other faces. <b> JONS </b> What is this supposed to represent? <b> PAINTER </b> The Dance of Death. <b> JONS </b> And that one is Death? <b> </b><b> PAINTER </b> Yes, he dances off with all of them. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Why do you paint such nonsense? <b> PAINTER </b> I thought it would serve to remind people that they must die. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Well, it's not going to make them feel any happier. <b> PAINTER </b> Why should one always make people happy? It might not be a bad idea to scare them a little once in a while. <b> JONS </b> Then they'll close their eyes and refuse to look at your painting. <b> </b><b> PAINTER </b> Oh, they'll look. A skull is almost more interesting than a naked woman. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> If you do scare them ... <b> PAINTER </b> They'll think. <b> JONS </b> And if they think ... <b> </b><b> PAINTER </b> They'll become still more scared. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> And then they'll run right into the arms of the priests. <b> PAINTER </b> That's not my business. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> You're only painting your Dance of Death. <b> PAINTER </b> I'm only painting things as they are. Everyone else can do as he likes. <b> JONS </b> Just think how some people will curse you. <b> PAINTER </b> Maybe. But then I'll paint something amusing for them to look at. I have to make a living -- at least until the plague takes me. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> The plague. That sounds horrible. <b> PAINTER </b> You should see the boils on a diseased man's throat. You should see how his body shrivels up so that his legs look like knotted strings -- like the man I've painted over there. The PAINTER points with his brush. JONS sees a small human form writhing in the grass, its eyes turned upwards in a frenzied look of horror and pain. <b> JONS </b> That looks terrible. <b> PAINTER </b> It certainly does. He tries to rip out the boil, he bites his hands, tears his veins open with his fingernails and his screams can be heard everywhere. Does that scare you? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Scare? Me? You don't know me. What are the horrors you've painted over there? <b> PAINTER </b> The remarkable thing is that the poor creatures think the pestilence is the Lord's punishment. Mobs of people who call themselves Slaves of Sin are swarming over the country, flagellating themselves and others, all for the glory of God. <b> JONS </b> Do they really whip themselves? <b> PAINTER </b> Yes, it's a terrible sight. I crawl into a ditch and hide when they pass by. <b> JONS </b> Do you have any brandy? I've been drinking water all day and it's made me as thirsty as a camel in the desert. <b> PAINTER </b> I think I frightened you after all. JONS sits down with the PAINTER, who produces a jug of brandy. The KNIGHT is kneeling before a small altar. It is dark and quiet around him. The air is cool and musty. Pictures of saints look down on him with stony eyes. Christ's face is turned upwards, His mouth open as if in a cry of anguish. On the ceiling beam there is a representation of a hideous devil spying on a miserable human being. The KNIGHT hears a sound from the confession booth and approaches it. The face of DEATH appears behind the grille for an instant, but the KNIGHT doesn't see him. <b> KNIGHT </b> I want to talk to you as openly as I can, but my heart is empty. DEATH doesn't answer. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> The emptiness is a mirror turned towards my own face. I see myself in it, and I am filled with fear and disgust. DEATH doesn't answer. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Through my indifference to my fellow men, I have isolated myself from their company. Now I live in a world of phantoms. I am imprisoned in my dreams and fantasies. <b> DEATH </b> And yet you don't want to die. <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes, I do. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> What are you waiting for? <b> KNIGHT </b> I want knowledge. <b> DEATH </b> You want guarantees? <b> KNIGHT </b> Call it whatever you like. Is it so cruelly inconceivable to grasp God with the senses? Why should He hide himself in a mist of half-spoken promises and unseen miracles? DEATH doesn't answer. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> How can we have faith in those who believe when we can't have faith in ourselves? What is going to happen to those of us who want to believe but aren't able to? And what is to become of those who neither want to nor are capable of believing? The KNIGHT stops and waits for a reply, but no one speaks or answers him. There is complete silence. <b> KNIGHT </b> Why can't I kill God within me? Why does He live on in this painful and humiliating way even though I curse Him and want to tear Him out of my heart? Why, in spite of everything, is He a baffling reality that I can't shake off? Do you hear me? <b> DEATH </b> Yes, I hear you. <b> KNIGHT </b> I want knowledge, not faith, not suppositions, but knowledge. I want God to stretch out His hand towards me, reveal Himself and speak to me. <b> DEATH </b> But He remains silent. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> I call out to Him in the dark but no one seems to be there. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> Perhaps no one is there. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Then life is an outrageous horror. No one can live in the face of death, knowing that all is nothingness. <b> DEATH </b> Most people never reflect about either death or the futility of life. <b> KNIGHT </b> But one day they will have to stand at that last moment of life and look towards the darkness. <b> DEATH </b> When that day comes ... <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> In our fear, we make an image, and that image we call God. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> You are worrying ... <b> KNIGHT </b> Death visited me this morning. We are playing chess together. This reprieve gives me the chance to arrange an urgent matter. <b> DEATH </b> What matter is that? <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> My life has been a futile pursuit, a wandering, a great deal of talk without meaning. I feel no bitterness or self-reproach because the lives of most people are very much like this. But I will use my reprieve for one meaningful deed. <b> DEATH </b> Is that why you are playing chess with Death? <b> KNIGHT </b> He is a clever opponent, but up to now I haven't lost a single man. <b> DEATH </b> How will you outwit Death in your game? <b> KNIGHT </b> I use a combination of the bishop and the knight which he hasn't yet discovered. In the next move I'll shatter one of his flanks. <b> DEATH </b> I'll remember that. DEATH shows his face at the grill of the confession booth for a moment but disappears instantly. <b> KNIGHT </b> You've tricked and cheated me! But we'll meet again, and I'll find a way. <b> DEATH </b> (invisible) We'll meet at the inn, and there we'll continue playing. The KNIGHT raises his hand and looks at it in the sunlight which comes through the tiny window. <b> KNIGHT </b> This is my hand. I can move it, feel the blood pulsing through it. The sun is still high in the sky and I, Antonius Block, am playing chess with Death. He makes a fist of his hand and lifts it to his temple. Meanwhile, JONS and the PAINTER have got drunk and are talking animatedly together. <b> JONS </b> Me and my master have been abroad and have just come home. Do you understand, you little pictor? <b> PAINTER </b> The Crusade. <b> JONS </b> (drunk) Precisely. For ten years we sat in the Holy Land and let snakes bite us, flies sting us, wild animals eat us, heathens butcher us, the wine poison us, the women give us lice, the lice devour us, the fevers rot us, all for the Glory of God. Our crusade was such madness that only a real idealist could have thought it up. But what you said about the plague was horrible. <b> PAINTER </b> It's worse than that. <b> JONS </b> Ah, me. No matter which way you turn, you have your rump behind you. That's the truth. <b> PAINTER </b> The rump behind you, the rump behind you there's a profound truth. JONS paints a small figure which is supposed to represent himself. <b> JONS </b> This is squire Jns. He grins at Death, mocks the Lord, laughs at himself and leers at the girls. His world is a Jnsworld, believable only to himself, ridiculous to all including himself, meaningless to Heaven and of no interest to Hell. The KNIGHT walks by, calls to his squire and goes out into the bright sunshine. JONS manages to set himself down from the scaffolding. Outside the church, four soldiers and a monk are in the process of putting a woman in the stocks. Her face is pale and child-like, her head has been shaved, and her knuckles are bloody and broken. Her eyes are wide open, yet she doesn't appear to be fully conscious. JONS and the KNIGHT stop and watch in silence. The soldiers are working quickly and skillfully, but they seem frightened and dejected. The monk mumbles from a small book. One of the soldiers picks up a wooden bucket and with his hand begins to smear a bloody paste on the wall of the church and around the woman. JONS holds his nose. <b> JONS </b> That soup of yours has a hell of a stink. What is it good for? <b> SOLDIER </b> She has had carnal intercourse with the Evil One. He whispers this with a horrified face and continues to splash the sticky mess on the wall. <b> JONS </b> And now she's in the stocks. <b> SOLDIER </b> She will be burned tomorrow morning at the parish boundary. But we have to keep the Devil away from the rest of us. <b> JONS </b> (holding his nose) And you do that with this stinking mess? <b> SOLDIER </b> It's the best remedy: blood mixed with the bile of a big black dog. The Devil can't stand the smell. <b> JONS </b> Neither can I. <b> </b>JONS walks over towards the horses. The KNIGHT stands for a few, moments looking at the young girl. She is almost a child. Slowly she turns her eyes towards him. <b> KNIGHT </b> Have you seen the Devil? The MONK stops reading and raises his head. <b> MONK </b> You must not talk to her. <b> KNIGHT </b> Can that be so dangerous? <b> MONK </b> I don't know, but she is believed to have caused the pestilence with which we are affected. <b> KNIGHT </b> I understand. He nods resignedly and walks away. The young woman starts to moan as though she were having a horrible nightmare. The sound of her cries follows the two riders for a considerable distance down the road. <b> </b> The sun stands high in the sky, like a red ball of fire. The waterskin is empty and JONS looks for a well where he can fill it. They approach a group of peasant cottages at the edge of the forest. JONS ties up the horses, slings the skin over his shoulder and walks along the path towards the nearest cottage. As always, his movements are light and almost soundless. The door to the cottage is open. He stops outside, but when no one appears he enters. It is very dark inside and his foot touches a soft object. He looks down. Beside the whitewashed fireplace, a woman is lying with her face to the ground. At the sound of approaching steps, JONS quickly hides behind the door. A man comes down a ladder from the loft. He is broad and thick-set. His eyes are black and his face is pale and puffy. His clothes are well cut but dirty and in rags. He carries a cloth sack. Looking around, he goes into the inner room, bends over the bed, tucks something into the bag, slinks along the walls, looking on the shelves, finds something else which he tucks in his bag. Slowly he re-enters the outer room, bends over the dead woman and carefully slips a ring from her finger. At that moment a young woman comes through the door. She stops and stares at the stranger. <b> RAVEL </b> Why do you look so surprised? I steal from the dead. These days it's quite a lucrative enterprise. The GIRL makes a movement as if to run away. <b> RAVEL </b> You're thinking of running to the village and telling. That wouldn't serve any purpose. Each of us has to save his own skin. It's as simple as that. <b> GIRL </b> Don't touch me. <b> RAVAL </b> Don't try to scream. There's no one around to hear you, neither God nor man. Slowly he closes the door behind the GIRL. The stuffy room is now in almost total darkness. But JONS becomes clearly visible. <b> JONS </b> I recognize you, although it's a long time since we met. Your name is Raval, from the theological college at Roskilde. You are Dr. Mirabilis, Coelestis et Diabilis. RAVAL smiles uneasily and looks around. <b> JONS </b> Am I not right? The GIRL stands immobile. <b> JONS </b> You were the one who, ten years ago, convinced my master of the necessity to join a better- class crusade to the Holy Land. RAVAL looks around. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> You look uncomfortable. Do you have a stomach- ache? RAVAL smiles anxiously. <b> JONS </b> When I see you, I suddenly understand the meaning of these ten years, which previously seemed to me such a waste. Our life was too good and we were too satisfied with ourselves. The Lord wanted to punish us for our complacency. That is why He sent you to spew out your holy venom and poison the knight. <b> RAVEL </b> I acted in good faith. <b> JONS </b> But now you know better, don't you? Because now you have turned into a thief. A more fitting and rewarding occupation for scoundrels. Isn't that so? With a quick movement he knocks the knife out of RAVAL'S hand, gives him a kick so that he falls on the floor and is about to finish him off. Suddenly the GIRL screams. JONS stops and makes a gesture of generosity with his hand. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> By all means. I'm not bloodthirsty. He bends over RAVAL. <b> RAVEL </b> Don't beat me. <b> JONS </b> I don't have the heart to touch you, Doctor. But remember this: the next time we meet, I'll brand your face the way one does with thieves. (he rises) What I really came for is to get my waterskin filled. <b> GIRL </b> We have a deep well with cool, fresh water. Come, I'll show you. They walk out of the house. RAVAL lies still for a few moments, then he rises slowly and looks around. When no one is in sight, he takes his bag and steals away. JONS quenches his thirst and fills his bag with water. The GIRL helps him. <b> JONS </b> Jns is my name. I am a pleasant and talkative young man who has never had anything but kind thoughts and has only done beautiful and noble deeds. I'm kindest of all to young women. With them, there is no limit to my kindness. He embraces her and tries to kiss her, but she holds herself back. Almost immediately he loses interest, hoists the waterbag on his shoulder and pats the GIRL on the cheek. <b> JONS </b> Goodbye, my girl. I could very well have raped you, but between you and me, I'm tired of that kind of love. It runs a little dry in the end. He laughs kindly and walks away from her. When he has walked a short distance he turns; the GIRL is still there. <b> JONS </b> Now that I think of it, I will need a housekeeper. Can you prepare good food? (the GIRL nods) As far as I know, I'm still a married man, but I have high hopes that my wife is dead by now. That's why I need a housekeeper. (the GIRL doesn't answer but gets up) The devil with it! Come along and don't stand there staring. I've saved your life, so you owe me a great deal. She begins walking towards him, her head bent. He doesn't wait for her but walks towards the KNIGHT, who patiently awaits his squire. <b> </b> The Embarrassment Inn lies in the eastern section of the province. The plague has not yet reached this area on its way along the coast. The actors have placed their wagon under a tree in the yard of the inn. Dressed in colorful costumes, they perform a farce. The spectators watch the performance, commenting on it noisily. There are merchants with fat, beer-sweaty faces, apprentices and journeymen, farmhands and milkmaids. A whole flock of children perch in the trees around the wagon. <b> </b>The KNIGHT and his squire have sat down in the shadow of a wall. They drink beer and doze in the midday heat. The GIRL from the deserted village sleeps at JONS'S side. SKAT beats the drums, JOF blows the flute, MIA performs a gay and lively dance. They perspire under the hot white sun. When they have finished SKAT comes forward and bows. <b> SKAT </b> Noble ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your interest. Please remain standing for a little longer, or sit on the ground, because we are now going to perform a tragedia about an unfaithful wife, her jealous husband, and the handsome lover -- that's me. MIA and JOF have quickly changed costumes and again step out on the stage. They bow, to the public. <b> SKAT </b> Here is the husband. Here is the wife. If you'll shut up over there, you'll see something splendid. As I said, I play the lover and I haven't entered yet. That's why I'm going to hide behind the curtain for the time being. (he wipes the sweat from his forehead) It's damned hot. I think we'll have a thunderstorm. He places his leg in front of JOF as if to trip him, raises MIA's skirt, makes a face as if he could see all the wonders of the world underneath it, and disappears behind the gaudily patched curtains. SKAT is very handsome, now that he can see himself in the reflection of a tin washbowl. His hair is tightly curled, his eyebrows are beautifully bushy, glittering earrings vie for equal attention with his teeth, and his cheeks are flushed rose red. <b> </b>He sits out in back on the tailboard of the wagon, dangling his legs and whistling to himself. <b> </b>In the meantime JOF and MIA play their tragedy; it is not, however, received with great acclaim. SKAT suddenly discovers that someone is watching him as he gazes contentedly into the tin bowl. A woman stands there, stately in both height and volume. <b> </b>SKAT frowns, toys with his small dagger and occasionally throws a roguish but fiery glance at the beautiful visitor. She suddenly discovers that one of her shoes doesn't quite fit. She leans down to fix it and in doing so allows her generous bosom to burst out of its prison -- no more than honor and chastity allow, but still enough so that the actor with his experienced eye immediately sees that there are ample rewards to be had here. Now she comes a little closer, kneels down and opens a bundle containing several dainty morsels and a skin filled with red wine. JONAS SKAT manages not to fall off the wagon in his excitement. Standing on the steps of the wagon, he supports himself against a nearby tree, crosses his legs and bows. <b> </b>The woman quietly bites into a chicken leg dripping with fat. At this moment the actor is stricken by a radiant glance full of lustful appetites. When he sees this look, SKAT makes an instantaneous decision, jumps down from the wagon and kneels in front of the blushing damsel. She becomes weak and faint from his nearness, looks at him with a glassy glance and breathes heavily. SKAT doesn't neglect to press kisses on her small, chubby hands. The sun shines brightly and small birds make noises in the bushes. Now she is forced to sit back; her legs seem unwilling to support her any longer. Bewildered, she singles out another chicken leg from the large sack of food and holds it up in front of SKAT with an appealing and triumphant expression, as if it were her maidenhood being offered as a prize. SKAT hesitates momentarily, but he is still the strategist. He lets the chicken leg fall to the grass, and murmurs in the woman's rosy ear. His words seem to please her. She puts her arms around the actor's neck and pulls him to her with such fierceness that both of them lose their balance and tumble down on the soft grass. The small birds take to their wings with frightened shrieks. JOF stands in the hot sun with a flickering lantern in his hand. MIA pretends to be asleep on a bench which has been pulled forward on the stage. <b> JOF </b> Night and moonlight now prevail Here sleeps my wife so frail ... <b> VOICE FROM THE PUBLIC </b> Does she snore? <b> JOF </b> May I point out that this is a tragedy, and in tragedies one doesn't snore. <b> VOICE FROM THE PUBLIC </b> I think she should snore anyhow. This opinion causes mirth in the audience. JOF becomes slightly confused and goes out of character, but MIA keeps her head and begins snoring. <b> JOF </b> Night and moonlight now prevail. There snores -- I mean sleeps -- my wife so frail. Jealous I am, as never before, I hide myself behind this door. Faithful is she To her lover -- not me. He soon comes a-stealing To awaken her lusty feeling. I shall now kill him dead For cuckolding me in my bed. There he comes in the moonlight, His white legs shining bright. Quiet as a mouse, here I'll lie, Tell him not that he's about to die. JOF hides himself. MIA immediately ends her snoring and sits up, looking to the left. <b> MIA </b> Look, there he comes in the night My lover, my heart's delight. She becomes silent and looks wide-eyed in front of her. The mood in the yard in front of the inn has, up to now, been rather lighthearted despite the heat. <b> </b>Now a rapid change occurs. People who had been laughing and chattering fall silent. Their faces seem to pale under their sunbrowned skins, the children stop their games and stand with gaping mouths and frightened eyes. <b> </b>JOF steps out in front of the curtain. His painted face bears an expression of horror. MIA has risen with MIKAEL in her arms. Some of the women in the yard have fallen on their knees, others hide their faces, many begin to mutter half-forgotten prayers. All have turned their faces towards the white road. Now a shrill song is heard. It is frenzied, almost a scream. A crucified Christ sways above the hilltop. The cross-bearers soon come into sight. They are Dominican monks, their hoods pulled down over their faces. More and more of them follow, carrying litters with heavy coffins or clutching holy relics, their hands stretched out spasmodically. The dust wells up around their black hoods; the censers sway and emit a thick, ashen smoke which smells of rancid herbs. After the line of monks comes another procession. It is a column of men, boys, old men, women, girls, children. All of them have steel-edged scourges in their hands with which they whip themselves and each other, howling ecstatically. They twist in pain; their eyes bulge wildly; their lips are gnawed to shreds and dripping with foam. They have been seized by madness. They bite their own hands and arms, whip each other in violent, almost rhythmic outbursts. Throughout it all the shrill song howls from their bursting throats. Many sway and fall, lift themselves up again, support each other and help each other to intensify the scourging. Now the procession pauses at the crossroads in front of the inn. The monks fall on their knees, hiding their faces with clenched hands, arms pressed tightly together. Their song never stops. The Christ figure on its timbered cross is raised above the heads of the crowd. It is not Christ triumphant, but the suffering Jesus with the sores, the blood, the hammered nails and the face in convulsive pain. The Son of God, nailed on the wood of the cross, suffering scorn and shame. <b> </b>The penitents have now sunk down in the dirt of the road. They collapse where they stood like slaughtered cattle. Their screams rise with the song of the monks, through misty clouds of incense, towards the white fire of the sun. <b> </b>A large square monk rises from his knees and reveals his face, which is red- brown from the sun. His eyes glitter; his voice is thick with impotent scorn. <b> MONK </b> God has sentenced us to punishment. We shall all perish in the black death. You, standing there like gaping cattle, you who sit there in your glutted complacency, do you know that this may be your last hour? Death stands right behind you. I can see how his crown gleams in the sun. His scythe flashes as he raises it above your heads. Which one of you shall he strike first? You there, who stand staring like a goat, will your mouth be twisted into the last unfinished gasp before nightfall? And you, woman, who bloom with life and self- satisfaction, will you pale and become extinguished before the morning dawns? You back there, with your swollen nose and stupid grin, do you have another year left to dirty the earth with your refuse? Do you know, you insensible fools, that you shall die today or tomorrow, or the next day, because all of you have been sentenced? Do you hear what I say? Do you hear the word? You have been sentenced, sentenced! The MONK falls silent, looking around with a bitter face and a cold, scornful glance. Now, he clenches his hands, straddles the ground and turns his face upwards. <b> MONK </b> Lord have mercy on us in our humiliation! Don't turn your face from us in loathing and contempt, but be merciful to us for the sake of your son, Jesus Christ. He makes the sign of the cross over the crowd and then begins a new song in a strong voice. The monks rise and join in the song. As if driven by some superhuman force, the penitents begin to whip themselves again, still wailing and moaning. The procession continues. New members have joined the rear of the column; others who were unable to go on lie weeping in the dust of the road. JONS the squire drinks his beer. <b> JONS </b> This damned ranting about doom. Is that food for the minds of modern people? Do they really expect us to take them seriously? The KNIGHT grins tiredly. <b> JONS </b> Yes, now you grin at me, my lord. But allow me to point out that I've either read, heard or experienced most of the tales which we people tell each other. <b> KNIGHT </b> (yawns) Yes, yes. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Even the ghost stories about God the Father, the angels, Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost -- all these I've accepted without too much emotion. He leans down over the GIRL as she crouches at his feet and pats her on the head. The KNIGHT drinks his beer silently. <b> JONS </b> (contentedly) My little stomach is my world, my head is my eternity, and my hands, two wonderful suns. My legs are time's damned pendulums, and my dirty feet are two splendid starting points for my philosophy. Everything is worth precisely as much as a belch, the only difference being that a belch is more satisfying. The beer mug is empty. Sighing, JONS gets to his feet. The GIRL follows him like a shadow. In the yard he meets a large man with a sooty face and a dark expression. He stops JONS with a roar. <b> JONS </b> What are you screaming about? <b> PLOG </b> I am Plog, the smith, and you are the squire Jns. <b> JONS </b> That's possible. <b> PLOG </b> Have you seen my wife? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> No, I haven't. But if I had seen her and she looked like you, I'd quickly forget that I'd seen her. <b> PLOG </b> Well, in that case you haven't seen her. <b> JONS </b> Maybe she's run off. <b> PLOG </b> Do you know anything? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> I know quite a lot, but not about your wife. Go to the inn. Maybe they can help you. The smith sighs sadly and goes inside. The inn is very small and full of people eating and drinking to forget their newly aroused fears of eternity. In the open fireplace a roasting pig turns on an iron spit. The sun shines outside the casement window, its sharp rays piercing the darkness of the room, which is thick with fumes and perspiration. <b> </b><b> MERCHANT </b> Yes, it's true! The plague is spreading along the west coast. People are dying like flies. Usually business would be good at this time of year, but, damn it, I've still got my whole stock unsold. <b> WOMAN </b> They speak of the judgment day. And all these omens are terrible. Worms, chopped-off hands and other monstrosities began pouring out of an old woman, and down in the village another woman gave birth to a calf's head. <b> OLD MAN </b> The day of judgment. Imagine. <b> FARMER </b> It hasn't rained here for a month. We'll surely lose our crops. <b> MERCHANT </b> And people are acting crazy, I'd say. They flee the country and carry the plague with them wherever they go. <b> OLD MAN </b> The day of judgment. Just think, just think! <b> FARMER </b> If it's as they say, I suppose a person should look after his house and try to enjoy life as long as he can. <b> WOMAN </b> But there have been other things too, such things that can't even be spoken of. (whispers) Things that mustn't be named -- but the priests say that the woman carries it between her legs and that's why she must cleanse herself. <b> OLD MAN </b> Judgment day. And the Riders of the Apocalypse stand at the bend in the village road. I imagine they'll come on judgment night, at sundown. <b> WOMAN </b> There are many who have purged themselves with fire and died from it, but the priests say that it's better to die pure than to live for hell. <b> </b><b> MERCHANT </b> This is the end, yes, it is. No one says it out loud, but all of us know that it's the end. And people are going mad from fear. <b> FARMER </b> So you're afraid too. <b> MERCHANT </b> Of course I'm afraid. <b> OLD MAN </b> The judgment day becomes night, and the angels descend and the graves open. It will be terrible to see. They whisper in low tones and sit close to each other. PLOG, the smith, shoves his way into a place next to JOF, who is still dressed in his costume. Opposite him sits RAVAL, leaning slightly forward, his face perspiring heavily. RAVAL rolls an armlet out on the table. <b> RAVAL </b> Do you want this armlet? You can have it cheap. <b> JOF </b> I can't afford it. <b> RAVAL </b> It's real silver. <b> JOF </b> It's nice. But it's surely too expensive for me. <b> PLOG </b> Excuse me, but has anyone here seen my wife? <b> JOF </b> Has she disappeared? <b> PLOG </b> They say she's run away. <b> JOF </b> Has she deserted you? <b> PLOG </b> With an actor. <b> JOF </b> An actor! If she's got such bad taste, then I think you should let her go. <b> PLOG </b> You're right. My first thought, of course, was to kill her. <b> JOF </b> Oh. But to murder her, that's a terrible thing to do. <b> PLOG </b> I'm also going to kill the actor. <b> JOF </b> The actor? <b> PLOG </b> Of course, the one she eloped with. <b> JOF </b> What has he done to deserve that? <b> PLOG </b> Are you stupid? <b> </b><b> JOF </b> The actor! Now I understand. There are too many of them, so even if he hasn't done anything in particular you ought to kill him merely because he's an actor. <b> PLOG </b> You see, my wife has always been interested in the tricks of the theatre. <b> JOF </b> And that turned out to be her misfortune. <b> PLOG </b> Her misfortune, but not mine, because a person who's born unfortunate can hardly suffer from any further misfortune. Isn't that true? Now RAVAL enters the discussion. He is slightly drunk and his voice is shrill and evil. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Listen, you! You sit there and lie to the smith. <b> JOF </b> I! A liar! <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> You're an actor too and it's probably your partner who's run off with Plog's old lady. <b> PLOG </b> Are you an actor too? <b> JOF </b> An actor! Me! I wouldn't quite call myself that! <b> RAVAL </b> We ought to kill you; it's only logical. <b> JOF </b> (laughs) You're really funny. <b> RAVAL </b> How strange -- you've turned pale. Have you anything on your conscience? <b> JOF </b> You're funny. Don't you think he's funny? (to Plog) Oh, you don't. <b> RAVAL </b> Maybe we should mark you up a little with a knife, like they do petty scoundrels of your kind. PLOG bangs his hands down on the table so that the dishes jump. He gets up. <b> </b><b> PLOG </b> (shouting) What have you done with my wife? The room becomes silent. JOF looks around, but there is no exit, no way to escape. He puts his hands on the table. Suddenly a knife flashes through the air and sinks into the table top between his fingers. JOF snatches away his hands and raises his head. He looks half surprised, as if the truth had just become apparent to him. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Do you want to hurt me? Why? Have I provoked someone, or got in the way? I'll leave right now and never come back. JOF looks from one face to another, but no one seems ready to help him or come to his defense. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Get up so everyone can hear you. Talk louder. Trembling, JOF rises. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but not a word comes out. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Stand on your head so that we can see how good an actor you are. JOF gets up on the table and stands on his head. A hand pushes him forward so that he collapses on the floor. PLOG rises, pulls him to his feet with one hand. <b> PLOG </b> (shouts) What have you done with my wife? PLOG beats him so furiously that JOF flies across the table. RAVAL leans over him. <b> </b><b> RAVAL </b> Don't lie there moaning. Get up and dance. <b> JOF </b> I don't want to. I can't. <b> RAVEL </b> Show us how you imitate a bear. <b> JOF </b> I can't play a bear. <b> RAVAL </b> Let's see if you can't after all. RAVAL prods JOF lightly with the knife point. JOF gets up with cold sweat on his cheeks and forehead, frightened half to death. He begins to jump and hop on top of the tables, swinging his arms and legs and making grotesque faces. Some laugh, but most of the people sit silently. JOF gasps as if his lungs were about to burst. He sinks to his knees, and someone pours beer over him. <b> RAVEL </b> Up again! Be a good bear. <b> JOF </b> I haven't done any harm. I haven't got the strength to play a bear any more. At that moment the door opens and JONS enters. JOF sees his chance and steals out. RAVAL intends to follow him, but suddenly stops. JONS and RAVAL look at each other. <b> JONS </b> Do you remember what I was going to do to you if we met again? RAVAL steps back without speaking. <b> JONS </b> I'm a man who keeps his word. JONS raises his knife and cuts RAVAL from forehead to cheek. RAVAL staggers towards the wall. <b> </b> The hot day has become night. Singing and howling can be heard from the inn. In a hollow near the forest, the light still lingers. Hidden in the grass and the shrubbery, nightingales sing and their voices echo through the stillness. <b> </b>The players' wagon stands in a small ravine, and not far away the horse grazes on the dry grass. MIA has sat down in front of the wagon with her son in her arms. They play together and laugh happily. Now, a soft gleam of light strokes the hilltops, a last reflection from the red clouds over the sea. Not far from the wagon, the KNIGHT sits crouched over his chess game. He lifts his head. The evening light moves across the heavy wagon wheels, across the woman and the child. The KNIGHT gets up. MIA sees him and smiles. She holds up her struggling son, as if to amuse the <b>KNIGHT. </b> <b> KNIGHT </b> What's his name? <b> MIA </b> Mikael. <b> KNIGHT </b> How old is he? <b> MIA </b> Oh, he'll soon be two. <b> KNIGHT </b> He's big for his age. <b> MIA </b> Do you think so? Yes, I guess he's rather big. She puts the child down on the ground and half rises to shake out her red skirt. When she sits down again, the KNIGHT steps closer. <b> KNIGHT </b> You played some kind of show this afternoon. <b> MIA </b> Did you think it was bad? <b> KNIGHT </b> You are more beautiful now without your face painted, and this gown is more becoming. <b> MIA </b> You see, Jonas Skat has run off and left us, so we're in real trouble now. <b> KNIGHT </b> Is that your husband? <b> MIA </b> (laughs) Jonas! The other man is my husband. His name is Jof. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Oh, that one. <b> MIA </b> And now there's only him and me. We'll have to start doing tricks again and that's more trouble than it's worth. <b> KNIGHT </b> Do you do tricks also? <b> MIA </b> We certainly do. And Jof is a very skillful juggler. <b> KNIGHT </b> Is Mikael going to be an acrobat? <b> MIA </b> Jof wants him to be. <b> KNIGHT </b> But you don't. <b> MIA </b> I don't know. (smiling) Perhaps he'll become a knight. <b> KNIGHT </b> Let me assure you, that's no pleasure either. <b> MIA </b> No, you don't look so happy. <b> KNIGHT </b> No. <b> MIA </b> Are you tired? <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes. <b> MIA </b> Why? <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> I have dull company. <b> MIA </b> Do you mean your squire? <b> KNIGHT </b> No, not him. <b> MIA </b> Who do you mean, then? <b> KNIGHT </b> Myself. <b> MIA </b> I understand. <b> KNIGHT </b> Do you, really? <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Yes, I understand rather well. I have often wondered why people torture themselves as often as they can. Isn't that so? She nods energetically and the KNIGHT smiles seriously. Now the shrieks and the noise from the inn become louder. Black figures flicker across the grass mound. Someone collapses, gets up and runs. It is JOF. MIA stretches out her arms and receives him. He holds his hands in front of his face, moaning like a child, and his body sways. He kneels. MIA holds him close to her and sprinkles him with small, anxious questions: What have you done? How are you? What is it? Does it hurt? What can I do? Have they been cruel to you? She runs for a rag, which she dips in water, and carefully bathes her husband's dirty, bloody face. <b> </b>Eventually a rather sorrowful visage emerges. Blood runs from a bruise on his forehead and his nose, and a tooth has been loosened, but otherwise JOF seems unhurt. <b> JOF </b> Ouch, it hurts. <b> MIA </b> Why did you have to go there? And of course you drank. MIA's anxiety has been replaced by a mild anger. She pats him a little harder than necessary. <b> JOF </b> Ouch! I didn't drink anything. <b> MIA </b> Then I suppose you were boasting about the angels and devils you consort with. People don't like someone who has too many ideas and fantasies. <b> JOF </b> I swear to you that I didn't say a word about angels. <b> MIA </b> You were, of course, busy singing and dancing. You can never stop being an actor. People also become angry at that, and you know it. JOF doesn't answer but searches for the armlet. He holds it up in front of MIA with an injured expression. <b> JOF </b> Look what I bought for you. <b> MIA </b> You couldn't afford it. <b> JOF </b> (angry) But I got it anyhow. The armlet glitters faintly in the twilight. MIA now pulls it across her wrist. They look at it in silence, and their faces soften. They look at each other, touch each other's hands. JOF puts his head against MIA'S shoulder and sighs. <b> JOF </b> Oh, how they beat me. <b> MIA </b> Why didn't you beat them back? <b> JOF </b> I only become frightened and angry. I never get a chance to hit back. I can get angry, you know that. I roared like a lion. <b> MIA </b> Were they frightened? <b> JOF </b> No, they just laughed. Their son MIKAEL crawls over to them. JOF lies down on the ground and pulls his son on top of him. MIA gets down on her hands and knees and playfully sniffs at MIKAEL. <b> MIA </b> Do you notice how good he smells? <b> JOF </b> And he is so compact to hold. You're a sturdy one. A real acrobat's body. He lifts MIKAEL up and holds him by the legs. MIA looks up suddenly, remembering the knight's presence. <b> MIA </b> Yes, this is my husband, Jof. <b> JOF </b> Good evening. <b> KNIGHT </b> Good evening. <b> </b>JOF becomes a little embarrassed and rises. All three of them look at one another silently. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> I have just told your wife that you have a splendid son. He'll bring great joy to you. <b> JOF </b> Yes, he's fine. <b> </b>They become silent again. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Have we nothing to offer the knight, Mia? <b> KNIGHT </b> Thank you, I don't want anything. <b> MIA </b> (housewifely) I picked a basket of wild strawberries this afternoon. And we have a drop of milk fresh from a cow ... <b> JOF </b> ... that we were allowed to milk. So, if you would like to partake of this humble fare, it would be a great honor. <b> MIA </b> Please be seated and I'll bring the food. They sit down. MIA disappears with MIKAEL. <b> KNIGHT </b> Where are you going next? <b> JOF </b> Up to the saints' feast at Elsinore. <b> KNIGHT </b> I wouldn't advise you to go there. <b> JOF </b> Why not, if I may ask? <b> KNIGHT </b> The plague has spread in that direction, following the coast line south. It's said that people are dying by the tens of thousands. <b> JOF </b> Really! Well, sometimes life is a little hard. <b> KNIGHT </b> May I suggest ... (JOF looks at him, surprised) ... that you follow me through the forest tonight and stay at my home if you like. Or go along the east coast. You'll probably be safer there. MIA has returned with a bowl of wild strawberries and the milk, places it between them and gives each of them a spoon. <b> JOF </b> I wish you good appetite. <b> KNIGHT </b> I humbly thank you. <b> MIA </b> These are wild strawberries from the forest. I have never seen such large ones. They grow up there on the hillside. Notice how they smell! She points with a spoon and smiles. The KNIGHT nods, as if he were pondering some profound thought. JOF eats heartily. <b> JOF </b> Your suggestion is good, but I must think it over. <b> MIA </b> It might be wise to have company going through the forest. It's said to be full of trolls and ghosts and bandits. That's what I've heard. <b> JOF </b> (staunchly) Yes, I'd say that it's not a bad idea, but I have to think about it. Now that Skat has left, I am responsible for the troupe. After all, I have become director of the whole company. <b> MIA </b> (mimics) After all, I have become director of the whole company. JONS comes walking slowly down the hill, closely followed by the GIRL. MIA points with her spoon. <b> MIA </b> Do you want some strawberries? <b> JOF </b> This man saved my life. Sit down, my friend, and let us be together. <b> MIA </b> (stretches herself) Oh, how nice this is. <b> KNIGHT </b> For a short while. <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Nearly always. One day is like another. There is nothing strange about that. The summer, of course, is better than the winter, because in summer you don't have to be cold. But spring is best of all. <b> JOF </b> I have written a poem about the spring. Perhaps you'd like to hear it. I'll run and get my lyre. He sprints towards the wagon. <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Not now, Jof. Our guests may not be amused by your songs. <b> JONS </b> (politely) By all means. I write little songs myself. For example, I know a very funny song about a wanton fish which I doubt that you've heard yet. The KNIGHT looks at him. <b> JONS </b> You'll not get to hear it either. There are persons here who don't appreciate my art and I don't want to upset anyone. I'm a sensitive soul. JOF has come out with his lyre, sits on a small, gaudy box and plucks at the instrument, humming quietly, searching for his melody. JONS yawns and lies down. <b> KNIGHT </b> People are troubled by so much. <b> MIA </b> It's always better when one is two. Have you no one of your own? <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes, I think I had someone. <b> MIA </b> And what is she doing now? <b> KNIGHT </b> I don't know. <b> MIA </b> You look so solemn. Was she your beloved? <b> KNIGHT </b> We were newly married and we played together. We laughed a great deal. I wrote songs to her eyes, to her nose, to her beautiful little ears. We went hunting together and at night we danced. The house was full of life ... <b> MIA </b> Do you want some more strawberries? <b> KNIGHT </b> (shakes his head) Faith is a torment, did you know that? It is like loving someone who is out there in the darkness but never appears, no matter how loudly you call. <b> MIA </b> I don't understand what you mean. <b> KNIGHT </b> Everything I've said seems meaningless and unreal while I sit here with you and your husband. How unimportant it all becomes suddenly. He takes the bowl of milk in his hand and drinks deeply from it several times. Then he carefully puts it down and looks up, smiling. <b> MIA </b> Now you don't look so solemn. <b> KNIGHT </b> I shall remember this moment. The silence, the twilight, the bowls of strawberries and milk, your faces in the evening light. Mikael sleeping, Jof with his lyre. I'll try to remember what we have talked about. I'll carry this memory between my hands as carefully as if it were a bowl filled to the brim with fresh milk. He turns his face away and looks out towards the sea and the colorless gray sky. <b> KNIGHT </b> And it will be an adequate sign -- it will be enough for me. He rises, nods to the others and walks down towards the forest. JOF continues to play on his lyre. MIA stretches out on the grass. The KNIGHT picks up his chess game and carries it towards the beach. It is quiet and deserted; the sea is still. <b> DEATH </b> I have been waiting for you. <b> KNIGHT </b> Pardon me. I was detained for a few moments. Because I revealed my tactics to you, I'm in retreat. It's your move. <b> DEATH </b> Why do you look so satisfied? <b> KNIGHT </b> That's my secret. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> Of course. Now I take your knight. <b> KNIGHT </b> You did the right thing. <b> DEATH </b> Have you tricked me? <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> Of course. You fell right in the trap. Check! <b> DEATH </b> What are you laughing at? <b> KNIGHT </b> Don't worry about my laughter; save your king instead. <b> DEATH </b> You're rather arrogant. <b> KNIGHT </b> Our game amuses me. <b> DEATH </b> It's your move. Hurry up. I'm a little pressed for time. <b> KNIGHT </b> I understand that you've a lot to do, but you can't get out of our game. It takes time. DEATH is about to answer him but stops and leans over the board. The KNIGHT smiles. <b> DEATH </b> Are you going to escort the juggler and his wife through the forest? Those whose names are Jof and Mia and who have a small son? <b> KNIGHT </b> Why do you ask? <b> DEATH </b> Oh, no reason at all. <b> </b>The KNIGHT suddenly stops smiling. DEATH looks at him scornfully. <b> </b> Immediately after sundown, the little company gathers in the yard of the inn. There is the KNIGHT, JONS and the GIRL, JOF and MIA in their wagon. Their son, MIKAEL, is already asleep. JONAS SKAT is still missing. JONS goes into the inn to get provisions for the night journey and to have a last mug of beer. The inn is now empty and quiet except for a few farmhands and maidens who are eating their evening meal in a corner. At one of the small windows sits a lonely, hunched-over fellow, with a jug of brandy in his hands. His expression is very sad. Once in a while he is shaken by a gigantic sob. It is PLOG, the smith, who sits there and whimpers. <b> JONS </b> God in heaven, isn't this Plog, the smith? <b> PLOG </b> Good evening. <b> JONS </b> Are you sitting here sniveling in loneliness? <b> PLOG </b> Yes, yes, look at the smith. He moans like a rabbit. <b> JONS </b> If I were in your boots, I'd be happy to get rid of a wife in such an easy way. JONS pats the smith on the back, quenches his thirst with beer, and sits down by his side. <b> PLOG </b> Are you married? <b> </b><b> JONS </b> I! A hundred times and more. I can't keep count of all my wives any longer. But it's often that way when you're a traveling man. <b> PLOG </b> I can assure you that one wife is worse than a hundred, or else I've had worse luck than any poor wretch in this miserable world, which isn't impossible. <b> JONS </b> Yes, it's hell with women and hell without them. So, however you look at it, it's still best to kill them off while it's most amusing. <b> </b><b> PLOG </b> Women's nagging, the shrieking of children and wet diapers, sharp nails and sharp words, blows and pokes, and the devil's aunt for a mother-in-law. And then, when one wants to sleep after a long day, there's a new song -- tears, whining and moans loud enough to wake the dead. JONS nods delightedly. He has drunk deeply and talks with an old woman's voice. <b> JONS </b> Why don't you kiss me good night? <b> PLOG </b> (in the same way) Why don't you sing a song for me? <b> JONS </b> Why don't you love me the way you did when we first met? <b> PLOG </b> Why don't you look at my new slip? <b> JONS </b> You only turn your back and snore. <b> PLOG </b> Oh hell! <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Oh hell. And now she's gone. Rejoice! <b> </b><b> PLOG </b> (furious) I'll snip their noses with pliers, I'll bash in their chests with a small hammer, I'll tap their heads ever so lightly with a sledge. PLOG begins to cry loudly and his whole body sways in an enormous attack of sorrow. JONS looks at him with interest. <b> JONS </b> Look how he howls again. <b> PLOG </b> Maybe I love her. <b> JONS </b> So, maybe you love her! Then, you poor misguided ham shank, I'll tell you that love is another word for lust, plus lust, plus lust and a damn lot of cheating, falseness, lies and all kinds of other fooling around. <b> PLOG </b> Yes, but it hurts anyway. <b> JONS </b> Of course. Love is the blackest of all plagues, and if one could die of it, there would be some pleasure in love. But you almost always get over it. <b> PLOG </b> No, no, not me. <b> JONS </b> Yes, you too. There are only a couple of poor wretches who die of love once in a while. Love is as contagious as a cold in the nose. It eats away at your strength, your independence, your morale, if you have any. If everything is imperfect in this imperfect world, love is most perfect in its perfect imperfection. <b> PLOG </b> You're happy, you with your oily words, and, besides, you believe your own drivel. <b> JONS </b> Believe! Who said that I believed it? But I love to give good advice. If you ask me for advice you'll get two pieces for the price of one, because after all I really am an educated man. JONS gets up from the table and strokes his face with his hands. PLOG becomes very unhappy and grabs his belt. <b> PLOG </b> Listen, Jns. May I go with you through the forest? I'm so lonely and don't want to go home because everyone will laugh at me. <b> JONS </b> Only if you don't whimper all the time, because in that case we'll all have to avoid you. PLOG gets up and embraces JONS. Slightly drunk, the two new friends walk towards the door. <b> </b>When they come out in the yard, JOF immediately catches sight of them, becomes angry and yells a warning to JONS. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Jns! Watch out. That one wants to fight all the time. He's not quite sane. <b> JONS </b> Yes, but now he's just sniveling. PLOG steps up to JOF, who blanches with fear. PLOG offers his hand. <b> PLOG </b> I'm really sorry if I hurt you. But I have such a hell of a temper, you know. Shake hands. JOF gingerly proffers a frightened hand and gets it thoroughly shaken and squeezed. While JOF tries to straighten out his fingers, PLOG is seized by great good will and opens his arms. <b> PLOG </b> Come in my arms, little brother. <b> JOF </b> Thank you, thank you, perhaps later. But now we're really in a hurry. JOF climbs up on the wagon seat quickly and clucks at the horse. <b> </b> The small company is on its way towards the forest and the night. It is dark in the forest. <b> </b>First comes the KNIGHT on his large horse. Then JOF and MIA follow, sitting close to each other in the juggler's wagon. MIA holds her son in her arms. JONS follows them with his heavily laden horse. He has the smith in tow. The GIRL sits on top of the load on the horse's back, hunched over as if asleep. The footsteps, the horses' heavy tramp on the soft path, the human breathing -- yet it is quiet. <b> </b>Then the moon sails out of the clouds. The forest suddenly becomes alive with the night's unreality. The dazzling light pours through the thick foliage of the beech trees, a moving, quivering world of light and shadow. The wanderers stop. Their eyes are dark with anxiety and foreboding. Their faces are pale and unreal in the floating light. It is very quiet. <b> PLOG </b> Now the moon has come out of the clouds. <b> JONS </b> That's good. Now we can see the road better. <b> MIA </b> I don't like the moon tonight. <b> JOF </b> The trees stand so still. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> That's because there's no wind. <b> PLOG </b> I guess he means that they stand very still. <b> JOF </b> It's completely quiet. <b> JONS </b> If one could hear a fox at least. <b> JOF </b> Or an owl. <b> JONS </b> Or a human voice besides one's own. <b> GIRL </b> They say it's dangerous to remain standing in moonlight. Suddenly, out of the silence and the dim light falling across the forest road, a ghostlike cart emerges. It is the WITCH being taken to the place where she will be burned. Next to her eight soldiers shuffle along tiredly, carrying their lances on their backs. The girl sits in the cart, bound with iron chains around her throat and arms. She stares fixedly into the moonlight. <b> </b>A black figure sits next to her, a monk with his hood pulled down over his head. <b> JONS </b> Where are you going? <b> SOLDIER </b> To the place of execution. <b> JONS </b> Yes, now I can see. It's the girl who has done it with the Black One. The witch? The SOLDIER nods sourly. Hesitantly, the travelers follow. The KNIGHT guides his horse over to the side of the cart. The WITCH seems to be half-conscious, but her eyes are wide open. <b> KNIGHT </b> I see that they have hurt your hands. The WITCH'S pale, childish face turns towards the KNIGHT and she shakes her head. <b> KNIGHT </b> I have a potion that will stop your pain. She shakes her head again. <b> </b><b> JONS </b> Why do you burn her at this time of night? People have so few diversions these days. <b> </b><b> SOLDIER </b> Saints preserve us, be quiet! It's said that she brings the Devil with her wherever she goes. <b> JONS </b> You are eight brave men, then. <b> SOLDIER </b> Well, we've been paid. And this is a volunteer job. The SOLDIER speaks in whispers while glancing anxiously at the WITCH. <b> KNIGHT </b> (to the WITCH) What's your name? <b> TYAN </b> My name is Tyan, my lord. <b> KNIGHT </b> How old are you? <b> TYAN </b> Fourteen, my lord. <b> KNIGHT </b> And is it true that you have been in league with the Devil? TYAN nods quietly and looks away. Now they arrive at the parish border. At the foot of the nearby hills lies a crossroads. The pyre has already been stacked in the center of the forest clearing. The travelers remain there, hesitant and curious. <b> </b>The soldiers have tied up the cart horse and bring out two long wooden beams. They nail rungs across the beams so that it looks like a ladder. TYAN will be bound to this like an eelskin stretched out to dry. The sound of the hammering echoes through the forest. The KNIGHT has dismounted and walks closer to the cart. Again he tries to catch TYAN'S eyes, touches her very lightly as if to waken her. Slowly she turns her face towards him. <b> </b><b> KNIGHT </b> They say that you have been in league with the Devil. <b> TYAN </b> Why do you ask? <b> KNIGHT </b> Not out of curiosity, but for very personal reasons. I too want to meet him. <b> TYAN </b> Why? <b> KNIGHT </b> I want to ask him about God. He, if anyone, must know. <b> TYAN </b> You can see him anytime. <b> KNIGHT </b> How? <b> TYAN </b> You must do as I tell you. The KNIGHT grips the wooden rail of the cart so tightly that his knuckles whiten. TYAN leans forward and joins her gaze with his. <b> TYAN </b> Look into my eyes. The KNIGHT meets her gaze. They stare at each other for a long time. <b> TYAN </b> What do you see? Do you see him? <b> KNIGHT </b> I see fear in your eyes, an empty, numb fear. But nothing else. He falls silent. The soldiers work at the stakes; their hammering echoes in the forest. <b> TYAN </b> No one, nothing, no one? <b> KNIGHT </b> (shakes his head) No. <b> TYAN </b> Can't you see him behind your back? <b> KNIGHT </b> (looks around) No, there is no one there. <b> TYAN </b> But he is with me everywhere. I only have to stretch out my hand and I can feel his hand. He is with me now too. The fire won't hurt me. He will protect me from everything evil. <b> KNIGHT </b> Has he told you this? <b> TYAN </b> I know it. <b> KNIGHT </b> Has he said it? <b> TYAN </b> I know it, I know it. You must see him somewhere, you must. The priests had no difficulty seeing him, nor did the soldiers. They are so afraid of him that they don't even dare touch me. The sounds of the hammers stops. The soldiers stand like black shadows rooted in the moss. They fumble with the chains and pull at the neck iron. TYAN moans weakly, as if she were far away. <b> KNIGHT </b> Why have you crushed her hands? <b> SOLDIER </b> (surly) We didn't do it. <b> KNIGHT </b> Who did? <b> SOLDIER </b> Ask the monk. The soldiers pull the iron and the chains. TYAN'S shaven head sways, gleaming in the moonlight. Her blackened mouth opens as if to scream, but no sound emerges. They take her down from the cart and lead her towards the ladder and the stake. The KNIGHT turns to the MONK, who remains seated in the cart. <b> KNIGHT </b> What have you done with the child? DEATH turns around and looks at him. <b> DEATH </b> Don't you ever stop asking questions? <b> KNIGHT </b> No, I'll never stop. The soldiers chain TYAN to the rungs of the ladder. She submits resignedly, moans weakly like an animal and tries to ease her body into position. <b> </b>When they have fastened her, they walk over to light the pyre. The KNIGHT steps up and leans over her. <b> JONS </b> For a moment I thought of killing the soldiers, but it would do no good. She's nearly dead already. One of the soldiers approaches. Thick smoke wells down from the pyre and sweeps over the quiet shadows near the crossroads and the hill. <b> SOLDIER </b> I've told you to be careful. Don't go too close to her. The KNIGHT doesn't heed this warning. He cups his hand, fills it with water from the skin and gives it to TYAN. Then he gives her a potion. <b> KNIGHT </b> Take this and it will stop the pain. Smoke billows down over them and they begin to cough. The soldiers step forward and raise the ladder against a nearby fir tree. TYAN hangs there motionlessly, her eyes wide open. The KNIGHT straightens up and stands immobile. JONS is behind him, his voice nearly choked with rage. <b> JONS </b> What does she see? Can you tell me? <b> KNIGHT </b> (shakes his head) She feels no more pain. <b> JONS </b> You don't answer my question. Who watches over that child? Is it the angels, or God, or the Devil, or only the emptiness? Emptiness, my lord! <b> KNIGHT </b> This cannot be. <b> JONS </b> Look at her eyes, my lord. Her poor brain has just made a discovery. Emptiness under the moon. <b> KNIGHT </b> No. <b> JONS </b> We stand powerless, our arms hanging at our sides, because we see what she sees, and our terror and hers are the same. (an outburst) That poor little child. I can't stand it, I can't stand it ... His voice sticks in his throat and he suddenly walks away. The KNIGHT mounts his horse. The travelers depart from the crossroads. TYAN finally closes her eyes. <b> </b> The forest is now very dark. The road winds between the trees. The wagon squeaks and rattles over stones and roots. A bird suddenly shrieks. <b> </b>JOF lifts his head and wakes up. He has been asleep with his arms around MIA's shoulders. The KNIGHT is sharply silhouetted against the tree trunks. His silence makes him seem almost unreal. JONS and PLOG are slightly drunk and support each other. Suddenly PLOG has to sit down. He puts his hands over his face and howls piteously. <b> PLOG </b> Oh, now it came over me again! <b> JONS </b> Don't scream. What came over you? <b> PLOG </b> My wife, damn it. She is so beautiful. She is so beautiful that she can't be described without the accompaniment of a lyre. <b> JONS </b> Now it starts again. <b> PLOG </b> Her smile is like brandy. Her eyes like blackberries ... PLOG searches for beautiful words. He gestures gropingly with his large hands. <b> JONS </b> (sighs) Get up, you tear-drenched pig. We'll lose the others. <b> PLOG </b> Yes, of course, of course. Her nose is like a little pink potato; her behind is like a juicy pear -- yes, the whole woman is like a strawberry patch. I can see her in front of me, with arms like wonderful cucumbers. <b> JONS </b> Saints almighty, stop! You're a very bad poet, despite the fact that you're drunk. And your vegetable garden bores me. They walk across an open meadow. Here it is a little brighter and the moon shimmers behind a thin sky. Suddenly PLOG points a large finger towards the edge of the forest. <b> PLOG </b> Look there. <b> JONS </b> Do you see something? <b> PLOG </b> There, over there! <b> JONS </b> I don't see anything. <b> PLOG </b> Hang on to something, my friends. The hour is near! Who is that at the edge of the forest if not my own dearly beloved, with actor attached? The two lovers discover PLOG and it's too late. They cannot retreat. SKAT immediately takes to his heels. PLOG chases him, swinging his sledge and bellowing like a wild boar. For a few confusing moments the two rivals stumble among the stones and bushes in the gray gloom of the forest. The duel begins to look senseless, because both of them are equally frightened. The travelers silently observe this confused performance. LISA screams once in a while, more out of duty than out of impulse. <b> SKAT </b> (panting) You miserable stubbleheaded bastard of seven scurvy bitches, if I were in your lousy rags I would be stricken with such eternal shame about my breath, my voice, my arms and legs -- in short, about my whole body -- that I would immediately rid nature of my own embarrassing self. <b> PLOG </b> (angry) Watch out, you perfumed slob, that I don't fart on you and immediately blow you down to the actor's own red-hot hell, where you can sit and recite monologues to each other until the dust comes out of the Devil's ears. Then LISA throws herself around her husband's neck. <b> LISA </b> Forgive me, dear little husband, I'll never do it again. I am so sorry and you can't imagine how terribly that man over there betrayed me. <b> PLOG </b> I'll kill him anyway. <b> LISA </b> Yes, do that, just kill him. He isn't even a human being. <b> JONS </b> Hell, he's an actor. <b> LISA </b> He is only a false beard, false teeth, false smiles, rehearsed lines, and he's as empty as a jug. Just kill him. LISA sobs with excitement and sorrow. PLOG looks around, a little confused. SKAT uses this opportunity. He pulls out a dagger and places the point against his breast. <b> SKAT </b> She's right. Just kill me. If you thought that I was going to apologize for being what I am, you are mistaken. <b> LISA </b> Look how sickening he is. How he makes a fool of himself, how he puts on an act. Dear Plog, kill him. <b> SKAT </b> My friends, you have only to push, and my unreality will soon be transformed into a new, solid reality. An absolutely tangible corpse. <b> LISA </b> Do something then. Kill him. <b> PLOG </b> (embarrassed) He has to fight me, otherwise I can't kill him. <b> SKAT </b> Your life's thread now hangs by a very ragged shred. Idiot, your day is short. <b> PLOG </b> You'll have to irritate me a little more to get me as angry as before. SKAT looks at the travelers with a pained expression and then lifts his eyes towards the night sky. <b> SKAT </b> I forgive all of you. Pray for me sometimes. SKAT sinks the dagger into his breast and slowly falls to the ground. The travelers stand confused. PLOG rushes forward and begins to pull at SKAT'S hands. <b> PLOG </b> Oh dear, dear, I didn't mean it that way! Look, there's no life left in him. I was beginning to like him, and in my opinion Lisa was much too spiteful. JOF leans over his colleague. <b> JOF </b> He's dead, totally, enormously dead. In fact, I've never seen such a dead actor. <b> LISA </b> Come on, let's go. This is nothing to mourn over. He has only himself to blame. <b> PLOG </b> And I have to be married to her. <b> JONS </b> We must go on. SKAT lies in the grass and keeps the dagger pressed tightly to his breast. The travelers depart and soon they have disappeared into the dark forest on the other side of the meadow. When SKAT is sure that no one can see him, he sits up and lifts the dagger from his breast. It is a stage dagger with a blade that pushes into the handle. SKAT laughs to himself. <b> SKAT </b> Now that was a good scene. I'm really a good actor. After all, why shouldn't I be a little pleased with myself? But where shall I go? I'll wait until it becomes light and then I'll find the easiest way out of the forest. I'll climb up a tree for the time being so that no bears, wolves or ghosts can get at me. He soon finds a likely tree and climbs up into its thick foliage. He sits down as comfortably as possible and reaches for his food pouch. <b> SKAT </b> (yawns) Tomorrow I'll find Jof and Mia and then we'll go to the saints' feast in Elsinore. We'll make lots of money there. (yawns) Now, I'll sing a little song to myself: (sings) I am a little bird Who sings whate'er he will, And when I am in danger I fling out a pissing trill As in the carnal thrill. (speaks) It's boring to be alone in the forest tonight. (sings) The terrible night doesn't frighten me ... He interrupts himself and listens. The sound of industrious sawing is heard through the silence. <b> SKAT </b> Workmen in the forest. Oh, well! (sings) The terrible night doesn't frighten me ... (speaks) Hey, what the devil ... it's my tree they're cutting down. He peers through the foliage. Below him stands a dark figure diligently sawing away at the base of the tree. SKAT becomes frightened and angry. <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> Hey, you! Do you hear me, you tricky bastard? What are you doing with my tree? The sawing continues without a pause. SKAT becomes more frightened. <b> SKAT </b> Can't you at least answer me? Politeness costs so little. Who are you? DEATH straightens his back and squints up at him. SKAT cries out in terror. <b> DEATH </b> I'm sawing down your tree because your time is up. <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> It won't do. I haven't got time. <b> DEATH </b> So you haven't got time. <b> SKAT </b> No, I have my performance. <b> DEATH </b> Then it's canceled because of death. <b> SKAT </b> My contract. <b> </b><b> DEATH </b> Your contract is terminated. <b> SKAT </b> My children, my family. <b> DEATH </b> Shame on you, Skat! <b> SKAT </b> Yes, I'm ashamed. DEATH begins to saw again. The tree creaks. <b> SKAT </b> Isn't there any way to get off? Aren't there any special rules for actors? <b> DEATH </b> No, not in this case. <b> SKAT </b> No loopholes, no exceptions? DEATH saws. <b> SKAT </b> Perhaps you'll take a bribe. DEATH saws. <b> </b><b> SKAT </b> Help! DEATH saws. <b> SKAT </b> Help! Help! The tree falls. The forest becomes silent again. <b> </b> Night and then dawn. The travelers have come to a sort of clearing and have collapsed on the moss. They lie quietly and listen to their own breathing, their heartbeats, and the wind in the tree tops. Here the forest is wild and impenetrable. Huge boulders stick up out of the ground like the heads of black giants. A fallen tree lies like a mighty barrier between light and shadow. MIA, JOF and their child have sat down apart from the others. They look at the light of the moon, which is no longer full and dead but mysterious and unstable. The KNIGHT sits bent over his chess game. LISA cries quietly behind PLOG'S back. JONS lies on the ground and looks up at the heavens. <b> JONS </b> Soon dawn will come, but the heat continues to hang over us like a smothering blanket. <b> LISA </b> I'm so frightened. <b> PLOG </b> We feel that something is going to happen to us, but we don't know what. <b> JONS </b> Maybe it's the day of judgment. <b> PLOG </b> The day of judgment ... Now, something moves behind the fallen tree. There is a rustling sound and a moaning cry that seems to come from a wounded animal. Everyone listens intently, all faces turned towards the sound. A voice comes out of the darkness. <b> RAVAL </b> Do you have some water? RAVAL'S perspiring face soon becomes visible. He disappears in the darkness, but his voice is heard again. <b> RAVAL </b> Can't you give me a little water? (pause) I have the plague. <b> JONS </b> Don't come here. If you do I'll slit your throat. Keep to the other side of the tree. <b> RAVEL </b> I'm afraid of death. No one answers. There is complete silence. RAVAL gasps heavily for air. The dry leaves rustle with his movements. <b> RAVEL </b> I don't want to die! I don't want to! <b> </b>No one answers. RAVAL'S face appears suddenly at the base of the tree. His eyes bulge wildly and his mouth is ringed with foam. <b> RAVAL </b> Can't you have pity on me? Help me! At least talk to me. No one answers. The trees sigh. RAVAL begins to cry. <b> RAVAL </b> I am going to die. I. I. I! What will happen to me! Can no one console me? Haven't you any compassion? Can't you see that I ... His words are choked off by a gurgling sound. He disappears in the darkness behind the fallen tree. It becomes quiet for a few moments. <b> RAVAL </b> (whispers) Can't anyone ... only a little water. Suddenly the GIRL gets up with a quick movement, snatches JONS'S water bag and runs a few steps. JONS grabs her and holds her fast. <b> JONS </b> It's no use. It's no use. I know that it's no use. It's meaningless. It's totally meaningless. I tell you that it's meaningless. Can't you hear that I'm consoling you? <b> RAVEL </b> Help me, help me! No one answers, no one moves. RAVAL'S sobs are dry and convulsive, like a frightened child's. His sudden scream is cut off in the middle. Then it becomes quiet. <b> </b>The GIRL sinks down and hides her face in her hands. JONS places his hand on her shoulder. <b> </b> <b>16 </b>The KNIGHT is no longer alone. DEATH has come to him and he raises his hand. <b> DEATH </b> Shall we play our game to the end? <b> KNIGHT </b> Your move! DEATH raises his hand and strikes the KNIGHT'S queen. Antonius Block looks at <b>DEATH. </b> <b> DEATH </b> Now I take your queen. <b> KNIGHT </b> I didn't notice that. The KNIGHT leans over the game. The moonlight moves over the chess pieces, which seem to have a life of their own. JOF has dozed off for a few moments, but suddenly he wakens. Then he sees the KNIGHT and DEATH together. He becomes very frightened and awakens MIA. <b> JOF </b> Mia! <b> </b><b> MIA </b> Yes, what is it? <b> </b><b> JOF </b> I see something terrible. Something I almost can't talk about. <b> MIA </b> What do you see? <b> JOF </b> The knight is sitting over there playing chess. <b> MIA </b> Yes, I can see that too and I don't think it's so terrible. <b> JOF </b> But do you see who he's playing with? <b> MIA </b> He is alone. You mustn't frighten me this way. <b> </b><b> JOF </b> No, no, he isn't alone. <b> MIA </b> Who is it, then? <b> </b><b> JOF </b> Death. He is sitting there playing chess with Death himself. <b> MIA </b> You mustn't say that. <b> JOF </b> We must try to escape. <b> MIA </b> One can't do that. <b> JOF </b> We must try. They are so occupied with their game that if we move very quietly, they won't notice us. JOF gets up carefully and disappears into the darkness behind the trees. MIA remains standing, as if paralyzed by fear. She stares fixedly at the KNIGHT and the chess game. She holds her son in her arms. Now JOF returns. <b> JOF </b> I have harnessed the horse. The wagon is standing near the big tree. You go first and I'll follow you with the packs. See that Mikael doesn't wake up. MIA does what JOF has told her. At the same moment, the KNIGHT looks up from his game. <b> DEATH </b> It is your move, Antonius Block. The KNIGHT remains silent. He sees MIA go through the moonlight towards the wagon. JOF bends down to pick up the pack and follows at a distance. <b> DEATH </b> Have you lost interest in our game? <b> </b>The KNIGHT'S eyes become alarmed. DEATH looks at him intently. <b> KNIGHT </b> Lost interest? On the contrary. <b> DEATH </b> You seem anxious. Are you hiding anything? <b> KNIGHT </b> Nothing escapes you -- or does it? <b> DEATH </b> Nothing escapes me. No one escapes from me. <b> KNIGHT </b> It's true that I'm worried. He pretends to be clumsy and knocks the chess pieces over with the hem of his coat. He looks up at DEATH. <b> KNIGHT </b> I've forgotten how the pieces stood. <b> DEATH </b> (laughs contentedly) But I have not forgotten. You can't get away that easily. <b> </b>DEATH leans over the board and rearranges the pieces. The KNIGHT looks past him towards the road. MIA has just climbed up on the wagon. JOF takes the horse by the bridle and leads it down the road. DEATH notices nothing; he is completely occupied with reconstructing the game. <b> DEATH </b> Now I see something interesting. <b> KNIGHT </b> What do you see? <b> DEATH </b> You are mated on the next move, Antonius Block. <b> KNIGHT </b> That's true. <b> DEATH </b> Did you enjoy your reprieve? <b> KNIGHT </b> Yes, I did. <b> DEATH </b> I'm happy to hear that. Now I'll be leaving you. When we meet again, you and your companions' time will be up. <b> KNIGHT </b> And you will divulge your secrets. <b> DEATH </b> I have no secrets. <b> KNIGHT </b> So you know nothing. <b> DEATH </b> I have nothing to tell. The KNIGHT wants to answer, but DEATH is already gone. A murmur is heard in the tree tops. Dawn comes, a flickering light without life, making the forest seem threatening and evil. JOF drives over the twisting road. MIA sits beside him. <b> MIA </b> What a strange light. <b> JOF </b> I guess it's the thunderstorm which comes with dawn. <b> MIA </b> No, it's something else. Something terrible. Do you hear the roar in the forest? <b> JOF </b> It's probably rain. <b> MIA </b> No, it isn't rain. He has seen us and he's following us. He has overtaken us; he's coming towards us. <b> JOF </b> Not yet, Mia. In any case, not yet. <b> MIA </b> I'm so afraid. I'm so afraid. The wagon rattles over roots and stones; it sways and creaks. Now the horse stops with his ears flat against his head. The forest sighs and stirs ponderously. <b> JOF </b> Get into the wagon, Mia. Crawl in quickly. We'll lie down, Mia, with Mikael between us. They crawl into the wagon and crouch around the sleeping child. <b> JOF </b> It is the Angel of Death that's passing over us, Mia. It's the Angel of Death. The Angel of Death, and he's very big. <b> MIA </b> Do you feel how cold it is? I'm freezing. I'm terribly cold. She shivers as if she had a fever. They pull the blankets over them and lie closely together. The wagon canvas flutters and beats in the wind. The roar outside is like a giant bellowing. <b> </b> The castle is silhouetted like a black boulder against the heavy dawn. Now the storm moves there, throwing itself powerfully against walls and abutments. The sky darkens; it is almost like night. Antonius Block has brought his companions with him to the castle. But it seems deserted. They walk from room to room. There is only emptiness and quiet echoes. Outside, the rain is heard roaring noisily. Suddenly the KNIGHT stands face to face with his wife. They look at each other quietly. <b> KARIN </b> I heard from people who came from the crusade that you were on your way home. I've been waiting for you here. All the others have fled from the plague. The KNIGHT is silent. He looks at her. <b> KARIN </b> Don't you recognize me any more? The KNIGHT nods, silent. <b> KARIN </b> You also have changed. She walks closer and looks searchingly into his face. The smile lingers in her eyes and she touches his hand lightly. <b> KARIN </b> Now I can see that it's you. Somewhere in your eyes, somewhere in your face, but hidden and frightened, is that boy who went away so many years ago. <b> KNIGHT </b> It's over now and I'm a little tired. <b> KARIN </b> I see that you're tired. <b> KNIGHT </b> Over there stand my friends. <b> KARIN </b> Ask them in. They will break the fast with us. They all sit down at the table in the room, which is lit by torches on the walls. Silently they eat the hard bread and the salt-darkened meat. KARIN sits at the head of the table and reads aloud from a thick book. <b> KARIN </b> "And when the Lamb broke the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about the space of half an hour. And I saw the seven angels which stood before God; and to them were given seven trumpets. And another ..." Three mighty knocks sound on the large portal. KARIN interrupts her reading and looks up from the book. JONS rises quickly and goes to open the door. <b> KARIN </b> "The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth; and the third part of the trees was burnt up and all the green grass was burnt up." Now the rain becomes quiet. There is suddenly an immense, frightening silence in the large, murky room where the burning torches throw uneasy shadows over the ceiling and the walls. Everyone listens tensely to the stillness. <b> KARIN </b> "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and a third part of the sea became blood ..." Steps are heard on the stairs. JONS returns and sits down silently at his place but does not continue to eat. <b> KNIGHT </b> Was someone there? <b> JONS </b> No, my lord. I saw no one. KARIN lifts her head for a moment but once again leans over the large book. <b> KARIN </b> "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a torch, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers and upon the fountains of waters; and the name of the star is called Wormwood ..." They all lift their heads, and when they see who is coming towards them through the twilight of the large room, they rise from the table and stand close together. <b> KNIGHT </b> Good morning, noble lord. <b> KARIN </b> I am Karin, the knight's wife, and welcome you courteously to my house. <b> PLOG </b> I am a smith by profession and rather good at my trade, if I say so myself. My wife Lisa -- curtsy for the great lord, Lisa. She's a little difficult to handle once in a while and we had a little spat, so to speak, but no worse than most people. The KNIGHT hides his face in his hands. <b> KNIGHT </b> From our darkness, we call out to Thee, Lord. Have mercy on us because we are small and frightened and ignorant. <b> JONS </b> (bitterly) In the darkness where You are supposed to be, where all of us probably are.... In the darkness You will find no one to listen to Your cries or be touched by Your sufferings. Wash Your tears and mirror Yourself in Your indifference. <b> KNIGHT </b> God, You who are somewhere, who must be somewhere, have mercy upon us. <b> JONS </b> I could have given you an herb to purge you of your worries about eternity. Now it seems to be too late. But in any case, feel the immense triumph of this last minute when you can still roll your eyes and move your toes. <b> KARIN </b> Quiet, quiet. <b> JONS </b> I shall be silent, but under protest. <b> GIRL </b> (on her knees) It is the end. <b> </b> JOF and MIA sit close together and listen to the rain tapping lightly on the wagon canvas, a sound which diminishes until finally there are only single drops. They crawl out of their hiding place. The wagon stands on a height above a slope, protected by an enormous tree. They look across ridges, forests, the wide plains, and the sea, which glistens in the sunlight breaking through the clouds. <b> </b>JOF stretches his arms and legs. MIA dries the wagon seat and sits down next to her husband. MIKAEL crawls between JOF'S knees. A lone bird tests its voice after the storm. The trees and bushes drip. From the sea comes a strong and fragrant wind. JOF points to the dark, retreating sky where summer lightning glitters like silver needles over the horizon. <b> JOF </b> I see them, Mia! I see them! Over there against the dark, stormy sky. They are all there. The smith and Lisa and the knight and Raval and Jns and Skat. And Death, the severe master, invites them to dance. He tells them to hold each other's hands and then they must tread the dance in a long row. And first goes the master with his scythe and hourglass, but Skat dangles at the end with his lyre. They dance away from the dawn and it's a solemn dance towards the dark lands, while the rain washes their faces and cleans the salt of the tears from their cheeks. He is silent. He lowers his hand. His son, MIKAEL, has listened to his words. Now, he crawls up to MIA and sits down in her lap. <b> MIA </b> (smiling) You with your visions and dreams. <b> </b> Screenplay by Ingmar Bergman <b> </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What does a citizen willingly do if they agree to live in Athens?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Go ahead and memorize the context. Here is the context: The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Comply with the laws" ]	6,598	narrativeqa	en	null	5e4a40a8b41c5d30f46458198614c34f7f789a67796d050d	This etext was prepared by Sue Asscher <asschers@aia.net.au> CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? To this Crito is unable or unwilling to reply. Socrates proceeds:--Suppose the Laws of Athens to come and remonstrate with him: they will ask 'Why does he seek to overturn them?' and if he replies, 'they have injured him,' will not the Laws answer, 'Yes, but was that the agreement? Has he any objection to make to them which would justify him in overturning them? Was he not brought into the world and educated by their help, and are they not his parents? He might have left Athens and gone where he pleased, but he has lived there for seventy years more constantly than any other citizen.' Thus he has clearly shown that he acknowledged the agreement, which he cannot now break without dishonour to himself and danger to his friends. Even in the course of the trial he might have proposed exile as the penalty, but then he declared that he preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his footsteps? In any well-ordered state the Laws will consider him as an enemy. Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he may be welcomed at first, and the unseemly narrative of his escape will be regarded by the inhabitants as an amusing tale. But if he offends them he will have to learn another sort of lesson. Will he continue to give lectures in virtue? That would hardly be decent. And how will his children be the gainers if he takes them into Thessaly, and deprives them of Athenian citizenship? Or if he leaves them behind, does he expect that they will be better taken care of by his friends because he is in Thessaly? Will not true friends care for them equally whether he is alive or dead? Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life and children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks agreements, and returns evil for evil, they will be angry with him while he lives; and their brethren the Laws of the world below will receive him as an enemy. Such is the mystic voice which is always murmuring in his ears. That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made against him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated in later ages. The crimes of Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides, who had been his pupils, were still recent in the memory of the now restored democracy. The fact that he had been neutral in the death-struggle of Athens was not likely to conciliate popular good-will. Plato, writing probably in the next generation, undertakes the defence of his friend and master in this particular, not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and the world at large. Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of Crito and the proposal of escape is uncertain: Plato could easily have invented far more than that (Phaedr.); and in the selection of Crito, the aged friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to Socrates, we seem to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether any one who has been subjected by the laws of his country to an unjust judgment is right in attempting to escape, is a thesis about which casuists might disagree. Shelley (Prose Works) is of opinion that Socrates 'did well to die,' but not for the 'sophistical' reasons which Plato has put into his mouth. And there would be no difficulty in arguing that Socrates should have lived and preferred to a glorious death the good which he might still be able to perform. 'A rhetorician would have had much to say upon that point.' It may be observed however that Plato never intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only to exhibit the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil in order to avoid the greatest, and to show his master maintaining in death the opinions which he had professed in his life. Not 'the world,' but the 'one wise man,' is still the paradox of Socrates in his last hours. He must be guided by reason, although her conclusions may be fatal to him. The remarkable sentiment that the wicked can do neither good nor evil is true, if taken in the sense, which he means, of moral evil; in his own words, 'they cannot make a man wise or foolish.' This little dialogue is a perfect piece of dialectic, in which granting the 'common principle,' there is no escaping from the conclusion. It is anticipated at the beginning by the dream of Socrates and the parody of Homer. The personification of the Laws, and of their brethren the Laws in the world below, is one of the noblest and boldest figures of speech which occur in Plato. CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Crito. SCENE: The Prison of Socrates. SOCRATES: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early. CRITO: Yes, certainly. SOCRATES: What is the exact time? CRITO: The dawn is breaking. SOCRATES: I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in. CRITO: He knows me because I often come, Socrates; moreover. I have done him a kindness. SOCRATES: And are you only just arrived? CRITO: No, I came some time ago. SOCRATES: Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me? CRITO: I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest as you are--indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity. SOCRATES: Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at the approach of death. CRITO: And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from repining. SOCRATES: That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour. CRITO: I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me. SOCRATES: What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die? CRITO: No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life. SOCRATES: Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a delay of a day. CRITO: Why do you think so? SOCRATES: I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship? CRITO: Yes; that is what the authorities say. SOCRATES: But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep. CRITO: And what was the nature of the vision? SOCRATES: There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates, 'The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go.' (Homer, Il.) CRITO: What a singular dream, Socrates! SOCRATES: There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think. CRITO: Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this--that I should be thought to value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused. SOCRATES: But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many? Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these things truly as they occurred. CRITO: But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their good opinion. SOCRATES: I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil; for then they would also be able to do the greatest good-- and what a fine thing this would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance. CRITO: Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only one. CRITO: Fear not--there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great cost; and as for the informers they are far from being exorbitant in their demands--a little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service, and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do not say, as you did in the court (compare Apol.), that you will have a difficulty in knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies, who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier, which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently; and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors (compare Apol.). What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your old argument about the opinions of men?--we were saying that some of them are to be regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of talking--mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help, Crito:--whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded. Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow--at least, there is no human probability of this, and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was right in maintaining this? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: The good are to be regarded, and not the bad? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are evil? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, or of one man only--his physician or trainer, whoever he may be? CRITO: Of one man only. SOCRATES: And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only, and not of the many? CRITO: Clearly so. SOCRATES: And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put together? CRITO: True. SOCRATES: And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil? CRITO: Certainly he will. SOCRATES: And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the disobedient person? CRITO: Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil. SOCRATES: Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;--there is such a principle? CRITO: Certainly there is, Socrates. SOCRATES: Take a parallel instance:--if, acting under the advice of those who have no understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is--the body? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed, which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle, whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: More honourable than the body? CRITO: Far more. SOCRATES: Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable.--'Well,' some one will say, 'but the many can kill us.' CRITO: Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer. SOCRATES: And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another proposition--that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued? CRITO: Yes, that also remains unshaken. SOCRATES: And a good life is equivalent to a just and honorable one--that holds also? CRITO: Yes, it does. SOCRATES: From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of educating one's children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death--and with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation. CRITO: I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed? SOCRATES: Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can, and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment. And now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me. CRITO: I will. SOCRATES: Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonorable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then we must do no wrong? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure no one at all? (E.g. compare Rep.) CRITO: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Again, Crito, may we do evil? CRITO: Surely not, Socrates. SOCRATES: And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many--is that just or not? CRITO: Not just. SOCRATES: For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him? CRITO: Very true. SOCRATES: Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step. CRITO: You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind. SOCRATES: Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a question:--Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the right? CRITO: He ought to do what he thinks right. SOCRATES: But if this is true, what is the application? In leaving the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just--what do you say? CRITO: I cannot tell, Socrates, for I do not know. SOCRATES: Then consider the matter in this way:--Imagine that I am about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the government come and interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you about? are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us--the laws, and the whole state, as far as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?' What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply, 'Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' Suppose I say that? CRITO: Very good, Socrates. SOCRATES: 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would answer; 'or were you to abide by the sentence of the state?' And if I were to express my astonishment at their words, the law would probably add: 'Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes--you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,--What complaint have you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us who after birth regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to train you in music and gymnastic?' Right, I should reply. 'Well then, since you were brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands?--you would not say this? And because we think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return, and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the laws speak truly, or do they not? CRITO: I think that they do. SOCRATES: Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city, may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we maintain, thrice wrong: first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;--that is what we offer, and he does neither. 'These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above all other men have acknowledged the agreement. 'There is clear proof,' they will say, 'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be supposed to love (compare Phaedr.). For you never went out of the city either to see the games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our state; we were your especial favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you; and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But you pretended that you preferred death to exile (compare Apol.), and that you were not unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true or not?' How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent? CRITO: We cannot help it, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then will they not say: 'You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt, the blind, the maimed, were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city. 'For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself, if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away from well-governed states to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will live, but how?--as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?--eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner. And where will be your fine sentiments about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to live for the sake of your children--you want to bring them up and educate them--will you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them; for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for anything, they will--to be sure they will. 'Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito.' This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say. CRITO: I have nothing to say, Socrates. SOCRATES: Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he leads. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How does Falder break his neck?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The context is a play called "Justice" by John Galsworthy. The play is divided into four acts. The first act takes place in the office of James and Walter How, a law firm, on a July morning. The office is old-fashioned and furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. SWEEDLE tells COKESON that there's a party wants to see FALDER, the firm's junior clerk. COKESON sends SWEEDLE to Morris's to send FALDER there. However, SWEEDLE returns and tells COKESON that the party is a woman, and she's brought her children with her. COKESON is hesitant but allows the woman, RUTH HONEYWILL, to see FALDER. RUTH tells FALDER that Honeywill, her husband, has been ill-treating her, and she's been living with FALDER. FALDER is torn between his love for RUTH and his desire to escape his situation. He gives RUTH seven pounds and tells her to meet him at the booking office at 11.45 that night. RUTH and FALDER share a passionate kiss before COKESON re-enters the room. COKESON is shocked and tries to intervene, but FALDER quickly composes himself and leaves the room. COKESON is left looking uncomfortable and tries to distract himself by adding up figures in his pass-book. WALTER HOW, the son of the firm's partner, enters the room and talks to COKESON about some business matters. COKESON mentions that he's been adding up figures in the pass-book and offers to let WALTER take it. WALTER agrees and takes the pass-book. JAMES HOW, the firm's partner, enters the room and talks to WALTER and COKESON about some business matters. COKESON mentions that he's been adding up figures in the pass-book and offers to let JAMES take it. JAMES agrees and takes the pass-book. COKESON is left looking uncomfortable and tries to Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "He throws himself down the stairs" ]	22,762	narrativeqa	en	null	f8c64a0b7b14d8547ec79d736d74a5be64f611f65bd96988	Produced by David Widger GALSWORTHY PLAYS SECOND SERIES--NO. 1 JUSTICE By John Galsworthy PERSONS OF THE PLAY JAMES HOW, solicitor WALTER HOW, solicitor ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk SWEEDLE, their office-boy WISTER, a detective COWLEY, a cashier MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate HECTOR FROME, a young advocate CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain EDWARD CLEMENT, a prison doctor WOODER, a chief warder MOANEY, convict CLIFTON, convict O'CLEARY, convict RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman A NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITERS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS, JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS TIME: The Present. ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July. ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. ACT III. A prison. December. SCENE I. The Governor's office. SCENE II. A corridor. SCENE III. A cell. ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. March, two years later. CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINE Walter How MR. CHARLES MAUDE Cokeson MR. EDMUND GWENN Falder MR. DENNIS EADIE The Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEE The Detective MR. LESLIE CARTER The Cashier MR. C. E. VERNON The Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULT The Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYE The Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANT The Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEY The Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBEN The Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSON Wooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYD Moaney MR. ROBERT PATEMAN Clipton MR. O. P. HEGGIE O'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANE Ruth Honeywill Miss EDYTH OLIVE ACT I The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of James and Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned, furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the partners' room. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. COKESON. And five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks the page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one. SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carry two. Send him to Morris's. What name? SWEEDLE. Honeywill. COKESON. What's his business? SWEEDLE. It's a woman. COKESON. A lady? SWEEDLE. No, a person. COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closes the pass-book.] SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, please? RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She is a tall woman, twenty-six years old, unpretentiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. She stands very still, having a natural dignity of pose and gesture. SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young man's out. [Suspiciously] State your business, please. RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slight West-Country accent] It's a personal matter, sir. COKESON. We don't allow private callers here. Will you leave a message? RUTH. I'd rather see him, please. She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. Suppose I had my friends here to see me! It'd never do! RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here you are wanting to see a junior clerk! RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him. COKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of outraged interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to his private address. RUTH. He's not there. COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know what to say. It's no affair of the office. RUTH. But what am I to do? COKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. SWEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer office and passes through into it, with a quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully leaving the door an inch or two open. COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, this won't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in! An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer door of the outer office. SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some children outside here. RUTH. They're mine, please. SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check? RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON] COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk short as it is. RUTH. It's a matter of life and death. COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death! SWEEDLE. Here is Falder. FALDER has entered through the outer office. He is a pale, good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. He moves towards the door of the clerks' office, and stands there irresolute. COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not regular. Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' room. RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. He tried to cut my throat last night. I came out with the children before he was awake. I went round to you. FALDER. I've changed my digs. RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night? FALDER. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at the booking office. For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her with tragic intensity] Ruth! RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you? FALDER. Have you got your things, and the children's? RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but one bag. I can't go near home again. FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. How much must you have? RUTH. Six pounds--I could do with that, I think. FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [As if to himself] When I get out there I mean to forget it all. RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than take you against your will. FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'll have you. RUTH. You've just to say; it's not too late. FALDER. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. Booking office 11.45 to-night. If you weren't what you are to me, Ruth----! RUTH. Kiss me! They cling together passionately, there fly apart just as COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH turns and goes out through the outer office. COKESON advances deliberately to his chair and seats himself. COKESON. This isn't right, Falder. FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir. COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. FALDER. Yes, sir. COKESON. You quite understand-the party was in some distress; and, having children with her, I allowed my feelings----[He opens a drawer and produces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in the Home." It's a well-written thing. FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] Thank you, sir. COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left? FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir--for good. COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't mention about the party having called, but---- FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost apologetic voice. WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson. COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter. WALTER. My father here? COKESON. [Always with a certain patronage as to a young man who might be doing better] Mr. James has been here since eleven o'clock. WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the Guildhall. COKESON. [Looking at him as though this were exactly what was to be expected] Have you now--ye--es. This lease of Boulter's--am I to send it to counsel? WALTER. What does my father say? COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him. WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful. COKESON. It's such a little thing--hardly worth the fees. I thought you'd do it yourself. WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the responsibility. COKESON. [With an indescribable air of compassion] Just as you like. This "right-of-way" case--we've got 'em on the deeds. WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit of common ground. COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're the right side of the law. WALTER. I don't like it, COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want to set ourselves up against the law. Your father wouldn't waste his time doing that. As he speaks JAMES How comes in from the partners' room. He is a shortish man, with white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. JAMES. Morning, Walter. WALTER. How are you, father? COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as though deprecating their size] I'll just take Boulter's lease in to young Falder to draft the instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room.] WALTER. About that right-of-way case? JAMES. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I thought you told me yesterday the firm's balance was over four hundred. WALTER. So it is. JAMES. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three--five--one, no recent cheques. Just get me out the cheque-book. WALTER goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer and produces a cheque-book. JAMES. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, fifty-four, seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, eleven, fifty-two, seventy-one. Tally? WALTER. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure it was over four hundred. JAMES. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the check-book and cons the counterfoils] What's this ninety? WALTER. Who drew it? JAMES. You. WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's the day I went down to look over the Trenton Estate--last Friday week; I came back on the Tuesday, you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my expenses. It just covered all but half a crown. JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. [He sorts the cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] Seems all right. There's no nine here. This is bad. Who cashed that nine-pound cheque? WALTER. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see! I was finishing Mrs. Reddy's will--only just had time; yes--I gave it to Cokeson. JAMES. Look at that 't' 'y': that yours? WALTER. [After consideration] My y's curl back a little; this doesn't. JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room] We must ask him. Just come here and carry your mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you remember cashing a cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week--the day he went to Trenton? COKESON. Ye-es. Nine pounds. JAMES. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque.] COKESON. No! Nine pounds. My lunch was just coming in; and of course I like it hot; I gave the cheque to Davis to run round to the bank. He brought it back, all gold--you remember, Mr. Walter, you wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain contemptuous compassion] Here, let me see. You've got the wrong cheque. He takes cheque-book and pass-book from WALTER. WALTER. Afraid not. COKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. JAMES. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for Australia on Monday. Looks black, Cokeson. COKESON. [Puzzled and upset] why this'd be a felony! No, no! there's some mistake. JAMES. I hope so. COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort in the office the twenty-nine years I've been here. JAMES. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a very clever bit of work; a warning to you not to leave space after your figures, Walter. WALTER. [Vexed] Yes, I know--I was in such a tearing hurry that afternoon. COKESON. [Suddenly] This has upset me. JAMES. The counterfoil altered too--very deliberate piece of swindling. What was Davis's ship? WALTER. 'City of Rangoon'. JAMES. We ought to wire and have him arrested at Naples; he can't be there yet. COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young man. Dear, oh dear! In this office! WALTER. Shall I go to the bank and ask the cashier? JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring up Scotland Yard. WALTER. Really? He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces the room. He stops and looks at COKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the knees of his trousers. JAMES. Well, Cokeson! There's something in character, isn't there? COKESON. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't quite take you, sir. JAMES. Your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn't know you. COKESON. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with a sudden gravity] I'm sorry for that young man. I feel it as if it was my own son, Mr. James. JAMES. A nasty business! COKESON. It unsettles you. All goes on regular, and then a thing like this happens. Shan't relish my lunch to-day. JAMES. As bad as that, Cokeson? COKESON. It makes you think. [Confidentially] He must have had temptation. JAMES. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him yet. COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen. [He broods.] JAMES. I hope that fellow will hurry up. COKESON. [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] It isn't fifty yards, Mr. James. He won't be a minute. JAMES. The idea of dishonesty about this office it hits me hard, Cokeson. He goes towards the door of the partners' room. SWEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to COKESON in a low voice] She's popped up again, sir-something she forgot to say to Falder. COKESON. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh? Impossible. Send her away! JAMES. What's that? COKESON. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter. Here, I'll come myself. [He goes into the outer office as JAMES passes into the partners' room] Now, you really mustn't--we can't have anybody just now. RUTH. Not for a minute, sir? COKESON. Reely! Reely! I can't have it. If you want him, wait about; he'll be going out for his lunch directly. RUTH. Yes, sir. WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH as she leaves the outer office. COKESON. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary dragoon] Good-morning. [To WALTER] Your father's in there. WALTER crosses and goes into the partners' room. COKESON. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, Mr. Cowley. I'm quite ashamed to have to trouble you. COWLEY. I remember the cheque quite well. [As if it were a liver] Seemed in perfect order. COKESON. Sit down, won't you? I'm not a sensitive man, but a thing like this about the place--it's not nice. I like people to be open and jolly together. COWLEY. Quite so. COKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing toward the partners' room] Of course he's a young man. I've told him about it before now-- leaving space after his figures, but he will do it. COWLEY. I should remember the person's face--quite a youth. COKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show him to you, as a matter of fact. JAMES and WALTER have come back from the partners' room. JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen my son and myself, you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. It was none of us, I take it. The cashier shakes his head with a smile. JAMES. Be so good as to sit there. Cokeson, engage Mr. Cowley in conversation, will you? He goes toward FALDER'S room. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. JAMES. Well? COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man in there, do you? He's a nervous young feller. JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake of Falder's name, to say nothing of yours. COKESON. [With Some dignity] That'll look after itself, sir. He's been upset once this morning; I don't want him startled again. JAMES. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon niceness over a thing like this--too serious. Just talk to Mr. Cowley. He opens the door of FALDER'S room. JAMES. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will you, Falder? COKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs? The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer. COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare me, I suppose? At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to see FALDER standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on COWLEY, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake. FALDER. [Advancing with the papers] Here they are, sir! JAMES. [Taking them] Thank you. FALDER. Do you want me, sir? JAMES. No, thanks! FALDER turns and goes back into his own room. As he shuts the door JAMES gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the cashier nods. JAMES. Sure? This isn't as we suspected. COWLEY. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't slip out of that room? COKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window--a whole floor and a basement. The door of FALDER'S room is quietly opened, and FALDER, with his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office. JAMES. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder? FALDER. To have my lunch, sir. JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want to speak to you about this lease. FALDER. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room.] COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the young man who cashed the cheque. It was the last cheque I handled that morning before my lunch. These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slip of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning! JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley! COWLEY. [To COKESON] Good-morning. COKESON. [With Stupefaction] Good-morning. The cashier goes out through the outer office. COKESON sits down in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the morass of his feelings. WALTER. What are you going to do? JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and the counterfoil. COKESON. I don't understand. I thought young Davis---- JAMES. We shall see. WALTER. One moment, father: have you thought it out? JAMES. Call him in! COKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening FALDER'S door; hoarsely] Step in here a minute. FALDER. [Impassively] Yes, sir? JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] You know this cheque, Falder? FALDER. No, sir. JADES. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week. FALDER. Oh! yes, sir; that one--Davis gave it me. JAMES. I know. And you gave Davis the cash? FALDER. Yes, sir. JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this? FALDER. Yes, I think so, sir. JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque for nine pounds? FALDER. No, sir--ninety. JAMES. Nine, Falder. FALDER. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir. JAMES. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque was altered; whether by you or Davis is the question. FALDER. I--I COKESON. Take your time, take your time. FALDER. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir. JAMES. The cheque was handed to--Cokeson by Mr. Walter at one o'clock; we know that because Mr. Cokeson's lunch had just arrived. COKESON. I couldn't leave it. JAMES. Exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to Davis. It was cashed by you at 1.15. We know that because the cashier recollects it for the last cheque he handled before his lunch. FALDER. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me because some friends were giving him a farewell luncheon. JAMES. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then? FALDER. I don't know, sir--it's very funny. WALTER, who has come close to his father, says something to him in a low voice. JAMES. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, was he? COKESON. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young man, and seeing faint signs of their all being jolly once more] No, he sailed on the Monday. JAMES. Was he, Falder? FALDER. [Very faintly] No, sir. JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for the fact that this nought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after Tuesday? COKESON. [Surprised] How's that? FALDER gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull himself together, but he has gone all to pieces. JAMES. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson. The cheque-book remained in Mr. Walter's pocket till he came back from Trenton on Tuesday morning. In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny that you altered both cheque and counterfoil? FALDER. No, sir--no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I did it. COKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear! what a thing to do! FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I didn't know what I was doing. COKESON. However such a thing could have come into your head! FALDER. [Grasping at the words] I can't think, sir, really! It was just a minute of madness. JAMES. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the counterfoil] Four days at least. FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done till afterwards, and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! Sir, look over it! I'll pay the money back--I will, I promise. JAMES. Go into your room. FALDER, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room. There is silence. JAMES. About as bad a case as there could be. COKESON. To break the law like that-in here! WALTER. What's to be done? JAMES. Nothing for it. Prosecute. WALTER. It's his first offence. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of that. Too neat a piece of swindling altogether. COKESON. I shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted. JAMES. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, Mr. James. There was a woman come to see him this morning. WALTER. The woman we passed as we came in just now. Is it his wife? COKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in jollier circumstances would have been a wink] A married person, though. WALTER. How do you know? COKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised] There they were outside the office. JAMES. A real bad egg. WALTER. I should like to give him a chance. JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way he went to work-- counting on our suspecting young Davis if the matter came to light. It was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. WALTER. It must have been the temptation of a moment. He hadn't time. JAMES. A man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, if he's a clean mind and habits. He's rotten; got the eyes of a man who can't keep his hands off when there's money about. WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before. JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots of those fellows in my time. No doing anything with them except to keep 'em out of harm's way. They've got a blind spat. WALTER. It's penal servitude. COKESON. They're nahsty places-prisons. JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Out of the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine qua non'. COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is. JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst people who've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society. WALTER. But to brand him like this? JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd give him another chance. It's far from that. He has dissolute habits. COKESON. I didn't say that--extenuating circumstances. JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. If that's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know what is. WALTER. For the sake of his future, though. JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one would ever prosecute. WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it. COKESON. That's rather 'ex parte', Mr. Walter! We must have protection. JAMES. This is degenerating into talk. He moves towards the partners' room. WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father. JAMES. You ask too much of me. WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him. JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do this sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn't nothing'll make him. WALTER. He'll never do it again. COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk with him. We don't want to be hard on the young man. JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my mind. [He passes into the partners' room.] COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must excuse your father. I don't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right. WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You know you feel---- COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what I feel. WALTER. We shall regret it. COKESON. He must have known what he was doing. WALTER. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not strained." COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. Walter. We must try and see it sensible. SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir. COKESON. Put it down! While SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON's table, the detective, WISTER, enters the outer office, and, finding no one there, comes to the inner doorway. He is a square, medium-sized man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong boots. COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we doing? WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir. Detective-Sergeant Blister. WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my father. He goes into the partners' room. JAMES enters. JAMES. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture from COKESON] I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I felt I could. Open that door. [SWEEDLE, wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder. As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a sign from JAMES, slips his hand out and grasps his arm. FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh! no,--oh! no! WALTER. Come, come, there's a good lad. JAMES. I charge him with felony. FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one--I did it for her. Let me be till to-morrow. JAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of hardness, FALDER becomes rigid. Then, turning, he goes out quietly in the detective's grip. JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE, rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the outer office into the corridor. When they have all disappeared COKESON spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer office. COKESON: [Hoarsely] Here! What are we doing? There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief and mops the sweat from his face. Going back blindly to his table, sits down, and stares blankly at his lunch. The curtain falls. ACT II A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon crowded with barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. Sitting in the large, solid dock is FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to and unconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting exactly opposite to the JUDGE, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seems unconscious of and indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, the counsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middle age, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in a very white wig. Among the spectators, having already given their evidence, are JAMES and WALTER HOW, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! Gathering his robes together, he sits down. FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it please your lordship and gentlemen of the jury. I am not going to dispute the fact that the prisoner altered this cheque, but I am going to put before you evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that you would not be justified in finding that he was responsible for his actions at the time. I am going to show you, in fact, that he did this in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. I shall call before you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up to this act. You will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstances of her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she has inspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading a miserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, from whom she actually goes in terror of her life. I am not, of course, saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall in love with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue her from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying anything of the sort. But we all know the power of the passion of love; and I would ask you to remember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to a drunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enable a woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear that her husband is guilty. JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely--I shall be able to show your lordship that directly. JUDGE. Very well. FROME. In these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her? She could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of her life; or she could apply to the Court for a separation order. Well, gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this would have given her very insufficient protection from the violence of such a man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced her either to the workhouse or the streets--for it's not easy, as she is now finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood to support herself and her children without resorting either to the Poor Law or--to speak quite plainly--to the sale of her body. JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome. FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord. JUDGE. Let us hope so. FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark--and this is what I have been leading up to--this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on himself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. She saw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, where they would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. This was a desperate and, as my friend Mr. Cleaver will no doubt call it, an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation possibly have the right to hold up their hands--as to that I prefer to say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part of the prisoner's story--whatever opinion you form of the right of these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into their own hands--the fact remains that this young woman in her distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so devotedly attached to her, did conceive this--if you like-- reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, of course, they required money, and--they had none. As to the actual events of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility --I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the lips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takes up a sheet of paper, and waits.] COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him. FROME. What is your name? COKESON. Robert Cokeson. FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ the prisoner? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ? COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there--all but seventeen days. FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time? COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays. FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about his general character during those two years. COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprised at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. I'd no fault to find with him--quite the contrary. It was a great surprise to me when he did a thing like that. FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty? COKESON. No! To have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do. FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua non'. FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not? COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We were all very jolly and pleasant together, until this happened. Quite upset me. FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning on which the cheque was altered. What have you to say about his demeanour that morning? COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quite compos when he did it. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he was insane? COKESON. Not compos. THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please. FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion--[looking at the JUDGE]--such as it is--he was jumpy at the time. The jury will understand my meaning. FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that conclusion? COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in from the restaurant, a chop and a potato--saves time. That day it happened to come just as Mr. Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it hot; so I went into the clerks' office and I handed the cheque to Davis, the other clerk, and told him to get change. I noticed young Falder walking up and down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological Gardens, Falder." FROME. Do you remember what he answered? COKESON. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck me as funny. FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar? COKESON. I did. FROME. What was that? COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like a young man to be neat. I said to him: "Your collar's unbuttoned." FROME. And what did he answer? COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice. THE JUDGE. Stared at you? Isn't that a very common practice? COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain my meaning--it was funny. FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before? COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to the partners. We can't have anything eccentric in our profession. THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that occasion? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to trouble them about prime facey evidence. FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on your mind? COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same. FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the forgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that morning? COKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little deaf. FROME. Was there anything in the course of that morning--I mean before the discovery--that caught your attention? COKESON. Ye-es--a woman. THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind in which the prisoner committed this act, my lord. THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after the act. FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention. THE JUDGE. Well! FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. What for? COKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out at the moment. FROME. Did you see her? COKESON. I did. FROME. Did she come alone? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me in a difficulty. I mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me. FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so---- COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of "You are young--leave it to me"] But I think we can get round it. In answer to a question put to her by a third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, sir." THE JUDGE. What are? What were? COKESON. Her children. They were outside. THE JUDGE. HOW do you know? COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I shall have to tell you what I was told--and that'd never do. THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a statement. COKESON. Egg-zactly. FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the course of her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that you specially remember? COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to complete the sentence] A leetle more, sir. FROME. Or did she not? COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have led me to the answer. FROME. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the jury what it was? COKESON. "It's a matter of life and death." FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman said that? COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have said to you. FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in while she was there? [COKESON nods] And she saw him, and went away? COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go. FROME. Well, is she there now? COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No! FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down.] CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery the prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by that word? COKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. Have you ever seen a dog that's lost its master? He was kind of everywhere at once with his eyes. CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them "funny." What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what? COKESON. Ye-es, funny. COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not be funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, or fierce, or what? COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and you want me to give you another. CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean mad? CLEAVER. Not mad, fun---- CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Was it a hot day? COKESON. Ye-es; I think it was. CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it? COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did. CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted insanity? He sits downs. COKESON, who has opened his mouth to reply, is left gaping. FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelled state before? COKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet. FROME. That will do, thank you. COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though to rebuke counsel for not remembering that the JUDGE might wish to have a chance; arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next to JAMES and WALTER. FROME. Ruth Honeywill. RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the witness-box. She is sworn. FROME. What is your name, please? RUTH. Ruth Honeywill. FROME. How old are you? RUTH. Twenty-six. FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A little louder. RUTH. No, sir; not since July. FROME. Have you any children? RUTH. Yes, sir, two. FROME. Are they living with you? RUTH. Yes, sir. FROME. You know the prisoner? RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes. FROME. What was the nature of your relations with him? RUTH. We were friends. THE JUDGE. Friends? RUTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use that word? RUTH. We love each other. THE JUDGE. Yes, but---- RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship--not yet. THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well! FROME. What is your husband? RUTH. Traveller. FROME. And what was the nature of your married life? RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking about. FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what? RUTH. Ever since my first was born. FROME. In what way? RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me out of it, sir. We were going to South America. FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite--and what prevented you? RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearly broke my heart. FROME. You knew, then, that he had been arrested? RUTH. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, and [pointing to COKESON] that gentleman told me all about it. FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of Friday, July 7th? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Why? RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that morning. THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you! RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord. FROME. With his hands, or----? RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight to my friend. It was eight o'clock. THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influence of liquor then? RUTH. It wasn't always that. FROME. In what condition were you? RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was half choking. FROME. Did you tell your friend what had happened? RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had. FROME. It upset him? RUTH. Dreadfully. FROME. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? RUTH. Never. FROZE. Did he ever give you any money? RUTH. Yes. FROME. When was that? RUTH. On Saturday. FROME. The 8th? RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to start. FROME. Did that surprise you, or not? RUTH. What, sir? FROME. That he had money to give you. Ring. Yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed me my friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. He told me afterwards he'd come into a windfall. FROME. And when did you last see him? RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were to have started. FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him at all between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was his manner then? RUTH. Dumb--like--sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word. FROME. As if something unusual had happened to him? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what? RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him. FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the prisoner very much? RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes. FROME. And had he a very great affection for you? RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir. FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his actions? RUTH. Yes. FROME. His reason, even? RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would. FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairly calm? RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me. FROME. Do you still love him? RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me. FROME. Thank you. He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright in the witness-box. CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morning of Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, I suppose? RUTH. No, sir. CLEAVER. Thank you; I've no further questions to ask you. RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done the same for him; I would indeed. THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappy one? Faults on both sides? RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why I should, sir, not to a man like that. THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him? RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied him to keep things nice. THE JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner--was that it? RUTH. No; even after that. THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in this affection of yours for the prisoner. RUTH. [Hesitating] I--I do. It's the only thing in my life now. THE JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, please. RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her seat among the witnesses. FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord. FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly sworn. FROME. What is your name? FALDER. William Falder. FROME. And age? FALDER. Twenty-three. FROME. You are not married? FALDER shakes his head FROME. How long have you known the last witness? FALDER. Six months. FROME. Is her account of the relationship between you a correct one? FALDER. Yes. FROME. You became devotedly attached to her, however? FALDER. Yes. THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married woman? FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship. THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it? FALDER. I didn't seem able to. The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders. FROME. How did you come to know her? FALDER. Through my married sister. FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband? FALDER. It was trouble all the time. FROME. You knew her husband? FALDER. Only through her--he's a brute. THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person not present. FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To FALDER] You admit altering this cheque? FALDER bows his head. FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the 7th, and tell the jury what happened. FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my breakfast when she came. Her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seem to get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyes dreadfully. It frightened me, and then when she told me, I felt--I felt--well--it was too much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'd seen it, having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt the same, I know. FROME. Yes? FALDER. When she left me--because I had to go to the office--I was out of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what I could do. I couldn't work--all the morning I was like that--simply couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't think at all. I seemed to have to keep moving. When Davis--the other clerk--gave me the cheque--he said: "It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. You seem half off your chump this morning." Then when I had it in my hand--I don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that if I put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get her away. It just came and went--I never thought of it again. Then Davis went out to his luncheon, and I don't really remember what I did till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. I remember his saying "Gold or notes?" Then I suppose I knew what I'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted to chuck myself under a bus; I wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed I was in for it, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets I took for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, and all, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've restored. I keep thinking over and over however it was I came to do it, and how I can't have it all again to do differently! FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him. FROME. How far is it from your office to the bank? FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir. FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed the cheque, how long do you say it must have been? FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran all the way. FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing? FALDER. No, sir; only that I ran. FROME. Not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?' FALDER. No, sir. I don't really. FROME sits down, and CLEAVER rises. CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you? FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the bank. CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the cheque? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is casting over the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? Come. FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning, sir. CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the cashier? FALDER. It was an accident. CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't it? On which day did you alter the counterfoil? FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday morning. CLEAVER. Was that an accident too? FALDER. [Faintly] No. CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your opportunity, I suppose? FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes. CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under great excitement when you did that? FALDER. I was haunted. CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out? FALDER. [Very low] Yes. THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do was to confess to your employers, and restore the money? FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence] CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design of taking this woman away? FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that, to do it for nothing seemed so dreadful. I might just as well have chucked myself into the river. CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England --didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion would fall on him? FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought of it afterwards. CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done? FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got out there--I would have repaid the money. THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have been prosecuted. FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. I thought there'd be time. I didn't think they'd find it out so soon. FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if the discovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would have left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis, from the beginning. THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion would light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did you know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis had sailed? FALDER. I--I--thought--he---- THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth-yes or no! FALDER. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means of knowing. THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr. Frome. [FROME bows to the JUDGE] CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work that afternoon? FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back. CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keen for you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don't remember altering this cheque. [He sits down] FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage. FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back? FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep. FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between Davis's going out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollect nothing during those four minutes? FALDER. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson's face. FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what you were doing? FALDER. No, Sir. FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran out? FALDER. Yes, and while I was running. FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold or notes?" FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself--and it was too late. FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, my lord. The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock. FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship--Gentlemen of the Jury,--My friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I am free to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidence has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. My friend has alluded to the "romantic glamour" with which I have sought to invest this case. Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I have merely shown you the background of "life"--that palpitating life which, believe me--whatever my friend may say--always lies behind the commission of a crime. Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. But when we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love--what then? Just think of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the prisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! he is hardly the comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was devotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just the sort of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. You have heard the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at the word "funny"--I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which could have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that his mental irresponsibility--was more than a flash of darkness, in which all sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intent and treated as a patient. I admit that this is a plea which might well be abused. It is a matter for discretion. But here you have a case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four fatal minutes. What was his answer? "I thought of Mr. Cokeson's face!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is absolutely stamped with truth. You have seen the great affection [legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It is impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he committed this act. We well know what terrible havoc such distress can make in weak and highly nervous people. It was all the work of a moment. The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter impossibility of changing what you have done. Once this cheque was altered and presented, the work of four minutes--four mad minutes --the rest has been silence. But in those four minutes the boy before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great cage which never again quite lets a man go--the cage of the Law. His further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence--not of deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from which these subsequent acts arose; no--they are merely evidence of the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. But is a man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in all probability become one. I beg you not to return a verdict that may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the starting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be ground to pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of weakness? Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? Is that to be his voyage-from which so few return? Or is he to have another chance, to be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will come back? I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, stares him in the face. He can be saved now. Imprison him as a criminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost. He has neither the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he has undergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. He has lain in prison under this charge for more than two months. Is he likely ever to forget that? Imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. He has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decided to prosecute him. We are now already at the second stage. If you permit it to go on to the third I would not give--that for him. He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a circle, drops his hand, and sits dozen. The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towards the counsel for the Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spot that seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and then towards the jury. CLEAVER. May it please your lordship--[Rising on his toes] Gentlemen of the Jury,--The facts in this case are not disputed, and the defence, if my friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that I don't propose to waste the time of the Court by taking you over the evidence. The plea is one of temporary insanity. Well, gentlemen, I daresay it is clearer to me than it is to you why this rather--what shall we call it?--bizarre defence has been set up. The alternative would have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the prisoner had pleaded guilty my friend would have had to rely on a simple appeal to his lordship. Instead of that, he has gone into the byways and hedges and found this--er--peculiar plea, which has enabled him to show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box--to give, in fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I compliment my friend; I think it highly ingenious of him. By these means, he has--to a certain extent--got round the Law. He has brought the whole story of motive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he would not otherwise have been able to do. But when you have once grasped that fact, gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [With good-humoured contempt] For look at this plea of insanity; we can't put it lower than that. You have heard the woman. She has every reason to favour the prisoner, but what did she say? She said that the prisoner was not insane when she left him in the morning. If he were going out of his mind through distress, that was obviously the moment when insanity would have shown itself. You have heard the managing clerk, another witness for the defence. With some difficulty I elicited from him the admission that the prisoner, though jumpy [a word that he seemed to think you would understand, gentlemen, and I'm sure I hope you do], was not mad when the cheque was handed to Davis. I agree with my friend that it's unfortunate that we have not got Davis here, but the prisoner has told you the words with which Davis in turn handed him the cheque; he obviously, therefore, was not mad when he received it, or he would not have remembered those words. The cashier has told you that he was certainly in his senses when he cashed it. We have therefore the plea that a man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at fifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding the consequences of a crime, call himself insane between those points of time. Really, gentlemen, this is so peculiar a proposition that I am not disposed to weary you with further argument. You will form your own opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way of saying a great deal to you--and very eloquently--on the score of youth, temptation, and the like. I might point out, however, that the offence with which the prisoner is charged is one of the most serious known to our law; and there are certain features in this case, such as the suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent fellow-clerk, and his relations with this married woman, which will render it difficult for you to attach too much importance to such pleading. I ask you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which, in the circumstances, I regard you as, unfortunately, bound to record. Letting his eyes travel from the JUDGE and the jury to FROME, he sits down. THE JUDGE. [Bending a little towards the jury, and speaking in a business-like voice] Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence, and the comments on it. My only business is to make clear to you the issues you have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as the alteration of this cheque and counterfoil by the prisoner. The defence set up is that he was not in a responsible condition when he committed the crime. Well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the evidence of the other witnesses--so far as it bears on the point of insanity. If you think that what you have heard establishes the fact that the prisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you will find him guilty, but insane. If, on the other hand, you conclude from what you have seen and heard that the prisoner was sane--and nothing short of insanity will count--you will find him guilty. In reviewing the testimony as to his mental condition you must bear in mind very carefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct both before and after the act of forgery--the evidence of the prisoner himself, of the woman, of the witness--er--COKESON, and--er--of the cashier. And in regard to that I especially direct your attention to the prisoner's admission that the idea of adding the 'ty' and the nought did come into his mind at the moment when the cheque was handed to him; and also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to his subsequent conduct generally. The bearing of all this on the question of premeditation [and premeditation will imply sanity] is very obvious. You must not allow any considerations of age or temptation to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. Before you can come to a verdict of guilty but insane you must be well and thoroughly convinced that the condition of his mind was such as would have qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [He pauses, then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire or no, adds:] You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to do so. The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE. The JUDGE bends over his notes. FALDER, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly to his solicitor, pointing dawn at RUTH. The solicitor in turn speaks to FROME. FROME. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very anxious that I should ask you if your lordship would kindly request the reporters not to disclose the name of the woman witness in the Press reports of these proceedings. Your lordship will understand that the consequences might be extremely serious to her. THE JUDGE. [Pointedly--with the suspicion of a smile] well, Mr. Frome, you deliberately took this course which involved bringing her here. FROME. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship thinks I could have brought out the full facts in any other way? THE JUDGE. H'm! Well. FROME. There is very real danger to her, your lordship. THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for all that. FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I can assure your lordship that I am not exaggerating. THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain with me that the name of a witness should ever be suppressed. [With a glance at FALDER, who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH, who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on FALDER] I'll consider your application. It must depend. I have to remember that she may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. FROME. Your lordship, I really---- THE JUDGE. Yes, yes--I don't suggest anything of the sort, Mr. Frome. Leave it at that for the moment. As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the box. CLERK of ASSIZE. Gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? FOREMAN. We are. CLERK of ASSIZE. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but insane? FOREMAN. Guilty. The JUDGE nods; then, gathering up his notes, sits looking at FALDER, who stands motionless. FROME. [Rising] If your lordship would allow me to address you in mitigation of sentence. I don't know if your lordship thinks I can add anything to what I have said to the jury on the score of the prisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he acted. THE JUDGE. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome. FROME. If your lordship says so--I do most earnestly beg your lordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. [He sits down.] THE JUDGE. [To the CLERK] Call upon him. THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Have you anything to say for yourself, why the Court should not give you judgment according to law? [FALDER shakes his head] THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given fair trial and found guilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses; then, consulting his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that you were not responsible for your actions at the moment of committing this crime. There is no, doubt, I think, that this was a device to bring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which you succumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel was in reality making an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence of course enabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in that direction. Whether he was well advised to so is another matter. He claimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as a criminal. And this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the march of Justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completing the process of criminality. Now, in considering how far I should allow weight to his appeal; I have a number of factors to take into account. I have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of your offence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, to my mind, is a very grave point--and finally I have to consider the necessity of deterring others from following your example. On the other hand, I have to bear in mind that you are young, that you have hitherto borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of some emotional excitement when you committed this crime. I have every wish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to the community--to treat you with leniency. And this brings me to what are the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of your case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very serious element in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you on the ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of the crime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. It is said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. The story has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--Mrs. Honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy were in effect based. Now what is that story? It is that you, a young man, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed an attachment, which you both say--with what truth I am unable to gauge --had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admit was about to result in such relationship. Your counsel has made an attempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what he describes, I think, as "a hopeless position." As to that I can express no opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is patent that you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoral design. Now, however I might wish, I am not able to justify to my conscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality. It is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you for the completion of this immoral project. Your counsel has made an attempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is a defect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show that to punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. I do not follow him in these flights. The Law is what it is--a majestic edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another. I am concerned only with its administration. The crime you have committed is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance with my duty to Society to exercise the powers I have in your favour. You will go to penal servitude for three years. FALDER, who throughout the JUDGE'S speech has looked at him steadily, lets his head fall forward on his breast. RUTH starts up from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. There is a bustle in court. THE JUDGE. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen of the Press, I think that the name of the female witness should not be reported. The reporters bow their acquiescence. THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who is staring in the direction in which FALDER has disappeared] Do you understand, your name will not be mentioned? COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking to you. RUTH turns, stares at the JUDGE, and turns away. THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the next case. CLERK of ASSIZE. [To a warder] Put up John Booley. To cries of "Witnesses in the case of Booley": The curtain falls. ACT III SCENE I A prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large barred windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise yard, where men, in yellow clothes marked with arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are seen in single file at a distance of four yards from each other, walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on the concrete floor of the yard. Two warders in blue uniforms, with peaked caps and swords, are stationed amongst them. The room has distempered walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the prison on the wall, a writing-table covered with documents. It is Christmas Eve. The GOVERNOR, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, fair moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled hair, receding from the temples, is standing close to this writing-table looking at a sort of rough saw made out of a piece of metal. The hand in which he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are missing. The chief warder, WOODER, a tall, thin, military-looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and melancholy, monkey-like eyes, stands very upright two paces from him. THE GOVERNOR. [With a faint, abstracted smile] Queer-looking affair, Mr. Wooder! Where did you find it? WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come across such a thing for two years now. THE GOVERNOR. [With curiosity] Had he any set plan? WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [He holds up his thumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart] THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon. What's his name? Moaney! An old hand, I think? WOODER. Yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. You'd think an old lag like him would have had more sense by now. [With pitying contempt] Occupied his mind, he said. Breaking in and breaking out--that's all they think about. THE GOVERNOR. Who's next him? WOODER. O'Cleary, sir. THE GOVERNOR. The Irishman. WOODER. Next him again there's that young fellow, Falder--star class--and next him old Clipton. THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes! "The philosopher." I want to see him about his eyes. WOODER. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one of these tries at escape going on. It makes them restive--there's a regular wave going through them just now. THE GOVERNOR. [Meditatively] Odd things--those waves. [Turning to look at the prisoners exercising] Seem quiet enough out here! WOODER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging on his door this morning. Little thing like that's quite enough to upset the whole lot. They're just like dumb animals at times. THE GOVERNOR. I've seen it with horses before thunder--it'll run right through cavalry lines. The prison CHAPLAIN has entered. He is a dark-haired, ascetic man, in clerical undress, with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped face and slow, cultured speech. THE GOVERNOR. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, Miller? THE CHAPLAIN. Useful-looking specimen. THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes to the cupboard and opens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, and metal tools with labels tied on them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out] THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men last day or two, Miller? Seems going through the whole place. THE CHAPLAIN. No. I don't know of anything. THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dine with us on Christmas Day? THE CHAPLAIN. To-morrow. Thanks very much. THE GOVERNOR. Worries me to feel the men discontented. [Gazing at the saw] Have to punish this poor devil. Can't help liking a man who tries to escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks the cupboard again] THE CHAPLAIN. Extraordinary perverted will-power--some of them. Nothing to be done till it's broken. THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm afraid. Ground too hard for golf? WOODER comes in again. WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks to speak to you, sir. I told him it wasn't usual. THE GOVERNOR. What about? WOODER. Shall I put him off, sir? THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see him. Don't go, Miller. WOODER motions to some one without, and as the visitor comes in withdraws. The visitor is COKESON, who is attired in a thick overcoat to the knees, woollen gloves, and carries a top hat. COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been talking to the young man. THE GOVERNOR. We have a good many here. COKESON. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a card, and handing it to the GOVERNOR] Firm of James and Walter How. Well known in the law. THE GOVERNOR. [Receiving the card-with a faint smile] What do you want to see me about, sir? COKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] Why! what a sight! THE GOVERNOR. Yes, we have that privilege from here; my office is being done up. [Sitting down at his table] Now, please! COKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the window] I wanted to say a word to you; I shan't keep you long. [Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be here by rights. His sister came to me--he's got no father and mother--and she was in some distress. "My husband won't let me go and see him," she said; "says he's disgraced the family. And his other sister," she said, "is an invalid." And she asked me to come. Well, I take an interest in him. He was our junior--I go to the same chapel--and I didn't like to refuse. And what I wanted to tell you was, he seems lonely here. THE GOVERNOR. Not unnaturally. COKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see a lot of them about working together. THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The convicts serve their three months here in separate confinement, sir. COKESON. But we don't want to be unreasonable. He's quite downhearted. I wanted to ask you to let him run about with the others. THE GOVERNOR. [With faint amusement] Ring the bell-would you, Miller? [To COKESON] You'd like to hear what the doctor says about him, perhaps. THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not accustomed to prisons, it would seem, sir. COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite a young fellow. I said to him: "Before a month's up" I said, "you'll be out and about with the others; it'll be a nice change for you." "A month!" he said --like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. What's a month? Why, it's nothing!" "A day," he said, "shut up in your cell thinking and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside. I can't help it," he said; "I try--but I'm built that way, Mr. COKESON." And, he held his hand up to his face. I could see the tears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice. THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, isn't he? Not Church of England, I think? COKESON. No. THE CHAPLAIN. I know. THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be good enough to come here for a minute. [WOODER salutes, and goes out] Let's see, he's not married? COKESON. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party he's very much attached to, not altogether com-il-fa. It's a sad story. THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prison might be closed. COKESON. [Looking at the CHAPLAIN over his spectacles] Ye-es, but I wanted to tell you about that, special. He had hopes they'd have let her come and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked me questions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the poor young fellow a lie, with him in here--seemed like hitting him. But I'm afraid it's made him worse. THE GOVERNOR. What was this news then? COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a husband, and she'd left him. Fact is, she was going away with our young friend. It's not nice--but I've looked over it. Well, when he was put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait for him to come out. That was a great consolation to him. But after a month she came to me--I don't know her personally--and she said: "I can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--I've got no friends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else my husband'd get to know where I was. I'm very much reduced," she said. And she has lost flesh. "I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's a painful story. I said to her: "No," I said, "not that! I've got a wife an' family, but sooner than you should do that I'll spare you a little myself." "Really," she said--she's a nice creature--"I don't like to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband." Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but I didn't like to persuade her not to. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow dreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three years to serve. I want things to be pleasant for him. THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The Law hardly shares your view, I'm afraid. COKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut him up there by himself'll turn him silly. And nobody wants that, I s'pose. I don't like to see a man cry. THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that. COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility] I keep dogs. THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed? COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over. THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a sense of right and wrong. COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it. THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ. COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes 'em savage. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners. COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for years. He's eurotic--got no stamina. His father died of consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him harm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the wall." It's not nice. During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He is a medium-Sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye. He stands leaning against the window. THE GOVERNOR. This gentleman thinks the separate is telling on Q 3007--Falder, young thin fellow, star class. What do you say, Doctor Clements? THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm. COKESON. But he's told me. THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. He's lost no weight since he's been here. COKESON. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of. THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's nervous, rather melancholy. I don't see signs of anything more. I'm watching him carefully. COKESON. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say that. THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this period that we are able to make some impression on them, sir. I am speaking from my special standpoint. COKESON. [Turning bewildered to the GOVERNOR] I don't want to be unpleasant, but having given him this news, I do feel it's awkward. THE GOVERNOR. I'll make a point of seeing him to-day. COKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought perhaps seeing him every day you wouldn't notice it. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather sharply] If any sign of injury to his health shows itself his case will be reported at once. That's fully provided for. [He rises] COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, what you don't see doesn't trouble you; but having seen him, I don't want to have him on my mind. THE GOVERNOR. I think you may safely leave it to us, sir. COKESON. [Mollified and apologetic] I thought you'd understand me. I'm a plain man--never set myself up against authority. [Expanding to the CHAPLAIN] Nothing personal meant. Good-morning. As he goes out the three officials do not look at each other, but their faces wear peculiar expressions. THE CHAPLAIN. Our friend seems to think that prison is a hospital. COKESON. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] There's just one little thing. This woman--I suppose I mustn't ask you to let him see her. It'd be a rare treat for them both. He's thinking about her all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's quite safe in here. They're a pitiful couple. You couldn't make an exception? THE GOVERNOR. [Wearily] As you say, my dear sir, I couldn't make an exception; he won't be allowed another visit of any sort till he goes to a convict prison. COKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have troubled you. [He again goes out] THE CHAPLAIN. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain man indeed, poor fellow. Come and have some lunch, Clements? He and the DOCTOR go out talking. The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a pen. The curtain falls. SCENE II Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls are coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe of deeper green about the height of a man's shoulder, and above this line are whitewashed. The floor is of blackened stones. Daylight is filtering through a heavily barred window at the end. The doors of four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little round peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered by a little round disc, which, raised upwards, affords a view o f the cell. On the wall, close to each cell door, hangs a little square board with the prisoner's name, number, and record. Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor and second-floor corridors. The WARDER INSTRUCTOR, a bearded man in blue uniform, with an apron, and some dangling keys, is just emerging from one of the cells. INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell] I'll have another bit for you when that's finished. O'CLEARY. [Unseen--in an Irish voice] Little doubt o' that, sirr. INSTRUCTOR. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have it than nothing, I s'pose. O'CLEARY. An' that's the blessed truth. Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of approaching footsteps. INSTRUCTOR. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive over it! He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. The GOVERNOR comes walking down the corridor, followed by WOODER. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to report? INSTRUCTOR. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a cell] is behind with his work, sir. He'll lose marks to-day. The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end cell. The INSTRUCTOR goes away. THE GOVERNOR. This is our maker of saws, isn't it? He takes the saw from his pocket as WOODER throws open the door of the cell. The convict MOANEY is seen lying on his bed, athwart the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and stands in the middle of the cell. He is a raw-boned fellow, about fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce, staring, steel-coloured eyes. WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap] Out here! [MOANEY Comes to the door] THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding up the saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private] Anything to say about this, my man? [MOANEY is silent] Come! MOANEY. It passed the time. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough to do, eh? MOANEY. It don't occupy your mind. THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find a better way than this. MOANEY. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must keep my hand in against the time I get out. What's the good of anything else to me at my time of life? [With a gradual change to civility, as his tongue warms] Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or two, after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace meself when I'm out. You've got your pride keeping the prison smart; well, I've got mine. [Seeing that the GOVERNOR is listening with interest, he goes on, pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this. It's no harm to any one. I was five weeks makin' that saw--a bit of all right it is, too; now I'll get cells, I suppose, or seven days' bread and water. You can't help it, sir, I know that--I quite put meself in your place. THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass it over will you give me your word not to try it on again? Think! [He goes into the cell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries the window-bars] THE GOVERNOR. [Returning] Well? MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another six weeks to do in here, alone. I can't do it and think o' nothing. I must have something to interest me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but I can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive a gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four hours' steady work would have done it. THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then? Caught, brought back, punishment. Five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, while they put anew bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney? MOANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is. THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, well! Two days' cells-bread and water. MOANEY. Thank 'e, sir. He turns quickly like an animal and slips into his cell. The GOVERNOR looks after him and shakes his head as WOODER closes and locks the cell door. THE GOVERNOR. Open Clipton's cell. WOODER opens the door of CLIPTON'S cell. CLIPTON is sitting on a stool just inside the door, at work on a pair of trousers. He is a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost shaven head, and smouldering little dark eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets up and stands motionless in the doorway, peering at his visitors. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning] Come out here a minute, Clipton. CLIPTON, with a sort of dreadful quietness, comes into the corridor, the needle and thread in his hand. The GOVERNOR signs to WOODER, who goes into the cell and inspects it carefully. THE GOVERNOR. How are your eyes? CLIFTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see the sun here. [He makes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] There's just one thing, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd ask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter. THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want any tales, Clipton. CLIPTON. He keeps me awake. I don't know who he is. [With contempt] One of this star class, I expect. Oughtn't to be here with us. THE GOVERNOR. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton. He'll be moved when there's a cell vacant. CLIPTON. He knocks about like a wild beast in the early morning. I'm not used to it--stops me getting my sleep out. In the evening too. It's not fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. Sleep's the comfort I've got here; I'm entitled to take it out full. WOODER comes out of the cell, and instantly, as though extinguished, CLIPTON moves with stealthy suddenness back into his cell. WOODER. All right, sir. THE GOVERNOR nods. The door is closed and locked. THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on his door this morning? WOODER. [Going towards O'CLEARY'S cell] This one, sir; O'Cleary. He lifts the disc and glances through the peephole. THE GOVERNOR. Open. WOODER throws open the door. O'CLEARY, who is seated at a little table by the door as if listening, springs up and stands at attention jest inside the doorway. He is a broad-faced, middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, flexible mouth, and little holes under his high cheek-bones. THE GOVERNOR. Where's the joke, O'Cleary? O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour? I've not seen one for a long time. THE GOVERNOR. Banging on your door? O'CLEARY. Oh! that! THE GOVERNOR. It's womanish. O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two months past. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to complain of? O'CLEARY. NO, Sirr. THE GOVERNOR. You're an old hand; you ought to know better. O'CLEARY. Yes, I've been through it all. THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him. O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't always be the same steady man. THE GOVERNOR. Work all right? O'CLEARY. [Taking up a rush mat he is making] Oh! I can do it on me head. It's the miserablest stuff--don't take the brains of a mouse. [Working his mouth] It's here I feel it--the want of a little noise --a terrible little wud ease me. THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if you were out in the shops you wouldn't be allowed to talk. O'CLEARY. [With a look of profound meaning] Not with my mouth. THE GOVERNOR. Well, then? O'CLEARY. But it's the great conversation I'd have. THE GOVERNOR. [With a smile] Well, no more conversation on your door. O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit to repeat meself. THE GOVERNOR. [Turning] Good-night. O'CLEARY. Good-night, your honour. He turns into his cell. The GOVERNOR shuts the door. THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't help liking the poor blackguard. WOODER. He's an amiable man, sir. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask the doctor to come here, Mr. Wooder. WOODER salutes and goes away down the corridor. The GOVERNOR goes to the door of FALDER'S cell. He raises his uninjured hand to uncover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, after scrutinising the record board, he opens the cell door. FALDER, who is standing against it, lurches forward. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: can't you settle down, Falder? FALDER. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean? It's no good running your head against a stone wall, is it? FALDER. No, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Well, come. FALDER. I try, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Can't you sleep? FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and getting up's the worst time. THE GOVERNOR. How's that? FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't know, sir. I was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] Everything seems to get such a size then. I feel I'll never get out as long as I live. THE GOVERNOR. That's morbid, my lad. Pull yourself together. FALDER. [With an equally sudden dogged resentment] Yes--I've got to. THE GOVERNOR. Think of all these other fellows? FALDER. They're used to it. THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it once for the first time, just as you're doing now. FALDER. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in time, I suppose. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! That rests with you. Now come. Set your mind to it, like a good fellow. You're still quite young. A man can make himself what he likes. FALDER. [Wistfully] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Take a good hold of yourself. Do you read? FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his head] I know it's no good; but I can't help thinking of what's going on outside. In my cell I can't see out at all. It's thick glass, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You've had a visitor. Bad news? FALDER. Yes. THE GOVERNOR. You mustn't think about it. FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help it, sir? He suddenly becomes motionless as WOODER and the DOCTOR approach. The GOVERNOR motions to him to go back into his cell. FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my head, sir. [He goes back into his cell.] THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and see him, Clements. The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR pushes the door to, nearly closing it, and walks towards the window. WOODER. [Following] Sorry you should be troubled like this, sir. Very contented lot of men, on the whole. THE GOVERNOR. [Shortly] You think so? WOODER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my opinion. THE GOVERNOR. [To himself] Queer, that! WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? THE GOVERNOR. Christmas! He turns towards the window, leaving WOODER looking at him with a sort of pained anxiety. WOODER. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show enough, sir? If you'd like us to have more holly? THE GOVERNOR. Not at all, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. Very good, sir. The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell, and the GOVERNOR beckons to him. THE GOVERNOR. Well? THE DOCTOR. I can't make anything much of him. He's nervous, of course. THE GOVERNOR. Is there any sort of case to report? Quite frankly, Doctor. THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separates doing him any good; but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better in the shops, there's no doubt. THE GOVERNOR. You mean you'd have to recommend others? THE DOCTOR. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves. There's nothing tangible. That fellow there [pointing to O'CLEARY'S cell], for instance--feels it just as much, in his way. If I once get away from physical facts--I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously, sir, I don't know how to differentiate him. He hasn't lost weight. Nothing wrong with his eyes. His pulse is good. Talks all right. THE GOVERNOR. It doesn't amount to melancholia? THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on him if you like; but if I do I ought to report on others. THE GOVERNOR. I see. [Looking towards FALDER'S cell] The poor devil must just stick it then. As he says thin he looks absently at WOODER. WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns on his heel, and walks away. There is a sound as of beating on metal. THE GOVERNOR. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder? WOODER. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we should have more of that. He hurries forward, passing the GOVERNOR, who follows closely. The curtain falls. SCENE III FALDER's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass, with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet]. Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark ventilator under the window, and another over the door. FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under the window. In fast-failing daylight, FALDER, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. He springs suddenly upright--as if at a sound-and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. FALDER is seen gasping for breath. A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. FALDER shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; FALDER'S hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it. The curtain falls. ACT IV The scene is again COKESON'S room, at a few minutes to ten of a March morning, two years later. The doors are all open. SWEEDLE, now blessed with a sprouting moustache, is getting the offices ready. He arranges papers on COKESON'S table; then goes to a covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at himself in the mirror. While he is gazing his full RUTH HONEYWILL comes in through the outer office and stands in the doorway. There seems a kind of exultation and excitement behind her habitual impassivity. SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstand with a bang] Hello! It's you! RUTH. Yes. SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't waste their time hurrying down in the morning. Why, it must be two years since we had the pleasure of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been doing with yourself? RUTH. [Sardonically] Living. SWEEDLE. [Impressed] If you want to see him [he points to COKESON'S chair], he'll be here directly--never misses--not much. [Delicately] I hope our friend's back from the country. His time's been up these three months, if I remember. [RUTH nods] I was awful sorry about that. The governor made a mistake--if you ask me. RUTH. He did. SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. And, I say, the judge ought to ha' let him go after that. They've forgot what human nature's like. Whereas we know. [RUTH gives him a honeyed smile] SWEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload of bricks, flatten you out, and when you don't swell up again they complain of it. I know 'em--seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [He shakes his head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other day the governor---- But COKESON has come in through the outer office; brisk with east wind, and decidedly greyer. COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! it's you! [Then motioning SWEEDLE out, and closing the door] Quite a stranger! Must be two years. D'you want to see me? I can give you a minute. Sit down! Family well? RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was. COKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are more comfortable at home. RUTH. I couldn't stay with Honeywill, after all. COKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. I should be sorry if you'd done anything rash. RUTH. I've kept the children with me. COKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so jolly as ha had hoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen you. You've not heard from the young man, I suppose, since he came out? RUTH. Yes, I ran across him yesterday. COKESON. I hope he's well. RUTH. [With sudden fierceness] He can't get anything to do. It's dreadful to see him. He's just skin and bone. COKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that. [On his guard again] Didn't they find him a place when his time was up? RUTH. He was only there three weeks. It got out. COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you. I don't like to be snubby. RUTH. I can't bear his being like that. COKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I know his relations aren't very forthy about him. Perhaps you can do something for him, till he finds his feet. RUTH. Not now. I could have--but not now. COKESON. I don't understand. RUTH. [Proudly] I've seen him again--that's all over. COKESON. [Staring at her--disturbed] I'm a family man--I don't want to hear anything unpleasant. Excuse me--I'm very busy. RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, but they've never got over me marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise, Mr. Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when I married him. I thought the world of him, of course... he used to come travelling to our farm. COKESON. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got on better, after you saw me. RUTH. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't break my nerve, but I lost my health; and then he began knocking the children about. I couldn't stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were dying. COKESON. [Who has risen and is shifting about as though dodging a stream of lava] We mustn't be violent, must we? RUTH. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave better than that-- [There is silence] COKESON. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there you were! And what did you do then? RUTH. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left him before..., making skirts... cheap things. It was the best I could get, but I never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and working all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I kept at it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that; I wasn't made for it. I'd rather die. COKESON. My dear woman! We mustn't talk like that. RUTH. It was starvation for the children too--after what they'd always had. I soon got not to care. I used to be too tired. [She is silent] COKESON. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what happened then? RUTH. [With a laugh] My employer happened then--he's happened ever since. COKESON. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a thing like this. RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But I've done with that. [Suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the back of her hand] I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was just a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in there and sat down, and he told me all about himself. Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him another chance. COKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost your livings! What a horrible position! RUTH. If he could only get here--where there's nothing to find out about him! COKESON. We can't have anything derogative to the firm. RUTH. I've no one else to go to. COKESON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't think they'll take him, under the circumstances. I don't really. RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in the street. [She points to the window.] COKESON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done that until he's sent for. [Then softening at the look on her face] We've got a vacancy, as it happens, but I can't promise anything. RUTH. It would be the saving of him. COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not sanguine. Now tell him that I don't want him till I see how things are. Leave your address? [Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street? [He notes it on blotting-paper] Good-morning. RUTH. Thank you. She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not, and goes away. COKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a large white cotton handkerchief] What a business! [Then looking amongst his papers, he sounds his bell. SWEEDLE answers it] COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here to-day after the clerk's place? SWEEDLE. Yes. COKESON. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want to see him yet. SWEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir? COKESON. [With asperity] invent something. Use your brains. Don't stump him off altogether. SWEEDLE. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, sir? COKESON. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here to-day. SWEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? COKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remember Falder? I may be having him round to see me. Now, treat him like you'd have him treat you in a similar position. SWEEDLE. I naturally should do. COKESON. That's right. When a man's down never hit 'im. 'Tisn't necessary. Give him a hand up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you in life. It's sound policy. SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take him on again, sir? COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the sound of some one having entered the outer office] Who's there? SWEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's Falder, sir. COKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty of her. Tell him to call again. I don't want---- He breaks off as FALDER comes in. FALDER is thin, pale, older, his eyes have grown more restless. His clothes are very worn and loose. SWEEDLE, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. COKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous. [Trying to keep things pleasant] Shake hands! She's striking while the iron's hot. [He wipes his forehead] I don't blame her. She's anxious. FALDER timidly takes COKESON's hand and glances towards the partners' door. COKESON. No--not yet! Sit down! [FALDER sits in the chair at the aide of COKESON's table, on which he places his cap] Now you are here I'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [Looking at him over his spectacles] How's your health? FALDER. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that. About this matter. I don't like doing anything out of the ordinary; it's not my habit. I'm a plain man, and I want everything smooth and straight. But I promised your friend to speak to the partners, and I always keep my word. FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've paid for that job a thousand times and more. I have, sir. No one knows. They say I weighed more when I came out than when I went in. They couldn't weigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart, and gives a sort of laugh]. Till last night I'd have thought there was nothing in here at all. COKESON. [Concerned] You've not got heart disease? FALDER. Oh! they passed me sound enough. COKESON. But they got you a place, didn't they? FALSER. Yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me. I thought I was going to get on first rate. But one day, all of a sudden, the other clerks got wind of it.... I couldn't stick it, Mr. COKESON, I couldn't, sir. COKESON. Easy, my dear fellow, easy! FALDER. I had one small job after that, but it didn't last. COKESON. How was that? FALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. The fact is, I seem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. I can't explain it: it's as if I was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, it grows up there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about references; but what are you to do? You must have them. And that made me afraid, and I left. In fact, I'm--I'm afraid all the time now. He bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table. COKESON. I feel for you--I do really. Aren't your sisters going to do anything for you? FALDER. One's in consumption. And the other---- COKESON. Ye...es. She told me her husband wasn't quite pleased with you. FALDER. When I went there--they were at supper--my sister wanted to give me a kiss--I know. But he just looked at her, and said: "What have you come for?" Well, I pocketed my pride and I said: "Aren't you going to give me your hand, Jim? Cis is, I know," I said. "Look here!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd better come to an understanding. I've been expecting you, and I've made up my mind. I'll give you fifteen pounds to go to Canada with." "I see," I said--"good riddance! No, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds." Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where I have. COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen pound from me? [Flustered, as FALDER regards him with a queer smile] Quite without prejudice; I meant it kindly. FALDER. I'm not allowed to leave the country. COKESON. Oh! ye...es--ticket-of-leave? You aren't looking the thing. FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawns aren't all poetry there. But meeting her--I feel a different man this morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the best thing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. That's queer, isn't it? COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you. FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me. [With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate with criminals! COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That never did a man any good. Put a face on it. FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're independent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk about giving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over. COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven't made a Socialist of you. FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he utters a peculiar laugh. COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Really you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure. FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, but they down you all the same. This feeling--[He stares round him, as though at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden impersonality] I know it is. COKESON. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there! We must try and take it quiet. I'm sure I've often had you in my prayers. Now leave it to me. I'll use my gumption and take 'em when they're jolly. [As he speaks the two partners come in] COKESON [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put them all at ease] I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've just been having a talk with this young man. I think you'll remember him. JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How are you, Falder? WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] Very glad to see you again, Falder. FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] Thank you, sir. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To FALDER, pointing to the clerks' office] You might go in there a minute. You know your way. Our junior won't be coming this morning. His wife's just had a little family. FALDER, goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all about it. He's quite penitent. But there's a prejudice against him. And you're not seeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It's very trying to go without your dinner. JAMES. Is that so, COKESON? COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. Now we know all about him, and we want a clerk. There is a young fellow applying, but I'm keeping him in the air. JAMES. A gaol-bird in the office, COKESON? I don't see it. WALTER. "The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice!" I've never got that out of my head. JAMES. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this affair. What's he been doing since he came out? COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. He's sensitive--quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's down on him. JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow--never did from the first. "Weak character"'s written all over him. WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up. JAMES. He brought it all on himself. WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold in these days. JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold it for all that, my boy. WALTER. For oneself, yes--not for other people, thanks. JAMES. Well! I don't want to be hard. COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something [spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy. JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some one uncommonly like her outside as we came in. COKESON. That! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has met her. JAMES. Is she with her husband? COKESON. No. JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose? COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] I don't know that of my own knowledge. 'Tisn't my business. JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage him, COKESON. COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. I've had the party here this morning. JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Too shady altogether! COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you--I see that. WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what we have to do with his private life. JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come here. WALTER. Poor devil! COKESON. Will you--have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I can get him to see reason. JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, COKESON. WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON is summoning FALDER] His whole future may depend on what we do, dad. FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself together, and presents a steady front. JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you another chance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the first place: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notion that you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. You can't play fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. If Society didn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise that the better. FALDER. Yes, sir; but--may I say something? JAMES. Well? FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [He stops] COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, that if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a quarter of us would ever have got there. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that, Falder. FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you began it. FALDER. I never wanted to do wrong. JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did. FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knocked me out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not what I was. JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. FALDER. [Throwing over his caution from the intensity of his feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to the future. FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what prison is. It's here it gets you. He grips his chest. COKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he wanted nourishment. WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. Time's merciful. FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what you've got to do is to put all the past behind you and build yourself up a steady reputation. And that brings me to the second thing. This woman you were mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have done with that. There's no chance of your keeping straight if you're going to begin your future with such a relationship. FALDER. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted expression] But sir... but sir... it's the one thing I looked forward to all that time. And she too... I couldn't find her before last night. During this and what follows COKESON becomes more and more uneasy. JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself that it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come back--not otherwise. FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffens himself] I couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got. JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for the benefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of this connection. It was the cause of all your disaster. FALDER. But sir, it means-having gone through all that-getting broken up--my nerves are in an awful state--for nothing. I did it for her. JAMES. Come! If she's anything of a woman she'll see it for herself. She won't want to drag you down further. If there were a prospect of your being able to marry her--it might be another thing. FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him --she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble from the beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER]... If anybody would help her! It's only money wants now, I'm sure. COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and is about to speak] I don't think we need consider that--it's rather far-fetched. FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full cause since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, if it can be managed. FALDER. Oh, sir! He goes to the window and looks down into the street. COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr. Walter. I have my reasons. FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her? I can beckon to her from here. WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to JAMES. JAMES. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. FALDER beckons from the window. COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James. She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young man's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to swindle the Law. FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a sort of awed silence. FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some change--looking from one to the other] There's been nothing between us, sir, to prevent it.... What I said at the trial was true. And last night we only just sat in the Park. SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office. COKESON. What is it? SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honeywill. [There is silence] JAMES. Show her in. RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKESON turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed groove. JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door] We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be faced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falder again. RUTH. Yes--only yesterday. JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. [Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage, ma'am. RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to twist her hands in front of her as though prescient of disaster. FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us to get you a divorce. RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and WALTER. JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. FALDER. But, Sir----! JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're fond of him. RUTH. Yes, Sir; I love him. She looks miserably at FALDER. JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way, do you? RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce. There's been nothing between us, has there? RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head-without looking at him] No. FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help us--we promise. JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you? You see what I mean? RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes. COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. JAMES. The situation is impossible. RUTH. Must I, Sir? JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to you, ma'am. His future is in your hands. RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right! FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to give me up--after all this? There's something--[Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, I swear solemnly there's been nothing between us. JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He starts at RUTH, who is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as the truth dawns on him] What is it? You've not been-- WALTER. Father! JAMES. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do, that'll do! I'll give you your chance, Falder. Don't let me know what you do with yourselves, that's all. FALDER. [As if he has not heard] Ruth? RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands. There is silence. COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. [To RUTH] Go in here. You'll feel better by yourself for a minute. He points to the clerks' room and moves towards the outer office. FALDER does not move. RUTH puts out her hand timidly. He shrinks back from the touch. She turns and goes miserably into the clerks' room. With a brusque movement he follows, seizing her by the shoulder just inside the doorway. COKESON shuts the door. JAMES. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, whoever it is. SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice] Detective-Sergeant blister. The detective enters, and closes the door behind him. WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two years and a half ago: I arrested him in, this room. JAMES. What about him? WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his whereabouts from you. [There is an awkward silence] COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're not responsible for his movements; you know that. JAMES. What do you want with him? WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four weeks. WALTER. How d'you mean? WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police till then? WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare say we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employment with a forged reference. What with the two things together--we must have him. Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON steal glances at JAMES, who stands staring steadily at the detective. COKESON. [Expansively] We're very busy at the moment. If you could make it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but I dislike peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. If you want him you must find him without us. As he speaks his eye falls on FALDER'S cap, still lying on the table, and his face contracts. WISTER. [Noting the gesture--quietly] Very good, sir. I ought to warn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still a convict, and sheltering a convict. JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come here and ask questions which it's not my business to answer. WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quite understand, don't you? Good-morning! WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. COKESON. The other door.... the other door! WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTHS's voice is heard: "Oh, do!" and FALDER'S: "I can't!" There is a little pause; then, with sharp fright, RUTH says: "Who's that?" WISTER has gone in. The three men look aghast at the door. WISTER [From within] Keep back, please! He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in FALDER'S. The latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake! WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. FALDER. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up his head, and goes out through the outer office, half dragging WISTER after him. WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll go on for ever now. SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER's voice. JAMES. What's that? SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to behind him. There is dead silence. WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The woman-she's fainting! He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the clerks' room. COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! WALTER. Have you any brandy? COKESON. I've got sherry. WALTER. Get it, then. Quick! He places RUTH in a chair--which JAMES has dragged forward. COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They try to force the sherry between her lips.] There is the sound of feet, and they stop to listen. The outer door is reopened--WISTER and SWEEDLE are seen carrying some burden. JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it? They lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and all but RUTH cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices. WISTER. He jumped--neck's broken. WALTER. Good God! WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the slip like that. And what was it--just a few months! WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all? JAMES. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice unlike his own] Run for a doctor--you! [SWEEDLE rushes from the outer office] An ambulance! WISTER goes out. On RUTH's face an expression of fear and horror has been seen growing, as if she dared not turn towards the voices. She now rises and steals towards them. WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look! The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body. RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it? He's not breathing. [She crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! In the outer office doorway the figures of men am seen standing. RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead! [The figures of the men shrink back] COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] There, there, poor dear woman! At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at him. COKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! He's safe with gentle Jesus! RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at COKESON, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as one would to a lost dog. The curtain falls. End of Project Gutenberg's Justice (Second Series Plays), by John Galsworthy Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What does Reiko discover saves viewers of the tape from their imminent death?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Making a copy and showing it to someone else" ]	17,499	narrativeqa	en	null	26c58dd3a2eb5eb56503bf26f523dd9017bc802edc1d4223	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What is the name of Mortimer Treginnis' sister?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Brenda." ]	10,014	narrativeqa	en	null	e4763b2d20ad1b86e79d853759b3c68636b69b8fc58c9a5e	Produced by David Brannan. HTML version by Al Haines. The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early spring of that year we found ourselves together in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish peninsula. It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim humour of my patient. From the windows of our little whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end. With a northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection. Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale from the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out from that evil place. On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with an occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he spent much of his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and he had, I remember, conceived the idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived from the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of books upon philology and was settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a problem at our very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more mysterious than any of those which had driven us from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were violently interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of a series of events which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain some recollection of what was called at the time "The Cornish Horror," though a most imperfect account of the matter reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details of this inconceivable affair to the public. I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and as such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a considerable fund of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman's scanty resources by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to such an arrangement, though he had little in common with his lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression of actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our short visit we found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs. These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion upon the moors. "Mr. Holmes," said the vicar in an agitated voice, "the most extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night. It is the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a special Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all England you are the one man we need." I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained than the clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of his dark eyes showed that they shared a common emotion. "Shall I speak or you?" he asked of the vicar. "Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it may be, and the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps you had better do the speaking," said Holmes. I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise which Holmes's simple deduction had brought to their faces. "Perhaps I had best say a few words first," said the vicar, "and then you can judge if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis, or whether we should not hasten at once to the scene of this mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here spent last evening in the company of his two brothers, Owen and George, and of his sister Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is near the old stone cross upon the moor. He left them shortly after ten o'clock, playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent health and spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he walked in that direction before breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who explained that he had just been sent for on a most urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally went with him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his sister were seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards still spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their sockets. The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses stricken clean out of them. All three of them, the dead woman and the two demented men, retained upon their faces an expression of the utmost horror--a convulsion of terror which was dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of the presence of anyone in the house, except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that she had slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen or disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of what the horror can be which has frightened a woman to death and two strong men out of their senses. There is the situation, Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can help us to clear it up you will have done a great work." I had hoped that in some way I could coax my companion back into the quiet which had been the object of our journey; but one glance at his intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was now the expectation. He sat for some little time in silence, absorbed in the strange drama which had broken in upon our peace. "I will look into this matter," he said at last. "On the face of it, it would appear to be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you been there yourself, Mr. Roundhay?" "No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the account to the vicarage, and I at once hurried over with him to consult you." "How far is it to the house where this singular tragedy occurred?" "About a mile inland." "Then we shall walk over together. But before we start I must ask you a few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis." The other had been silent all this time, but I had observed that his more controlled excitement was even greater than the obtrusive emotion of the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his anxious gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands clasped convulsively together. His pale lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful experience which had befallen his family, and his dark eyes seemed to reflect something of the horror of the scene. "Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes," said he eagerly. "It is a bad thing to speak of, but I will answer you the truth." "Tell me about last night." "Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has said, and my elder brother George proposed a game of whist afterwards. We sat down about nine o'clock. It was a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I left them all round the table, as merry as could be." "Who let you out?" "Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I shut the hall door behind me. The window of the room in which they sat was closed, but the blind was not drawn down. There was no change in door or window this morning, or any reason to think that any stranger had been to the house. Yet there they sat, driven clean mad with terror, and Brenda lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over the arm of the chair. I'll never get the sight of that room out of my mind so long as I live." "The facts, as you state them, are certainly most remarkable," said Holmes. "I take it that you have no theory yourself which can in any way account for them?" "It's devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!" cried Mortimer Tregennis. "It is not of this world. Something has come into that room which has dashed the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance could do that?" "I fear," said Holmes, "that if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr. Tregennis, I take it you were divided in some way from your family, since they lived together and you had rooms apart?" "That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past and done with. We were a family of tin-miners at Redruth, but we sold our venture to a company, and so retired with enough to keep us. I won't deny that there was some feeling about the division of the money and it stood between us for a time, but it was all forgiven and forgotten, and we were the best of friends together." "Looking back at the evening which you spent together, does anything stand out in your memory as throwing any possible light upon the tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can help me." "There is nothing at all, sir." "Your people were in their usual spirits?" "Never better." "Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any apprehension of coming danger?" "Nothing of the kind." "You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?" Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a moment. "There is one thing occurs to me," said he at last. "As we sat at the table my back was to the window, and my brother George, he being my partner at cards, was facing it. I saw him once look hard over my shoulder, so I turned round and looked also. The blind was up and the window shut, but I could just make out the bushes on the lawn, and it seemed to me for a moment that I saw something moving among them. I couldn't even say if it was man or animal, but I just thought there was something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told me that he had the same feeling. That is all that I can say." "Did you not investigate?" "No; the matter passed as unimportant." "You left them, then, without any premonition of evil?" "None at all." "I am not clear how you came to hear the news so early this morning." "I am an early riser and generally take a walk before breakfast. This morning I had hardly started when the doctor in his carriage overtook me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy down with an urgent message. I sprang in beside him and we drove on. When we got there we looked into that dreadful room. The candles and the fire must have burned out hours before, and they had been sitting there in the dark until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been dead at least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She just lay across the arm of the chair with that look on her face. George and Owen were singing snatches of songs and gibbering like two great apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I couldn't stand it, and the doctor was as white as a sheet. Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of faint, and we nearly had him on our hands as well." "Remarkable--most remarkable!" said Holmes, rising and taking his hat. "I think, perhaps, we had better go down to Tredannick Wartha without further delay. I confess that I have seldom known a case which at first sight presented a more singular problem." Our proceedings of that first morning did little to advance the investigation. It was marked, however, at the outset by an incident which left the most sinister impression upon my mind. The approach to the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a narrow, winding, country lane. While we made our way along it we heard the rattle of a carriage coming towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it drove by us I caught a glimpse through the closed window of a horribly contorted, grinning face glaring out at us. Those staring eyes and gnashing teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision. "My brothers!" cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. "They are taking them to Helston." We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon its way. Then we turned our steps towards this ill-omened house in which they had met their strange fate. It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa than a cottage, with a considerable garden which was already, in that Cornish air, well filled with spring flowers. Towards this garden the window of the sitting-room fronted, and from it, according to Mortimer Tregennis, must have come that thing of evil which had by sheer horror in a single instant blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly and thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the path before we entered the porch. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over the watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged both our feet and the garden path. Inside the house we were met by the elderly Cornish housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl, looked after the wants of the family. She readily answered all Holmes's questions. She had heard nothing in the night. Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and she had never known them more cheerful and prosperous. She had fainted with horror upon entering the room in the morning and seeing that dreadful company round the table. She had, when she recovered, thrown open the window to let the morning air in, and had run down to the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for the doctor. The lady was on her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It took four strong men to get the brothers into the asylum carriage. She would not herself stay in the house another day and was starting that very afternoon to rejoin her family at St. Ives. We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had been a very beautiful girl, though now verging upon middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there still lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had been her last human emotion. From her bedroom we descended to the sitting-room, where this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table were the four guttered and burned-out candles, with the cards scattered over its surface. The chairs had been moved back against the walls, but all else was as it had been the night before. Holmes paced with light, swift steps about the room; he sat in the various chairs, drawing them up and reconstructing their positions. He tested how much of the garden was visible; he examined the floor, the ceiling, and the fireplace; but never once did I see that sudden brightening of his eyes and tightening of his lips which would have told me that he saw some gleam of light in this utter darkness. "Why a fire?" he asked once. "Had they always a fire in this small room on a spring evening?" Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp. For that reason, after his arrival, the fire was lit. "What are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. "I think, Watson, that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have so often and so justly condemned," said he. "With your permission, gentlemen, we will now return to our cottage, for I am not aware that any new factor is likely to come to our notice here. I will turn the facts over in my mind, Mr. Tregennis, and should anything occur to me I will certainly communicate with you and the vicar. In the meantime I wish you both good-morning." It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that Holmes broke his complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his armchair, his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down, his forehead contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he laid down his pipe and sprang to his feet. "It won't do, Watson!" said he with a laugh. "Let us walk along the cliffs together and search for flint arrows. We are more likely to find them than clues to this problem. To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson--all else will come. "Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson," he continued as we skirted the cliffs together. "Let us get a firm grip of the very little which we DO know, so that when fresh facts arise we may be ready to fit them into their places. I take it, in the first place, that neither of us is prepared to admit diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out of our minds. Very good. There remain three persons who have been grievously stricken by some conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm ground. Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left the room. That is a very important point. The presumption is that it was within a few minutes afterwards. The cards still lay upon the table. It was already past their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not changed their position or pushed back their chairs. I repeat, then, that the occurrence was immediately after his departure, and not later than eleven o'clock last night. "Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the movements of Mortimer Tregennis after he left the room. In this there is no difficulty, and they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my methods as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot than might otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path took it admirably. Last night was also wet, you will remember, and it was not difficult--having obtained a sample print--to pick out his track among others and to follow his movements. He appears to have walked away swiftly in the direction of the vicarage. "If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and yet some outside person affected the card-players, how can we reconstruct that person, and how was such an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs. Porter may be eliminated. She is evidently harmless. Is there any evidence that someone crept up to the garden window and in some manner produced so terrific an effect that he drove those who saw it out of their senses? The only suggestion in this direction comes from Mortimer Tregennis himself, who says that his brother spoke about some movement in the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the night was rainy, cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm these people would be compelled to place his very face against the glass before he could be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border outside this window, but no indication of a footmark. It is difficult to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so terrible an impression upon the company, nor have we found any possible motive for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You perceive our difficulties, Watson?" "They are only too clear," I answered with conviction. "And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that they are not insurmountable," said Holmes. "I fancy that among your extensive archives, Watson, you may find some which were nearly as obscure. Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until more accurate data are available, and devote the rest of our morning to the pursuit of neolithic man." I may have commented upon my friend's power of mental detachment, but never have I wondered at it more than upon that spring morning in Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed upon celts, arrowheads, and shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery were waiting for his solution. It was not until we had returned in the afternoon to our cottage that we found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our minds back to the matter in hand. Neither of us needed to be told who that visitor was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the beard--golden at the fringes and white near the lips, save for the nicotine stain from his perpetual cigar--all these were as well known in London as in Africa, and could only be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr. Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer. We had heard of his presence in the district and had once or twice caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths. He made no advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamed of doing so to him, as it was well known that it was his love of seclusion which caused him to spend the greater part of the intervals between his journeys in a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he lived an absolutely lonely life, attending to his own simple wants and paying little apparent heed to the affairs of his neighbours. It was a surprise to me, therefore, to hear him asking Holmes in an eager voice whether he had made any advance in his reconstruction of this mysterious episode. "The county police are utterly at fault," said he, "but perhaps your wider experience has suggested some conceivable explanation. My only claim to being taken into your confidence is that during my many residences here I have come to know this family of Tregennis very well--indeed, upon my Cornish mother's side I could call them cousins--and their strange fate has naturally been a great shock to me. I may tell you that I had got as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, but the news reached me this morning, and I came straight back again to help in the inquiry." Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Did you lose your boat through it?" "I will take the next." "Dear me! that is friendship indeed." "I tell you they were relatives." "Quite so--cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboard the ship?" "Some of it, but the main part at the hotel." "I see. But surely this event could not have found its way into the Plymouth morning papers." "No, sir; I had a telegram." "Might I ask from whom?" A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer. "You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes." "It is my business." With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure. "I have no objection to telling you," he said. "It was Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me." "Thank you," said Holmes. "I may say in answer to your original question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject of this case, but that I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It would be premature to say more." "Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?" "No, I can hardly answer that." "Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." The famous doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable ill-humour, and within five minutes Holmes had followed him. I saw him no more until the evening, when he returned with a slow step and haggard face which assured me that he had made no great progress with his investigation. He glanced at a telegram which awaited him and threw it into the grate. "From the Plymouth hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name of it from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale's account was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last night there, and that he has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on to Africa, while he returned to be present at this investigation. What do you make of that, Watson?" "He is deeply interested." "Deeply interested--yes. There is a thread here which we had not yet grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson, for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand. When it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us." Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened up an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my window in the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking up, saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at our door, and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our garden path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet him. Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but at last in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him. "We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-ridden!" he cried. "Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his hands!" He danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it were not for his ashy face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his terrible news. "Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the same symptoms as the rest of his family." Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant. "Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?" "Yes, I can." "Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are entirely at your disposal. Hurry--hurry, before things get disarranged." The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor or the police, so that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me describe exactly the scene as we saw it upon that misty March morning. It has left an impression which can never be effaced from my mind. The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness. The servant who had first entered had thrown up the window, or it would have been even more intolerable. This might partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning back in his chair, his thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead, and his lean dark face turned towards the window and twisted into the same distortion of terror which had marked the features of his dead sister. His limbs were convulsed and his fingers contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm of fear. He was fully clothed, though there were signs that his dressing had been done in a hurry. We had already learned that his bed had been slept in, and that the tragic end had come to him in the early morning. One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes's phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the moment that he entered the fatal apartment. In an instant he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast around and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give him some fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with loud ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry. The lamp, which was an ordinary standard, he examined with minute care, making certain measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized with his lens the talc shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped off some ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of them into an envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally, just as the doctor and the official police put in an appearance, he beckoned to the vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn. "I am glad to say that my investigation has not been entirely barren," he remarked. "I cannot remain to discuss the matter with the police, but I should be exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you would give the inspector my compliments and direct his attention to the bedroom window and to the sitting-room lamp. Each is suggestive, and together they are almost conclusive. If the police would desire further information I shall be happy to see any of them at the cottage. And now, Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better employed elsewhere." It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an amateur, or that they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of investigation; but it is certain that we heard nothing from them for the next two days. During this time Holmes spent some of his time smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in country walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours without remark as to where he had been. One experiment served to show me the line of his investigation. He had bought a lamp which was the duplicate of the one which had burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy. This he filled with the same oil as that used at the vicarage, and he carefully timed the period which it would take to be exhausted. Another experiment which he made was of a more unpleasant nature, and one which I am not likely ever to forget. "You will remember, Watson," he remarked one afternoon, "that there is a single common point of resemblance in the varying reports which have reached us. This concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the room in each case upon those who had first entered it. You will recollect that Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the episode of his last visit to his brother's house, remarked that the doctor on entering the room fell into a chair? You had forgotten? Well I can answer for it that it was so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted upon entering the room and had afterwards opened the window. In the second case--that of Mortimer Tregennis himself--you cannot have forgotten the horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived, though the servant had thrown open the window. That servant, I found upon inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You will admit, Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In each case there is evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there is combustion going on in the room--in the one case a fire, in the other a lamp. The fire was needed, but the lamp was lit--as a comparison of the oil consumed will show--long after it was broad daylight. Why? Surely because there is some connection between three things--the burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness or death of those unfortunate people. That is clear, is it not?" "It would appear so." "At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis. We will suppose, then, that something was burned in each case which produced an atmosphere causing strange toxic effects. Very good. In the first instance--that of the Tregennis family--this substance was placed in the fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally carry fumes to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect the effects of the poison to be less than in the second case, where there was less escape for the vapour. The result seems to indicate that it was so, since in the first case only the woman, who had presumably the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others exhibiting that temporary or permanent lunacy which is evidently the first effect of the drug. In the second case the result was complete. The facts, therefore, seem to bear out the theory of a poison which worked by combustion. "With this train of reasoning in my head I naturally looked about in Mortimer Tregennis's room to find some remains of this substance. The obvious place to look was the talc shelf or smoke-guard of the lamp. There, sure enough, I perceived a number of flaky ashes, and round the edges a fringe of brownish powder, which had not yet been consumed. Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in an envelope." "Why half, Holmes?" "It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the official police force. I leave them all the evidence which I found. The poison still remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it. Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought I knew my Watson. This chair I will place opposite yours, so that we may be the same distance from the poison and face to face. The door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position to watch the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our powder--or what remains of it--from the envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp. So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await developments." They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my chair before I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very first whiff of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes, and my mind told me that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon my appalled senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold, whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing horror took possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my eyes were protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my tongue like leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that something must surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself. At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror--the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in. Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension at each other to mark the last traces of that terrific experience which we had undergone. "Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry." "You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you." He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude to those about him. "It would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson," said he. "A candid observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined that the effect could be so sudden and so severe." He dashed into the cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held at full arm's length, he threw it among a bank of brambles. "We must give the room a little time to clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?" "None whatever." "But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come into the arbour here and let us discuss it together. That villainous stuff seems still to linger round my throat. I think we must admit that all the evidence points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been the criminal in the first tragedy, though he was the victim in the second one. We must remember, in the first place, that there is some story of a family quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that quarrel may have been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot tell. When I think of Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the small shrewd, beady eyes behind the spectacles, he is not a man whom I should judge to be of a particularly forgiving disposition. Well, in the next place, you will remember that this idea of someone moving in the garden, which took our attention for a moment from the real cause of the tragedy, emanated from him. He had a motive in misleading us. Finally, if he did not throw the substance into the fire at the moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The affair happened immediately after his departure. Had anyone else come in, the family would certainly have risen from the table. Besides, in peaceful Cornwall, visitors did not arrive after ten o'clock at night. We may take it, then, that all the evidence points to Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit." "Then his own death was suicide!" "Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not impossible supposition. The man who had the guilt upon his soul of having brought such a fate upon his own family might well be driven by remorse to inflict it upon himself. There are, however, some cogent reasons against it. Fortunately, there is one man in England who knows all about it, and I have made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts this afternoon from his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his time. Perhaps you would kindly step this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducing a chemical experiment indoors which has left our little room hardly fit for the reception of so distinguished a visitor." I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now the majestic figure of the great African explorer appeared upon the path. He turned in some surprise towards the rustic arbour in which we sat. "You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about an hour ago, and I have come, though I really do not know why I should obey your summons." "Perhaps we can clear the point up before we separate," said Holmes. "Meanwhile, I am much obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence. You will excuse this informal reception in the open air, but my friend Watson and I have nearly furnished an additional chapter to what the papers call the Cornish Horror, and we prefer a clear atmosphere for the present. Perhaps, since the matters which we have to discuss will affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it is as well that we should talk where there can be no eavesdropping." The explorer took his cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at my companion. "I am at a loss to know, sir," he said, "what you can have to speak about which affects me personally in a very intimate fashion." "The killing of Mortimer Tregennis," said Holmes. For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale's fierce face turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate veins started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward with clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and with a violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps, more suggestive of danger than his hot-headed outburst. "I have lived so long among savages and beyond the law," said he, "that I have got into the way of being a law to myself. You would do well, Mr. Holmes, not to forget it, for I have no desire to do you an injury." "Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale. Surely the clearest proof of it is that, knowing what I know, I have sent for you and not for the police." Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the first time in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance of power in Holmes's manner which could not be withstood. Our visitor stammered for a moment, his great hands opening and shutting in his agitation. "What do you mean?" he asked at last. "If this is bluff upon your part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a bad man for your experiment. Let us have no more beating about the bush. What DO you mean?" "I will tell you," said Holmes, "and the reason why I tell you is that I hope frankness may beget frankness. What my next step may be will depend entirely upon the nature of your own defence." "My defence?" "Yes, sir." "My defence against what?" "Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis." Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Upon my word, you are getting on," said he. "Do all your successes depend upon this prodigious power of bluff?" "The bluff," said Holmes sternly, "is upon your side, Dr. Leon Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a proof I will tell you some of the facts upon which my conclusions are based. Of your return from Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go on to Africa, I will say nothing save that it first informed me that you were one of the factors which had to be taken into account in reconstructing this drama--" "I came back--" "I have heard your reasons and regard them as unconvincing and inadequate. We will pass that. You came down here to ask me whom I suspected. I refused to answer you. You then went to the vicarage, waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your cottage." "How do you know that?" "I followed you." "I saw no one." "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. You spent a restless night at your cottage, and you formed certain plans, which in the early morning you proceeded to put into execution. Leaving your door just as day was breaking, you filled your pocket with some reddish gravel that was lying heaped beside your gate." Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes in amazement. "You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from the vicarage. You were wearing, I may remark, the same pair of ribbed tennis shoes which are at the present moment upon your feet. At the vicarage you passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming out under the window of the lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight, but the household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the gravel from your pocket, and you threw it up at the window above you." Sterndale sprang to his feet. "I believe that you are the devil himself!" he cried. Holmes smiled at the compliment. "It took two, or possibly three, handfuls before the lodger came to the window. You beckoned him to come down. He dressed hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room. You entered by the window. There was an interview--a short one--during which you walked up and down the room. Then you passed out and closed the window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a cigar and watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of Tregennis, you withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do you justify such conduct, and what were the motives for your actions? If you prevaricate or trifle with me, I give you my assurance that the matter will pass out of my hands forever." Our visitor's face had turned ashen gray as he listened to the words of his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with his face sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it on the rustic table before us. "That is why I have done it," said he. It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful woman. Holmes stooped over it. "Brenda Tregennis," said he. "Yes, Brenda Tregennis," repeated our visitor. "For years I have loved her. For years she has loved me. There is the secret of that Cornish seclusion which people have marvelled at. It has brought me close to the one thing on earth that was dear to me. I could not marry her, for I have a wife who has left me for years and yet whom, by the deplorable laws of England, I could not divorce. For years Brenda waited. For years I waited. And this is what we have waited for." A terrible sob shook his great frame, and he clutched his throat under his brindled beard. Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke on: "The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He would tell you that she was an angel upon earth. That was why he telegraphed to me and I returned. What was my baggage or Africa to me when I learned that such a fate had come upon my darling? There you have the missing clue to my action, Mr. Holmes." "Proceed," said my friend. Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet and laid it upon the table. On the outside was written "Radix pedis diaboli" with a red poison label beneath it. He pushed it towards me. "I understand that you are a doctor, sir. Have you ever heard of this preparation?" "Devil's-foot root! No, I have never heard of it." "It is no reflection upon your professional knowledge," said he, "for I believe that, save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is no other specimen in Europe. It has not yet found its way either into the pharmacopoeia or into the literature of toxicology. The root is shaped like a foot, half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful name given by a botanical missionary. It is used as an ordeal poison by the medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa and is kept as a secret among them. This particular specimen I obtained under very extraordinary circumstances in the Ubangi country." He opened the paper as he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like powder. "Well, sir?" asked Holmes sternly. "I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually occurred, for you already know so much that it is clearly to my interest that you should know all. I have already explained the relationship in which I stood to the Tregennis family. For the sake of the sister I was friendly with the brothers. There was a family quarrel about money which estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to be made up, and I afterwards met him as I did the others. He was a sly, subtle, scheming man, and several things arose which gave me a suspicion of him, but I had no cause for any positive quarrel. "One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage and I showed him some of my African curiosities. Among other things I exhibited this powder, and I told him of its strange properties, how it stimulates those brain centres which control the emotion of fear, and how either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy native who is subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him also how powerless European science would be to detect it. How he took it I cannot say, for I never left the room, but there is no doubt that it was then, while I was opening cabinets and stooping to boxes, that he managed to abstract some of the devil's-foot root. I well remember how he plied me with questions as to the amount and the time that was needed for its effect, but I little dreamed that he could have a personal reason for asking. "I thought no more of the matter until the vicar's telegram reached me at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I would be at sea before the news could reach me, and that I should be lost for years in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I could not listen to the details without feeling assured that my poison had been used. I came round to see you on the chance that some other explanation had suggested itself to you. But there could be none. I was convinced that Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer; that for the sake of money, and with the idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his family were all insane he would be the sole guardian of their joint property, he had used the devil's-foot powder upon them, driven two of them out of their senses, and killed his sister Brenda, the one human being whom I have ever loved or who has ever loved me. There was his crime; what was to be his punishment? "Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I knew that the facts were true, but could I help to make a jury of countrymen believe so fantastic a story? I might or I might not. But I could not afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I have said to you once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside the law, and that I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it was even now. I determined that the fate which he had given to others should be shared by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon him with my own hand. In all England there can be no man who sets less value upon his own life than I do at the present moment. "Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. I did, as you say, after a restless night, set off early from my cottage. I foresaw the difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some gravel from the pile which you have mentioned, and I used it to throw up to his window. He came down and admitted me through the window of the sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair, paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder above it, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my heart was flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent darling had not felt before him. There is my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would have done as much yourself. At any rate, I am in your hands. You can take what steps you like. As I have already said, there is no man living who can fear death less than I do." Holmes sat for some little time in silence. "What were your plans?" he asked at last. "I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My work there is but half finished." "Go and do the other half," said Holmes. "I, at least, am not prepared to prevent you." Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and walked from the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his pouch. "Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcome change," said he. "I think you must agree, Watson, that it is not a case in which we are called upon to interfere. Our investigation has been independent, and our action shall be so also. You would not denounce the man?" "Certainly not," I answered. "I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not offend your intelligence by explaining what is obvious. The gravel upon the window-sill was, of course, the starting-point of my research. It was unlike anything in the vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr. Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp shining in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield were successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and go back with a clear conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots which are surely to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic speech." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Adventure of the Devil's Foot, by Arthur Conan Doyle Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What did Madam de Merret and her husband do after walling off the closet?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "They stayed in the bedroom for a few days with the sounds of her lover trapped. " ]	8,148	narrativeqa	en	null	8341f7a6590de673c41b1847546ba9a2b7bef46906443a29	Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny LA GRANDE BRETECHE (Sequel to "Another Study of Woman.") By Honore De Balzac Translated by Ellen Marriage and Clara Bell LA GRANDE BRETECHE "Ah! madame," replied the doctor, "I have some appalling stories in my collection. But each one has its proper hour in a conversation--you know the pretty jest recorded by Chamfort, and said to the Duc de Fronsac: 'Between your sally and the present moment lie ten bottles of champagne.'" "But it is two in the morning, and the story of Rosina has prepared us," said the mistress of the house. "Tell us, Monsieur Bianchon!" was the cry on every side. The obliging doctor bowed, and silence reigned. "At about a hundred paces from Vendome, on the banks of the Loir," said he, "stands an old brown house, crowned with very high roofs, and so completely isolated that there is nothing near it, not even a fetid tannery or a squalid tavern, such as are commonly seen outside small towns. In front of this house is a garden down to the river, where the box shrubs, formerly clipped close to edge the walks, now straggle at their own will. A few willows, rooted in the stream, have grown up quickly like an enclosing fence, and half hide the house. The wild plants we call weeds have clothed the bank with their beautiful luxuriance. The fruit-trees, neglected for these ten years past, no longer bear a crop, and their suckers have formed a thicket. The espaliers are like a copse. The paths, once graveled, are overgrown with purslane; but, to be accurate there is no trace of a path. "Looking down from the hilltop, to which cling the ruins of the old castle of the Dukes of Vendome, the only spot whence the eye can see into this enclosure, we think that at a time, difficult now to determine, this spot of earth must have been the joy of some country gentleman devoted to roses and tulips, in a word, to horticulture, but above all a lover of choice fruit. An arbor is visible, or rather the wreck of an arbor, and under it a table still stands not entirely destroyed by time. At the aspect of this garden that is no more, the negative joys of the peaceful life of the provinces may be divined as we divine the history of a worthy tradesman when we read the epitaph on his tomb. To complete the mournful and tender impressions which seize the soul, on one of the walls there is a sundial graced with this homely Christian motto, '_Ultimam cogita_.' "The roof of this house is dreadfully dilapidated; the outside shutters are always closed; the balconies are hung with swallows' nests; the doors are for ever shut. Straggling grasses have outlined the flagstones of the steps with green; the ironwork is rusty. Moon and sun, winter, summer, and snow have eaten into the wood, warped the boards, peeled off the paint. The dreary silence is broken only by birds and cats, polecats, rats, and mice, free to scamper round, and fight, and eat each other. An invisible hand has written over it all: 'Mystery.' "If, prompted by curiosity, you go to look at this house from the street, you will see a large gate, with a round-arched top; the children have made many holes in it. I learned later that this door had been blocked for ten years. Through these irregular breaches you will see that the side towards the courtyard is in perfect harmony with the side towards the garden. The same ruin prevails. Tufts of weeds outline the paving-stones; the walls are scored by enormous cracks, and the blackened coping is laced with a thousand festoons of pellitory. The stone steps are disjointed; the bell-cord is rotten; the gutter-spouts broken. What fire from heaven could have fallen there? By what decree has salt been sown on this dwelling? Has God been mocked here? Or was France betrayed? These are the questions we ask ourselves. Reptiles crawl over it, but give no reply. This empty and deserted house is a vast enigma of which the answer is known to none. "It was formerly a little domain, held in fief, and is known as La Grande Breteche. During my stay at Vendome, where Despleins had left me in charge of a rich patient, the sight of this strange dwelling became one of my keenest pleasures. Was it not far better than a ruin? Certain memories of indisputable authenticity attach themselves to a ruin; but this house, still standing, though being slowly destroyed by an avenging hand, contained a secret, an unrevealed thought. At the very least, it testified to a caprice. More than once in the evening I boarded the hedge, run wild, which surrounded the enclosure. I braved scratches, I got into this ownerless garden, this plot which was no longer public or private; I lingered there for hours gazing at the disorder. I would not, as the price of the story to which this strange scene no doubt was due, have asked a single question of any gossiping native. On that spot I wove delightful romances, and abandoned myself to little debauches of melancholy which enchanted me. If I had known the reason--perhaps quite commonplace--of this neglect, I should have lost the unwritten poetry which intoxicated me. To me this refuge represented the most various phases of human life, shadowed by misfortune; sometimes the peace of the graveyard without the dead, who speak in the language of epitaphs; one day I saw in it the home of lepers; another, the house of the Atridae; but, above all, I found there provincial life, with its contemplative ideas, its hour-glass existence. I often wept there, I never laughed. "More than once I felt involuntary terrors as I heard overhead the dull hum of the wings of some hurrying wood-pigeon. The earth is dank; you must be on the watch for lizards, vipers, and frogs, wandering about with the wild freedom of nature; above all, you must have no fear of cold, for in a few moments you feel an icy cloak settle on your shoulders, like the Commendatore's hand on Don Giovanni's neck. "One evening I felt a shudder; the wind had turned an old rusty weathercock, and the creaking sounded like a cry from the house, at the very moment when I was finishing a gloomy drama to account for this monumental embodiment of woe. I returned to my inn, lost in gloomy thoughts. When I had supped, the hostess came into my room with an air of mystery, and said, 'Monsieur, here is Monsieur Regnault.' "'Who is Monsieur Regnault?' "'What, sir, do you not know Monsieur Regnault?--Well, that's odd,' said she, leaving the room. "On a sudden I saw a man appear, tall, slim, dressed in black, hat in hand, who came in like a ram ready to butt his opponent, showing a receding forehead, a small pointed head, and a colorless face of the hue of a glass of dirty water. You would have taken him for an usher. The stranger wore an old coat, much worn at the seams; but he had a diamond in his shirt frill, and gold rings in his ears. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'whom have I the honor of addressing?'--He took a chair, placed himself in front of my fire, put his hat on my table, and answered while he rubbed his hands: 'Dear me, it is very cold.--Monsieur, I am Monsieur Regnault.' "I was encouraging myself by saying to myself, '_Il bondo cani!_ Seek!' "'I am,' he went on, 'notary at Vendome.' "'I am delighted to hear it, monsieur,' I exclaimed. 'But I am not in a position to make a will for reasons best known to myself.' "'One moment!' said he, holding up his hand as though to gain silence. 'Allow me, monsieur, allow me! I am informed that you sometimes go to walk in the garden of la Grande Breteche.' "'Yes, monsieur.' "'One moment!' said he, repeating his gesture. 'That constitutes a misdemeanor. Monsieur, as executor under the will of the late Comtesse de Merret, I come in her name to beg you to discontinue the practice. One moment! I am not a Turk, and do not wish to make a crime of it. And besides, you are free to be ignorant of the circumstances which compel me to leave the finest mansion in Vendome to fall into ruin. Nevertheless, monsieur, you must be a man of education, and you should know that the laws forbid, under heavy penalties, any trespass on enclosed property. A hedge is the same as a wall. But, the state in which the place is left may be an excuse for your curiosity. For my part, I should be quite content to make you free to come and go in the house; but being bound to respect the will of the testatrix, I have the honor, monsieur, to beg that you will go into the garden no more. I myself, monsieur, since the will was read, have never set foot in the house, which, as I had the honor of informing you, is part of the estate of the late Madame de Merret. We have done nothing there but verify the number of doors and windows to assess the taxes I have to pay annually out of the funds left for that purpose by the late Madame de Merret. Ah! my dear sir, her will made a great commotion in the town.' "The good man paused to blow his nose. I respected his volubility, perfectly understanding that the administration of Madame de Merret's estate had been the most important event of his life, his reputation, his glory, his Restoration. As I was forced to bid farewell to my beautiful reveries and romances, I was to reject learning the truth on official authority. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'would it be indiscreet if I were to ask you the reasons for such eccentricity?' "At these words an expression, which revealed all the pleasure which men feel who are accustomed to ride a hobby, overspread the lawyer's countenance. He pulled up the collar of his shirt with an air, took out his snuffbox, opened it, and offered me a pinch; on my refusing, he took a large one. He was happy! A man who has no hobby does not know all the good to be got out of life. A hobby is the happy medium between a passion and a monomania. At this moment I understood the whole bearing of Sterne's charming passion, and had a perfect idea of the delight with which my uncle Toby, encouraged by Trim, bestrode his hobby-horse. "'Monsieur,' said Monsieur Regnault, 'I was head-clerk in Monsieur Roguin's office, in Paris. A first-rate house, which you may have heard mentioned? No! An unfortunate bankruptcy made it famous.--Not having money enough to purchase a practice in Paris at the price to which they were run up in 1816, I came here and bought my predecessor's business. I had relations in Vendome; among others, a wealthy aunt, who allowed me to marry her daughter.--Monsieur,' he went on after a little pause, 'three months after being licensed by the Keeper of the Seals, one evening, as I was going to bed--it was before my marriage--I was sent for by Madame la Comtesse de Merret, to her Chateau of Merret. Her maid, a good girl, who is now a servant in this inn, was waiting at my door with the Countess' own carriage. Ah! one moment! I ought to tell you that Monsieur le Comte de Merret had gone to Paris to die two months before I came here. He came to a miserable end, flinging himself into every kind of dissipation. You understand? "'On the day when he left, Madame la Comtesse had quitted la Grand Breteche, having dismantled it. Some people even say that she had burnt all the furniture, the hangings--in short, all the chattels and furniture whatever used in furnishing the premises now let by the said M.--(Dear, what am I saying? I beg your pardon, I thought I was dictating a lease.)--In short, that she burnt everything in the meadow at Merret. Have you been to Merret, monsieur?--No,' said he, answering himself, 'Ah, it is a very fine place.' "'For about three months previously,' he went on, with a jerk of his head, 'the Count and Countess had lived in a very eccentric way; they admitted no visitors; Madame lived on the ground-floor, and Monsieur on the first floor. When the Countess was left alone, she was never seen excepting at church. Subsequently, at home, at the chateau, she refused to see the friends, whether gentlemen or ladies, who went to call on her. She was already very much altered when she left la Grande Breteche to go to Merret. That dear lady--I say dear lady, for it was she who gave me this diamond, but indeed I saw her but once--that kind lady was very ill; she had, no doubt, given up all hope, for she died without choosing to send for a doctor; indeed, many of our ladies fancied she was not quite right in her head. Well, sir, my curiosity was strangely excited by hearing that Madame de Merret had need of my services. Nor was I the only person who took an interest in the affair. That very night, though it was already late, all the town knew that I was going to Merret. "'The waiting-woman replied but vaguely to the questions I asked her on the way; nevertheless, she told me that her mistress had received the Sacrament in the course of the day at the hands of the Cure of Merret, and seemed unlikely to live through the night. It was about eleven when I reached the chateau. I went up the great staircase. After crossing some large, lofty, dark rooms, diabolically cold and damp, I reached the state bedroom where the Countess lay. From the rumors that were current concerning this lady (monsieur, I should never end if I were to repeat all the tales that were told about her), I had imagined her a coquette. Imagine, then, that I had great difficulty in seeing her in the great bed where she was lying. To be sure, to light this enormous room, with old-fashioned heavy cornices, and so thick with dust that merely to see it was enough to make you sneeze, she had only an old Argand lamp. Ah! but you have not been to Merret. Well, the bed is one of those old world beds, with a high tester hung with flowered chintz. A small table stood by the bed, on which I saw an "Imitation of Christ," which, by the way, I bought for my wife, as well as the lamp. There were also a deep armchair for her confidential maid, and two small chairs. There was no fire. That was all the furniture, not enough to fill ten lines in an inventory. "'My dear sir, if you had seen, as I then saw, that vast room, papered and hung with brown, you would have felt yourself transported into a scene of a romance. It was icy, nay more, funereal,' and he lifted his hand with a theatrical gesture and paused. "'By dint of seeking, as I approached the bed, at last I saw Madame de Merret, under the glimmer of the lamp, which fell on the pillows. Her face was as yellow as wax, and as narrow as two folded hands. The Countess had a lace cap showing her abundant hair, but as white as linen thread. She was sitting up in bed, and seemed to keep upright with great difficulty. Her large black eyes, dimmed by fever, no doubt, and half-dead already, hardly moved under the bony arch of her eyebrows.--There,' he added, pointing to his own brow. 'Her forehead was clammy; her fleshless hands were like bones covered with soft skin; the veins and muscles were perfectly visible. She must have been very handsome; but at this moment I was startled into an indescribable emotion at the sight. Never, said those who wrapped her in her shroud, had any living creature been so emaciated and lived. In short, it was awful to behold! Sickness so consumed that woman, that she was no more than a phantom. Her lips, which were pale violet, seemed to me not to move when she spoke to me. "'Though my profession has familiarized me with such spectacles, by calling me not infrequently to the bedside of the dying to record their last wishes, I confess that families in tears and the agonies I have seen were as nothing in comparison with this lonely and silent woman in her vast chateau. I heard not the least sound, I did not perceive the movement which the sufferer's breathing ought to have given to the sheets that covered her, and I stood motionless, absorbed in looking at her in a sort of stupor. In fancy I am there still. At last her large eyes moved; she tried to raise her right hand, but it fell back on the bed, and she uttered these words, which came like a breath, for her voice was no longer a voice: "I have waited for you with the greatest impatience." A bright flush rose to her cheeks. It was a great effort to her to speak. "'"Madame," I began. She signed to me to be silent. At that moment the old housekeeper rose and said in my ear, "Do not speak; Madame la Comtesse is not in a state to bear the slightest noise, and what you say might agitate her." "'I sat down. A few instants after, Madame de Merret collected all her remaining strength to move her right hand, and slipped it, not without infinite difficulty, under the bolster; she then paused a moment. With a last effort she withdrew her hand; and when she brought out a sealed paper, drops of perspiration rolled from her brow. "I place my will in your hands--Oh! God! Oh!" and that was all. She clutched a crucifix that lay on the bed, lifted it hastily to her lips, and died. "'The expression of her eyes still makes me shudder as I think of it. She must have suffered much! There was joy in her last glance, and it remained stamped on her dead eyes. "'I brought away the will, and when it was opened I found that Madame de Merret had appointed me her executor. She left the whole of her property to the hospital at Vendome excepting a few legacies. But these were her instructions as relating to la Grande Breteche: She ordered me to leave the place, for fifty years counting from the day of her death, in the state in which it might be at the time of her death, forbidding any one, whoever he might be, to enter the apartments, prohibiting any repairs whatever, and even settling a salary to pay watchmen if it were needful to secure the absolute fulfilment of her intentions. At the expiration of that term, if the will of the testatrix has been duly carried out, the house is to become the property of my heirs, for, as you know, a notary cannot take a bequest. Otherwise la Grande Breteche reverts to the heirs-at-law, but on condition of fulfilling certain conditions set forth in a codicil to the will, which is not to be opened till the expiration of the said term of fifty years. The will has not been disputed, so----' And without finishing his sentence, the lanky notary looked at me with an air of triumph; I made him quite happy by offering him my congratulations. "'Monsieur,' I said in conclusion, 'you have so vividly impressed me that I fancy I see the dying woman whiter than her sheets; her glittering eyes frighten me; I shall dream of her to-night.--But you must have formed some idea as to the instructions contained in that extraordinary will.' "'Monsieur,' said he, with comical reticence, 'I never allow myself to criticise the conduct of a person who honors me with the gift of a diamond.' "However, I soon loosened the tongue of the discreet notary of Vendome, who communicated to me, not without long digressions, the opinions of the deep politicians of both sexes whose judgments are law in Vendome. But these opinions were so contradictory, so diffuse, that I was near falling asleep in spite of the interest I felt in this authentic history. The notary's ponderous voice and monotonous accent, accustomed no doubt to listen to himself and to make himself listened to by his clients or fellow-townsmen, were too much for my curiosity. Happily, he soon went away. "'Ah, ha, monsieur,' said he on the stairs, 'a good many persons would be glad to live five-and-forty years longer; but--one moment!' and he laid the first finger of his right hand to his nostril with a cunning look, as much as to say, 'Mark my words!--To last as long as that--as long as that,' said he, 'you must not be past sixty now.' "I closed my door, having been roused from my apathy by this last speech, which the notary thought very funny; then I sat down in my armchair, with my feet on the fire-dogs. I had lost myself in a romance _a la_ Radcliffe, constructed on the juridical base given me by Monsieur Regnault, when the door, opened by a woman's cautious hand, turned on the hinges. I saw my landlady come in, a buxom, florid dame, always good-humored, who had missed her calling in life. She was a Fleming, who ought to have seen the light in a picture by Teniers. "'Well, monsieur,' said she, 'Monsieur Regnault has no doubt been giving you his history of la Grande Breteche?' "'Yes, Madame Lepas.' "'And what did he tell you?' "I repeated in a few words the creepy and sinister story of Madame de Merret. At each sentence my hostess put her head forward, looking at me with an innkeeper's keen scrutiny, a happy compromise between the instinct of a police constable, the astuteness of a spy, and the cunning of a dealer. "'My good Madame Lepas,' said I as I ended, 'you seem to know more about it. Heh? If not, why have you come up to me?' "'On my word, as an honest woman----' "'Do not swear; your eyes are big with a secret. You knew Monsieur de Merret; what sort of man was he?' "'Monsieur de Merret--well, you see he was a man you never could see the top of, he was so tall! A very good gentleman, from Picardy, and who had, as we say, his head close to his cap. He paid for everything down, so as never to have difficulties with any one. He was hot-tempered, you see! All our ladies liked him very much.' "'Because he was hot-tempered?' I asked her. "'Well, may be,' said she; 'and you may suppose, sir, that a man had to have something to show for a figurehead before he could marry Madame de Merret, who, without any reflection on others, was the handsomest and richest heiress in our parts. She had about twenty thousand francs a year. All the town was at the wedding; the bride was pretty and sweet-looking, quite a gem of a woman. Oh, they were a handsome couple in their day!' "'And were they happy together?' "'Hm, hm! so-so--so far as can be guessed, for, as you may suppose, we of the common sort were not hail-fellow-well-met with them.--Madame de Merret was a kind woman and very pleasant, who had no doubt sometimes to put up with her husband's tantrums. But though he was rather haughty, we were fond of him. After all, it was his place to behave so. When a man is a born nobleman, you see----' "'Still, there must have been some catastrophe for Monsieur and Madame de Merret to part so violently?' "'I did not say there was any catastrophe, sir. I know nothing about it.' "'Indeed. Well, now, I am sure you know everything.' "'Well, sir, I will tell you the whole story.--When I saw Monsieur Regnault go up to see you, it struck me that he would speak to you about Madame de Merret as having to do with la Grande Breteche. That put it into my head to ask your advice, sir, seeming to me that you are a man of good judgment and incapable of playing a poor woman like me false--for I never did any one a wrong, and yet I am tormented by my conscience. Up to now I have never dared to say a word to the people of these parts; they are all chatter-mags, with tongues like knives. And never till now, sir, have I had any traveler here who stayed so long in the inn as you have, and to whom I could tell the history of the fifteen thousand francs----' "'My dear Madame Lepas, if there is anything in your story of a nature to compromise me,' I said, interrupting the flow of her words, 'I would not hear it for all the world.' "'You need have no fears,' said she; 'you will see.' "Her eagerness made me suspect that I was not the only person to whom my worthy landlady had communicated the secret of which I was to be the sole possessor, but I listened. "'Monsieur,' said she, 'when the Emperor sent the Spaniards here, prisoners of war and others, I was required to lodge at the charge of the Government a young Spaniard sent to Vendome on parole. Notwithstanding his parole, he had to show himself every day to the sub-prefect. He was a Spanish grandee--neither more nor less. He had a name in _os_ and _dia_, something like Bagos de Feredia. I wrote his name down in my books, and you may see it if you like. Ah! he was a handsome young fellow for a Spaniard, who are all ugly they say. He was not more than five feet two or three in height, but so well made; and he had little hands that he kept so beautifully! Ah! you should have seen them. He had as many brushes for his hands as a woman has for her toilet. He had thick, black hair, a flame in his eye, a somewhat coppery complexion, but which I admired all the same. He wore the finest linen I have ever seen, though I have had princesses to lodge here, and, among others, General Bertrand, the Duc and Duchesse d'Abrantes, Monsieur Descazes, and the King of Spain. He did not eat much, but he had such polite and amiable ways that it was impossible to owe him a grudge for that. Oh! I was very fond of him, though he did not say four words to me in a day, and it was impossible to have the least bit of talk with him; if he was spoken to, he did not answer; it is a way, a mania they all have, it would seem. "'He read his breviary like a priest, and went to mass and all the services quite regularly. And where did he post himself?--we found this out later.--Within two yards of Madame de Merret's chapel. As he took that place the very first time he entered the church, no one imagined that there was any purpose in it. Besides, he never raised his nose above his book, poor young man! And then, monsieur, of an evening he went for a walk on the hill among the ruins of the old castle. It was his only amusement, poor man; it reminded him of his native land. They say that Spain is all hills! "'One evening, a few days after he was sent here, he was out very late. I was rather uneasy when he did not come in till just on the stroke of midnight; but we all got used to his whims; he took the key of the door, and we never sat up for him. He lived in a house belonging to us in the Rue des Casernes. Well, then, one of our stable-boys told us one evening that, going down to wash the horses in the river, he fancied he had seen the Spanish Grandee swimming some little way off, just like a fish. When he came in, I told him to be careful of the weeds, and he seemed put out at having been seen in the water. "'At last, monsieur, one day, or rather one morning, we did not find him in his room; he had not come back. By hunting through his things, I found a written paper in the drawer of his table, with fifty pieces of Spanish gold of the kind they call doubloons, worth about five thousand francs; and in a little sealed box ten thousand francs worth of diamonds. The paper said that in case he should not return, he left us this money and these diamonds in trust to found masses to thank God for his escape and for his salvation. "'At that time I still had my husband, who ran off in search of him. And this is the queer part of the story: he brought back the Spaniard's clothes, which he had found under a big stone on a sort of breakwater along the river bank, nearly opposite la Grande Breteche. My husband went so early that no one saw him. After reading the letter, he burnt the clothes, and, in obedience to Count Feredia's wish, we announced that he had escaped. "'The sub-prefect set all the constabulary at his heels; but, pshaw! he was never caught. Lepas believed that the Spaniard had drowned himself. I, sir, have never thought so; I believe, on the contrary, that he had something to do with the business about Madame de Merret, seeing that Rosalie told me that the crucifix her mistress was so fond of that she had it buried with her, was made of ebony and silver; now in the early days of his stay here, Monsieur Feredia had one of ebony and silver which I never saw later.--And now, monsieur, do not you say that I need have no remorse about the Spaniard's fifteen thousand francs? Are they not really and truly mine?' "'Certainly.--But have you never tried to question Rosalie?' said I. "'Oh, to be sure I have, sir. But what is to be done? That girl is like a wall. She knows something, but it is impossible to make her talk.' "After chatting with me for a few minutes, my hostess left me a prey to vague and sinister thoughts, to romantic curiosity, and a religious dread, not unlike the deep emotion which comes upon us when we go into a dark church at night and discern a feeble light glimmering under a lofty vault--a dim figure glides across--the sweep of a gown or of a priest's cassock is audible--and we shiver! La Grande Breteche, with its rank grasses, its shuttered windows, its rusty iron-work, its locked doors, its deserted rooms, suddenly rose before me in fantastic vividness. I tried to get into the mysterious dwelling to search out the heart of this solemn story, this drama which had killed three persons. "Rosalie became in my eyes the most interesting being in Vendome. As I studied her, I detected signs of an inmost thought, in spite of the blooming health that glowed in her dimpled face. There was in her soul some element of ruth or of hope; her manner suggested a secret, like the expression of devout souls who pray in excess, or of a girl who has killed her child and for ever hears its last cry. Nevertheless, she was simple and clumsy in her ways; her vacant smile had nothing criminal in it, and you would have pronounced her innocent only from seeing the large red and blue checked kerchief that covered her stalwart bust, tucked into the tight-laced bodice of a lilac- and white-striped gown. 'No,' said I to myself, 'I will not quit Vendome without knowing the whole history of la Grande Breteche. To achieve this end, I will make love to Rosalie if it proves necessary.' "'Rosalie!' said I one evening. "'Your servant, sir?' "'You are not married?' She started a little. "'Oh! there is no lack of men if ever I take a fancy to be miserable!' she replied, laughing. She got over her agitation at once; for every woman, from the highest lady to the inn-servant inclusive, has a native presence of mind. "'Yes; you are fresh and good-looking enough never to lack lovers! But tell me, Rosalie, why did you become an inn-servant on leaving Madame de Merret? Did she not leave you some little annuity?' "'Oh yes, sir. But my place here is the best in all the town of Vendome.' "This reply was such an one as judges and attorneys call evasive. Rosalie, as it seemed to me, held in this romantic affair the place of the middle square of the chess-board: she was at the very centre of the interest and of the truth; she appeared to me to be tied into the knot of it. It was not a case for ordinary love-making; this girl contained the last chapter of a romance, and from that moment all my attentions were devoted to Rosalie. By dint of studying the girl, I observed in her, as in every woman whom we make our ruling thought, a variety of good qualities; she was clean and neat; she was handsome, I need not say; she soon was possessed of every charm that desire can lend to a woman in whatever rank of life. A fortnight after the notary's visit, one evening, or rather one morning, in the small hours, I said to Rosalie: "'Come, tell me all you know about Madame de Merret.' "'Oh!' she said, 'I will tell you; but keep the secret carefully.' "'All right, my child; I will keep all your secrets with a thief's honor, which is the most loyal known.' "'If it is all the same to you,' said she, 'I would rather it should be with your own.' "Thereupon she set her head-kerchief straight, and settled herself to tell the tale; for there is no doubt a particular attitude of confidence and security is necessary to the telling of a narrative. The best tales are told at a certain hour--just as we are all here at table. No one ever told a story well standing up, or fasting. "If I were to reproduce exactly Rosalie's diffuse eloquence, a whole volume would scarcely contain it. Now, as the event of which she gave me a confused account stands exactly midway between the notary's gossip and that of Madame Lepas, as precisely as the middle term of a rule-of-three sum stands between the first and third, I have only to relate it in as few words as may be. I shall therefore be brief. "The room at la Grande Breteche in which Madame de Merret slept was on the ground floor; a little cupboard in the wall, about four feet deep, served her to hang her dresses in. Three months before the evening of which I have to relate the events, Madame de Merret had been seriously ailing, so much so that her husband had left her to herself, and had his own bedroom on the first floor. By one of those accidents which it is impossible to foresee, he came in that evening two hours later than usual from the club, where he went to read the papers and talk politics with the residents in the neighborhood. His wife supposed him to have come in, to be in bed and asleep. But the invasion of France had been the subject of a very animated discussion; the game of billiards had waxed vehement; he had lost forty francs, an enormous sum at Vendome, where everybody is thrifty, and where social habits are restrained within the bounds of a simplicity worthy of all praise, and the foundation perhaps of a form of true happiness which no Parisian would care for. "For some time past Monsieur de Merret had been satisfied to ask Rosalie whether his wife was in bed; on the girl's replying always in the affirmative, he at once went to his own room, with the good faith that comes of habit and confidence. But this evening, on coming in, he took it into his head to go to see Madame de Merret, to tell her of his ill-luck, and perhaps to find consolation. During dinner he had observed that his wife was very becomingly dressed; he reflected as he came home from the club that his wife was certainly much better, that convalescence had improved her beauty, discovering it, as husbands discover everything, a little too late. Instead of calling Rosalie, who was in the kitchen at the moment watching the cook and the coachman playing a puzzling hand at cards, Monsieur de Merret made his way to his wife's room by the light of his lantern, which he set down at the lowest step of the stairs. His step, easy to recognize, rang under the vaulted passage. "At the instant when the gentleman turned the key to enter his wife's room, he fancied he heard the door shut of the closet of which I have spoken; but when he went in, Madame de Merret was alone, standing in front of the fireplace. The unsuspecting husband fancied that Rosalie was in the cupboard; nevertheless, a doubt, ringing in his ears like a peal of bells, put him on his guard; he looked at his wife, and read in her eyes an indescribably anxious and haunted expression. "'You are very late,' said she.--Her voice, usually so clear and sweet, struck him as being slightly husky. "Monsieur de Merret made no reply, for at this moment Rosalie came in. This was like a thunder-clap. He walked up and down the room, going from one window to another at a regular pace, his arms folded. "'Have you had bad news, or are you ill?' his wife asked him timidly, while Rosalie helped her to undress. He made no reply. "'You can go, Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret to her maid; 'I can put in my curl-papers myself.'--She scented disaster at the mere aspect of her husband's face, and wished to be alone with him. As soon as Rosalie was gone, or supposed to be gone, for she lingered a few minutes in the passage, Monsieur de Merret came and stood facing his wife, and said coldly, 'Madame, there is some one in your cupboard!' She looked at her husband calmly, and replied quite simply, 'No, monsieur.' "This 'No' wrung Monsieur de Merret's heart; he did not believe it; and yet his wife had never appeared purer or more saintly than she seemed to be at this moment. He rose to go and open the closet door. Madame de Merret took his hand, stopped him, looked at him sadly, and said in a voice of strange emotion, 'Remember, if you should find no one there, everything must be at an end between you and me.' "The extraordinary dignity of his wife's attitude filled him with deep esteem for her, and inspired him with one of those resolves which need only a grander stage to become immortal. "'No, Josephine,' he said, 'I will not open it. In either event we should be parted for ever. Listen; I know all the purity of your soul, I know you lead a saintly life, and would not commit a deadly sin to save your life.'--At these words Madame de Merret looked at her husband with a haggard stare.--'See, here is your crucifix,' he went on. 'Swear to me before God that there is no one in there; I will believe you--I will never open that door.' "Madame de Merret took up the crucifix and said, 'I swear it.' "'Louder,' said her husband; 'and repeat: "I swear before God that there is nobody in that closet."' She repeated the words without flinching. "'That will do,' said Monsieur de Merret coldly. After a moment's silence: 'You have there a fine piece of work which I never saw before,' said he, examining the crucifix of ebony and silver, very artistically wrought. "'I found it at Duvivier's; last year when that troop of Spanish prisoners came through Vendome, he bought it of a Spanish monk.' "'Indeed,' said Monsieur de Merret, hanging the crucifix on its nail; and he rang the bell. "He had to wait for Rosalie. Monsieur de Merret went forward quickly to meet her, led her into the bay of the window that looked on to the garden, and said to her in an undertone: "'I know that Gorenflot wants to marry you, that poverty alone prevents your setting up house, and that you told him you would not be his wife till he found means to become a master mason.--Well, go and fetch him; tell him to come here with his trowel and tools. Contrive to wake no one in his house but himself. His reward will be beyond your wishes. Above all, go out without saying a word--or else!' and he frowned. "Rosalie was going, and he called her back. 'Here, take my latch-key,' said he. "'Jean!' Monsieur de Merret called in a voice of thunder down the passage. Jean, who was both coachman and confidential servant, left his cards and came. "'Go to bed, all of you,' said his master, beckoning him to come close; and the gentleman added in a whisper, 'When they are all asleep--mind, _asleep_--you understand?--come down and tell me.' "Monsieur de Merret, who had never lost sight of his wife while giving his orders, quietly came back to her at the fireside, and began to tell her the details of the game of billiards and the discussion at the club. When Rosalie returned she found Monsieur and Madame de Merret conversing amiably. "Not long before this Monsieur de Merret had had new ceilings made to all the reception-rooms on the ground floor. Plaster is very scarce at Vendome; the price is enhanced by the cost of carriage; the gentleman had therefore had a considerable quantity delivered to him, knowing that he could always find purchasers for what might be left. It was this circumstance which suggested the plan he carried out. "'Gorenflot is here, sir,' said Rosalie in a whisper. "'Tell him to come in,' said her master aloud. "Madame de Merret turned paler when she saw the mason. "'Gorenflot,' said her husband, 'go and fetch some bricks from the coach-house; bring enough to wall up the door of this cupboard; you can use the plaster that is left for cement.' Then, dragging Rosalie and the workman close to him--'Listen, Gorenflot,' said he, in a low voice, 'you are to sleep here to-night; but to-morrow morning you shall have a passport to take you abroad to a place I will tell you of. I will give you six thousand francs for your journey. You must live in that town for ten years; if you find you do not like it, you may settle in another, but it must be in the same country. Go through Paris and wait there till I join you. I will there give you an agreement for six thousand francs more, to be paid to you on your return, provided you have carried out the conditions of the bargain. For that price you are to keep perfect silence as to what you have to do this night. To you, Rosalie, I will secure ten thousand francs, which will not be paid to you till your wedding day, and on condition of your marrying Gorenflot; but, to get married, you must hold your tongue. If not, no wedding gift!' "'Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret, 'come and brush my hair.' "Her husband quietly walked up and down the room, keeping an eye on the door, on the mason, and on his wife, but without any insulting display of suspicion. Gorenflot could not help making some noise. Madame de Merret seized a moment when he was unloading some bricks, and when her husband was at the other end of the room to say to Rosalie: 'My dear child, I will give you a thousand francs a year if only you will tell Gorenflot to leave a crack at the bottom.' Then she added aloud quite coolly: 'You had better help him.' "Monsieur and Madame de Merret were silent all the time while Gorenflot was walling up the door. This silence was intentional on the husband's part; he did not wish to give his wife the opportunity of saying anything with a double meaning. On Madame de Merret's side it was pride or prudence. When the wall was half built up the cunning mason took advantage of his master's back being turned to break one of the two panes in the top of the door with a blow of his pick. By this Madame de Merret understood that Rosalie had spoken to Gorenflot. They all three then saw the face of a dark, gloomy-looking man, with black hair and flaming eyes. "Before her husband turned round again the poor woman had nodded to the stranger, to whom the signal was meant to convey, 'Hope.' "At four o'clock, as the day was dawning, for it was the month of September, the work was done. The mason was placed in charge of Jean, and Monsieur de Merret slept in his wife's room. "Next morning when he got up he said with apparent carelessness, 'Oh, by the way, I must go to the Maire for the passport.' He put on his hat, took two or three steps towards the door, paused, and took the crucifix. His wife was trembling with joy. "'He will go to Duvivier's,' thought she. "As soon as he had left, Madame de Merret rang for Rosalie, and then in a terrible voice she cried: 'The pick! Bring the pick! and set to work. I saw how Gorenflot did it yesterday; we shall have time to make a gap and build it up again.' "In an instant Rosalie had brought her mistress a sort of cleaver; she, with a vehemence of which no words can give an idea, set to work to demolish the wall. She had already got out a few bricks, when, turning to deal a stronger blow than before, she saw behind her Monsieur de Merret. She fainted away. "'Lay madame on her bed,' said he coldly. "Foreseeing what would certainly happen in his absence, he had laid this trap for his wife; he had merely written to the Maire and sent for Duvivier. The jeweler arrived just as the disorder in the room had been repaired. "'Duvivier,' asked Monsieur de Merret, 'did not you buy some crucifixes of the Spaniards who passed through the town?' "'No, monsieur.' "'Very good; thank you,' said he, flashing a tiger's glare at his wife. 'Jean,' he added, turning to his confidential valet, 'you can serve my meals here in Madame de Merret's room. She is ill, and I shall not leave her till she recovers.' "The cruel man remained in his wife's room for twenty days. During the earlier time, when there was some little noise in the closet, and Josephine wanted to intercede for the dying man, he said, without allowing her to utter a word, 'You swore on the Cross that there was no one there.'" After this story all the ladies rose from table, and thus the spell under which Bianchon had held them was broken. But there were some among them who had almost shivered at the last words. ADDENDUM The following personage appears in other stories of the Human Comedy. Bianchon, Horace Father Goriot The Atheist's Mass Cesar Birotteau The Commission in Lunacy Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Government Clerks Pierrette A Study of Woman Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Honorine The Seamy Side of History The Magic Skin A Second Home A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two Brides The Muse of the Department The Imaginary Mistress The Middle Classes Cousin Betty The Country Parson In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: Another Study of Woman End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of La Grande Breteche, by Honore de Balzac Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Prior to her brother's death, how did Mary spend most of her time outside of the home?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "With her charity" ]	23,324	narrativeqa	en	null	1f4e0b8679c63575a052299e5d266741fe47c6eb672ece9e	E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Janet Blenkinship, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/) Transcriber's note: The author is Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-1797). MARY, A Fiction L'exercice des plus sublimes vertus éleve et nourrit le génie. ROUSSEAU. London, Printed for J. Johnson, St. Paul's Church-Yard. MDCCLXXXVIII ADVERTISEMENT. In delineating the Heroine of this Fiction, the Author attempts to develop a character different from those generally portrayed. This woman is neither a Clarissa, a Lady G----, nor a[A] Sophie.--It would be vain to mention the various modifications of these models, as it would to remark, how widely artists wander from nature, when they copy the originals of great masters. They catch the gross parts; but the subtile spirit evaporates; and not having the just ties, affectation disgusts, when grace was expected to charm. Those compositions only have power to delight, and carry us willing captives, where the soul of the author is exhibited, and animates the hidden springs. Lost in a pleasing enthusiasm, they live in the scenes they represent; and do not measure their steps in a beaten track, solicitous to gather expected flowers, and bind them in a wreath, according to the prescribed rules of art. These chosen few, wish to speak for themselves, and not to be an echo--even of the sweetest sounds--or the reflector of the most sublime beams. The[B] paradise they ramble in, must be of their own creating--or the prospect soon grows insipid, and not varied by a vivifying principle, fades and dies. In an artless tale, without episodes, the mind of a woman, who has thinking powers is displayed. The female organs have been thought too weak for this arduous employment; and experience seems to justify the assertion. Without arguing physically about _possibilities_--in a fiction, such a being may be allowed to exist; whose grandeur is derived from the operations of its own faculties, not subjugated to opinion; but drawn by the individual from the original source. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Rousseau.] [Footnote B: I here give the Reviewers an opportunity of being very witty about the Paradise of Fools, &c.] MARY CHAP. I. Mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who married Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that stamp. She carefully attended to the _shews_ of things, and her opinions, I should have said prejudices, were such as the generality approved of. She was educated with the expectation of a large fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of her attendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she never imagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions of her own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, and the years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments, without having any taste for them. When she was first introduced into the polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wished to be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in a more distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, and promised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool,) as in duty bound. While they resided in London, they lived in the usual fashionable style, and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when they wooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful country, where Nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around; for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved, and sought amusement in country sports. He hunted in the morning, and after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not enliven, it is not necessary to say which a _gourmand_ would give the preference to. Their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely more agreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor. Her voice was but the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, so relaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing. Many such noughts are there in the female world! yet she had a good opinion of her own merit,--truly, she said long prayers,--and sometimes read her Week's Preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarly called _hell_, the regions below; but whether her's was a mounting spirit, I cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet would have been proper for her, when she left her _material_ part in this world, let metaphysicians settle; I have nothing to say to her unclothed spirit. As she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her French waiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications, and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes from the glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodily dissipation, novels. I say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rational one can find no employment in polite circles. The glare of lights, the studied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at the shrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses. When she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, she tried another. The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and some other interesting tales were perused with eagerness. Nothing could be more natural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking than the views of the human heart. What delicate struggles! and uncommonly pretty turns of thought! The picture that was found on a bramble-bush, the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by the upper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait.--Fatal image!--It planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent a new kind of a knight-errant into the world. But even this was nothing to the catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornet settling on the sleeping lover's face. What a _heart-rending_ accident! She planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; but there was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered it with her tears.--Alas! Alas! If my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me credit for genius, I would go on and tell them such tales as would force the sweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautiful cheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, &c. &c. Nay, I would make it so interesting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser to settle the curls himself, and not interrupt her. She had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who shared her bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day. These she watched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmest caresses. This fondness for animals was not that kind of _attendrissement_ which makes a person take pleasure in providing for the subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded from vanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest French expressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attuned by tenderness. She was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that is, she did not make any actual _faux pas_; she feared the world, and was indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, she read all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had she thought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as she accompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them by the clear light of the moon. She wondered her husband did not stay at home. She was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze her hand, and look unutterable things? Gentle reader, I will tell thee; they neither of them felt what they could not utter. I will not pretend to say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of those feelings which are not easily analyzed. CHAP. II. In due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following year a daughter. After the mother's throes she felt very few sentiments of maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and she played with her dogs. Want of exercise prevented the least chance of her recovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on a consumption, to which her constitution tended. Her children all died in their infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of the son, as he was remarkably handsome. For years she divided her time between the sofa, and the card-table. She thought not of death, though on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her station occur to her as necessary. Her children were left in the nursery; and when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the awkward thing away. To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a house without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and she scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old house-keeper told her stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read. Her mother talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and, in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French. As she had learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in her way. Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and learned to think. She had heard of a separate state, and that angels sometimes visited this earth. She would sit in a thick wood in the park, and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them to tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweet and touching. Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was glad that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself about them. She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband was very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness, and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart through life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her own.--She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when she was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse. Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which she imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and confidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new world. Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious distress. She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concluded animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice of man; but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year after year rolled on, her mother still vegetating. A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her great attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child while she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the first began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every part of it. The impression that this accident made was indelible. As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to exert herself, her health would soon be re-established. In general he treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and visibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she could not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from the gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of it, she was pinched by hunger. She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner was she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the slave of compassion. CHAP. III. Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune; and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a distant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just at this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they took no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her natural disposition was very different. She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb; and now she had another motive to actuate her. As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend, mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their intercourse more agreeable. Young people are mostly fond of scribbling; Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend's letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes. As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits were fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain on account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter. Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these consequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, she found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the offspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran to her with delight, and not perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann's countenance, she has shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressions seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility. She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all reflection. In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and exercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her own unsettled mind. CHAP. IV. Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were, literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested, and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river. Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea. This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there. When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observe the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, she admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in existence, and darted into futurity. One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. A clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple of Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost. At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure. In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had not animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones which look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving more light to the beholders than they receive themselves. Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or comforted them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent, that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less interested observer. In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read, and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became a part of her mind. Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her Creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were mostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted to contemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think of the voice that could still the tumultuous deep. These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out those which the soil would have a tendency to nurse. Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination has strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity. Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, _conversing_ with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her own composing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end her various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth, which afterwards more fully unfolded itself. She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under the influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with redoubled force. Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her ecstacies arose from genius. She was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; and perusing the scriptures, and discussing some points of doctrine which puzzled her, she would sit up half the night, her favourite time for employing her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through a glass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectual researches, is one of the trials of a probationary state. But her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and she eagerly desired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor. The night before the important day, when she was to take on herself her baptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on her meditations, and found her not exhausted by her watching. The orient pearls were strewed around--she hailed the morn, and sung with wild delight, Glory to God on high, good will towards men. She was indeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternal preservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; and the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthly passions made it grow languid. These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the luxuriant shoots restrained by culture. The servants and the poor adored her. In order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, she practiced the most rigid oeconomy, and had such power over her appetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered them so entirely, that when her understanding or affections had an object, she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment. This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the passions. We will now enter on the more active field of life. CHAP. V. A few months after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was attacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach the school. She was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her of consequence, and did not call her _the child_. Proper masters were sent for; she was taught to dance, and an extraordinary master procured to perfect her in that most necessary of all accomplishments. A part of the estate she was to inherit had been litigated, and the heir of the person who still carried on a Chancery suit, was only two years younger than our heroine. The fathers, spite of the dispute, frequently met, and, in order to settle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle, determined to quash it by a marriage, and, by uniting the two estates, to preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their different claims. While this important matter was settling, Mary was otherwise employed. Ann's mother's resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty, made hasty strides to catch them in his clutches. Ann had not fortitude enough to brave such accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm was lodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. She denied herself every little comfort; things that would be no sacrifice when a person is well, are absolutely necessary to alleviate bodily pain, and support the animal functions. There were many elegant amusements, that she had acquired a relish for, which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; but these her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of relaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil he taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination, and that taste invigorated love. Poverty, and all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother's abode; and she, though a good sort of a woman, was not calculated to banish, by her trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was lost. This ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, a delicacy so truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold her without wishing to chase her sorrows away. She was timid and irresolute, and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to make her reflect. In every thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty, that caught her attention. And in composition, the polish of style, and harmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius, or abstracted speculations. She often wondered at the books Mary chose, who, though she had a lively imagination, would frequently study authors whose works were addressed to the understanding. This liking taught her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herself, even when under the influence of the most violent passions. Ann's misfortunes and ill health were strong ties to bind Mary to her; she wished so continually to have a home to receive her in, that it drove every other desire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tender schemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she longed most ardently to put them in practice. Fondly as she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whose decline was so imperceptible, that they were not aware of her approaching dissolution. The physician, however, observing the most alarming symptoms; her husband was apprised of her immediate danger; and then first mentioned to her his designs with respect to his daughter. She approved of them; Mary was sent for; she was not at home; she had rambled to visit Ann, and found her in an hysteric fit. The landlord of her little farm had sent his agent for the rent, which had long been due to him; and he threatened to seize the stock that still remained, and turn them out, if they did not very shortly discharge the arrears. As this man made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of the person to whom he was deputy, little was to be expected from his forbearance. All this was told to Mary--and the mother added, she had many other creditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch from them all that had been saved out of the wreck. "I could bear all," she cried; "but what will become of my children? Of this child," pointing to the fainting Ann, "whose constitution is already undermined by care and grief--where will she go?"--Mary's heart ceased to beat while she asked the question--She attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds died away. Before she had recovered herself, her father called himself to enquire for her; and desired her instantly to accompany him home. Engrossed by the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walked silently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours to live; and before she could return him any answer, informed her that they had both determined to marry her to Charles, his friend's son; he added, the ceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witness of it; for such a desire she had expressed with childish eagerness. Overwhelmed by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, with a vacant stare, fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longer a sense; they conveyed no ideas to the brain. As she drew near the house, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension of thought, a thousand darted into her mind,--her dying mother,--her friend's miserable situation,--and an extreme horror at taking--at being forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the reluctance, which arises from a prior attachment. She loved Ann better than any one in the world--to snatch her from the very jaws of destruction--she would have encountered a lion. To have this friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect to her family, would it not be superlative bliss? Full of these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they then fled at the sight of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; it feebly pressed her's. "My child," said the languid mother: the words reached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accents denoting affection; "My child, I have not always treated you with kindness--God forgive me! do you?"--Mary's tears strayed in a disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve the fluttering tenant. "I forgive you!" said she, in a tone of astonishment. The clergyman came in to read the service for the sick, and afterwards the marriage ceremony was performed. Mary stood like a statue of Despair, and pronounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and then ran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms. Her husband set off for the continent the same day, with a tutor, to finish his studies at one of the foreign universities. Ann was sent for to console her, not on account of the departure of her new relation, a boy she seldom took any notice of, but to reconcile her to her fate; besides, it was necessary she should have a female companion, and there was not any maiden aunt in the family, or cousin of the same class. CHAP. VI. Mary was allowed to pay the rent which gave her so much uneasiness, and she exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to succour the family; but the utmost she could obtain was a small sum very inadequate to the purpose, to enable the poor woman to carry into execution a little scheme of industry near the metropolis. Her intention of leaving that part of the country, had much more weight with him, than Mary's arguments, drawn from motives of philanthropy and friendship; this was a language he did not understand; expressive of occult qualities he never thought of, as they could not be seen or felt. After the departure of her mother, Ann still continued to languish, though she had a nurse who was entirely engrossed by the desire of amusing her. Had her health been re-established, the time would have passed in a tranquil, improving manner. During the year of mourning they lived in retirement; music, drawing, and reading, filled up the time; and Mary's taste and judgment were both improved by contracting a habit of observation, and permitting the simple beauties of Nature to occupy her thoughts. She had a wonderful quickness in discerning distinctions and combining ideas, that at the first glance did not appear to be similar. But these various pursuits did not banish all her cares, or carry off all her constitutional black bile. Before she enjoyed Ann's society, she imagined it would have made her completely happy: she was disappointed, and yet knew not what to complain of. As her friend could not accompany her in her walks, and wished to be alone, for a very obvious reason, she would return to her old haunts, retrace her anticipated pleasures--and wonder how they changed their colour in possession, and proved so futile. She had not yet found the companion she looked for. Ann and she were not congenial minds, nor did she contribute to her comfort in the degree she expected. She shielded her from poverty; but this was only a negative blessing; when under the pressure it was very grievous, and still more so were the apprehensions; but when exempt from them, she was not contented. Such is human nature, its laws were not to be inverted to gratify our heroine, and stop the progress of her understanding, happiness only flourished in paradise--we cannot taste and live. Another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. Ann had a hectic cough, and many unfavourable prognostics: Mary then forgot every thing but the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery would have made her happy. Her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only read books of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended in vanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what she could not prevent. As her mind expanded, her marriage appeared a dreadful misfortune; she was sometimes reminded of the heavy yoke, and bitter was the recollection! In one thing there seemed to be a sympathy between them, for she wrote formal answers to his as formal letters. An extreme dislike took root in her mind; the found of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all, listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame. She would then catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness, as if to save her from sinking into an opening grave. CHAP. VII. It was the will of Providence that Mary should experience almost every species of sorrow. Her father was thrown from his horse, when his blood was in a very inflammatory state, and the bruises were very dangerous; his recovery was not expected by the physical tribe. Terrified at seeing him so near death, and yet so ill prepared for it, his daughter sat by his bed, oppressed by the keenest anguish, which her piety increased. Her grief had nothing selfish in it; he was not a friend or protector; but he was her father, an unhappy wretch, going into eternity, depraved and thoughtless. Could a life of sensuality be a preparation for a peaceful death? Thus meditating, she passed the still midnight hour by his bedside. The nurse fell asleep, nor did a violent thunder storm interrupt her repose, though it made the night appear still more terrific to Mary. Her father's unequal breathing alarmed her, when she heard a long drawn breath, she feared it was his last, and watching for another, a dreadful peal of thunder struck her ears. Considering the separation of the soul and body, this night seemed sadly solemn, and the hours long. Death is indeed a king of terrors when he attacks the vicious man! The compassionate heart finds not any comfort; but dreads an eternal separation. No transporting greetings are anticipated, when the survivors also shall have finished their course; but all is black!--the grave may truly be said to receive the departed--this is the sting of death! Night after night Mary watched, and this excessive fatigue impaired her own health, but had a worse effect on Ann; though she constantly went to bed, she could not rest; a number of uneasy thoughts obtruded themselves; and apprehensions about Mary, whom she loved as well as her exhausted heart could love, harassed her mind. After a sleepless, feverish night she had a violent fit of coughing, and burst a blood-vessel. The physician, who was in the house, was sent for, and when he left the patient, Mary, with an authoritative voice, insisted on knowing his real opinion. Reluctantly he gave it, that her friend was in a critical state; and if she passed the approaching winter in England, he imagined she would die in the spring; a season fatal to consumptive disorders. The spring!--Her husband was then expected.--Gracious Heaven, could she bear all this. In a few days her father breathed his last. The horrid sensations his death occasioned were too poignant to be durable: and Ann's danger, and her own situation, made Mary deliberate what mode of conduct she should pursue. She feared this event might hasten the return of her husband, and prevent her putting into execution a plan she had determined on. It was to accompany Ann to a more salubrious climate. CHAP. VIII. I mentioned before, that Mary had never had any particular attachment, to give rise to the disgust that daily gained ground. Her friendship for Ann occupied her heart, and resembled a passion. She had had, indeed, several transient likings; but they did not amount to love. The society of men of genius delighted her, and improved her faculties. With beings of this class she did not often meet; it is a rare genus; her first favourites were men past the meridian of life, and of a philosophic turn. Determined on going to the South of France, or Lisbon; she wrote to the man she had promised to obey. The physicians had said change of air was necessary for her as well as her friend. She mentioned this, and added, "Her comfort, almost her existence, depended on the recovery of the invalid she wished to attend; and that should she neglect to follow the medical advice she had received, she should never forgive herself, or those who endeavoured to prevent her." Full of her design, she wrote with more than usual freedom; and this letter was like most of her others, a transcript of her heart. "This dear friend," she exclaimed, "I love for her agreeable qualities, and substantial virtues. Continual attention to her health, and the tender office of a nurse, have created an affection very like a maternal one--I am her only support, she leans on me--could I forsake the forsaken, and break the bruised reed--No--I would die first! I must--I will go." She would have added, "you would very much oblige me by consenting;" but her heart revolted--and irresolutely she wrote something about wishing him happy.--"Do I not wish all the world well?" she cried, as she subscribed her name--It was blotted, the letter sealed in a hurry, and sent out of her sight; and she began to prepare for her journey. By the return of the post she received an answer; it contained some common-place remarks on her romantic friendship, as he termed it; "But as the physicians advised change of air, he had no objection." CHAP. IX. There was nothing now to retard their journey; and Mary chose Lisbon rather than France, on account of its being further removed from the only person she wished not to see. They set off accordingly for Falmouth, in their way to that city. The journey was of use to Ann, and Mary's spirits were raised by her recovered looks--She had been in despair--now she gave way to hope, and was intoxicated with it. On ship-board Ann always remained in the cabin; the sight of the water terrified her: on the contrary, Mary, after she was gone to bed, or when she fell asleep in the day, went on deck, conversed with the sailors, and surveyed the boundless expanse before her with delight. One instant she would regard the ocean, the next the beings who braved its fury. Their insensibility and want of fear, she could not name courage; their thoughtless mirth was quite of an animal kind, and their feelings as impetuous and uncertain as the element they plowed. They had only been a week at sea when they hailed the rock of Lisbon, and the next morning anchored at the castle. After the customary visits, they were permitted to go on shore, about three miles from the city; and while one of the crew, who understood the language, went to procure them one of the ugly carriages peculiar to the country, they waited in the Irish convent, which is situated close to the Tagus. Some of the people offered to conduct them into the church, where there was a fine organ playing; Mary followed them, but Ann preferred staying with a nun she had entered into conversation with. One of the nuns, who had a sweet voice, was singing; Mary was struck with awe; her heart joined in the devotion; and tears of gratitude and tenderness flowed from her eyes. My Father, I thank thee! burst from her--words were inadequate to express her feelings. Silently, she surveyed the lofty dome; heard unaccustomed sounds; and saw faces, strange ones, that she could not yet greet with fraternal love. In an unknown land, she considered that the Being she adored inhabited eternity, was ever present in unnumbered worlds. When she had not any one she loved near her, she was particularly sensible of the presence of her Almighty Friend. The arrival of the carriage put a stop to her speculations; it was to conduct them to an hotel, fitted up for the reception of invalids. Unfortunately, before they could reach it there was a violent shower of rain; and as the wind was very high, it beat against the leather curtains, which they drew along the front of the vehicle, to shelter themselves from it; but it availed not, some of the rain forced its way, and Ann felt the effects of it, for she caught cold, spite of Mary's precautions. As is the custom, the rest of the invalids, or lodgers, sent to enquire after their health; and as soon as Ann left her chamber, in which her complaints seldom confined her the whole day, they came in person to pay their compliments. Three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; the one a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other an invalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. They entered into conversation immediately. People who meet in a strange country, and are all together in a house, soon get acquainted, without the formalities which attend visiting in separate houses, where they are surrounded by domestic friends. Ann was particularly delighted at meeting with agreeable society; a little hectic fever generally made her low-spirited in the morning, and lively in the evening, when she wished for company. Mary, who only thought of her, determined to cultivate their acquaintance, as she knew, that if her mind could be diverted, her body might gain strength. They were all musical, and proposed having little concerts. One of the gentlemen played on the violin, and the other on the german-flute. The instruments were brought in, with all the eagerness that attends putting a new scheme in execution. Mary had not said much, for she was diffident; she seldom joined in general conversations; though her quickness of penetration enabled her soon to enter into the characters of those she conversed with; and her sensibility made her desirous of pleasing every human creature. Besides, if her mind was not occupied by any particular sorrow, or study, she caught reflected pleasure, and was glad to see others happy, though their mirth did not interest her. This day she was continually thinking of Ann's recovery, and encouraging the cheerful hopes, which though they dissipated the spirits that had been condensed by melancholy, yet made her wish to be silent. The music, more than the conversation, disturbed her reflections; but not at first. The gentleman who played on the german-flute, was a handsome, well-bred, sensible man; and his observations, if not original, were pertinent. The other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and played a little Scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of the instrument, that Mary started, and looking at him with more attention than she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong lines of genius. His manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which is often found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered his opinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice. When the concert was over, they all retired to their apartments. Mary always slept with Ann, as she was subject to terrifying dreams; and frequently in the night was obliged to be supported, to avoid suffocation. They chatted about their new acquaintance in their own apartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion. CHAP. X. Every day almost they saw their new acquaintance; and civility produced intimacy. Mary sometimes left her friend with them; while she indulged herself in viewing new modes of life, and searching out the causes which produced them. She had a metaphysical turn, which inclined her to reflect on every object that passed by her; and her mind was not like a mirror, which receives every floating image, but does not retain them: she had not any prejudices, for every opinion was examined before it was adopted. The Roman Catholic ceremonies attracted her attention, and gave rise to conversations when they all met; and one of the gentlemen continually introduced deistical notions, when he ridiculed the pageantry they all were surprised at observing. Mary thought of both the subjects, the Romish tenets, and the deistical doubts; and though not a sceptic, thought it right to examine the evidence on which her faith was built. She read Butler's Analogy, and some other authors: and these researches made her a christian from conviction, and she learned charity, particularly with respect to sectaries; saw that apparently good and solid arguments might take their rise from different points of view; and she rejoiced to find that those she should not concur with had some reason on their side. CHAP. XI. When I mentioned the three ladies, I said they were fashionable women; and it was all the praise, as a faithful historian, I could bestow on them; the only thing in which they were consistent. I forgot to mention that they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. The daughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the mother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her. They were people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancient family, the title had descended to a very remote branch--a branch they took care to be intimate with; and servilely copied the Countess's airs. Their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerning propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which always hamper weak people. What will the world say? was the first thing that was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had not done before. Or what would the Countess do on such an occasion? And when this question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered without the trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads. This same Countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a most harmonic dance around her. After this account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds had received very little cultivation. They were taught French, Italian, and Spanish; English was their vulgar tongue. And what did they learn? Hamlet will tell you--words--words. But let me not forget that they squalled Italian songs in the true _gusto_. Without having any seeds sown in their understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work, they were brought out of their nursery, or the place they were secluded in, to prevent their faces being common; like blazing stars, to captivate Lords. They were pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another, occasioned the disorder which required change of air. The mother, if we except her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature; and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciously adhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, some trivial points of ceremony, as a matter of the last importance; of which she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionable world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do to the sun. It appears to me that every creature has some notion--or rather relish, of the sublime. Riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime of weak minds:--These images fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls. One afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, Ann was so ill, that Mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending the tea-table. The apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, with a look of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name was Henry, and said; "Though people of the first fashion are frequently at places of this kind, intimate with they know not who; yet I do not choose that my daughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with any one she would blush to know elsewhere. It is only on that account, for I never suffer her to be with any one but in my company," added she, sitting more erect; and a smile of self-complacency dressed her countenance. "I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune." "Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a romantic creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the large fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard the Countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much admired; but she is married." She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who picked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls. "She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed, and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise it. The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses like the sweet south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears almost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had taken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine she had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this welcome guest.--And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety, that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid. No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look, to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered the room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken words, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed, "I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, what a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they, "have you not a husband?" Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. A delicate sense of propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered reason.--Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyes followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange behaviour. CHAP. XII. The physician was sent for; his prescription afforded Ann a little temporary relief; and they again joined the circle. Unfortunately, the weather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confined them to the house. Ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when they sat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and, but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away in listless indolence. The bad weather had had as ill an effect on Henry as on Ann. He was frequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy would of itself have attracted Mary's notice, if she had not found his conversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group. When she conversed with him, all the faculties of her soul unfolded themselves; genius animated her expressive countenance and the most graceful, unaffected gestures gave energy to her discourse. They frequently discussed very important subjects, while the rest were singing or playing cards, nor were they observed for doing so, as Henry, whom they all were pleased with, in the way of gallantry shewed them all more attention than her. Besides, as there was nothing alluring in her dress or manner, they never dreamt of her being preferred to them. Henry was a man of learning; he had also studied mankind, and knew many of the intricacies of the human heart, from having felt the infirmities of his own. His taste was just, as it had a standard--Nature, which he observed with a critical eye. Mary could not help thinking that in his company her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. She increased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved. He was also a pious man; his rational religious sentiments received warmth from his sensibility; and, except on very particular occasions, kept it in proper bounds; these sentiments had likewise formed his temper; he was gentle, and easily to be intreated. The ridiculous ceremonies they were every day witness to, led them into what are termed grave subjects, and made him explain his opinions, which, at other times, he was neither ashamed of, nor unnecessarily brought forward to notice. CHAP. XIII. When the weather began to clear up, Mary sometimes rode out alone, purposely to view the ruins that still remained of the earthquake: or she would ride to the banks of the Tagus, to feast her eyes with the sight of that magnificent river. At other times she would visit the churches, as she was particularly fond of seeing historical paintings. One of these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party descanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soon adverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters in which they should wish to be drawn. Mary did not fix on one--when Henry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "I would give the world for your picture, with the expression I have seen in your face, when you have been supporting your friend." This delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her heart. She then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--for whom was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, so strongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown away--given in with an estate. As Mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her thoughts were employed about the objects around her. She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. She saw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers may fall from the lips without purifying the heart. They who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers, or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainly allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfish principles; how then can they be called good? The pattern of all goodness went about _doing_ good. Wrapped up in themselves, the nuns only thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of intrigues were carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts were fixed: Such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that were servile or laborious. In short, when they could be neither wives nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations? In these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of grief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step. The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow, the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart. She will find that those affections that have once been called forth and strengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, by disappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrode the heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for which there is no specific. The community at large Mary disliked; but pitied many of them whose private distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were the same things with her. The exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and dignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but never mean or cunning. CHAP. XIV. The Portuguese are certainly the most uncivilized nation in Europe. Dr. Johnson would have said, "They have the least mind.". And can such serve their Creator in spirit and in truth? No, the gross ritual of Romish ceremonies is all they can comprehend: they can do penance, but not conquer their revenge, or lust. Religion, or love, has never humanized their hearts; they want the vital part; the mere body worships. Taste is unknown; Gothic finery, and unnatural decorations, which they term ornaments, are conspicuous in their churches and dress. Reverence for mental excellence is only to be found in a polished nation. Could the contemplation of such a people gratify Mary's heart? No: she turned disgusted from the prospects--turned to a man of refinement. Henry had been some time ill and low-spirited; Mary would have been attentive to any one in that situation; but to him she was particularly so; she thought herself bound in gratitude, on account of his constant endeavours to amuse Ann, and prevent her dwelling on the dreary prospect before her, which sometimes she could not help anticipating with a kind of quiet despair. She found some excuse for going more frequently into the room they all met in; nay, she avowed her desire to amuse him: offered to read to him, and tried to draw him into amusing conversations; and when she was full of these little schemes, she looked at him with a degree of tenderness that she was not conscious of. This divided attention was of use to her, and prevented her continually thinking of Ann, whose fluctuating disorder often gave rise to false hopes. A trifling thing occurred now which occasioned Mary some uneasiness. Her maid, a well-looking girl, had captivated the clerk of a neighbouring compting-house. As the match was an advantageous one, Mary could not raise any objection to it, though at this juncture it was very disagreeable to her to have a stranger about her person. However, the girl consented to delay the marriage, as she had some affection for her mistress; and, besides, looked forward to Ann's death as a time of harvest. Henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gave Mary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interested about him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which the purity of her heart made her never wish to restrain. The only visible return he made was not obvious to common observers. He would sometimes fix his eyes on her, and take them off with a sigh that was coughed away; or when he was leisurely walking into the room, and did not expect to see her, he would quicken his steps, and come up to her with eagerness to ask some trivial question. In the same style, he would try to detain her when he had nothing to say--or said nothing. Ann did not take notice of either his or Mary's behaviour, nor did she suspect that he was a favourite, on any other account than his appearing neither well nor happy. She had often seen that when a person was unfortunate, Mary's pity might easily be mistaken for love, and, indeed, it was a temporary sensation of that kind. Such it was--why it was so, let others define, I cannot argue against instincts. As reason is cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this may have given rise to the assertion, "That as judgment improves, genius evaporates." CHAP. XV. One morning they set out to visit the aqueduct; though the day was very fine when they left home, a very heavy shower fell before they reached it; they lengthened their ride, the clouds dispersed, and the sun came from behind them uncommonly bright. Mary would fain have persuaded Ann not to have left the carriage; but she was in spirits, and obviated all her objections, and insisted on walking, tho' the ground was damp. But her strength was not equal to her spirits; she was soon obliged to return to the carriage so much fatigued, that she fainted, and remained insensible a long time. Henry would have supported her; but Mary would not permit him; her recollection was instantaneous, and she feared sitting on the damp ground might do him a material injury: she was on that account positive, though the company did not guess the cause of her being so. As to herself, she did not fear bodily pain; and, when her mind was agitated, she could endure the greatest fatigue without appearing sensible of it. When Ann recovered, they returned slowly home; she was carried to bed, and the next morning Mary thought she observed a visible change for the worse. The physician was sent for, who pronounced her to be in the most imminent danger. All Mary's former fears now returned like a torrent, and carried every other care away; she even added to her present anguish by upbraiding herself for her late tranquillity--it haunted her in the form of a crime. The disorder made the most rapid advances--there was no hope!--Bereft of it, Mary again was tranquil; but it was a very different kind of tranquillity. She stood to brave the approaching storm, conscious she only could be overwhelmed by it. She did not think of Henry, or if her thoughts glanced towards him, it was only to find fault with herself for suffering a thought to have strayed from Ann.--Ann!--this dear friend was soon torn from her--she died suddenly as Mary was assisting her to walk across the room.--The first string was severed from her heart--and this "slow, sudden-death" disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable to reflect, or even to feel her misery. The body was stolen out of the house the second night, and Mary refused to see her former companions. She desired her maid to conclude her marriage, and request her intended husband to inform her when the first merchantman was to leave the port, as the packet had just sailed, and she determined not to stay in that hated place any longer than was absolutely necessary. She then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid a parade of grief--her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not to admit of increase or softening. She was right; the sight of them did not affect her, or turn the stream of her sullen sorrow; the black wave rolled along in the same course, it was equal to her where she cast her eyes; all was impenetrable gloom. CHAP. XVI. Soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry, requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: she consented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. She ran eagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his countenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed hers seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unable to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death; but her conversation was incoherent. She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest. Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!" Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart." "I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store." "Impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that she was in love with misery. He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took very little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined: and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations, rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in order to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me: these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I was witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution is naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain some dominion over my passions. At least," added he, stifling a sigh, "over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection only renders the tender ones more tyrannic. "I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--the object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion has pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and pursuits.--I am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin I tell the sorrows I now confide with thee. The object I loved forfeited my esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequently delighted to form a creature that I could love, that could convey to my soul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conception of." He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a listening attitude, continued his little narrative. "I kept up an irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance and ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I hastened to comfort her--and was a comfort to her. "My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness. But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain. No: I have frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts; and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant. "I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending this winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had before visited the Continent." He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with the most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her friendship? If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the fate of a darling child, than he did in her's." Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that she in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant. Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it: accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection. Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. He had exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had succeeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself for defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt on Henry's misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fate was a balm to her sick mind. She did not reason on the subject; but she felt he was attached to her: lost in this delirium, she never asked herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to; nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thought with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an affection for her, and that person she admired--had a friendship for. He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by accident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His child, what an association of ideas! If I had had a father, such a father!--She could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves. Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul. Lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry's account of himself; till she actually thought she would tell Ann--a bitter recollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she begged forgiveness of her. By these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to bed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not refresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her waking train of thoughts. One instant she was supporting her dying mother; then Ann was breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her. The unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell the truth, she thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spirits in motion: but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell her that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could be accommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger on board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on that account--Mary did not want a companion. As she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first vessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for the lonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of the first fair wind. She had too much strength of mind to waver in her determination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old wounds, and made them bleed afresh. What was she to do? where go? Could she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her--her soul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the world by such mock heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!" There is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while, stills the tumult of passion. Mary's mind had been thrown off its poise; her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but less regular. She forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth, and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the first serious thought: when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to render life bearable she gave way to fancy--this was madness. In a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was very tempestuous--what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every other trifling--it was not the contending elements, but _herself_ she feared! CHAP. XVII. In order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she went out in a carriage. The day was fine; but all nature was to her a universal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she could not. She passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill she got out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did not avoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed glad to contend with it, or rather walk against it. Exhausted she returned to the carriage was soon at home, and in the old room. Henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before her complexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire. He was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and he owned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormant tenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by the present happiness of seeing, of hearing him. Once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, to depart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow; should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus she thought, and insensibly grew more calm. The Ladies prevailed on her to spend the evening with them; but she retired very early to rest, and sat on the side of her bed several hours, then threw herself on it, and waited for the dreaded to-morrow. CHAP. XVIII. The ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that she was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at the Custom-house. Henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary called up all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from the females her internal struggles. She durst not encounter Henry's glances when she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, she knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began to laugh she could not stop herself. Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such benignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and, the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained silent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn. Henry began. "You are going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind is not in a state to be left to its own operations--yet I cannot, dissuade you; if I attempted to do it, I should ill deserve the title I wish to merit. I only think of your happiness; could I obey the strongest impulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to England; but such a step might endanger your future peace." Mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explained her situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that he trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me to love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did she not fix on Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and if Ann had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some remote corner to have escaped from him. "I intend," said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall I hear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine," replied Mary. "I am well, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the most precarious state." She then mentioned her intention of going to Ann's relations. "I am her representative, I have duties to fulfil for her: during my voyage I have time enough for reflection; though I think I have already determined." "Be not too hasty, my child," interrupted Henry; "far be it from me to persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thy future life may probably take its colour from thy present mode of conduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the object you now shun may appear in a different light." He paused. "In advising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary." She only answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary--yet they can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite a part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form my taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies, and make me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives its stamp to the rest--because I am capable of loving one, I have that kind of charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked. Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly we may ascend." She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface them but death--No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be created afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted from my Ann--I could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--I could not bear to think that time could wear away an affection that was founded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt to persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose from certain modifications of it." "Dear enthusiastic creature," whispered Henry, "how you steal into my soul." She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me to adore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that he only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder strokes to them. I knew I am in some degree under the influence of a delusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am _of subtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of the imagination point to futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause in nature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule? have I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will they never be gratified? shall I never be happy? My feelings do not accord with the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of bliss, it will be the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great part of our happiness. "With these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? can I listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits, and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I wish to please--one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I am bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could I consider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awful day of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience does not smite me, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approve of what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I brave His presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary to conviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could the world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed against the feeling heart! "Riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me to sit down and enjoy them--I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I do, what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good, an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me for eternity--when I no longer see through a glass darkly I shall not reason about, but _feel_ in what happiness consists." Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and that these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well digested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour, and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He was startled, if not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestures were all persuasive. Some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue; it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in a cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary to reveal it? He wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; she knew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, or rest satisfied with any inferior gratification. When passion first enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after, and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out. CHAP. XIX. Two days passed away without any particular conversation; Henry, trying to be indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. The conflict was too violent for his present state of health; the spirit was willing, but the body suffered; he lost his appetite, and looked wretchedly; his spirits were calmly low--the world seemed to fade away--what was that world to him that Mary did not inhabit; she lived not for him. He was mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dear prop she had sunk into the grave of her lost--long-loved friend;--his attention snatched her from despair. Inscrutable are the ways of Heaven! The third day Mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the wind continued in the same point, they should set sail the next evening. She tried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not useless she appeared less agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyage with composure. On great occasions she was generally calm and collected, her resolution would brace her unstrung nerves; but after the victory she had no triumph; she would sink into a state of moping melancholy, and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was over. The morning of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone with Henry only a few moments, and an awkward kind of formality made them slip away without their having said much to each other. Henry was afraid to discover his passion, or give any other name to his regard but friendship; yet his anxious solicitude for her welfare was ever breaking out-while she as artlessly expressed again and again, her fears with respect to his declining health. "We shall soon meet," said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; she caught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not knowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room. When she was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The few precious moments I have thus thrown away may never return," she thought-the reflection led to misery. She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She could not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her more than can be well conceived. The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For a while the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry, though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his own. "My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this spot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah! no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement! Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?" Ann occupied her until they reached the ship. The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the last;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of parting with him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she looked round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time. She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole which was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. On this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable to close her eyes. A small taper made the darkness visible; and the third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment. "Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling winds and dashing waves;--on no human support can I rest--when not lost to hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to them. How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it over--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will only be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.--Yet surely, I am not alone!" Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them. "Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to be composed--to forget my Henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawn across in an agony. CHAP. XX. The mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her some refreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness or civility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted: peevishly she desired him not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when her heart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink. After drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into a death-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, on the contrary, she awoke languid and stupid. The wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had she struggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever, which sometimes gave her false spirits. The winds then became very tempestuous, the Great Deep was troubled, and all the passengers appalled. Mary then left her bed, and went on deck, to survey the contending elements: the scene accorded with the present state of her soul; she thought in a few hours I may go home; the prisoner may be released. The vessel rose on a wave and descended into a yawning gulph--Not slower did her mounting soul return to earth, for--Ah! her treasure and her heart was there. The squalls rattled amongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then die away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with a tremendous roar. In a little vessel in the midst of such a storm she was not dismayed; she felt herself independent. Just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help of a glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, drifted about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm. Mary's thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink of destruction. They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed the trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loud cries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and with ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launched their boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of the sea. Stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched the boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view--she ceased to breathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again. At last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and Mary caught the poor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them in thanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to still the raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour. Amongst the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when she was hauled on board: Mary undressed her, and when she had recovered, and soothed her, left her to enjoy the rest she required to recruit her strength, which fear had quite exhausted. She returned again to view the angry deep; and when she gazed on its perturbed state, she thought of the Being who rode on the wings of the wind, and stilled the noise of the sea; and the madness of the people--He only could speak peace to her troubled spirit! she grew more calm; the late transaction had gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself. One of the sailors, happening to say to another, "that he believed the world was going to be at an end;" this observation led her into a new train of thoughts: some of Handel's sublime compositions occurred to her, and she sung them to the grand accompaniment. The Lord God Omnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever!--Why then did she fear the sorrows that were passing away, when she knew that He would bind up the broken-hearted, and receive those who came out of great tribulation. She retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book that was now her only confident. It was after midnight. "At this solemn hour, the great day of judgment fills my thoughts; the day of retribution, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed; when all worldly distinctions will fade away, and be no more seen. I have not words to express the sublime images which the bare contemplation of this awful day raises in my mind. Then, indeed, the Lord Omnipotent will reign, and He will wipe the tearful eye, and support the trembling heart--yet a little while He hideth his face, and the dun shades of sorrow, and the thick clouds of folly separate us from our God; but when the glad dawn of an eternal day breaks, we shall know even as we are known. Here we walk by faith, and not by sight; and we have this alternative, either to enjoy the pleasures of life which are but for a season, or look forward to the prize of our high calling, and with fortitude, and that wisdom which is from above, endeavour to bear the warfare of life. We know that many run the race; but he that striveth obtaineth the crown of victory. Our race is an arduous one! How many are betrayed by traitors lodged in their own breasts, who wear the garb of Virtue, and are so near akin; we sigh to think they should ever lead into folly, and slide imperceptibly into vice. Surely any thing like happiness is madness! Shall probationers of an hour presume to pluck the fruit of immortality, before they have conquered death? it is guarded, when the great day, to which I allude, arrives, the way will again be opened. Ye dear delusions, gay deceits, farewel! and yet I cannot banish ye for ever; still does my panting soul push forward, and live in futurity, in the deep shades o'er which darkness hangs.--I try to pierce the gloom, and find a resting-place, where my thirst of knowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object to fix them. Every thing material must change; happiness and this fluctating principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, and happiness,--what are ye? How shall I grasp the mighty and fleeting conceptions ye create?" After writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of the Father of Spirits; and slept in peace. CHAP. XXI. Mary rose early, refreshed by the seasonable rest, and went to visit the poor woman, whom she found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard that she had lately buried her husband, a common sailor; and that her only surviving child had been washed over-board the day before. Full of her own danger, she scarcely thought of her child till that was over; and then she gave way to boisterous emotions. Mary endeavoured to calm her at first, by sympathizing with her; and she tried to point out the only solid source of comfort but in doing this she encountered many difficulties; she found her grossly ignorant, yet she did not despair: and as the poor creature could not receive comfort from the operations of her own mind, she laboured to beguile the hours, which grief made heavy, by adapting her conversation to her capacity. There are many minds that only receive impressions through the medium of the senses: to them did Mary address herself; she made her some presents, and promised to assist her when they should arrive in England. This employment roused her out of her late stupor, and again set the faculties of her soul in motion; made the understanding contend with the imagination, and the heart throbbed not so irregularly during the contention. How short-lived was the calm! when the English coast was descried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor.--She was to visit and comfort the mother of her lost friend--And where then should she take up her residence? These thoughts suspended the exertions of her understanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarming apprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude. CHAP. XXII. In England then landed the forlorn wanderer. She looked round for some few moments--her affections were not attracted to any particular part of the Island. She knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to which she was going: the mass of buildings appeared to her a huge body without an informing soul. As she passed through the streets in an hackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. She met some women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors, made her shrink into herself, and exclaim, are these my fellow creatures! Detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up the river in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she saw vulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first time such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight.--Forgetting her own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view of innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and could not bear to see her own species sink below them. In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the mother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did not resemble Ann. To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the unfortunate mother of her loss. The poor woman, oppressed by it, and her many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all her past misfortunes, and present cares. The heavy tale lasted until midnight, and the impression it made on Mary's mind was so strong, that it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things. She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging, and relieved her present necessities. A few days were spent in a kind of listless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thought of returning home. She had hitherto treated her with the greatest respect, and concealed her wonder at Mary's choosing a remote room in the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as if she intended living in it. Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probable she would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she could not have talked of her passion to any human creature. She deliberated, and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living with her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--Not live with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could not answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more? I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave. CHAP. XXIII. Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more intimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want of education. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind. One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she resided in, caught her eye. She accosted him; in a confused manner, he informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the bread he could not earn. Mary desired to be conducted to his habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tattered shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth; round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of festivity. It was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or singing indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yet she had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On the floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the broken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children, all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes, exhibited none of the charms of childhood. Some were fighting, and others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary was petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and, regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch, and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want. Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband for a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a shop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of horror and satisfaction. She visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary to her expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesome food had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw her rising as it were from the grave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of it till she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such an alarming progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but the disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; and Mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the crisis, the symptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, without regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low: she wanted a tender nurse. For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the woman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto supported her; as her finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try to earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse. Two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from Henry. He was sick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and all the people ungrateful. She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she wrote in her book another fragment: "Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude, disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel joy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly susceptible of misery? It is true, I have experienced the most rapturous emotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, which only serves to shew my present misery--yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and my brain--why dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why do thoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappear leave such deep traces? I could almost wish for the madman's happiness, and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe. "Oh! reason, thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when I most need thy assistance! Canst thou not calm this internal tumult, and drive away the death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me,--a sadness surely very nearly allied to despair. I am now the prey of apathy--I could wish for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimes illumined my path; I had a pursuit; but now _it visits not my haunts forlorn_. Too well have I loved my fellow creatures! I have been wounded by ingratitude; from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth. "When overwhelmed by sorrow, I have met unkindness; I looked for some one to have pity on me; but found none!--The healing balm of sympathy is denied; I weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my cheeks. I have not the medicine of life, the dear chimera I have so often chased, a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! dost thou ever visit thy poor Mary? Refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep, to see her struggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which corrode her small portion of comfort!" She could not write any more; she wished herself far distant from all human society; a thick gloom spread itself over her mind: but did not make her forget the very beings she wished to fly from. She sent for the poor woman she found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herself and children, and buy some furniture for a little hut, in a large garden, the master of which agreed to employ her husband, who had been bred a gardener. Mary promised to visit the family, and see their new abode when she was able to go out. CHAP. XXIV. Mary still continued weak and low, though it was spring, and all nature began to look gay; with more than usual brightness the sun shone, and a little robin which she had cherished during the winter sung one of his best songs. The family were particularly civil this fine morning, and tried to prevail on her to walk out. Any thing like kindness melted her; she consented. Softer emotions banished her melancholy, and she directed her steps to the habitation she had rendered comfortable. Emerging out of a dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when she had last walked out, snow covered the ground, and bleak winds pierced her through and through: now the hedges were green, the blossoms adorned the trees, and the birds sung. She reached the dwelling, without being much exhausted and while she rested there, observed the children sporting on the grass, with improved complexions. The mother with tears thanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. Mary's tears flowed not only from sympathy, but a complication of feelings and recollections the affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again to play, and reanimated nature. She observed the change in herself, tried to account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapsody on sensibility. "Sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul is susceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it last unmixed, we might form some conjecture of the bliss of those paradisiacal days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion of reason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction. "It is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us to relish the sublime touches of the poet, and the painter; it is this, which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed with tenderness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of a good action. The same effect we experience in the spring, when we hail the returning sun, and the consequent renovation of nature; when the flowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice of music is heard in the land. Softened by tenderness; the soul is disposed to be virtuous. Is any sensual gratification to be compared to that of feelings the eves moistened after having comforted the unfortunate? "Sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but these raptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by what strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of nature escape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections.--But it is only to be felt; it escapes discussion." She then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which was rendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian of life, of polished manners, and dazzling wit. He endeavoured to draw Mary out, and succeeded; she entered into conversation, and some of her artless flights of genius struck him with surprise; he found she had a capacious mind, and that her reason was as profound as her imagination was lively. She glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light of truth. Her expressive countenance shewed what passed in her mind, and her tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicity never threw a shade over her words or actions. Mary found him a man of learning; and the exercise of her understanding would frequently make her forget her griefs, when nothing else could, except benevolence. This man had known the mistress of the house in her youth; good nature induced him to visit her; but when he saw Mary he had another inducement. Her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivation of mind, roused his curiosity; but her dignified manners had such an effect on him, he was obliged to suppress it. He knew men, as well as books; his conversation was entertaining and improving. In Mary's company he doubted whether heaven was peopled with spirits masculine; and almost forgot that he had called the sex "the pretty play things that render life tolerable." He had been the slave of beauty, the captive of sense; love he ne'er had felt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it made the body appear lovely in his eyes. He was humane, despised meanness; but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a useful member of society. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any solid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, or rather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him to hunt down pleasure, he was discontented. Mary observed his character, and wrote down a train of reflections, which these observations led her to make; these reflections received a tinge from her mind; the present state of it, was that kind of painful quietness which arises from reason clouded by disgust; she had not yet learned to be resigned; vague hopes agitated her. "There are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as you dissipate one, another overspreads it. Of this kind are our reasonings concerning happiness; till we are obliged to cry out with the Apostle, _That it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive in what it could consist_, or how satiety could be prevented. Man seems formed for action, though the passions are seldom properly managed; they are either so languid as not to serve as a spur, or else so violent, as to overleap all bounds. "Every individual has its own peculiar trials; and anguish, in one shape or other, visits every heart. Sensibility produces flights of virtue; and not curbed by reason, is on the brink of vice talking, and even thinking of virtue. "Christianity can only afford just principles to govern the wayward feelings and impulses of the heart: every good disposition runs wild, if not transplanted into this soil; but how hard is it to keep the heart diligently, though convinced that the issues of life depend on it. "It is very difficult to discipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcile him to the weakness, the inconsistency of his understanding; and a still more laborious task for him to conquer his passions, and learn to seek content, instead of happiness. Good dispositions, and virtuous propensities, without the light of the Gospel, produce eccentric characters: comet-like, they are always in extremes; while revelation resembles the laws of attraction, and produces uniformity; but too often is the attraction feeble; and the light so obscured by passion, as to force the bewildered soul to fly into void space, and wander in confusion." CHAP. XXV. A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: the servant waited for an answer. Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry; she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his sailing in the first packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquiries were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were expressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as it stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and illness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--she read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt by--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. She wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her the next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of his letter. Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run before to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come; certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret. To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were sung; the books they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a hundred times.--Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she was trying to decypher Chinese characters. After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the street door opened. At last he came, and she who had been counting the hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped the approaching interview. With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful presentiment stilled the internal conflict. She caught his hand, and looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!" "I am very far from well; but it matters not," added he with a smile of resignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is a tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee." Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. She enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought experience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she was sure he would soon recover. She would then look in his face, to see if he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. She tried to avoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise of visiting her the next day. Her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herself to think that she feared an event she could not name. She still saw his pale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she tried to retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed. Henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fade away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck behind? These thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as if to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all was not well there. Out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrival of a letter from her husband; it came to Lisbon after her departure: Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver it himself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced a conversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution took its rise almost equally from benevolence and love. She could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: her fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informed her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master, and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to visit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground, where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the masquerades, and such burlesque amusements. These instances of folly relieved Mary, in some degree reconciled her to herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced something like a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when she reflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to the seemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination, however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, or force us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and that the most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties, refines our affections, and enables us to be useful. One reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty; her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power of comforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy. Heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of His benevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to her own inclinations? These suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion, increased her misery. One moment she was a heroine, half determined to bear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--and tenderness possessed her whole soul. Some instances of Henry's affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her. CHAP. XXVI. Henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of the following week; but still Mary kept up some little formality, a certain consciousness restrained her; and Henry did not enter on the subject which he found she wished to avoid. In the course of conversation, however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain a place in one of the public offices for Ann's brother, as the family were again in a declining way. Henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the following week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whom he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would infallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety. Mary could not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused her face; her blood eloquently spoke. She delighted to receive benefits through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them from Henry was exquisite pleasure. As the summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his fixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him. He could not think of going far off, but chose a little village on the banks of the Thames, near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his mother. They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his violin, and Mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them. She pleased his mother; she inchanted him. It was an advantage to Mary that friendship first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of humanity:--and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one sprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it. The last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black, and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness that had prevailed previous to it. The thunder roared; and the oars plying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a not unpleasing sound. Mary drew still nearer Henry; she wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him.--She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind--he felt them; threw his arm round her waist--and they enjoyed the luxury of wretchedness.--As they touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry was wet; with eager anxiety she cried, What shall I do!--this day will kill thee, and I shall not die with thee! This accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured him, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to--perhaps it was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. In vain did Mary try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! Henry every day grew worse and worse. CHAP. XXVII. Oppressed by her foreboding fears, her sore mind was hurt by new instances of ingratitude: disgusted with the family, whose misfortunes had often disturbed her repose, and lost in anticipated sorrow, she rambled she knew not where; when turning down a shady walk, she discovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. She saw Henry sitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden-gate, and she sat down by him. "I did not," said he, "expect to see thee this evening, my dearest Mary; but I was thinking of thee. Heaven has endowed thee with an uncommon portion of fortitude, to support one of the most affectionate hearts in the world. This is not a time for disguise; I know I am dear to thee--and my affection for thee is twisted with every fibre of my heart.--I loved thee ever since I have been acquainted with thine: thou art the being my fancy has delighted to form; but which I imagined existed only there! In a little while the shades of death will encompass me--ill-fated love perhaps added strength to my disease, and smoothed the rugged path. Try, my love, to fulfil thy destined course--try to add to thy other virtues patience. I could have wished, for thy sake, that we could have died together--or that I could live to shield thee from the assaults of an unfeeling world! Could I but offer thee an asylum in these arms--a faithful bosom, in which thou couldst repose all thy griefs--" He pressed her to it, and she returned the pressure--he felt her throbbing heart. A mournful silence ensued! when he resumed the conversation. "I wished to prepare thee for the blow--too surely do I feel that it will not be long delayed! The passion I have nursed is so pure, that death cannot extinguish it--or tear away the impression thy virtues have made on my soul. I would fain comfort thee--" "Talk not of comfort," interrupted Mary, "it will be in heaven with thee and Ann--while I shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!"--She grasped his hand. "There we shall meet, my love, my Mary, in our Father's--" His voice faultered; he could not finish the sentence; he was almost suffocated--they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walked slowly to the garden-gate (Mary would not go into the house); they could not say farewel when they reached it--and Mary hurried down the lane; to spare Henry the pain of witnessing her emotions. When she lost sight of the house she sat down on the ground, till it grew late, thinking of all that had passed. Full of these thoughts, she crept along, regardless of the descending rain; when lifting up her eyes to heaven, and then turning them wildly on the prospects around, without marking them; she only felt that the scene accorded with her present state of mind. It was the last glimmering of twilight, with a full moon, over which clouds continually flitted. Where am I wandering, God of Mercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what a labyrinth am I lost! What miseries have I already encountered--and what a number lie still before me. Her thoughts flew rapidly to something. I could be happy listening to him, soothing his cares.--Would he not smile upon me--call me his own Mary? I am not his--said she with fierceness--I am a wretch! and she heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were running into confusion. Wherefore am I made thus? Vain are my efforts--I cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness.--Yet I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction. She looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters.--No where could she find rest. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is not my abiding place--may I not too go home! Ah! no. Is this complying with my Henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to associate with his? Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. She felt the rain, and turned to her solitary home. Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers. Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten to draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre; the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked; her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one object. Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the Window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's scene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe, were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these arms shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world." The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy; but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated. Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the remnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to come after that? CHAP. XXVIII. Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother called on her. "My son is worse to-day," said she, "I come to request you to spend not only this day, but a week or two with me.--Why should I conceal any thing from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and, in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when I shall be childless. I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked thus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a widow--may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?" This new instance of Henry's disinterested affection, Mary felt most forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth the wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forced tears from her, by saying, "I deserve this blow; my partial fondness made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect, perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous Heaven has made my crime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss my child--my only child!" When they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; but during the short ride, the mother related several instances of Henry's goodness of heart. Mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the display of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human nature prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a more genial clime. CHAP. XXIX. She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declared he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certain he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by opiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sigh did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. She would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of hope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head where she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--she could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven be done. While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him believe he was resigned, than really to be so. She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which was to extend beyond the grave. She did so, and received comfort from it; she rose above her misery. His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyes appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for his last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent emotion. The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time only attended to Mary--Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience increased her sorrow; she whispered him, "Thy mother weeps, disregarded by thee; oh! comfort her!--My mother, thy son blesses thee.--" The oppressed parent left the room. And Mary _waited_ to see him die. She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened his eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gave a look--it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted? Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not a complete wretch! The words almost choked her. He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. At last, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up. Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die in her arms. Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its prison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last sigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, she calmly cried. The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light from an opened window discovered the pale face. She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained the body. Every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful rapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. She sat till midnight.--Then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, and desired those who watched the body to retire. She knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame the dictates of despair.--She prayed most ardently to be supported, and dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she had committed the spirit she almost adored--again--and again,--she prayed wildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--her head swum--she sunk-- CHAP. XXX. Three months after, her only friend, the mother of her lost Henry began to be alarmed, at observing her altered appearance; and made her own health a pretext for travelling. These complaints roused Mary out of her torpid state; she imagined a new duty now forced her to exert herself--a duty love made sacred!-- They went to Bath, from that to Bristol; but the latter place they quickly left; the sight of the sick that resort there, they neither of them could bear. From Bristol they flew to Southampton. The road was pleasant--yet Mary shut her eyes;--or if they were open, green fields and commons, passed in quick succession, and left no more traces behind than if they had been waves of the sea. Some time after they were settled at Southampton, they met the man who took so much notice of Mary, soon after her return to England. He renewed his acquaintance; he was really interested in her fate, as he had heard her uncommon story; besides, he knew her husband; knew him to be a good-natured, weak man. He saw him soon after his arrival in his native country, and prevented his hastening to enquire into the reasons of Mary's strange conduct. He desired him not to be too precipitate, if he ever wished to possess an invaluable treasure. He was guided by him, and allowed him to follow Mary to Southampton, and speak first to her friend. This friend determined to trust to her native strength of mind, and informed her of the circumstance; but she overrated it: Mary was not able, for a few days after the intelligence, to fix on the mode of conduct she ought now to pursue. But at last she conquered her disgust, and wrote her _husband_ an account of what had passed since she had dropped his correspondence. He came in person to answer the letter. Mary fainted when he approached her unexpectedly. Her disgust returned with additional force, in spite of previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed on to promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year, travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her. The time too quickly elapsed, and she gave him her hand--the struggle was almost more than she could endure. She tried to appear calm; time mellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husband would take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantly feel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, that the earth would open and swallow her. CHAP. XXXI. Mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; but her nerves were not to be restored to their former state. She then retired to her house in the country, established manufactories, threw the estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this way to dissipate care, and banish unavailing regret. She visited the sick, supported the old, and educated the young. These occupations engrossed her mind; but there were hours when all her former woes would return and haunt her.--Whenever she did, or said, any thing she thought Henry would have approved of--she could not avoid thinking with anguish, of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed to her heart--a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence and religion could not fill. The latter taught her to struggle for resignation; and the former rendered life supportable. Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments of solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind--She thought she was hastening to that world _where there is neither marrying_, nor giving in marriage. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What is Clifford's profession?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The story is a movie script, specifically the script for the movie "True Romance" (1993) directed by Tony Scott and written by Quentin Tarantino. The story revolves around Clarence Worley, a young man who falls in love with Alabama Whitman, a call girl, and gets involved in a series of events that lead to a violent confrontation with a group of gangsters. The story also features a number of subplots, including Clarence's relationship with his father, his friendship with Dick Ritchie, and the involvement of a number of other characters, including Vincenzo Coccotti, a Sicilian gangster, and Lee Donowitz, a movie producer. The story is known for its non-linear narrative, witty dialogue, and graphic violence. It features a number of memorable characters, including Clarence, Alabama, Dick, and Vincenzo, and explores themes of love, loyalty, and redemption. The script is written in a style that is characteristic of Tarantino's work, with a focus on dialogue and a non-linear narrative structure. It features a number of homages to other movies and TV shows, including "The Godfather" and "The Sopranos." The story takes place in a number of locations, including Detroit, Los Angeles, and the Beverly Wilshire hotel. It features a number of action sequences, including a shootout at the Beverly Wilshire hotel, and a number of dramatic moments, including Clarence's confrontation with Vincenzo. The script is notable for its use of violence and profanity, and has been praised for its originality and style. It has been compared to other Tarantino movies, including "Pulp Fiction" and "Reservoir Dogs." The story is also notable for its use of music, including a number of songs by Elvis Presley. The script features a number of references to Elvis, including a scene in which Clarence and Alabama sing a duet of "Can't Help Falling in Love." The story has been praised for its originality and style, and has been compared to other Tarantino movies. It has also been criticized for its graphic violence and profanity. The script is written in a style that is characteristic of Tarantino's work, with a focus on dialogue and a non-linear narrative structure. It features a number of homages to other movies and TV shows, including "The Godfather" and "The Sopranos." The story takes place in a number of locations, including Detroit, Los Angeles, and the Beverly Wilshire hotel. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "A security guard." ]	29,630	narrativeqa	en	null	7570a52d69ab93c5f54eba4c45d44a3411650c1e4694760a	<b><HTML> <HEAD> <TITLE>TRUE ROMANCE</TITLE> </b><LINK rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"> <META http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <style type="text/css"> BODY { background-color: "#FFFFFF"; font-family: Courier New, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size:10.0pt } DIV { position:absolute; left:5px; top:20px; width:734px; height:500px; } #loc { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.2in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in;text-transform:uppercase } #slug { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal; margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.2in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in; text-transform:uppercase; <b> </b><b>} </b> #act { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.8in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in } #speaker { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:2.8in;text-transform:uppercase } #spkdir { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:2.7in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:2.2in } #dia { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:2.6in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:1.6in } #pg { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.75in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:6.5in } #right { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:0.75in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:5.0in } </style> <div id="Layer1"> <b></HEAD> </b> <b><BODY> </b></p><p><p ID="act">True Romance </p><p><p ID="act">by Quentin Tarantino </p><p><p ID="act">When you are tired of relationships, try a romance. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BAR - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A smoky cocktail bar downtown Detroit. </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE WORLEY, a young hipster hepcat, is trying to pick up an older lady named LUCY. She isn't bothered by him, in fact, she's alittle charmed. But, you can tell, that she isn't going to leave her barstool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In "Jailhouse Rock" he's everything rockabilly's about. I mean he is rockabilly: mean, surly, nasty, rude. In that movie he couldn't give a fuck about anything except rockin' and rollin', livin' fast, dyin' young, and leaving a good-looking corpse. I love that scene where after he's made it big he's throwing a big cocktail party, and all these highbrows are there, and he's singing, "Baby You're So Square... Baby, I Don't Care". Now, they got him dressed like a dick. He's wearing these stupid-lookin' pants, this horrible sweater. Elvis ain't no sweater boy. I even think they got him wearin' penny loafers. Despite all that shit, all the highbrows at the party, big house, the stupid clothes, he's still a rude-lookin' motherfucker. I'd watch that hillbilly and I'd want to be him so bad. Elvis looked good. I'm no fag, but Elvis was good-lookin'. He was fuckin' prettier than most women. I always said if I ever had to fuck a guy... I mean had too 'cause my life depended on it... I'd fuck Elvis. </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy takes a drag from her cigarette. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">I'd fuck Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">When he was alive. I wouldn't fuck him now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I don't blame you. <P ID="spkdir">(they laugh) <P ID="dia">So we'd both fuck Elvis. It's nice to meet people with common interests, isn't it? </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy laughs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, enough about the King, how 'bout you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">How 'bout me what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How 'bout you go to the movies with me tonight? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">What are we gonna see? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A Donny Chiba triple feature. "The Streetfighter", "Return of the Streetfighter", and "Sister Streetfighter". </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">Who's Sonny Chiba? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He is, bar none, the greatest actor working in martial arts movies ever. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="spkdir">(not believing this) <P ID="dia">You wanna take me to a kung fu movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(holding up three fingers) <P ID="dia">Three kung fu movies. </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy takes a drag from her cigarette. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">I don't think so, not my cup of tea. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DINGY HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The sounds of the city flow in through an open window: car horns, gun shots and violence. Paint is peeling off the walls and the once green carpet is stained black. </p><p><p ID="act">On the bed nearby is a huge open suitcase filled with clear plastic bags of cocaine. Shotguns and pistols have been dropped carelessly around the suitcase. On the far end of the room, against the wall, is a TV. "Bewitched" is playing. </p><p><p ID="act">At the opposite end of the room, by the front, is a table. DREXL SPIVEY and FLOYD DIXON sit around. Cocaine is on the table as well as little plastic bags and a weigher. Floyd is black, Drexl is a white boy, though you wouldn't know it listen to him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, get outta my face with that bullshit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw man, I don't be eatin' that shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">That's bullshit. </p><p><p ID="act">BIG DON WATTS, a stout, mean-looking black man who's older than Drexl and Floyd. Walks through the door carrying hamburgers and french fries in two greasy brown-paper bags. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw man, that's some serious shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, you lie like a big dog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">What the fuck are you talkin' about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Floyd say he don't be eatin' pussy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Shit, any nigger say he don't eat pussy is lyin' his ass off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">I heard that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Hold on a second, Big D. You sayin' you eat pussy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Nigger, I eat everything. I eat pussy. I eat the butt. I eat every motherfuckin' thang. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Preach on, Big D. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Look here. If I ever did eat some pussy - I would never eat any pussy - but, if I did eat some pussy, I sure as hell wouldn't tell no goddamn body. I'd be ashamed as a motherfucker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Shit! Nigger you smoke enough sherm your dumb ass'll do a lot a crazy ass things. So you won't eat pussy? Motherfucker, you be up there suckin' niggers' dicks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Heard that. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D bump fists. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yeah, that's right, laugh. It's so funny, oh it's so funny. <P ID="spkdir">(he takes a hit off of a joint) <P ID="dia">There used to be a time when sisters didn't know shit about gettin' their pussy licked. Then the sixties came an' they started fuckin' around with white boys. And white boys are freaks for that shit - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">- Because it's good! </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Then, after a while sisters use to gettin' their little pussy eat. And because you white boys had to make pigs out of yourselves, you fucked it up for every nigger in the world everywhere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Drexl. On behalf of me and all the brothers who aren't here, I'd like to express our gratitude - </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D bust up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Go on pussy-eaters... laugh. You look like you be eatin' pussy. You got pussy-eatin' mugs. Now if a nigger wants to get his dick sucked he's got to do a bunch of fucked-up shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">So you do eat pussy! </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw naw! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">You don't like it, but you eat that shit. <P ID="spkdir">(to Drexl) <P ID="dia">He eats it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Damn skippy. He like it, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(mock English accent) <P ID="dia">Me thinketh he doth protest too much. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Well fuck you guys then! You guys are fucked up! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Why you trippin'? We jus' fuckin' with ya. But I wanna ask you a question. You with some fine bitch, I mean a brick shithouse bitch - you're with Jayne Kennedy. You're with Jayne Kennedy and you say "Bitch, suck my dick!" and then Jayne Kennedy says, "First things first, nigger, I ain't suckin' shit till you bring your ass over here and lick my bush!" Now, what do you say? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I tell Jayne Kennedy, "Suck my dick or I'll beat your ass!" </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Nigger, get real. You touch Jayne Kennedy she'll have you ass in Wayne County so fast - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, back off, you ain't beatin' shit. Now what would you do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I'd say fuck it! </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D get up from the table disgusted and walk away, leaving Floyd sitting all alone. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D sits on the bed, his back turned to Floyd, watching "Bewitched". </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="spkdir">(yelling after them) <P ID="dia">Ain't no man have to eat pussy! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(not even looking) <P ID="dia">Take that shit somewhere else. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(marching back) <P ID="dia">You tell Jayne Kennedy to fuck it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">If it came down to who eats who, damn skippy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">With that terrible mug of yours if Jayne Kennedy told you to eat her pussy, kiss her ass, lick her feet, chow on her shit, and suck her dog's dick, nigger, you'd aim to please. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(glued on TV) <P ID="dia">I'm hip. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">In fact, I'm gonna show you what I mean with a little demonstration. Big D, toss me that shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Without turning away from "Bewitched" he picks up the shotgun and tosses it to Drexl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Floyd) <P ID="dia">All right, check this out. <P ID="spkdir">(referring to shotgun) <P ID="dia">Now, pretend this is Jayne Kennedy. And you're you. </p><p><p ID="act">Then, in a blink, he points the shotgun at Floyd and blows him away. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D leaps off the bed and spins toward Drexl. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl, waiting for him, fires from across the room. </p><p><p ID="act">The blast hits the big man in the right arm and shoulder, spinning him around. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl makes a beeline for his victim and fires again. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D is hit with a blast, full in the back. He slams into the wall and drops. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl collects the suitcase full of cocaine and leaves. As he gets to the front door he surveys the carnage, spits and walks out. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. CLIFF'S MOVING CAR - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">A big white Chevy Nova is driving down the road with a sunrise sky as a backdrop. The song "Little Bitty Tear" is heard a capella. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLIFF'S MOVING CAR - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff Worley is driving his car home from work, singing this song gently to the sunrise. He's a forty-five-years-old ex-cop, at present a security guard. In between singing he takes sips from a cup of take-out coffee. He's dressed in a security guard uniform. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER PARK - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's Nova pulls in as he continues crooning. He pulls up to his trailer to see something that stops him short. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's POV Through windshield </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and a nice-looking YOUNG WOMAN are watching for him in front of his trailer. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - CLIFF </p><p><p ID="act">Upon seeing Clarence, a little bitty tear rolls down Cliff's cheek. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLIFF'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Young Woman walk over to the car. Clarence sticks his face through the driver's side window. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Good Morning, Daddy. Long time no see. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">All three enter the trailer home. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Excuse the place, I haven't been entertaining company as of late. Sorry if I'm acting a little dense, but you're the last person in the world I expected to see this morning. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Young Girl walk into the living room. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, well, tha's OK, Daddy, I tend to have that effect on people. I'm dyin' on thirst, you got anything to drink? </p><p><p ID="act">He moves past Cliff and heads straight for his refridgerator. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I think there's a Seven-Up in there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(rumaging around the fridge) <P ID="dia">Anything stronger? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Oh, probably not. Beer? You can drink beer, can't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I can, but I don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(closing the fridge) <P ID="dia">That's about all I ever eat. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff looks at the Girl. She smiles sweetly at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="spkdir">(to Girl) <P ID="dia">I'm sorry... I'm his father. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG GIRL <P ID="spkdir">(sticking her hand out) <P ID="dia">That's OK, I'm his wife. <P ID="spkdir">(shaking his hand vigorously) <P ID="dia">Alabama Worley, pleased to meetcha. </p><p><p ID="act">She is really pumping his arm, just like a used-car salesman. However, that's where the similarities end; Alabama's totally sincere. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence steps back into the living room, holding a bunch of little ceramic fruit magnets in his hand. He throws his other arm around Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh yeah, we got married. <P ID="spkdir">(referring to the magnets) <P ID="dia">You still have these. <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">This isn't a complete set; when I was five I swallowed the pomegranate one. I never shit it out, so I guess it's still there. Loverdoll, why don't you be a sport and go get us some beer. I want some beer. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Do you want some beer? Well, if you want some it's here. </p><p><p ID="act">He hands her some money and his car keys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Go to the liquor store - <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Where is there a liquor store around here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Uh, yeah... there's a party store down 54th. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Get a six-pack of something imported. It's hard to tell you what to get 'cause different places have different things. If they got Fosters, get that, if not, ask the guy at the thing what the strongest imported beer he has. Look, since you're making a beer run, would you mind too terribly if you did a foot run as well. I'm fuckin' starvin' to death. Are you hungry too? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm pretty hungry. When I went to the store I was gonna get some Ding-Dongs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, fuck that shit, we'll get some real food. What would taste good. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">What do you think would taste good? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I'm really not very - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know what would taste good? Chicken. I haven't had chicken in a while. Chicken would really hit the spot about now. Chicken and beer, definitly, absolutely, without a doubt. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Where's a good chicken place around here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I really don't know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't know the chicken places around where you live? <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Ask the guy at the place where a chicken place is. </p><p><p ID="act">He gives her some more money. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This should cover it, Auggie-Doggie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Okee-dokee, Doggie-Daddy. </p><p><p ID="act">She opens the door and starts out. Clarence turns to his dad as the door shuts. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Isn't she the sweetest goddamned girl you ever saw in your whole life? Is she a four alarm fire, or what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">She seems very nice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Daddy. Nice isn't the word. Nice is an insult. She's a peach. That's the only word for it, she's a peach. She even tastes like a peach. You can tell I'm in love with her. You can tell by my face, can't ya? It's a dead giveaway. It's written all over it. Ya know what? She loves me back. Take a seat, Pop, we gotta talk - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Clarence, just shut up, you're giving me a headache! I can't believe how much like your mother you are. You're your fuckin' mother through and through. I haven't heard from ya in three years. Then ya show up all of a sudden at eight o'clock in the morning. You walk in like a goddamn bulldozer... don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see you... just slow it down. Now, when did you get married? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Daddy, I'm in big fuckin' trouble and I really need your help. </p><p><p ID="act">BLACK TITLE CARD: "HOLLYWOOD" </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. OUTSIDE OF CASTING DIRECTOR'S OFFICER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">FOUR YOUNG ACTORS are sitting on a couch with sheets of paper in their hands silently mouthing lines. One of the actors is DICK RITCHIE. The casting director, MARY LOUISE RAVENCROFT, steps into the waiting room, clip board in hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Dick Ritchie? </p><p><p ID="act">Dick pops up from the pack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'm me... I mean, that's me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Step inside. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CASTING DIRECTOR'S OFFICE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">She sits behind a large desk. Her name-plate rests on the desktop. Several posters advertising "The Return of T.J. Hooker" hang on the wall. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick sits in a chair, holding his sheets in his hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Well, the part you're reading for is one of the bad guys. There's Brian and Marty. Peter Breck's already been cast as Brian. And you're reading for the part of Marty. Now in this scene you're both in a car and Bill Shatner's hanging on the hood. And what you're trying to do is get him off. <P ID="spkdir">(she picks a up a copy of the script) <P ID="dia">Whenever you're ready. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(reading and miming driving) <P ID="dia">Where'd you come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="spkdir">(reading from the script lifelessly) <P ID="dia">I don't know. He just appeared as magic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(reading from script) <P ID="dia">Well, don't just sit there, shoot him. </p><p><p ID="act">She puts her script down, and smiles at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">That was very good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">If we decided on making him a New York type, could you do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Sure. No problem. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Could we try it now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Absolutely. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick picks up the script and begins, but this time with a Brooklyn accent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Where'd he come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="spkdir">(monotone, as before) <P ID="dia">I don't know. He just appeared as magic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, don't just sit there, shoot him. </p><p><p ID="act">Ravencroft puts her script down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Well, Mr. Ritchie, I'm impressed. You're a very fine actor. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick smiles. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's completely aghast. He just stares, unable to come to grips with what Clarence has told him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, I don't know this is pretty heavy-duty, so if you wanna explode, feel free. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You're always making jokes. That's what you do, isn't it? Make jokes. Making jokes is the one thing you're good at, isn't it? But if you make a joke about this - <P ID="spkdir">(raising his voice) <P ID="dia">- I'm gonna go completely out of my fuckin' head! </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff pauses and collects himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What do you want from me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Stop acting like an infant. You're here because you want me to help you in some way. What do you need from me? You need money? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you still have friends on the force? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yes, I still have friends on the force. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Could you find out if they know anythin'? I don't know they know shit about us. But I don't wanna think, I wanna know. You could find out for sure what's goin' on. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Daddy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What makes you think I could do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You were a cop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What makes you think I would do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm your son. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You got it all worked out, don't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, goddamnit, I never asked you for a goddamn thing! I've tried to make your parental obligation as easy as possible. After Mom divorced you, did I ask you for anything? When I wouldn't see ya for six months to a year at a time, did you ever get your shit about it? No, it was always "OK", "No problem", "You're a busy guy, I understand". The whole time you were a drunk, did I ever point my finger at you and talk shit? No! Everybody else did. I never did. You see, I know that you're just a bad parent. You're not really very good at it. But I know you love me. I'm basically a pretty resourceful guy. If I didn't really need it I wouldn't ask. And if you say no, don't worry about it. I'm gone. No problems. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks in through the door carrying a shopping bag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">The forager's back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank God. I could eat a horse if you slap enough catsup on it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I didn't get any chicken. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's nine o'clock in the morning. Nothing's open. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - BEDROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's on the telephone in his bedroom, pacing as he talks. The living room od the trailer can be seen from his doorway, where Clarence and Alabama are horsing around. They giggle and cut up throughout the scene. As Cliff talks, all the noise and hubbub of a police station comes through over the line. He's talking to DETECTIVE WILSON, an old friend of his from the force. </p><p><p ID="act">We see both inside the conversation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">It's about that pimp that was shot a couple of days ago, Drexl Spivey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">What about him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Well, Ted, to tell you the truth, I found out through the grapevine that it might be, and I only said might be, the Drexl Spivey that was responsible for that restaurant break-in on Riverdale. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">Are you still working security for Foster & Langley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah, and the restaurant's on my route. And you know, I stuck my nose in for the company to try to put a stop to some of these break-ins. Now, while I have no proof, the name Drexl Spivey kept comin' up Who's case is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">McTeague. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I don't know him. Is he a nice guy? You think he'll help me out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">I don't see why not. When you gonna come round and see my new place? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You and Robin moved? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">Shit, are you behind. Me and Robin got a divorce six months ago. Got myself a new place - mirrors all over the bedroom, ceiling fans above the bed. Guy'd have to look as ugly as King Kong not to get laid in this place. I'm serious, a guy'd have to look like a gorilla. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER HOME - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Cliff stand by Clarence's 1965 red Mustang. Alabama's amusing herself by doing cartwheels and handstands in the background. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">They have nothing. In fact, they think it's drug related. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do tell. Why drug related? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Apparently, Drexl had a big toe stuck in shit like that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No shit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah. Drexl had an association with a fella named Blue Lou Boyle. Name mean anything to you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">If you don't hang around in this circle, no reason it should. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who is he? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Gangster. Drug Dealer. Somebody you don't want on your ass. Look, Clarence, the more I hear about this Drexl fucker, the more I think you did the right thing. That guy wasn't just some wild flake. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's what I've been tellin' ya. The guy was like a mad dog. So the cops aren't looking for me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Naw, until they hear something better they'll assume Drexl and Blue Lou had a falling out. So, once you leave twon, I wouldn't worry about it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sticks his hand out to shake. Cliff takes it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot, Daddy. You really came through for me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I got some money I can give you - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Keep it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Well, son, I want you to know I hope everything works out with you and Alabama. I like her. I think you make a cute couple. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We do make a cute couple, don't we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah, well, just stay outta trouble. Remeber, you got a wife to think about. Quit fuckin' around. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I love you son. </p><p><p ID="act">They hug each other, </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes a pice of paper out and puts it into Cliff's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This is Dick's number in Hollywood. We don't know where we'll be, but you can get a hold of me through him. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns toward Alabama and yells to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Bama, we're outta here. Kiss Pops goodbye, </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama runs across from where she was and throws her arms around Cliff and gives him a big smackeroo on the lips. Cliff's a little startled. Alabama's bubbling like a Fresca. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye, Daddy! Hope to see you again real soon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(mock anger) <P ID="dia">What kind of daughterly smackeroo was that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, hush up. </p><p><p ID="act">The two get into the Mustang. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">We'll send you a postcard as soon as we get to Hollywood. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence starts the engine. The convertible roof opens as they talk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Bama, you take care of that one for me. Keep him out of trouble. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Don't worry, Daddy, I'm keepin' this fella on a short leash. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, slowly, starts driving away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">As the sun sets slowly in the west we bid a fond farewell to all the friends we've made... and, with a touch of melancholy, we look forward to the time when we will all be together again. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence peels out, shooting a shower of gravel up in the air. </p><p><p ID="act">As the Mustang disappears Cliff runs his tongue over his lips. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF </p><p><p ID="act">The-son-of-a-bitch was right... she does taste like a peach. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's apartment is standard issue for a young actor. Things are pretty neat and clean. A nice stereo unit sits on the shelf. A framed picture of a ballet dancer's feet hangs on the wall. </p><p><p ID="act">The phone rings, Dick answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick here. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOTEL SUITE - LAS VEGAS - SUNSET </p><p><p ID="act">Top floor, Las Vegas, Nevada hotel room with a huge picture window overlooking the neon-filled strip and the flaming red and orange sunset sky. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence paces up and down with the telephone in his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(big bopper voice) <P ID="dia">Heeeellllloooo baaaabbbbbyyyy!!! </p><p><p ID="act">Note: We intercut both sides of the conversation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(unsure) <P ID="dia">Clarence? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You got it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's great to hear from you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, you're gonna be seein' me shortly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You comin' to L.A.? When? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What's up? Why're leavin' Detroit? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sits down on the hotel room bed. Alabama, wearing only a long T-shirt with a big picture of Bullwinkle on it, crawls behind him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, there's a story behind all that. I'll tell you when I see you. By the way, I won't be alone. I'm bringing my wife with me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Get the fuck outta here! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm a married man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Get the fuck outta here! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Believe it or not, I actually tricked a girl into falling in love with me. I'm not quite sure how I did it. I'd hate to have to do it again. But I did it. Wanna say hi to my better half? </p><p><p ID="act">Before Dick can respond Clarence puts Alabama on the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick. I'm Alabama Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hello, Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I can't wait to meet you. Clarence told me all about you. He said you were his best friend. So, I guess that makes you my best friend, too. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence start dictating to her what to say. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him we gotta go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence says we gotta be hittin' it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him we'll be hittin' his area some time tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">He said don't go nowhere. We'll be there some time tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Wait a minute - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him not to eat anything. We're gonna scarf when we get there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Don't eat anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Alabama, could you tell Clar - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ask him if he got the letter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Did you get the letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">What letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The letter I sent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">The letter he sent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence sent a letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Has he gotten his mail today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Gotten your mail yet? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, my room-mate leaves it on the TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Has he looked through it yet? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Ya looked through it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Not yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Nope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him to look through it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Get it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Let me speak to Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">He wants to speak with you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No time. Gotta go. Just tell him to read the letter, the letter explains all. Tell him I love him. And tell him, as of tomorrow, all his money problems are over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">He can't. We gotta go, but he wants you to read the letter. The letter explains it all. He wants you to know he loves you. And he wants you to know that as of tomorrow, all of your money problems are over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Money problems? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now tell him goodbye. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye-bye. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now hang up. </p><p><p ID="act">She hangs up the phone. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick hears the click on the other end. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hello, hello, Clarence? Clarence's wife?... I mean Alabama... hello? </p><p><p ID="act">Extremely confused, Dick jangs up the phone. He goes over to the TV and picks up the day's mail. He goes through it. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Southern California Gas Company. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Group W. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Fossenkemp Photography. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Columbia Record and Tape Club. </p><p><p ID="act">LETTER: It's obviously from Clarence. Addressed to Dick. Dick opens it. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">A lower-middle-class trailer park named Astro World, which has a neon sign in front of it in the shape of a planet. </p><p><p ID="act">A big, white Chevy Nova pulls into the park. It parks by a trailer that's slightly less kept up than the others. Cliff gets out of the Chevy. He's drinking out of a fast-food soda cup as he opens the door to his trailer. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">He steps inside the doorway and then, before he knows it, a gun is pressed to his temple and a big hand grabs his shoulder. </p><p><P ID="speaker">GUN CARRIER (DARIO) <P ID="dia">Welcome home, alchy. We're havin' a party. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff is roughly shoved into his living room. Waiting for him are four men, standing: VIRGIL, FRANKIE (young Wise-guy) LENNY (an old Wise-guy), and Tooth-pick Vic (a fireplug pitbull type). </p><p><p ID="act">Sitting in Cliff's recliner is VINCENZO COCCOTTI, the Frank Nitti to Detroid mob leader Blue Lou Boyle. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff is knocked to his knees. He looks up and sees the sitting Coccotti. Dario and Lenny pick him up and roughly drop him in a chair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(to Frankie) <P ID="dia">Tell Tooth-pick Vic to go outside and do you-know-what. </p><p><p ID="act">In Italian Frankie tells Tooth-pick Vic what Coccotti said. He nods and exits. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's chair is moved closer to Coccotti's. Dario stands on one side of Cliff. Frankie and Lenny ransack the trailer. Virgil has a bottle of Chivas Regal in his hand, but he has yet to touch a drop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Do you know who I am, Mr. Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I give up. Who are you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm the Anti-Christ. You get me in a vendetta kind of mood, you will tell the angels in heaven that you had never seen pure evil so singularly personified as you did in the face of the man who killed you. My name is Vincenzo Coccotti. I work as a counsel for Mr. Blue Lou Boyle, the man your son stole from. I hear you were once a cop so I assume you've heard od us before. Am I correct? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I've heard of Blue Lou Boyle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm glad. Hopefully that will clear up the how-full-of-shit-I-am question you've been asking yourself. Now, we're gonna have a little Q and A, and, at the risk of sounding redundant, please make your answers genuine. <P ID="spkdir">(taking out a pack of Chesterfields) <P ID="dia">Want a Chesterfield? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(as he lights up) <P ID="dia">I have a son of my own. About you boy's age. I can imagine how painful this must be for you. But Clarence and that bitch-whore girlfriend of his brought this all on themselves. And I implore you not to go down the road with 'em. You can always take comfort in the fact that you never had a choice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Look, I'd help ya if I could, but I haven't seen Clarence - </p><p><p ID="act">Before Cliff can finish his sentence, Coccotti slams him hard in the nose with his fist. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Smarts, don't it? Gettin' slammed in the nose fucks you all up. You got that pain shootin' through your brain. Your eyes fill up with water. It ain't any kind of fun. But what I have to offer you. That's as good as it's ever gonna get, and it won't ever get that good again. We talked to your neighbors. They saw a Mustang, a red Mustang, Clarence's red Mustang, parked in front of your trailer yesterday. Mr. Worley, have you seen your son? </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's defeated. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I've seen him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Now I can't be sure of how much of what he told you. So in the chance you're in the dark about some of this, let me shed some light. That whore your boy hangs around with, her pimp is an associate of mine, and I don't just mean pimpin', in other affairs he works for me in a courier capacity. Well, apparently, that dirty little whore found out when we're gonna do some business, 'cause your son, the cowboy and his flame, came in the room blastin' and didn't stop till they were pretty sure everybody was dead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What are you talkin' about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm talkin' about a massacre. They snatched my narcotics and hightailed it outta there. Wouldda gotten away with it, but your son, fuckhead that he is, left his driver's license in a dead guy's hand. A whore hiding in the commode filled in all the blanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I don't believe you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">That's of minor importance. But what's of major fuckin' importance is that I believe you. Where did they go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">On their honeymoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm gettin' angry askin' the same question a second time. Where did they go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">They didn't tell me. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Now, wait a minute and listen. I haven't seen Clarence in three years. Yesterday he shows up here with a girl, sayin' he got married. He told me he needed some quick cash for a honeymoon, so he asked if he could borrow five hundred dollars. I wanted to help him out so I wrote out a check. We went to breakfast and that's the last I saw of him. So help me God. They never thought to tell me where they were goin'. And I never thought to ask. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him for a long moment. He then gives Virgil a look. Virgil, quick as greased lightning, grabs Cliff's hand and turns it palm up. He then whips out a butterfly knife and slices Cliff's palm open and pours Chivas Regal on the wound. Cliff screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti puffs on a Chesterfield. </p><p><p ID="act">Tooth-pic Vic returns to the trailer, and reports in Italian that there's nothing in the car. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil walks into the kitchen and gets a dishtowel. Cliff holds his bleeding palm in agony. Virgil hands him the dishtowel. Cliff uses it to wrap up his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Sicilians are great liars. The best in the world. I'm a Sicilian. And my old man was the world heavyweight champion of Sicilian liars. And from growin' up with him I learned the pantomime. Now there are seventeen different things a guy can do when he lies to give him away. A guy has seventeen pantomimes. A woman's got twenty, but a guy's got seventeen. And if you know 'em like ya know your own face, they beat lie detectors to hell. What we got here is a little game of show and tell. You don't wanna show me nothin'. But you're tellin' me everything. Now I know you know where they are. So tell me, before I do some damage you won't walk away from. </p><p><p ID="act">The awful pain in Cliff's hand is being replaced by the awful pain in his heart. He looks deep into Coccotti's eyes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Could I have one of those Chesterfields now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Sure. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti leans over and hands him a smoke. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Got a match? </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Oh, don't bother. I got one. <P ID="spkdir">(he lights the cigarette) <P ID="dia">So you're a Sicilian, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(intensly) <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You know I read a lot. Especially things that have to do with history. I find that shit fascinating. In fact, I don't know if you know this or not, Sicilians were spawned by niggers. </p><p><p ID="act">All the men stop what they were doing and look at Cliff, except for Tooth-pic Vic who doesn't speak English and so isn't insulted. Coccotti can't believe what he's hearing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Come again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">It's a fact. Sicilians have nigger blood pumpin' through their hearts. If you don't believe me, look it up. You see, hundreds and hundreds of years ago the Moors conquered Sicily. And Moors are niggers. Way back then, Sicilians were like the wops in northern Italy. Blond hair, blue eyes. But, once the Moors moved in there, they changed the whole country. They did so much fuckin' with the Sicilian women, they changed the blood-line for ever, from blond hair and blue eyes to black hair and dark skin. I find it absolutely amazing to think that to this day, hundreds of years later, Sicilians still carry that nigger gene. I'm just quotin' history. It's a fact. It's written. Your ancestors were niggers. Your great, great, great, great, great-grandmother was fucked by a nigger, and had a half-nigger kid. That is a fact. Now tell me, am I lyin'? </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him for a moment then jumps up, whips out an automatic, grabs hold of Cliff's hair, puts the barrel to his temple, and pumps three bullets through Cliff's head. </p><p><p ID="act">He pushes the body violently aside. Coccotti pauses. Unable to express his feelings and frustrated by the blood in his hands, he simply drops his weapon, and turns to his men. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I haven't killed anybody since 1974. Goddamn his soul to burn for eternity in fuckin' hell for makin' me spill blood on my hands! Go to this comedian's son's apartment and come back with somethin' that tells me where that asshole went so I can wipe this egg off of my face and fix this fucked-up family for good. </p><p><p ID="act">Tooth-pick Vic taps Frankie's shoulder and, in Italianm asks him what that was all about. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny, who has been going through Cliff's refridgerator, has found a beer. When he closes the refridgerator door he finds a note held on by a ceramic banana magnet that says: "Clarence in L.A.: Dick Ritchie (number and address)". </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Boss, get ready to get happy. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "CLARENCE AND ALABAMA HIT L.A." </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT- MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's asleep in a recliner. He's wearing his clothes from the night before. His room-mate FLOYD is lying on the sofa watching TV. </p><p><p ID="act">The sound of our hands knocking on his door wakes Dick up. He shakes the bats out of his belfry, opens the door, and finds the cutest couple in Los Angeles standing in his doorway. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama immediately start singing "Hello My Baby" like the frog in the old Chuck Jones cartoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE/ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Hello my baby, Hello my honey, Hello my ragtime gal - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hi guys. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama throws her arms around Dick, and gives him a quick kiss. After she breaks, Clarence does the same. Clarence and Alabama walk right past Dick and into his apartment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Wow. Neat place. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. PINK'S HOT-DOG STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The Pink's employees work like skilled Benihana chefs as they assemble the ultimate masterpiece hot-dog. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. PINK'S HOT-DOG STAND - PATIO - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, and Dick are sitting at an outdoor table chowing down on chili dogs. Alabama is in the middle of a story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">... when my mom went into labor, my dad panicked. He never had a kid before, and crashed the car. Now, picture this: their car's demolished, crowd is starting to gather, my mom is yelling, going into contractions, and my dad, who was losing it before, is now completely screaming yellow zonkers. Then, out of nowhere, as if from thin air, this big giant bus appears, and the bus-driver says, "Get her in here.". He forgot all about his route and just drove straight to the hospital. So, because he was such a nice guy, they wanted to name the baby after him, as a sign of gratitude. Well, his name was Waldo, and no matter how grateful they were, even if I'da been a boy, they would't call me Waldo. So they asked Waldo where he was from. And, so there you go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">And here we are. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">That's a pretty amazing story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, she's a pretty amazing girl. What are women like out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Just like in Detroit, only skinnier. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You goin' out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, for the past couple of years I've been goin' out with girls from my acting class. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Good for you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What's so fuckin' good about it? Actresses are the most fucked-in-the-head bunch of women in the world. It's like they gotta pass a test of emotional instability before they can get their SAG card. Oh, guess what? I had a really good reading for "T.J. Hooker" the other day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You're gonna be on "T.J. Hooker"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Knock wood. </p><p><p ID="act">He knocks the table and then looks at it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">... formica. I did real well. I think she liked me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did you meet Captain Kirk? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You don't meet him in the audition. That comes later. Hope, hope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(finishing her hot-dog) <P ID="dia">That was so good I am gonna have another. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You can't have just one. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama leaves to get another hot-dog. Clarence never takes his eyes off her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">How much of that letter was on the up and up? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Every word of it. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick sees where Clarence's attention is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You're really in love, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">For the very first time in my life. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Do you know what that's like? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is so intense Dick doesn't know how to answer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(regretfully) <P ID="dia">No, I don't <P ID="spkdir">(he looks at Alabama) <P ID="dia">How did you two meet? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence leans back thoughtfully and takes a sip from his Hebrew cream soda. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you remember The Lyric? </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Sonny Chiba, as "Streetfighter" Terry Surki, drives into a group of guys, fists and feet flying and whips ass on the silver screen. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sits, legs over the back of the chair in front of him, nibbling on popcorn, eyes big as sourcers, and a big smile on his face. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A cab pulls up to the outside of The Lyric. The marquee carries the names of the triple feature: "The Streetfighter", "Return of the Streetfighter" and "Sister Streetfighter". Alabama steps out of the taxi cab and walks up to the box office. </p><p><p ID="act">A box office girl reading comic looks at her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">One please. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BOX OFFICE GIRL <P ID="dia">Ninety-nine cents. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Which one is on now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BOX OFFICE GIRL <P ID="dia">"Return of the Streetfighter". It's been on about forty-five minutes. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - LOBBY - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks into the lobby and goes over to the concession stand. A young usher takes care of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Can I have a medium popcorn? A super-large Mr. Pibb, and a box of Goobers. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's still assholes and elbows on the screen with Sonny Chiba taking on all-comers. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks through the doors with her bounty of food. She makes a quick scan of the theater. Not many people are there. She makes a beeline for the front whick happens to be Clarence's area of choice. She picks the row of seats just behind Clarence and starts asking her way down it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns and sees this beautiful girl all alone moving towards him. He turns his attention back to the screen, trying not to be so obvious. </p><p><p ID="act">When Alabama gets right behind Clarence, her foot thunks a discarded wine bottle, causing her to trip and spill her popcorn over Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, look what happened. Oh god, I'm so sorry. Are you OK? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. I'm fine. It didn't hurt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm the clumsiest person in the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(picking popcorn out of his hair) <P ID="dia">It's OK. Don't worry about it. Accidents happen. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(picking popcorn out of his hair) <P ID="dia">What a wonderful philosophy. Thanks for being such a sweetheart. You could have been a real dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama sits back in her seat to watch the movie. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence tries to wipe her out of his mind, which isn't easy, and get back into the movie. </p><p><p ID="act">They both watch the screen for a moment. Then, Alabama leans forward and taps Clarence on the shoulder. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Excuse me... I hate to bother you again. Would you mind too terribly filling me in on what I missed? </p><p><p ID="act">Jumping on this opportunity. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Not at all. I, this guy here, he's Sonny Chiba. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">The oriental. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The oriental in black. He's an assasin. Now, at the beginning he was hired to kill this guy the cops had. So he got himself arrested. They take him into the police station. And he starts kickin' all the cops' asses. Now, while keepin' them at bay, he finds the guy he was supposed to kill. Does a number on him. Kicks the cops' asses some more. Kicks the bars out of the window. And jumps out into a getaway car that was waiting for him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Want some Goobers? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I thought Sonny was the good guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He ain't so much good guy as he's just a bad motherfucker. Sonny don't be bullshittin'. He fucks dudes up for life. Hold on, a fight scene's coming up. </p><p><p ID="act">They both watch, eyes wide, as Sonny Chiba kicks asses. </p><p><p ID="right">TIME CUT: </p><p><p ID="act">On the screen, Sonny Chiba's all jacked up. Dead bodies lie all around him. THE END (in Japanese) flashes on the screen. </p><p><p ID="act">The theater light go up. Alabama's now sitting in the next seat to Clarence. They're both applauding. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Great movie. Action-packed! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Does Sonny kick ass or does Sonny kick ass? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sonny kicks ass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You shoulda saw the first original uncut version of the "Streetfighter". It was the only movie up to that time rated X for violence. But we just saw the R. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">If that was the R, I'd love to see the X. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">My name is Clarence, and what is yours? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Alabama Whitman. Pleased to meet ya. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is that your real name? Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">That's my real name, really. I got proof. See. </p><p><p ID="act">She shows Clarence her driver's license. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, cut my legs off and call me Shorty. That's a pretty original moniker there, Alabama. Sounds like a Pam Grier movie. <P ID="spkdir">(announcer voice) <P ID="dia">She's a sixteen-calibre kitten, equally equipped for killin' an' lovin'! She carried a sawed-off shotgun in her purse, a black belt around her waist, and the white-hot fire of hate in her eyes! Alabama Whitman is Pam Grier! Pray for forgiveness, Rated R... for Ruthless Revenge! </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are outside the theater. With the marquee lit up in the background they both perform unskilled martial arts moves. Clarence and Alabama break up laughing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Where's your car? I'll walk you to it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I took a cab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You took a cab to see three kung fu movies? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sure. Why not? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nothing. It's just you're a girl after my own heart. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What time is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">'Bout twelve. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I suppose you gotta get up early, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No. Not particularly. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Well, it's just when I see a really good movie I really like to go out and get some pie, and talk about it. It's sort of tradition. Do you like to eat pie after you've seen a good movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I love to get pie after a movie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Would you like to get some pie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'd love some pie. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DENNY'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are sitting in a booth at an all-night Denny's. It's about 12:40 a.m. Clarence is having a piece of chocolate cream pie and a coke. Alabama's nibbling on a peace of heated apple pie and sipping on a large Tab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, enough about the King. How about you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How 'bout me what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell me about yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">There's nothing to tell. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">C'mon. What're ya tryin' to be? The Phantom Lady? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What do you want to know? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, for starters, what do you do? Where're ya from? What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite movie star? What kinda music do you like? What are your turn-ons and turn-offs? Do you have a fella? What's the story behind you takin' a cab to the most dangerous part of town alone? And, in a theater full of empty seats, why did you sit by me? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama takes a bite of pie, puts down her fork, and looks at Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Ask me them again. One by one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What do you do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't remember. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Where are you from. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Might be from Tallahassee. But I'm not sure yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's your favorite color? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't remember. But off the top of my head, I'd say black. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's your favorite movie star? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Burt Reynolds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Would you like a bite of my pie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yes, I would. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence scoops up a piece on his fork and Alabama bites it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Very much. Now, where were we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What kinda music do you like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Phil Spector. Girl group stuff. You know, like "He's a Rebel". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What are your turn-ons? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Mickey Rourke, somebody who can appreciate the finer things in life, like Elvis's voice, good kung fu, and a tasty piece of pie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Turn-offs? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm sure there must be something, but I don't really remember. The only thing that comes to mind are Persians. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you have a fella? </p><p><p ID="act">She looks at Clarence and smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm not sure yet. Ask me again later. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's the story behind you takin' a cab to the most dangerous part of town alone? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Apparently, I was hit on the head with something really heavy, giving me a form of amnesia. When I came to, I didn't know who I was, where I was, or where I came from. Luckily, I had my driver's license or I wouldn't even know my name. I hoped it would tell me where I lived but it had a Tallahassee address on it, and I stopped somebody on the street and they told me I was in Detroit. So that was no help. But I did have some money on me, so I hopped in a cab until I saw somethin' that looked familiar. For some reason, and don't ask me why, that theater looked familiar. So I told him to stop and I got out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">And in a theater full of empty seats, why did you sit by me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Because you looked like a nice guy, and I was a little scared. And I sure couldda used a nice guy about that time, so I spilled my popcorn on you. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at her closely. He picks up his soda and sucks on the straw until it makes that slurping sound. He puts it aside and stares into her soul. </p><p><p ID="act">A smile cracks on her face and develops into a big wide grin. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Aren't you just dazzled by my imagination, lover boy? <P ID="spkdir">(eats her last piece of pie) <P ID="dia">Where to next? </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. COMIC BOOK STORE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's about 1:30 a.m. Clarence has taken Alabama to where he works. It's a comic book store called Heroes For Sale. Alabama thinks this place is super-cool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Wow. What a swell place to work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, I got the key, so I come here at night, hang out, read comic books, play music. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How long have you worked here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Almost four years. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">That's a long time. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm hip. But you know, I'm comfortable here. It's easy work. I know what I'm doing. Everybody who works here is my buddy. I'm friendly with most of the customers. I just hang around and talk about comic books all day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Do you get paid a lot? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's where trouble comes into paradise. But the boss let's you borrow some money if you need it. Wanna see what "Spiderman" number one looks like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You bet. How much is that worth? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence gets a box off the shelf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Four hundred bucks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I didn't even know they had stores that just sold comic books. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, we sell other things too. Cool stuff. "Man from U.N.C.L.E." Lunch boxes. "Green Hornet" board games. Shit like that. But comic books are main business. There's a lot of collectors around here. </p><p><p ID="act">She holds up a little GI Joe sized action figure of a black policeman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's a "Rookies" doll. George Sanford Brown. We gotta lotta dolls. They're real cool. Did you know they came out with dolls for all the actors in "The Black Hole"? I always found it funny somewhere there's a kid playin' with a little figure of Earnest Borgnine. </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls a plastic-cased "Spiderman" comic form the box. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Spiderman", number one. The one that started it all. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence shows the comic book to Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">God, Spiderman looks different. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He was just born, remember? This is the first one. You know that guy, Dr. Gene Scott? He said that the story of Spiderman is the story of Christ, just disguised. Well, I thought about that even before I heard him say it. Hold on, let me show you my favorite comic book cover of all time. </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls out another comic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos". One of the coolest series known to man. They're completely worthless. You can get number one for about four bucks. But that's one of the cool things about them, they're so cheap. <P ID="spkdir">(he opens one up) <P ID="dia">Just look at that artwork, will ya. Great stories. Great Characters. Look at this one. </p><p><p ID="act">We see the "Sgt. Fury" panels. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nick's gotten a ring from his sweetheart and he wears it around his neck on a chain. OK, later in the story he gets into a fight with a Nazi bastard on a ship. He knocks the guy overboard, but the Kraut grabs ahold of his chain and the ring goes overboard too. So, Nick dives into the ocean to get it. Isn't that cool? </p><p><p ID="act">She's looking into Clarence's eyes. He turns and meets her gaze. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Alabama, I'd like you to have this. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence hands her the "Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos" comic book that he loves so much. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's bedroom is a pop culture explosion. Movie posters, pictures of Elvis, anything you can imagine. The two walk through the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What a cool room! </p><p><p ID="act">She runs and does a jumping somersault into his bed. </p><p><p ID="act">Later. Alabama's sitting Indian-style going through Clarence's photo album. Clarence is behind her planting little kisses on her neck and shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oooooh, you look so cute in your little cowboy outfit. How old were you then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Five. </p><p><p ID="act">She turns the page. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, you look so cute as little Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I finally knew what I wanted when I grew up. </p><p><p ID="act">LATER - LIVING ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama slow dance in the middle of his room to Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know when you sat behind me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">At the movies? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Uh-huh, I was tryin' to think of somethin' to say to you, then I thought, she doesn't want me bothering her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What would make you think that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I dunno. I guess I'm just stupid. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You're not stupid. Just wrong. </p><p><p ID="act">They move to the music. Alabama softly, quietly sings some of the words to the song. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I love Janis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, a lot of people have misconceptions of how she died. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">She OD'd, didn't she? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, she OD'd. But wasn't on her last legs or anythin'. She didn't take too much. It shouldn't have killed her. There was somethin' wrong with what she took. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You mean she got a bad batch? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's what happened. In fact, when she died, it was considered to be the happiest time of her life. She'd been fucked over so much by men she didn't trust them. She was havin' this relationship with this guy and he asked her to marry him. Now, other people had asked to marry her before, but she couldn't be sure whether they really loved her or were just after her money. So, she said no. And the guy says, "Look, I really love you, and I wanna prove it. So have your lawyers draw up a paper that says no matter what happens, I can never get any of your money, and I'll sign it." So she did, and he asked her, and she said yes. And once they were engaged he told her a secret about himself that she never knew: he was a millionaire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">So he really loved her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">It's the next day, around 1 p.m. Clarence wakes up in his bed, alone. He looks around, and no Alabama. Then he hears crying in the distance. He puts on a robe and investigates. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's wearing one of Clarence's old shirts. She's curled up in a chair crying. Clarence approaches her. She tries to compose herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's wrong, sweetheart? Did I do something? What did I do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You didn't do nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did you hurt yourself? <P ID="spkdir">(he takes her foot) <P ID="dia">Whatd'ya do? Step on a thumbtack? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence, I've got something to tell you. I didn't just happen to be at the theater. I was paid to be there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What are you, a theater checker? You check up on the box office girls. Make sure they're not rippin' the place off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm not a theater checker. I'm a call girl. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You're a whore? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm a call girl. There's a difference, ya know. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't know. Maybe there's not. That place you took me to last night, that comic book place. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Heroes For Sale"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yeah, that one. Somebody who works there arranged to have me meet you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't know. I didn't talk with them. The plan was for me to bump into you, pick you up, spend the night, and skip out after you fell asleep. I was gonna write you a note and say that this was my last day in America. That I was leaving on a plane this morning up to Ukraine to marry a rich millionaire, and thank you for making my last day in America my best day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That dazzling imagination. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's over on the TV. All it says is: "Dear Clarence." I couldn't write anymore. I didn't not want to ever see you again. In fact, it's stupid not to ever see you again. Las night... I don't know... I felt... I hadn't had that much fun since Girl Scouts. So I just said, "Alabama, come clean, Let him know what's what, and if he tells you to go fuck yourself then go back to Drexl and fuck yourself." </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who and what is a Drexl? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">My pimp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You have a pimp? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A real live pimp? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he black? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">He thinks he is. He says his mother was Apache, but I suspect he's lying. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he nice? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Well, I wouldn't go so far as to call him nice, but he's treated me pretty decent. But I've only been there about four days. He got a little rough with Arlene the other day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What did he do to Arlene? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Slapped her around a little. Punched her in the stomch. It was pretty scary. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This motherfucker sounds charming! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is on his feet, furious. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Goddamn it, Alabama, you gotta get the fuck outta there! How much longer before he's slappin' you around? Punchin' you in the stomach? How the fuck did you get hooked up with a douche-bag like this in the first place? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">At the bus station. He said I'd be a perfect call girl. And that he knew an agency in California that, on his recommendation, would handle me. They have a very exclusive clientele: movie stars, big businessmen, total white-collar. And all the girls in the agency get a grand a night. At least five hundred. They drive Porsches, live in condos, have stockbrokers, carry beepers, you know, like Nancy Allen in "Dressed to Kill". And when I was ready he'd call 'em, give me a plane ticket, and send me on my way. He says he makes a nice finder's fee for finding them hot prospects. But no one's gonna pay a grand a night for a girl who doesn't know whether to shit or wind her watch. So what I'm doin' for Drexl now is just sorta learnin' the ropes. It seemed like a lotta fun, but I don't really like it much, till last night. You were only my third trick, but you didn't feel like a trick. Since it was a secret, I just pretended I was on a date. An, um, I guess I want a second date. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank you. I wanna see you again too. And again, and again, and again. Bama, I know we haven't known each other long, but my parents went together all throughout high school, and they still got a divorce. So, fuck it, you wanna marry me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Will you be my wife? </p><p><p ID="act">When Alabama gives her answer, her voice cracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(a little surprised) <P ID="dia">You will? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You better not be fucking teasing me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You better not be fuckin' teasin' me. </p><p><p ID="act">They seal it with a kiss. </p><p><p ID="act">LATER - THAT NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Alabama's wedding ring. </p><p><p ID="act">The newlyweds are snuggling up together onthe couch watching TV. The movie they're watching is "The Incredible One-Armed Boxer vs. the Master of the Flying Guillotine". Alabama watches the screen, but every so often she looks down to admre the ring on her hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did ya ever see "The Chinese Professionals"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't believe so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, that's the one that explains how Jimmy Wang Yu became the Incredible One-Armed Boxer. </p><p><p ID="act">We hear, off screen, the TV Announcer say: </p><p><P ID="speaker">TV ANNOUNCER <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">We'll return to Jimmy Wang Yu in... "The Incredible One-Armed Boxer vs. the Master of the Flying Guillotine", tonight's eight o'clock movie, after these important messages... </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at the TV. He feels the warmth of Alabama's hand holding his. We see commercials playing. </p><p><p ID="act">He turns in her direction. She's absent-mindedly looking at her wedding ring. </p><p><p ID="act">He smiles and turns back to the TV. </p><p><p ID="act">More commercials. </p><p><p ID="act">Dolly close on Clarence's face </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, right after he proposed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You better not be fucking teasing me. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">In a cute, all-night wedding chapel. Clarence dressed in a rented tuxedo and Alabama in a rented white wedding gown. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama, dressed in tux and gown, doing a lover's waltz on a ballroom dance floor. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama in a taxi cab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Hello, Mrs. Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How do you do, Mr. Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Top o' the morning, Mrs. Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bottom of the ninth . Mr. Worley. Oh, by the by, Mr. Worley, have you seen your lovely wife today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh, you're speaking of my charming wife Mrs. Alabama Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Of course. Are there others, Mr. Worley? </p><p><p ID="act">Moving on top of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Not for me. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts kissing her and moving her down on the seat. She resists. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(playfully) <P ID="dia">No no no no no no no no no... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(playfully) <P ID="dia">Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes... </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">A big mean-looking black man in pimp's clothes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">Bitch, you better git yo ass back on the street an' git me my money. </p><p><p ID="act">Pimp on street corner with his arm around Alabama, giving her a sales pitch to a potential customer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">I'm tellin' you, my man, this bitch is fine. This girl's a freak! You can fuck 'er in the ass, fuck 'er in the mouth. Rough stuff, too. She's a freak for it. Jus' try not to fuck 'er up for life. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Pimp beating Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">You holdin' out on me, girl? Bitch, you never learn! </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama passionately kissing the uninterested pimp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">Hang it up, momma. I got no time for this bullshit. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">TV showing kung fu film. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's face. There's definitely something different about his eyes. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence springs off the couch and goes into his bedroom. Alabama's startled by his sudden movement. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(yelling after him) <P ID="dia">Where you goin', honey? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I just gotta get somethin'. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence splashes water on his face, trying to wash away the images that keep polluting his mind. Then, he hears a familiar voice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FAMILIAR VOICE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">Well? Can you live with it? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns and sees that the voice belongs to Elvis Presley. Clarence isn't surprised to see him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Can you live with it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Live with what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">With that son-of-a-bitch walkin' around breathin' the same air as you? And gettin' away with it every day. Are you haunted? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">You wanna get unhaunted? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Then shoot 'em. Shoot 'em in the face. And feed that boy to the dogs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I can't believe what you're tellin' me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I ain't tellin' ya nothin'. I'm just sayin' what I'd do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You'd really do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">He don't got no right to live. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, Elvis, he is hauntin' me. He doesn't deserve to live. And I do want to kill him. But I don't wanna go to jail for the rest of my life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I don't blame you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">If I thought I could get away with it - </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Killin' 'em's the hard part. Gettin' away with it's the easy part. Whaddaya think the cops do when a pimp's killed? Burn the midnight oil tryin' to find who done it? They couldn't give a flyin' fuck if all the pimps in the whole wide world took two in the back of the fuckin' head. If you don't get caught at the scene with the smokin' gun in your hand, you got away with it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Clarence, I like ya. Always have, always will. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - A snub-nosed .38, which Clarence loads and sticks down his heavy athletic sock. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CALRENCE'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence returns. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sweetheart, write down your former address. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Write down Drexl's address. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Why? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">So I can go over there and pick up your things. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(really scared) <P ID="dia">No, Clarence. Just forget it, babe. I just wanna disappear from there. </p><p><p ID="act">He kneels down before her and holds her hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, sweetheart, he scares you. But I'm not scared of that motherfucker. He can't touch you now. You're completely out of his reach. He poses absolutely no threat to us. So, if he doesn't matter, which he doesn't, it would be stupid to lose your things, now wouldn't it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You don't know him - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't know me. Not when it comes to shit like this. I have to do this. I need for you to know you can count on me to protect you. Now write down the address. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "CASS QUARTER, HEART OF DETROIT" </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. DOWNTOWN DETROIT STREET - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's pretty late at night. Clarence steps out of his red Mustang. He's right smack dab in the middle of a bad place to be in daytime. He checks the pulse on his neck; it's beating like a race horse. To pump himself up he does a quick Elvis Presley gyration. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(in Elvis voice) <P ID="dia">Yeah... Yeah... </p><p><p ID="act">He makes a beeline for the front door of a large, dark apartment building. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DARK BUILDING - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">He's inside. His heart's really racing now. He has the TV guide that Alabama wrote the address on in his hand. He climbs a flight of stairs and makes his way down a dark hallway to apartment 22, the residence of Drexl Spivey. Clarence knock on the door. </p><p><p ID="act">A Young Black Man, about twenty years old, answers the door. He has really big biceps and is wearing a black and white fishnet football jersey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG BLACK MAN <P ID="dia">You want somethin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Drexl? </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG BLACK MAN <P ID="dia">Naw, man, I'm Marty. Watcha want? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I gotta talk to Drexl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Well, what the fuck you wanna tell him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It's about Alabama. </p><p><p ID="act">A figure jumps in the doorway wearing a yellow Farah Fawcett T-shirt. It's our friend, Drexl Spivey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Where the fuck is that bitch? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">She's with me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Who the fuck are you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm her husband. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Well. That makes us practically related. Bring your ass on in. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DREXL'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Marty about-face and walk into the room, continuing a conversation they were having and leaving Clarence standing in the doorway. This is not the confrontation Clarence expected. He trails in behind Drexl and Marty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">What was I sayin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Rock whores. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">You ain't seen nothin' like these rock whores. They ass be young man. They got that fine young pussy. Bitches want the rock they be a freak for you. They give you hips, lips, and fingertips. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl looks over his shoulder at Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You know what I'm talkin' about. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl gestures to one of the three stoned Hookers lounging about the apartment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">These bitches over here ain't shit. You stomp them bitches to death to get the kind of pussy I'm talkin' about. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl sits down at a couch with a card table in front of it, scattered with take-out boxes of Chinese food. A black exploitation movie is playing on TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Looky here, you want the bitches to really fly high, make your rocks with Cherry Seven-Up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Pussy love pink rocks. </p><p><p ID="act">This is not how Clarence expected to confront Drexl, but this is exactly what he expected Drexl to be like. He positions himself in front of the food table, demanding Drexl's attention. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(eating with chopsticks, to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Grab a seat there, boy. Want some dinner? Grab yourself an egg roll. We got everything here from a diddle-eyed-Joe to a damned-if-I-know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No thanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">No thanks? What does that mean? Means you ate before you came down here? All full. Is that it? Naw, I don't think so. I think you're too scared to be eatin'. Now, see we're sittin' down here, ready to negotiate, and you've already given up your shit. I'm still a mystery to you. But I know exactly where your ass is comin' from. See, if I asked you if you wanted some dinner and you grabbed an egg roll and started to chow down, I'd say to myself, "This motherfucker's carryin' on like he ain't got a care in the world. Who know? Maybe he don't. Maybe this fool's such a bad motherfucker, he don't got to worry about nothin', he just sit down, eat my Chinese, watch my TV." See? You ain't even sat down yet. On that TV there, since you been in the room, is a woman with her titties hangin' out, and you ain't even bothered to look. You just been starin' at me. Now, I know I'm pretty, but I ain't as pretty as a couple of titties. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes out an envelope and throws it on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not eatin' 'cause I'm not hungry. I'm not sittin' 'cause I'm not stayin'. I'm not lookin' at the movie 'cause I saw it seven years ago. It's "The Mack" with Max Julian, Carol Speed, and Richard Pryor, written by Bobby Poole, directed by Michael Campus, and released by Cinerama Releasing Company in 1984. I'm not scared of you. I just don't like you. In that envelope is some payoff money. Alabama's moving on to some greener pastures. We're not negotiatin'. I don't like to barter. I don't like to dicker. I never have fun in Tijuana. That price is non-negotiable. What's in that envelope is for my peace of mind. My peace of mind is worth that much. Not one penny more, not one penny more. </p><p><p ID="act">You could hear a pin drop. Once Clarence starts talking Marty goes on full alert. Drexl stops eating and the Whores stop breathing. All eyes are on Drexl. Drexl drops his chopsticks and opens the envelope. It's empty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">It's empty. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence flashes a wide Cheshire cat grin that says, "That's right, asshole." </p><p><p ID="act">Silence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Oooooooooh weeeeeeee! This child is terrible. Marty, you know what we got here? Motherfuckin' Charles Bronson. Is that who you supposed to be? Mr. Majestyk? Looky here, Charlie, none of this shit is necessary. I ain't got no hold on Alabama. I just tryin' to lend the girl a helpin' hand - </p><p><p ID="act">Before Drexl finishes his sentence he picks up the card table and throws it at Clarence, catching him of guard. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty comes up behind Clarence and throws his arm around his neck, putting him in a tight choke hold. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, with his free arm, hits Marty hard with his elbow in the solar plexus. We'll never know if that blow had any effect because at just that moment Drexl takes a flying leap and tackles the two guys. </p><p><p ID="act">All of them go crashing into the stereo unit and a couple of shelves that hold records, all of which collapse to the floor in a shower of LPs. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty, who's on the bottom of the pile, hasn't let go of Clarence. </p><p><p ID="act">Since Drexl's on top, he starts slamming fists into Clarence's face. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who's sandwiched between these two guys, can't do a whole lot about it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Ya wanna fuck with me? <P ID="spkdir">(hits Clarence) <P ID="dia">Ya wanna fuck with me? <P ID="spkdir">(hits Clarence) <P ID="dia">I'll show ya who you're fuckin' wit! </p><p><p ID="act">He hits Clarence hard in the face with both fists. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who has no leverage whatsoever, grabs hold of Drexl's face and digs his nails in. He sticks his thumb in Drexl's mouth, grabs a piece of cheek, and starts twisting. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty, who's in an even worse position, can do nothing but tighten his grip aroud Clarence's neck, until Clarence feels like his eyes are going to pop out of his head. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl's face is getting torn up, but he's also biting down hard on Clarence's thumb. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence raises his head and brings it down fast, crunching Marty's face, and busting his nose. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty loosens his grip around Clarence's neck. Clarence wiggles free and gets up on his knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Clarence are now on an even but awkward footing. The two are going at each other like a pair of alley cats, not aiming their punches, keeping them coming fast and furious. They're not doing much damage to each other because of their positions, it's almost like a hockey fight. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty sneaks up behind Clarence and smashes him in the head with a stack of LPs. This disorients Clarence. Marty grabs him from behind and pulls him to his feet. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl socks him in the face: one, two three! Then he kicks him hard in the balls. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty lets go and Clarence hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. He curls up into a fetal position and holds his balls, tears coming out of his eyes. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl's face is torn up from Clarence's nails. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty has blood streaming down his face frim his nose and on to his shirt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">You OK? That stupid dumb-ass didn't break your nose, did he? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Naw. It don't feel too good but it's alright. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl kicks Clarence, who's still on the ground hurting. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You see what you get when you fuck wit me, white boy? You're gonna walk in my goddamn house, my house! Gonna come in here and tell me! Talkin' smack, in my house, in front of my employees. Shit! Your ass must be crazy. <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">I don't think that white boy's got good sense. Hey, Marty. <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">He must of thought it was white boy day. It ain't white boy day, is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">Naw, man, it ain't white boy day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Shit, man, you done fucked up again. Next time you bogart your way into a nigger's crib, an' get all his face, make sure you do it on white boy day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(hurting) <P ID="dia">Wannabee nigger... </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Fuck you! My mother was Apache. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl kicks him again. Clarence curls up. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl bends down and looks for Clarence's wallet in his jacket. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence still can't do much. The kick to his balls still has him down. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl finds it and pulls it out. He flips it open to driver's license. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Well, well, well, looky what we got here. Clarence Worley. Sounds almost like a nigger name. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Hey, dummy. </p><p><p ID="act">He puts his foot on Clarence's chest. Clarence's POV as he looks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Before you bought your dumb ass through the door, I didn't know shit. I just chalked it up to au revoir Alabama. But, because you think you're some macho motherfucker, I know who she's with. You. I know who you are, Clarence Worley. And, I know where you live, 4900 116th street, apartment 48. And I'll make a million-dollar bet, Alabama's at the same address. Marty, take the car and go get 'er. Bring her dumb ass back here. </p><p><p ID="act">He hands Marty the driver's license. Maty goes to get the car keys and a jacket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">I'll keep lover boy here entertained. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You know the first thing I'll do when she gets here. I think I'll make her suck my dick, and I'll come all in her face. I mean it ain't nuttin' new. She's done it before. But I want you as a audience. <P ID="spkdir">(hollering to Marty) <P ID="dia">Marty, what the fuck are you doin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I'm tryin' to find my jacket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Look in the hamper. Linda's been dumpin' everybody's stray clothes there lately. </p><p><p ID="act">While Drexl has his attention turned to Marty, Clarence reaches into his sock and pulls out the .38. he stick the barrel between Drexl's legs. Drexl, who's standing over Clarence, looks down just in time to see Clarence pull the trigger and blow his balls to bits. Tiny spots of blood speckle Clarence's face. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl shrieks in horror and pain, and falls to the ground. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">What's happening? </p><p><p ID="act">Marty steps into the room. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence doesn't hesitate, he shoots Marty four times in the chest. </p><p><p ID="act">Two of three Hookers have run out of the front door, screaming. The other Hooker is curled up in the corner. She's too stoned to run, but stoned enough to be terrified. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl, still alive, is laying on the ground howling, holding what's left of his balls and his dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence points the gun at the remaining Hooker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Get a bag and put Alabama's thing in it! </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't move. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You wanna get shot? I ain't got all fuckin' day, so move it! </p><p><p ID="act">The Hooker, tears of fear ruining her mascara, grabs a suitcase from under the bed, and, on her hands and knees, pushes it along the floor to Clarence. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes it by the handle and wobbles over to Drexl, who's curled up like a pillbug. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Clarence's forgotten driver's license in Marty's bloody hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts his foot on Drexl's chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Drexl) <P ID="dia">Open you eyes, laughing boy. </p><p><p ID="act">He doesn't. Clarence gives him a kick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Open your eyes! </p><p><p ID="act">He does. It's now Drexl's POV from the floor. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You thought it was pretty funny, didn't you? </p><p><p ID="act">He fires. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - The bullet comes out of the gun and heads right toward us. When it reaches us, the screen goes awash in red. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The front swings open and Clarence walks in. Alabama jumps off the couch and runs toward Clarence, before she reaches him he blurts out: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I killed him. </p><p><p ID="act">She stops short. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I've got some food in the car, I'll be right back. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence leaves. Except for the TV playing, the room is quiet. Alabama sits on the couch. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks back into the room with a whole bounty of take-out food. He heaps it on to the coffee table and starts to chow down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Help yourself. I got enough. I am fuckin' starvin'. I think I ordered one of everythin'. </p><p><p ID="act">He stops and looks at here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I am so hungry. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts eating french fries and hamburgers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(in a daze) <P ID="dia">Was it him or you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. But to be honest, I put myself in that position. When I drove up there I said to myself, "If I can kill 'em and get away with it, I'll do it." I could. So I did. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Is this a joke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No joke. This is probably the best hamburger I've ever had. I'm serious, I've never had a hamburger taste this good. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama starts to cry. Clarence continues eating, ignoring her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Come on, Bama, eat something. You'll feel better. </p><p><p ID="act">She continues crying. He continues eating and ignoring her. Finally he spins on her, yelling: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Why are you crying? He's not worth one of your tears. Would you rather it had been me? Do you love him? <P ID="spkdir">(no answer) <P ID="dia">Do you love him? <P ID="spkdir">(no answer) <P ID="dia">Do you love him? </p><p><p ID="act">She looks at Clarence, having a hard time getting a word out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think what you did was... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think what you did... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">... was so romantic. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is completely taken back. They meet in a long, passionate lovers' kiss. Their kiss breaks and slowly the world comes back to normal. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I gotta get outta these clothes. </p><p><p ID="act">He picks up the suitcase and drops it on the table in front of them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(comically) <P ID="dia">Clean clothes. There is a god, </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence flips open the suitcase. Alabama's and her husband's jaws drop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence. Those aren't my clothes. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We see the Hollywood Holiday Inn sign. Pan to the parking lot where Clarence's empty red Mustang is parked. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CALRENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Dick's jaw drops. His hand reaches out of shot. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - The reason for all the jaw dropping... the suitcase is full of cocaine! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence smiles, holding a bottle of wine. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's watching the cable TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Holy Mary, Mother of God. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">This is great, we got cable. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Bama, you got your blade? </p><p><p ID="act">Keeping her eyes on the TV, she pulls out from her purse a Swiss army knife with a tiny dinosaur on it and tosses it to Clarence. Clarence takes off the corkscrew and opens the wine. </p><p><p ID="act">He pours some wine into a couple of hotel plastic cups, a big glass for Dick, a little one for himself. He hands it to Dick. Dick takes it and drinks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">This shit can't be real. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It'll get ya high. </p><p><p ID="act">He tosses the knife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you want some wine, sweetheart? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Nope. I'm not really a wine gal. </p><p><p ID="act">Using the knife, Dick snorts some of the cocaine. He jumps back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's fuckin' real! <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">It's fuckin' real! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I certainly hope so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You've got a helluva lotta coke there, man! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you have any idea how much fuckin' coke you got? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I don't know! A fuckin' lot! </p><p><p ID="act">He downs his wine. Clarence fills his glass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">This is Drexl's coke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Drexl's dead. This is Clarence's coke and Clarence can do whatever he wants with it. And what Clarence wants to do is sell it. Then me and Bama are gonna leave on a jet plane and spend the rest of our lives spendin'. So, you got my letter, have you lined up any buyers? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, Clarence, I'm not Joe Cocaine. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick gulps half of his wine. Clarence fills up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But you're an actor. I hear these Hollywood guys have it delivered to the set. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, they do. And maybe when I start being a successful actor I'll know those guys. But most of the people I know are like me. They ain't got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Now, if you want to sell a little bit at a time - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No way! The whole enchilada in one shot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you have any idea how difficult that's gonna be? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm offering a half a million dollars worth of white for two hundred thousand. How difficult can that be? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's difficult because you're sellin' it to a particular group. Big shots. Fat cats. Guys who can use that kind of quantity. Guys who can afford two hundred thousand. Basically, guys I don't know. You don't know. And, more important, they don't know you. I did talk with one guy who could possibly help you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he big league? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">He's nothing. He's in my acting class. But he works as an assistant to a very powerful movie producer named Lee Donowitz. I thought Donowitz could be interested in a deal like this. He could use it. He could afford it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What'd'ya tell 'em? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hardly anything. I wasn't sure from your letter what was bullshit, and what wasn't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's this acting class guy's name? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Elliot what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Elliot Blitzer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK, call 'im up and arrange a meeting, so we can get through all the getting to know you stuff. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Where? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">The zoo. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">The zoo. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What are you waiting for? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Would you just shut up a minute and let me think? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's to think about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Shut up! First you come waltzing into my life after two years. You're married. You killed a guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Two guys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Two guys. Now you want me to help you with some big drug deal. Fuck, Clarence, you killed somebody and you're blowin' it off like it don't mean shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't expect me to be all broken up over poor Drexl. I think he was a fuckin', freeloadin', parasitic scumbag, and he got exactly what he deserved. I got no pity for a mad dog like that. I think I should get a merit badge or somethin'. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick rests his head in his hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, buddy, I realize I'm layin' some pretty heavy shit on ya, but I need you to rise to the occasion. So, drink some more wine. Get used to the idea, and get your friend to the phone. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - A black panther, the four-legged kind, paces back and forth. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, Dick and Elliot Blitzer are walking through the zoo. One look at Elliot and you can see what type of actor he is, a real GQ, blow-dry boy. As they walk and talk, Clarence is eating a box of animal crackers and Alabama is blowing soap bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">So you guys got five hundred thousand dollars worth of cola that you're unloading - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Want an animal cracker? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah, OK. </p><p><p ID="act">He takes one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Leave the gorillas. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">- that you're unloading for two hundred thousand dollars - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Unloading? That's a helluva way to describe the bargain of a lifetime. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(trying to chill him out) <P ID="dia">Clarence... </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Where did you get it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I grow it on my window-sill. The lights really great there and I'm up high enough so you can't see it from the street. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(forcing a laugh) <P ID="dia">Ha ha ha. No really, where does it come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Coco leaves. You see, they take the leaves and mash it down until it's kind of a paste - </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(turning to Dick) <P ID="dia">Look, Dick, I don't - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">No problem, Elliot. I'm just fuckin' wit ya, that's all. Actually, I'll tell you but you gotta keep it quiet. Understand, if Dick didn't assure me you're good people I'd just tell ya, none of your fuckin' business. But, as a sign of good faith, here it goes: I gotta friend in the department. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What department? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What do you think, eightball? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">The police department? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Duh. What else would I be talking about? Now stop askin' stupid doorknob questions. Well, a year and a half ago, this friend of mine got access to the evidence room for an hour. He snagged this coke. But, he's a good cop with a wife and a kid, so he sat on it for a year and a half until he found a guy he could trust. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">He trusts you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We were in Four H together. We've known each other since childhood. So, I'm handling the sales part. He's my silent partner and he knows if I get fucked up, I won't drop dime on him. I didn't tell you nothin' and you didn't hear nothin'. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Sure. I didn't hear anything. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is more than satisfied. Clarence makes a comical face at Dick when Elliot's not looking. Dick is wearing I-don't-believe-this-guy expresion. Alabama is forever blowing bubbles. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - SNACK BAR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We're in the snack bar area of the zoo. Alabama, Dick, and Elliot are sitting around a plastic outdoor table. Clarence is pacing around the table as he talks. Alabama is still blowing bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">Do I look like a beautiful blond with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice-cream? </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot hasn't the slightest idea what that is supposed to mean. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do I look like a beautiful blond with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice-cream? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(with conviction) <P ID="dia">No. No, you don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Then why are you telling me all this bullshit just so you can fuck me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Let me handle this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Get it straight, Lee isn't into taking risks. He deals with a couple of guys, and he's been dealing with them for years. They're reliable. They're dependable. And, they're safe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Riddle me this, Batman. If you're all so much in love with each other, what the fuck are you doing here? I'm sure you got better things to do with your time than walk around in circles starin' up a panther's ass. Your guy's interested because with that much shit at his fingertips he can play Joe fuckin' Hollywood till the wheels come off. He can sell it, he can snort it, he can play Santa Claus with it. At the price he's payin', he'll be everybody's best friend. And, you know, that's what we're talkin' about here. I'm not puttin' him down. Hey, let him run wild. Have a ball, it's his money. But, don't expect me to hang around forever waitin' for you guys to grow some guts. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot has been silenced. He nods his head in agreement. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. PORSCHE - MOVING - MULHOLLAND DRIVE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Movie producer, Lee Donowitz, is driving his Porsche through the winding Hollywood hills, just enjoying being rich and powerful. His cellular car phone rings, he answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Hello. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Elliot, it's Sunday. Why am I talkin' to you on Sunday? I don't see enough of you during the week I gotta talk to you on Sunday? Why is it you always call me when I'm on the windiest street in L.A.? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is on the zoo payphone. Clarence is next to him. Dick is next to Clarence. Alabama is next to Dick, blowing bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(on phone) <P ID="dia">I'm with that party you wanted me to get together with. Do you know what I'm talking about, Lee? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Store-fronts whiz by in the background. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Why the hell are you calling my phone to talk about that? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Well, he'd here right now, and he insists on talking to you. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">In the 7th street tunnel. Lee's voice echoes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Are you outta your fuckin' mind? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You said if I didn't get you on the - </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes the receiverout of Elliot's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(into phone) <P ID="dia">Hello, Lee, it's Clarence. At last we meet. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil's knocking on Dick's door. Floyd (Dick's room-mate) answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Hello, is Dick Ritchie here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw, he ain't home right now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Do you live here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yeah, I live here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Sorta room-mates? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Exactly room-mates. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Maybe you can help me. Actually, who I'm looking for is a friend of ours from Detroit. Clarence Worley? I heard he was in town. Might be travelling with a pretty girl named Alabama. Have you seen him? Are they stayin' here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw, they ain't stayin' here. But, I know who you're talkin' about. They're stayin' at the Hollywood Holiday Inn. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">How do you know? You been there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">No, I ain't been there. But I heard him say. Hollywood Holiday Inn. Kinda easy to remember. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You're right. It is. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - PAYPHONE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is still on the phone with Lee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Lee, the reason I'm talkin' with you is I want to open "Doctor Zhivago" in L.A. And I want you to distribute it. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Stopped in the traffic on Sunset Boulevard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I don't know, Clarence, "Doctor Zhivago" is a pretty big movie. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The biggest. The biggest movie you've ever dealt with, Lee. We're talkin' a lot of film. A man'd have ta be an idiot not to be a little cautious about a movie like that. And Lee, you're no idiot. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">He's still on Sunset Boulevard, the traffic's moving better now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I'm not sayin' I'm not interested. But being a distributer's not what I'm all about. I'm a film producer, I'm on this world to make good movies. Nothing more. Now, having my big toe dipped into the distribution end helps me on many levels. </p><p><p ID="act">Traffic breaks and Lee speeds along. The background whizzes past him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(continuing) <P ID="dia">But the bottom line is: I'm not Paramount. I have a select group of distributers I deal with. I buy their little movies. Accomplish what I wanna accomplish, end of story. Easy, business-like, very little risk. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now that's bullshit, Lee. Every time you buy one of those little movies it's a risk. I'm not sellin' you something that's gonna play two weeks, six weeks, then go straight to cable. This is "Doctor Zhivago". This'll be packin' 'em in for a year and a half. Two years! That's two years you don't have to work with anybody's movie but mine. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Speeding down a benchside road. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Well, then, what's the hurry? Is it true the rights to "Doctor Zhivago" are in arbitration? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I wanna be able to announce this deal at Cannes. If I had time for a courtship, Lee, I would. I'd take ya out, I'd hold your hand, I'd kiss you on the cheek at the door. But, I'm not in that position. I need to know if we're in bed together, or not. If you want my movie, Lee, you're just gonna have to come to terms with your Fear and Desire. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. Clarence hands the phone to Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">He wants to talk ya. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(into phone) <P ID="dia">Mr. Donowitz? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told you, through Dick. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">He's in my acting class. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">About a year. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Yeah, he's good. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">They grew up together. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Sure thing. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot hangs up the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">He says Wednesday at three o'clock at the Beverly Wilshire. He wants everybody there. <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Clarence) <P ID="dia">He'll talk to you. If after talkin' to you he's convinced you're OK, he'll do business. If not, he'll say fuck it and walk out the door. He also wants a sample bag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No problems on both counts. </p><p><p ID="act">He offers Elliot the animal crackers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Have a cookie. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot takes one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Thanks. </p><p><p ID="act">He puts it in the mouth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That wasn't a gorilla, was it? </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The red Mustang with Clarence and Alabama pulls up to the hotel. Alabama hops out. Clarence stays in. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You did it, Quickdraw. I'm so proud of you. You were like a ninja. Did I do my part OK? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Babalouey, you were perfect, I could hardly keep from busting up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I felt so stupid just blowing those bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You were chillin', kind of creepy even. You totally fucked with his head. I'm gonna go grab dinner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm gonna hop in the tub and get all wet, and slippery, and soapy. Then I'm gonna lie in the waterbed, not even both to dry off, and watch X-rated movies till you get your ass back to my lovin' arms. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We now return to "Bullit" already in progress. </p><p><p ID="act">He slams the Mustang in reverse and peels out of the hotel. Alabama walks her little walk from the parking lot to the pool area. Somebody whistles at her, she turns to them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><p ID="act">She gets to her door, takes out the key, and opens the door. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CALRENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">She steps in only to find Virgil sitting on a chair placed in front of the door with a sawed-off shotgun aimed right at her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="spkdir">(calmly) <P ID="dia">Step inside and shut the door. </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't move, she's frozen. Virgil leans forward. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="spkdir">(calmly) <P ID="dia">Lady. I'm gonna shoot you in the face. </p><p><p ID="act">She does exactly as he says. Virgil rises, still aiming the sawed-off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Step away from the door, move into the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">She does. He puts the shotgun down on the chair, then steps closer to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, Alabama, where's our coke, where's Clarence, and when's he coming back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think you got the wrong room, my name is Sadie. I don't have any Coke, but there's a Pepsi machine downstairs. I don't know any Clarence, but maybe my husband does. You might have heard of him, he plays football. Al Lylezado. He'll be home any minute, you can ask him. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil can't help but smile. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You're cute. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil jumps up and does a mid-air kung fu kick which catches Alabama square in the face, lifting her off the ground and dropping her flat on her back. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, in his car, driving to get something to eat, singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(singing) <P ID="dia">"Land of stardust, land of glamour, Vistavision and Cinema, Everything about it is a must, To get to Hollywood, or bust..." </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's laying flat. She actually blacks out for a moment, but the salty taste of the blood in her mouth wakes her up. She opens her eyes and sees Virgil standing there, smiling. She closes them, hoping it's a dream. They open again to the same sight. She has never felt more helpless in her life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Hurts, don't it? It better. Took me a long time to kick like that. I'm third-degree blackbelt, you know? At home I got trophies. Tournaments I was in. Kicked all kinds of ass. I got great technique. You ain't hurt that bad. Get on your feet, Fruitloop. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama wobbily complies. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Where's our coke? Where's Clarence? And when he's comin' back? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama looks in Virgil's eyes and realizes that without a doubt she's going to die, because this man is going to kill her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Go take a flying fuck and a rolling donut. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil doesn't waste a second. He gives her a sidekick straight to the stomach. The air is sucked out of her lungs. She falls to her knees. She's on all fours gasping for air that's just not there. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil whips out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He lights one up with a Zippo lighter. He takes a long, deep drag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Whatsamatta? Can't breathe? Get used to it. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HAMBURGER STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks through the door of some mom and pop fast-food restaurant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Woah! Smells like hamburgers in here! What's the biggest, fattest hamburger you guys got? </p><p><p ID="act">The Iranian Guy at the counter says: </p><p><P ID="speaker">IRANIAN GUY <P ID="dia">That would be Steve's double chili cheeseburger. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I want two of them bad boys. Two large orders of chili fries. Two large Diet Cokes. <P ID="spkdir">(looking at a menu at the wall) <P ID="dia">And I'll tell you what, why don't you give me a combination burrito as well. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama is violently thrown into a corner of the room. She braces herself against the wall. She is very punchy. Virgil steps in front of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You think your boyfriend would go through this kind of shit for you? Dream on, cunt. You're nothin' but a fuckin' fool. And your pretty face is gonna turn awful goddamn ugly in about two seconds. Now, where's my fuckin' coke? </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't answer. He delivers a spinning roundhouse kick on the head. Her head slams into the left side of the wall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Where's Clarence?! </p><p><p ID="act">Nothing. He gives her another kick to the head, this time from the other side. Her legs start to give way. He catches her and throws her back. He slaps her lightly in the face to revive her, she looks at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">When's Clarence getting back? </p><p><p ID="act">She can barely raise her arm, but she somehow manages, and she gives him the middle finger. Virgil can't help but smile. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You gotta lot of heart, kid. </p><p><p ID="act">He gives her a spinning roadhouse kick to the head that sends her to the floor. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HAMBURGER STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Burgers sizzling on a griddle, Chili and cheese is put on them. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is waiting for his order. He notices a CUSTOMER reading a copy of "Newsweek" with Elvis on the cover. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's a great issue. </p><p><p ID="act">The Customer lowers his magazine a little bit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">Yeah, I subscribe. It's a pretty decent one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Have you read the story on Elvis? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">No. Not yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, I saw it on the stands, my first inclination was to buy it. But, I look at the price and say forget it, it's just gonna be the same old shit. I ended up breaking down and buying it a few days later. Man, I was ever wrong. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">That good, huh? </p><p><p ID="act">He takes the magazine from the Customer's hands and starts flipping to the Elvis article. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It tried to pin down what the attraction is after all these years. It covers the whole spectrum of fans, the people who love his music, the people who grew up with him, the artists he inspired - Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and the fanatics, like these guys. I don't know about you, but they give me the creeps. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia"> I can see what you mean. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like, look at her. She looks like she fell off an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Elvis wouldn't fuck her with Pat Boone's dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Customer laugh. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's pretty beat up. She has a fat lip and her face is black and blue. She's crawling around on the floor. Virgil is tearing the place apart looking for the cocaine. He's also carrying on a running commentary. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia"> Now the first guy you kill is always the hardest. I don't care if you're the Boston Strangler or Wyatt Earp. You can bet that Texas boy, Charles Whitman, the fella who shot all them guys from that tower, I'll bet you green money that that first little black dot that he took a bead on, was the bitch of the bunch. No foolin' the first one's a tough row to hoe. Now, the second one, while it ain't no Mardi Gras, it ain't half as tough row to hoe. You still feel somethin' but it's just so deluted this time around. Then you completely level off on the third one. The third one's easy. It's gotten to the point now I'll do it just to watch their expressions change. </p><p><p ID="act">He's tearing the motel room up in general. Then he flips the matress up off the bed, and the black suitcase is right there. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's crawling, unnoticed to where her purse is lying. Virgil flips open the black case and almost goes snow blind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Well, well, well, looky here. I guess I just reached journey's end. Great. One less thing I gotta worry about. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil closes the case. Alabama sifts through her purse. </p><p><p ID="act">She pulls out her Swiss army knife, opens it up. Virgil turns toward her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, Sugarpop, we've come to what I like to call the moment of truth - </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama slowly rises clutching the thrust-out knife in both hands. Mr. Karate-man smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Kid, you got a lotta heart. </p><p><p ID="act">He moves toward her. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's hands are shaking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you a free swing. Now, I only do that for people I like. </p><p><p ID="act">He moves close. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's eyes study him. He grabs the front of his shirt and rips it open. Buttons fly everywhere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Go ahead, girl, take a stab at it. <P ID="spkdir">(giggling) <P ID="dia">You don't have anything to lose. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Alabama's face. Virgil's right, she doesn't have anything to lose. Virgil's also right about his being the moment of truth. The ferocity in women that comes out at certain times, and is just here under the surface in many women all of the time, is unleashed. The absolute feeling of helplessness she felt only a moment ago has taken a one hundred and eighty degree turn into "I'll take this motherfucker with me if it's the last thing I do" seething hatred. </p><p><p ID="act">Letting out a bloodcurling yell, she raises the knfe high above her head, then drops to her knees and plunges it deep into Virgil's right foot. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - VIRGIL'S FACE </p><p><p ID="act">Talk about bloodcurling yells. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil bends down and carefully pulls the knife from his foot, tears running down his face. </p><p><p ID="act">While Virgil's bent down, Alabama smashes an Elvis Presley whiskey decanter that Clarence bought her in Oklahoma over his head. It's only made of plaster, so it doesn't kill him. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil's moving toward Alabama, limping on his bad foot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, no more Mr. Nice-guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama picks up the hotel TV and tosses it to him. He instinctively catches it and, with his arms full of television, Alabama cold-cocks him with her fist in the nose, breaking it. </p><p><p ID="act">Her eyes go straight to the door, then to the sawed-off shotgun by it. She runs to it, bends over the chair for the gun. Virgil's left foot kicks her in the back, sending her flying over the chair and smashing into the door. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil furiously throws the chair out of the way and stands over Alabama. Alabama's lying on the ground laughing. Virgil has killed a lot of people, but not one of them has ever laughed before he did it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">What's so fuckin' funny?!! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">You look so ridiculous. </p><p><p ID="act">She laughs louder. Virgil's insane. He picks her off the floor, then lifts her off the ground and throws her through the glass shower door in the bathroom. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Laugh it up, cunt. You were in hysterics a minute ago. Why ain't you laughing now? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, lying in the bathtub, grabs a small bottle of hotel shampoo and squeezes it out in her hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil reaches in the shower and grabs hold of her hair. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama rubs the shampoo in his face. He lets go of her and his hands go to his eyes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Oh Jesus! </p><p><p ID="act">She grabs hold of a hefty piece of broken glass and plunges it into his face. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Oh Mary, help me! </p><p><p ID="act">The battered and bruised and bloody Alabama emerges from the shower. She's clutching a big, bloody piece of broken glass. She's vaguely reminiscent of a Tasmanian devil. Poor Virgil can't see very well, but he sees her figure coming toward him. He lets out a wild haymaker that catches her in the jaw and knocks her into the toilet. </p><p><p ID="act">He recovers almost immediately and takes the porcelain lid off the back of the toilet tank. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil whips out a .45 automatic from his shoulder holster, just as Alabama brings the lid down on his head. He's pressed up against the wall with this toilet lid hitting him. He can't get a good shot in this tight environment, but he fires anyway, hitting the floor, the all, the toilet, and the sink. </p><p><p ID="act">The toilet lid finally shatters against Virgil's head. He falls to the ground. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama goes to the medicine cabinet and whips out a big can of Final Net hairspray. She pulls a Bic lighter out of her pocket, and, just as Virgil raises his gun at her, she flicks the Bic and sends a stream of hairspray through the flame, which results in a big ball of fire that hits Virgil right in the face. </p><p><p ID="act">He fires off two shots. One hits the wall, another hits the sink pipe, sending water spraying. </p><p><p ID="act">Upon getting his face fried Virgil screams and jumps up, knocking Alabama down, and runs out of the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil collapses on the floor of the living room. Then, he sees the sawed-off laying on the ground. He crawls toward it. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, in the bathroom, sees where he's heading. She picks up the .45 automatic and fires at him. It's empty. She's on her feet and into the room. </p><p><p ID="act">He reaches the shotgun, his hands grasp it. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama spots and picks up the bloody Swiss army knife. She takes a knife-first-running-dive at Virgil's back. She hits him. </p><p><p ID="act">He arches up, firing the sawed-off into the ceiling, dropping the gun, and sending a cloud of plaster and stucco all over the room. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama snatches the shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Arched over on his back Virgil and Alabama make eye contact. </p><p><p ID="act">The first blast hits him in the shoulder, almost tearing his arm off. The second hits him in the knee. The third plays hell with his chest. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama then runs at him, hitting him in the head with the butt of the shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Ever since he's been firing it's as if some other part of her brain has been functioning independently. She's been absent-mindedly saying the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who's been hearing gunshots, bursts through the door, gun drawn, only to see Alabama, hitting a dead guy on the head, with a shotgun. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Honey? </p><p><p ID="act">She continues. He puts his gun away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sweetheart? Cops are gonna be here any minute, </p><p><p ID="act">She continues. He takes the gun away from her, and she falls to the ground. She lies on the floor trembling, continuing with the downward swings of her arms. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence grabs the shotgun and the cocaine, and tosses Alabama over his shoulder. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Everybody is outside their rooms watching as Clarence walks through the pool area with his bundle. Sirens can be heard. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is driving like mad. Alabama's passed out in the passenger seat. She's muttering to herself. Clarence has one hand on the steering wheel and the other strokes Alabama's hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sleep baby. Don't dream. Don't worry. Just sleep. You deserve better than this. I'm so sorry. Sleep my angel. Sleep peacefully. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MOTEL 6 - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A new motel. Clarence's red Mustang is parked outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOTEL 6 - CLARENCE'S ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, with a fat lip and a black and blue face, is asleep in bed. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. NOWHERE </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is in a nondescript room speaking directly to the camera. He's in a headshot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I feel so horrible about what she went through. That fucker really beat the shit out of her. She never told him where I was. It's like I always felt that the way she felt about me was a mistake. She couldn't really care that much. I always felt in the back of my mind, I don't know, she was jokin'. But, to go through that and remain loyal, it's very easy to be unraptured with words, but to remain loyal when it's easier, even excusable, not to - that's a test of oneself. That's a true romance. I swear to God, I'll cut off my hands and gouge out my eyes before I'll every let anything happen to that lady again. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HILLS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A wonderful, gracefully flowing shot of the Hollywood Hills. Off in the distance we hear the roar of a car engine. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MULLHOLLAND DRIVE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Vaaarrroooooommmm!!! A silver Porsche is driving hells bells, taking quick corners, pushing it to the edge. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING PORSCHE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot Blitzer is the driver, standing on it. A blond, glitzy Coke Whore is sitting next to him. They're having a ball. Then they're seeing a red and blue light flashing in the rear-view window. It's the cops. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Fuck! I knew it! I fucking knew it! I should have my head examined, driving like this! <P ID="spkdir">(he pulls over) <P ID="dia">Kandi, you gotta help me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">What can I do? </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls out the sample bag of cocaine that Clarence gave him earlier. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You gotta hold this for me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">You must be high. Uh-huh. No way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(frantically) <P ID="dia">Just put it in your purse. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">I'm not gonna put that shit in my purse. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">They won't search you. I promise. You haven't done anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">No way, Jos. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Please, they'll be here any minute. Just put it in your bra. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">I'm not wearing a bra. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(pleading) <P ID="dia">Put it in your pants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You're the one who wanted to drive fast. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">Read my lips. </p><p><p ID="act">She mouths the word "no". </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">After all I've done for you, you fuckin' whore!! </p><p><p ID="act">She goes to slap him, she hits the bag of cocaine instead. It rips open. Cocaine completely covers his blue suit. At that moment Elliot turns to face a flashing beam. Tears fill his eyes. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. POLICE STATION - INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is sitting in a chair at the table. Two young, good-looking, casually dressed, Starsky and Hutch-type POLICE DETECTIVES are questioning him. They're known in the department as Nicholson and Dimes. The dark-haired one is Cody Nicholson, and the blond is Nicky Dimes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Look, sunshine, we found a sandwich bag of uncut cocaine - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Not a tiny little vial - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">But a fuckin' baggie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">No don't sit here and feed us some shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You got caught. It's all fun and fuckin' games till you get caught. But now we gotcha. OK, Mr. Elliot actor, you've just made the big time - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You're no longer an extra - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Or a bit player - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Or a supporting actor - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You're a fuckin' star! And you're gonna be playin' your little one-man show nightly for the next two fuckin' years for a captive audience - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">But there is a bright side though. If you ever have to play a part of a guy who gets fucked in the ass on a daily basis by throat-slitting niggers, you'll have so much experience to draw on - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">And just think, when you get out in a few years, you'll meet some girl, get married, and you'll be so understanding to your wife's needs, because you'll know what it's like to be a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">'Course you'll wanna fuck her in the ass. Pussy just won't feed right anymore - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">That is, of course, if you don't catch Aids from all your anal intrusions. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot starts crying. Nicholson and Dimes exchange looks and smile. Mission accomplished. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. POLICE STATION - CAPTAIN KRINKLE'S OFFICE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CAPTAIN BUFFORD KRINKLE is sitting behind his desk, where he spends about seventy-five percent of his day. He's you standard rough, gruff, no-nonsense, by-the-book-type police captain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia"> Nicholson! Dimes! Het in here! </p><p><p ID="act">The two casually dressed, sneaker-wearing cops rush in, both shouting at once. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Krinkle, this is it. We got it, man. And it's all ours. I mean talk about fallin' into somethin'. You shoulda seen it, it was beautiful. Dimes is hittin' him from the left about being fucked in the ass by niggers, I'm hittin' him form the right about not likin' pussy anymore, finally he starts cryin', and then it was all over - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia"> Krinkle, you're lookin' at the two future cops of the month. We have it, and if I say we, I don't mean me and him, I'm referring to the whole department. Haven't had a decent bust this whole month. Well, we mighta come in like a lamb, but we're goin' out like a lion - </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Both you, idiots shut up, I can't understand shit! Now, what's happened, what's going on, and what are you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Okee-dokee. It's like this, Krinkle; a patrol car stops this dork for speeding, they walk up to window and the guy's covered in coke. So they bring his ass in and me an' Nicholson go to work on him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Nicholson and I. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Nicholson and I go to work on him. Now er know somthing's rotten in Denmark, 'cause this dickhead had a big bag, and it's uncut, too, so we're sweatin' him, trying to find out where he got it. Scarin' the shit outta him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Which wasn't too hard, the guy was a real squid. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">So we got this guy scared shitless and he starts talkin'. And, Krinkle, you ain't gonna fuckin' believe it. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. RESTAURANT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Detroit. Very fancy restaurant. Four wise-guy Hoods, one older, the other three, youngsters, are seated at the table with Mr. Coccotti. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">- And so, tomorrow morning comes, and no Virgil. I check with Nick Cardella, who Virgil was supposed to leave my narcotics with, he never shows. Now, children, somebody is stickin' a red-hot poker up my asshole and what I don't know is whose hand's on the handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #1 (FRANKIE) <P ID="dia">You think Virgil started gettin' big ideas? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">It's possible. Anybody can be carried away with delusions of grandeur. But after that incident in Ann Arbor, I trust Virgil. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #2 (DARIO) <P ID="dia">What happened? </p><p><P ID="speaker">OLD WISE-GUY(LENNY) <P ID="dia"> Virgil got picked up in a warehouse shakedown. He got five years, he served three. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Anybody who clams up and does hid time, I don't care how I feel about him personally, he's OK. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">KRINKLE'S OFFICE </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">It seems a cop from some department, we don't know where, stole a half a million dollars of coke from the property cage and he's been sittin' on it for a year and a half. Now the cops got this weirdo - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Suspect's words - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">To front for him. So Elliot is workin' out the deal between them and his boss, a big movie producer named Lee Donowitz. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He produced "Coming Home in a Body Bag". </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">That Vietnam movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">That was a good fuckin' movie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Sure was. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Do you believe him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">I believe he believes him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">He's so spooked he'd turn over his momma, his daddy, his two-panny granny, and Anna and the King of Siam if he had anything on him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This rabbit'll do anything not to do time, including wearing a wire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">He'll wear a wire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">We talked him into it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Dirty cops. We'll have to bring in internal affairs on this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Look, we don't care if you bring in the state milita, the volunteer fire department, the L.A. Thunderbirds, the ghost of Steve McQueen, and the twelve Roman gladiators, so long as we get credit for the bust. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Cocaine. Dirty cops. Hollywood. This is Crocket and Tubbs all the way. And we found it, so we want the fuckin' collar. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. RESTAURANT - DAY </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #3 (MARVIN) <P ID="dia">Maybe Virgil dropped it off at Cardella's. Cardella turns Virgil's switch off, and Cardella decides to open up his own fruit stand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Excuse me, Mr. Coccotti. <P ID="spkdir">(to Marvin) <P ID="dia">Do you know Nick Cardella? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Then where the hell do you get off talkin' that kind of talk? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">I didn't mean - </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Shut your mouth. Nick Cardella was provin' what his words was worth before you were in your daddy's nutsack. What sun do you walk under you can throw a shadow on Nick Cardella? Nick Cardella's a stand-up guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Children, we're digressing. Another possibility is that rat-fuck whore and her wack-a-doo cowboy boyfriend out-aped Virgil. Knowing Virgil, I find that hard to believe. But they sent Drexl to hell, and Drexl was no faggot. So you see, children, I got a lot of questions and no answers. Find out who this wing-and-a-prayer artist is and take him off at the neck. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "THE BIG DAY" </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. IMPERIAL HIGHWAY - SUNRISE </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's red Mustang is parked on top of a hill just off of Imperial Highway. As luck would have it, somebody has abandoned a ratty old sofa on the side of the road. Clarence and Alabama sit on the sofa, sharing a Jumbo Java, and enjoying the sunrise and wonderful view of the LAX Airport runways, where planes are taking off and landing. A plane takes off, and they stop and watch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ya know, I used to fuckin' hate airports. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">With a vengeance, I hated them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I used to live by one back in Dearborn. It's real frustratin' to be surrounded by airplanes when you ain't got shit. I hated where I was, but I couldn't do anythin' about it. I didn't have enough money. It was tough enough just tryin' to pay my rent every month, an' here I was livin' next to an airport. Whenever I went outside, I saw fuckin' planes take off drownin' out my show. All day long I'm seein', hearin' people doin' what I wanted to do most, but couldn't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Leavin' Detroit. Goin' off on vacations, startin' new lives, business trips. Fun, fun, fun, fun. </p><p><p ID="act">Another plane takes off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But knowin' me and you gonna be nigger-rich gives me a whole new outlook. I love airports now. Me 'n' you can get on any one of those planes out there, and go anywhere we ant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You ain't kiddin', we got lives to start over, we should go somewhere where we can really start from scatch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I been in America all my life. I'm due for a change. I wanna see what TV in other countries is like. Besides, it's more dramatic. Where should we fly off to, my little turtledove? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Cancoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Why Cancoon? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's got a nice ring to it. It sounds like a movie. "Clarence and Alabama Go to Cancoon". Don't 'cha think? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But in my movie, baby, you get the top billing. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't you worry 'bout anything. It's all gonna work out for us. We deserve it. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick, Clarence and Alabama are just getting ready to leave for the drug deal. Floyd lays on the couch watching TV. Alabama's wearing dark glasses because of the black eye she has. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Floyd) <P ID="dia">You sure that's how you get to the Beverly Wilshire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I've partied there twice. Yeah, I'm sure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, well if we got lost, it's your ass. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Come on, Clarence, lets go. Elliot's going to meet us in the lobby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm just makin' sure we got everything. <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Alabama) <P ID="dia"> You got yours? </p><p><p ID="act">She holds up the suitcase. The phone rings. The three pile out the door. Floyd picks up the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Hello? </p><p><p ID="act">He puts his hand over the receiver. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Dick, it's for you. You here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">No. I left. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts to close the door then opens it again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'll take it. <P ID="spkdir">(he takes the receiver) <P ID="dia">Hello. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Hi, Catherine, I was just walkin' out the - <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Really? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't believe it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">She really said that? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'll be by first thing. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">No, thank you for sending me out. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Bye-bye. </p><p><p ID="act">He hangs up and looks to Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(stunned) <P ID="dia">I got the part on "T.J. Hooker". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No shit? Dick, that's great! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are jumping around. Floyd even smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(still stunned) <P ID="dia">They didn't even want a callback. They just hired me like that. Me and Peter Breck are the two heavies. We start shooting Monday. My call is for seven o'clock in the morning. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ah, Dick, let's talk about it in the car. We can't be late. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick looks at Clarence. He doesn't want to go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Um, nothing, let's go? </p><p><p ID="act">They exit. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LAX AIRPORT - HOTEL - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We see the airport and move in closer on a hotel on a landscape. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. LAX AIRPORT - HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny can be seen putting a shotgun together. He is sitting on a bed. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario enters the frame with his own shotgun. He goes over to Lenny and gives him some shells. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin walks through the frame cocking his own shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">The bathroom door opens behind Lenny and Frankie walks out twirling a couple of .45 automatics in his hands. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - COP S' HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes and FOUR DETECTIVES from internal affairs are in a room on the same floor as Donowitz. They have just put a wire on Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">OK, say something. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(talking loud into the wire) <P ID="dia">Hello! Hello! Hello! How now brown cow! </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Just talk regular. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(normal tone) <P ID="dia">"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief -" </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Are you gettin' this shit? </p><p><p ID="act">DETECTIVE BY TAPE MACHINE Clear as a bell. </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson, Dime, and the head IA Officer, Wurlitzer, huddle by Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Now, remember, we'll be monitoring just down the hall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">And if there's any sign of trouble you'll come in. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Like gang-busters. Now, remember, if you don't want to go to jail, we gotta put your boss in jail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">We have to show in court that, without a doubt, a successful man, an important figure in the Hollywood community, is also dealing cocaine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">So you gotta get him to admit on tape that he's buying this coke. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">And this fellow Clarence? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">You gotta get him name the police officer behind all this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I'll try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You do more than try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Hope you're a good actor, Elliot. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Dick and Alabama en route. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You got that playing basketball? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yeah. I got elbowed right in the eye. And if that wasn't enough, I got hurled the ball when I'm not looking. Wam! Right in my face. </p><p><p ID="act">They stop at a red light. Clarence looks at Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Red light means love, baby. </p><p><p ID="act">He and Alabama start kissing. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING CADILLAC - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin, Frankie, Lenny and Dario in a rented Caddy. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE PARKING LOT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, and Dick get out of the red Mustang. Dick takes the suitcase. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'll take that. Now, remember, both of you, let me do the talking. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes out his .38. Dick reacts. They walk and talk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What the fuck did you bring that for. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In case. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">In case of what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In case they try to kill us. I don't know, what do you want me to say? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, Dillinger, Lee Donowitz is not a pimp - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I know that Richard. I don't think I'll need it. But something this last week has taught me, it's better to have a gun and not to need it than to need a gun and not to have it. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. Clarence stops walking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Hold it, guys. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm pretty scared. What say we forget the whole thing. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick and Alabama are both surprised and relieved. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you really mean it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No, I don't really mean it. Well, I mean, this is our last chance to think about it. How 'bout you, Bama? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I thought it was what you wanted, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It is what I want. But I don't want to spend the next ten years in jail. I don't want you guys to go to jail. We don't know what could be waiting for us up there. It'll probably be just what it's supposed to be. The only thing that's waiting for us is two hundred thousand dollars. I'm just looking at the downside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Now's a helluva time to play "what if". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This is our last chance to play "what if". I want to do it. I'm just scared of getting caught. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's been fun thinking about the money but I can walk away from it, honey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That rhymes. </p><p><p ID="act">He kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, if we're not gonna do it, let's just get in the car and get the fuck outta here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, let's just get outta here. </p><p><p ID="act">The three walk back to the car. Clarence gets behind the wheel. The other two climb in. Clarence hops back out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm sorry guys, I gotta do it. As petrified as I am, I just can't walk away. I'm gonna be kicking myself in the ass for the rest of my life if I don't go in there. Lee Donowitz isn't a gangster lookin' to skin us, and he's not a cop, he's a famous movie producer lookin' to get high. And I'm just the man who can get him there. So what say we throw caution to the wind and let the chips fall where they may. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence grabs the suitcase and makes a beeline for the hotel. Dick and Alabama exchange looks and follow. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LOBBY - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot's walking around the lobby. He's very nervous, so he's singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(singing) <P ID="dia">There's a man who leads a life of danger, To everyone he meets he stays a stranger. Be careful what you say, you'll give yourself away... </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - COPS' HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson, Dimes, Wurlitzer, and the three other Detectives surround the tape machine. Coming from the machine: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT'S VOICE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">... odds are you won't live to see tomorrow, secret agent man, secret agent man.... </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson looks at Dimes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Why, all of the sudden, have I got a bad feeling? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence enters the lobby alone, he's carrying the suitcase. He spots Elliot and goes in his direction. Elliot sees Clarence approaching him. He says to himself, quietly: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Elliot, your motivation is to stay out of jail. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks up to Elliot, they shake hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Where's everybody else? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">They'll be along. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama and Dick enter the lobby, they join up with Clarence and Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">How you doin', Elliot? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I guess it's about that time. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I guess so. Follow me. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ELEVATOR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The four of them are riding in the elevator. As luck would have it, they have the car to themselves. Rinky-drink elevator Muzak is playing. They are all silent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Get on your knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Not sure he heard him right. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence hits the stop button on the elevator panel and whips out his .38. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I said get on your fuckin' knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot does it immediately. Dick and Alabama react. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Shut up, both of you, I know what I'm doin'. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Pandemonium. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He knows. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">How the fuck could he know? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He saw the wire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">How's he supposed to see the wire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He knows something's up. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts the .38 against Elliot's forehead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You must think I'm pretty stupid, don't you? </p><p><p ID="act">No answer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(petrified) <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(yelling) <P ID="dia">Don't lie to me, motherfucker. You apparently think I'm the dumbest motherfucker in the world! Don't you? Say: Clarence, you are without a doubt, the dumbest motherfucker in the whole wide world. Say it! </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">We gotta get him outta there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Whatta we gonna do? He's in an elevator. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Say it, goddamn it! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You are the dumbest person in the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Apparently I'm not as dumb as you thought I am. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">No. No you're not. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's waiting for us up there. Tell me or I'll pump two right in your face. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">He's bluffin ya, Elliot. Can't you see that? You're an actor, remember, the show must go on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This guy's gonna kill him. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Stand up. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot does. The .38 is still pressed against his forehead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like Nick Carter used to say: I I'm wrong, I'll apologize. I want you to tell me what's waiting for us up there. Something's amiss. I can feel it. If anything out of the ordinary goes down, believe this, you're gonna be the first one shot. Trust me, I am AIDS, you fuck with me, you die. Now quit making me mad and tell me why I'm so fucking nervous. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He's bluffin', I knew it. He doesn't know shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Don't blow it, Elliot. He's bluffin'. He just told you so himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You're an actor, so act, motherfucker. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot still hasn't answered. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK. </p><p><p ID="act">With the .38 up against Elliot's head Clarence puts his palm over the top of the gun to shield himself from the splatter. Alabama and Dick can't believe what he's gonna do. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot, tears running down, starts talking for the benefit of the people at the other end of the wire. He sounds like a little boy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I don't wanna be here. I wanna go home. I wish somebody would just come and get me 'cause I don't like this. This is not what I thought it would be. And I wish somebody would just take me away. Just take me away Come and get me. 'Cause I don't like this anymore. I can't take this. I'm sorry but I just can't. So, if somebody would just come to my rescue, everything would be alright. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes shake their hands, They have a "well, that's that" expression an their faces. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts down the gun and hugs Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sorry, Elliot. Nothing personal. I just hadda make sure you're all right. I'm sure. I really apologize for scaring you so bad, but believe me, I'm just as scared as you. Friends? </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot, in a state of shock, takes Clarence's hand. Dick and Alabama are relieved. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes listen open-mouthed, not believing what they're hearing. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Floyd still lying on the couch watching TV. He hasn't moved since we last saw him. </p><p><p ID="act">There is a knock from the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="spkdir">(not turning away from TV) <P ID="dia">It's open. </p><p><p ID="act">The front door flies open and the four Wise-guys rapidly enter the room. The door slams shut. All have their sawed-offs drawn and pointing at Floyd. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Are you Dick Ritchie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Do you know a Clarence Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Do you know where we can find him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">He's at the Beverly Wilshire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Where's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Well, you go down Beechwood... </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LEE'S HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The door opens and reveals an extremely muscular guy with an Uzi strapped to his shoulder standing in the doorway, his name is Monty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Hi, Elliot. Are these your friends? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You could say that. Everybody, this is Monty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">C'mon in. Lee's in the can. He'll be out in a quick. </p><p><p ID="act">They all move into the room, it is very luxurious. </p><p><p ID="act">Another incredibly muscular GUY, Boris, is sitting on the sofa, he too has an Uzi. Monty begins patting everybody down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Sorry, nothin personal. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts to search Clarence. Clarence back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No need to search me, daredevil. All you'll find is a .38 calibre. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris gets up from the couch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">What compelled you to bring that along? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The same thing that compelled you, Beastmaster, to bring rapid-fire weaponry to a business meeting. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">I'll take that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You'll have to. </p><p><p ID="act">The toilet flushes in the bathroom. The door swings open and Lee Donowitz emerges. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">They're here. Who's who? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Lee, this is my friend Dick, and these are his friends, Clarence and Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="spkdir">(pointing at Clarence) <P ID="dia">This guy's packin'. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I have to admit, walkin' through the door and seein' these "Soldier of Fortune" poster boys made me a bit nervous. But, Lee, I'm fairly confident that you came here to do business, not to be a wise-guy. So, if you want, I'll put the gun on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I don't think that'll be necessary. Let's all have a seat. Boris, why don't you be nice and get coffee for everybody. </p><p><p ID="act">They all sit around a fancy glass table except for Boris, who's getting the coffee, and Monty, who's standing behind Lee's chair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh, Mr. Donowitz - </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Lee, Clarence . Please don't insult me. Call me Lee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK, sorry, Lee. I just wanna tell you "Coming Home in a Body Bag" is one of my favorite movies. After "Apocalypse Now" I think it's the best Vietnam movie ever. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Thank you very much, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, most movies that win a lot of Oscars, I can't stand. "Sophie's Choice", "Ordinary People", "Kramer vs. Kramer", "Gandhi". All that stuff is safe, geriatric, coffee-table dog shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I hear you talkin' Clarence. We park our cars in the same garage. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like that Merchant-Ivory clap-trap. All those assholes make are unwatchable movies from unreadable books. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris starts placing clear-glass coffee cups in front of everybody and fills everybody's cup from a fancy coffee pot that he handles like an expert. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Clarence, there might be somebody somewhere that agrees with you more than I do, but I wouldn't count on it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is on a roll and he knows it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">They ain't plays, they ain't books, they certainly ain't movies, they're films. And do you know what films are? They're for people who don't like movies. "Mad Max", that's a movie. "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly", that's a movie. "Rio Bravo", that's a movie. "Rumble Fish", that's a fuckin' movie. And, "Coming Home in a Body Bag", that's a movie. It was the first movie with balls to win a lot of Oscars since the "The Deer Hunter". </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">They're all listening to this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">What's this guy doin'? Makin' a drug deal or gettin' a job on the "New Yorker"? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">My uncle Roger and uncle Cliff, both of which were in Nam, saw "Coming Home in a Body Bag" and thought it was the most accurate Vietnam film they'd ever seen. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">You know, Clarence, when a veteran of that bullshit wars says that, it makes the whole project worthwhile. Clarence, my friend, and I call you my friend because we have similar interests, let's take a look at what you have for me. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Thank God. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts the suitcase on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Lee, when you see this you're gonna shit. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys are at the desk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="spkdir">(quietly to the others) <P ID="dia">What was the Jew-boy's name? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">Donowitz, he said. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FRONT-DESK GUY <P ID="dia">How can I help you, Gentlemen? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Yeah, we're from Warner Bros. What room is Mr. Donowitz in? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Lee's looking over the cocaine and sampling it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now, that's practically uncut. You could, if you so desire, cut it a helluva lot more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Don't worry, I'll desire. Boris, could I have some more coffee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Me too, Boris. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris fills both of their cups. They both, calm as a lake, take cream and sugar. All eyes are on them. Lee uses light cream and sugar, he begins stirring this cup. Clarence uses very heavy cream and sugar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(stirring loudly) <P ID="dia">You like a little coffee with your cream and sugar? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not satisfied till the spoon stands straight up. </p><p><p ID="act">Both are cool as cucumbers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I have to hand it to you, this is not nose garbage, this is quality. Can Boris make anybody a sandwich? I got all kinds of sandwich shit from Canters in there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">No thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">No. But thanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No thanks, my stomach's a little upset. I ate somethin' at a restaurant that made me a little sick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Where'd you go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A Norms in Van Nuys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Bastards. That's why I always eat at Lawreys. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee continues looking at the merchandise. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama writes something in her napkin with a pencil. She slides the napkin over to Clarence. It says: "You're so cool" with a tiny heart drawn on the bottom of it. Clarence takes the pencil and draws an arrow through the heart. She takes the napkin and puts it in her pocket. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee looks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">OK, Clarence, the merchandise is perfect. But, whenever I'm offered a deal that's too good to be true, it's because it's a lie. Convince me you're on the level. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">If he don't bite, we ain't got shit except posession. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Convince him. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, Lee, it's like this. You're getting the bargain of a lifetime because I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. You're used to dealin' with professionals. I'm not a professional. I'm a rank amateur. I could take that, and I could cut it, and I could sell it a little bit at a time, and make a helluva lot more money. But, in order to do that, I'd have to become a drug dealer. Deal with cut-throat junkies, killers, worry about getting busted all of the time. Just meeting you here today scares the shit outta me, and you're not a junkie, a killer or a cop, you're a fucking movie-maker. I like you, and I'm still scared. I'm a punk kid who picked up a rock in the street, only to find out it's the Hope Diamond. It's worth a million dollars, but I can't get the million dollars for it. But, you can. So, I'll sell it to you for a couple a hundred thousand. You go to make a million. It's all found money to me anyway. Me and my wife are minimum wage kids, two hundred thousand is the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Elliot tells me you're fronting for a dirty cop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, Elliot wasn't supposed to tell you anythin'. <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot, bigmouth. I knew you were a squid the moment I laid eyes on you. In my book, buddy, you're a piece of shit. <P ID="spkdir">(to Lee) <P ID="dia">He's not a dirty cop, he's a good cop. He just saw his chance and he took it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Why does he trust you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We grew up together. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">If you don't know shit, why does he think you can sell it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I bullshitted him. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee starts laughing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">That's wild. This fucking guy's a madman. I love it. Monty, go in the other room and get the money. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama and Dick exchange looks. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes exchange looks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES & NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Bingo! </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys are coming up. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Alabama) <P ID="dia">What's your part in this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm his wife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(referring to Dick) <P ID="dia">How 'bout you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I know Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">And Elliot knows me. Tell me, Clarence, what department does you friend work in? </p><p><p ID="act">Dick and Alabama panic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(without missing a beat) <P ID="dia">Carson County Sheriffs. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">The internal affairs officers high five. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Monty brings in a briefcase of money and puts it down on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Wanna count your money? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Actually, they can count it. I'd like to use the little boy's room. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">They all stand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">OK, boys. Let's go get 'em. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LEE'S HOTEL ROOM - BATHROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence steps inside the bathroom and shuts the door. As soon as it's shut he starts doing the twist. He can't believe he's pulled it off. He goes to the toilet and starts taking a piss. He turns and sees Elvis sitting on the sink. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Clarence, I gotta hand it to ya. You were cooler than cool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I was dying. I thought for sure everyone could see it on my face. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">All anybody saw was Clint Eastwood drinkin' coffee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Can you develop an ulcer in two minutes? Being cool is hard on your body. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Oh, and your line to Charles Atlas in there: "I'll take that gun", "You'll have to". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That was cool, wasn't it? You know, I don't even know where that came from. I just opened my mouth and it came out. After I said it I thought, that's a cool line, I gotta remember that. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Everything's just as it was. </p><p><p ID="act">Sudenly, Nicholson, Dimes and the four Detectives break into the room with guns drawn. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES & NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Police! Freeze, you're all under arrest! </p><p><p ID="act">Everybody at the table stands up. Boris and Monty stand ready with the Uzis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You two! Put the guns on the floor and back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Fuck you! All you pigs put your guns on the floor and back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Monty, what are you talking about? So what they say. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This is your last warning! Drop those fuckin' guns! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">This is your last warning! We could kill all six of ya and ya fuckin' know it! Now get on the floor! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What the fuck am I doing here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Boris! Everybody's gonna get killed! They're cops! </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">So they're cops. Who gives a shit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">Lee, something I never told you about me. I don't like cops. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">OK, let's everybody calm down and get nice. Nobody has to die. We don't want it, and you don't want it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">We don't want it. </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys burst through the door, shotguns drawn, except for Frankie, who has two .45 automatics, one in each hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Half of the cops spin around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Freeze! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Who are you guys? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Police. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DARIO <P ID="spkdir">(to Lenny) <P ID="dia">Do we get any extra if we have to kill cops? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">BATHROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How do you think I'm doin' with Lee? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Are you kiddin'? He loves you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't think I'm kissin' his ass, do you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">You're tellin' him what he wants to hear, but that ain't the same thing as kissin' his ass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not lyin' to him. I mean it. I loved "Coming Home in a Body Bag". </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">That's why it doesn't come across as ass-kissin', because it's genuine, and he can see that. </p><p><p ID="act">Elvis fixes Clarence's collar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I like ya, Clarence. Always have. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">This is a Mexican stand-off if there ever was one. Gangsters on one end with shotguns. Bodyguards with machine guns on the other. And cops with handguns in the middle. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's ready to pass out. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's so scared she pees on herself. </p><p><p ID="act">For Elliot, this has been the worst day of his life, and he's just about had it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Officer Dimes? Officer Dimes. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes looks at Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia"> This has nothing to do with me anymore. Can I just leave and you guys just settle it by yourselves? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Elliot, shut the fuck up and stay put! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">How did you know his name? How the fuck did he know your name? Why, you fuckin' little piece of shit! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Lee, understand, I didn't want to - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Shut the fuck up! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Well, I hope you're not planning on acting any time in the next twenty years 'cause your career is over as of now! You might as weel burn your SAG card! To think I treated you as a son! And you stabbed me in the heart! </p><p><p ID="act">Lee can't control his anger any more. He grabs the coffee pot off the table and flings hot coffee into Elliot's face. Elliot screams and falls to his knees, </p><p><p ID="act">Instinctively, Nicholson shoots Lee twice. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris lets loose with his Uzi, pinting Nicholson red with bullets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="spkdir">(screaming) <P ID="dia">Cody!!! </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson flies backwards. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin fires his shotgun, hits Nicholson in the back, Nicholson's body jerks back and forth then on the floor. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence opens the bathroom door. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes hits the ground firing. </p><p><p ID="act">A shot catches Clarence in the forehead. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario fires his sawed-off. It catches Clarence in the chest, hurling him on the bathroom sink, smashing the mirror. </p><p><p ID="act">It might have been a stand-off before, but once the firing starts everybody either hits the ground or runs for cover. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes, Alabama, Dick, Lenny, an IA Officer and Wurtlitzer hit the ground. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris dives into the kitchen area. </p><p><p ID="act">Monty tips the table over. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin dives behind the sofa. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario runs out of the door and down the hall. </p><p><p ID="act">With bullets flying this way and that, some don't have time to anything. Two IA Officers are shot right away. </p><p><p ID="act">Frankie takes an Uzi hit. He goes down firing both automatics. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot gets it from both sides. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama is crawling across the floor, like a soldier in war, towards the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, still barely alive, lays on the sink, twitching. He moves and falls off. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama continues crawling. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin brings his sawed-off from behind the sofa and fires. The shotgun blast hits the glass table and Monty. Monty stands up screaming. </p><p><p ID="act">The Cops on the ground let loose, firing into Monty. </p><p><p ID="act">As Monty gets hit, his finger hits the trigger of the Uzi, spreading fire all over the apartment. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cop cars start arriving in twos in front of the hotel. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">GUNFIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama crawling. </p><p><p ID="act">The suitcase full of cocaine is by Dick. Dick grabs it and tosses it in the air. Marvin comes from behind the sofa and fires. The suitcase is hit in mid-air. White powder goes everywhere. The room is enveloped in cocaine. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick takes this cue and makes a dash out the door. </p><p><p ID="act">An IA Officer goes after him. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny makes a break for it. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer goes after him but is pinned down by Marvin. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama reaches the bathroom and finds Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sweety? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's face is awash with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I... I can't see you... I've got blood in my eyes... </p><p><p ID="act">He dies. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama tries to give him outh-to-mouth resuscitation. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - HALLWAY - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dario runs down the hall, right into a cluster of uniformed police. </p><p><p ID="act">He fires his shotgun, hitting two, just before the others chop him to ribbons. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ANOTHER HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">The hallway's empty but we hear footsteps approaching fast. Dick comes around the corner, running as if on fire. Then we see the IA Officer turn the same corner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">IA OFFICER <P ID="spkdir">(aiming gun) <P ID="dia">Freeze! </p><p><p ID="act">Dick does. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'm unarmed! </p><p><P ID="speaker">IA OFFICER <P ID="dia">Put your hands on your head, you son-of-a-bitch! </p><p><p ID="act">He does. Then, from off screen, a shotgun blast tears into the IA Officer, sending him to the wall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Oh shit. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts running again and runs out of frame, then Lenny turns around the corner and runs down the hall. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick runs into the elevator area, he hits the buttons, he's trapped, it's like a box. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny catches up. Dick raises his hands. Lenny aimes his sawed-off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, I don't know who you are, but whatever it was that I did to you, I'm sorry. </p><p><p ID="act">Two elevator doors on either side of them open. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny looks at Dick. He drops his aim and says: </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Lotsa luck. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny dives into one elevator car. Dick jumps into the other, just as the doors close. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">HOTEL ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">The Mexican stand-off has become two different groups of two pinning each other down. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer has Marvin pinned down behind the sofa and Dimes has Boris pinned down in the kitchen. </p><p><p ID="act">In the bathroom, Alabama's pounding on Clarence's bloody chest, trying to get his heart started. It's not working. She slaps him hard in the face a couple of times. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Wake up, goddamn it! </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes discards his handgun and pulls one of the sawed-off shotguns from the grip of a dead Wise-guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris peeks around the wall to fire. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes lets loose with a blast. A scream is heard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I'm shot! Stop! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Throw out your gun, asshole! </p><p><p ID="act">The Uzi's tossed out. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes goes to where Wurlitzer is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="spkdir">(to Marvin) <P ID="dia">OK, black jacket! It's two against one now! Toss the gun and lie face down on the floor or die like all you friends. </p><p><p ID="act">The shotgun's tossed out from behind the sofa. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ELEVATOR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's sitting on the ground, he can't believe any of this. The doors open on the fourth floor. He runs out into the hallway. </p><p><p ID="act">HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">He starts trying the room doors for an open one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Oh, God, if you just get me outta this I swear to God I'll never fuck up again. Please, just let me get to "T.J. Hooker" on Monday. </p><p><p ID="act">STEWARDESS'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick steps in. Three gorgeous girls are doing a killer aerobics workout to a video on TV. The music is so loud they're so into their exercises, they don't hear Dick tiptoe behind them and crawl underneath the bed. </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Boris has caught a lot of buckshots, but he'll live. He's lying on the kitchen floor. Dimes stands over him. He has the sawed-off in his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Don't even give me an excuse, motherfucker. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes pats him down for other weapons, there are none. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer puts the cuffs on Marvin and sits him down on the couch. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes looks in the bathroom and sees the dead Clarence with Alabama crying over him. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes walks over to Wurlitzer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Everything's under control here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Sorry about Nicholson. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Me too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">I'm gonna go see what's goin' on outside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You do that. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer exits. Dimes grabs the phone. </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Shotgun in hand, Lenny moves hurriedly down the lobby. </p><p><p ID="act">A Cop yells out. </p><p><p ID="act">COP You! Stop! </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny brings up his sawed-off and lets him have it. Other cops rush forward. Lenny grabs a woman standing by. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Get back or I'll blow this bitch's brains to kingdom come! </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes on the phone talking with the department. Boris is still moving on the floor. Marvin is sitting on the couch with his hands cuffed behind his back. Alabama is crying over Clarence, then she feels something in his jacket. She reaches in and pulls out his .38. She wipes her eyes. She holds the gun in her hand and remembers Clarence saying: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">She's a sixteen-calibre kitten, equally equipped for killin' an' lovin'! She carried a sawed-off shotgun in her purse, a black belt around her waist, and the white-hot fire of hate in her eyes! Alabama Whitman is Pam Grier! Pray for forgiveness, Rated R... for Ruthless Revenge! </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama steps out of the bathroom, gun in hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin turns his head toward her. She shoots him twice. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes, still on the phone, spins around in time to see her raise her gun. She fires. He's hit in the head and flung to the floor. </p><p><p ID="act">She sees Boris on the kitchen floor. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye-bye, Boris. Good luck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">You too, cutie. </p><p><p ID="act">She starts to leave and then spots the briefcase full of money. She takes it and walks out the door. </p><p><p ID="act">HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">The elevator opens and Wurlitzer steps out. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama comes around the corner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Hey, you! </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama shoots him three times in the belly. She steps into the elevator, the doors close. </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama enters the lobby and proceeds to walk out. In the background, cops are all over the place and Lenny is still yelling with the woman hostage. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">I wanna car here, takin' me to the airport, with a plane full of gas ready to take me to Kilimanjaro and... and a million bucks! <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Small bills! </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - PARKING LOT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama puts the briefcase in the trunk. She gets into the Mustang and drives away. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's driving fast down the freeway. The DJ on the radio is trying to be funny. She's muttering to herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I could have walked away. I told you that. I told you I could have walked away. This is not my fault. I did not do this. You did this one hundred percent to yourself. I'm not gonna give you the satisfaction of feeling bad. I should laugh 'cause you don't deserve any better. I could get another guy like that. I'm hot lookin'. What are you? Dead! Dumb jerk. Asshole. You're a asshole, you're a asshole, you're a asshole. You wanted it all, didn't ya? Didn't ya? Well watcha got now? You ain't got the money. You ain't got me. You ain't even got your body anymore. You got nothin'. Nada. Zip. Goose egg. Nil. Donut. </p><p><p ID="act">The song "Little Arrows" by Leapy Lee comes on the radio. Alabama breaks down and starts crying. She pulls the car over to the side. The song continues. She wipes her eyes with a napkin that she pulls out her jacket. She tosses it on the dashboard. She picks up the .38 and sticks it in her mouth. </p><p><p ID="act">She pulls back hammer. She looks up and sees her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She turns it the other way. She looks straight ahead. Her finger tightens on the trigger. She sees the napkin on the dashboard. She opens it up and reads it: "You're so cool". </p><p><p ID="act">She tosses the gun aside, opens up the trunk, and takes out the briefcase. She looks around for, and finally finds, the "Sgt. Fury" comic book Clarence bought her. </p><p><p ID="act">And with comic book in one hand, and briefcase in the other, Bama walks away from the Mustang forever. </p><p><p ID="slug">FADE OUT </p><p><p ID="act">THE END Screenplay by Quentin Tarantino Produced by Samuel Hadida Steve Perry Bill Unger Directed by Tony Scott Cast List: Christian Slater Clarence Worley Patricia Arquette Alabama Whitman Dennis Hopper Clifford Worley Michael Rapaport Dick Ritchie Bronson Pinchott Elliot Blitzer Christopher Walken Vincenzo Coccotti Saul Rubinek Lee Donowitz Samuel L. Jackson Big Don Brad Pitt Floyd Val Kilmer Elvis (Mentor) Typed with two bare fingers by Niki Wurster Removed from zip format and formatted in text format by Kale Whorton. Formatted in HTML by Dabrast Caustic </p> </div> <b> </b><b> </b> <b></b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What was Rodgers exposed to while investigating?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Radioactive gas" ]	27,508	narrativeqa	en	null	d660c82758a6d8d265d8214e779593755f968c1f75acfb87	Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net ARMAGEDDON--2419 A.D. _By Philip Francis Nowlan_ _Here, once more, is a real scientifiction story plus. It is a story which will make the heart of many readers leap with joy._ _We have rarely printed a story in this magazine that for scientific interest, as well as suspense, could hold its own with this particular story. We prophesy that this story will become more valuable as the years go by. It certainly holds a number of interesting prophecies, of which no doubt, many will come true. For wealth of science, it will be hard to beat for some time to come. It is one of those rare stories that will bear reading and re-reading many times._ _This story has impressed us so favorably, that we hope the author may be induced to write a sequel to it soon._ Foreword Elsewhere I have set down, for whatever interest they have in this, the 25th Century, my personal recollections of the 20th Century. Now it occurs to me that my memoirs of the 25th Century may have an equal interest 500 years from now--particularly in view of that unique perspective from which I have seen the 25th Century, entering it as I did, in one leap across a gap of 492 years. This statement requires elucidation. There are still many in the world who are not familiar with my unique experience. Five centuries from now there may be many more, especially if civilization is fated to endure any worse convulsions than those which have occurred between 1975 A.D. and the present time. I should state therefore, that I, Anthony Rogers, am, so far as I know, the only man alive whose normal span of eighty-one years of life has been spread over a period of 573 years. To be precise, I lived the first twenty-nine years of my life between 1898 and 1927; the other fifty-two since 2419. The gap between these two, a period of nearly five hundred years, I spent in a state of suspended animation, free from the ravages of katabolic processes, and without any apparent effect on my physical or mental faculties. When I began my long sleep, man had just begun his real conquest of the air in a sudden series of transoceanic flights in airplanes driven by internal combustion motors. He had barely begun to speculate on the possibilities of harnessing sub-atomic forces, and had made no further practical penetration into the field of ethereal pulsations than the primitive radio and television of that day. The United States of America was the most powerful nation in the world, its political, financial, industrial and scientific influence being supreme; and in the arts also it was rapidly climbing into leadership. I awoke to find the America I knew a total wreck--to find Americans a hunted race in their own land, hiding in the dense forests that covered the shattered and leveled ruins of their once magnificent cities, desperately preserving, and struggling to develop in their secret retreats, the remnants of their culture and science--and the undying flame of their sturdy independence. World domination was in the hands of Mongolians and the center of world power lay in inland China, with Americans one of the few races of mankind unsubdued--and it must be admitted in fairness to the truth, not worth the trouble of subduing in the eyes of the Han Airlords who ruled North America as titular tributaries of the Most Magnificent. For they needed not the forests in which the Americans lived, nor the resources of the vast territories these forests covered. With the perfection to which they had reduced the synthetic production of necessities and luxuries, their remarkable development of scientific processes and mechanical accomplishment of work, they had no economic need for the forests, and no economic desire for the enslaved labor of an unruly race. They had all they needed for their magnificently luxurious and degraded scheme of civilization, within the walls of the fifteen cities of sparkling glass they had flung skyward on the sites of ancient American centers, into the bowels of the earth underneath them, and with relatively small surrounding areas of agriculture. Complete domination of the air rendered communication between these centers a matter of ease and safety. Occasional destructive raids on the waste lands were considered all that was necessary to keep the "wild" Americans on the run within the shelter of their forests, and prevent their becoming a menace to the Han civilization. But nearly three hundred years of easily maintained security, the last century of which had been nearly sterile in scientific, social and economic progress, had softened and devitalized the Hans. It had likewise developed, beneath the protecting foliage of the forest, the growth of a vigorous new American civilization, remarkable in the mobility and flexibility of its organization, in its conquest of almost insuperable obstacles, in the development and guarding of its industrial and scientific resources, all in anticipation of that "Day of Hope" to which it had been looking forward for generations, when it would be strong enough to burst from the green chrysalis of the forests, soar into the upper air lanes and destroy the yellow incubus. At the time I awoke, the "Day of Hope" was almost at hand. I shall not attempt to set forth a detailed history of the Second War of Independence, for that has been recorded already by better historians than I am. Instead I shall confine myself largely to the part I was fortunate enough to play in this struggle and in the events leading up to it. [Illustration: Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance.] It all resulted from my interest in radioactive gases. During the latter part of 1927 my company, the American Radioactive Gas Corporation, had been keeping me busy investigating reports of unusual phenomena observed in certain abandoned coal mines near the Wyoming Valley, in Pennsylvania. With two assistants and a complete equipment of scientific instruments, I began the exploration of a deserted working in a mountainous district, where several weeks before, a number of mining engineers had reported traces of carnotite[1] and what they believed to be radioactive gases. Their report was not without foundation, it was apparent from the outset, for in our examination of the upper levels of the mine, our instruments indicated a vigorous radioactivity. [1] A hydrovanadate of uranium, and other metals; used as a source of radium compounds. On the morning of December 15th, we descended to one of the lowest levels. To our surprise, we found no water there. Obviously it had drained off through some break in the strata. We noticed too that the rock in the side walls of the shaft was soft, evidently due to the radioactivity, and pieces crumbled under foot rather easily. We made our way cautiously down the shaft, when suddenly the rotted timbers above us gave way. I jumped ahead, barely escaping the avalanche of coal and soft rock, but my companions, who were several paces behind me, were buried under it, and undoubtedly met instant death. I was trapped. Return was impossible. With my electric torch I explored the shaft to its end, but could find no other way out. The air became increasingly difficult to breathe, probably from the rapid accumulation of the radioactive gas. In a little while my senses reeled and I lost consciousness. When I awoke, there was a cool and refreshing circulation of air in the shaft. I had no thought that I had been unconscious more than a few hours, although it seems that the radioactive gas had kept me in a state of suspended animation for something like 500 years. My awakening, I figured out later, had been due to some shifting of the strata which reopened the shaft and cleared the atmosphere in the working. This must have been the case, for I was able to struggle back up the shaft over a pile of debris, and stagger up the long incline to the mouth of the mine, where an entirely different world, overgrown with a vast forest and no visible sign of human habitation, met my eyes. I shall pass over the days of mental agony that followed in my attempt to grasp the meaning of it all. There were times when I felt that I was on the verge of insanity. I roamed the unfamiliar forest like a lost soul. Had it not been for the necessity of improvising traps and crude clubs with which to slay my food, I believe I should have gone mad. Suffice it to say, however, that I survived this psychic crisis. I shall begin my narrative proper with my first contact with Americans of the year 2419 A.D. CHAPTER I Floating Men My first glimpse of a human being of the 25th Century was obtained through a portion of woodland where the trees were thinly scattered, with a dense forest beyond. I had been wandering along aimlessly, and hopelessly, musing over my strange fate, when I noticed a figure that cautiously backed out of the dense growth across the glade. I was about to call out joyfully, but there was something furtive about the figure that prevented me. The boy's attention (for it seemed to be a lad of fifteen or sixteen) was centered tensely on the heavy growth of trees from which he had just emerged. He was clad in rather tight-fitting garments entirely of green, and wore a helmet-like cap of the same color. High around his waist he wore a broad, thick belt, which bulked up in the back across the shoulders, into something of the proportions of a knapsack. As I was taking in these details, there came a vivid flash and heavy detonation, like that of a hand grenade, not far to the left of him. He threw up an arm and staggered a bit in a queer, gliding way; then he recovered himself and slipped cautiously away from the place of the explosion, crouching slightly, and still facing the denser part of the forest. Every few steps he would raise his arm, and point into the forest with something he held in his hand. Wherever he pointed there was a terrific explosion, deeper in among the trees. It came to me then that he was shooting with some form of pistol, though there was neither flash nor detonation from the muzzle of the weapon itself. After firing several times, he seemed to come to a sudden resolution, and turning in my general direction, leaped--to my amazement sailing through the air between the sparsely scattered trees in such a jump as I had never in my life seen before. That leap must have carried him a full fifty feet, although at the height of his arc, he was not more than ten or twelve feet from the ground. When he alighted, his foot caught in a projecting root, and he sprawled gently forward. I say "gently" for he did not crash down as I expected him to do. The only thing I could compare it with was a slow-motion cinema, although I had never seen one in which horizontal motions were registered at normal speed and only the vertical movements were slowed down. Due to my surprise, I suppose my brain did not function with its normal quickness, for I gazed at the prone figure for several seconds before I saw the blood that oozed out from under the tight green cap. Regaining my power of action, I dragged him out of sight back of the big tree. For a few moments I busied myself in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The wound was not a deep one. My companion was more dazed than hurt. But what of the pursuers? I took the weapon from his grasp and examined it hurriedly. It was not unlike the automatic pistol to which I was accustomed, except that it apparently fired with a button instead of a trigger. I inserted several fresh rounds of ammunition into its magazine from my companion's belt, as rapidly as I could, for I soon heard, near us, the suppressed conversation of his pursuers. There followed a series of explosions round about us, but none very close. They evidently had not spotted our hiding place, and were firing at random. I waited tensely, balancing the gun in my hand, to accustom myself to its weight and probable throw. Then I saw a movement in the green foliage of a tree not far away, and the head and face of a man appeared. Like my companion, he was clad entirely in green, which made his figure difficult to distinguish. But his face could be seen clearly. It was an evil face, and had murder in it. That decided me. I raised the gun and fired. My aim was bad, for there was no kick in the gun, as I had expected, and I hit the trunk of the tree several feet below him. It blew him from his perch like a crumpled bit of paper, and he _floated_ down to the ground, like some limp, dead thing, gently lowered by an invisible hand. The tree, its trunk blown apart by the explosion, crashed down. There followed another series of explosions around us. These guns we were using made no sound in the firing, and my opponents were evidently as much at sea as to my position as I was to theirs. So I made no attempt to reply to their fire, contenting myself with keeping a sharp lookout in their general direction. And patience had its reward. Very soon I saw a cautious movement in the top of another tree. Exposing myself as little as possible, I aimed carefully at the tree trunk and fired again. A shriek followed the explosion. I heard the tree crash down; then a groan. There was silence for a while. Then I heard a faint sound of boughs swishing. I shot three times in its direction, pressing the button as rapidly as I could. Branches crashed down where my shells had exploded, but there was no body. Then I saw one of them. He was starting one of those amazing leaps from the bough of one tree to another, about forty feet away. I threw up my gun impulsively and fired. By now I had gotten the feel of the weapon, and my aim was good. I hit him. The "bullet" must have penetrated his body and exploded. For one moment I saw him flying through the air. Then the explosion, and he had vanished. He never finished his leap. It was annihilation. How many more of them there were I don't know. But this must have been too much for them. They used a final round of shells on us, all of which exploded harmlessly, and shortly after I heard them swishing and crashing away from us through the tree tops. Not one of them descended to earth. Now I had time to give some attention to my companion. She was, I found, a girl, and not a boy. Despite her bulky appearance, due to the peculiar belt strapped around her body high up under the arms, she was very slender, and very pretty. There was a stream not far away, from which I brought water and bathed her face and wound. Apparently the mystery of these long leaps, the monkey-like ability to jump from bough to bough, and of the bodies that floated gently down instead of falling, lay in the belt. The thing was some sort of anti-gravity belt that almost balanced the weight of the wearer, thereby tremendously multiplying the propulsive power of the leg muscles, and the lifting power of the arms. When the girl came to, she regarded me as curiously as I did her, and promptly began to quiz me. Her accent and intonation puzzled me a lot, but nevertheless we were able to understand each other fairly well, except for certain words and phrases. I explained what had happened while she lay unconscious, and she thanked me simply for saving her life. "You are a strange exchange," she said, eying my clothing quizzically. Evidently she found it mirth provoking by contrast with her own neatly efficient garb. "Don't you understand what I mean by 'exchange?' I mean ah--let me see--a stranger, somebody from some other gang. What gang do you belong to?" (She pronounced it "gan," with only a suspicion of a nasal sound.) I laughed. "I'm not a gangster," I said. But she evidently did not understand this word. "I don't belong to any gang," I explained, "and never did. Does everybody belong to a gang nowadays?" "Naturally," she said, frowning. "If you don't belong to a gang, where and how do you live? Why have you not found and joined a gang? How do you eat? Where do you get your clothing?" "I've been eating wild game for the past two weeks," I explained, "and this clothing I--er--ah--." I paused, wondering how I could explain that it must be many hundred years old. In the end I saw I would have to tell my story as well as I could, piecing it together with my assumptions as to what had happened. She listened patiently; incredulously at first, but with more confidence as I went on. When I had finished, she sat thinking for a long time. "That's hard to believe," she said, "but I believe it." She looked me over with frank interest. "Were you married when you slipped into unconsciousness down in that mine?" she asked me suddenly. I assured her I had never married. "Well, that simplifies matters," she continued. "You see, if you were technically classed as a family man, I could take you back only as an invited exchange and I, being unmarried, and no relation of yours, couldn't do the inviting." CHAPTER II The Forest Gangs She gave me a brief outline of the very peculiar social and economic system under which her people lived. At least it seemed very peculiar from my 20th Century viewpoint. I learned with amazement that exactly 492 years had passed over my head as I lay unconscious in the mine. Wilma, for that was her name, did not profess to be a historian, and so could give me only a sketchy outline of the wars that had been fought, and the manner in which such radical changes had come about. It seemed that another war had followed the First World War, in which nearly all the European nations had banded together to break the financial and industrial power of America. They succeeded in their purpose, though they were beaten, for the war was a terrific one, and left America, like themselves, gasping, bleeding and disorganized, with only the hollow shell of a victory. This opportunity had been seized by the Russian Soviets, who had made a coalition with the Chinese, to sweep over all Europe and reduce it to a state of chaos. America, industrially geared to world production and the world trade, collapsed economically, and there ensued a long period of stagnation and desperate attempts at economic reconstruction. But it was impossible to stave off war with the Mongolians, who by now had subjugated the Russians, and were aiming at a world empire. In about 2109, it seems, the conflict was finally precipitated. The Mongolians, with overwhelming fleets of great airships, and a science that far outstripped that of crippled America, swept in over the Pacific and Atlantic Coasts, and down from Canada, annihilating American aircraft, armies and cities with their terrific _disintegrator_ rays. These rays were projected from a machine not unlike a searchlight in appearance, the reflector of which, however, was not material substance, but a complicated balance of interacting electronic forces. This resulted in a terribly destructive beam. Under its influence, material substance melted into "nothingness"; i. e., into electronic vibrations. It destroyed all then known substances, from air to the most dense metals and stone. They settled down to the establishment of what became known as the Han dynasty in America, as a sort of province in their World Empire. Those were terrible days for the Americans. They were hunted like wild beasts. Only those survived who finally found refuge in mountains, canyons and forests. Government was at an end among them. Anarchy prevailed for several generations. Most would have been eager to submit to the Hans, even if it meant slavery. But the Hans did not want them, for they themselves had marvelous machinery and scientific process by which all difficult labor was accomplished. Ultimately they stopped their active search for, and annihilation of, the widely scattered groups of now savage Americans. So long as they remained hidden in their forests, and did not venture near the great cities the Hans had built, little attention was paid to them. Then began the building of the new American civilization. Families and individuals gathered together in clans or "gangs" for mutual protection. For nearly a century they lived a nomadic and primitive life, moving from place to place, in desperate fear of the casual and occasional Han air raids, and the terrible disintegrator ray. As the frequency of these raids decreased, they began to stay permanently in given localities, organizing upon lines which in many respects were similar to those of the military households of the Norman feudal barons, except that instead of gathering together in castles, their defense tactics necessitated a certain scattering of living quarters for families and individuals. They lived virtually in the open air, in the forests, in green tents, resorting to camouflage tactics that would conceal their presence from air observers. They dug underground factories and laboratories, that they might better be shielded from the electrical detectors of the Hans. They tapped the radio communication lines of the Hans, with crude instruments at first; better ones later on. They bent every effort toward the redevelopment of science. For many generations they labored as unseen, unknown scholars of the Hans, picking up their knowledge piecemeal, as fast as they were able to. During the earlier part of this period, there were many deadly wars fought between the various gangs, and occasional courageous but childishly futile attacks upon the Hans, followed by terribly punitive raids. But as knowledge progressed, the sense of American brotherhood redeveloped. Reciprocal arrangements were made among the gangs over constantly increasing areas. Trade developed to a certain extent, as between one gang and another. But the interchange of knowledge became more important than that of goods, as skill in the handling of synthetic processes developed. Within the gang, an economy was developed that was a compromise between individual liberty and a military socialism. The right of private property was limited practically to personal possessions, but private privileges were many, and sacredly regarded. Stimulation to achievement lay chiefly in the winning of various kinds of leadership and prerogatives, and only in a very limited degree in the hope of owning anything that might be classified as "wealth," and nothing that might be classified as "resources." Resources of every description, for military safety and efficiency, belonged as a matter of public interest to the community as a whole. In the meantime, through these many generations, the Hans had developed a luxury economy, and with it the perfection of gilded vice and degradation. The Americans were regarded as "wild men of the woods." And since they neither needed nor wanted the woods or the wild men, they treated them as beasts, and were conscious of no human brotherhood with them. As time went on, and synthetic processes of producing foods and materials were further developed, less and less ground was needed by the Hans for the purposes of agriculture, and finally, even the working of mines was abandoned when it became cheaper to build up metal from electronic vibrations than to dig them out of the ground. The Han race, devitalized by its vices and luxuries, with machinery and scientific processes to satisfy its every want, with virtually no necessity of labor, began to assume a defensive attitude toward the Americans. And quite naturally, the Americans regarded the Hans with a deep, grim hatred. Conscious of individual superiority as men, knowing that latterly they were outstripping the Hans in science and civilization, they longed desperately for the day when they should be powerful enough to rise and annihilate the Yellow Blight that lay over the continent. At the time of my awakening, the gangs were rather loosely organized, but were considering the establishment of a special military force, whose special business it would be to harry the Hans and bring down their air ships whenever possible without causing general alarm among the Mongolians. This force was destined to become the nucleus of the national force, when the Day of Retribution arrived. But that, however, did not happen for ten years, and is another story. [Illustration: On the left of the illustration is a Han girl, and on the right is an American girl, who, like all of her race, is equipped with an inertron belt and a rocket gun.] Wilma told me she was a member of the Wyoming Gang, which claimed the entire Wyoming Valley as its territory, under the leadership of Boss Hart. Her mother and father were dead, and she was unmarried, so she was not a "family member." She lived in a little group of tents known as Camp 17, under a woman Camp Boss, with seven other girls. Her duties alternated between military or police scouting and factory work. For the two-week period which would end the next day, she had been on "air patrol." This did not mean, as I first imagined, that she was flying, but rather that she was on the lookout for Han ships over this outlying section of the Wyoming territory, and had spent most of her time perched in the tree tops scanning the skies. Had she seen one she would have fired a "drop flare" several miles off to one side, which would ignite when it was floating vertically toward the earth, so that the direction or point from which it had been fired might not be guessed by the airship and bring a blasting play of the disintegrator ray in her vicinity. Other members of the air patrol would send up rockets on seeing hers, until finally a scout equipped with an ultrophone, which, unlike the ancient radio, operated on the ultronic ethereal vibrations, would pass the warning simultaneously to the headquarters of the Wyoming Gang and other communities within a radius of several hundred miles, not to mention the few American rocket ships that might be in the air, and which instantly would duck to cover either through forest clearings or by flattening down to earth in green fields where their coloring would probably protect them from observation. The favorite American method of propulsion was known as "_rocketing_." The _rocket_ is what I would describe, from my 20th Century comprehension of the matter, as an extremely powerful gas blast, atomically produced through the stimulation of chemical action. Scientists of today regard it as a childishly simple reaction, but by that very virtue, most economical and efficient. But tomorrow, she explained, she would go back to work in the cloth plant, where she would take charge of one of the synthetic processes by which those wonderful substitutes for woven fabrics of wool, cotton and silk are produced. At the end of another two weeks, she would be back on military duty again, perhaps at the same work, or maybe as a "contact guard," on duty where the territory of the Wyomings merged with that of the Delawares, or the "Susquannas" (Susquehannas) or one of the half dozen other "gangs" in that section of the country which I knew as Pennsylvania and New York States. Wilma cleared up for me the mystery of those flying leaps which she and her assailants had made, and explained in the following manner, how the inertron belt balances weight: "_Jumpers_" were in common use at the time I "awoke," though they were costly, for at that time _inertron_ had not been produced in very great quantity. They were very useful in the forest. They were belts, strapped high under the arms, containing an amount of inertron adjusted to the wearer's weight and purposes. In effect they made a man weigh as little as he desired; two pounds if he liked. "_Floaters_" are a later development of "_jumpers_"--rocket motors encased in _inertron_ blocks and strapped to the back in such a way that the wearer floats, when drifting, facing slightly downward. With his motor in operation, he moves like a diver, headforemost, controlling his direction by twisting his body and by movements of his outstretched arms and hands. Ballast weights locked in the front of the belt adjust weight and lift. Some men prefer a few ounces of weight in floating, using a slight motor thrust to overcome this. Others prefer a buoyance balance of a few ounces. The inadvertent dropping of weight is not a serious matter. The motor thrust always can be used to descend. But as an extra precaution, in case the motor should fail, for any reason, there are built into every belt a number of detachable sections, one or more of which can be discarded to balance off any loss in weight. "But who were your assailants," I asked, "and why were you attacked?" Her assailants, she told me, were members of an outlaw gang, referred to as "Bad Bloods," a group which for several generations had been under the domination of conscienceless leaders who tried to advance the interests of their clan by tactics which their neighbors had come to regard as unfair, and who in consequence had been virtually boycotted. Their purpose had been to slay her near the Delaware frontier, making it appear that the crime had been committed by Delaware scouts and thus embroil the Delawares and Wyomings in acts of reprisal against each other, or at least cause suspicions. Fortunately they had not succeeded in surprising her, and she had been successful in dodging them for some two hours before the shooting began, at the moment when I arrived on the scene. "But we must not stay here talking," Wilma concluded. "I have to take you in, and besides I must report this attack right away. I think we had better slip over to the other side of the mountain. Whoever is on that post will have a phone, and I can make a direct report. But you'll have to have a belt. Mine alone won't help much against our combined weights, and there's little to be gained by jumping heavy. It's almost as bad as walking." After a little search, we found one of the men I had killed, who had floated down among the trees some distance away and whose belt was not badly damaged. In detaching it from his body, it nearly got away from me and shot up in the air. Wilma caught it, however, and though it reinforced the lift of her own belt so that she had to hook her knee around a branch to hold herself down, she saved it. I climbed the tree and, with my weight added to hers, we floated down easily. CHAPTER III Life in the 25th Century We were delayed in starting for quite a while since I had to acquire a few crude ideas about the technique of using these belts. I had been sitting down, for instance, with the belt strapped about me, enjoying an ease similar to that of a comfortable armchair; when I stood up with a natural exertion of muscular effort, I shot ten feet into the air, with a wild instinctive thrashing of arms and legs that amused Wilma greatly. But after some practice, I began to get the trick of gauging muscular effort to a minimum of vertical and a maximum of horizontal. The correct form, I found, was in a measure comparable to that of skating. I found, also, that in forest work particularly the arms and hands could be used to great advantage in swinging along from branch to branch, so prolonging leaps almost indefinitely at times. In going up the side of the mountain, I found that my 20th Century muscles did have an advantage, in spite of lack of skill with the belt, and since the slopes were very sharp, and most of our leaps were upward, I could have distanced Wilma easily. But when we crossed the ridge and descended, she outstripped me with her superior technique. Choosing the steepest slopes, she would crouch in the top of a tree, and propel herself outward, literally diving until, with the loss of horizontal momentum, she would assume a more upright position and float downward. In this manner she would sometimes cover as much as a quarter of a mile in a single leap, while I leaped and scrambled clumsily behind, thoroughly enjoying the novel sensation. Half way down the mountain, we saw another green-clad figure leap out above the tree tops toward us. The three of us perched on an outcropping of rock from which a view for many miles around could be had, while Wilma hastily explained her adventure and my presence to her fellow guard; whose name was Alan. I learned later that this was the modern form of Helen. "You want to report by phone then, don't you?" Alan took a compact packet about six inches square from a holster attached to her belt and handed it to Wilma. So far as I could see, it had no special receiver for the ear. Wilma merely threw back a lid, as though she were opening a book, and began to talk. The voice that came back from the machine was as audible as her own. She was queried closely as to the attack upon her, and at considerable length as to myself, and I could tell from the tone of that voice that its owner was not prepared to take me at my face value as readily as Wilma had. For that matter, neither was the other girl. I could realize it from the suspicious glances she threw my way, when she thought my attention was elsewhere, and the manner in which her hand hovered constantly near her gun holster. Wilma was ordered to bring me in at once, and informed that another scout would take her place on the other side of the mountain. So she closed down the lid of the phone and handed it back to Alan, who seemed relieved to see us departing over the tree tops in the direction of the camps. We had covered perhaps ten miles, in what still seemed to me a surprisingly easy fashion, when Wilma explained, that from here on we would have to keep to the ground. We were nearing the camps, she said, and there was always the possibility that some small Han scoutship, invisible high in the sky, might catch sight of us through a projectoscope and thus find the general location of the camps. Wilma took me to the Scout office, which proved to be a small building of irregular shape, conforming to the trees around it, and substantially constructed of green sheet-like material. I was received by the assistant Scout Boss, who reported my arrival at once to the historical office, and to officials he called the Psycho Boss and the History Boss, who came in a few minutes later. The attitude of all three men was at first polite but skeptical, and Wilma's ardent advocacy seemed to amuse them secretly. For the next two hours I talked, explained and answered questions. I had to explain, in detail, the manner of my life in the 20th Century and my understanding of customs, habits, business, science and the history of that period, and about developments in the centuries that had elapsed. Had I been in a classroom, I would have come through the examination with a very poor mark, for I was unable to give any answer to fully half of their questions. But before long I realized that the majority of these questions were designed as traps. Objects, of whose purpose I knew nothing, were casually handed to me, and I was watched keenly as I handled them. In the end I could see both amazement and belief begin to show in the faces of my inquisitors, and at last the Historical and Psycho Bosses agreed openly that they could find no flaw in my story or reactions, and that unbelievable as it seemed, my story must be accepted as genuine. They took me at once to Big Boss Hart. He was a portly man with a "poker face." He would probably have been the successful politician even in the 20th Century. They gave him a brief outline of my story and a report of their examination of me. He made no comment other than to nod his acceptance of it. Then he turned to me. "How does it feel?" he asked. "Do we look funny to you?" "A bit strange," I admitted. "But I'm beginning to lose that dazed feeling, though I can see I have an awful lot to learn." "Maybe we can learn some things from you, too," he said. "So you fought in the First World War. Do you know, we have very little left in the way of records of the details of that war, that is, the precise conditions under which it was fought, and the tactics employed. We forgot many things during the Han terror, and--well, I think you might have a lot of ideas worth thinking over for our raid masters. By the way, now that you're here, and can't go back to your own century, so to speak, what do you want to do? You're welcome to become one of us. Or perhaps you'd just like to visit with us for a while, and then look around among the other gangs. Maybe you'd like some of the others better. Don't make up your mind now. We'll put you down as an exchange for a while. Let's see. You and Bill Hearn ought to get along well together. He's Camp Boss of Number 34 when he isn't acting as Raid Boss or Scout Boss. There's a vacancy in his camp. Stay with him and think things over as long as you want to. As soon as you make up your mind to anything, let me know." We all shook hands, for that was one custom that had not died out in five hundred years, and I set out with Bill Hearn. Bill, like all the others, was clad in green. He was a big man. That is, he was about my own height, five feet eleven. This was considerably above the average now, for the race had lost something in stature, it seemed, through the vicissitudes of five centuries. Most of the women were a bit below five feet, and the men only a trifle above this height. For a period of two weeks Bill was to confine himself to camp duties, so I had a good chance to familiarize myself with the community life. It was not easy. There were so many marvels to absorb. I never ceased to wonder at the strange combination of rustic social life and feverish industrial activity. At least, it was strange to me. For in my experience, industrial development meant crowded cities, tenements, paved streets, profusion of vehicles, noise, hurrying men and women with strained or dull faces, vast structures and ornate public works. Here, however, was rustic simplicity, apparently isolated families and groups, living in the heart of the forest, with a quarter of a mile or more between households, a total absence of crowds, no means of conveyance other than the belts called jumpers, almost constantly worn by everybody, and an occasional rocket ship, used only for longer journeys, and underground plants or factories that were to my mind more like laboratories and engine rooms; many of them were excavations as deep as mines, with well finished, lighted and comfortable interiors. These people were adepts at camouflage against air observation. Not only would their activity have been unsuspected by an airship passing over the center of the community, but even by an enemy who might happen to drop through the screen of the upper branches to the floor of the forest. The camps, or household structures, were all irregular in shape and of colors that blended with the great trees among which they were hidden. There were 724 dwellings or "camps" among the Wyomings, located within an area of about fifteen square miles. The total population was 8,688, every man, woman and child, whether member or "exchange," being listed. The plants were widely scattered through the territory also. Nowhere was anything like congestion permitted. So far as possible, families and individuals were assigned to living quarters, not too far from the plants or offices in which their work lay. All able-bodied men and women alternated in two-week periods between military and industrial service, except those who were needed for household work. Since working conditions in the plants and offices were ideal, and everybody thus had plenty of healthy outdoor activity in addition, the population was sturdy and active. Laziness was regarded as nearly the greatest of social offenses. Hard work and general merit were variously rewarded with extra privileges, advancement to positions of authority, and with various items of personal equipment for convenience and luxury. In leisure moments, I got great enjoyment from sitting outside the dwelling in which I was quartered with Bill Hearn and ten other men, watching the occasional passers-by, as with leisurely, but swift movements, they swung up and down the forest trail, rising from the ground in long almost-horizontal leaps, occasionally swinging from one convenient branch overhead to another before "sliding" back to the ground farther on. Normal traveling pace, where these trails were straight enough, was about twenty miles an hour. Such things as automobiles and railroad trains (the memory of them not more than a month old in my mind) seemed inexpressibly silly and futile compared with such convenience as these belts or jumpers offered. Bill suggested that I wander around for several days, from plant to plant, to observe and study what I could. The entire community had been apprised of my coming, my rating as an "exchange" reaching every building and post in the community, by means of ultronic broadcast. Everywhere I was welcomed in an interested and helpful spirit. I visited the plants where ultronic vibrations were isolated from the ether and through slow processes built up into sub-electronic, electronic and atomic forms into the two great synthetic elements, ultron and inertron. I learned something, superficially at least, of the processes of combined chemical and mechanical action through which were produced the various forms of synthetic cloth. I watched the manufacture of the machines which were used at locations of construction to produce the various forms of building materials. But I was particularly interested in the munitions plants and the rocket-ship shops. Ultron is a solid of great molecular density and moderate elasticity, which has the property of being 100 percent conductive to those pulsations known as light, electricity and heat. Since it is completely permeable to light vibrations, it is therefore _absolutely invisible and non-reflective_. Its magnetic response is almost, but not quite, 100 percent also. It is therefore very heavy under normal conditions but extremely responsive to the _repellor_ or anti-gravity rays, such as the Hans use as "_legs_" for their airships. Inertron is the second great triumph of American research and experimentation with ultronic forces. It was developed just a few years before my awakening in the abandoned mine. It is a synthetic element, built up, through a complicated heterodyning of ultronic pulsations, from "infra-balanced" sub-ionic forms. It is completely inert to both electric and magnetic forces in all the orders above the _ultronic_; that is to say, the _sub-electronic_, the _electronic_, the _atomic_ and the _molecular_. In consequence it has a number of amazing and valuable properties. One of these is _the total lack of weight_. Another is a total lack of heat. It has no molecular vibration whatever. It reflects 100 percent of the heat and light impinging upon it. It does not feel cold to the touch, of course, since it will not absorb the heat of the hand. It is a solid, very dense in molecular structure despite its lack of weight, of great strength and considerable elasticity. It is a perfect shield against the disintegrator rays. [Illustration: Setting his rocket gun for a long-distance shot.] Rocket guns are very simple contrivances so far as the mechanism of launching the bullet is concerned. They are simple light tubes, closed at the rear end, with a trigger-actuated pin for piercing the thin skin at the base of the cartridge. This piercing of the skin starts the chemical and atomic reaction. The entire cartridge leaves the tube under its own power, at a very easy initial velocity, just enough to insure accuracy of aim; so the tube does not have to be of heavy construction. The bullet increases in velocity as it goes. It may be solid or explosive. It may explode on contact or on time, or a combination of these two. Bill and I talked mostly of weapons, military tactics and strategy. Strangely enough he had no idea whatever of the possibilities of the barrage, though the tremendous effect of a "curtain of fire" with such high-explosive projectiles as these modern rocket guns used was obvious to me. But the barrage idea, it seemed, has been lost track of completely in the air wars that followed the First World War, and in the peculiar guerilla tactics developed by Americans in the later period of operations from the ground against Han airships, and in the gang wars which, until a few generations ago I learned, had been almost continuous. "I wonder," said Bill one day, "if we couldn't work up some form of barrage to spring on the Bad Bloods. The Big Boss told me today that he's been in communication with the other gangs, and all are agreed that the Bad Bloods might as well be wiped out for good. That attempt on Wilma Deering's life and their evident desire to make trouble among the gangs, has stirred up every community east of the Alleghenies. The Boss says that none of the others will object if we go after them. So I imagine that before long we will. Now show me again how you worked that business in the Argonne forest. The conditions ought to be pretty much the same." I went over it with him in detail, and gradually we worked out a modified plan that would be better adapted to our more powerful weapons, and the use of jumpers. "It will be easy," Bill exulted. "I'll slide down and talk it over with the Boss tomorrow." During the first two weeks of my stay with the Wyomings, Wilma Deering and I saw a great deal of each other. I naturally felt a little closer friendship for her, in view of the fact that she was the first human being I saw after waking from my long sleep; her appreciation of my saving her life, though I could not have done otherwise than I did in that matter, and most of all my own appreciation of the fact that she had not found it as difficult as the others to believe my story, operated in the same direction. I could easily imagine my story must have sounded incredible. It was natural enough too, that she should feel an unusual interest in me. In the first place, I was her personal discovery. In the second, she was a girl of studious and reflective turn of mind. She never got tired of my stories and descriptions of the 20th Century. The others of the community, however, seemed to find our friendship a bit amusing. It seemed that Wilma had a reputation for being cold toward the opposite sex, and so others, not being able to appreciate some of her fine qualities as I did, misinterpreted her attitude, much to their own delight. Wilma and I, however, ignored this as much as we could. CHAPTER IV A Han Air Raid There was a girl in Wilma's camp named Gerdi Mann, with whom Bill Hearn was desperately in love, and the four of us used to go around a lot together. Gerdi was a distinct type. Whereas Wilma had the usual dark brown hair and hazel eyes that marked nearly every member of the community, Gerdi had red hair, blue eyes and very fair skin. She has been dead many years now, but I remember her vividly because she was a throwback in physical appearance to a certain 20th Century type which I have found very rare among modern Americans; also because the four of us were engaged one day in a discussion of this very point, when I obtained my first experience of a Han air raid. We were sitting high on the side of a hill overlooking the valley that teemed with human activity, invisible beneath its blanket of foliage. The other three, who knew of the Irish but vaguely and indefinitely, as a race on the other side of the globe, which, like ourselves, had succeeded in maintaining a precarious and fugitive existence in rebellion against the Mongolian domination of the earth, were listening with interest to my theory that Gerdi's ancestors of several hundred years ago must have been Irish. I explained that Gerdi was an Irish type, evidently a throwback, and that her surname might well have been McMann, or McMahan, and still more anciently "mac Mathghamhain." They were interested too in my surmise that "Gerdi" was the same name as that which had been "Gerty" or "Gertrude" in the 20th Century. In the middle of our discussion, we were startled by an alarm rocket that burst high in the air, far to the north, spreading a pall of red smoke that drifted like a cloud. It was followed by others at scattered points in the northern sky. "A Han raid!" Bill exclaimed in amazement. "The first in seven years!" "Maybe it's just one of their ships off its course," I ventured. "No," said Wilma in some agitation. "That would be green rockets. Red means only one thing, Tony. They're sweeping the countryside with their dis beams. Can you see anything, Bill?" "We had better get under cover," Gerdi said nervously. "The four of us are bunched here in the open. For all we know they may be twelve miles up, out of sight, yet looking at us with a projecto'." Bill had been sweeping the horizon hastily with his glass, but apparently saw nothing. "We had better scatter, at that," he said finally. "It's orders, you know. See!" He pointed to the valley. Here and there a tiny human figure shot for a moment above the foliage of the treetops. "That's bad," Wilma commented, as she counted the jumpers. "No less than fifteen people visible, and all clearly radiating from a central point. Do they want to give away our location?" The standard orders covering air raids were that the population was to scatter individually. There should be no grouping, or even pairing, in view of the destructiveness of the disintegrator rays. Experience of generations had proved that if this were done, and everybody remained hidden beneath the tree screens, the Hans would have to sweep mile after mile of territory, foot by foot, to catch more than a small percentage of the community. Gerdi, however, refused to leave Bill, and Wilma developed an equal obstinacy against quitting my side. I was inexperienced at this sort of thing, she explained, quite ignoring the fact that she was too; she was only thirteen or fourteen years old at the time of the last air raid. However, since I could not argue her out of it, we leaped together about a quarter of a mile to the right, while Bill and Gerdi disappeared down the hillside among the trees. Wilma and I both wanted a point of vantage from which we might overlook the valley and the sky to the north, and we found it near the top of the ridge, where, protected from visibility by thick branches, we could look out between the tree trunks, and get a good view of the valley. No more rockets went up. Except for a few of those warning red clouds, drifting lazily in a blue sky, there was no visible indication of man's past or present existence anywhere in the sky or on the ground. Then Wilma gripped my arm and pointed. I saw it; away off in the distance; looking like a phantom dirigible airship, in its coat of low-visibility paint, a bare spectre. "Seven thousand feet up," Wilma whispered, crouching close to me. "Watch." The ship was about the same shape as the great dirigibles of the 20th Century that I had seen, but without the suspended control car, engines, propellors, rudders or elevating planes. As it loomed rapidly nearer, I saw that it was wider and somewhat flatter than I had supposed. Now I could see the repellor rays that held the ship aloft, like searchlight beams faintly visible in the bright daylight (and still faintly visible to the human eye at night). Actually, I had been informed by my instructors, there were two rays; the visible one generated by the ship's apparatus, and directed toward the ground as a beam of "carrier" impulses; and the true repellor ray, the complement of the other in one sense, induced by the action of the "carrier" and reacting in a concentrating upward direction from the mass of the earth, becoming successively electronic, atomic and finally molecular, in its nature, according to various ratios of distance between earth mass and "carrier" source, until, in the last analysis, the ship itself actually is supported on an upward rushing column of air, much like a ball continuously supported on a fountain jet. The raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum. The ship was operating two disintegrator rays, though only in a casual, intermittent fashion. But whenever they flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them. When later I inspected the scars left by these rays I found them some five feet deep and thirty feet wide, the exposed surfaces being lava-like in texture, but of a pale, iridescent, greenish hue. No systematic use of the rays was made by the ship, however, until it reached a point over the center of the valley--the center of the community's activities. There it came to a sudden stop by shooting its repellor beams sharply forward and easing them back gradually to the vertical, holding the ship floating and motionless. Then the work of destruction began systematically. Back and forth traveled the destroying rays, ploughing parallel furrows from hillside to hillside. We gasped in dismay, Wilma and I, as time after time we saw it plough through sections where we knew camps or plants were located. "This is awful," she moaned, a terrified question in her eyes. "How could they know the location so exactly, Tony? Did you see? They were never in doubt. They stalled at a predetermined spot--and--and it was exactly the right spot." We did not talk of what might happen if the rays were turned in our direction. We both knew. We would simply disintegrate in a split second into mere scattered electronic vibrations. Strangely enough, it was this self-reliant girl of the 25th Century, who clung to me, a relatively primitive man of the 20th, less familiar than she with the thought of this terrifying possibility, for moral support. We knew that many of our companions must have been whisked into absolute non-existence before our eyes in these few moments. The whole thing paralyzed us into mental and physical immobility for I do not know how long. It couldn't have been long, however, for the rays had not ploughed more than thirty of their twenty-foot furrows or so across the valley, when I regained control of myself, and brought Wilma to herself by shaking her roughly. "How far will this rocket gun shoot, Wilma?" I demanded, drawing my pistol. "It depends on your rocket, Tony. It will take even the longest range rocket, but you could shoot more accurately from a longer tube. But why? You couldn't penetrate the shell of that ship with rocket force, even if you could reach it." I fumbled clumsily with my rocket pouch, for I was excited. I had an idea I wanted to try; a "hunch" I called it, forgetting that Wilma could not understand my ancient slang. But finally, with her help, I selected the longest range explosive rocket in my pouch, and fitted it to my pistol. "It won't carry seven thousand feet, Tony," Wilma objected. But I took aim carefully. It was another thought that I had in my mind. The supporting repellor ray, I had been told, became molecular in character at what was called a logarithmic level of five (below that it was a purely electronic "flow" or pulsation between the source of the "carrier" and the average mass of the earth). Below that level if I could project my explosive bullet into this stream where it began to carry material substance upward, might it not rise with the air column, gathering speed and hitting the ship with enough impact to carry it through the shell? It was worth trying anyhow. Wilma became greatly excited, too, when she grasped the nature of my inspiration. Feverishly I looked around for some formation of branches against which I could rest the pistol, for I had to aim most carefully. At last I found one. Patiently I sighted on the hulk of the ship far above us, aiming at the far side of it, at such an angle as would, so far as I could estimate, bring my bullet path through the forward repellor beam. At last the sights wavered across the point I sought and I pressed the button gently. For a moment we gazed breathlessly. Suddenly the ship swung bow down, as on a pivot, and swayed like a pendulum. Wilma screamed in her excitement. "Oh, Tony, you hit it! You hit it! Do it again; bring it down!" We had only one more rocket of extreme range between us, and we dropped it three times in our excitement in inserting it in my gun. Then, forcing myself to be calm by sheer will power, while Wilma stuffed her little fist into her mouth to keep from shrieking, I sighted carefully again and fired. In a flash, Wilma had grasped the hope that this discovery of mine might lead to the end of the Han domination. The elapsed time of the rocket's invisible flight seemed an age. Then we saw the ship falling. It seemed to plunge lazily, but actually it fell with terrific acceleration, turning end over end, its disintegrator rays, out of control, describing vast, wild arcs, and once cutting a gash through the forest less than two hundred feet from where we stood. The crash with which the heavy craft hit the ground reverberated from the hills--the momentum of eighteen or twenty thousand tons, in a sheer drop of seven thousand feet. A mangled mass of metal, it buried itself in the ground, with poetic justice, in the middle of the smoking, semi-molten field of destruction it had been so deliberately ploughing. The silence, the vacuity of the landscape, was oppressive, as the last echoes died away. Then far down the hillside, a single figure leaped exultantly above the foliage screen. And in the distance another, and another. In a moment the sky was punctured by signal rockets. One after another the little red puffs became drifting clouds. "Scatter! Scatter!" Wilma exclaimed. "In half an hour there'll be an entire Han fleet here from Nu-yok, and another from Bah-flo. They'll get this instantly on their recordographs and location finders. They'll blast the whole valley and the country for miles beyond. Come, Tony. There's no time for the gang to rally. See the signals. We've got to jump. Oh, I'm so proud of you!" Over the ridge we went, in long leaps toward the east, the country of the Delawares. From time to time signal rockets puffed in the sky. Most of them were the "red warnings," the "scatter" signals. But from certain of the others, which Wilma identified as Wyoming rockets, she gathered that whoever was in command (we did not know whether the Boss was alive or not) was ordering an ultimate rally toward the south, and so we changed our course. It was a great pity, I thought, that the clan had not been equipped throughout its membership with ultrophones, but Wilma explained to me, that not enough of these had been built for distribution as yet, although general distribution had been contemplated within a couple of months. We traveled far before nightfall overtook us, trying only to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the valley. When gathering dusk made jumping too dangerous, we sought a comfortable spot beneath the trees, and consumed part of our emergency rations. It was the first time I had tasted the stuff--a highly nutritive synthetic substance called "concentro," which was, however, a bit bitter and unpalatable. But as only a mouthful or so was needed, it did not matter. Neither of us had a cloak, but we were both thoroughly tired and happy, so we curled up together for warmth. I remember Wilma making some sleepy remark about our mating, as she cuddled up, as though the matter were all settled, and my surprise at my own instant acceptance of the idea, for I had not consciously thought of her that way before. But we both fell asleep at once. In the morning we found little time for love making. The practical problem facing us was too great. Wilma felt that the Wyoming plan must be to rally in the Susquanna territory, but she had her doubts about the wisdom of this plan. In my elation at my success in bringing down the Han ship, and my newly found interest in my charming companion, who was, from my viewpoint of another century, at once more highly civilized and yet more primitive than myself, I had forgotten the ominous fact that the Han ship I had destroyed must have known the exact location of the Wyoming Works. This meant, to Wilma's logical mind, either that the Hans had perfected new instruments as yet unknown to us, or that somewhere, among the Wyomings or some other nearby gang, there were traitors so degraded as to commit that unthinkable act of trafficking in information with the Hans. In either contingency, she argued, other Han raids would follow, and since the Susquannas had a highly developed organization and more than usually productive plants, the next raid might be expected to strike them. But at any rate it was clearly our business to get in touch with the other fugitives as quickly as possible, so in spite of muscles that were sore from the excessive leaping of the day before, we continued on our way. We traveled for only a couple of hours when we saw a multi-colored rocket in the sky, some ten miles ahead of us. "Bear to the left, Tony," Wilma said, "and listen for the whistle." "Why?" I asked. "Haven't they given you the rocket code yet?" she replied. "That's what the green, followed by yellow and purple means; to concentrate five miles east of the rocket position. You know the rocket position itself might draw a play of disintegrator beams." It did not take us long to reach the neighborhood of the indicated rallying, though we were now traveling beneath the trees, with but an occasional leap to a top branch to see if any more rocket smoke was floating above. And soon we heard a distant whistle. We found about half the Gang already there, in a spot where the trees met high above a little stream. The Big Boss and Raid Bosses were busy reorganizing the remnants. We reported to Boss Hart at once. He was silent, but interested, when he heard our story. "You two stick close to me," he said, adding grimly, "I'm going back to the valley at once with a hundred picked men, and I'll need you." CHAPTER V Setting the Trap Inside of fifteen minutes we were on our way. A certain amount of caution was sacrificed for the sake of speed, and the men leaped away either across the forest top, or over open spaces of ground, but concentration was forbidden. The Big Boss named the spot on the hillside as the rallying point. "We'll have to take a chance on being seen, so long as we don't group," he declared, "at least until within five miles of the rallying spot. From then on I want every man to disappear from sight and to travel under cover. And keep your ultrophones open, and tuned on ten-four-seven-six." Wilma and I had received our battle equipment from the Gear boss. It consisted of a long-gun, a hand-gun, with a special case of ammunition constructed of inertron, which made the load weigh but a few ounces, and a short sword. This gear we strapped over each other's shoulders, on top of our jumping belts. In addition, we each received an ultrophone, and a light inertron blanket rolled into a cylinder about six inches long by two or three in diameter. This fabric was exceedingly thin and light, but it had considerable warmth, because of the mixture of inertron in its composition. [Illustration: The Han raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum.... Whenever the disintegrator rays flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them.] "This looks like business," Wilma remarked to me with sparkling eyes. (And I might mention a curious thing here. The word "business" had survived from the 20th Century American vocabulary, but not with any meaning of "industry" or "trade," for such things being purely community activities were spoken of as "work" and "clearing." Business simply meant fighting, and that was all.) "Did you bring all this equipment from the valley?" I asked the Gear Boss. "No," he said. "There was no time to gather anything. All this stuff we cleared from the Susquannas a few hours ago. I was with the Boss on the way down, and he had me jump on ahead and arrange it. But you two had better be moving. He's beckoning you now." Hart was about to call us on our phones when we looked up. As soon as we did so, he leaped away, waving us to follow closely. He was a powerful man, and he darted ahead in long, swift, low leaps up the banks of the stream, which followed a fairly straight course at this point. By extending ourselves, however, Wilma and I were able to catch up to him. As we gradually synchronized our leaps with his, he outlined to us, between the grunts that accompanied each leap, his plan of action. "We have to start the big business--unh--sooner or later," he said. "And if--unh--the Hans have found any way of locating our positions--unh--it's time to start now, although the Council of Bosses--unh--had intended waiting a few years until enough rocket ships have been--unh--built. But no matter what the sacrifice--unh--we can't afford to let them get us on the run--unh--. We'll set a trap for the yellow devils in the--unh--valley if they come back for their wreckage--unh--and if they don't, we'll go rocketing for some of their liners--unh--on the Nu-yok, Clee-lan, Si-ka-ga course. We can use--unh--that idea of yours of shooting up the repellor--unh--beams. Want you to give us a demonstration." With further admonition to follow him closely, he increased his pace, and Wilma and I were taxed to our utmost to keep up with him. It was only in ascending the slopes that my tougher muscles overbalanced his greater skill, and I was able to set the pace for him, as I had for Wilma. We slept in greater comfort that night, under our inertron blankets, and were off with the dawn, leaping cautiously to the top of the ridge overlooking the valley which Wilma and I had left. The Boss scanned the sky with his ultroscope, patiently taking some fifteen minutes to the task, and then swung his phone into use, calling the roll and giving the men their instructions. His first order was for us all to slip our ear and chest discs into permanent position. These ultrophones were quite different from the one used by Wilma's companion scout the day I saved her from the vicious attack of the bandit Gang. That one was contained entirely in a small pocket case. These, with which we were now equipped, consisted of a pair of ear discs, each a separate and self-contained receiving set. They slipped into little pockets over our ears in the fabric helmets we wore, and shut out virtually all extraneous sounds. The chest discs were likewise self-contained sending sets, strapped to the chest a few inches below the neck and actuated by the vibrations from the vocal cords through the body tissues. The total range of these sets was about eighteen miles. Reception was remarkably clear, quite free from the static that so marked the 20th Century radios, and of a strength in direct proportion to the distance of the speaker. The Boss' set was triple powered, so that his orders would cut in on any local conversations, which were indulged in, however, with great restraint, and only for the purpose of maintaining contacts. I marveled at the efficiency of this modern method of battle communication in contrast to the clumsy signaling devices of more ancient times; and also at other military contrasts in which the 20th and 25th Century methods were the reverse of each other in efficiency. These modern Americans, for instance, knew little of hand to hand fighting, and nothing, naturally, of trench warfare. Of barrages they were quite ignorant, although they possessed weapons of terrific power. And until my recent flash of inspiration, no one among them, apparently, had ever thought of the scheme of shooting a rocket into a repellor beam and letting the beam itself hurl it upward into the most vital part of the Han ship. Hart patiently placed his men, first giving his instructions to the campmasters, and then remaining silent, while they placed the individuals. In the end, the hundred men were ringed about the valley, on the hillsides and tops, each in a position from which he had a good view of the wreckage of the Han ship. But not a man had come in view, so far as I could see, in the whole process. The Boss explained to me that it was his idea that he, Wilma and I should investigate the wreck. If Han ships should appear in the sky, we would leap for the hillsides. I suggested to him to have the men set up their long-guns trained on an imaginary circle surrounding the wreck. He busied himself with this after the three of us leaped down to the Han ship, serving as a target himself, while he called on the men individually to aim their pieces and lock them in position. In the meantime Wilma and I climbed into the wreckage, but did not find much. Practically all of the instruments and machinery had been twisted out of all recognizable shape, or utterly destroyed by the ship's disintegrator rays which apparently had continued to operate in the midst of its warped remains for some moments after the crash. It was unpleasant work searching the mangled bodies of the crew. But it had to be done. The Han clothing, I observed, was quite different from that of the Americans, and in many respects more like the garb to which I had been accustomed in the earlier part of my life. It was made of synthetic fabrics like silks, loose and comfortable trousers of knee length, and sleeveless shirts. No protection, except that against drafts, was needed, Wilma explained to me, for the Han cities were entirely enclosed, with splendid arrangements for ventilation and heating. These arrangements of course were equally adequate in their airships. The Hans, indeed, had quite a distaste for unshaded daylight, since their lighting apparatus diffused a controlled amount of violet rays, making the unmodified sunlight unnecessary for health, and undesirable for comfort. Since the Hans did not have the secret of inertron, none of them wore anti-gravity belts. Yet in spite of the fact that they had to bear their own full weights at all times, they were physically far inferior to the Americans, for they lived lives of degenerative physical inertia, having machinery of every description for the performance of all labor, and convenient conveyances for any movement of more than a few steps. Even from the twisted wreckage of this ship I could see that seats, chairs and couches played an extremely important part in their scheme of existence. But none of the bodies were overweight. They seemed to have been the bodies of men in good health, but muscularly much underdeveloped. Wilma explained to me that they had mastered the science of gland control, and of course dietetics, to the point where men and women among them not uncommonly reached the age of a hundred years with arteries and general health in splendid condition. I did not have time to study the ship and its contents as carefully as I would have liked, however. Time pressed, and it was our business to discover some clue to the deadly accuracy with which the ship had spotted the Wyoming Works. The Boss had hardly finished his arrangements for the ring barrage, when one of the scouts on an eminence to the north, announced the approach of seven Han ships, spread out in a great semi-circle. Hart leaped for the hillside, calling to us to do likewise, but Wilma and I had raised the flaps of our helmets and switched off our "speakers" for conversation between ourselves, and by the time we discovered what had happened, the ships were clearly visible, so fast were they approaching. "Jump!" we heard the Boss order, "Deering to the north. Rogers to the east." But Wilma looked at me meaningly and pointed to where the twisted plates of the ship, projecting from the ground, offered a shelter. "Too late, Boss," she said. "They'd see us. Besides I think there's something here we ought to look at. It's probably their magnetic graph." "You're signing your death warrant," Hart warned. "We'll risk it," said Wilma and I together. "Good for you," replied the Boss. "Take command then, Rogers, for the present. Do you all know his voice, boys?" A chorus of assent rang in our ears, and I began to do some fast thinking as the girl and I ducked into the twisted mass of metal. "Wilma, hunt for that record," I said, knowing that by the simple process of talking I could keep the entire command continuously informed as to the situation. "On the hillsides, keep your guns trained on the circles and stand by. On the hilltops, how many of you are there? Speak in rotation from Bald Knob around to the east, north, west." In turn the men called their names. There were twenty of them. I assigned them by name to cover the various Han ships, numbering the latter from left to right. "Train your rockets on their repellor rays about three-quarters of the way up, between ships and ground. Aim is more important than elevation. Follow those rays with your aim continuously. Shoot when I tell you, not before. Deering has the record. The Hans probably have not seen us, or at least think there are but two of us in the valley, since they're settling without opening up disintegrators. Any opinions?" My ear discs remained silent. "Deering and I remain here until they land and debark. Stand by and keep alert." Rapidly and easily the largest of the Han ships settled to the earth. Three scouted sharply to the south, rising to a higher level. The others floated motionless about a thousand feet above. Peeping through a small fissure between two plates, I saw the vast hulk of the ship come to rest full on the line of our prospective ring barrage. A door clanged open a couple of feet from the ground, and one by one the crew emerged. CHAPTER VI The "Wyoming Massacre" "They're coming out of the ship." I spoke quietly, with my hand over my mouth, for fear they might hear me. "One--two--three--four, five--six--seven--eight--nine. That seems to be all. Who knows how many men a ship like that is likely to carry?" "About ten, if there are no passengers," replied one of my men, probably one of those on the hillside. "How are they armed?" I asked. "Just knives," came the reply. "They never permit hand-rays on the ships. Afraid of accidents. Have a ruling against it." "Leave them to us then," I said, for I had a hastily formed plan in my mind. "You, on the hillsides, take the ships above. Abandon the ring target. Divide up in training on those repellor rays. You, on the hilltops, all train on the repellors of the ships to the south. Shoot at the word, but not before. "Wilma, crawl over to your left where you can make a straight leap for the door in that ship. These men are all walking around the wreck in a bunch. When they're on the far side, I'll give the word and you leap through that door in one bound. I'll follow. Maybe we won't be seen. We'll overpower the guard inside, but don't shoot. We may escape being seen by both this crew and ships above. They can't see over this wreck." It was so easy that it seemed too good to be true. The Hans who had emerged from the ship walked round the wreckage lazily, talking in guttural tones, keenly interested in the wreck, but quite unsuspicious. At last they were on the far side. In a moment they would be picking their way into the wreck. "Wilma, leap!" I almost whispered the order. The distance between Wilma's hiding place and the door in the side of the Han ship was not more than fifteen feet. She was already crouched with her feet braced against a metal beam. Taking the lift of that wonderful inertron belt into her calculation, she dove headforemost, like a green projectile, through the door. I followed in a split second, more clumsily, but no less speedily, bruising my shoulder painfully, as I ricocheted from the edge of the opening and brought up sliding against the unconscious girl; for she evidently had hit her head against the partition within the ship into which she had crashed. We had made some noise within the ship. Shuffling footsteps were approaching down a well lit gangway. "Any signs we have been observed?" I asked my men on the hillsides. "Not yet," I heard the Boss reply. "Ships overhead still standing. No beams have been broken out. Men on ground absorbed in wreck. Most of them have crawled into it out of sight." "Good," I said quickly. "Deering hit her head. Knocked out. One or more members of the crew approaching. We're not discovered yet. I'll take care of them. Stand a bit longer, but be ready." I think my last words must have been heard by the man who was approaching, for he stopped suddenly. I crouched at the far side of the compartment, motionless. I would not draw my sword if there were only one of them. He would be a weakling, I figured, and I should easily overcome him with my bare hands. Apparently reassured at the absence of any further sound, a man came around a sort of bulkhead--and I leaped. I swung my legs up in front of me as I did so, catching him full in the stomach and knocked him cold. I ran forward along the keel gangway, searching for the control room. I found it well up in the nose of the ship. And it was deserted. What could I do to jam the controls of the ships that would not register on the recording instruments of the other ships? I gazed at the mass of controls. Levers and wheels galore. In the center of the compartment, on a massively braced universal joint mounting, was what I took for the repellor generator. A dial on it glowed and a faint hum came from within its shielding metallic case. But I had no time to study it. Above all else, I was afraid that some automatic telephone apparatus existed in the room, through which I might be heard on the other ships. The risk of trying to jam the controls was too great. I abandoned the idea and withdrew softly. I would have to take a chance that there was no other member of the crew aboard. I ran back to the entrance compartment. Wilma still lay where she had slumped down. I heard the voices of the Hans approaching. It was time to act. The next few seconds would tell whether the ships in the air would try or be able to melt us into nothingness. I spoke. "Are you boys all ready?" I asked, creeping to a position opposite the door and drawing my hand-gun. Again there was a chorus of assent. "Then on the count of three, shoot up those repellor rays--all of them--and for God's sake, don't miss." And I counted. I think my "three" was a bit weak. I know it took all the courage I had to utter it. For an agonizing instant nothing happened, except that the landing party from the ship strolled into my range of vision. Then startled, they turned their eyes upward. For an instant they stood frozen with horror at whatever they saw. One hurled his knife at me. It grazed my cheek. Then a couple of them made a break for the doorway. The rest followed. But I fired pointblank with my hand-gun, pressing the button as fast as I could and aiming at their feet to make sure my explosive rockets would make contact and do their work. The detonations of my rockets were deafening. The spot on which the Hans stood flashed into a blinding glare. Then there was nothing there except their torn and mutilated corpses. They had been fairly bunched, and I got them all. I ran to the door, expecting any instant to be hurled into infinity by the sweep of a disintegrator ray. Some eighth of a mile away I saw one of the ships crash to earth. A disintegrator ray came into my line of vision, wavered uncertainly for a moment and then began to sweep directly toward the ship in which I stood. But it never reached it. Suddenly, like a light switched off, it shot to one side, and a moment later another vast hulk crashed to earth. I looked out, then stepped out on the ground. The only Han ships in the sky were two of the scouts to the south which were hanging perpendicularly, and sagging slowly down. The others must have crashed down while I was deafened by the sound of the explosion of my own rockets. Somebody hit the other repellor ray of one of the two remaining ships and it fell out of sight beyond a hilltop. The other, farther away, drifted down diagonally, its disintegrator ray playing viciously over the ground below it. I shouted with exultation and relief. "Take back the command, Boss!" I yelled. His commands, sending out jumpers in pursuit of the descending ship, rang in my ears, but I paid no attention to them. I leaped back into the compartment of the Han ship and knelt beside my Wilma. Her padded helmet had absorbed much of the blow, I thought; otherwise, her skull might have been fractured. "Oh, my head!" she groaned, coming to as I lifted her gently in my arms and strode out in the open with her. "We must have won, dearest, did we?" "We most certainly did," I reassured her. "All but one crashed and that one is drifting down toward the south; we've captured this one we're in intact. There was only one member of the crew aboard when we dove in." [Illustration: As the American leaped, he swung his legs up in front of him, catching the Han full in the stomach.] Less than an hour afterward the Big Boss ordered the outfit to tune in ultrophones on three-twenty-three to pick up a translated broadcast of the Han intelligence office in Nu-yok from the Susquanna station. It was in the form of a public warning and news item, and read as follows: "This is Public Intelligence Office, Nu-yok, broadcasting warning to navigators of private ships, and news of public interest. The squadron of seven ships, which left Nu-yok this morning to investigate the recent destruction of the GK-984 in the Wyoming Valley, has been destroyed by a series of mysterious explosions similar to those which wrecked the GK-984. "The phones, viewplates, and all other signaling devices of five of the seven ships ceased operating suddenly at approximately the same moment, about seven-four-nine." (According to the Han system of reckoning time, seven and forty-nine one hundredths after midnight.) "After violent disturbances the location finders went out of operation. Electroactivity registers applied to the territory of the Wyoming Valley remain dead. "The Intelligence Office has no indication of the kind of disaster which overtook the squadron except certain evidences of explosive phenomena similar to those in the case of the GK-984, which recently went dead while beaming the valley in a systematic effort to wipe out the works and camps of the tribesmen. The Office considers, as obvious, the deduction that the tribesmen have developed a new, and as yet undetermined, technique of attack on airships, and has recommended to the Heaven-Born that immediate and unlimited authority be given the Navigation Intelligence Division to make an investigation of this technique and develop a defense against it. "In the meantime it urges that private navigators avoid this territory in particular, and in general hold as closely as possible to the official inter-city routes, which now are being patrolled by the entire force of the Military Office, which is beaming the routes generously to a width of ten miles. The Military Office reports that it is at present considering no retaliatory raids against the tribesmen. With the Navigation Intelligence Division, it holds that unless further evidence of the nature of the disaster is developed in the near future, the public interest will be better served, and at smaller cost of life, by a scientific research than by attempts at retaliation, which may bring destruction on all ships engaging therein. So unless further evidence actually is developed, or the Heaven-Born orders to the contrary, the Military will hold to a defensive policy. "Unofficial intimations from Lo-Tan are to the effect that the Heaven-Council has the matter under consideration. "The Navigation Intelligence Office permits the broadcast of the following condensation of its detailed observations: "The squadron proceeded to a position above the Wyoming Valley where the wreck of the GK-984 was known to be, from the record of its location finder before it went dead recently. There the bottom projectoscope relays of all ships registered the wreck of the GK-984. Teleprojectoscope views of the wreck and the bowl of the valley showed no evidence of the presence of tribesmen. Neither ship registers nor base registers showed any indication of electroactivity except from the squadron itself. On orders from the Base Squadron Commander, the LD-248, LK-745 and LG-25 scouted southward at 3,000 feet. The GK-43, GK-981 and GK-220 stood above at 2,500 feet, and the GK-18 landed to permit personal inspection of the wreck by the science committee. The party debarked, leaving one man on board in the control cabin. He set all projectoscopes at universal focus except RB-3," (this meant the third projectoscope from the bow of the ship, on the right-hand side of the lower deck) "with which he followed the landing group as it walked around the wreck. "The first abnormal phenomenon recorded by any of the instruments at Base was that relayed automatically from projectoscope RB-4 of the GK-18, which as the party disappeared from view in back of the wreck, recorded two green missiles of roughly cylindrical shape, projected from the wreckage into the landing compartment of the ship. At such close range these were not clearly defined, owing to the universal focus at which the projectoscope was set. The Base Captain of GK-18 at once ordered the man in the control room to investigate, and saw him leave the control room in compliance with this order. An instant later confused sounds reached the control-room electrophone, such as might be made by a man falling heavily, and footsteps reapproached the control room, a figure entering and leaving the control room hurriedly. The Base Captain now believes, and the stills of the photorecord support his belief, that this was not the crew member who had been left in the control room. Before the Base Captain could speak to him he left the room, nor was any response given to the attention signal the Captain flashed throughout the ship. "At this point projectoscope RB-3 of the ship now out of focus control, dimly showed the landing party walking back toward the ship. RB-4 showed it more clearly. Then on both these instruments, a number of blinding explosives in rapid succession were seen and the electrophone relays registered terrific concussions; the ship's electronic apparatus and projectoscopes apparatus went dead. "Reports of the other ships' Base Observers and Executives, backed by the photorecords, show the explosions as taking place in the midst of the landing party as it returned, evidently unsuspicious, to the ship. Then in rapid succession they indicate that terrific explosions occurred inside and outside the three ships standing above close to their rep-ray generators, and all signals from these ships thereupon went dead. "Of the three ships scouting to the south, the LD-248 suffered an identical fate, at the same moment. Its records add little to the knowledge of the disaster. But with the LK-745 and the LG-25 it was different. "The relay instruments of the LK-745 indicated the destruction by an explosion of the rear rep-ray generator, and that the ship hung stern down for a short space, swinging like a pendulum. The forward viewplates and indicators did not cease functioning, but their records are chaotic, except for one projectoscope still, which shows the bowl of the valley, and the GK-981 falling, but no visible evidence of tribesmen. The control-room viewplate is also a chaotic record of the ship's crew tumbling and falling to the rear wall. Then the forward rep-ray generator exploded, and all signals went dead. "The fate of the LG-25 was somewhat similar, except that this ship hung nose down, and drifted on the wind southward as it slowly descended out of control. "As its control room was shattered, verbal report from its Action Captain was precluded. The record of the interior rear viewplate shows members of the crew climbing toward the rear rep-ray generator in an attempt to establish manual control of it, and increase the lift. The projectoscope relays, swinging in wide arcs, recorded little of value except at the ends of their swings. One of these, from a machine which happened to be set in telescopic focus, shows several views of great value in picturing the falls of the other ships, and all of the rear projectoscope records enable the reconstruction in detail of the pendulum and torsional movements of the ship, and its sag toward the earth. But none of the views showing the forest below contain any indication of tribesmen's presence. A final explosion put this ship out of commission at a height of 1,000 feet, and at a point four miles S. by E. of the center of the valley." The message ended with a repetition of the warning to other airmen to avoid the valley. CHAPTER VII Incredible Treason After receiving this report, and reassurances of support from the Big Bosses of the neighboring Gangs, Hart determined to reestablish the Wyoming Valley community. A careful survey of the territory showed that it was only the northern sections and slopes that had been "beamed" by the first Han ship. The synthetic-fabrics plant had been partially wiped out, though the lower levels underground had not been reached by the dis ray. The forest screen above it, however, had been annihilated, and it was determined to abandon it, after removing all usable machinery and evidences of the processes that might be of interest to the Han scientists, should they return to the valley in the future. The ammunition plant, and the rocket-ship plant, which had just been about to start operation at the time of the raid, were intact, as were the other important plants. Hart brought the Camboss up from the Susquanna Works, and laid out new camp locations, scattering them farther to the south, and avoiding ground which had been seared by the Han beams and the immediate locations of the Han wrecks. During this period, a sharp check was kept upon Han messages, for the phone plant had been one of the first to be put in operation, and when it became evident that the Hans did not intend any immediate reprisals, the entire membership of the community was summoned back, and normal life was resumed. Wilma and I had been married the day after the destruction of the ships, and spent this intervening period in a delightful honeymoon, camping high in the mountains. On our return, we had a camp of our own, of course. We were assigned to location 1017. And as might be expected, we had a great deal of banter over which one of us was Camp Boss. The title stood after my name on the Big Boss' records, and those of the Big Camboss, of course, but Wilma airily held that this meant nothing at all--and generally succeeded in making me admit it whenever she chose. I found myself a full-fledged member of the Gang now, for I had elected to search no farther for a permanent alliance, much as I would have liked to familiarize myself with this 25th Century life in other sections of the country. The Wyomings had a high morale, and had prospered under the rule of Big Boss Hart for many years. But many of the gangs, I found, were badly organized, lacked strong hands in authority, and were rife with intrigue. On the whole, I thought I would be wise to stay with a group which had already proved its friendliness, and in which I seemed to have prospects of advancement. Under these modern social and economic conditions, the kind of individual freedom to which I had been accustomed in the 20th Century was impossible. I would have been as much of a nonentity in every phase of human relationship by attempting to avoid alliances, as any man of the 20th Century would have been politically, who aligned himself with no political party. This entire modern life, it appeared to me, judging from my ancient viewpoint, was organized along what I called "political" lines. And in this connection, it amused me to notice how universal had become the use of the word "boss." The leader, the person in charge or authority over anything, was a "boss." There was as little formality in his relations with his followers as there was in the case of the 20th Century political boss, and the same high respect paid him by his followers as well as the same high consideration by him of their interests. He was just as much of an autocrat, and just as much dependent upon the general popularity of his actions for the ability to maintain his autocracy. The sub-boss who could not command the loyalty of his followers was as quickly deposed, either by them or by his superiors, as the ancient ward leader of the 20th Century who lost control of his votes. As society was organized in the 20th Century, I do not believe the system could have worked in anything but politics. I tremble to think what would have happened, had the attempt been made to handle the A. E. F. this way during the First World War, instead of by that rigid military discipline and complete assumption of the individual as a mere standardized cog in the machine. But owing to the centuries of desperate suffering the people had endured at the hands of the Hans, there developed a spirit of self-sacrifice and consideration for the common good that made the scheme applicable and efficient in all forms of human co-operation. I have a little heresy about all this, however. My associates regard the thought with as much horror as many worthy people of the 20th Century felt in regard to any heretical suggestion that the original outline of government as laid down in the First Constitution did not apply as well to 20th Century conditions as to those of the early 19th. In later years, I felt that there was a certain softening of moral fiber among the people, since the Hans had been finally destroyed with all their works; and Americans have developed a new luxury economy. I have seen signs of the reawakening of greed, of selfishness. The eternal cycle seems to be at work. I fear that slowly, though surely, private wealth is reappearing, codes of inflexibility are developing; they will be followed by corruption, degradation; and in the end some cataclysmic event will end this era and usher in a new one. All this, however, is wandering afar from my story, which concerns our early battles against the Hans, and not our more modern problems of self-control. Our victory over the seven Han ships had set the country ablaze. The secret had been carefully communicated to the other gangs, and the country was agog from one end to the other. There was feverish activity in the ammunition plants, and the hunting of stray Han ships became an enthusiastic sport. The results were disastrous to our hereditary enemies. From the Pacific Coast came the report of a great transpacific liner of 75,000 tons "lift" being brought to earth from a position of invisibility above the clouds. A dozen Sacramentos had caught the hazy outlines of its rep rays approaching them, head-on, in the twilight, like ghostly pillars reaching into the sky. They had fired rockets into it with ease, whereas they would have had difficulty in hitting it if it had been moving at right angles to their position. They got one rep ray. The other was not strong enough to hold it up. It floated to earth, nose down, and since it was unarmed and unarmored, they had no difficulty in shooting it to pieces and massacring its crew and passengers. It seemed barbarous to me. But then I did not have centuries of bitter persecution in my blood. From the Jersey Beaches we received news of the destruction of a Nu-yok-A-lan-a liner. The Sand-snipers, practically invisible in their sand-colored clothing, and half buried along the beaches, lay in wait for days, risking the play of dis beams along the route, and finally registering four hits within a week. The Hans discontinued their service along this route, and as evidence that they were badly shaken by our success, sent no raiders down the Beaches. It was a few weeks later that Big Boss Hart sent for me. "Tony," he said, "There are two things I want to talk to you about. One of them will become public property in a few days, I think. We aren't going to get any more Han ships by shooting up their repellor rays unless we use much larger rockets. They are wise to us now. They're putting armor of great thickness in the hulls of their ships below the rep-ray machines. Near Bah-flo this morning a party of Eries shot one without success. The explosions staggered her, but did not penetrate. As near as we can gather from their reports, their laboratories have developed a new alloy of great tensile strength and elasticity which nevertheless lets the rep rays through like a sieve. Our reports indicate that the Eries' rockets bounced off harmlessly. Most of the party was wiped out as the dis rays went into action on them. "This is going to mean real business for all of the gangs before long. The Big Bosses have just held a national ultrophone council. It was decided that America must organize on a national basis. The first move is to develop sectional organization by Zones. I have been made Superboss of the Mid-Atlantic Zone. "We're in for it now. The Hans are sure to launch reprisal expeditions. If we're to save the race we must keep them away from our camps and plants. I'm thinking of developing a permanent field force, along the lines of the regular armies of the 20th Century you told me about. Its business will be twofold: to carry the warfare as much as possible to the Hans, and to serve as a decoy, to keep their attention from our plants. I'm going to need your help in this. "The other thing I wanted to talk to you about is this: Amazing and impossible as it seems, there is a group, or perhaps an entire gang, somewhere among us, that is betraying us to the Hans. It may be the Bad Bloods, or it may be one of those gangs who live near one of the Han cities. You know, a hundred and fifteen or twenty years ago there were certain of these people's ancestors who actually degraded themselves by mating with the Hans, sometimes even serving them as slaves, in the days before they brought all their service machinery to perfection. "There is such a gang, called the Nagras, up near Bah-flo, and another in Mid-Jersey that men call the Pineys. But I hardly suspect the Pineys. There is little intelligence among them. They wouldn't have the information to give the Hans, nor would they be capable of imparting it. They're absolute savages." "Just what evidence is there that anybody has been clearing information to the Hans?" I asked. "Well," he replied, "first of all there was that raid upon us. That first Han ship knew the location of our plants exactly. You remember it floated directly into position above the valley and began a systematic beaming. Then, the Hans quite obviously have learned that we are picking up their electrophone waves, for they've gone back to their old, but extremely accurate, system of directional control. But we've been getting them for the past week by installing automatic re-broadcast units along the scar paths. This is what the Americans called those strips of country directly under the regular ship routes of the Hans, who as a matter of precaution frequently blasted them with their dis beams to prevent the growth of foliage which might give shelter to the Americans. But they've been beaming those paths so hard, it looks as though they even had information of this strategy. And in addition, they've been using code. Finally, we've picked up three of their messages in which they discuss, with some nervousness, the existence of our 'mysterious' ultrophone." "But they still have no knowledge of the nature and control of ultronic activity?" I asked. "No," said the Big Boss thoughtfully, "they don't seem to have a bit of information about it." "Then it's quite clear," I ventured, "that whoever is 'clearing' us to them is doing it piecemeal. It sounds like a bit of occasional barter, rather than an out-and-out alliance. They're holding back as much information as possible for future bartering, perhaps." "Yes," Hart said, "and it isn't information the Hans are giving in return, but some form of goods, or privilege. The trick would be to locate the goods. I guess I'll have to make a personal trip around among the Big Bosses." CHAPTER VIII The Han City This conversation set me thinking. All of the Han electrophone inter-communication had been an open record to the Americans for a good many years, and the Hans were just finding it out. For centuries they had not regarded us as any sort of a menace. Unquestionably it had never occurred to them to secrete their own records. Somewhere in Nu-yok or Bah-flo, or possibly in Lo-Tan itself, the record of this traitorous transaction would be more or less openly filed. If we could only get at it! I wondered if a raid might not be possible. Bill Hearn and I talked it over with our Han-affairs Boss and his experts. There ensued several days of research, in which the Han records of the entire decade were scanned and analyzed. In the end they picked out a mass of detail, and fitted it together into a very definite picture of the great central filing office of the Hans in Nu-yok, where the entire mass of official records was kept, constantly available for instant projectoscoping to any of the city's offices, and of the system by which the information was filed. The attempt began to look feasible, though Hart instantly turned the idea down when I first presented it to him. It was unthinkable, he said. Sheer suicide. But in the end I persuaded him. "I will need," I said, "Blash, who is thoroughly familiar with the Han library system; Bert Gaunt, who for years has specialized on their military offices; Bill Barker, the ray specialist, and the best swooper pilot we have." _Swoopers_ are one-man and two-man ships, developed by the Americans, with skeleton backbones of inertron (during the war painted green for invisibility against the green forests below) and "bellies" of clear ultron. "That will be Mort Gibbons," said Hart. "We've only got three swoopers left, Tony, but I'll risk one of them if you and the others will voluntarily risk your existences. But mind, I won't urge or order one of you to go. I'll spread the word to every Plant Boss at once to give you anything and everything you need in the way of equipment." When I told Wilma of the plan, I expected her to raise violent and tearful objections, but she didn't. She was made of far sterner stuff than the women of the 20th Century. Not that she couldn't weep as copiously or be just as whimsical on occasion; but she wouldn't weep for the same reasons. She just gave me an unfathomable look, in which there seemed to be a bit of pride, and asked eagerly for the details. I confess I was somewhat disappointed that she could so courageously risk my loss, even though I was amazed at her fortitude. But later I was to learn how little I knew her then. We were ready to slide off at dawn the next morning. I had kissed Wilma good-bye at our camp, and after a final conference over our plans, we boarded our craft and gently glided away over the tree tops on a course, which, after crossing three routes of the Han ships, would take us out over the Atlantic, off the Jersey coast, whence we would come up on Nu-yok from the ocean. Twice we had to nose down and lie motionless on the ground near a route while Han ships passed. Those were tense moments. Had the green back of our ship been observed, we would have been disintegrated in a second. But it wasn't. Once over the water, however, we climbed in a great spiral, ten miles in diameter, until our altimeter registered ten miles. Here Gibbons shut off his rocket motor, and we floated, far above the level of the Atlantic liners, whose course was well to the north of us anyhow, and waited for nightfall. Then Gibbons turned from his control long enough to grin at me. "I have a surprise for you, Tony," he said, throwing back the lid of what I had supposed was a big supply case. And with a sigh of relief, Wilma stepped out of the case. "If you 'go into zero' (a common expression of the day for being annihilated by the disintegrator ray), you don't think I'm going to let you go alone, do you, Tony? I couldn't believe my ears last night when you spoke of going without me, until I realized that you are still five hundred years behind the times in lots of ways. Don't you know, dear heart, that you offered me the greatest insult a husband could give a wife? You didn't, of course." The others, it seemed, had all been in on the secret, and now they would have kidded me unmercifully, except that Wilma's eyes blazed dangerously. At nightfall, we maneuvered to a position directly above the city. This took some time and calculation on the part of Bill Barker, who explained to me that he had to determine our point by ultronic bearings. The slightest resort to an electronic instrument, he feared, might be detected by our enemies' locators. In fact, we did not dare bring our swooper any lower than five miles for fear that its capacity might be reflected in their instruments. Finally, however, he succeeded in locating above the central tower of the city. "If my calculations are as much as ten feet off," he remarked with confidence, "I'll eat the tower. Now the rest is up to you, Mort. See what you can do to hold her steady. No--here, watch this indicator--the red beam, not the green one. See--if you keep it exactly centered on the needle, you're O.K. The width of the beam represents seventeen feet. The tower platform is fifty feet square, so we've got a good margin to work on." For several moments we watched as Gibbons bent over his levers, constantly adjusting them with deft touches of his fingers. After a bit of wavering, the beam remained centered on the needle. "Now," I said, "let's drop." I opened the trap and looked down, but quickly shut it again when I felt the air rushing out of the ship into the rarefied atmosphere in a torrent. Gibbons literally yelled a protest from his instrument board. "I forgot," I mumbled. "Silly of me. Of course, we'll have to drop out of compartment." The compartment, to which I referred, was similar to those in some of the 20th Century submarines. We all entered it. There was barely room for us to stand, shoulder to shoulder. With some struggles, we got into our special air helmets and adjusted the pressure. At our signal, Gibbons exhausted the air in the compartment, pumping it into the body of the ship, and as the little signal light flashed, Wilma threw open the hatch. Setting the ultron-wire reel, I climbed through, and began to slide down gently. We all had our belts on, of course, adjusted to a weight balance of but a few ounces. And the five-mile reel of ultron wire that was to be our guide, was of gossamer fineness, though, anyway, I believe it would have lifted the full weight of the five of us, so strong and tough was this invisible metal. As an extra precaution, since the wire was of the purest metal, and therefore totally invisible, even in daylight, we all had our belts hooked on small rings that slid down the wire. I went down with the end of the wire. Wilma followed a few feet above me, then Barker, Gaunt and Blash. Gibbons, of course, stayed behind to hold the ship in position and control the paying out of the line. We all had our ultrophones in place inside our air helmets, and so could converse with one another and with Gibbons. But at Wilma's suggestion, although we would have liked to let the Big Boss listen in, we kept them adjusted to short-range work, for fear that those who had been clearing with the Hans, and against whom we were on a raid for evidence, might also pick up our conversation. We had no fear that the Hans would hear us. In fact, we had the added advantage that, even after we landed, we could converse freely without danger of their hearing our voices through our air helmets. For a while I could see nothing below but utter darkness. Then I realized, from the feel of the air as much as from anything, that we were sinking through a cloud layer. We passed through two more cloud layers before anything was visible to us. Then there came under my gaze, about two miles below, one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen; the soft, yet brilliant, radiance of the great Han city of Nu-yok. Every foot of its structural members seemed to glow with a wonderful incandescence, tower piled up on tower, and all built on the vast base-mass of the city, which, so I had been told, sheered upward from the surface of the rivers to a height of 728 levels. The city, I noticed with some surprise, did not cover anything like the same area as the New York of the 20th Century. It occupied, as a matter of fact, only the lower half of Manhattan Island, with one section straddling the East River, and spreading out sufficiently over what once had been Brooklyn, to provide berths for the great liners and other air craft. Straight beneath my feet was a tiny dark patch. It seemed the only spot in the entire city that was not aflame with radiance. This was the central tower, in the top floors of which were housed the vast library of record files and the main projectoscope plant. "You can shoot the wire now," I ultrophoned Gibbons, and let go the little weighted knob. It dropped like a plummet, and we followed with considerable speed, but braking our descent with gloved hands sufficiently to see whether the knob, on which a faint light glowed as a signal for ourselves, might be observed by any Han guard or night prowler. Apparently it was not, and we again shot down with accelerated speed. We landed on the roof of the tower without any mishap, and fortunately for our plan, in darkness. Since there was nothing above it on which it would have been worth while to shed illumination, or from which there was any need to observe it, the Hans had neglected to light the tower roof, or indeed to occupy it at all. This was the reason we had selected it as our landing place. As soon as Gibbons had our word, he extinguished the knob light, and the knob, as well as the wire, became totally invisible. At our ultrophoned word, he would light it again. "No gun play now," I warned. "Swords only, and then only if absolutely necessary." Closely bunched, and treading as lightly as only inertron-belted people could, we made our way cautiously through a door and down an inclined plane to the floor below, where Gaunt and Blash assured us the military offices were located. Twice Barker cautioned us to stop as we were about to pass in front of mirror-like "windows" in the passage wall, and flattening ourselves to the floor, we crawled past them. "Projectoscopes," he said. "Probably on automatic record only, at this time of night. Still, we don't want to leave any records for them to study after we're gone." "Were you ever here before?" I asked. "No," he replied, "but I haven't been studying their electrophone communications for seven years without being able to recognize these machines when I run across them." CHAPTER IX The Fight in the Tower So far we had not laid eyes on a Han. The tower seemed deserted. Blash and Gaunt, however, assured me that there would be at least one man on "duty" in the military offices, though he would probably be asleep, and two or three in the library proper and the projectoscope plant. "We've got to put them out of commission," I said. "Did you bring the 'dope' cans, Wilma?" "Yes," she said, "two for each. Here," and she distributed them. We were now two levels below the roof, and at the point where we were to separate. I did not want to let Wilma out of my sight, but it was necessary. According to our plan, Barker was to make his way to the projectoscope plant, Blash and I to the library, and Wilma and Gaunt to the military office. Blash and I traversed a long corridor, and paused at the great arched doorway of the library. Cautiously we peered in. Seated at three great switchboards were library operatives. Occasionally one of them would reach lazily for a lever, or sleepily push a button, as little numbered lights winked on and off. They were answering calls for electrograph and viewplate records on all sorts of subjects from all sections of the city. I apprised my companions of the situation. "Better wait a bit," Blash added. "The calls will lessen shortly." Wilma reported an officer in the military office sound asleep. "Give him the can, then," I said. Barker was to do nothing more than keep watch in the projectoscope plant, and a few moments later he reported himself well concealed, with a splendid view of the floor. "I think we can take a chance now," Blash said to me, and at my nod, he opened the lid of his dope can. Of course, the fumes did not affect us, through our helmets. They were absolutely without odor or visibility, and in a few seconds the librarians were unconscious. We stepped into the room. There ensued considerable cautious observation and experiment on the part of Gaunt, working from the military office, and Blash in the library; while Wilma and I, with drawn swords and sharply attuned microphones, stood guard, and occasionally patrolled nearby corridors. "I hear something approaching," Wilma said after a bit, with excitement in her voice. "It's a soft, gliding sound." "That's an elevator somewhere," Barker cut in from the projectoscope floor. "Can you locate it? I can't hear it." "It's to the east of me," she replied. "And to my west," said I, faintly catching it. "It's between us, Wilma, and nearer you than me. Be careful. Have you got any information yet, Blash and Gaunt?" "Getting it now," one of them replied. "Give us two minutes more." "Keep at it then," I said. "We'll guard." The soft, gliding sound ceased. "I think it's very close to me," Wilma almost whispered. "Come closer, Tony. I have a feeling something is going to happen. I've never known my nerves to get taut like this without reason." In some alarm, I launched myself down the corridor in a great leap toward the intersection whence I knew I could see her. In the middle of my leap my ultrophone registered her gasp of alarm. The next instant I glided to a stop at the intersection to see Wilma backing toward the door of the military office, her sword red with blood, and an inert form on the corridor floor. Two other Hans were circling to either side of her with wicked-looking knives, while a third evidently a high officer, judging by the resplendence of his garb tugged desperately to get an electrophone instrument out of a bulky pocket. If he ever gave the alarm, there was no telling what might happen to us. I was at least seventy feet away, but I crouched low and sprang with every bit of strength in my legs. It would be more correct to say that I dived, for I reached the fellow head on, with no attempt to draw my legs beneath me. Some instinct must have warned him, for he turned suddenly as I hurtled close to him. But by this time I had sunk close to the floor, and had stiffened myself rigidly, lest a dragging knee or foot might just prevent my reaching him. I brought my blade upward and over. It was a vicious slash that laid him open, bisecting him from groin to chin, and his dead body toppled down on me, as I slid to a tangled stop. The other two startled, turned. Wilma leaped at one and struck him down with a side slash. I looked up at this instant, and the dazed fear on his face at the length of her leap registered vividly. The Hans knew nothing of our inertron belts, it seemed, and these leaps and dives of ours filled them with terror. As I rose to my feet, a gory mess, Wilma, with a poise and speed which I found time to admire even in this crisis, again leaped. This time she dove head first as I had done and, with a beautifully executed thrust, ran the last Han through the throat. Uncertainly, she scrambled to her feet, staggered queerly, and then sank gently prone on the corridor. She had fainted. At this juncture, Blash and Gaunt reported with elation that they had the record we wanted. "Back to the roof, everybody!" I ordered, as I picked Wilma up in my arms. With her inertron belt, she felt as light as a feather. Gaunt joined me at once from the military office, and at the intersection of the corridor, we came upon Blash waiting for us. Barker, however, was not in evidence. "Where are you, Barker?" I called. "Go ahead," he replied. "I'll be with you on the roof at once." We came out in the open without any further mishap, and I instructed Gibbons in the ship to light the knob on the end of the ultron wire. It flashed dully a few feet away from us. Just how he had maneuvered the ship to keep our end of the line in position, without its swinging in a tremendous arc, I have never been able to understand. Had not the night been an unusually still one, he could not have checked the initial pendulum-like movements. As it was, there was considerable air current at certain of the levels, and in different directions too. But Gibbons was an expert of rare ability and sensitivity in the handling of a rocket ship, and he managed, with the aid of his delicate instruments, to sense the drifts almost before they affected the fine ultron wire, and to neutralize them with little shifts in the position of the ship. Blash and Gaunt fastened their rings to the wire, and I hooked my own and Wilma's on, too. But on looking around, I found Barker was still missing. "Barker, come!" I called. "We're waiting." "Coming!" he replied, and indeed, at that instant, his figure appeared up the ramp. He chuckled as he fastened his ring to the wire, and said something about a little surprise he had left for the Hans. "Don't reel in the wire more than a few hundred feet," I instructed Gibbons. "It will take too long to wind it in. We'll float up, and when we're aboard, we can drop it." In order to float up, we had to dispense with a pound or two of weight apiece. We hurled our swords from us, and kicked off our shoes as Gibbons reeled up the line a bit, and then letting go of the wire, began to hum upward on our rings with increasing velocity. The rush of air brought Wilma to, and I hastily explained to her that we had been successful. Receding far below us now, I could see our dully shining knob swinging to and fro in an ever widening arc, as it crossed and recrossed the black square of the tower roof. As an extra precaution, I ordered Gibbons to shut off the light, and to show one from the belly of the ship, for so great was our speed now, that I began to fear we would have difficulty in checking ourselves. We were literally falling upward, and with terrific acceleration. Fortunately, we had several minutes in which to solve this difficulty, which none of us, strangely enough, had foreseen. It was Gibbons who found the answer. "You'll be all right if all of you grab the wire tight when I give the word," he said. "First I'll start reeling it in at full speed. You won't get much of a jar, and then I'll decrease its speed again gradually, and its weight will hold you back. Are you ready? One--two--three!" We all grabbed tightly with our gloved hands as he gave the word. We must have been rising a good bit faster than he figured, however, for it wrenched our arms considerably, and the maneuver set up a sickening pendulum motion. For a while all we could do was swing there in an arc that may have been a quarter of a mile across, about three and a half miles above the city, and still more than a mile from our ship. Gibbons skilfully took up the slack as our momentum pulled up the line. Then at last we had ourselves under control again, and continued our upward journey, checking our speed somewhat with our gloves. There was not one of us who did not breathe a big sigh of relief when we scrambled through the hatch safely into the ship again, cast off the ultron line and slammed the trap shut. Little realizing that we had a still more terrible experience to go through, we discussed the information Blash and Gaunt had between them extracted from the Han records, and the advisability of ultrophoning Hart at once. CHAPTER X The Walls of Hell The traitors were, it seemed, a degenerate gang of Americans, located a few miles north of Nu-yok on the wooded banks of the Hudson, the Sinsings. They had exchanged scraps of information to the Hans in return for several old repellor-ray machines, and the privilege of tuning in on the Han electronic power broadcast for their operation, provided their ships agreed to subject themselves to the orders of the Han traffic office, while aloft. The rest wanted to ultrophone their news at once, since there was always danger that we might never get back to the gang with it. I objected, however. The Sinsings would be likely to pick up our message. Even if we used the directional projector, they might have scouts out to the west and south in the big inter-gang stretches of country. They would flee to Nu-yok and escape the punishment they merited. It seemed to be vitally important that they should not, for the sake of example to other weak groups among the American gangs, as well as to prevent a crisis in which they might clear more vital information to the enemy. "Out to sea again," I ordered Gibbons. "They'll be less likely to look for us in that direction." "Easy, Boss, easy," he replied. "Wait until we get up a mile or two more. They must have discovered evidences of our raid by now, and their dis-ray wall may go in operation any moment." Even as he spoke, the ship lurched downward and to one side. "There it is!" he shouted. "Hang on, everybody. We're going to nose straight up!" And he flipped the rocket-motor control wide open. Looking through one of the rear ports, I could see a nebulous, luminous ring, and on all sides the atmosphere took on a faint iridescence. We were almost over the destructive range of the disintegrator-ray wall, a hollow cylinder of annihilation shooting upward from a solid ring of generators surrounding the city. It was the main defense system of the Hans, which had never been used except in periodic tests. They may or may not have suspected that an American rocket ship was within the cylinder; probably they had turned on their generators more as a precaution to prevent any reaching a position above the city. But even at our present great height, we were in great danger. It was a question how much we might have been harmed by the rays themselves, for their effective range was not much more than seven or eight miles. The greater danger lay in the terrific downward rush of air within the cylinder to replace that which was being burned into nothingness by the continual play of the disintegrators. The air fell into the cylinder with the force of a gale. It would be rushing toward the wall from the outside with terrific force also, but, naturally, the effect was intensified on the interior. Our ship vibrated and trembled. We had only one chance of escape--to fight our way well above the current. To drift down with it meant ultimately, and inevitably, to be sucked into the destruction wall at some lower level. But very gradually and jerkily our upward movement, as shown on the indicators, began to increase, and after an hour of desperate struggle we were free of the maelstrom and into the rarefied upper levels. The terror beneath us was now invisible through several layers of cloud formations. Gibbons brought the ship back to an even keel, and drove her eastward into one of the most brilliantly gorgeous sunrises I have ever seen. We described a great circle to the south and west, in a long easy dive, for he had cut out his rocket motors to save them as much as possible. We had drawn terrifically on their fuel reserves in our battle with the elements. For the moment, the atmosphere below cleared, and we could see the Jersey coast far beneath, like a great map. "We're not through yet," remarked Gibbons suddenly, pointing at his periscope, and adjusting it to telescopic focus. "A Han ship, and a 'drop ship' at that--and he's seen us. If he whips that beam of his on us, we're done." I gazed, fascinated, at the viewplate. What I saw was a cigar-shaped ship not dissimilar to our own in design, and from the proportional size of its ports, of about the same size as our swoopers. We learned later that they carried crews, for the most part of not more than three or four men. They had streamline hulls and tails that embodied universal-jointed double fish-tail rudders. In operation they rose to great heights on their powerful repellor rays, then gathered speed either by a straight nose dive, or an inclined dive in which they sometimes used the repellor ray slanted at a sharp angle. He was already above us, though several miles to the north. He could, of course, try to get on our tail and "spear" us with his beam as he dropped at us from a great height. Suddenly his beam blazed forth in a blinding flash, whipping downward slowly to our right. He went through a peculiar corkscrew-like evolution, evidently maneuvering to bring his beam to bear on us with a spiral motion. Gibbons instantly sent our ship into a series of evolutions that must have looked like those of a frightened hen. Alternately, he used the forward and the reverse rocket blasts, and in varying degree. We fluttered, we shot suddenly to right and left, and dropped like a plummet in uncertain movements. But all the time the Han scout dropped toward us, determinedly whipping the air around us with his beam. Once it sliced across beneath us, not more than a hundred feet, and we dropped with a jar into the pocket formed by the destruction of the air. He had dropped to within a mile of us, and was coming with the speed of a projectile, when the end came. Gibbons always swore it was sheer luck. Maybe it was, but I like pilots who are lucky that way. In the midst of a dizzy, fluttering maneuver of our own, with the Han ship enlarging to our gaze with terrifying rapidity, and its beam slowly slicing toward us in what looked like certain destruction within the second, I saw Gibbons' fingers flick at the lever of his rocket gun and a split second later the Han ship flew apart like a clay pigeon. We staggered, and fluttered crazily for several moments while Gibbons struggled to bring our ship into balance, and a section of about four square feet in the side of the ship near the stern slowly crumbled like rusted metal. His beam actually had touched us, but our explosive rocket had got him a thousandth of a second sooner. Part of our rudder had been annihilated, and our motor damaged. But we were able to swoop gently back across Jersey, fortunately crossing the ship lanes without sighting any more Han craft, and finally settling to rest in the little glade beneath the trees, near Hart's camp. CHAPTER XI The New Boss We had ultrophoned our arrival and the Big Boss himself, surrounded by the Council, was on hand to welcome us and learn our news. In turn we were informed that during the night a band of raiding Bad Bloods, disguised under the insignia of the Altoonas, a gang some distance to the west of us, had destroyed several of our camps before our people had rallied and driven them off. Their purpose, evidently, had been to embroil us with the Altoonas, but fortunately, one of our exchanges recognized the Bad Blood leader, who had been slain. The Big Boss had mobilized the full raiding force of the Gang, and was on the point of heading an expedition for the extermination of the Bad Bloods. I looked around the grim circle of the sub-bosses, and realized the fate of America, at this moment, lay in their hands. Their temper demanded the immediate expenditure of our full effort in revenging ourselves for this raid. But the strategic exigencies, to my mind, quite clearly demanded the instant and absolute extermination of the Sinsings. It might be only a matter of hours, for all we knew, before these degraded people would barter clues to the American ultronic secrets to the Hans. "How large a force have we?" I asked Hart. "Every man and maid who can be spared," he replied. "That gives us seven hundred married and unmarried men, and three hundred girls, more than the entire Bad Blood Gang. Every one is equipped with belts, ultrophones, rocket guns and swords, and all fighting mad." I meditated how I might put the matter to these determined men, and was vaguely conscious that they were awaiting my words. Finally I began to speak. I do not remember to this day just what I said. I talked calmly, with due regard for their passion, but with deep conviction. I went over the information we had collected, point by point, building my case logically, and painting a lurid picture of the danger impending in that half-alliance between the Sinsings and the Hans of Nu-yok. I became impassioned, culminating, I believe, with a vow to proceed single-handed against the hereditary enemies of our race, "if the Wyomings were blindly set on placing a gang feud ahead of honor and duty and the hopes of all America." As I concluded, a great calm came over me, as of one detached. I had felt much the same way during several crises in the First World War. I gazed from face to face, striving to read their expressions, and in a mood to make good my threat without any further heroics, if the decision was against me. But it was Hart who sensed the temper of the Council more quickly than I did, and looked beyond it into the future. He arose from the tree trunk on which he had been sitting. "That settles it," he said, looking around the ring. "I have felt this thing coming on for some time now. I'm sure the Council agrees with me that there is among us a man more capable than I, to boss the Wyoming Gang, despite his handicap of having had all too short a time in which to familiarize himself with our modern ways and facilities. Whatever I can do to support his effective leadership, at any cost, I pledge myself to do." As he concluded, he advanced to where I stood, and taking from his head the green-crested helmet that constituted his badge of office, to my surprise he placed it in my mechanically extended hand. The roar of approval that went up from the Council members left me dazed. Somebody ultrophoned the news to the rest of the Gang, and even though the earflaps of my helmet were turned up, I could hear the cheers with which my invisible followers greeted me, from near and distant hillsides, camps and plants. My first move was to make sure that the Phone Boss, in communicating this news to the members of the Gang, had not re-broadcast my talk nor mentioned my plan of shifting the attack from the Bad Bloods to the Sinsings. I was relieved by his assurance that he had not, for it would have wrecked the whole plan. Everything depended upon our ability to surprise the Sinsings. So I pledged the Council and my companions to secrecy, and allowed it to be believed that we were about to take to the air and the trees against the Bad Bloods. That outfit must have been badly scared, the way they were "burning" the ether with ultrophone alibis and propaganda for the benefit of the more distant gangs. It was their old game, and the only method by which they had avoided extermination long ago from their immediate neighbors--these appeals to the spirit of American brotherhood, addressed to gangs too far away to have had the sort of experience with them that had fallen to our lot. I chuckled. Here was another good reason for the shift in my plans. Were we actually to undertake the exterminations of the Bad Bloods at once, it would have been a hard job to convince some of the gangs that we had not been precipitate and unjustified. Jealousies and prejudices existed. There were gangs which would give the benefit of the doubt to the Bad Bloods, rather than to ourselves, and the issue was now hopelessly beclouded with the clever lies that were being broadcast in an unceasing stream. But the extermination of the Sinsings would be another thing. In the first place, there would be no warning of our action until it was all over, I hoped. In the second place, we would have indisputable proof, in the form of their rep-ray ships and other paraphernalia, of their traffic with the Hans; and the state of American prejudice, at the time of which I write held trafficking with the Hans a far more heinous thing than even a vicious gang feud. I called an executive session of the Council at once. I wanted to inventory our military resources. I created a new office on the spot, that of "Control Boss," and appointed Ned Garlin to the post, turning over his former responsibility as Plants Boss to his assistant. I needed someone, I felt, to tie in the records of the various functional activities of the campaign, and take over from me the task of keeping the records of them up to the minute. I received reports from the bosses of the ultrophone unit, and those of food, transportation, fighting gear, chemistry, electronic activity and electrophone intelligence, ultroscopes, air patrol and contact guard. My ideas for the campaign, of course, were somewhat tinged with my 20th Century experience, and I found myself faced with the task of working out a staff organization that was a composite of the best and most easily applied principles of business and military efficiency, as I knew them from the viewpoint of immediate practicality. What I wanted was an organization that would be specialized, functionally, not as that indicated above, but from the angles of: intelligence as to the Sinsings' activities; intelligence as to Han activities; perfection of communication with my own units; co-operation of field command; and perfect mobilization of emergency supplies and resources. It took several hours of hard work with the Council to map out the plan. First we assigned functional experts and equipment to each "Division" in accordance with its needs. Then these in turn were reassigned by the new Division Bosses to the Field Commands as needed, or as Independent or Headquarters Units. The two intelligence divisions were named the White and the Yellow, indicating that one specialized on the American enemy and the other on the Mongolians. The division in charge of our own communications, the assignment of ultrophone frequencies and strengths, and the maintenance of operators and equipment, I called "Communications." I named Bill Hearn to the post of Field Boss, in charge of the main or undetached fighting units, and to the Resources Division, I assigned all responsibility for what few aircraft we had; and all transportation and supply problems, I assigned to "Resources." The functional bosses stayed with this division. We finally completed our organization with the assignment of liaison representatives among the various divisions as needed. Thus I had a "Headquarters Staff" composed of the Division Bosses who reported directly to Ned Garlin as Control Boss, or to Wilma as my personal assistant. And each of the Division Bosses had a small staff of his own. In the final summing up of our personnel and resources, I found we had roughly a thousand "troops," of whom some three hundred and fifty were, in what I called the Service Divisions, the rest being in Bill Hearn's Field Division. This latter number, however, was cut down somewhat by the assignment of numerous small units to detached service. Altogether, the actual available fighting force, I figured, would number about five hundred, by the time we actually went into action. We had only six small swoopers, but I had an ingenious plan in my mind, as the result of our little raid on Nu-yok, that would make this sufficient, since the reserves of inertron blocks were larger than I expected to find them. The Resources Division, by packing its supply cases a bit tight, or by slipping in extra blocks of inertron, was able to reduce each to a weight of a few ounces. These easily could be floated and towed by the swoopers in any quantity. Hitched to ultron lines, it would be a virtual impossibility for them to break loose. The entire personnel, of course, was supplied with jumpers, and if each man and girl was careful to adjust balances properly, the entire number could also be towed along through the air, grasping wires of ultron, swinging below the swoopers, or stringing out behind them. There would be nothing tiring about this, because the strain would be no greater than that of carrying a one or two pound weight in the hand, except for air friction at high speeds. But to make doubly sure that we should lose none of our personnel, I gave strict orders that the belts and tow lines should be equipped with rings and hooks. So great was the efficiency of the fundamental organization and discipline of the Gang, that we got under way at nightfall. One by one the swoopers eased into the air, each followed by its long train or "kite-tail" of humanity and supply cases hanging lightly from its tow line. For convenience, the tow lines were made of an alloy of ultron which, unlike the metal itself, is visible. At first these "tails" hung downward, but as the ships swung into formation and headed eastward toward the Bad Blood territory, gathering speed, they began to string out behind. And swinging low from each ship on heavily weighted lines, ultroscope, ultrophone, and straight-vision observers keenly scanned the countryside, while intelligence men in the swoopers above bent over their instrument boards and viewplates. Leaving Control Boss Ned Garlin temporarily in charge of affairs, Wilma and I dropped a weighted line from our ship, and slid down about half way to the under lookouts, that is to say, about a thousand feet. The sensation of floating swiftly through the air like this, in the absolute security of one's confidence in the inertron belt, was one of never-ending delight to me. We reascended into the swooper as the expedition approached the territory of the Bad Bloods, and directed the preparations for the bombardment. It was part of my plan to appear to carry out the attack as originally planned. About fifteen miles from their camps our ships came to a halt and maintained their positions for a while with the idling blasts of their rocket motors, to give the ultroscope operators a chance to make a thorough examination of the territory below us, for it was very important that this next step in our program should be carried out with all secrecy. At length they reported the ground below us entirely clear of any appearance of human occupation, and a gun unit of long-range specialists was lowered with a dozen rocket guns, equipped with special automatic devices that the Resources Division had developed at my request, a few hours before our departure. These were aiming and timing devices. After calculating the range, elevation and rocket charges carefully, the guns were left, concealed in a ravine, and the men were hauled up into the ship again. At the predetermined hour, those unmanned rocket guns would begin automatically to bombard the Bad Bloods' hillsides, shifting their aim and elevation slightly with each shot, as did many of our artillery pieces in the First World War. In the meantime, we turned south about twenty miles, and grounded, waiting for the bombardment to begin before we attempted to sneak across the Han ship lane. I was relying for security on the distraction that the bombardment might furnish the Han observers. It was tense work waiting, but the affair went through as planned, our squadron drifting across the route high enough to enable the ships' tails of troops and supply cases to clear the ground. In crossing the second ship route, out along the Beaches of Jersey, we were not so successful in escaping observation. A Han ship came speeding along at a very low elevation. We caught it on our electronic location and direction finders, and also located it with our ultroscopes, but it came so fast and so low that I thought it best to remain where we had grounded the second time, and lie quiet, rather than get under way and cross in front of it. The point was this. While the Hans had no such devices as our ultroscopes, with which we could see in the dark (within certain limitations of course), and their electronic instruments would be virtually useless in uncovering our presence, since all but natural electronic activities were carefully eliminated from our apparatus, except electrophone receivers (which are not easily spotted), the Hans did have some very highly sensitive sound devices which operated with great efficiency in calm weather, so far as sounds emanating from the air were concerned. But the "ground roar" greatly confused their use of these instruments in the location of specific sounds floating up from the surface of the earth. This ship must have caught some slight noise of ours, however, in its sensitive instruments, for we heard its electronic devices go into play, and picked up the routine report of the noise to its Base Ship Commander. But from the nature of the conversation, I judged they had not identified it, and were, in fact, more curious about the detonations they were picking up now from the Bad Blood lands some sixty miles or so to the west. Immediately after this ship had shot by, we took the air again, and following much the same route that I had taken the previous night, climbed in a long semi-circle out over the ocean, swung toward the north and finally the west. We set our course, however, for the Sinsings' land north of Nu-yok, instead of for the city itself. CHAPTER XII The Finger of Doom As we crossed the Hudson River, a few miles north of the city, we dropped several units of the Yellow Intelligence Division, with full instrumental equipment. Their apparatus cases were nicely balanced at only a few ounces weight each, and the men used their chute capes to ease their drops. We recrossed the river a little distance above and began dropping White Intelligence units and a few long and short range gun units. Then we held our position until we began to get reports. Gradually we ringed the territory of the Sinsings, our observation units working busily and patiently at their locators and scopes, both aloft and aground, until Garlin finally turned to me with the remark: "The map circle is complete now, Boss. We've got clear locations all the way around them." "Let me see it," I replied, and studied the illuminated viewplate map, with its little overlapping circles of light that indicated spots proved clear of the enemy by ultroscopic observation. I nodded to Bill Hearn. "Go ahead now, Hearn," I said, "and place your barrage men." He spoke into his ultrophone, and three of the ships began to glide in a wide ring around the enemy territory. Every few seconds, at the word from his Unit Boss, a gunner would drop off the wire, and slipping the clasp of his chute cape, drift down into the darkness below. Bill formed two lines, parallel to and facing the river, and enclosing the entire territory of the enemy between them. Above and below, straddling the river, were two defensive lines. These latter were merely to hold their positions. The others were to close in toward each other, pushing a high-explosive barrage five miles ahead of them. When the two barrages met, both lines were to switch to short-vision-range barrage and continue to close in on any of the enemy who might have drifted through the previous curtain of fire. In the meantime Bill kept his reserves, a picked corps of a hundred men (the same that had accompanied Hart and myself in our fight with the Han squadron) in the air, divided about equally among the "kite-tails" of four ships. A final roll call, by units, companies, divisions and functions, established the fact that all our forces were in position. No Han activity was reported, and no Han broadcasts indicated any suspicion of our expedition. Nor was there any indication that the Sinsings had any knowledge of the fate in store for them. The idling of rep-ray generators was reported from the center of their camp, obviously those of the ships the Hans had given them--the price of their treason to their race. Again I gave the word, and Hearn passed on the order to his subordinates. Far below us, and several miles to the right and left, the two barrage lines made their appearance. From the great height to which we had risen, they appeared like lines of brilliant, winking lights, and the detonations were muffled by the distances into a sort of rumbling, distant thunder. Hearn and his assistants were very busy: measuring, calculating, and snapping out ultrophone orders to unit commanders that resulted in the straightening of lines and the closing of gaps in the barrage. The White Division Boss reported the utmost confusion in the Sinsing organization. They were, as might be expected, an inefficient, loosely disciplined gang, and repeated broadcasts for help to neighboring gangs. Ignoring the fact that the Mongolians had not used explosives for many generations, they nevertheless jumped at the conclusion that they were being raided by the Hans. Their frantic broadcasts persisted in this thought, despite the nervous electrophonic inquiries of the Hans themselves, to whom the sound of the battle was evidently audible, and who were trying to locate the trouble. At this point, the swooper I had sent south toward the city went into action as a diversion, to keep the Hans at home. Its "kite-tail" loaded with long-range gunners, using the most highly explosive rockets we had, hung invisible in the darkness of the sky and bombarded the city from a distance of about five miles. With an entire city to shoot at, and the object of creating as much commotion therein as possible, regardless of actual damage, the gunners had no difficulty in hitting the mark. I could see the glow of the city and the stabbing flashes of exploding rockets. In the end, the Hans, uncertain as to what was going on, fell back on a defensive policy, and shot their "hell cylinder," or wall of upturned disintegrator rays into operation. That, of course, ended our bombardment of them. The rays were a perfect defense, disintegrating our rockets as they were reached. If they had not sent out ships before turning on the rays, and if they had none within sufficient radius already in the air, all would be well. I queried Garlin on this, but he assured me Yellow Intelligence reported no indications of Han ships nearer than 800 miles. This would probably give us a free hand for a while, since most of their instruments recorded only imperfectly or not at all, through the death wall. Requisitioning one of the viewplates of the headquarters ship, and the services of an expert operator, I instructed him to focus on our lines below. I wanted a close-up of the men in action. He began to manipulate his controls and chaotic shadows moved rapidly across the plate, fading in and out of focus, until he reached an adjustment that gave me a picture of the forest floor, apparently 100 feet wide, with the intervening branches and foliage of the trees appearing like shadows that melted into reality a few feet above the ground. I watched one man setting up his long-gun with skillful speed. His lips pursed slightly as though he were whistling, as he adjusted the tall tripod on which the long tube was balanced. Swiftly he twirled the knobs controlling the aim and elevation of his piece. Then, lifting a belt of ammunition from the big box, which itself looked heavy enough to break down the spindly tripod, he inserted the end of it in the lock of his tube and touched the proper combination of buttons. Then he stepped aside, and occupied himself with peering carefully through the trees ahead. Not even a tremor shook the tube, but I knew that at intervals of something less than a second, it was discharging small projectiles which, traveling under their own continuously reduced power, were arching into the air, to fall precisely five miles ahead and explode with the force of eight-inch shells, such as we used in the First World War. Another gunner, fifty feet to the right of him, waved a hand and called out something to him. Then, picking up his own tube and tripod, he gauged the distance between the trees ahead of him, and the height of their lowest branches, and bending forward a bit, flexed his muscles and leaped lightly, some twenty-five feet. Another leap took him another twenty feet or so, where he began to set up his piece. I ordered my observer then to switch to the barrage itself. He got a close focus on it, but this showed little except a continuous series of blinding flashes, which, from the viewplate, lit up the entire interior of the ship. An eight-hundred-foot focus proved better. I had thought that some of our French and American artillery of the 20th Century had achieved the ultimate in mathematical precision of fire, but I had never seen anything to equal the accuracy of that line of terrific explosions as it moved steadily forward, mowing down trees as a scythe cuts grass (or used to 500 years ago), literally churning up the earth and the splintered, blasted remains of the forest giants, to a depth of from ten to twenty feet. By now the two curtains of fire were nearing each other, lines of vibrant, shimmering, continuous, brilliant destruction, inevitably squeezing the panic-stricken Sinsings between them. Even as I watched, a group of them, who had been making a futile effort to get their three rep-ray machines into the air, abandoned their efforts, and rushed forth into the milling mob. I queried the Control Boss sharply on the futility of this attempt of theirs, and learned that the Hans, apparently in doubt as to what was going on, had continued to "play safe," and broken off their power broadcast, after ordering all their own ships east of the Alleghenies to the ground, for fear these ships they had traded to the Sinsings might be used against them. Again I turned to my viewplate, which was still focussed on the central section of the Sinsing works. The confusion of the traitors was entirely that of fear, for our barrage had not yet reached them. Some of them set up their long-guns and fired at random over the barrage line, then gave it up. They realized that they had no target to shoot at, no way of knowing whether our gunners were a few hundred feet or several miles beyond it. Their ultrophone men, of whom they did not have many, stood around in tense attitudes, their helmet phones strapped around their ears, nervously fingering the tuning controls at their belts. Unquestionably they must have located some of our frequencies, and overheard many of our reports and orders. But they were confused and disorganized. If they had an Ultrophone Boss they evidently were not reporting to him in an organized way. They were beginning to draw back now before our advancing fire. With intermittent desperation, they began to shoot over our barrage again, and the explosions of their rockets flashed at widely scattered points beyond. A few took distance "pot shots." Oddly enough it was our own forces that suffered the first casualties in the battle. Some of these distance shots by chance registered hits, while our men were under strict orders not to exceed their barrage distances. Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance. The two barrage lines were not more than five hundred feet apart when the Sinsings resorted to tactics we had not foreseen. We noticed first that they began to lighten themselves by throwing away extra equipment. A few of them in their excitement threw away too much, and shot suddenly into the air. Then a scattering few floated up gently, followed by increasing numbers, while still others, preserving a weight balance, jumped toward the closing barrages and leaped high, hoping to clear them. Some succeeded. We saw others blown about like leaves in a windstorm, to crumple and drift slowly down, or else to fall into the barrage, their belts blown from their bodies. However, it was not part of our plan to allow a single one of them to escape and find his way to the Hans. I quickly passed the word to Bill Hearn to have the alternate men in his line raise their barrages and heard him bark out a mathematical formula to the Unit Bosses. We backed off our ships as the explosions climbed into the air in stagger formation until they reached a height of three miles. I don't believe any of the Sinsings who tried to float away to freedom succeeded. But we did know later, that a few who leaped the barrage got away and ultimately reached Nu-yok. It was those who managed to jump the barrage who gave us the most trouble. With half of our long-guns turned aloft, I foresaw we would not have enough to establish successive ground barrages and so ordered the barrage back two miles, from which positions our "curtains" began to close in again, this time, however, gauged to explode, not on contact, but thirty feet in the air. This left little chance for the Sinsings to leap either over or under it. Gradually, the two barrages approached each other until they finally met, and in the grey dawn the battle ended. Our own casualties amounted to forty-seven men in the ground forces, eighteen of whom had been slain in hand to hand fighting with the few of the enemy who managed to reach our lines, and sixty-two in the crew and "kite-tail" force of swooper No. 4, which had been located by one of the enemy's ultroscopes and brought down with long-gun fire. Since nearly every member of the Sinsing Gang had, so far as we knew, been killed, we considered the raid a great success. It had, however, a far greater significance than this. To all of us who took part in the expedition, the effectiveness of our barrage tactics definitely established a confidence in our ability to overcome the Hans. As I pointed out to Wilma: "It has been my belief all along, dear, that the American explosive rocket is a far more efficient weapon than the disintegrator ray of the Hans, once we can train all our gangs to use it systematically and in co-ordinated fashion. As a weapon in the hands of a single individual, shooting at a mark in direct line of vision, the rocket-gun is inferior in destructive power to the dis ray, except as its range may be a little greater. The trouble is that to date it has been used only as we used our rifles and shot guns in the 20th Century. The possibilities of its use as artillery, in laying barrages that advance along the ground, or climb into the air, are tremendous. "The dis ray inevitably reveals its source of emanation. The rocket gun does not. The dis ray can reach its target only in a straight line. The rocket may be made to travel in an arc, over intervening obstacles, to an unseen target. "Nor must we forget that our ultronists now are promising us a perfect shield against the dis ray in inertron." "I tremble though, Tony dear, when I think of the horrors that are ahead of us. The Hans are clever. They will develop defenses against our new tactics. And they are sure to mass against us not only the full force of their power in America, but the united forces of the World Empire. They are a cowardly race in one sense, but clever as the very Devils in Hell, and inheritors of a calm, ruthless, vicious persistency." "Nevertheless," I prophesied, "the Finger of Doom points squarely at them today, and unless you and I are killed in the struggle, we shall live to see America blast the Yellow Blight from the face of the Earth." THE END. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ August 1928. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of Project Gutenberg's Armageddon--2419 A.D., by Philip Francis Nowlan Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Where is the rental cabin located that Reiko found the tape?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Ring is a movie about a cursed videotape that causes the viewer to die in a week. The story begins with two high school girls, Masami and Tomoko, discussing the legend of the cursed videotape. Tomoko reveals that she watched the tape and received a phone call a week later, which she believes is connected to the legend. The girls' conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing, and Tomoko answers it, revealing that the curse is real. Asakawa, a journalist, is investigating the legend of the cursed videotape and discovers that four people have died after watching the tape. She discovers that the tape was made by a woman named Shizuko, who had a daughter named Sadako. Asakawa and Ryuji, a professor, search for Sadako's body, which they believe is the key to breaking the curse. They discover that Sadako's body is in a well, and Asakawa is lowered into the well to retrieve it. Asakawa and Ryuji believe that the curse is broken when they retrieve Sadako's body, but the curse is actually still active, and Ryuji dies after watching the tape. Asakawa realizes that the curse is still active and that she must make a copy of the tape and show it to someone else to break the curse. Question: What is the name of the woman who made the cursed videotape? Answer: Shizuko. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Izu Oshima Island" ]	17,497	narrativeqa	en	null	141a3f0713e008f2b19cb78757c28d61c8f71427d4613c44	<b> THE RING </b> Original screenplay by Takahashi Hiroshi Based upon the novel by Suzuki Kouji This manuscript is intended for informational purposes only, and is a fair usage of copyrighted material. Ring (c) 1995 Suzuki Kouji Ring feature film (c) 1998 Ring/Rasen Committee Distributed by PONY CANYON Adapted/ Translated by J Lopez http://www.somrux.com/ringworld/ <b> --- </b> Caption-- September 5th. Sunday. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD TOMOKOS ROOM - NIGHT </b> CLOSEUP on a TELEVISION SET. Theres a baseball game on, but the sound is turned completely down. Camera PANS to show two cute high school girls, MASAMI and TOMOKO. Masami is seated on the floor at a low coffee table, TEXTBOOK in front of her. Tomoko is at her desk. There are SNACKS all over the room, and its obvious there hasnt been much studying going on. Masami is currently in mid-story, speaking excitedly. <b> MASAMI </b> They say that some elementary school kid spent the night with his parents at a bed and breakfast in Izu. The kid wanted to go out and play with everybody, right, but he didnt want to miss the program he always used to watch back in Tokyo, so he records it on the VCR in their room. But of course the stations in Izu are different from the ones in Tokyo. In Izu, it was just an empty channel, so he shouldve recorded nothing but static. But when the kid gets back to his house and watches the tape, all of a sudden this woman comes on the screen and says-- Masami points so suddenly and dramatically at her friend that Tomoko actually jumps in her seat. MASAMI (contd) One week from now, you will die. Short silence as Masami pauses, relishing the moment. MASAMI (contd) Of course the kids completely freaked, and he stops the video. Just then the phone rings, and when he picks it up a voice says-- Her voice drops voice almost to a whisper. MASAMI (contd) You watched it, didnt you? That same time, exactly one week later... hes dead! Masami laughs loudly, thoroughly enjoying her own performance. Tomoko, however, is completely silent. She begins looking more and more distressed, until finally Masami notices. <b> MASAMI </b> What is it, Tomoko? Tomoko comes out of her chair and drops onto the floor next to her friend. Her words are quick, earnest. <b> TOMOKO </b> Who did you hear that story from? <b> MASAMI </b> Who? Its just a rumor. Everybody knows it. <b> TOMOKO </b> Youko told you? <b> MASAMI </b> No, it wasnt Youko... Tomoko looks away, worried. Masami slaps her on the knee, laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Whats up with you? Tomoko speaks slowly, still looking away. <b> TOMOKO </b> The other day, I... I watched this strange video. <b> </b><b> MASAMI </b> Where? <b> TOMOKO </b> With Youko and them. <b> MASAMI </b> (excited) So thats what Ive been hearing about you doing some double-date/ sleepover thing! So, you and that guy Iwata, huh? <b> TOMOKO </b> No, its not like that. Nothing happened! Their eyes meet and Tomoko half-blushes, looks away again. Her expression becomes serious as she resumes her conversation. <b> TOMOKO </b> Iwata... he found this weird video. Everyone was like, Whats that? so he put it on and we all watched it. <b> MASAMI </b> (quietly) And? What kind of video was it? <b> TOMOKO </b> Just... weird, I cant really explain it. Anyway, right after we finished watching it, the phone rang. Whoever it was didnt say anything, but still... Silence. Masami curls up on herself, thoroughly spooked. <b> MASAMI </b> Jesus. <b> TOMOKO </b> It's cuz, you know, we'd all heard the rumors. Tomoko looks seriously over at her friend. TOMOKO (cont'd) That was one week ago today. There is a long, heavy silence as neither of them says anything. <b> MASAMI </b> Waaait a minute. Are you faking me out? Tomokos face suddenly breaks into a smile. <b> TOMOKO </b> Busted, huh? They both crack up laughing. <b> MASAMI </b> Oh, my... I cant believe you! Masami reaches out, slaps her friend on the knee. MASAMI (contd) Youre terrible! <b> TOMOKO </b> Gotcha! <b> MASAMI </b> (thinking) But hang on... you really stayed the night with Youko and Iwata, right? Tomoko nods, uh-huh. Masami dives forward, pinching her friends cheeks and grinning wildly. <b> MASAMI </b> So, how far did you and he get? <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh... I cant remember. <b> MASAMI </b> You cant remember, huh? Masami laughs, then slaps Tomoko on the knee again as she remembers the trick her friend played on her. <b> MASAMI </b> Man, you had me freaked me out. <b> I-- </b> Just at that moment, the phone RINGS. They are both suddenly, instantly serious. Tomokos eyes go off in one direction and she begins shaking her head, -No-. Masami looks over her shoulder, following her friends gaze. Tomoko is looking at the CLOCK, which currently reads 9:40. The phone continues to ring. Tomoko is now clutching tightly onto her friend, looking panicked. <b> MASAMI </b> (softly) Was it true? Tomoko nods her head, still holding on tightly. Masami has to forcibly disengage herself in order to stand. The phone is downstairs, so Masami opens the bedroom DOOR and races down the STAIRS. Tomoko calls out to her from behind. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> Tomoko and Masami run down the staircase, through the hallway towards the kitchen. Tomoko cries out again just before they reach the kitchen. <b> TOMOKO </b> Masami! <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> Masami has come to a halt before a PHONE mounted on the wall. She pauses, looking slowly at her friend, then back to the phone. She takes it tentatively from its cradle, answers it wordlessly. The tension continues to mount as nothing is said. Masami suddenly breaks into a huge grin. <b> MASAMI </b> Ill put her on. Still grinning, she hands the phone to Tomoko. Tomoko snatches it quickly. <b> TOMOKO </b> (softly) Yes? She is silent for a moment, then smiling widely. <b> TOMOKO </b> Oh, man! She is so relieved that all the strength seeps out of her and she sinks to the kitchen floor. Masami, equally relieved, slides down the wall and sits down next to her. <b> TOMOKO </b> (on the phone) Yeah, Ive got a friend over now. Yeah. Yeah, OK. Bye. Tomoko stands to place the phone back in its wall cradle, and then squats back down onto the kitchen floor. <b> TOMOKO </b> The games gone into overtime, so theyre gonna be a little late. They burst out laughing with relief again, and are soon both clutching their stomachs. <b> TOMOKO </b> Jeeezus, my parents... <b> MASAMI </b> Oh man, Im tellin everybody about this tomorrow! Tomoko shakes her head, -Dont you dare-. <b> MASAMI </b> Im gonna use your bathroom. Dont go anywhere. <b> TOMOKO </b><b> K. </b> Masami walks out of the kitchen. Alone now, Tomoko stands and walks toward the SINK, where she takes a GLASS from the DISH RACK. She then goes to the FRIDGE and sticks her face in, looking for something to drink. Suddenly there is the SOUND of people clapping and cheering. Tomoko, startled, peers her head over the refrigerator door to check for the source of the sound. She begins walking slowly, following the sound to the DINING ROOM adjacent the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT </b> The lights are off, and there is no one in the room. Tomoko pauses a moment, bathed in the garish LIGHT from the TV, which has been switched on. Playing is the same baseball game they had on the TV upstairs; the same game that Tomokos parents are currently at. The VOLUME is up quite high. A puzzled look on her face, Tomoko takes the REMOTE from the coffee table and flicks the TV off. She walks back to the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - NIGHT </b> A bottle of SODA that Tomoko had earlier taken from the fridge is on the kitchen table. She picks the bottle up, pours herself a drink. Before she can take a sip, however, the air around her becomes suddenly charged, heavy. Her body begins to shiver as somewhere out of sight comes a popping, crackling SOUND underscored by a kind of GROANING. Trembling now, Tomoko spins around to see what she has already felt lurking behind her. She draws in her breath to scream. The screen goes white, and fades into: <b> CAMERA POV </b> The screen is filled with the visage of a nervous-looking YOUNG GIRL. She is being interviewed by ASAKAWA, a female reporter seated offscreen. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> There seems to be a popular rumor going around about a cursed videotape. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Uh-huh. The girl looks directly at the camera, her mouth dropping into an O as shes suddenly overcome by a kind of stage fright. She continues staring, silently, at the camera. <b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY </b> KOMIYA, the cameraman, has lowered his camera. We can now see that the young girl being interviewed is seated at a table between two friends, a SHORT-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL#2) and a LONG-HAIRED GIRL (GIRL #3). They are all dressed in the UNIFORMS of junior high school students. Opposite them sits Komiya and Asakawa, a pretty woman in her mid- twenties. A BOOM MIKE GUY stands to the left. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> Uh, dont look right at the camera, <b> OK? </b> <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Sorry. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Lets do it again. Asakawa glances over her shoulder, makes sure that Komiya is ready. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you heard what kind of video it might be? <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> What I heard was, all of a sudden this scaaarry lady comes on the screen and says, In one week, you will die. <b> GIRL #2 </b> I heard that if youre watching TV late at night itll come on, and then your phonell ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Watching TV late at night... do you know what station? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmmm... I heard some local station, around Izu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu? <b> GIRL #2 </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And, do you know if anyones really died from watching it? The girl flashes a look at her two friends. <b> YOUNG GIRL </b> Well, no one that we know, right? Girl #2 nods her head. Girl #3 nods slowly, opens and closes her mouth as if deciding whether to say something or not. The reporter notices. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What is it? <b> GIRL #3 </b> I heard this from a friend of mine in high school. She said that there was this one girl who watched the video, and then died a week later. She was out on a drive with her boyfriend. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They were in a wreck? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No, their car was parked, but they were both dead inside. Her boyfriend died because hed watched the video, too. Thats what my friend said. Girl #3 grows suddenly defensive. GIRL #3 (contd) Its true! It was in the paper two or three days ago. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Do you know the name of the high school this girl went to? <b> GIRL #3 </b> No... I heard this from my friend, and it didnt happen at her school. She heard it from a friend at a different school, she said. <b> INT. NEWS STATION DAY </b> Asakawa is seated at her DESK. The station is filled with PEOPLE, scrabbling to meet deadlines. Komiya walks up to Asakawas desk and holds out a MANILA FOLDER. <b> KOMIYA </b> Mrs. Asakawa? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hm? <b> KOMIYA </b> Here you are. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (taking the folder) Thanks. Komiya has a seat. <b> KOMIYA </b> This same kind of thing happened about ten years ago too, didnt it? Some popular young singer committed suicide, and then suddenly there was all this talk about her ghost showing up on some music show. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But I wonder what this rumors all about. Everyone you ask always mentions Izu. <b> KOMIYA </b> Maybe thats where it all started. Hey, where was that Kuchi-sake Onna * story from again? >* Literally Ripped-Mouth Lady, a kind of ghastly spectre from >Japanese folk stories who wears a veil to hide her mouth, which >has been ripped or cut open from ear to ear. She wanders the >countryside at night asking men Do you think Im beautiful? then >lowering her veil to reveal her true features. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Gifu, but there was some big accident out there, and that ended up being what started the rumor. <b> KOMIYA </b> A big accident? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. Something terrible like that is going to stay in peoples minds. Sometimes the story of what happened gets twisted around, and ends up coming back as a rumor like this one. Thats what they say, at least. <b> KOMIYA </b> Dyou think something like that happened out at Izu? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Maybe. Well, anyway, Im off. See you tomorrow. <b> </b><b> KOMIYA </b> See you. Asakawa gets up from her desk and begins walking towards the exit. She takes only a few steps before noticing a RACK of recent DAILY <b> EDITIONS. </b> She takes one from the rack, sets it on a nearby TABLE. She begins flipping the pages, and suddenly spies this story: <b> STRANGE AUTOMOBILE DEATH OF YOUNG COUPLE IN YOKOHAMA </b> The bodies of a young man and woman were discovered in their passenger car at around 10 A.M. September 6th. The location was a vacant lot parallel to Yokohama Prefectural Road. Local authorities identified the deceased as a 19-year old preparatory school student of Tokyo, and a 16-year old Yokohama resident, a student of a private all-girls high school. Because there were no external injuries, police are investigating the possibility of drug-induced suicide... Just then two men walk by, a GUY IN A BUSINESS SUIT and a youngish intern named OKAZAKI. Okazaki is carrying an armload of VIDEOTAPES. <b> GUY IN SUIT </b> OK, Okazaki, Im counting on you. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Yessir. The guy in the suit pats Okazaki on the shoulder and walks off. Okazaki turns to walk away, spots Asakawa bent over the small table and peering intently at the newspaper article. <b> OKAZAKI </b> Miss Asakawa? I thought you were going home early today. Asakawa turns around and begins speaking excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Okazaki, can I ask you a favor? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Sure. Asakawa points to the newspaper. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Could you check out this article for me? Get me some more info.? <b> OKAZAKI </b> I guess... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Good. Call me as soon as you know more, OK? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Maam. Asakawa walks off. Okazaki, still carrying the videotapes, leans forward to take a look at the article. <b> </b><b> EXT. APARTMENT PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car into the lot and parks quickly. She gets out, runs up the STAIRCASE to the third floor. She stops in front of a door, sticks her KEY in the lock, and opens it. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM DAY </b> A BOY of about 7 is sitting in an ARMCHAIR facing the veranda. We can see only the back of his head. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi! Hearing his name, the boy puts down the BOOK he was reading and stands up, facing the door. He is wearing a white DRESS SHIRT with a brown sweater-type VEST over it. He sees Asakawa, his mother, run in the door. She is panting lightly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Sorry Im late. Oh, youve already changed. <b> YOICHI </b> Yup. He points over to his mothers right. YOICHI (contd) I got your clothes out for you. Asakawa turns to see a DARK SUIT hanging from one of the living room shelves. She reaches out, takes it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Aargh, weve gotta hurry! She runs into the next room to change. <b> INT. BEDROOM DAY </b> Asakawa has changed into all-black FUNERAL ATTIRE. Her hair is up, and she is fastening the clasp to a pearl NECKLACE. Yoichi is still in the living room. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did grandpa call? <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Nope. Yoichi walks into the room and faces his mother. <b> YOICHI </b> Why did Tomo-chan die? * >* -chan is a suffix in Japanese that denotes closeness or affection. >It is most often used for young girls, though it can also be used for >boys. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well... it looks like she was really, really sick. She takes a seat on the bed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Will you do me up? Yoichi fastens the rear button of his mothers dress and zips her up. <b> YOICHI </b> You can die even if youre young? <b> ASAKAWA </b> If its something serious... well, yes. Asakawa turns to face her son, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> As hard as it is for us, what your auntie and uncle are going through right now is even harder, so lets not talk about this over there, OK? Yoichi nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (remembering) You and her used to play a lot together, didnt you? Yoichi says nothing. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> RED PAPER LANTERNS mark this place as the site of a wake. Several GIRLS in high school uniforms are standing together and talking in groups. Asakawa and Yoichi, walking hand in hand, enter the house. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> There are many PEOPLE milling about, speaking softly. A MAN seated at a counter is taking monetary donations from guests and entering their information into a LEDGER. Asakawa and Yoichi continue walking, down a hallway. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Mother and son halt before the open DOOR to the main wake room, where guests may show their respects to the departed. The room is laid in traditional Japanese-style tatami, a kind of woven straw mat that serves as a carpet. Two GUESTS, their shoes off, are kneeling upon zabuton cushions. Kneeling opposite the guests is KOUICHI, Asakawas father. The two guests are bowing deeply, and Kouichi bows in response. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Dad. Kouichi turns to see her. <b> KOUICHI </b> Ah! <b> ASAKAWA </b> How is sis holding up? <b> KOUICHI </b> Shes resting inside right now. Shes shaken up pretty badly, you know. Its best she just take things easy for a while. Asakawa nods. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ill go check on auntie and them, then. <b> KOUICHI </b> OK. Ah, Yoichi. Why dont you sit here for a little while? He grabs the young boy and seats him on a cushion next to the two guests. As the guests resume their conversation with Asakawas father, Yoichis eyes wander to the ALTAR at the front of the room set up to honor the deceased. It is made of wood, and surrounded by candles, flowers, and small paper lanterns. At the center is a PICTURE of the deceased, a teenage girl. A small wooden PLAQUE reads her name: Tomoko Ouishi. It is the same Tomoko from the first scene. Yoichi continues to stare at Tomokos picture. He makes a peculiar gesture as he does so, rubbing his index finger in small circles just between his eyes. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks down the hallway, looking for her aunt. She walks until finding the open doorway to the kitchen. There are a few people in there, preparing busily. Asakawa sees her AUNT, who rushes into the hallway to meet her, holds her fast by the arm. The aunt speaks in a fierce, quick whisper. <b> AUNT </b> Have you heard anything more about Tomo-chans death? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, I... <b> AUNT </b> But the police have already finished their autopsy! <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, they said there was no sign of foul play. <b> AUNT </b> (shaking her head) That was no normal death. They havent once opened the casket to let us see the body. Dont you think thats strange? <b> </b> Asakawa looks away, thinking. <b> INT. HALLWAY NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered off by himself. He stops at the foot of the steps, looking up-- and catches a glimpse of a pair of BARE FEET running up to the second floor. A guarded expression on his face, Yoichi walks slowly up the stairs. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS BEDROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi has wandered into Tomokos bedroom. The lights are all off, and there is an eerie feel to it. Yoichis eyes wander about the room, finally coming to rest on the TELEVISION SET. Suddenly, he hears his mothers voice from behind him. <b> ASAKWAWA (O.S.) </b> Yoichi? Yoichi turns to face her as she approaches, puts an arm around him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing up here? You shouldnt just walk into other peoples rooms. Without replying, Yoichis gaze slowly returns to the television set. Asakawa holds him by the shoulders, turning him to meet her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You go on downstairs, OK? <b> YOICHI </b><b> OK. </b> He turns to leave, and Asakawa follows. <b> INT. OUSHI HOUSEHOLD - TOP OF THE STAIRS NIGHT </b> Just as Yoichi and Asakawa are about to descend the steps, Asakawas CELL PHONE rings. She opens the clasp to her PURSE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Yoichi) You go on ahead. <b> YOICHI </b><b> K. </b> He walks down the steps. Asakawa brings out her cell phone, answers it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI </b> Uh... this is Okazaki. Ive got some more info on that article for you. The girl was a student of the uh, Seikei School for Women in Yokahama City. Asakawa blinks at this, looks disturbed. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thanks. She hangs up the phone. <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands now at the entrance of the house. Dazedly, she walks toward a large, hand-painted PLACARD. The placard reads that the wake is being held for a student of the Seikei School for Women. Asakawa stares at that placard, making the mental connections. She turns abruptly, walks towards a nearby TRIO of HIGH SCHOOL <b> GIRLS. </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Excuse me. This is, um, kind of a strange question, but by any chance were you friends of that young girl that died in the car as well? The three girls turn their faces to the ground. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. If you know anything... <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> They all died the same day. Youko. Tomoko. Even Iwata, he was in a motorcycle accident. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Because they watched the video. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Video? <b> GIRL LEFT </b> Thats what Youko said. They all watched some weird video, and after that their phone rang. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Tomoko-chan watched it, too? Where? Girl Left shakes her head. <b> GIRL LEFT </b> She just said they all stayed somewhere. <b> GIRL RIGHT </b> There was a girl with Tomoko when she died. Shes had to be hospitalized for shock. <b> GIRL MIDDLE </b> They say she wont go anywhere near a television. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa and YOSHINO, another news reporter, are watching scenes from the Yokohama car death. In the footage there are lots of POLICEMEN milling about, one of them trying to pick the door to the passenger side. Yoshino is giving Asakawa the blow-by-blow. <b> YOSHINO </b> The bodies of those found were Tsuji Youko, age 17, a student of the Seikei School for Women, and Nomi Takehiko, age 19, preparatory school student. Both their doors were securely locked. Onscreen, the policeman has finally picked the lock. The door opens, and a girls BODY halffalls out, head facing upwards. Yoshino flicks a BUTTON on the control panel, scans the footage frame by frame. He stops when he gets a good close-up of the victim. Her face is twisted into an insane rictus of fear, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. Yoshino and Asakawa lean back in their seats. <b> YOSHINO </b> This is the first time Ive -ever- seen something like this. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Cause of death? <b> YOSHINO </b> Couldnt say, aside from sudden heart failure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Drugs? <b> YOSHINO </b> The autopsy came up negative. Yoshino takes the video off pause. Onscreen, a policeman has caught the young girls body from completely falling out, and is pushing it back into the car. As the body moves into an upright position, we can see that the girls PANTIES are mid-way around her left thigh. <b> YOSHINO </b> These two, about to go at it, suddenly up and die for no apparent reason. He sighs. YOSHINO (contd) Do -you- get it? <b> EXT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - DAY </b> Asakawas CAR is already halted before a modest-sized, two-story HOUSE with a small covered parkway for a garage. She gets out of her car, closes the door. She stares at the house, unmoving. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa stands before her SISTER RYOMI, who is seated at the kitchen TABLE. Ryomi is staring blankly away, making no sign of acknowledging her sister. The silence continues unabated, and Asakawa, pensive, wanders idly into the adjoining dining room. She takes a long look at the television, the same television that had puzzled Tomoko by suddenly switching itself on, sitting darkly in one corner. Her reflection in the screen looks stretched, distorted. <b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> They tell me that Yoichi came to the funeral, too. Asakawa steps back into the kitchen. She addresses her sister, who continues to stare out at nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mmm-hmm. <b> RYOMI </b> They used to play a lot together, didnt they? Upstairs. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yeah... Ryomi lapses back into a silence. Asakawa waits for her to say more, but when it is clear that nothing else is forthcoming, she quietly gives up and exits the kitchen. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Asakawa climbs the steps to the second floor. She makes her way down the hall. <b> INT. OUISHI HOUSEHOLD - TOMOKOS ROOM - DAY </b> As if intruding, Asakawa walks slowly, cautiously into Tomokos room. The window to the room is open, and a single piece of folded white PAPER on Tomokos desk flutters in the breeze. Asakawa walks towards it, picks it up. It is a RECEIPT from a photo shop. The developed photos have yet to be claimed. Asakawa senses something, spins to look over her shoulder. Her sister has crept quietly up the stairs and down the hall, and stands now in the doorway to Tomokos room. She appears not to notice what Asakawa has in her hands, as her gaze has already shifted to the sliding closet door. She regards it almost druggedly. <b> RYOMI </b> (haltingly) This... this is where Tomoko died. <b> FLASHBACK </b><b> RYOMI (O.S.) </b> Tomoko! Ryomis hands fling aside the CLOSET DOOR. Within, she finds the pale blue CARCASS of her daughter, curled up into an unnatural fetal position. Tomokos mouth yawns gaping, her eyes glassy and rolled up into the back of her head. Her hands are caught in her hair, as if trying to pull it out by the roots. It is a horrific scene, one that says Tomoko died as if from some unspeakable fear. <b> PRESENT </b> Ryomi sinks to her knees, hitting the wooden floor hard. She puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing loudly. Asakawa says nothing. <b> EXT. CAMERA SHOP DAY </b> Asakawa leaves the camera shop clutching Tomokos unclaimed PHOTOS. She walks out onto the sidewalk and begins flipping through them. We see Tomoko standing arm-in-arm with Iwata, her secret boyfriend. Tomoko and her friends eating lunch. The camera had its date-and-time function enabled, and the photos are marked <b> 97 8 29. </b> The next shot is of Tomoko, Iwata, and another young couple posing in front of a SIGN for a bed and breakfast. The sign reads: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Izu... Asakawa continues looking through the photos, various shots of the four friends clowning around in their room. Suddenly she comes to a shot taken the next day, at check out. The friends are lined up, arms linked-- and all four of their faces are blurred, distorted as if someone had taken an eraser to them and tried to rub them out of existence. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT KITCHEN - DAY </b> Asakawa wears an APRON, and is frying something up on the STOVE. Yoichi stands watching. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Look, Im probably going to be late coming home tonight, so just stick your dinner in the microwave when youre ready to eat, OK? <b> YOICHI </b> K... Mom? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hmm? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan watched some cursed video! Asakawa leaves the food on the stove, runs over to Yoichi and grabs him by the shoulders. She shakes him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What did you say? You are not to speak of this at school, do you hear me? <b> YOICHI </b> (utterly unfazed) I wont. Im going to school now. Yoichi walks off. Asakawa goes back to the stove, but stops after only a few stirs, staring off and thinking. Caption-- September 13th. Monday. <b> EXT. ROAD DAY </b> Asakawa drives her car speedily along a narrow country road, LEAVES blowing up in her wake. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR - DAY </b> Asakawa mutters to herself, deep in thought. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres no way... <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> Asakawas car drives past a sign reading: <b> IZU PACIFIC LAND </b> <b> EXT. IZU PACIFIC LAND - DRIVEWAY DAY </b> Asakawa has left her car and is walking around the driveway of what is less a bed and breakfast and more like a series of cabin-style rental <b> COTTAGES. </b> She wanders about for a while, trying to get her bearings. She pauses now in front of a particular cottage and reaches into her PURSE. She withdraws the PICTURE from the photomat, the one that showed Tomoko and her friends with their faces all blurred. The four are posing in front of their cottage, marked in the photograph as B4. Asakawa lowers the photo to regard the cottage before her. <b> B4 </b> She walks to the door, turns the handle experimentally. Its open. Asakawa walks in. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - COTTAGE B4 DAY </b> Asakawa lets her eyes wander around the cottage. It looks very modern, all wood paneling and spacious comfort. Her eyes rest on the TV/VCR setup at the front of the room. Crouching before the VCR now, she presses the eject button. Nothing happens. She fingers the inside of the deck, finds it empty, then reaches behind to the rear of the VCR, searching. Again, there is nothing. Asakawa presses the power button on the television, picks up the REMOTE, and takes a seat on the SOFA. She runs through a few channels but theyre all talk shows, no clues whatsoever. She flicks the TV off and leans back in the sofa, sighing. Just then, she spies a LEDGER on the coffee table. These things are sometimes left in hotels in Japan, so that guests can write a few comments about their stay for others to read. Asakawa picks the ledger up, begins thumbing through it. She stops at a strange PICTURE obviously drawn by a child, that shows three rotund, almost entirely round personages. She reads the handwritten MESSAGE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> "My dad is fat. My mom is fat. Thats why Im fat, too." She smiles in spite of herself. Asakawa flips through the rest of the ledger, but theres nothing else of any import. She tosses it back onto the coffee table and, sighing again, leans into the sofa and closes her eyes. <b> EXT. OUTDOOR CAF - DUSK </b> Asakawa eats silently, alone. <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND - FRONT RECEPTION - NIGHT </b> Asakawa has returned to the bed and breakfast. As she walks in the door, the COUNTER CLERK rises out of his chair to greet her. <b> CLERK </b> Room for one? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Um, actually Im here on business. She passes the clerk a picture of Tomoko and her three other friends. He stares at it for a moment. <b> ASAKAWA </b> They would have stayed here on August 29th, all four of them. If theres any information you might have... <b> CLERK </b> Uh, hang on just a minute. The clerk turns his back to her, begins leafing through a guest log. <b> CLERK </b> (to himself) August 29th... While she waits, Asakawas eyes start to wander around the room. Behind the desk is a sign reading Rental Video, and a large wooden BOOKSHELF filled with VIDEOTAPES. They are all in their original boxes, and she lets her eyes glance over the titles. Raiders of the Lost Ark, 48 Hours-- --and then, suddenly, she spies a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked sleeve, tucked away in the back of the very bottom shelf. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That... The clerk looks up. <b> CLERK </b> Hmm? Asakawa stabs a finger excitedly towards the shelf. <b> ASAKAWA </b> That! What tape is that? The clerk reaches out for it, grabs it. <b> CLERK </b> This? Hmm... The clerk pulls the tape out of its SLEEVE and checks for a label. Its unmarked. <b> CLERK </b> Maybe one of the guests left it behind <b> INT. PACIFIC LAND COTTAGE B4 - NIGHT </b> Asakawa flips on the TV. Its on channel 2, and there is nothing but static. She kneels down to slide the tape into the deck and pauses a moment, framed in the vaguely spectral LIGHT from the television screen. Steeling her nerves, she puts the tape into the machine, picks up the remote, and presses play. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. Afterwards, you can come back here to check the meaning of the Japanese characters displayed. <b> THE VIDEOTAPE </b> At first it looks like nothing has happened-- then Asakawa realizes that she is now viewing recorded static instead of broadcast static. She watches, waiting, but the static continues unbroken. Asakawa looks down at the remote, is about to press fast forward, when suddenly the picture on the screen clears and for a moment she thinks shes looking at the moon. Its not the moon at all, she realizes. The shape is round like a full moon, but it seems to be made up of thin RIBBONS of cloud streaking against a night sky. And theres a FACE, she sees, a face hidden in shadows, looking down from above. What is this? The scene changes now, and Asakawa notes that the tape has that kind of grainy quality one sees in 3rd or 4th generation copies. The scene is of a WOMAN brushing her long hair before an oval-shaped MIRROR. The nerve- wracking grating as if of some giant metallic insect sounds in the background, but the lady doesnt seem to notice. The mirror the lady is using to brush her hair suddenly changes position from the left part of the wall before which she stands, to the right. Almost instantly the mirror returns to its original position, but in that one moment in its changed location we see a small FIGURE in a white GOWN. The woman turns towards where that figure stood, and smiles. The screen next becomes a twitching, undulating impenetrable sea of the kanji characters used in the Japanese language. Asakawa can pick out only two things recognizable: local volcanic eruption Now the screen is awash in PEOPLE-- crawling, scrabbling, shambling masses, some of them moving in reverse. A sound like moaning accompanies them. <b> - </b> A FIGURE stands upon a shore, its face shrouded. It points accusingly, not towards the screen, but at something unseen off to one side. The insect-like screeching sounds louder. <b> -- </b> Close up on inhuman, alien-looking EYE. Inside that eye a single character is reflected in reverse: SADA, meaning "chastity." The eye blinks once, twice. The symbol remains. <b> --- </b> A long shot of an outdoor, uncovered WELL. <b> ---- </b> Sudden loud, blinding STATIC as the tape ends. Asakawa turns the TV off, looking physically drained. She sighs shakily and slumps forward, resting on her knees. Just then, she glances at the television screen. She sees, reflected, a small FIGURE in a white gown standing at the rear of the room. Shocked, Asakawa draws in breath, spins around. The room is empty. Asakawa runs to the sofa to collect her jacket-- --and the RINGING of the telephone stops her dead in her tracks. Zombie- like, she walks towards the telephone, picks it up wordlessly. From the other end comes the same metallic, insectoid SQUEAKING heard on the video. Asakawa slams the phone down and glances up at the CLOCK. Its about seven minutes after 7 P.M. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to herself) One week Asakawa grabs her coat, pops the tape out of the deck, and runs out the door. <b> EXT. STREET DAY </b> It is dark and raining heavily. Yoichi, Asakawas son, is walking to school, UMBRELLA firmly in hand. The sidewalk is quite narrow, and Yoichi comes to a halt when a second PERSON comes from the opposite direction, blocking his way. Yoichi slowly raises his umbrella, peers up to look at this other pedestrian. It is a MAN, a BAG slung over one shoulder. He has a beard; unusual for Japan where clean-shaven is the norm. The two continue looking directly at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Yoichi then walks around the persons left and continues on his way. The man resumes walking as well. Caption-- September 14th. Tuesday. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE AN APARTMENT DOOR - DAY </b> The bearded man, whose name is RYUJI, reaches out to press the DOORBELL, but the door has already opened from within. Asakawa leans out, holding the door open for him. Neither of them speaks. Wordlessly, Ryuji enters the apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - DAY </b> Ryuji puts his bag down, looks around the apartment. The interior is dark, ominous somehow. He takes his JACKET off and wanders into the living room. Asakawa is in the kitchen behind him, preparing TEA. Ryuji spies the collection of FRAMED PHOTOGRAPHS in living room. <b> RYUJI </b> Yoichis in elementary school already, is he? <b> ASAKAWA </b> His first year. What about you, Ryuji? How have you been recently? <b> RYUJI </b> Same as always. She takes a seat next to him, serves the tea. On the coffee table before them is a VIDEOTAPE in a plain, unmarked case. <b> ASAKAWA </b> And money is...? <b> RYUJI </b> Im teaching at university. Ryuji picks up his cup of tea but stops, grimacing, before it is to his lips. He rubs his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. Ryuji shakes it off and quickly regains his composure. <b> RYUJI </b> Anyway. You said that the phone rang? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. <b> RYUJI </b> So if I watch it too, that phone over there-- He gestures with his mug RYUJI (contd) --should ring. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji, four people have already died. On the same day! <b> RYUJI </b> (flippant) Well, why dont you try calling an exorcist? He takes a sip of his tea. Asakawa reaches quickly, grabs something from the bookshelf behind her-- a POLAROID CAMERA. She shoves it into Ryujis hands, then turns to look down at the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Take my picture. Ryuji raises the camera to his eye. <b> RYUJI </b> Turn this way. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (unmoving) Hurry up and take it. Ryuji snaps off a shot. It comes out the other end and he takes it, waits impatiently for an image to appear. When it does, all he can do is pass it wordlessly over to Asakawa. Her face is twisted, misshapen. Just like the picture of Tomoko and her friends. Asakawa stares at it, horrified. By the time she finally looks up, Ryuji has already risen from his seat and slid the videotape into the VCR. Again, the screen is filled with static, only to be replaced with what looks like the moon. Asakawa slams the Polaroid on the coffee table and goes outside onto the veranda. <b> EXT. VERANDA - DAY </b> Asakawa stares out at a view of the houses shaded in cloud and rain. There is a knock on the glass door behind her. A moment later, Ryuji slides the door open. <b> RYUJI </b> Its over. Asakawa re-enters her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Well, it looks like your phones not ringing. Ryuji pops the tape from the deck, hands it to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Make me a copy of this, will you? Id like to do a little research of my own. Theres no reason to write us off as dead just yet. He dramatically takes a seat. RYUJI (contd) If theres a video, that means that somebody had to make it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Theres the guest list from the cottage to look into... and the possibility of someone hacking into the local stations broadcast signals. Asakawa pulls a NOTEPAD from her purse and begins busily scribbling away. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - DAY </b> Okazaki putters around. Caption- September 15th. Tuesday. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH DAY </b> Asakawa sits by herself, reviewing the videotape. She is replaying the very last scene, an outdoor shot of a well. She stares at it carefully, and notices... The tape ends, filling the screen with static. A split-second afterwards, there is a KNOCK on the door and Okazaki enters, holding a FILE. Asakawa momentarily forgets about the video. <b> OKAZAKI </b> (handing her the file) Heres that guest list you wanted. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oh, thanks. <b> OKAZAKI </b> What are you gonna do with this? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Uh... sorry, Im working on something personal. <b> EXT. IN FRONT OF A TRAIN STATION - DAY </b> Some quick shots of a FOUNTAIN gushing water, PIGEONS flapping away looking agitated. CUT to Ryuji sitting on a BENCH. Hes deep in thought, writing in a NOTEPAD. There are multitudes of PEOPLE about him, and we can hear the sounds of their coming and going. A PAIR OF LEGS attached to a woman in white dress, hose, and pumps appears, heading directly for Ryuji. Her pace is slow, rhythmical, and as that pace progresses all other sounds FADE into the background, so that all we can hear is the CLOMP, CLOMP as those legs walk to stand just before Ryuji. The pumps are scuffed, dirtied with grime. A gust of WIND rips by. Ryuji fights the urge to look up as in his ears rings the same hollowed, multi-voiced BABBLING heard on the videotape. The sound grows stronger. <b> RYUJI (VO) </b> So, it was you. You did it. The babbling fades, disappears as slowly the worlds normal background sounds return. Ryuji looks up, but the woman in white is nowhere to be seen. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji rides up on a BICYCLE. He turns the corner towards his apartment and finds Asakawa seated on the steps, waiting for him. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey. Asakawa notes in his face that something is wrong. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened to you? <b> RYUJI </b> (gruffly) Nothing. He enters the building, carrying his bicycle. Asakawa follows. <b> INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON </b> The two walk down the hallway towards the FRONT DOOR to Ryujis apartment. He unlocks the door and they enter. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT AFTERNOON </b> Ryuji and Asakawa enter the living room. <b> RYUJI </b> So, whatd you come up with? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I dont think any of the guests on the list brought the tape with them. I couldnt confirm it face-to-face of course, but even over the phone I got the feeling they were all being upfront with me. <b> RYUJI </b> How about the other angle? Pirate signals or... Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Therere no traces of any illegal television signals being broadcast around Izu. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a large white ENVELOPE. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Heres that copy of the videotape you wanted. Ryuji tears the package open. He squats down on the tatami in frontof his TV and slides the tape in. Asakawa sits on the tatami as well, but positions herself away from the TV and keeps her eyes averted. Ryuji glares over his shoulder at her. <b> RYUJI </b> (sternly) Asakawa. She reluctantly scoots closer, looks up at the screen. Ryuji fast-forwards the tape a bit, stopping at the scene where the woman is brushing her long hair before an oval mirror. He puts the video on frame-by-frame. <b> RYUJI </b> Have you ever seen this woman? Asakawa regards the screen intently. <b> ASAKAWA </b> No... The tape advances to the scene where the mirror suddenly changes positions. When it does, we can again see the small figure in the white gown, a figure with long black hair. When Ryuji sees this his body stiffens, becomes tense. Asakawa notices but says nothing. She also notices something else. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Theres something strange about this shot. She takes the remote from Ryuji, rewinds it a ways. Onscreen, the woman begins coming her long hair again. <b> ASAKAWA </b> From this angle, the mirror should be reflecting whoevers filming. <b> RYUJI </b> So, what does that mean? Asakawa lets out a short sigh. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Well, if the person who made this is a pro, thered be a way around that, I guess, but still... The screen changes, showing the mass of squiggling kanji characters again. <b> RYUJI </b> (reading) Volcanic eruption... Eruption where? He pauses the screen, trying to make sense of what is written. <b> ASAKAWA </b> This is gonna be impossible to figure out on just a regular TV screen, dont you think? They are both still staring at the screen when from behind them comes the SOUND of someone opening the front door. Ryuji turns off the TV, ejects the tape from the deck. <b> RYUJI </b> Come on in. Asakawa flashes a look at Ryuji and then turns her head back towards the front door to see who has entered. A cute, nervous-looking young GIRL with short hair approaches slowly. She is carrying a PLASTIC BAG filled with groceries. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa, meet my student, Takano Mai. He turns, addresses Mai. RYUJI (contd) This is Asakawa, my ex-wife. Ryuji gets up and walks conveniently away. <b> MAI </b> Nice to meet you. Im Takano. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Asakawa. * > * As you may already be aware, Japanese name order is the >opposite of Englishs, and even close friends may continue to >address one another by their last names. Incidentally, Asakawas >first name is Reiko. In this scene, Mai deferentially refers >to Ryuji as sensei, meaning teacher. Mai sets the bag of groceries down and chases after Ryuji. He is putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, the people from the publishing company called about the deadline on your thesis again. <b> RYUJI </b> (brusquely) Whatre they talkin to you about it for? <b> MAI </b> Because they can never get a hold of you. Ryuji picks up his keys, video firmly in hand. <b> RYUJI </b> Ask them to wait another week. <b> MAI </b> Sensei, ask them yourself, please. Ryuji is already headed for the door. His back is to her as he responds. <b> RYUJI </b><b> OK, OK. </b> Asakawa walks after him. They leave. Mai pouts unhappily a bit, and then breaks into a smile as an idea crosses her mind. She walks across the room to where Ryuji has set up a large BLACKBOARD filled with mathematical equations. Grinning, Mai rubs out part of one equation with her sleeve and writes in a new value. <b> INT. NEWS STATION HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji stride purposefully. They stop before a DOOR to the right, which Asakawa unlocks. They both walk in. <b> INT. NEWS STATION - VIEWING BOOTH - NIGHT </b> Asakawa and Ryuji sit in a completely darkened room, their eyes glued to the television MONITOR. They are again watching the scene with the fragmented kanji characters, but despite their efforts have been able to identify only one additional word, bringing the total to three: volcanic eruption local residents <b> RYUJI </b> This is impossible. Ryuji fast forwards, stopping at the scene with the kanji reflected inside an alien-looking EYE. He reads the kanji aloud. <b> RYUJI </b> Sada... Ryuji moves to make a note of this, notices the time. <b> RYUJI </b> Is Yoichi gonna be all right? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (sadly) Hes used to it... Short silence. Ryuji breaks it by gesturing towards the screen. <b> RYUJI </b> Whoever made this had to have left some kind of clue behind. Theyre probably waiting for us to find it. Asakawa turns a DIAL to bring up the volume, which up until now has been on mute. The room is filled with an eerie, metallic GRATING, and Asakawa spins the dial again, shutting it off. Just as she does, Ryujis eyes widen. <b> RYUJI </b> Wait a minute. He turns the dial again, punches a few buttons as if searching for something. He listens carefully, and when he hears that strange something again he stops, looks at the screen. It is paused at the scene with the figure, pointing, a CLOTH draped over its head. The figure now looks oddly like a messenger. Ryuji and Asakawa exchange glances. This could be it. Ryuji flips some more switches, setting the sound for super-slow mo. What follows is a strange, labored sort of speech- a hidden message-- framed in the skittering distortion of the tape in slow motion. <b> TAPE </b> Shoooomonnn bakkkkkarrri toou... boooouuuukonn ga kuuru zouuu... <b> RYUJI </b> (repeating) Shoumon bakkari, boukon ga kuru zo. Did you hear that, too? Asakawa nods. Ryuji is already writing it down excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What does that mean? Ryuji tears the sheet of paper off the notepad, folds it, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. <b> RYUJI </b> Im gonna check it out. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT COMPLEX - MORNING </b> Yoichi is walking to school. He looks back over his shoulder, just once,then resumes walking. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - MORNING </b> All the lights are turned off, and she is sitting on the living room couch watching the footage of her caf interview with the junior high school girls. Caption-- September 16th. Thursday. Just when the girl in the interview mentions that whomever watches the video is supposed to afterwards receive a phone call, Asakawas own phone RINGS, startling her. She runs to answer it. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ive got it. Its a dialect, just like I thought. SHOUMON means playing in the water and BOUKON means monster. * >* Translated from standard Japanese, the phrase from the videotape >would initially have sounded like, "If only SHOUMON then the >BOUKON will come." These two capitalized words, later identified to >be dialectical, were at the time completely incomprehensible to Ryuji >and Asakawa. Dialect can vary dramatically from region to region in >Japan, to the point of speakers of different dialect being unable to >understand one another. >The phrase on the tape can now be rendered, "If you keep playing in >the water, the monster will come for you." <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, dialect from where? <b> RYUJI </b> Oshima. And the site of our eruption is Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are seated at cubicles, looking through bound ARCHIVES of old newspaper articles. Asakawa sneaks a look at Ryuji, stands up and walks off a little ways. She has already pulled out her cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (whispering, on phone) Yoichi? Im gonna be a little late tonight, honey. Ryuji looks over his shoulder at her, scowls. <b> ASAKAWA </b> You can do it yourself, right? OK. Sorry. Bye. She hangs up, returns to her seat at the cubicle. She resumes her scanning of the newspaper articles, and Ryuji shoots her another scowl. Asakawa turns a page and then stops, frowning. She has spied an article that looks like... Nervously, Asakawa puts the thumb and forefinger of each hand together, forming the shape of a rectangle. Or a screen. She places the rectangle over the article she has just discovered, its headlines reading: Mount Mihara Erupts Local Residents Urged to Take Precautions Ryuji notices her, leans forward excitedly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive got it! This old article... The two scan the remainder of the page, and find a smaller, related article. Did Local Girl Predict Eruption? A young lady from Sashikiji prefecture... The two read over both articles, absorbing the details. Ryuji stands suddenly, gathering his things. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What are you doing? <b> RYUJI </b> Has your newspaper got someone out there at Oshima? <b> ASAKAWA </b> I think so. There should be a correspondent out there. <b> RYUJI </b> I need you to find out, and let me know how to get hold of him. Tonight. He begins walking briskly away. Asakawa chases after him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What do you think youre--? <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Youve only got four days left, Asakawa! Your newspaper contact and I can handle this from here on out. You just stay with Yoichi. Ryuji strides off. Asakawa stands motionless. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY </b> A car speeds along. CUT to a gravel DRIVEWAY leading up to a wooden, traditional-style HOUSE. Kouichi, Asakawas father, is standing before the entrance and puttering around in his GARDEN. The car from the previous shot drives up, comes to a halt. The passenger door opens and Yoichi hops out, running towards the old man. Asakawa walks leisurely after her son. <b> YOICHI </b> Grandpa! <b> KOUICHI </b> Whoa, there! So, you made it, huh? Caption-- September 17th. Friday. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi says hes looking forward to doing some fishing with you. <b> KOUICHI </b> Is that so? Yoichi begins tugging excitedly at his grandfathers arm. <b> YOICHI </b> Cmon grandpa, lets go! <b> KOUICHI </b> OK, OK. Well get our things together and then we can go. <b> EXT. RIVER DAY </b> Asakawa stands on a RIVERBANK while her father and Yoichi, GUMBOOTS on, are ankle-deep in a shallow river. Yoichi holds a small NET, and Asakawas dad is pointing and chattering excitedly. <b> KOUICHI </b> There he is! Cmon, there he is, dont let him go! Yoichi tries to scoop up the fish his grandfather is pointing out. <b> KOUICHI </b> Oh, oh! Ah... guess he got away, huh? <b> YOICHI </b> That was your fault, grandpa. Asakawas father laughs. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well, whaddya say we try again? He begins sloshing noisily out to the center of the stream, Yoichi in tow. <b> KOUICHI </b> Well get im this time. Asakawa looks away, pensive. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </b> Yoichi is passed out asleep on the tatami mats. A TELEVISION looms inone corner of the living room, but it is switched off. The SLIDING DOORS to the adjacent guest room are open and we can see futons set out, ready for bed. Asakawa enters the living room and, seeing Yoichi, scoops him up in her arms and carries him over to the guest room. <b> YOICHI </b> (sleepily) How was work, mommy? Asakawa tucks him into the futons and walks silently off. <b> INT. KOUICHIS HOUSE - STAIRCASE NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands at the foot of the staircase, telephone RECEIVER in hand. The phone rests on a small STAND by the staircase. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Your Oshima contact came through. It looks like the woman who predicted the Mihara eruption is the same woman from the video. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT NIGHT </b> Ryuji is crouched in front of the TV, REMOTE in hand. The screen is paused on the scene of the woman brushing her long hair. <b> RYUJI </b> Her name is Yamamura Shizuko. She committed suicide forty years ago by throwing herself into Mt. Mihara. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE STAIRCASE - NIGHT </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Have you got anything else? <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Im gonna have to check it for myself. Ill be leaving for Oshima tomorrow morning. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Oshima? Ive only got three days left! <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> I know. And Ive got four. Short silence. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Ill be in touch. Ryuji hangs up. Asakawa, deep in thought, slowly places the phone back in its CRADLE. She turns around to walk back down the hallway only to find her father standing there, face full of concern. <b> KOUJI </b> Whats happened? Asakawa shakes her head. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Nothing. I just had some things left over from work. She walks past her father, who glances worriedly after her over his shoulder. <b> INT. KOUJIS HOUSE - GUEST ROOM NIGHT </b> The lights are all off and Asakawa is asleep in her futon. Her eyes suddenly fly open as a VOICE sounding eerily like her deceased niece Tomoko calls out to her. <b> TOMOKO (O.S.) </b> Auntie? Asakawa looks around the room, gets her bearings. Her eyes fall on the futon next to hers. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? There is a BODY in that futon, but it is full-grown, dressed all in black. It is curled into a fetal position and has its head turned away. Suddenly, the IMAGE from the video of the figure with its face shrouded springs to Asakawas mind. Just an instant, its pointing visage materializes, and then disappears. It reappears a moment later, pointing more insistently now, and disappears again. Asakawa blinks her eyes and realizes that the futon next to hers is empty. Yoichi is nowhere to be seen. Just then, she hears that high-pitched, metallic SQUEAKING from the video. Eyes wide with horror, she flings the sliding doors apart-- --and there, seated before the television, is Yoichi. He is watching the video. It is already at the very last scene, the shot of the outdoor well. CLOSEUP on the screen now, and for just an instant we can see that something is trying to claw its way out of the well. The video cuts off, and the screen fills with static. Shrieking, Asakawa races over to Yoichi, covers his eyes though it is already too late. She scoots over to the VCR, ejects the tape and stares at it uncomprehendingly. She is then at Yoichis side again, shaking him roughly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi! You brought this with you, didnt you? Why?!? <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan... Asakawa freezes, her eyes wide. <b> YOICHI </b> Tomo-chan told me to watch it. <b> EXT. OCEAN DAY </b><b> </b> WAVES are being kicked up by a large PASSENGER SHIP as it speeds on its way. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji standing on deck, looking out over the waves. <b> RYUJI </b> I shouldve been more careful. When I was at your place that day, I could feel something there. I thought it was just because of the video... <b> ASAKAWA </b> You mean that Tomoko <b> RYUJI </b> Thats not Tomoko. Not anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... he can see them too, cant he? Ryuji nods his head, lowers it sadly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its all my fault. First Tomoko died, then those three others. It should have stopped there, but it didnt. Because of me. <b> RYUJI </b> I wonder... Asakawa turns to Ryuji suddenly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> How did the rumors about the video even start in the first place? <b> RYUJI </b> This kind of thing... it doesnt start by one person telling a story. Its more like everyones fear just takes on a life of its own. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Fear... <b> RYUJI </b> Or maybe its not fear at all. Maybe its what we were secretly hoping for all along. <b> EXT. PORT DAY </b> The ship has docked, its GANGPLANK extended. Ryuji and Asakawa walk the length of the gangplank towards the shore. A man named MR. HAYATSU is already waiting for them. He holds up a white SIGNBOARD in both hands. <b> </b><b> ASAKAWA </b> Mr. Hayatsu? <b> HAYATSU </b> Aah, welcome! You must be tired after your long trip. Please, this way. Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to an awaiting minivan. Caption-- September 18th. Saturday. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN - DAY </b> Ryuji and Asakawa sit in the back. Mr. Hayatsu is behind the wheel, chattering away. <b> HAYATSU </b> Back in the old days, the Yamamuras used to head fishing boats out in Sashikiji, though they dont much anymore. You know, one of Shizukos cousins is still alive. Hes just an old man now. His son and his daughter-in-law run an old-fashioned inn. I went ahead and booked reservations for yall, hope thats alright... Asakawa gives the briefest of nods in reply, after which the minivan lapses into silence. Asakawa looks dreamily out at the mountain-studded landscape, then suddenly snaps to. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (to Ryuji) Why did Yamamura Shizuko commit suicide? <b> RYUJI </b> She was taking a real beating in the press, being called a fraud and all sorts of names. After a while she just lost it. CUT to a scene of the minivan speeding along a country road. <b> INT. HAYATSUS MINIVAN DAY </b> <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko was getting a lot of attention around the island after predicting the eruption of Mt. Mihara. Seems that for some time shed had a rather unique ability: precognition. It was around then that she attracted the attention of a certain scholar whom you may have heard of; Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> ASAKAWA </b> He was driven out of the university, wasnt he? Ryuji nods. <b> RYUJI </b> This Professor Ikuma convinces Shizuko to go to Tokyo with him, where he uses her in a series of demonstrations meant to prove the existence of ESP. At first shes the darling of the press, but the next thing you know theyre knocking her down, calling her a fraud. Hmph. Forty years later, the media still hasnt changed that much. Asakawa continues, ignoring Ryujis barb. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ive heard this story. But... Im sure I remember hearing that somebody died at one of those demonstrations. A strange look crosses Ryujis face. He looks away, ignores her for a moment. <b> RYUJI </b> After getting kicked out of university, Ikuma just vanished, and no ones been able to get hold of him since. Hes probably not even alive anymore. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, why even try looking for him? <b> RYUJI </b> Because hes supposed to have had a child with Shizuko. A daughter. Asakawa freezes. In her mind, she sees a small FIGURE dressed in white, its face hidden by long, black HAIR. It is the figure from the video. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE YAMAMURA VILLA - DAY </b> Mr. Hayatsu leads Asakawa and Ryuji to the entrance. <b> HAYATSU </b> Hello? The INKEEPER, a middle-aged lady named KAZUE wearing a traditional KIMONO, comes shuffling up. She addresses Mr. Hayatsu. <b> KAZUE </b> Thank you. She turns to Asakawa and Ryuji. KAZUE (contd) Welcome. <b> HAYATSU </b> Well, Ill be off then. He gives a little bow and is off. Kazue, meanwhile, has produced two pairs of SLIPPERS, which she offers to Ryuji and Asakawa. <b> KAZUE </b> Please. Ryuji and Asakawa begin removing their shoes. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA STAIRCASE - DAY </b> Kazue leads Ryuji and Asakawa up a shadowed, wooden STAIRCASE. <b> KAZUE </b> And for your rooms, how shall we...? <b> RYUJI </b> Separate, please. <b> KAZUE </b> Sir. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - 2ND FLOOR DAY </b> Kazue gives a little bow. <b> KAZUE </b> This way. Kazue turns to the right. Almost immediately after reaching the top of the steps, however, a strange look crosses Ryujis face. He heads down the opposite end of the corridor, Asakawa close behind. <b> KAZUE </b> (alarmed) Sir! Ryuji flings open the SLIDING DOOR to one of the older rooms. There, hanging from one of the walls, is the oval-shaped MIRROR from the video, the one used by the mysterious lady to brush her long hair. Ryuji stares at the mirror, almost wincing. He turns around as if to look at Asakawa,but continues turning, looks past her. Asakawa follows his gaze, as does Kazue. Standing at the end of the corridor is an old man, MR. YAMAMURA. Yamamura regards them silently, balefully. Breaking the silence, Kazue gestures for Asakawa and Ryuji to follow. <b> KAZUE </b> (softly) Please, this way. Asakawa races past the innkeeper towards the old man. He keeps his back turned towards her. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please! If you could just answer a few questions, about Shizuko... <b> YAMAMURA </b> I got nuthin to say. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its about Shizukos daughter. The old man says nothing. <b> ASAKAWA </b> She did have a daughter, didnt she? Yamamura regards her for a moment, then turns to walk away. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Youre wasting your time. <b> INT. YAMAMURA VILLA - DINING ROOM NIGHT </b> The TABLE is laid out with an elaborate-looking DINNER. Asakawa sits alone, knees curled up to her chin, eyes wide and frightened. She is whimpering softly to herself. Just then, the DOOR slides open and Ryuji walks in. He sits at the table and picks up a pair of CHOPSTICKS. <b> RYUJI </b> Arent you gonna eat? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Umm... <b> RYUJI </b> Hm? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay with me wont you? When its time for me to die. <b> RYUJI </b> Oh, stop it. Asakawa scoots across the tatami mats towards the table, grabs Ryuji fiercely by the arm. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Youll stay, wont you? If you stayed, maybe youd learn something that could help Yoichi-- <b> RYUJI </b> I said stop it! Have you forgotten There was a girl with Tomoko when she died? That girls now in a mental institution. Who knows what could happen. <b> ASAKAWA </b> But you could stay with me, Ryuji. Youd be OK. <b> RYUJI </b> (angrily) Why, because Im already not right in the head? Asakawa releases her hold on Ryujis arm, lowers her head. Ryuji slams his chopsticks down angrily. <b> RYUJI </b> If thats the case, why not just let things run its course, get rid of father -and- son? Yoichi was a mistake, anyway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Stop it! Short silence. When Ryuji speaks up again, his voice is soft, reassuring. <b> RYUJI </b> We still have two days left... Just then the VOICE of the innkeeper calls tentatively out from the other side of the sliding door. <b> KAZUE (O.S.) </b> Excuse me? <b> RYUJI </b> Come in. Kazue slides the door open. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, something tucked under one arm. <b> KAZUE </b> Its about Miss Shizuko. Ryuji shoots a glance at Asakawa and stands up from the table, walks towards the innkeeper. <b> KAZUE </b> This is all that there is... Kazue produces an old black and white PHOTOGRAPH. The photo shows a WOMAN, seated, dressed in a KIMONO. A MAN in a Western-style SUIT stands beside her. <b> RYUJI </b> Is this Professor Ikuma? Hearing this Asakawa leaps up, walks over to examine the picture for herself. <b> KAZUE </b> ...yes. This picture is from before Id entered the household. She pauses a moment. KAZUE (contd) I should go now. The innkeeper scuttles off, leaving Asakawa and Ryuji alone with the photograph. Unbidden, the VOICE from the video enters their thoughts. <b> VOICE </b> Shoumon bakkari... boukon ga kuru zo... <b> EXT. IZU SEASHORE - DAY </b> Asakawa watches Ryuji stride down the shore. Caption-- September 19th. Monday. Ryuji strolls up to find old man Yamamura sitting alone, staring out at the sea. Yamamura glances up to see Ryuji approaching. Ryuji takes a seat next to the old man, but its Yamamura who speaks first. The deep basso of his voice emphasizes the drawl of his accent. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Yalld do best to be off soon. Seas probably gonna be rough tonight. <b> RYUJI </b> What kind of a child was Shizuko? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko was... different. Shed come out here by herself everday an just stare out at the ocean. The fishermen all took a dislikin to her. Oceans an unlucky place for us, ysee: every year it swallows up more of our own. You keep starin out at somethin ike that... <b> RYUJI </b> Shoumon bakkari shiteru to, boukon ga kuru zo. If you keep playing in the water, the monster will come for you. Yamamura looks at Ryuji, surprised. <b> RYUJI </b> Shizuko could see inside people, couldnt she? Down to the places theyd most like to keep hidden. It must have been difficult for her... Yamamura rises unsteadily to his feet, features twisted angrily. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Please leave! Now! Ryuji stands, takes hold of Yamamuras arm. <b> RYUJI </b> Ive got a little of that ability myself. It was you who spread the word about Shizuko, wasnt it? And you who first contacted Professor Ikuma? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Whatre you--? <b> RYUJI </b> You thought youd be able to make some money off her. You even got some, from one of the newspapers. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Leave me the hell alone! Mr. Yamamura strides angrily off. Both Ryuji and Asakawa take pursuit, Ryuji calling out from behind Yamamuras back. <b> RYUJI </b> Tell us about Shizukos daughter. Who was she? <b> YAMAMURA </b> I dont know! <b> RYUJI </b> She was there, with Shizuko. She had to be. Yamamuras pace, which has become increasingly erratic, finally causes him to stumble and fall. Ryuji comes up behind him, grasping him firmly. At their touch Ryujis power awakens, and as he peers into the old mans mind there is a sudden blinding <b> FLASH </b> The setting is a large MEETING HALL. A number of people are seated in folding chairs before a STAGE, on which are a four MEN in BUSINESS SUITS and a WOMAN in a KIMONO. A BANNER hangs above the stage, which reads PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION ON THE EXISTENCE OF CLAIRVOYANCE. <b> FLASH </b> Ryuji eyes widen as he realizes he is seeing Shizukos demonstration before the press. He also realizes-- <b> RYUJI </b> (to Yamamura) You were there! <b> FLASH </b> YAMAMURA SHIZUKO, the woman in the kimono, is sitting at a TABLE onstage. Her face is calm and expressionless. Standing off to one side and peering from behind the curtains is a young Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> You stood there and watched the demonstration. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa comes running up toward Ryuji and the prone Mr. Yamamura. Suddenly there is another <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa, her eyes wide, finds herself inside the scene, reliving it as if she had actually been there. She watches as Shizuko receives a sealed clay POT in both hands. Shizuko regards the pot a moment and then places it gently on the table before her. She takes a calligraphy STYLUS from the table, begins writing on a thin, rectangular sheet of RICE PAPER. The members of the press talk excitedly, craning their necks for a better look. Onstage, a JUDGE holds up the phrase written by Shizuko and the folded sheet of paper taken from the sealed pot. The phrase on both sheets is identical. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Cameras begin FLASHING excitedly. Shizukos features melt into a soft smile. The experiment is performed again, and again the phrase written by Shizuko corresponds to the sealed sheet of paper. <b> JUDGE </b> Match. Again and again, Shizuko unerringly demonstrates her power to see the unseen. Finally, a bearded REPORTER explodes from his chair, begins striding angrily towards the stage. <b> REPORTER </b> Faker! This is nothing but trickery, and the lowest form of trickery at that. The reporter stops at the foot of the stage, points his finger accusingly at Shizuko. <b> REPORTER </b> What are you trying to pull, woman? A SECOND REPORTER sitting in the front row also rises to his feet. <b> REPORTER #2 </b> Thats right! Professor Ikuma, youre being fooled! By now most of the press has risen from their chairs, pointing and shouting angrily. Onstage, Shizuko backs away, eyes wide and frightened. She covers both ears, trying to block out the increasing din. Professor Ikuma holds her protectively by the shoulders. The first reporter is still shouting angrily, his voice rising above the others. Suddenly, a pained look crosses his face and he collapses to the floor. The crowd, and Asakawa as well, see that the reporters face is contorted into a grotesque mask of fear. <b> REPORTER #3 </b> Whats happened? <b> REPORTER #4 </b> Hes dead! <b> REPORTER #5 </b> (to Shizuko) Witch! Professor Ikuma begins leading Shizuko offstage. They stop as someone unseen steps up, blocking their passage. Shizukos eyes widen, her head shaking in disbelief. <b> SHIZUKO </b> Sadako? Was it you? CUT to Ryuji on the beach. He looks up excitedly. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako?! He recalls the image from the video, the alien eye with the single character SADA reflected in reverse. * >* The majority of girls' names in Japanese end in either -mi ("beauty") >or -ko ("child"). Thus, Sadako means "Chaste child." Sadako is, of >course, the mysterious daughter of Shizuko and Professor Ikuma. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako killed him? She can kill just with a thought? <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shes... a devil spawn. CUT back to the demonstration hall. Sadako, her face completely hidden by her long hair, runs offstage... and heads directly for Asakawa. Asakawa instinctively raises her arm, and Sadako grasps it fiercely. All the nails on Sadako hand are stripped away; her fingers are raw, bloody stumps. CUT back to the beach. Asakawa, still caught in the throes of the vision, has begun to swoon. Finally her legs give out and she crumples to the beach. Ryuji grabs hold of her supportively. He glances down at her wrist, sees an ugly, purple BRUISE already beginning to form. The bruise is in the shape of five long, spindly fingers. Mr. Yamamura slowly rises to a sitting position, and together the three watch the approach of ominous, dark STORM CLOUDS. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE DUSK </b> Asakawa is on the phone, her voice almost frantic. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Thats right. After Yamamura Shizuko committed suicide, Professor Ikuma took the daughter and ran. No, no one knows where they went. Thats why I need -you- to find out where they are. Even if the professors dead, Sadako should still be in her forties. Ill explain it all later, but right now just hurry! Asakawa slams the phone down. PAN to show Ryuji slumped in one corner of the room, his back to the wall. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadakos probably already dead. She could kill people with just a thought, remember? Her mother wasnt even close to that. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (flustered) Well, what about that video? If Sadakos dead then who made it? <b> RYUJI </b> Nobody made it. It wasnt made at all. That video... is the pure, physical manifestation of Sadakos hatred. Ryuji turns to regard Asakawa, his eyes blank. <b> RYUJI </b> Weve been cursed. There is a moment of silence before Mr. Hayatsu slides the door open, almost falling into the room. He is out of breath, and speaks rapidly. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its no good. With the typhoon coming in, all ships are temporarily staying docked. <b> RYUJI </b> What about the fishing boats? Tell their captains Ill pay. <b> HAYATSU </b> Fishing boats? Sir, without knowing whether this typhoon is going to hit us or not, I think itd be better to wait and see how things turn-- Ryuji interrupts him, slamming both palms on the table. Glasses rattle wildly. <b> RYUJI </b> Fine! Ill try searching myself! Ryuji stands and races past Mr. Hayatsu out into the rain. Hayatsu takes pursuit, calling after him. <b> HAYATSU </b> Mr. Takayama!? Mr. Takayama... Asakawa, left alone, stares down at the tatami mats. <b> EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT </b> White-capped waves roll angrily in a black sea. <b> INT. MR. HAYATSUS HOUSE NIGHT </b> Asakawa sits at a table, alone, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The phone RINGS suddenly and Asakawa dives for it, wrenching it from the cradle before it can ring a second time. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Hello? <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Mrs. Asakawa? Im sorry. I tried, but I couldnt come up with any leads at all. A look of abject fear crosses Asakawas face. She begins retreating into herself. <b> OKAZAKI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Thank you... Asakawa slowly places the phone back in its cradle. Almost immediately, her face begins to crumple. She falls to her knees, sobbing into the floor. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi... She cries a while longer but suddenly stops. Her face, eyes streaked with tears, shoots suddenly up, stares directly at the telephone. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (softly) Izu... <b> EXT. IZU WHARF NIGHT </b> Asakawa stands looking down on the wharf, scanning. Several FISHING BOATS are docked. The wind whips her hair crazily around. She continues scanning, and suddenly she spies-- <b> ASAKAWA </b> (calling) Ryuji! Asakawa runs down onto the wharf, heading towards Ryuji. He is in mid-conversation with Mr. Hayatsu. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji! The phone in my apartment never rang! It only ever rang at the rental cottage! Professor Ikuma mustve... <b> RYUJI </b> And weve got no way of going back. <b> HAYATSU </b> Its too dangerous! The thought of anybody going out in this weather... The three fall into silence as they realize the powerlessness of their situation. Suddenly, a deep VOICE booms from behind them. <b> YAMAMURA (O.S.) </b> Ill take you out. The three spin around to see Mr. Yamamura, his ROBES flapping in the gusty night air. He begins walking towards them. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Sadako is callin yall, reckon. Mayhap to drag you down under the water. Short silence. Ryuji shoots a short questioning glance at Asakawa, turns back to face Mr. Yamamura. <b> RYUJI </b> Please. Take us out. <b> EXT. OCEAN NIGHT </b> A tiny FISHING BOAT is tossed about on the waves. Mr. Yamamura stands at the wheel, his face expressionless. <b> INT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT NIGHT </b> Ryuji and Asakawa are crouched close together in the cabin. Asakawas expression is dreamy, faraway. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its funny. Im not afraid at all. Ryuji leans over, rubs her hand comfortingly. Suddenly he switches back into analytical mode. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako probably died back out there at Izu, before the rental cottages were ever built. <b> ASAKAWA </b> So, Sadako was Professor Ikumas daughter? <b> RYUJI </b> (nodding) Ikuma smuggled her out in secret. His relationship with Shizuko was already a scandal, and one of the reasons he got drummed out of the university... Weve gotta find Sadakos body. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (excitedly) Is that going to break the curse? Will Yoichi be all right? <b> RYUJI </b> Its all weve got left to try. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Just one more day... Ryuji puts his arm around Asakawa. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT - DAWN </b> Ryuji stands on deck, looking out over the water. He heads down below toward the captains area. Mr. Yamamura is at the wheel. <b> RYUJI </b> We made it. Maybe Sadako doesnt have it out for us after all. Long pause as Mr. Yamamura says nothing. <b> YAMAMURA </b> Shizuko... she used to -speak- to the ocean, just ramble away. One time I hid, listenin to one of her conversations. Mr. Yamamura pauses again. YAMAMURA (contd) And it werent in no human language. <b> EXT. MR. YAMAMURAS FISHING BOAT DAWN </b> Asakawa has climbed out on deck and is looking up towards the sunrise. Caption-- September 20th. Monday. <b> EXT. HARDWARE STORE DAY </b> Ryuji races out of the store, loaded down with supplies. He holds a pair of BUCKETS in one hand and a CROWBAR and SHOVEL in the other. A length of ROPE is coiled over his left shoulder. He runs towards a RENTAL CAR, passing by Asakawa who stands at a PAYPHONE, receiver in hand. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hello? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Yoichi? Its mommy. I just called to say Ill be coming home tomorrow. Ryuji shoots a look at her over his shoulder. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Im tired of it here, mom! I wanna go back to school. <b> ASAKAWA </b> (smiling) Yoichi, its rude to your grandpa to talk like that. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Hes laughing. You wanna talk to him? <b> ASAKAWA </b> No, thats... Asakawa pauses, her voice hitching. She seems about to lose her composure. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im sorry, Yoichi. Ill... Ill see you tomorrow. <b> YOICHI (O.S.) </b> Whats wrong? Asakawas face scrunches up in an effort to hold back tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Mommys got something she has to do. Say hello to grandpa for me, OK? Ryuji stands by the car, scowling over at Asakawa. He shuts the DOOR just short of a slam. CUT to Asakawa hanging up the phone. She half- runs towards the rental car and enters the passenger side, staring blankly into space. Ryuji slides into the drivers seat, buckles his <b> SEATBELT. </b> <b> RYUJI </b> What time was it when you first watched the video? Asakawa glances at her watch. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Seven or eight minutes past seven. PM. No more than ten minutes past. <b> </b><b> RYUJI </b> If the rumors are true, that time is gonna be our deadline. Asakawa buckles up as Ryuji steps on the gas. <b> INT. RENTAL CAR DAY </b> Asakawa sits in the passenger side. Her face is almost angelic, with the faintest hint of a smile. Ryuji shoots a questioning look at her. <b> EXT. COUNTRY ROAD DAY </b> The white rental car tears past the SIGN reading Izu Pacific Land. The car continues into the LOT, screeching around corners before coming to an abrupt halt. Asakawa, her face still oddly expressionless, gets out of the passenger side. Ryuji exits as well, the hint of a shudder running through him as he regards the series of rental cabins. <b> RYUJI </b> -Here-. CUT to Asakawa and Ryuji walking up the gravel PATH towards the rental cabins. Ryuji looks back over his shoulder as both he and Asakawa stop before cabin B4. The cabin is on STILTS, its underbelly fenced off by wooden LATICEWORK. Ryuji drops most of his supplies to the ground, but keeps hold of the PICK. He raises the pick over one shoulder and begins smashing away at the latticework. When he has cleared enough space for passage, he begins picking up supplies and tossing them hastily within. When finished, he holds a hand out for Asakawa. The two enter the earthen basement. <b> UNDER COTTAGE B4 - DAY </b> Ryuji pulls a FLASHLIGHT out, flicks it on. The BEAM arcs outwards, illuminating what looks more like an old mine shaft than a modern rental cottage. The beam halts when it suddenly encounters an old STONE WELL. The well is badly chipped on one side, and sealed off with a solid-looking stone LID. Ryuji rushes quickly towards it. <b> RYUJI </b> I knew it! The well. He squats down beside the well, setting the flashlight on the lid. Asakawa sinks slowly down beside him. <b> ASAKAWA </b> The well... Ryuji reaches out and takes Asakawas hand. He sets their enclasped hands onto the lid, and together they begin lightly tracing the surface of the lid with their free hands. Asakawa closes her eyes in concentration... and suddenly, as with the incident on the beach, Asakawa finds herself drawn into Ryujis psychometric VISION. <b> FLASH </b> The picture is black and white, grainy like old film. A YOUNG GIRL in a WHITE GOWN walks slowly towards an open well. She places her hand on the LIP of the well, peers curiously down. <b> FLASH </b> Asakawa looks up, her eyes wide open. <b> FLASH </b><b> </b> There is now a second person in the vision, an ELDERLY MAN in an old- fashioned tweed SUIT standing behind the young girl. He suddenly produces some BLADED OBJECT, and strikes the girl savagely across the back of the head. The girl falls forward. The man drops to the ground, grabbing the girl behind the knees and hoisting her limp BODY over the lip and into the well. The body falls into its depths. Panting heavily, the man leans forward and grasps the lip of the well with both hands, looking down. He flashes a guilty look in either direction, checking that his crime has gone unnoticed, and as he does so Asakawa realizes that she knows this face. The image from the videotape, like a face in the moon: it had been Sadako inside the well, looking up to see this man staring back down at her. This man whose name is Professor Ikuma Heihachiro. <b> FLASH </b> <b> ASAKAWA </b> Her own father! The energy seems to drain out of Asakawa in a rush, and her body crumbles. Ryuji catches hold of her. <b> RYUJI </b> It was Ikuma who put this lid on. And Sadakos still inside. Ryuji stands quickly, takes hold of the crowbar. He inserts it under the lid and begins trying to pry it off, face scrunched with effort. Asakawa digs her fingers in and lends her own strength as well. Slowly, the lid begins to move. Ryuji tosses the crowbar aside and the two lean the combined weight of their bodies into it. The lid slides off, dropping to the earth with a dull THUD. Ryuji sits to one side, winded with effort, as Asakawa takes hold of the flashlight. She shines it down into the well, but it only seems to intensify the gloom. What WATER she can see looks fetid and brackish. Ryuji sees her expression and begins removing his JACKET. <b> RYUJI </b> Ill go. He walks off, leaving Asakawa alone. CUT to an overhead shot of the well. A ROPE is fastened to one side, and Ryuji has already begun lowering himself down. His eyes wander overthe grime-smeared WALLS, and with a shudder he begins to pick out human FINGERNAILS. Torn loose and spattered with blood, countless fingernails line the sides of the well. <b> RYUJI </b> Sadako was alive! Shed tried to climb her way out. Ryujis face twists into a grimace as if momentarily experiencing Sadakosterrible agony. He waits a moment longer before edging his way down the rope again, finally SPLASHING to rest at the bottom of the well. He holds his flashlight above the brackish water, calls up to Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Lower the buckets! Asakawa nods and lowers two plastic BUCKETS fastened to a rope. Ryuji grabs one and scoops up a bucketful of water, tugging on the rope when finished. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Asakawa hoists the bucket up to the rim of the well. She walks a small distance and tosses the contents out onto the ground. She happens to glance through the wooden lattice to the outside, and with a start realizes that the sun has already started to set. A nervous glance at her WATCH later and she is back at the well, lowering the empty bucket to find another full one already awaiting her. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! In the well, Ryuji glances at his watch. He looks at it for a long moment, the expression on his face saying Were not going to make it. Time passes as Asakawa pulls up bucketload after bucketload, her strength beginning to fade. She half-stumbles, glances up... and is shocked to realize that NIGHT has fallen. CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling up yet another bucket, her strength almost gone. She looks at her watch and sees that it is now past 6:00. She calls frantically down to Ryuji. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its already six! <b> RYUJI </b> (explosively) I know! Hurry up and TAKE IT UP!! The bucket slowly jerks into motion. Asakawa pulls it up to the rim of the well, holds it unsteadily. She takes one faltering step and falls, spilling the buckets contents onto the ground. CUT to Ryuji in the well, standing ready with another bucketful. <b> RYUJI </b> Take it up! Nothing happens. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! The bucket begins moving, even slower than before. CUT to Asakawa, her body trembling with effort. By now its all she can do to simply keep her body moving. She glances behind her, sees through the wooden lattice that it is now pitch black. A look of resignation crosses her face and she releases her hold on the bucket, her body crumpling and falling in on itself. <b> </b> CUT to the bucket splashing back into the well, narrowly missing Ryuji. <b> RYUJI </b> (fuming) What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me killed? CUT back to Asakawa, her face dead. Ryuji calls out from the well. <b> RYUJI (O.S.) </b> Hey! Asakawa falls backward onto the ground, arms splayed. CUT to the rim of the well. Ryuji pulls himself up over the rim, catches sight of Asakawa. <b> RYUJI </b> Asakawa! She lifts her head up but says nothing as Ryuji walks over to her. <b> RYUJI </b> Well change. Youre in no condition to keep this up. Asakawa suddenly springs into life. Her voice is frantic, fearful. <b> ASAKAWA: </b> No! <b> RYUJI </b> Who do you expect to pull up these buckets, then? <b> ASAKAWA </b> But, we dont even know if its doing any good... Ryuji strides forward and slaps Asakawa painfully across the cheek. He begins shaking her roughly for good measure. <b> RYUJI </b> And what about Yoichi, huh? Is his mother not coming to pick him up after all? He releases his hold on her. The two stare at each other a long time, saying nothing. <b> </b> CUT to an overhead shot of Asakawa being lowered into the well. CUT now to Asakawa inside the well, her face and clothes covered with grime, body simultaneously limp with exhaustion and tense with fright. Unable to resist the impulse, Asakawa slowly looks over her shoulder and down into the well. The dankness, the claustrophobia seeps in and she draws in her breath in the first signs of panic. <b> RYUJI </b> Dont look down! She returns her gaze, cranes her neck upward. CUT to Ryuji leaning over the rim of the well, peering down at her. For an instant, everything becomes monochrome. Its not Ryuji looking down at her at all; its Professor Ikuma, checking to see if shes still alive or if the blow to the back of her head has finished her off. CUT to Asakawa, her eyes wide with fright. Asakawa comes to rest at the bottom of the well. A FLASHLIGHT hangs from another rope, but its beam has almost no effect on the darkness. Asakawa crouches forward, hands moving searchingly through the water. She calls out pleadingly. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Where are you? Please, come out. Asakawa straightens, unties herself from the rope. A full bucket already awaits. She tugs on the rope and Ryuji pulls it up. She scoops up a second bucket, but something stops her from sending it up. Instead, she begins running her arms through the water again, her voice close to tears. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Please. Where are you? Asakawa continues her blind fumbling, which sends up little splashes of stagnant water. With a start, she realizes that her fingers have caught something. Seaweed? Asakawa draws her hands close for a better look... and sees that is HAIR. A thick clump of long, black hair. Suddenly a pale, thin ARM shoots out from beneath the water, catching Asakawa just below the wrist. Asakawas ears are filled with a SOUND like moaning as something slowly rises from its watery slumber. It is a GIRL, her face completely hidden by long, black hair. CUT to a shot of Asakawas face. Far from being frightened, her features are oddly placid. She regards the fearsome thing before her with an almost tender look. Asakawa reaches out, lightly strokes that long hair. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Its you... She strokes the hair again, and abruptly it peels right off the head with a loud SQUELCH. Revealed is not a face at all but a SKULL. Its sockets are at first menacingly empty, but then begin to ooze the green SLUDGE it has pulled up from the bottom of the well. Like a mother comforting a frightened child, Asakawa pulls the skeletal remains to her breast, strokes the bony head comfortingly. Her eyes begin to glaze. CUT to Ryuji racing up to the rim of the well, leaning down intently. <b> RYUJI </b> Hey! Asakawa! Its already 10 minutes past seven! We did it! Down in the well, Asakawa continues staring blankly ahead. Her body suddenly falls forward, limp. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE COTTAGE B4 NIGHT </b> Three POLICE CARS are parked outside the rental cottages, crimson headlights flashing. A few COPS walk by, two of them carrying something off in white PLASTIC BAGS. CUT to Ryuji and Asakawa sitting on the curb. Asakawa is staring off at something, a BLANKET draped over her shoulder. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Why would Ikuma have killed her? His own daughter... <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe she wasnt his daughter at all. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What? <b> RYUJI </b> Maybe her father... wasnt even human. The two exchange glances. Ryujis gaze falls to Asakawas WRIST, which he suddenly takes and holds close to his face. The ugly bruise where Sadako had grabbed her has disappeared. <b> RYUJI </b> Its gone... He shakes his head, clearing his analytical mind of their ordeal. <b> RYUJI </b> Enough, already. Its over. Cmon. Ill take you home. Ryuji stands, pulls Asakawa to her feet. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE ASKAWAS APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Ryujis white CAR pulls up into the parking lot. He and Asakawa get out, regard each other from opposite sides of the car. There is a long moment where neither of them says anything. <b> RYUJI </b> Get some rest. He flashes her the slightest of grins. RYUJI (contd) I still have a thesis to finish. CUT to a shot of Ryuji and Asakawa, the car creating an almost metaphoric distance between them. <b> ASAKAWA </b> ...thank you. Ryuji nods silently by way of reply. He gets into his car and drives off. Asakawa watches him go, and then walks towards the entrance of her apartment. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT BEDROOM MORNING </b> Asakawa walks into her room, sits on the edge of her bed. It is now morning, and she sits dazedly watching the sun come up. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji sits busily scribbling into a NOTEBOOK. He stops writing a moment to regard his notes while taking a sip of COFFEE. He glances over at his BLACKBOARD for confirmation when a small scowl crosses his brow. Its gone a moment later as he chuckles wryly to himself. <b> RYUJI </b> That girl... Ryuji stands, walks over to the blackboard. He fixes Mais little prank with a single chalk stroke. <b> EXT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT VERANDA MORNING </b> Asakawa emerges, taking in the dawn. At first her face is calm and tranquil... but her features change as the sun almost noticeably darkens and a WIND begins to kick up her hair. She now looks very anxious. Caption-- September 21st. Tuesday. NOTE: This next scene is entirely visual. If you are reading this translation before watching the movie, do yourself a favor; STOP reading this now and watch the scene for itself. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT MORNING </b> Ryuji is busy scribbling away at his notes again. His hand suddenly ceases, eyes dancing worriedly as he hears a faint... No. Breath rattling fearfully in his throat, Ryuji spins around to face the TELEVISION SET. He gets out of his seat for a better look, falling to his knees on the tatami. The image that fills the screen is the last scene from the videotape; the shot of the well. The SOUND from before comes louder now, more insistent, a metallic screeching that both repulses and beckons him closer. Ryuji crawls on all fours towards the SCREEN, stares at its unchanging image with terrible foreboding. There is a flash of MOTION as something shoots out of the well. A hand. First one, and then another, as Sadako, still in her grimy white dress, face hidden beneath long, oily strands of hair, begins slowly pulling herself out. The television screen jumps unsteadily, fills with static as if barely able to contain her image. CUT back and forth between Ryuji, who is beginning to visibly panic, and the television, which shows Sadako lurching ever closer. <b> RYUJI </b> (almost frantic) Why?! The TELEPHONE rings, and Ryuji spins round towards it, breath catching in his throat. He looks at the phone, over his shoulder at the television, back to the phone. <b> RYUJI </b> Thats it! Asakawa... Ryuji scrambles wildly towards the phone. He takes the receiver but is unable to do more than clutch it fearfully as his gaze is drawn inexorably back to the television. Sadakos shrouded face has filled the entire screen... and then, television popping and crackling, she jerks forward and emerges from the television onto the floor of Ryujis apartment. Ryuji backs away, screaming in terror. <b> RYUJI </b> Aaargh! Sadako lies prone, collapsed, hair splayed out like a drowned corpse. Only her FINGERS are active, crawling, feeling. The TIPS of her fingers are little more than bloodied stumps, not a single fingernail on them. She uses the strength in those fingers to pull herself forward, coming jerkily to her feet. The joints of her body twist unnaturally, more insect-like than human. Ryuji flings the phone aside and begins scrambling about the apartment as if looking for cover. The strength has already begun to fade from his body, however, and his movements are clumsy, exaggerated. He falls to the floor, panting heavily. Sadako turns to regard him, and for just an instant we can see beneath her impenetrable shroud of hair; a single EYE burns with manic, unbridled hatred. Its gaze meets Ryujis, and his face twists into a grimace as he SCREAMS loudly. <b> FLASH </b> <b> EXT. KOUJIS HOUSE - FRONT YARD DAY </b> Yoichi sits on the lawn, doodling into a large SKETCHPAD. He suddenly stops, eyes registering that he has somehow felt his fathers death. <b> </b><b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT DAY </b> Asakawa clutches the RECEIVER to her ear. She can still hear the sounds of metallic SCREECHING coming from the video, though they are now becoming softer. <b> EXT. OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT BUILDING DAY </b> Asakawa comes running down a side street, turning the corner and making for the entrance to Ryujis apartment building. There is a single GUARD posted at the entrance. He reaches out, catches Asakawa lightly by the arm. <b> GUARD </b> Are you a resident here, maam? <b> ASAKAWA </b> Im Takayama Ryujis wife! The guard drops his hand, and Asakawa makes for the entrance. <b> GUARD </b> Im sorry maam, but theyve already taken the body away. Asakawas spins around, eyes wide. Body? <b> INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE RYUJIS APARTMENT DAY </b> Mai is there, slumped against one wall. Asakawa comes running up, dropping to her knees and grasping Mai by the shoulders. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What happened? Mai shakes her head dreamily. <b> MAI </b> When I got here he was just lying there... <b> ASAKAWA </b> Did he say anything to you? About a videotape? Mai shakes her head again, shakes it harder until the breath catches in her throat. <b> MAI </b> His face... Mai falls into silence, curls up on herself. Asakawa leaves her and crosses toward the door to Ryujis apartment. <b> INT. RYUJIS APARTMENT - DAY </b> The front DOOR opens wildly, noisily forward. Asakawa comes rushing in, eyes darting about the apartment. She thinks frantically to herself. <b> ASAKAWA (VO) </b> Ryuji... why? Does this mean that Yoichi will die, too? Is the curse not broken yet? Her gaze falls to the television set. She dives forward, presses the eject button on the VCR. Sure enough, the TAPE is still in the deck. She takes the tape and leaves. <b> INT. ASAKAWAS APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM NIGHT </b> Asakawa walks slowly, dreamily forward. She drops the videotape loudly onto the coffee table and slouches into a CHAIR. Her eyes fall to the framed photographs of Yoichi on one of the shelves. This snaps Asakawa out of her daze and she begins whispering intently to herself, thinking. <b> ASAKAWA </b> I was the only one to break Sadakos curse. Ryuji... why...? Something I did that you didnt... Something I did that you didnt... Asakawa gives up, lowers her face into her hands. When she looks up again, she happens to glance at the television screen-- and its GLARE reveals that there is someone ELSE in the room with her. It is the figure from the videotape, the silent accuser with the cloth draped over its face. With a start, Asakawa realizes that the figure is wearing Ryujis clothes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Ryuji?! She spins around, but the room is empty. Asakawas mind races. The figure had been pointing towards her BAG. She stands, rummages in her bag to produce her copy of the cursed videotape. She takes Ryujis COPY in her other hand, her eyes darting between the two tapes. <b> ASAKAWA </b> Something I did that you didnt... It suddenly clicks home as Asakawa looks full-on at Ryujis version of the tape, plainly marked COPY. <b> ASAKAWA </b> What broke the curse was that I copied the tape and showed it to someone else! CUT to Asakawa slowly pulling her VCR from the television stand. A look of almost frightening resolve etches her face. <b> EXT. HIGHWAY DAY </b> ARIAL SHOT of Asakawas car. We hear her VOICE on the cell phone. <b> ASAKAWA (O.S.) </b> Dad? Its me. Im on my way over. Look, dad, Ive got something to ask. Its for Yoichi... <b> INT. ASAKAWAS CAR DAY </b> CLOSEUP on the VCR in the passenger side. CUT to Asakawa at the wheel as time spirals forward, the decisions of the present already become rumor of the future. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> They say theres a way you can stay alive after you watch the video. Youve gotta make a copy of it, and show it to somebody else inside a week. <b> GIRL B (VO) </b> But what about the person you show it to? <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Well, then they make a copy and show it to somebody else. Again, inside a week. <b> GIRL C (VO) </b> (laughing) Then theres no end to it. <b> GIRL A (VO) </b> Thats just it. There -is- no end. But if it meant not dying... youd do it, wouldnt you? Asakawas eyes begin to well. Her car speeds along the highway, to the direction of menacing-looking STORM CLOUDS. Caption-- September 22nd. Wednesday. FADE TO BLACK as the CAPTION turns blood red. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What does Clarence take from the apartment?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The story is a movie script, specifically the script for the movie "True Romance" (1993) directed by Tony Scott and written by Quentin Tarantino. The story revolves around Clarence Worley, a young man who falls in love with Alabama Whitman, a call girl, and gets involved in a series of events that lead to a violent confrontation with a group of gangsters. The story also features a number of subplots, including Clarence's relationship with his father, his friendship with Dick Ritchie, and the involvement of a number of other characters, including Vincenzo Coccotti, a Sicilian gangster, and Lee Donowitz, a movie producer. The story is known for its non-linear narrative, witty dialogue, and graphic violence. It features a number of memorable characters, including Clarence, Alabama, Dick, and Vincenzo, and explores themes of love, loyalty, and redemption. The script is written in a style that is characteristic of Tarantino's work, with a focus on dialogue and a non-linear narrative structure. It features a number of homages to other movies and TV shows, including "The Godfather" and "The Sopranos." The story takes place in a number of locations, including Detroit, Los Angeles, and the Beverly Wilshire hotel. It features a number of action sequences, including a shootout at the Beverly Wilshire hotel, and a number of dramatic moments, including Clarence's confrontation with Vincenzo. The script is notable for its use of violence and profanity, and has been praised for its originality and style. It has been compared to other Tarantino movies, including "Pulp Fiction" and "Reservoir Dogs." The story is also notable for its use of music, including a number of songs by Elvis Presley. The script features a number of references to Elvis, including a scene in which Clarence and Alabama sing a duet of "Can't Help Falling in Love." The story has been praised for its originality and style, and has been compared to other Tarantino movies. It has also been criticized for its graphic violence and profanity. The script is written in a style that is characteristic of Tarantino's work, with a focus on dialogue and a non-linear narrative structure. It features a number of homages to other movies and TV shows, including "The Godfather" and "The Sopranos." The story takes place in a number of locations, including Detroit, Los Angeles, and the Beverly Wilshire hotel. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "A bag that contains cocaine" ]	29,633	narrativeqa	en	null	3b93fd7360b75c5207a3de730296a6a1a968289c27ea1d6c	<b><HTML> <HEAD> <TITLE>TRUE ROMANCE</TITLE> </b><LINK rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"> <META http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <style type="text/css"> BODY { background-color: "#FFFFFF"; font-family: Courier New, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size:10.0pt } DIV { position:absolute; left:5px; top:20px; width:734px; height:500px; } #loc { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.2in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in;text-transform:uppercase } #slug { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal; margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.2in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in; text-transform:uppercase; <b> </b><b>} </b> #act { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.8in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in } #speaker { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:2.8in;text-transform:uppercase } #spkdir { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:2.7in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:2.2in } #dia { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:2.6in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:1.6in } #pg { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.75in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:6.5in } #right { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:0.75in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:5.0in } </style> <div id="Layer1"> <b></HEAD> </b> <b><BODY> </b></p><p><p ID="act">True Romance </p><p><p ID="act">by Quentin Tarantino </p><p><p ID="act">When you are tired of relationships, try a romance. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BAR - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A smoky cocktail bar downtown Detroit. </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE WORLEY, a young hipster hepcat, is trying to pick up an older lady named LUCY. She isn't bothered by him, in fact, she's alittle charmed. But, you can tell, that she isn't going to leave her barstool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In "Jailhouse Rock" he's everything rockabilly's about. I mean he is rockabilly: mean, surly, nasty, rude. In that movie he couldn't give a fuck about anything except rockin' and rollin', livin' fast, dyin' young, and leaving a good-looking corpse. I love that scene where after he's made it big he's throwing a big cocktail party, and all these highbrows are there, and he's singing, "Baby You're So Square... Baby, I Don't Care". Now, they got him dressed like a dick. He's wearing these stupid-lookin' pants, this horrible sweater. Elvis ain't no sweater boy. I even think they got him wearin' penny loafers. Despite all that shit, all the highbrows at the party, big house, the stupid clothes, he's still a rude-lookin' motherfucker. I'd watch that hillbilly and I'd want to be him so bad. Elvis looked good. I'm no fag, but Elvis was good-lookin'. He was fuckin' prettier than most women. I always said if I ever had to fuck a guy... I mean had too 'cause my life depended on it... I'd fuck Elvis. </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy takes a drag from her cigarette. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">I'd fuck Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">When he was alive. I wouldn't fuck him now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I don't blame you. <P ID="spkdir">(they laugh) <P ID="dia">So we'd both fuck Elvis. It's nice to meet people with common interests, isn't it? </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy laughs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, enough about the King, how 'bout you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">How 'bout me what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How 'bout you go to the movies with me tonight? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">What are we gonna see? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A Donny Chiba triple feature. "The Streetfighter", "Return of the Streetfighter", and "Sister Streetfighter". </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">Who's Sonny Chiba? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He is, bar none, the greatest actor working in martial arts movies ever. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="spkdir">(not believing this) <P ID="dia">You wanna take me to a kung fu movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(holding up three fingers) <P ID="dia">Three kung fu movies. </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy takes a drag from her cigarette. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">I don't think so, not my cup of tea. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DINGY HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The sounds of the city flow in through an open window: car horns, gun shots and violence. Paint is peeling off the walls and the once green carpet is stained black. </p><p><p ID="act">On the bed nearby is a huge open suitcase filled with clear plastic bags of cocaine. Shotguns and pistols have been dropped carelessly around the suitcase. On the far end of the room, against the wall, is a TV. "Bewitched" is playing. </p><p><p ID="act">At the opposite end of the room, by the front, is a table. DREXL SPIVEY and FLOYD DIXON sit around. Cocaine is on the table as well as little plastic bags and a weigher. Floyd is black, Drexl is a white boy, though you wouldn't know it listen to him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, get outta my face with that bullshit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw man, I don't be eatin' that shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">That's bullshit. </p><p><p ID="act">BIG DON WATTS, a stout, mean-looking black man who's older than Drexl and Floyd. Walks through the door carrying hamburgers and french fries in two greasy brown-paper bags. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw man, that's some serious shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, you lie like a big dog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">What the fuck are you talkin' about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Floyd say he don't be eatin' pussy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Shit, any nigger say he don't eat pussy is lyin' his ass off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">I heard that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Hold on a second, Big D. You sayin' you eat pussy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Nigger, I eat everything. I eat pussy. I eat the butt. I eat every motherfuckin' thang. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Preach on, Big D. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Look here. If I ever did eat some pussy - I would never eat any pussy - but, if I did eat some pussy, I sure as hell wouldn't tell no goddamn body. I'd be ashamed as a motherfucker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Shit! Nigger you smoke enough sherm your dumb ass'll do a lot a crazy ass things. So you won't eat pussy? Motherfucker, you be up there suckin' niggers' dicks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Heard that. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D bump fists. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yeah, that's right, laugh. It's so funny, oh it's so funny. <P ID="spkdir">(he takes a hit off of a joint) <P ID="dia">There used to be a time when sisters didn't know shit about gettin' their pussy licked. Then the sixties came an' they started fuckin' around with white boys. And white boys are freaks for that shit - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">- Because it's good! </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Then, after a while sisters use to gettin' their little pussy eat. And because you white boys had to make pigs out of yourselves, you fucked it up for every nigger in the world everywhere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Drexl. On behalf of me and all the brothers who aren't here, I'd like to express our gratitude - </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D bust up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Go on pussy-eaters... laugh. You look like you be eatin' pussy. You got pussy-eatin' mugs. Now if a nigger wants to get his dick sucked he's got to do a bunch of fucked-up shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">So you do eat pussy! </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw naw! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">You don't like it, but you eat that shit. <P ID="spkdir">(to Drexl) <P ID="dia">He eats it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Damn skippy. He like it, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(mock English accent) <P ID="dia">Me thinketh he doth protest too much. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Well fuck you guys then! You guys are fucked up! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Why you trippin'? We jus' fuckin' with ya. But I wanna ask you a question. You with some fine bitch, I mean a brick shithouse bitch - you're with Jayne Kennedy. You're with Jayne Kennedy and you say "Bitch, suck my dick!" and then Jayne Kennedy says, "First things first, nigger, I ain't suckin' shit till you bring your ass over here and lick my bush!" Now, what do you say? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I tell Jayne Kennedy, "Suck my dick or I'll beat your ass!" </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Nigger, get real. You touch Jayne Kennedy she'll have you ass in Wayne County so fast - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, back off, you ain't beatin' shit. Now what would you do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I'd say fuck it! </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D get up from the table disgusted and walk away, leaving Floyd sitting all alone. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D sits on the bed, his back turned to Floyd, watching "Bewitched". </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="spkdir">(yelling after them) <P ID="dia">Ain't no man have to eat pussy! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(not even looking) <P ID="dia">Take that shit somewhere else. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(marching back) <P ID="dia">You tell Jayne Kennedy to fuck it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">If it came down to who eats who, damn skippy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">With that terrible mug of yours if Jayne Kennedy told you to eat her pussy, kiss her ass, lick her feet, chow on her shit, and suck her dog's dick, nigger, you'd aim to please. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(glued on TV) <P ID="dia">I'm hip. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">In fact, I'm gonna show you what I mean with a little demonstration. Big D, toss me that shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Without turning away from "Bewitched" he picks up the shotgun and tosses it to Drexl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Floyd) <P ID="dia">All right, check this out. <P ID="spkdir">(referring to shotgun) <P ID="dia">Now, pretend this is Jayne Kennedy. And you're you. </p><p><p ID="act">Then, in a blink, he points the shotgun at Floyd and blows him away. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D leaps off the bed and spins toward Drexl. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl, waiting for him, fires from across the room. </p><p><p ID="act">The blast hits the big man in the right arm and shoulder, spinning him around. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl makes a beeline for his victim and fires again. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D is hit with a blast, full in the back. He slams into the wall and drops. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl collects the suitcase full of cocaine and leaves. As he gets to the front door he surveys the carnage, spits and walks out. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. CLIFF'S MOVING CAR - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">A big white Chevy Nova is driving down the road with a sunrise sky as a backdrop. The song "Little Bitty Tear" is heard a capella. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLIFF'S MOVING CAR - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff Worley is driving his car home from work, singing this song gently to the sunrise. He's a forty-five-years-old ex-cop, at present a security guard. In between singing he takes sips from a cup of take-out coffee. He's dressed in a security guard uniform. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER PARK - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's Nova pulls in as he continues crooning. He pulls up to his trailer to see something that stops him short. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's POV Through windshield </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and a nice-looking YOUNG WOMAN are watching for him in front of his trailer. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - CLIFF </p><p><p ID="act">Upon seeing Clarence, a little bitty tear rolls down Cliff's cheek. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLIFF'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Young Woman walk over to the car. Clarence sticks his face through the driver's side window. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Good Morning, Daddy. Long time no see. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">All three enter the trailer home. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Excuse the place, I haven't been entertaining company as of late. Sorry if I'm acting a little dense, but you're the last person in the world I expected to see this morning. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Young Girl walk into the living room. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, well, tha's OK, Daddy, I tend to have that effect on people. I'm dyin' on thirst, you got anything to drink? </p><p><p ID="act">He moves past Cliff and heads straight for his refridgerator. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I think there's a Seven-Up in there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(rumaging around the fridge) <P ID="dia">Anything stronger? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Oh, probably not. Beer? You can drink beer, can't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I can, but I don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(closing the fridge) <P ID="dia">That's about all I ever eat. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff looks at the Girl. She smiles sweetly at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="spkdir">(to Girl) <P ID="dia">I'm sorry... I'm his father. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG GIRL <P ID="spkdir">(sticking her hand out) <P ID="dia">That's OK, I'm his wife. <P ID="spkdir">(shaking his hand vigorously) <P ID="dia">Alabama Worley, pleased to meetcha. </p><p><p ID="act">She is really pumping his arm, just like a used-car salesman. However, that's where the similarities end; Alabama's totally sincere. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence steps back into the living room, holding a bunch of little ceramic fruit magnets in his hand. He throws his other arm around Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh yeah, we got married. <P ID="spkdir">(referring to the magnets) <P ID="dia">You still have these. <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">This isn't a complete set; when I was five I swallowed the pomegranate one. I never shit it out, so I guess it's still there. Loverdoll, why don't you be a sport and go get us some beer. I want some beer. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Do you want some beer? Well, if you want some it's here. </p><p><p ID="act">He hands her some money and his car keys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Go to the liquor store - <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Where is there a liquor store around here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Uh, yeah... there's a party store down 54th. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Get a six-pack of something imported. It's hard to tell you what to get 'cause different places have different things. If they got Fosters, get that, if not, ask the guy at the thing what the strongest imported beer he has. Look, since you're making a beer run, would you mind too terribly if you did a foot run as well. I'm fuckin' starvin' to death. Are you hungry too? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm pretty hungry. When I went to the store I was gonna get some Ding-Dongs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, fuck that shit, we'll get some real food. What would taste good. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">What do you think would taste good? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I'm really not very - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know what would taste good? Chicken. I haven't had chicken in a while. Chicken would really hit the spot about now. Chicken and beer, definitly, absolutely, without a doubt. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Where's a good chicken place around here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I really don't know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't know the chicken places around where you live? <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Ask the guy at the place where a chicken place is. </p><p><p ID="act">He gives her some more money. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This should cover it, Auggie-Doggie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Okee-dokee, Doggie-Daddy. </p><p><p ID="act">She opens the door and starts out. Clarence turns to his dad as the door shuts. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Isn't she the sweetest goddamned girl you ever saw in your whole life? Is she a four alarm fire, or what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">She seems very nice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Daddy. Nice isn't the word. Nice is an insult. She's a peach. That's the only word for it, she's a peach. She even tastes like a peach. You can tell I'm in love with her. You can tell by my face, can't ya? It's a dead giveaway. It's written all over it. Ya know what? She loves me back. Take a seat, Pop, we gotta talk - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Clarence, just shut up, you're giving me a headache! I can't believe how much like your mother you are. You're your fuckin' mother through and through. I haven't heard from ya in three years. Then ya show up all of a sudden at eight o'clock in the morning. You walk in like a goddamn bulldozer... don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see you... just slow it down. Now, when did you get married? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Daddy, I'm in big fuckin' trouble and I really need your help. </p><p><p ID="act">BLACK TITLE CARD: "HOLLYWOOD" </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. OUTSIDE OF CASTING DIRECTOR'S OFFICER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">FOUR YOUNG ACTORS are sitting on a couch with sheets of paper in their hands silently mouthing lines. One of the actors is DICK RITCHIE. The casting director, MARY LOUISE RAVENCROFT, steps into the waiting room, clip board in hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Dick Ritchie? </p><p><p ID="act">Dick pops up from the pack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'm me... I mean, that's me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Step inside. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CASTING DIRECTOR'S OFFICE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">She sits behind a large desk. Her name-plate rests on the desktop. Several posters advertising "The Return of T.J. Hooker" hang on the wall. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick sits in a chair, holding his sheets in his hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Well, the part you're reading for is one of the bad guys. There's Brian and Marty. Peter Breck's already been cast as Brian. And you're reading for the part of Marty. Now in this scene you're both in a car and Bill Shatner's hanging on the hood. And what you're trying to do is get him off. <P ID="spkdir">(she picks a up a copy of the script) <P ID="dia">Whenever you're ready. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(reading and miming driving) <P ID="dia">Where'd you come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="spkdir">(reading from the script lifelessly) <P ID="dia">I don't know. He just appeared as magic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(reading from script) <P ID="dia">Well, don't just sit there, shoot him. </p><p><p ID="act">She puts her script down, and smiles at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">That was very good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">If we decided on making him a New York type, could you do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Sure. No problem. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Could we try it now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Absolutely. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick picks up the script and begins, but this time with a Brooklyn accent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Where'd he come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="spkdir">(monotone, as before) <P ID="dia">I don't know. He just appeared as magic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, don't just sit there, shoot him. </p><p><p ID="act">Ravencroft puts her script down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Well, Mr. Ritchie, I'm impressed. You're a very fine actor. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick smiles. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's completely aghast. He just stares, unable to come to grips with what Clarence has told him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, I don't know this is pretty heavy-duty, so if you wanna explode, feel free. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You're always making jokes. That's what you do, isn't it? Make jokes. Making jokes is the one thing you're good at, isn't it? But if you make a joke about this - <P ID="spkdir">(raising his voice) <P ID="dia">- I'm gonna go completely out of my fuckin' head! </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff pauses and collects himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What do you want from me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Stop acting like an infant. You're here because you want me to help you in some way. What do you need from me? You need money? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you still have friends on the force? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yes, I still have friends on the force. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Could you find out if they know anythin'? I don't know they know shit about us. But I don't wanna think, I wanna know. You could find out for sure what's goin' on. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Daddy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What makes you think I could do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You were a cop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What makes you think I would do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm your son. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You got it all worked out, don't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, goddamnit, I never asked you for a goddamn thing! I've tried to make your parental obligation as easy as possible. After Mom divorced you, did I ask you for anything? When I wouldn't see ya for six months to a year at a time, did you ever get your shit about it? No, it was always "OK", "No problem", "You're a busy guy, I understand". The whole time you were a drunk, did I ever point my finger at you and talk shit? No! Everybody else did. I never did. You see, I know that you're just a bad parent. You're not really very good at it. But I know you love me. I'm basically a pretty resourceful guy. If I didn't really need it I wouldn't ask. And if you say no, don't worry about it. I'm gone. No problems. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks in through the door carrying a shopping bag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">The forager's back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank God. I could eat a horse if you slap enough catsup on it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I didn't get any chicken. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's nine o'clock in the morning. Nothing's open. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - BEDROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's on the telephone in his bedroom, pacing as he talks. The living room od the trailer can be seen from his doorway, where Clarence and Alabama are horsing around. They giggle and cut up throughout the scene. As Cliff talks, all the noise and hubbub of a police station comes through over the line. He's talking to DETECTIVE WILSON, an old friend of his from the force. </p><p><p ID="act">We see both inside the conversation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">It's about that pimp that was shot a couple of days ago, Drexl Spivey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">What about him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Well, Ted, to tell you the truth, I found out through the grapevine that it might be, and I only said might be, the Drexl Spivey that was responsible for that restaurant break-in on Riverdale. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">Are you still working security for Foster & Langley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah, and the restaurant's on my route. And you know, I stuck my nose in for the company to try to put a stop to some of these break-ins. Now, while I have no proof, the name Drexl Spivey kept comin' up Who's case is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">McTeague. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I don't know him. Is he a nice guy? You think he'll help me out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">I don't see why not. When you gonna come round and see my new place? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You and Robin moved? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">Shit, are you behind. Me and Robin got a divorce six months ago. Got myself a new place - mirrors all over the bedroom, ceiling fans above the bed. Guy'd have to look as ugly as King Kong not to get laid in this place. I'm serious, a guy'd have to look like a gorilla. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER HOME - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Cliff stand by Clarence's 1965 red Mustang. Alabama's amusing herself by doing cartwheels and handstands in the background. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">They have nothing. In fact, they think it's drug related. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do tell. Why drug related? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Apparently, Drexl had a big toe stuck in shit like that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No shit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah. Drexl had an association with a fella named Blue Lou Boyle. Name mean anything to you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">If you don't hang around in this circle, no reason it should. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who is he? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Gangster. Drug Dealer. Somebody you don't want on your ass. Look, Clarence, the more I hear about this Drexl fucker, the more I think you did the right thing. That guy wasn't just some wild flake. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's what I've been tellin' ya. The guy was like a mad dog. So the cops aren't looking for me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Naw, until they hear something better they'll assume Drexl and Blue Lou had a falling out. So, once you leave twon, I wouldn't worry about it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sticks his hand out to shake. Cliff takes it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot, Daddy. You really came through for me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I got some money I can give you - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Keep it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Well, son, I want you to know I hope everything works out with you and Alabama. I like her. I think you make a cute couple. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We do make a cute couple, don't we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah, well, just stay outta trouble. Remeber, you got a wife to think about. Quit fuckin' around. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I love you son. </p><p><p ID="act">They hug each other, </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes a pice of paper out and puts it into Cliff's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This is Dick's number in Hollywood. We don't know where we'll be, but you can get a hold of me through him. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns toward Alabama and yells to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Bama, we're outta here. Kiss Pops goodbye, </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama runs across from where she was and throws her arms around Cliff and gives him a big smackeroo on the lips. Cliff's a little startled. Alabama's bubbling like a Fresca. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye, Daddy! Hope to see you again real soon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(mock anger) <P ID="dia">What kind of daughterly smackeroo was that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, hush up. </p><p><p ID="act">The two get into the Mustang. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">We'll send you a postcard as soon as we get to Hollywood. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence starts the engine. The convertible roof opens as they talk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Bama, you take care of that one for me. Keep him out of trouble. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Don't worry, Daddy, I'm keepin' this fella on a short leash. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, slowly, starts driving away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">As the sun sets slowly in the west we bid a fond farewell to all the friends we've made... and, with a touch of melancholy, we look forward to the time when we will all be together again. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence peels out, shooting a shower of gravel up in the air. </p><p><p ID="act">As the Mustang disappears Cliff runs his tongue over his lips. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF </p><p><p ID="act">The-son-of-a-bitch was right... she does taste like a peach. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's apartment is standard issue for a young actor. Things are pretty neat and clean. A nice stereo unit sits on the shelf. A framed picture of a ballet dancer's feet hangs on the wall. </p><p><p ID="act">The phone rings, Dick answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick here. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOTEL SUITE - LAS VEGAS - SUNSET </p><p><p ID="act">Top floor, Las Vegas, Nevada hotel room with a huge picture window overlooking the neon-filled strip and the flaming red and orange sunset sky. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence paces up and down with the telephone in his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(big bopper voice) <P ID="dia">Heeeellllloooo baaaabbbbbyyyy!!! </p><p><p ID="act">Note: We intercut both sides of the conversation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(unsure) <P ID="dia">Clarence? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You got it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's great to hear from you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, you're gonna be seein' me shortly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You comin' to L.A.? When? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What's up? Why're leavin' Detroit? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sits down on the hotel room bed. Alabama, wearing only a long T-shirt with a big picture of Bullwinkle on it, crawls behind him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, there's a story behind all that. I'll tell you when I see you. By the way, I won't be alone. I'm bringing my wife with me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Get the fuck outta here! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm a married man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Get the fuck outta here! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Believe it or not, I actually tricked a girl into falling in love with me. I'm not quite sure how I did it. I'd hate to have to do it again. But I did it. Wanna say hi to my better half? </p><p><p ID="act">Before Dick can respond Clarence puts Alabama on the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick. I'm Alabama Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hello, Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I can't wait to meet you. Clarence told me all about you. He said you were his best friend. So, I guess that makes you my best friend, too. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence start dictating to her what to say. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him we gotta go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence says we gotta be hittin' it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him we'll be hittin' his area some time tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">He said don't go nowhere. We'll be there some time tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Wait a minute - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him not to eat anything. We're gonna scarf when we get there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Don't eat anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Alabama, could you tell Clar - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ask him if he got the letter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Did you get the letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">What letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The letter I sent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">The letter he sent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence sent a letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Has he gotten his mail today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Gotten your mail yet? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, my room-mate leaves it on the TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Has he looked through it yet? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Ya looked through it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Not yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Nope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him to look through it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Get it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Let me speak to Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">He wants to speak with you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No time. Gotta go. Just tell him to read the letter, the letter explains all. Tell him I love him. And tell him, as of tomorrow, all his money problems are over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">He can't. We gotta go, but he wants you to read the letter. The letter explains it all. He wants you to know he loves you. And he wants you to know that as of tomorrow, all of your money problems are over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Money problems? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now tell him goodbye. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye-bye. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now hang up. </p><p><p ID="act">She hangs up the phone. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick hears the click on the other end. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hello, hello, Clarence? Clarence's wife?... I mean Alabama... hello? </p><p><p ID="act">Extremely confused, Dick jangs up the phone. He goes over to the TV and picks up the day's mail. He goes through it. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Southern California Gas Company. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Group W. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Fossenkemp Photography. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Columbia Record and Tape Club. </p><p><p ID="act">LETTER: It's obviously from Clarence. Addressed to Dick. Dick opens it. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">A lower-middle-class trailer park named Astro World, which has a neon sign in front of it in the shape of a planet. </p><p><p ID="act">A big, white Chevy Nova pulls into the park. It parks by a trailer that's slightly less kept up than the others. Cliff gets out of the Chevy. He's drinking out of a fast-food soda cup as he opens the door to his trailer. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">He steps inside the doorway and then, before he knows it, a gun is pressed to his temple and a big hand grabs his shoulder. </p><p><P ID="speaker">GUN CARRIER (DARIO) <P ID="dia">Welcome home, alchy. We're havin' a party. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff is roughly shoved into his living room. Waiting for him are four men, standing: VIRGIL, FRANKIE (young Wise-guy) LENNY (an old Wise-guy), and Tooth-pick Vic (a fireplug pitbull type). </p><p><p ID="act">Sitting in Cliff's recliner is VINCENZO COCCOTTI, the Frank Nitti to Detroid mob leader Blue Lou Boyle. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff is knocked to his knees. He looks up and sees the sitting Coccotti. Dario and Lenny pick him up and roughly drop him in a chair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(to Frankie) <P ID="dia">Tell Tooth-pick Vic to go outside and do you-know-what. </p><p><p ID="act">In Italian Frankie tells Tooth-pick Vic what Coccotti said. He nods and exits. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's chair is moved closer to Coccotti's. Dario stands on one side of Cliff. Frankie and Lenny ransack the trailer. Virgil has a bottle of Chivas Regal in his hand, but he has yet to touch a drop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Do you know who I am, Mr. Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I give up. Who are you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm the Anti-Christ. You get me in a vendetta kind of mood, you will tell the angels in heaven that you had never seen pure evil so singularly personified as you did in the face of the man who killed you. My name is Vincenzo Coccotti. I work as a counsel for Mr. Blue Lou Boyle, the man your son stole from. I hear you were once a cop so I assume you've heard od us before. Am I correct? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I've heard of Blue Lou Boyle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm glad. Hopefully that will clear up the how-full-of-shit-I-am question you've been asking yourself. Now, we're gonna have a little Q and A, and, at the risk of sounding redundant, please make your answers genuine. <P ID="spkdir">(taking out a pack of Chesterfields) <P ID="dia">Want a Chesterfield? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(as he lights up) <P ID="dia">I have a son of my own. About you boy's age. I can imagine how painful this must be for you. But Clarence and that bitch-whore girlfriend of his brought this all on themselves. And I implore you not to go down the road with 'em. You can always take comfort in the fact that you never had a choice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Look, I'd help ya if I could, but I haven't seen Clarence - </p><p><p ID="act">Before Cliff can finish his sentence, Coccotti slams him hard in the nose with his fist. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Smarts, don't it? Gettin' slammed in the nose fucks you all up. You got that pain shootin' through your brain. Your eyes fill up with water. It ain't any kind of fun. But what I have to offer you. That's as good as it's ever gonna get, and it won't ever get that good again. We talked to your neighbors. They saw a Mustang, a red Mustang, Clarence's red Mustang, parked in front of your trailer yesterday. Mr. Worley, have you seen your son? </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's defeated. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I've seen him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Now I can't be sure of how much of what he told you. So in the chance you're in the dark about some of this, let me shed some light. That whore your boy hangs around with, her pimp is an associate of mine, and I don't just mean pimpin', in other affairs he works for me in a courier capacity. Well, apparently, that dirty little whore found out when we're gonna do some business, 'cause your son, the cowboy and his flame, came in the room blastin' and didn't stop till they were pretty sure everybody was dead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What are you talkin' about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm talkin' about a massacre. They snatched my narcotics and hightailed it outta there. Wouldda gotten away with it, but your son, fuckhead that he is, left his driver's license in a dead guy's hand. A whore hiding in the commode filled in all the blanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I don't believe you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">That's of minor importance. But what's of major fuckin' importance is that I believe you. Where did they go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">On their honeymoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm gettin' angry askin' the same question a second time. Where did they go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">They didn't tell me. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Now, wait a minute and listen. I haven't seen Clarence in three years. Yesterday he shows up here with a girl, sayin' he got married. He told me he needed some quick cash for a honeymoon, so he asked if he could borrow five hundred dollars. I wanted to help him out so I wrote out a check. We went to breakfast and that's the last I saw of him. So help me God. They never thought to tell me where they were goin'. And I never thought to ask. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him for a long moment. He then gives Virgil a look. Virgil, quick as greased lightning, grabs Cliff's hand and turns it palm up. He then whips out a butterfly knife and slices Cliff's palm open and pours Chivas Regal on the wound. Cliff screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti puffs on a Chesterfield. </p><p><p ID="act">Tooth-pic Vic returns to the trailer, and reports in Italian that there's nothing in the car. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil walks into the kitchen and gets a dishtowel. Cliff holds his bleeding palm in agony. Virgil hands him the dishtowel. Cliff uses it to wrap up his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Sicilians are great liars. The best in the world. I'm a Sicilian. And my old man was the world heavyweight champion of Sicilian liars. And from growin' up with him I learned the pantomime. Now there are seventeen different things a guy can do when he lies to give him away. A guy has seventeen pantomimes. A woman's got twenty, but a guy's got seventeen. And if you know 'em like ya know your own face, they beat lie detectors to hell. What we got here is a little game of show and tell. You don't wanna show me nothin'. But you're tellin' me everything. Now I know you know where they are. So tell me, before I do some damage you won't walk away from. </p><p><p ID="act">The awful pain in Cliff's hand is being replaced by the awful pain in his heart. He looks deep into Coccotti's eyes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Could I have one of those Chesterfields now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Sure. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti leans over and hands him a smoke. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Got a match? </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Oh, don't bother. I got one. <P ID="spkdir">(he lights the cigarette) <P ID="dia">So you're a Sicilian, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(intensly) <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You know I read a lot. Especially things that have to do with history. I find that shit fascinating. In fact, I don't know if you know this or not, Sicilians were spawned by niggers. </p><p><p ID="act">All the men stop what they were doing and look at Cliff, except for Tooth-pic Vic who doesn't speak English and so isn't insulted. Coccotti can't believe what he's hearing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Come again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">It's a fact. Sicilians have nigger blood pumpin' through their hearts. If you don't believe me, look it up. You see, hundreds and hundreds of years ago the Moors conquered Sicily. And Moors are niggers. Way back then, Sicilians were like the wops in northern Italy. Blond hair, blue eyes. But, once the Moors moved in there, they changed the whole country. They did so much fuckin' with the Sicilian women, they changed the blood-line for ever, from blond hair and blue eyes to black hair and dark skin. I find it absolutely amazing to think that to this day, hundreds of years later, Sicilians still carry that nigger gene. I'm just quotin' history. It's a fact. It's written. Your ancestors were niggers. Your great, great, great, great, great-grandmother was fucked by a nigger, and had a half-nigger kid. That is a fact. Now tell me, am I lyin'? </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him for a moment then jumps up, whips out an automatic, grabs hold of Cliff's hair, puts the barrel to his temple, and pumps three bullets through Cliff's head. </p><p><p ID="act">He pushes the body violently aside. Coccotti pauses. Unable to express his feelings and frustrated by the blood in his hands, he simply drops his weapon, and turns to his men. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I haven't killed anybody since 1974. Goddamn his soul to burn for eternity in fuckin' hell for makin' me spill blood on my hands! Go to this comedian's son's apartment and come back with somethin' that tells me where that asshole went so I can wipe this egg off of my face and fix this fucked-up family for good. </p><p><p ID="act">Tooth-pick Vic taps Frankie's shoulder and, in Italianm asks him what that was all about. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny, who has been going through Cliff's refridgerator, has found a beer. When he closes the refridgerator door he finds a note held on by a ceramic banana magnet that says: "Clarence in L.A.: Dick Ritchie (number and address)". </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Boss, get ready to get happy. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "CLARENCE AND ALABAMA HIT L.A." </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT- MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's asleep in a recliner. He's wearing his clothes from the night before. His room-mate FLOYD is lying on the sofa watching TV. </p><p><p ID="act">The sound of our hands knocking on his door wakes Dick up. He shakes the bats out of his belfry, opens the door, and finds the cutest couple in Los Angeles standing in his doorway. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama immediately start singing "Hello My Baby" like the frog in the old Chuck Jones cartoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE/ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Hello my baby, Hello my honey, Hello my ragtime gal - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hi guys. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama throws her arms around Dick, and gives him a quick kiss. After she breaks, Clarence does the same. Clarence and Alabama walk right past Dick and into his apartment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Wow. Neat place. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. PINK'S HOT-DOG STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The Pink's employees work like skilled Benihana chefs as they assemble the ultimate masterpiece hot-dog. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. PINK'S HOT-DOG STAND - PATIO - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, and Dick are sitting at an outdoor table chowing down on chili dogs. Alabama is in the middle of a story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">... when my mom went into labor, my dad panicked. He never had a kid before, and crashed the car. Now, picture this: their car's demolished, crowd is starting to gather, my mom is yelling, going into contractions, and my dad, who was losing it before, is now completely screaming yellow zonkers. Then, out of nowhere, as if from thin air, this big giant bus appears, and the bus-driver says, "Get her in here.". He forgot all about his route and just drove straight to the hospital. So, because he was such a nice guy, they wanted to name the baby after him, as a sign of gratitude. Well, his name was Waldo, and no matter how grateful they were, even if I'da been a boy, they would't call me Waldo. So they asked Waldo where he was from. And, so there you go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">And here we are. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">That's a pretty amazing story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, she's a pretty amazing girl. What are women like out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Just like in Detroit, only skinnier. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You goin' out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, for the past couple of years I've been goin' out with girls from my acting class. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Good for you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What's so fuckin' good about it? Actresses are the most fucked-in-the-head bunch of women in the world. It's like they gotta pass a test of emotional instability before they can get their SAG card. Oh, guess what? I had a really good reading for "T.J. Hooker" the other day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You're gonna be on "T.J. Hooker"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Knock wood. </p><p><p ID="act">He knocks the table and then looks at it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">... formica. I did real well. I think she liked me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did you meet Captain Kirk? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You don't meet him in the audition. That comes later. Hope, hope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(finishing her hot-dog) <P ID="dia">That was so good I am gonna have another. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You can't have just one. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama leaves to get another hot-dog. Clarence never takes his eyes off her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">How much of that letter was on the up and up? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Every word of it. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick sees where Clarence's attention is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You're really in love, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">For the very first time in my life. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Do you know what that's like? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is so intense Dick doesn't know how to answer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(regretfully) <P ID="dia">No, I don't <P ID="spkdir">(he looks at Alabama) <P ID="dia">How did you two meet? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence leans back thoughtfully and takes a sip from his Hebrew cream soda. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you remember The Lyric? </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Sonny Chiba, as "Streetfighter" Terry Surki, drives into a group of guys, fists and feet flying and whips ass on the silver screen. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sits, legs over the back of the chair in front of him, nibbling on popcorn, eyes big as sourcers, and a big smile on his face. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A cab pulls up to the outside of The Lyric. The marquee carries the names of the triple feature: "The Streetfighter", "Return of the Streetfighter" and "Sister Streetfighter". Alabama steps out of the taxi cab and walks up to the box office. </p><p><p ID="act">A box office girl reading comic looks at her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">One please. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BOX OFFICE GIRL <P ID="dia">Ninety-nine cents. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Which one is on now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BOX OFFICE GIRL <P ID="dia">"Return of the Streetfighter". It's been on about forty-five minutes. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - LOBBY - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks into the lobby and goes over to the concession stand. A young usher takes care of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Can I have a medium popcorn? A super-large Mr. Pibb, and a box of Goobers. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's still assholes and elbows on the screen with Sonny Chiba taking on all-comers. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks through the doors with her bounty of food. She makes a quick scan of the theater. Not many people are there. She makes a beeline for the front whick happens to be Clarence's area of choice. She picks the row of seats just behind Clarence and starts asking her way down it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns and sees this beautiful girl all alone moving towards him. He turns his attention back to the screen, trying not to be so obvious. </p><p><p ID="act">When Alabama gets right behind Clarence, her foot thunks a discarded wine bottle, causing her to trip and spill her popcorn over Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, look what happened. Oh god, I'm so sorry. Are you OK? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. I'm fine. It didn't hurt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm the clumsiest person in the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(picking popcorn out of his hair) <P ID="dia">It's OK. Don't worry about it. Accidents happen. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(picking popcorn out of his hair) <P ID="dia">What a wonderful philosophy. Thanks for being such a sweetheart. You could have been a real dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama sits back in her seat to watch the movie. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence tries to wipe her out of his mind, which isn't easy, and get back into the movie. </p><p><p ID="act">They both watch the screen for a moment. Then, Alabama leans forward and taps Clarence on the shoulder. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Excuse me... I hate to bother you again. Would you mind too terribly filling me in on what I missed? </p><p><p ID="act">Jumping on this opportunity. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Not at all. I, this guy here, he's Sonny Chiba. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">The oriental. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The oriental in black. He's an assasin. Now, at the beginning he was hired to kill this guy the cops had. So he got himself arrested. They take him into the police station. And he starts kickin' all the cops' asses. Now, while keepin' them at bay, he finds the guy he was supposed to kill. Does a number on him. Kicks the cops' asses some more. Kicks the bars out of the window. And jumps out into a getaway car that was waiting for him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Want some Goobers? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I thought Sonny was the good guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He ain't so much good guy as he's just a bad motherfucker. Sonny don't be bullshittin'. He fucks dudes up for life. Hold on, a fight scene's coming up. </p><p><p ID="act">They both watch, eyes wide, as Sonny Chiba kicks asses. </p><p><p ID="right">TIME CUT: </p><p><p ID="act">On the screen, Sonny Chiba's all jacked up. Dead bodies lie all around him. THE END (in Japanese) flashes on the screen. </p><p><p ID="act">The theater light go up. Alabama's now sitting in the next seat to Clarence. They're both applauding. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Great movie. Action-packed! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Does Sonny kick ass or does Sonny kick ass? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sonny kicks ass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You shoulda saw the first original uncut version of the "Streetfighter". It was the only movie up to that time rated X for violence. But we just saw the R. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">If that was the R, I'd love to see the X. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">My name is Clarence, and what is yours? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Alabama Whitman. Pleased to meet ya. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is that your real name? Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">That's my real name, really. I got proof. See. </p><p><p ID="act">She shows Clarence her driver's license. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, cut my legs off and call me Shorty. That's a pretty original moniker there, Alabama. Sounds like a Pam Grier movie. <P ID="spkdir">(announcer voice) <P ID="dia">She's a sixteen-calibre kitten, equally equipped for killin' an' lovin'! She carried a sawed-off shotgun in her purse, a black belt around her waist, and the white-hot fire of hate in her eyes! Alabama Whitman is Pam Grier! Pray for forgiveness, Rated R... for Ruthless Revenge! </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are outside the theater. With the marquee lit up in the background they both perform unskilled martial arts moves. Clarence and Alabama break up laughing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Where's your car? I'll walk you to it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I took a cab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You took a cab to see three kung fu movies? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sure. Why not? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nothing. It's just you're a girl after my own heart. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What time is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">'Bout twelve. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I suppose you gotta get up early, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No. Not particularly. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Well, it's just when I see a really good movie I really like to go out and get some pie, and talk about it. It's sort of tradition. Do you like to eat pie after you've seen a good movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I love to get pie after a movie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Would you like to get some pie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'd love some pie. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DENNY'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are sitting in a booth at an all-night Denny's. It's about 12:40 a.m. Clarence is having a piece of chocolate cream pie and a coke. Alabama's nibbling on a peace of heated apple pie and sipping on a large Tab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, enough about the King. How about you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How 'bout me what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell me about yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">There's nothing to tell. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">C'mon. What're ya tryin' to be? The Phantom Lady? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What do you want to know? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, for starters, what do you do? Where're ya from? What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite movie star? What kinda music do you like? What are your turn-ons and turn-offs? Do you have a fella? What's the story behind you takin' a cab to the most dangerous part of town alone? And, in a theater full of empty seats, why did you sit by me? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama takes a bite of pie, puts down her fork, and looks at Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Ask me them again. One by one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What do you do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't remember. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Where are you from. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Might be from Tallahassee. But I'm not sure yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's your favorite color? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't remember. But off the top of my head, I'd say black. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's your favorite movie star? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Burt Reynolds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Would you like a bite of my pie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yes, I would. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence scoops up a piece on his fork and Alabama bites it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Very much. Now, where were we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What kinda music do you like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Phil Spector. Girl group stuff. You know, like "He's a Rebel". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What are your turn-ons? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Mickey Rourke, somebody who can appreciate the finer things in life, like Elvis's voice, good kung fu, and a tasty piece of pie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Turn-offs? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm sure there must be something, but I don't really remember. The only thing that comes to mind are Persians. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you have a fella? </p><p><p ID="act">She looks at Clarence and smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm not sure yet. Ask me again later. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's the story behind you takin' a cab to the most dangerous part of town alone? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Apparently, I was hit on the head with something really heavy, giving me a form of amnesia. When I came to, I didn't know who I was, where I was, or where I came from. Luckily, I had my driver's license or I wouldn't even know my name. I hoped it would tell me where I lived but it had a Tallahassee address on it, and I stopped somebody on the street and they told me I was in Detroit. So that was no help. But I did have some money on me, so I hopped in a cab until I saw somethin' that looked familiar. For some reason, and don't ask me why, that theater looked familiar. So I told him to stop and I got out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">And in a theater full of empty seats, why did you sit by me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Because you looked like a nice guy, and I was a little scared. And I sure couldda used a nice guy about that time, so I spilled my popcorn on you. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at her closely. He picks up his soda and sucks on the straw until it makes that slurping sound. He puts it aside and stares into her soul. </p><p><p ID="act">A smile cracks on her face and develops into a big wide grin. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Aren't you just dazzled by my imagination, lover boy? <P ID="spkdir">(eats her last piece of pie) <P ID="dia">Where to next? </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. COMIC BOOK STORE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's about 1:30 a.m. Clarence has taken Alabama to where he works. It's a comic book store called Heroes For Sale. Alabama thinks this place is super-cool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Wow. What a swell place to work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, I got the key, so I come here at night, hang out, read comic books, play music. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How long have you worked here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Almost four years. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">That's a long time. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm hip. But you know, I'm comfortable here. It's easy work. I know what I'm doing. Everybody who works here is my buddy. I'm friendly with most of the customers. I just hang around and talk about comic books all day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Do you get paid a lot? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's where trouble comes into paradise. But the boss let's you borrow some money if you need it. Wanna see what "Spiderman" number one looks like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You bet. How much is that worth? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence gets a box off the shelf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Four hundred bucks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I didn't even know they had stores that just sold comic books. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, we sell other things too. Cool stuff. "Man from U.N.C.L.E." Lunch boxes. "Green Hornet" board games. Shit like that. But comic books are main business. There's a lot of collectors around here. </p><p><p ID="act">She holds up a little GI Joe sized action figure of a black policeman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's a "Rookies" doll. George Sanford Brown. We gotta lotta dolls. They're real cool. Did you know they came out with dolls for all the actors in "The Black Hole"? I always found it funny somewhere there's a kid playin' with a little figure of Earnest Borgnine. </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls a plastic-cased "Spiderman" comic form the box. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Spiderman", number one. The one that started it all. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence shows the comic book to Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">God, Spiderman looks different. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He was just born, remember? This is the first one. You know that guy, Dr. Gene Scott? He said that the story of Spiderman is the story of Christ, just disguised. Well, I thought about that even before I heard him say it. Hold on, let me show you my favorite comic book cover of all time. </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls out another comic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos". One of the coolest series known to man. They're completely worthless. You can get number one for about four bucks. But that's one of the cool things about them, they're so cheap. <P ID="spkdir">(he opens one up) <P ID="dia">Just look at that artwork, will ya. Great stories. Great Characters. Look at this one. </p><p><p ID="act">We see the "Sgt. Fury" panels. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nick's gotten a ring from his sweetheart and he wears it around his neck on a chain. OK, later in the story he gets into a fight with a Nazi bastard on a ship. He knocks the guy overboard, but the Kraut grabs ahold of his chain and the ring goes overboard too. So, Nick dives into the ocean to get it. Isn't that cool? </p><p><p ID="act">She's looking into Clarence's eyes. He turns and meets her gaze. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Alabama, I'd like you to have this. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence hands her the "Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos" comic book that he loves so much. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's bedroom is a pop culture explosion. Movie posters, pictures of Elvis, anything you can imagine. The two walk through the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What a cool room! </p><p><p ID="act">She runs and does a jumping somersault into his bed. </p><p><p ID="act">Later. Alabama's sitting Indian-style going through Clarence's photo album. Clarence is behind her planting little kisses on her neck and shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oooooh, you look so cute in your little cowboy outfit. How old were you then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Five. </p><p><p ID="act">She turns the page. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, you look so cute as little Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I finally knew what I wanted when I grew up. </p><p><p ID="act">LATER - LIVING ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama slow dance in the middle of his room to Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know when you sat behind me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">At the movies? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Uh-huh, I was tryin' to think of somethin' to say to you, then I thought, she doesn't want me bothering her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What would make you think that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I dunno. I guess I'm just stupid. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You're not stupid. Just wrong. </p><p><p ID="act">They move to the music. Alabama softly, quietly sings some of the words to the song. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I love Janis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, a lot of people have misconceptions of how she died. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">She OD'd, didn't she? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, she OD'd. But wasn't on her last legs or anythin'. She didn't take too much. It shouldn't have killed her. There was somethin' wrong with what she took. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You mean she got a bad batch? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's what happened. In fact, when she died, it was considered to be the happiest time of her life. She'd been fucked over so much by men she didn't trust them. She was havin' this relationship with this guy and he asked her to marry him. Now, other people had asked to marry her before, but she couldn't be sure whether they really loved her or were just after her money. So, she said no. And the guy says, "Look, I really love you, and I wanna prove it. So have your lawyers draw up a paper that says no matter what happens, I can never get any of your money, and I'll sign it." So she did, and he asked her, and she said yes. And once they were engaged he told her a secret about himself that she never knew: he was a millionaire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">So he really loved her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">It's the next day, around 1 p.m. Clarence wakes up in his bed, alone. He looks around, and no Alabama. Then he hears crying in the distance. He puts on a robe and investigates. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's wearing one of Clarence's old shirts. She's curled up in a chair crying. Clarence approaches her. She tries to compose herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's wrong, sweetheart? Did I do something? What did I do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You didn't do nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did you hurt yourself? <P ID="spkdir">(he takes her foot) <P ID="dia">Whatd'ya do? Step on a thumbtack? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence, I've got something to tell you. I didn't just happen to be at the theater. I was paid to be there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What are you, a theater checker? You check up on the box office girls. Make sure they're not rippin' the place off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm not a theater checker. I'm a call girl. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You're a whore? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm a call girl. There's a difference, ya know. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't know. Maybe there's not. That place you took me to last night, that comic book place. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Heroes For Sale"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yeah, that one. Somebody who works there arranged to have me meet you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't know. I didn't talk with them. The plan was for me to bump into you, pick you up, spend the night, and skip out after you fell asleep. I was gonna write you a note and say that this was my last day in America. That I was leaving on a plane this morning up to Ukraine to marry a rich millionaire, and thank you for making my last day in America my best day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That dazzling imagination. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's over on the TV. All it says is: "Dear Clarence." I couldn't write anymore. I didn't not want to ever see you again. In fact, it's stupid not to ever see you again. Las night... I don't know... I felt... I hadn't had that much fun since Girl Scouts. So I just said, "Alabama, come clean, Let him know what's what, and if he tells you to go fuck yourself then go back to Drexl and fuck yourself." </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who and what is a Drexl? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">My pimp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You have a pimp? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A real live pimp? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he black? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">He thinks he is. He says his mother was Apache, but I suspect he's lying. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he nice? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Well, I wouldn't go so far as to call him nice, but he's treated me pretty decent. But I've only been there about four days. He got a little rough with Arlene the other day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What did he do to Arlene? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Slapped her around a little. Punched her in the stomch. It was pretty scary. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This motherfucker sounds charming! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is on his feet, furious. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Goddamn it, Alabama, you gotta get the fuck outta there! How much longer before he's slappin' you around? Punchin' you in the stomach? How the fuck did you get hooked up with a douche-bag like this in the first place? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">At the bus station. He said I'd be a perfect call girl. And that he knew an agency in California that, on his recommendation, would handle me. They have a very exclusive clientele: movie stars, big businessmen, total white-collar. And all the girls in the agency get a grand a night. At least five hundred. They drive Porsches, live in condos, have stockbrokers, carry beepers, you know, like Nancy Allen in "Dressed to Kill". And when I was ready he'd call 'em, give me a plane ticket, and send me on my way. He says he makes a nice finder's fee for finding them hot prospects. But no one's gonna pay a grand a night for a girl who doesn't know whether to shit or wind her watch. So what I'm doin' for Drexl now is just sorta learnin' the ropes. It seemed like a lotta fun, but I don't really like it much, till last night. You were only my third trick, but you didn't feel like a trick. Since it was a secret, I just pretended I was on a date. An, um, I guess I want a second date. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank you. I wanna see you again too. And again, and again, and again. Bama, I know we haven't known each other long, but my parents went together all throughout high school, and they still got a divorce. So, fuck it, you wanna marry me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Will you be my wife? </p><p><p ID="act">When Alabama gives her answer, her voice cracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(a little surprised) <P ID="dia">You will? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You better not be fucking teasing me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You better not be fuckin' teasin' me. </p><p><p ID="act">They seal it with a kiss. </p><p><p ID="act">LATER - THAT NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Alabama's wedding ring. </p><p><p ID="act">The newlyweds are snuggling up together onthe couch watching TV. The movie they're watching is "The Incredible One-Armed Boxer vs. the Master of the Flying Guillotine". Alabama watches the screen, but every so often she looks down to admre the ring on her hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did ya ever see "The Chinese Professionals"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't believe so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, that's the one that explains how Jimmy Wang Yu became the Incredible One-Armed Boxer. </p><p><p ID="act">We hear, off screen, the TV Announcer say: </p><p><P ID="speaker">TV ANNOUNCER <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">We'll return to Jimmy Wang Yu in... "The Incredible One-Armed Boxer vs. the Master of the Flying Guillotine", tonight's eight o'clock movie, after these important messages... </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at the TV. He feels the warmth of Alabama's hand holding his. We see commercials playing. </p><p><p ID="act">He turns in her direction. She's absent-mindedly looking at her wedding ring. </p><p><p ID="act">He smiles and turns back to the TV. </p><p><p ID="act">More commercials. </p><p><p ID="act">Dolly close on Clarence's face </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, right after he proposed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You better not be fucking teasing me. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">In a cute, all-night wedding chapel. Clarence dressed in a rented tuxedo and Alabama in a rented white wedding gown. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama, dressed in tux and gown, doing a lover's waltz on a ballroom dance floor. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama in a taxi cab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Hello, Mrs. Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How do you do, Mr. Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Top o' the morning, Mrs. Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bottom of the ninth . Mr. Worley. Oh, by the by, Mr. Worley, have you seen your lovely wife today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh, you're speaking of my charming wife Mrs. Alabama Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Of course. Are there others, Mr. Worley? </p><p><p ID="act">Moving on top of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Not for me. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts kissing her and moving her down on the seat. She resists. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(playfully) <P ID="dia">No no no no no no no no no... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(playfully) <P ID="dia">Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes... </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">A big mean-looking black man in pimp's clothes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">Bitch, you better git yo ass back on the street an' git me my money. </p><p><p ID="act">Pimp on street corner with his arm around Alabama, giving her a sales pitch to a potential customer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">I'm tellin' you, my man, this bitch is fine. This girl's a freak! You can fuck 'er in the ass, fuck 'er in the mouth. Rough stuff, too. She's a freak for it. Jus' try not to fuck 'er up for life. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Pimp beating Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">You holdin' out on me, girl? Bitch, you never learn! </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama passionately kissing the uninterested pimp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">Hang it up, momma. I got no time for this bullshit. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">TV showing kung fu film. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's face. There's definitely something different about his eyes. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence springs off the couch and goes into his bedroom. Alabama's startled by his sudden movement. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(yelling after him) <P ID="dia">Where you goin', honey? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I just gotta get somethin'. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence splashes water on his face, trying to wash away the images that keep polluting his mind. Then, he hears a familiar voice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FAMILIAR VOICE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">Well? Can you live with it? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns and sees that the voice belongs to Elvis Presley. Clarence isn't surprised to see him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Can you live with it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Live with what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">With that son-of-a-bitch walkin' around breathin' the same air as you? And gettin' away with it every day. Are you haunted? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">You wanna get unhaunted? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Then shoot 'em. Shoot 'em in the face. And feed that boy to the dogs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I can't believe what you're tellin' me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I ain't tellin' ya nothin'. I'm just sayin' what I'd do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You'd really do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">He don't got no right to live. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, Elvis, he is hauntin' me. He doesn't deserve to live. And I do want to kill him. But I don't wanna go to jail for the rest of my life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I don't blame you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">If I thought I could get away with it - </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Killin' 'em's the hard part. Gettin' away with it's the easy part. Whaddaya think the cops do when a pimp's killed? Burn the midnight oil tryin' to find who done it? They couldn't give a flyin' fuck if all the pimps in the whole wide world took two in the back of the fuckin' head. If you don't get caught at the scene with the smokin' gun in your hand, you got away with it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Clarence, I like ya. Always have, always will. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - A snub-nosed .38, which Clarence loads and sticks down his heavy athletic sock. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CALRENCE'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence returns. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sweetheart, write down your former address. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Write down Drexl's address. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Why? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">So I can go over there and pick up your things. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(really scared) <P ID="dia">No, Clarence. Just forget it, babe. I just wanna disappear from there. </p><p><p ID="act">He kneels down before her and holds her hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, sweetheart, he scares you. But I'm not scared of that motherfucker. He can't touch you now. You're completely out of his reach. He poses absolutely no threat to us. So, if he doesn't matter, which he doesn't, it would be stupid to lose your things, now wouldn't it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You don't know him - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't know me. Not when it comes to shit like this. I have to do this. I need for you to know you can count on me to protect you. Now write down the address. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "CASS QUARTER, HEART OF DETROIT" </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. DOWNTOWN DETROIT STREET - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's pretty late at night. Clarence steps out of his red Mustang. He's right smack dab in the middle of a bad place to be in daytime. He checks the pulse on his neck; it's beating like a race horse. To pump himself up he does a quick Elvis Presley gyration. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(in Elvis voice) <P ID="dia">Yeah... Yeah... </p><p><p ID="act">He makes a beeline for the front door of a large, dark apartment building. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DARK BUILDING - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">He's inside. His heart's really racing now. He has the TV guide that Alabama wrote the address on in his hand. He climbs a flight of stairs and makes his way down a dark hallway to apartment 22, the residence of Drexl Spivey. Clarence knock on the door. </p><p><p ID="act">A Young Black Man, about twenty years old, answers the door. He has really big biceps and is wearing a black and white fishnet football jersey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG BLACK MAN <P ID="dia">You want somethin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Drexl? </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG BLACK MAN <P ID="dia">Naw, man, I'm Marty. Watcha want? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I gotta talk to Drexl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Well, what the fuck you wanna tell him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It's about Alabama. </p><p><p ID="act">A figure jumps in the doorway wearing a yellow Farah Fawcett T-shirt. It's our friend, Drexl Spivey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Where the fuck is that bitch? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">She's with me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Who the fuck are you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm her husband. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Well. That makes us practically related. Bring your ass on in. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DREXL'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Marty about-face and walk into the room, continuing a conversation they were having and leaving Clarence standing in the doorway. This is not the confrontation Clarence expected. He trails in behind Drexl and Marty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">What was I sayin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Rock whores. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">You ain't seen nothin' like these rock whores. They ass be young man. They got that fine young pussy. Bitches want the rock they be a freak for you. They give you hips, lips, and fingertips. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl looks over his shoulder at Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You know what I'm talkin' about. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl gestures to one of the three stoned Hookers lounging about the apartment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">These bitches over here ain't shit. You stomp them bitches to death to get the kind of pussy I'm talkin' about. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl sits down at a couch with a card table in front of it, scattered with take-out boxes of Chinese food. A black exploitation movie is playing on TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Looky here, you want the bitches to really fly high, make your rocks with Cherry Seven-Up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Pussy love pink rocks. </p><p><p ID="act">This is not how Clarence expected to confront Drexl, but this is exactly what he expected Drexl to be like. He positions himself in front of the food table, demanding Drexl's attention. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(eating with chopsticks, to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Grab a seat there, boy. Want some dinner? Grab yourself an egg roll. We got everything here from a diddle-eyed-Joe to a damned-if-I-know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No thanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">No thanks? What does that mean? Means you ate before you came down here? All full. Is that it? Naw, I don't think so. I think you're too scared to be eatin'. Now, see we're sittin' down here, ready to negotiate, and you've already given up your shit. I'm still a mystery to you. But I know exactly where your ass is comin' from. See, if I asked you if you wanted some dinner and you grabbed an egg roll and started to chow down, I'd say to myself, "This motherfucker's carryin' on like he ain't got a care in the world. Who know? Maybe he don't. Maybe this fool's such a bad motherfucker, he don't got to worry about nothin', he just sit down, eat my Chinese, watch my TV." See? You ain't even sat down yet. On that TV there, since you been in the room, is a woman with her titties hangin' out, and you ain't even bothered to look. You just been starin' at me. Now, I know I'm pretty, but I ain't as pretty as a couple of titties. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes out an envelope and throws it on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not eatin' 'cause I'm not hungry. I'm not sittin' 'cause I'm not stayin'. I'm not lookin' at the movie 'cause I saw it seven years ago. It's "The Mack" with Max Julian, Carol Speed, and Richard Pryor, written by Bobby Poole, directed by Michael Campus, and released by Cinerama Releasing Company in 1984. I'm not scared of you. I just don't like you. In that envelope is some payoff money. Alabama's moving on to some greener pastures. We're not negotiatin'. I don't like to barter. I don't like to dicker. I never have fun in Tijuana. That price is non-negotiable. What's in that envelope is for my peace of mind. My peace of mind is worth that much. Not one penny more, not one penny more. </p><p><p ID="act">You could hear a pin drop. Once Clarence starts talking Marty goes on full alert. Drexl stops eating and the Whores stop breathing. All eyes are on Drexl. Drexl drops his chopsticks and opens the envelope. It's empty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">It's empty. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence flashes a wide Cheshire cat grin that says, "That's right, asshole." </p><p><p ID="act">Silence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Oooooooooh weeeeeeee! This child is terrible. Marty, you know what we got here? Motherfuckin' Charles Bronson. Is that who you supposed to be? Mr. Majestyk? Looky here, Charlie, none of this shit is necessary. I ain't got no hold on Alabama. I just tryin' to lend the girl a helpin' hand - </p><p><p ID="act">Before Drexl finishes his sentence he picks up the card table and throws it at Clarence, catching him of guard. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty comes up behind Clarence and throws his arm around his neck, putting him in a tight choke hold. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, with his free arm, hits Marty hard with his elbow in the solar plexus. We'll never know if that blow had any effect because at just that moment Drexl takes a flying leap and tackles the two guys. </p><p><p ID="act">All of them go crashing into the stereo unit and a couple of shelves that hold records, all of which collapse to the floor in a shower of LPs. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty, who's on the bottom of the pile, hasn't let go of Clarence. </p><p><p ID="act">Since Drexl's on top, he starts slamming fists into Clarence's face. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who's sandwiched between these two guys, can't do a whole lot about it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Ya wanna fuck with me? <P ID="spkdir">(hits Clarence) <P ID="dia">Ya wanna fuck with me? <P ID="spkdir">(hits Clarence) <P ID="dia">I'll show ya who you're fuckin' wit! </p><p><p ID="act">He hits Clarence hard in the face with both fists. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who has no leverage whatsoever, grabs hold of Drexl's face and digs his nails in. He sticks his thumb in Drexl's mouth, grabs a piece of cheek, and starts twisting. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty, who's in an even worse position, can do nothing but tighten his grip aroud Clarence's neck, until Clarence feels like his eyes are going to pop out of his head. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl's face is getting torn up, but he's also biting down hard on Clarence's thumb. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence raises his head and brings it down fast, crunching Marty's face, and busting his nose. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty loosens his grip around Clarence's neck. Clarence wiggles free and gets up on his knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Clarence are now on an even but awkward footing. The two are going at each other like a pair of alley cats, not aiming their punches, keeping them coming fast and furious. They're not doing much damage to each other because of their positions, it's almost like a hockey fight. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty sneaks up behind Clarence and smashes him in the head with a stack of LPs. This disorients Clarence. Marty grabs him from behind and pulls him to his feet. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl socks him in the face: one, two three! Then he kicks him hard in the balls. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty lets go and Clarence hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. He curls up into a fetal position and holds his balls, tears coming out of his eyes. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl's face is torn up from Clarence's nails. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty has blood streaming down his face frim his nose and on to his shirt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">You OK? That stupid dumb-ass didn't break your nose, did he? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Naw. It don't feel too good but it's alright. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl kicks Clarence, who's still on the ground hurting. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You see what you get when you fuck wit me, white boy? You're gonna walk in my goddamn house, my house! Gonna come in here and tell me! Talkin' smack, in my house, in front of my employees. Shit! Your ass must be crazy. <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">I don't think that white boy's got good sense. Hey, Marty. <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">He must of thought it was white boy day. It ain't white boy day, is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">Naw, man, it ain't white boy day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Shit, man, you done fucked up again. Next time you bogart your way into a nigger's crib, an' get all his face, make sure you do it on white boy day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(hurting) <P ID="dia">Wannabee nigger... </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Fuck you! My mother was Apache. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl kicks him again. Clarence curls up. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl bends down and looks for Clarence's wallet in his jacket. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence still can't do much. The kick to his balls still has him down. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl finds it and pulls it out. He flips it open to driver's license. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Well, well, well, looky what we got here. Clarence Worley. Sounds almost like a nigger name. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Hey, dummy. </p><p><p ID="act">He puts his foot on Clarence's chest. Clarence's POV as he looks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Before you bought your dumb ass through the door, I didn't know shit. I just chalked it up to au revoir Alabama. But, because you think you're some macho motherfucker, I know who she's with. You. I know who you are, Clarence Worley. And, I know where you live, 4900 116th street, apartment 48. And I'll make a million-dollar bet, Alabama's at the same address. Marty, take the car and go get 'er. Bring her dumb ass back here. </p><p><p ID="act">He hands Marty the driver's license. Maty goes to get the car keys and a jacket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">I'll keep lover boy here entertained. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You know the first thing I'll do when she gets here. I think I'll make her suck my dick, and I'll come all in her face. I mean it ain't nuttin' new. She's done it before. But I want you as a audience. <P ID="spkdir">(hollering to Marty) <P ID="dia">Marty, what the fuck are you doin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I'm tryin' to find my jacket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Look in the hamper. Linda's been dumpin' everybody's stray clothes there lately. </p><p><p ID="act">While Drexl has his attention turned to Marty, Clarence reaches into his sock and pulls out the .38. he stick the barrel between Drexl's legs. Drexl, who's standing over Clarence, looks down just in time to see Clarence pull the trigger and blow his balls to bits. Tiny spots of blood speckle Clarence's face. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl shrieks in horror and pain, and falls to the ground. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">What's happening? </p><p><p ID="act">Marty steps into the room. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence doesn't hesitate, he shoots Marty four times in the chest. </p><p><p ID="act">Two of three Hookers have run out of the front door, screaming. The other Hooker is curled up in the corner. She's too stoned to run, but stoned enough to be terrified. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl, still alive, is laying on the ground howling, holding what's left of his balls and his dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence points the gun at the remaining Hooker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Get a bag and put Alabama's thing in it! </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't move. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You wanna get shot? I ain't got all fuckin' day, so move it! </p><p><p ID="act">The Hooker, tears of fear ruining her mascara, grabs a suitcase from under the bed, and, on her hands and knees, pushes it along the floor to Clarence. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes it by the handle and wobbles over to Drexl, who's curled up like a pillbug. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Clarence's forgotten driver's license in Marty's bloody hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts his foot on Drexl's chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Drexl) <P ID="dia">Open you eyes, laughing boy. </p><p><p ID="act">He doesn't. Clarence gives him a kick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Open your eyes! </p><p><p ID="act">He does. It's now Drexl's POV from the floor. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You thought it was pretty funny, didn't you? </p><p><p ID="act">He fires. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - The bullet comes out of the gun and heads right toward us. When it reaches us, the screen goes awash in red. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The front swings open and Clarence walks in. Alabama jumps off the couch and runs toward Clarence, before she reaches him he blurts out: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I killed him. </p><p><p ID="act">She stops short. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I've got some food in the car, I'll be right back. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence leaves. Except for the TV playing, the room is quiet. Alabama sits on the couch. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks back into the room with a whole bounty of take-out food. He heaps it on to the coffee table and starts to chow down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Help yourself. I got enough. I am fuckin' starvin'. I think I ordered one of everythin'. </p><p><p ID="act">He stops and looks at here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I am so hungry. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts eating french fries and hamburgers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(in a daze) <P ID="dia">Was it him or you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. But to be honest, I put myself in that position. When I drove up there I said to myself, "If I can kill 'em and get away with it, I'll do it." I could. So I did. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Is this a joke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No joke. This is probably the best hamburger I've ever had. I'm serious, I've never had a hamburger taste this good. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama starts to cry. Clarence continues eating, ignoring her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Come on, Bama, eat something. You'll feel better. </p><p><p ID="act">She continues crying. He continues eating and ignoring her. Finally he spins on her, yelling: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Why are you crying? He's not worth one of your tears. Would you rather it had been me? Do you love him? <P ID="spkdir">(no answer) <P ID="dia">Do you love him? <P ID="spkdir">(no answer) <P ID="dia">Do you love him? </p><p><p ID="act">She looks at Clarence, having a hard time getting a word out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think what you did was... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think what you did... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">... was so romantic. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is completely taken back. They meet in a long, passionate lovers' kiss. Their kiss breaks and slowly the world comes back to normal. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I gotta get outta these clothes. </p><p><p ID="act">He picks up the suitcase and drops it on the table in front of them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(comically) <P ID="dia">Clean clothes. There is a god, </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence flips open the suitcase. Alabama's and her husband's jaws drop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence. Those aren't my clothes. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We see the Hollywood Holiday Inn sign. Pan to the parking lot where Clarence's empty red Mustang is parked. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CALRENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Dick's jaw drops. His hand reaches out of shot. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - The reason for all the jaw dropping... the suitcase is full of cocaine! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence smiles, holding a bottle of wine. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's watching the cable TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Holy Mary, Mother of God. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">This is great, we got cable. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Bama, you got your blade? </p><p><p ID="act">Keeping her eyes on the TV, she pulls out from her purse a Swiss army knife with a tiny dinosaur on it and tosses it to Clarence. Clarence takes off the corkscrew and opens the wine. </p><p><p ID="act">He pours some wine into a couple of hotel plastic cups, a big glass for Dick, a little one for himself. He hands it to Dick. Dick takes it and drinks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">This shit can't be real. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It'll get ya high. </p><p><p ID="act">He tosses the knife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you want some wine, sweetheart? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Nope. I'm not really a wine gal. </p><p><p ID="act">Using the knife, Dick snorts some of the cocaine. He jumps back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's fuckin' real! <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">It's fuckin' real! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I certainly hope so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You've got a helluva lotta coke there, man! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you have any idea how much fuckin' coke you got? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I don't know! A fuckin' lot! </p><p><p ID="act">He downs his wine. Clarence fills his glass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">This is Drexl's coke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Drexl's dead. This is Clarence's coke and Clarence can do whatever he wants with it. And what Clarence wants to do is sell it. Then me and Bama are gonna leave on a jet plane and spend the rest of our lives spendin'. So, you got my letter, have you lined up any buyers? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, Clarence, I'm not Joe Cocaine. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick gulps half of his wine. Clarence fills up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But you're an actor. I hear these Hollywood guys have it delivered to the set. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, they do. And maybe when I start being a successful actor I'll know those guys. But most of the people I know are like me. They ain't got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Now, if you want to sell a little bit at a time - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No way! The whole enchilada in one shot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you have any idea how difficult that's gonna be? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm offering a half a million dollars worth of white for two hundred thousand. How difficult can that be? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's difficult because you're sellin' it to a particular group. Big shots. Fat cats. Guys who can use that kind of quantity. Guys who can afford two hundred thousand. Basically, guys I don't know. You don't know. And, more important, they don't know you. I did talk with one guy who could possibly help you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he big league? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">He's nothing. He's in my acting class. But he works as an assistant to a very powerful movie producer named Lee Donowitz. I thought Donowitz could be interested in a deal like this. He could use it. He could afford it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What'd'ya tell 'em? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hardly anything. I wasn't sure from your letter what was bullshit, and what wasn't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's this acting class guy's name? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Elliot what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Elliot Blitzer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK, call 'im up and arrange a meeting, so we can get through all the getting to know you stuff. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Where? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">The zoo. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">The zoo. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What are you waiting for? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Would you just shut up a minute and let me think? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's to think about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Shut up! First you come waltzing into my life after two years. You're married. You killed a guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Two guys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Two guys. Now you want me to help you with some big drug deal. Fuck, Clarence, you killed somebody and you're blowin' it off like it don't mean shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't expect me to be all broken up over poor Drexl. I think he was a fuckin', freeloadin', parasitic scumbag, and he got exactly what he deserved. I got no pity for a mad dog like that. I think I should get a merit badge or somethin'. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick rests his head in his hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, buddy, I realize I'm layin' some pretty heavy shit on ya, but I need you to rise to the occasion. So, drink some more wine. Get used to the idea, and get your friend to the phone. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - A black panther, the four-legged kind, paces back and forth. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, Dick and Elliot Blitzer are walking through the zoo. One look at Elliot and you can see what type of actor he is, a real GQ, blow-dry boy. As they walk and talk, Clarence is eating a box of animal crackers and Alabama is blowing soap bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">So you guys got five hundred thousand dollars worth of cola that you're unloading - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Want an animal cracker? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah, OK. </p><p><p ID="act">He takes one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Leave the gorillas. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">- that you're unloading for two hundred thousand dollars - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Unloading? That's a helluva way to describe the bargain of a lifetime. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(trying to chill him out) <P ID="dia">Clarence... </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Where did you get it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I grow it on my window-sill. The lights really great there and I'm up high enough so you can't see it from the street. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(forcing a laugh) <P ID="dia">Ha ha ha. No really, where does it come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Coco leaves. You see, they take the leaves and mash it down until it's kind of a paste - </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(turning to Dick) <P ID="dia">Look, Dick, I don't - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">No problem, Elliot. I'm just fuckin' wit ya, that's all. Actually, I'll tell you but you gotta keep it quiet. Understand, if Dick didn't assure me you're good people I'd just tell ya, none of your fuckin' business. But, as a sign of good faith, here it goes: I gotta friend in the department. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What department? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What do you think, eightball? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">The police department? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Duh. What else would I be talking about? Now stop askin' stupid doorknob questions. Well, a year and a half ago, this friend of mine got access to the evidence room for an hour. He snagged this coke. But, he's a good cop with a wife and a kid, so he sat on it for a year and a half until he found a guy he could trust. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">He trusts you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We were in Four H together. We've known each other since childhood. So, I'm handling the sales part. He's my silent partner and he knows if I get fucked up, I won't drop dime on him. I didn't tell you nothin' and you didn't hear nothin'. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Sure. I didn't hear anything. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is more than satisfied. Clarence makes a comical face at Dick when Elliot's not looking. Dick is wearing I-don't-believe-this-guy expresion. Alabama is forever blowing bubbles. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - SNACK BAR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We're in the snack bar area of the zoo. Alabama, Dick, and Elliot are sitting around a plastic outdoor table. Clarence is pacing around the table as he talks. Alabama is still blowing bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">Do I look like a beautiful blond with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice-cream? </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot hasn't the slightest idea what that is supposed to mean. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do I look like a beautiful blond with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice-cream? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(with conviction) <P ID="dia">No. No, you don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Then why are you telling me all this bullshit just so you can fuck me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Let me handle this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Get it straight, Lee isn't into taking risks. He deals with a couple of guys, and he's been dealing with them for years. They're reliable. They're dependable. And, they're safe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Riddle me this, Batman. If you're all so much in love with each other, what the fuck are you doing here? I'm sure you got better things to do with your time than walk around in circles starin' up a panther's ass. Your guy's interested because with that much shit at his fingertips he can play Joe fuckin' Hollywood till the wheels come off. He can sell it, he can snort it, he can play Santa Claus with it. At the price he's payin', he'll be everybody's best friend. And, you know, that's what we're talkin' about here. I'm not puttin' him down. Hey, let him run wild. Have a ball, it's his money. But, don't expect me to hang around forever waitin' for you guys to grow some guts. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot has been silenced. He nods his head in agreement. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. PORSCHE - MOVING - MULHOLLAND DRIVE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Movie producer, Lee Donowitz, is driving his Porsche through the winding Hollywood hills, just enjoying being rich and powerful. His cellular car phone rings, he answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Hello. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Elliot, it's Sunday. Why am I talkin' to you on Sunday? I don't see enough of you during the week I gotta talk to you on Sunday? Why is it you always call me when I'm on the windiest street in L.A.? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is on the zoo payphone. Clarence is next to him. Dick is next to Clarence. Alabama is next to Dick, blowing bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(on phone) <P ID="dia">I'm with that party you wanted me to get together with. Do you know what I'm talking about, Lee? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Store-fronts whiz by in the background. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Why the hell are you calling my phone to talk about that? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Well, he'd here right now, and he insists on talking to you. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">In the 7th street tunnel. Lee's voice echoes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Are you outta your fuckin' mind? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You said if I didn't get you on the - </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes the receiverout of Elliot's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(into phone) <P ID="dia">Hello, Lee, it's Clarence. At last we meet. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil's knocking on Dick's door. Floyd (Dick's room-mate) answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Hello, is Dick Ritchie here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw, he ain't home right now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Do you live here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yeah, I live here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Sorta room-mates? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Exactly room-mates. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Maybe you can help me. Actually, who I'm looking for is a friend of ours from Detroit. Clarence Worley? I heard he was in town. Might be travelling with a pretty girl named Alabama. Have you seen him? Are they stayin' here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw, they ain't stayin' here. But, I know who you're talkin' about. They're stayin' at the Hollywood Holiday Inn. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">How do you know? You been there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">No, I ain't been there. But I heard him say. Hollywood Holiday Inn. Kinda easy to remember. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You're right. It is. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - PAYPHONE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is still on the phone with Lee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Lee, the reason I'm talkin' with you is I want to open "Doctor Zhivago" in L.A. And I want you to distribute it. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Stopped in the traffic on Sunset Boulevard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I don't know, Clarence, "Doctor Zhivago" is a pretty big movie. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The biggest. The biggest movie you've ever dealt with, Lee. We're talkin' a lot of film. A man'd have ta be an idiot not to be a little cautious about a movie like that. And Lee, you're no idiot. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">He's still on Sunset Boulevard, the traffic's moving better now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I'm not sayin' I'm not interested. But being a distributer's not what I'm all about. I'm a film producer, I'm on this world to make good movies. Nothing more. Now, having my big toe dipped into the distribution end helps me on many levels. </p><p><p ID="act">Traffic breaks and Lee speeds along. The background whizzes past him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(continuing) <P ID="dia">But the bottom line is: I'm not Paramount. I have a select group of distributers I deal with. I buy their little movies. Accomplish what I wanna accomplish, end of story. Easy, business-like, very little risk. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now that's bullshit, Lee. Every time you buy one of those little movies it's a risk. I'm not sellin' you something that's gonna play two weeks, six weeks, then go straight to cable. This is "Doctor Zhivago". This'll be packin' 'em in for a year and a half. Two years! That's two years you don't have to work with anybody's movie but mine. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Speeding down a benchside road. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Well, then, what's the hurry? Is it true the rights to "Doctor Zhivago" are in arbitration? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I wanna be able to announce this deal at Cannes. If I had time for a courtship, Lee, I would. I'd take ya out, I'd hold your hand, I'd kiss you on the cheek at the door. But, I'm not in that position. I need to know if we're in bed together, or not. If you want my movie, Lee, you're just gonna have to come to terms with your Fear and Desire. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. Clarence hands the phone to Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">He wants to talk ya. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(into phone) <P ID="dia">Mr. Donowitz? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told you, through Dick. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">He's in my acting class. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">About a year. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Yeah, he's good. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">They grew up together. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Sure thing. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot hangs up the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">He says Wednesday at three o'clock at the Beverly Wilshire. He wants everybody there. <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Clarence) <P ID="dia">He'll talk to you. If after talkin' to you he's convinced you're OK, he'll do business. If not, he'll say fuck it and walk out the door. He also wants a sample bag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No problems on both counts. </p><p><p ID="act">He offers Elliot the animal crackers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Have a cookie. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot takes one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Thanks. </p><p><p ID="act">He puts it in the mouth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That wasn't a gorilla, was it? </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The red Mustang with Clarence and Alabama pulls up to the hotel. Alabama hops out. Clarence stays in. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You did it, Quickdraw. I'm so proud of you. You were like a ninja. Did I do my part OK? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Babalouey, you were perfect, I could hardly keep from busting up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I felt so stupid just blowing those bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You were chillin', kind of creepy even. You totally fucked with his head. I'm gonna go grab dinner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm gonna hop in the tub and get all wet, and slippery, and soapy. Then I'm gonna lie in the waterbed, not even both to dry off, and watch X-rated movies till you get your ass back to my lovin' arms. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We now return to "Bullit" already in progress. </p><p><p ID="act">He slams the Mustang in reverse and peels out of the hotel. Alabama walks her little walk from the parking lot to the pool area. Somebody whistles at her, she turns to them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><p ID="act">She gets to her door, takes out the key, and opens the door. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CALRENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">She steps in only to find Virgil sitting on a chair placed in front of the door with a sawed-off shotgun aimed right at her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="spkdir">(calmly) <P ID="dia">Step inside and shut the door. </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't move, she's frozen. Virgil leans forward. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="spkdir">(calmly) <P ID="dia">Lady. I'm gonna shoot you in the face. </p><p><p ID="act">She does exactly as he says. Virgil rises, still aiming the sawed-off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Step away from the door, move into the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">She does. He puts the shotgun down on the chair, then steps closer to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, Alabama, where's our coke, where's Clarence, and when's he coming back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think you got the wrong room, my name is Sadie. I don't have any Coke, but there's a Pepsi machine downstairs. I don't know any Clarence, but maybe my husband does. You might have heard of him, he plays football. Al Lylezado. He'll be home any minute, you can ask him. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil can't help but smile. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You're cute. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil jumps up and does a mid-air kung fu kick which catches Alabama square in the face, lifting her off the ground and dropping her flat on her back. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, in his car, driving to get something to eat, singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(singing) <P ID="dia">"Land of stardust, land of glamour, Vistavision and Cinema, Everything about it is a must, To get to Hollywood, or bust..." </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's laying flat. She actually blacks out for a moment, but the salty taste of the blood in her mouth wakes her up. She opens her eyes and sees Virgil standing there, smiling. She closes them, hoping it's a dream. They open again to the same sight. She has never felt more helpless in her life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Hurts, don't it? It better. Took me a long time to kick like that. I'm third-degree blackbelt, you know? At home I got trophies. Tournaments I was in. Kicked all kinds of ass. I got great technique. You ain't hurt that bad. Get on your feet, Fruitloop. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama wobbily complies. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Where's our coke? Where's Clarence? And when he's comin' back? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama looks in Virgil's eyes and realizes that without a doubt she's going to die, because this man is going to kill her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Go take a flying fuck and a rolling donut. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil doesn't waste a second. He gives her a sidekick straight to the stomach. The air is sucked out of her lungs. She falls to her knees. She's on all fours gasping for air that's just not there. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil whips out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He lights one up with a Zippo lighter. He takes a long, deep drag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Whatsamatta? Can't breathe? Get used to it. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HAMBURGER STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks through the door of some mom and pop fast-food restaurant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Woah! Smells like hamburgers in here! What's the biggest, fattest hamburger you guys got? </p><p><p ID="act">The Iranian Guy at the counter says: </p><p><P ID="speaker">IRANIAN GUY <P ID="dia">That would be Steve's double chili cheeseburger. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I want two of them bad boys. Two large orders of chili fries. Two large Diet Cokes. <P ID="spkdir">(looking at a menu at the wall) <P ID="dia">And I'll tell you what, why don't you give me a combination burrito as well. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama is violently thrown into a corner of the room. She braces herself against the wall. She is very punchy. Virgil steps in front of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You think your boyfriend would go through this kind of shit for you? Dream on, cunt. You're nothin' but a fuckin' fool. And your pretty face is gonna turn awful goddamn ugly in about two seconds. Now, where's my fuckin' coke? </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't answer. He delivers a spinning roundhouse kick on the head. Her head slams into the left side of the wall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Where's Clarence?! </p><p><p ID="act">Nothing. He gives her another kick to the head, this time from the other side. Her legs start to give way. He catches her and throws her back. He slaps her lightly in the face to revive her, she looks at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">When's Clarence getting back? </p><p><p ID="act">She can barely raise her arm, but she somehow manages, and she gives him the middle finger. Virgil can't help but smile. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You gotta lot of heart, kid. </p><p><p ID="act">He gives her a spinning roadhouse kick to the head that sends her to the floor. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HAMBURGER STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Burgers sizzling on a griddle, Chili and cheese is put on them. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is waiting for his order. He notices a CUSTOMER reading a copy of "Newsweek" with Elvis on the cover. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's a great issue. </p><p><p ID="act">The Customer lowers his magazine a little bit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">Yeah, I subscribe. It's a pretty decent one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Have you read the story on Elvis? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">No. Not yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, I saw it on the stands, my first inclination was to buy it. But, I look at the price and say forget it, it's just gonna be the same old shit. I ended up breaking down and buying it a few days later. Man, I was ever wrong. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">That good, huh? </p><p><p ID="act">He takes the magazine from the Customer's hands and starts flipping to the Elvis article. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It tried to pin down what the attraction is after all these years. It covers the whole spectrum of fans, the people who love his music, the people who grew up with him, the artists he inspired - Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and the fanatics, like these guys. I don't know about you, but they give me the creeps. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia"> I can see what you mean. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like, look at her. She looks like she fell off an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Elvis wouldn't fuck her with Pat Boone's dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Customer laugh. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's pretty beat up. She has a fat lip and her face is black and blue. She's crawling around on the floor. Virgil is tearing the place apart looking for the cocaine. He's also carrying on a running commentary. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia"> Now the first guy you kill is always the hardest. I don't care if you're the Boston Strangler or Wyatt Earp. You can bet that Texas boy, Charles Whitman, the fella who shot all them guys from that tower, I'll bet you green money that that first little black dot that he took a bead on, was the bitch of the bunch. No foolin' the first one's a tough row to hoe. Now, the second one, while it ain't no Mardi Gras, it ain't half as tough row to hoe. You still feel somethin' but it's just so deluted this time around. Then you completely level off on the third one. The third one's easy. It's gotten to the point now I'll do it just to watch their expressions change. </p><p><p ID="act">He's tearing the motel room up in general. Then he flips the matress up off the bed, and the black suitcase is right there. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's crawling, unnoticed to where her purse is lying. Virgil flips open the black case and almost goes snow blind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Well, well, well, looky here. I guess I just reached journey's end. Great. One less thing I gotta worry about. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil closes the case. Alabama sifts through her purse. </p><p><p ID="act">She pulls out her Swiss army knife, opens it up. Virgil turns toward her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, Sugarpop, we've come to what I like to call the moment of truth - </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama slowly rises clutching the thrust-out knife in both hands. Mr. Karate-man smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Kid, you got a lotta heart. </p><p><p ID="act">He moves toward her. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's hands are shaking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you a free swing. Now, I only do that for people I like. </p><p><p ID="act">He moves close. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's eyes study him. He grabs the front of his shirt and rips it open. Buttons fly everywhere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Go ahead, girl, take a stab at it. <P ID="spkdir">(giggling) <P ID="dia">You don't have anything to lose. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Alabama's face. Virgil's right, she doesn't have anything to lose. Virgil's also right about his being the moment of truth. The ferocity in women that comes out at certain times, and is just here under the surface in many women all of the time, is unleashed. The absolute feeling of helplessness she felt only a moment ago has taken a one hundred and eighty degree turn into "I'll take this motherfucker with me if it's the last thing I do" seething hatred. </p><p><p ID="act">Letting out a bloodcurling yell, she raises the knfe high above her head, then drops to her knees and plunges it deep into Virgil's right foot. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - VIRGIL'S FACE </p><p><p ID="act">Talk about bloodcurling yells. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil bends down and carefully pulls the knife from his foot, tears running down his face. </p><p><p ID="act">While Virgil's bent down, Alabama smashes an Elvis Presley whiskey decanter that Clarence bought her in Oklahoma over his head. It's only made of plaster, so it doesn't kill him. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil's moving toward Alabama, limping on his bad foot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, no more Mr. Nice-guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama picks up the hotel TV and tosses it to him. He instinctively catches it and, with his arms full of television, Alabama cold-cocks him with her fist in the nose, breaking it. </p><p><p ID="act">Her eyes go straight to the door, then to the sawed-off shotgun by it. She runs to it, bends over the chair for the gun. Virgil's left foot kicks her in the back, sending her flying over the chair and smashing into the door. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil furiously throws the chair out of the way and stands over Alabama. Alabama's lying on the ground laughing. Virgil has killed a lot of people, but not one of them has ever laughed before he did it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">What's so fuckin' funny?!! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">You look so ridiculous. </p><p><p ID="act">She laughs louder. Virgil's insane. He picks her off the floor, then lifts her off the ground and throws her through the glass shower door in the bathroom. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Laugh it up, cunt. You were in hysterics a minute ago. Why ain't you laughing now? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, lying in the bathtub, grabs a small bottle of hotel shampoo and squeezes it out in her hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil reaches in the shower and grabs hold of her hair. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama rubs the shampoo in his face. He lets go of her and his hands go to his eyes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Oh Jesus! </p><p><p ID="act">She grabs hold of a hefty piece of broken glass and plunges it into his face. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Oh Mary, help me! </p><p><p ID="act">The battered and bruised and bloody Alabama emerges from the shower. She's clutching a big, bloody piece of broken glass. She's vaguely reminiscent of a Tasmanian devil. Poor Virgil can't see very well, but he sees her figure coming toward him. He lets out a wild haymaker that catches her in the jaw and knocks her into the toilet. </p><p><p ID="act">He recovers almost immediately and takes the porcelain lid off the back of the toilet tank. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil whips out a .45 automatic from his shoulder holster, just as Alabama brings the lid down on his head. He's pressed up against the wall with this toilet lid hitting him. He can't get a good shot in this tight environment, but he fires anyway, hitting the floor, the all, the toilet, and the sink. </p><p><p ID="act">The toilet lid finally shatters against Virgil's head. He falls to the ground. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama goes to the medicine cabinet and whips out a big can of Final Net hairspray. She pulls a Bic lighter out of her pocket, and, just as Virgil raises his gun at her, she flicks the Bic and sends a stream of hairspray through the flame, which results in a big ball of fire that hits Virgil right in the face. </p><p><p ID="act">He fires off two shots. One hits the wall, another hits the sink pipe, sending water spraying. </p><p><p ID="act">Upon getting his face fried Virgil screams and jumps up, knocking Alabama down, and runs out of the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil collapses on the floor of the living room. Then, he sees the sawed-off laying on the ground. He crawls toward it. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, in the bathroom, sees where he's heading. She picks up the .45 automatic and fires at him. It's empty. She's on her feet and into the room. </p><p><p ID="act">He reaches the shotgun, his hands grasp it. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama spots and picks up the bloody Swiss army knife. She takes a knife-first-running-dive at Virgil's back. She hits him. </p><p><p ID="act">He arches up, firing the sawed-off into the ceiling, dropping the gun, and sending a cloud of plaster and stucco all over the room. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama snatches the shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Arched over on his back Virgil and Alabama make eye contact. </p><p><p ID="act">The first blast hits him in the shoulder, almost tearing his arm off. The second hits him in the knee. The third plays hell with his chest. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama then runs at him, hitting him in the head with the butt of the shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Ever since he's been firing it's as if some other part of her brain has been functioning independently. She's been absent-mindedly saying the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who's been hearing gunshots, bursts through the door, gun drawn, only to see Alabama, hitting a dead guy on the head, with a shotgun. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Honey? </p><p><p ID="act">She continues. He puts his gun away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sweetheart? Cops are gonna be here any minute, </p><p><p ID="act">She continues. He takes the gun away from her, and she falls to the ground. She lies on the floor trembling, continuing with the downward swings of her arms. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence grabs the shotgun and the cocaine, and tosses Alabama over his shoulder. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Everybody is outside their rooms watching as Clarence walks through the pool area with his bundle. Sirens can be heard. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is driving like mad. Alabama's passed out in the passenger seat. She's muttering to herself. Clarence has one hand on the steering wheel and the other strokes Alabama's hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sleep baby. Don't dream. Don't worry. Just sleep. You deserve better than this. I'm so sorry. Sleep my angel. Sleep peacefully. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MOTEL 6 - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A new motel. Clarence's red Mustang is parked outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOTEL 6 - CLARENCE'S ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, with a fat lip and a black and blue face, is asleep in bed. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. NOWHERE </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is in a nondescript room speaking directly to the camera. He's in a headshot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I feel so horrible about what she went through. That fucker really beat the shit out of her. She never told him where I was. It's like I always felt that the way she felt about me was a mistake. She couldn't really care that much. I always felt in the back of my mind, I don't know, she was jokin'. But, to go through that and remain loyal, it's very easy to be unraptured with words, but to remain loyal when it's easier, even excusable, not to - that's a test of oneself. That's a true romance. I swear to God, I'll cut off my hands and gouge out my eyes before I'll every let anything happen to that lady again. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HILLS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A wonderful, gracefully flowing shot of the Hollywood Hills. Off in the distance we hear the roar of a car engine. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MULLHOLLAND DRIVE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Vaaarrroooooommmm!!! A silver Porsche is driving hells bells, taking quick corners, pushing it to the edge. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING PORSCHE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot Blitzer is the driver, standing on it. A blond, glitzy Coke Whore is sitting next to him. They're having a ball. Then they're seeing a red and blue light flashing in the rear-view window. It's the cops. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Fuck! I knew it! I fucking knew it! I should have my head examined, driving like this! <P ID="spkdir">(he pulls over) <P ID="dia">Kandi, you gotta help me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">What can I do? </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls out the sample bag of cocaine that Clarence gave him earlier. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You gotta hold this for me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">You must be high. Uh-huh. No way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(frantically) <P ID="dia">Just put it in your purse. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">I'm not gonna put that shit in my purse. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">They won't search you. I promise. You haven't done anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">No way, Jos. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Please, they'll be here any minute. Just put it in your bra. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">I'm not wearing a bra. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(pleading) <P ID="dia">Put it in your pants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You're the one who wanted to drive fast. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">Read my lips. </p><p><p ID="act">She mouths the word "no". </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">After all I've done for you, you fuckin' whore!! </p><p><p ID="act">She goes to slap him, she hits the bag of cocaine instead. It rips open. Cocaine completely covers his blue suit. At that moment Elliot turns to face a flashing beam. Tears fill his eyes. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. POLICE STATION - INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is sitting in a chair at the table. Two young, good-looking, casually dressed, Starsky and Hutch-type POLICE DETECTIVES are questioning him. They're known in the department as Nicholson and Dimes. The dark-haired one is Cody Nicholson, and the blond is Nicky Dimes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Look, sunshine, we found a sandwich bag of uncut cocaine - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Not a tiny little vial - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">But a fuckin' baggie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">No don't sit here and feed us some shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You got caught. It's all fun and fuckin' games till you get caught. But now we gotcha. OK, Mr. Elliot actor, you've just made the big time - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You're no longer an extra - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Or a bit player - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Or a supporting actor - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You're a fuckin' star! And you're gonna be playin' your little one-man show nightly for the next two fuckin' years for a captive audience - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">But there is a bright side though. If you ever have to play a part of a guy who gets fucked in the ass on a daily basis by throat-slitting niggers, you'll have so much experience to draw on - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">And just think, when you get out in a few years, you'll meet some girl, get married, and you'll be so understanding to your wife's needs, because you'll know what it's like to be a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">'Course you'll wanna fuck her in the ass. Pussy just won't feed right anymore - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">That is, of course, if you don't catch Aids from all your anal intrusions. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot starts crying. Nicholson and Dimes exchange looks and smile. Mission accomplished. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. POLICE STATION - CAPTAIN KRINKLE'S OFFICE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CAPTAIN BUFFORD KRINKLE is sitting behind his desk, where he spends about seventy-five percent of his day. He's you standard rough, gruff, no-nonsense, by-the-book-type police captain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia"> Nicholson! Dimes! Het in here! </p><p><p ID="act">The two casually dressed, sneaker-wearing cops rush in, both shouting at once. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Krinkle, this is it. We got it, man. And it's all ours. I mean talk about fallin' into somethin'. You shoulda seen it, it was beautiful. Dimes is hittin' him from the left about being fucked in the ass by niggers, I'm hittin' him form the right about not likin' pussy anymore, finally he starts cryin', and then it was all over - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia"> Krinkle, you're lookin' at the two future cops of the month. We have it, and if I say we, I don't mean me and him, I'm referring to the whole department. Haven't had a decent bust this whole month. Well, we mighta come in like a lamb, but we're goin' out like a lion - </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Both you, idiots shut up, I can't understand shit! Now, what's happened, what's going on, and what are you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Okee-dokee. It's like this, Krinkle; a patrol car stops this dork for speeding, they walk up to window and the guy's covered in coke. So they bring his ass in and me an' Nicholson go to work on him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Nicholson and I. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Nicholson and I go to work on him. Now er know somthing's rotten in Denmark, 'cause this dickhead had a big bag, and it's uncut, too, so we're sweatin' him, trying to find out where he got it. Scarin' the shit outta him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Which wasn't too hard, the guy was a real squid. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">So we got this guy scared shitless and he starts talkin'. And, Krinkle, you ain't gonna fuckin' believe it. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. RESTAURANT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Detroit. Very fancy restaurant. Four wise-guy Hoods, one older, the other three, youngsters, are seated at the table with Mr. Coccotti. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">- And so, tomorrow morning comes, and no Virgil. I check with Nick Cardella, who Virgil was supposed to leave my narcotics with, he never shows. Now, children, somebody is stickin' a red-hot poker up my asshole and what I don't know is whose hand's on the handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #1 (FRANKIE) <P ID="dia">You think Virgil started gettin' big ideas? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">It's possible. Anybody can be carried away with delusions of grandeur. But after that incident in Ann Arbor, I trust Virgil. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #2 (DARIO) <P ID="dia">What happened? </p><p><P ID="speaker">OLD WISE-GUY(LENNY) <P ID="dia"> Virgil got picked up in a warehouse shakedown. He got five years, he served three. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Anybody who clams up and does hid time, I don't care how I feel about him personally, he's OK. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">KRINKLE'S OFFICE </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">It seems a cop from some department, we don't know where, stole a half a million dollars of coke from the property cage and he's been sittin' on it for a year and a half. Now the cops got this weirdo - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Suspect's words - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">To front for him. So Elliot is workin' out the deal between them and his boss, a big movie producer named Lee Donowitz. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He produced "Coming Home in a Body Bag". </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">That Vietnam movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">That was a good fuckin' movie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Sure was. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Do you believe him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">I believe he believes him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">He's so spooked he'd turn over his momma, his daddy, his two-panny granny, and Anna and the King of Siam if he had anything on him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This rabbit'll do anything not to do time, including wearing a wire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">He'll wear a wire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">We talked him into it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Dirty cops. We'll have to bring in internal affairs on this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Look, we don't care if you bring in the state milita, the volunteer fire department, the L.A. Thunderbirds, the ghost of Steve McQueen, and the twelve Roman gladiators, so long as we get credit for the bust. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Cocaine. Dirty cops. Hollywood. This is Crocket and Tubbs all the way. And we found it, so we want the fuckin' collar. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. RESTAURANT - DAY </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #3 (MARVIN) <P ID="dia">Maybe Virgil dropped it off at Cardella's. Cardella turns Virgil's switch off, and Cardella decides to open up his own fruit stand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Excuse me, Mr. Coccotti. <P ID="spkdir">(to Marvin) <P ID="dia">Do you know Nick Cardella? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Then where the hell do you get off talkin' that kind of talk? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">I didn't mean - </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Shut your mouth. Nick Cardella was provin' what his words was worth before you were in your daddy's nutsack. What sun do you walk under you can throw a shadow on Nick Cardella? Nick Cardella's a stand-up guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Children, we're digressing. Another possibility is that rat-fuck whore and her wack-a-doo cowboy boyfriend out-aped Virgil. Knowing Virgil, I find that hard to believe. But they sent Drexl to hell, and Drexl was no faggot. So you see, children, I got a lot of questions and no answers. Find out who this wing-and-a-prayer artist is and take him off at the neck. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "THE BIG DAY" </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. IMPERIAL HIGHWAY - SUNRISE </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's red Mustang is parked on top of a hill just off of Imperial Highway. As luck would have it, somebody has abandoned a ratty old sofa on the side of the road. Clarence and Alabama sit on the sofa, sharing a Jumbo Java, and enjoying the sunrise and wonderful view of the LAX Airport runways, where planes are taking off and landing. A plane takes off, and they stop and watch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ya know, I used to fuckin' hate airports. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">With a vengeance, I hated them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I used to live by one back in Dearborn. It's real frustratin' to be surrounded by airplanes when you ain't got shit. I hated where I was, but I couldn't do anythin' about it. I didn't have enough money. It was tough enough just tryin' to pay my rent every month, an' here I was livin' next to an airport. Whenever I went outside, I saw fuckin' planes take off drownin' out my show. All day long I'm seein', hearin' people doin' what I wanted to do most, but couldn't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Leavin' Detroit. Goin' off on vacations, startin' new lives, business trips. Fun, fun, fun, fun. </p><p><p ID="act">Another plane takes off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But knowin' me and you gonna be nigger-rich gives me a whole new outlook. I love airports now. Me 'n' you can get on any one of those planes out there, and go anywhere we ant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You ain't kiddin', we got lives to start over, we should go somewhere where we can really start from scatch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I been in America all my life. I'm due for a change. I wanna see what TV in other countries is like. Besides, it's more dramatic. Where should we fly off to, my little turtledove? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Cancoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Why Cancoon? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's got a nice ring to it. It sounds like a movie. "Clarence and Alabama Go to Cancoon". Don't 'cha think? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But in my movie, baby, you get the top billing. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't you worry 'bout anything. It's all gonna work out for us. We deserve it. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick, Clarence and Alabama are just getting ready to leave for the drug deal. Floyd lays on the couch watching TV. Alabama's wearing dark glasses because of the black eye she has. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Floyd) <P ID="dia">You sure that's how you get to the Beverly Wilshire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I've partied there twice. Yeah, I'm sure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, well if we got lost, it's your ass. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Come on, Clarence, lets go. Elliot's going to meet us in the lobby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm just makin' sure we got everything. <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Alabama) <P ID="dia"> You got yours? </p><p><p ID="act">She holds up the suitcase. The phone rings. The three pile out the door. Floyd picks up the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Hello? </p><p><p ID="act">He puts his hand over the receiver. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Dick, it's for you. You here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">No. I left. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts to close the door then opens it again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'll take it. <P ID="spkdir">(he takes the receiver) <P ID="dia">Hello. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Hi, Catherine, I was just walkin' out the - <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Really? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't believe it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">She really said that? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'll be by first thing. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">No, thank you for sending me out. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Bye-bye. </p><p><p ID="act">He hangs up and looks to Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(stunned) <P ID="dia">I got the part on "T.J. Hooker". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No shit? Dick, that's great! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are jumping around. Floyd even smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(still stunned) <P ID="dia">They didn't even want a callback. They just hired me like that. Me and Peter Breck are the two heavies. We start shooting Monday. My call is for seven o'clock in the morning. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ah, Dick, let's talk about it in the car. We can't be late. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick looks at Clarence. He doesn't want to go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Um, nothing, let's go? </p><p><p ID="act">They exit. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LAX AIRPORT - HOTEL - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We see the airport and move in closer on a hotel on a landscape. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. LAX AIRPORT - HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny can be seen putting a shotgun together. He is sitting on a bed. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario enters the frame with his own shotgun. He goes over to Lenny and gives him some shells. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin walks through the frame cocking his own shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">The bathroom door opens behind Lenny and Frankie walks out twirling a couple of .45 automatics in his hands. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - COP S' HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes and FOUR DETECTIVES from internal affairs are in a room on the same floor as Donowitz. They have just put a wire on Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">OK, say something. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(talking loud into the wire) <P ID="dia">Hello! Hello! Hello! How now brown cow! </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Just talk regular. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(normal tone) <P ID="dia">"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief -" </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Are you gettin' this shit? </p><p><p ID="act">DETECTIVE BY TAPE MACHINE Clear as a bell. </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson, Dime, and the head IA Officer, Wurlitzer, huddle by Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Now, remember, we'll be monitoring just down the hall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">And if there's any sign of trouble you'll come in. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Like gang-busters. Now, remember, if you don't want to go to jail, we gotta put your boss in jail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">We have to show in court that, without a doubt, a successful man, an important figure in the Hollywood community, is also dealing cocaine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">So you gotta get him to admit on tape that he's buying this coke. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">And this fellow Clarence? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">You gotta get him name the police officer behind all this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I'll try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You do more than try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Hope you're a good actor, Elliot. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Dick and Alabama en route. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You got that playing basketball? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yeah. I got elbowed right in the eye. And if that wasn't enough, I got hurled the ball when I'm not looking. Wam! Right in my face. </p><p><p ID="act">They stop at a red light. Clarence looks at Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Red light means love, baby. </p><p><p ID="act">He and Alabama start kissing. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING CADILLAC - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin, Frankie, Lenny and Dario in a rented Caddy. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE PARKING LOT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, and Dick get out of the red Mustang. Dick takes the suitcase. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'll take that. Now, remember, both of you, let me do the talking. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes out his .38. Dick reacts. They walk and talk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What the fuck did you bring that for. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In case. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">In case of what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In case they try to kill us. I don't know, what do you want me to say? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, Dillinger, Lee Donowitz is not a pimp - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I know that Richard. I don't think I'll need it. But something this last week has taught me, it's better to have a gun and not to need it than to need a gun and not to have it. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. Clarence stops walking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Hold it, guys. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm pretty scared. What say we forget the whole thing. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick and Alabama are both surprised and relieved. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you really mean it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No, I don't really mean it. Well, I mean, this is our last chance to think about it. How 'bout you, Bama? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I thought it was what you wanted, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It is what I want. But I don't want to spend the next ten years in jail. I don't want you guys to go to jail. We don't know what could be waiting for us up there. It'll probably be just what it's supposed to be. The only thing that's waiting for us is two hundred thousand dollars. I'm just looking at the downside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Now's a helluva time to play "what if". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This is our last chance to play "what if". I want to do it. I'm just scared of getting caught. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's been fun thinking about the money but I can walk away from it, honey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That rhymes. </p><p><p ID="act">He kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, if we're not gonna do it, let's just get in the car and get the fuck outta here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, let's just get outta here. </p><p><p ID="act">The three walk back to the car. Clarence gets behind the wheel. The other two climb in. Clarence hops back out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm sorry guys, I gotta do it. As petrified as I am, I just can't walk away. I'm gonna be kicking myself in the ass for the rest of my life if I don't go in there. Lee Donowitz isn't a gangster lookin' to skin us, and he's not a cop, he's a famous movie producer lookin' to get high. And I'm just the man who can get him there. So what say we throw caution to the wind and let the chips fall where they may. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence grabs the suitcase and makes a beeline for the hotel. Dick and Alabama exchange looks and follow. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LOBBY - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot's walking around the lobby. He's very nervous, so he's singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(singing) <P ID="dia">There's a man who leads a life of danger, To everyone he meets he stays a stranger. Be careful what you say, you'll give yourself away... </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - COPS' HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson, Dimes, Wurlitzer, and the three other Detectives surround the tape machine. Coming from the machine: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT'S VOICE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">... odds are you won't live to see tomorrow, secret agent man, secret agent man.... </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson looks at Dimes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Why, all of the sudden, have I got a bad feeling? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence enters the lobby alone, he's carrying the suitcase. He spots Elliot and goes in his direction. Elliot sees Clarence approaching him. He says to himself, quietly: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Elliot, your motivation is to stay out of jail. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks up to Elliot, they shake hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Where's everybody else? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">They'll be along. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama and Dick enter the lobby, they join up with Clarence and Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">How you doin', Elliot? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I guess it's about that time. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I guess so. Follow me. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ELEVATOR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The four of them are riding in the elevator. As luck would have it, they have the car to themselves. Rinky-drink elevator Muzak is playing. They are all silent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Get on your knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Not sure he heard him right. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence hits the stop button on the elevator panel and whips out his .38. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I said get on your fuckin' knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot does it immediately. Dick and Alabama react. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Shut up, both of you, I know what I'm doin'. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Pandemonium. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He knows. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">How the fuck could he know? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He saw the wire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">How's he supposed to see the wire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He knows something's up. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts the .38 against Elliot's forehead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You must think I'm pretty stupid, don't you? </p><p><p ID="act">No answer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(petrified) <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(yelling) <P ID="dia">Don't lie to me, motherfucker. You apparently think I'm the dumbest motherfucker in the world! Don't you? Say: Clarence, you are without a doubt, the dumbest motherfucker in the whole wide world. Say it! </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">We gotta get him outta there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Whatta we gonna do? He's in an elevator. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Say it, goddamn it! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You are the dumbest person in the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Apparently I'm not as dumb as you thought I am. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">No. No you're not. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's waiting for us up there. Tell me or I'll pump two right in your face. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">He's bluffin ya, Elliot. Can't you see that? You're an actor, remember, the show must go on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This guy's gonna kill him. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Stand up. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot does. The .38 is still pressed against his forehead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like Nick Carter used to say: I I'm wrong, I'll apologize. I want you to tell me what's waiting for us up there. Something's amiss. I can feel it. If anything out of the ordinary goes down, believe this, you're gonna be the first one shot. Trust me, I am AIDS, you fuck with me, you die. Now quit making me mad and tell me why I'm so fucking nervous. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He's bluffin', I knew it. He doesn't know shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Don't blow it, Elliot. He's bluffin'. He just told you so himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You're an actor, so act, motherfucker. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot still hasn't answered. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK. </p><p><p ID="act">With the .38 up against Elliot's head Clarence puts his palm over the top of the gun to shield himself from the splatter. Alabama and Dick can't believe what he's gonna do. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot, tears running down, starts talking for the benefit of the people at the other end of the wire. He sounds like a little boy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I don't wanna be here. I wanna go home. I wish somebody would just come and get me 'cause I don't like this. This is not what I thought it would be. And I wish somebody would just take me away. Just take me away Come and get me. 'Cause I don't like this anymore. I can't take this. I'm sorry but I just can't. So, if somebody would just come to my rescue, everything would be alright. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes shake their hands, They have a "well, that's that" expression an their faces. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts down the gun and hugs Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sorry, Elliot. Nothing personal. I just hadda make sure you're all right. I'm sure. I really apologize for scaring you so bad, but believe me, I'm just as scared as you. Friends? </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot, in a state of shock, takes Clarence's hand. Dick and Alabama are relieved. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes listen open-mouthed, not believing what they're hearing. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Floyd still lying on the couch watching TV. He hasn't moved since we last saw him. </p><p><p ID="act">There is a knock from the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="spkdir">(not turning away from TV) <P ID="dia">It's open. </p><p><p ID="act">The front door flies open and the four Wise-guys rapidly enter the room. The door slams shut. All have their sawed-offs drawn and pointing at Floyd. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Are you Dick Ritchie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Do you know a Clarence Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Do you know where we can find him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">He's at the Beverly Wilshire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Where's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Well, you go down Beechwood... </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LEE'S HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The door opens and reveals an extremely muscular guy with an Uzi strapped to his shoulder standing in the doorway, his name is Monty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Hi, Elliot. Are these your friends? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You could say that. Everybody, this is Monty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">C'mon in. Lee's in the can. He'll be out in a quick. </p><p><p ID="act">They all move into the room, it is very luxurious. </p><p><p ID="act">Another incredibly muscular GUY, Boris, is sitting on the sofa, he too has an Uzi. Monty begins patting everybody down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Sorry, nothin personal. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts to search Clarence. Clarence back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No need to search me, daredevil. All you'll find is a .38 calibre. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris gets up from the couch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">What compelled you to bring that along? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The same thing that compelled you, Beastmaster, to bring rapid-fire weaponry to a business meeting. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">I'll take that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You'll have to. </p><p><p ID="act">The toilet flushes in the bathroom. The door swings open and Lee Donowitz emerges. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">They're here. Who's who? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Lee, this is my friend Dick, and these are his friends, Clarence and Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="spkdir">(pointing at Clarence) <P ID="dia">This guy's packin'. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I have to admit, walkin' through the door and seein' these "Soldier of Fortune" poster boys made me a bit nervous. But, Lee, I'm fairly confident that you came here to do business, not to be a wise-guy. So, if you want, I'll put the gun on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I don't think that'll be necessary. Let's all have a seat. Boris, why don't you be nice and get coffee for everybody. </p><p><p ID="act">They all sit around a fancy glass table except for Boris, who's getting the coffee, and Monty, who's standing behind Lee's chair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh, Mr. Donowitz - </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Lee, Clarence . Please don't insult me. Call me Lee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK, sorry, Lee. I just wanna tell you "Coming Home in a Body Bag" is one of my favorite movies. After "Apocalypse Now" I think it's the best Vietnam movie ever. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Thank you very much, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, most movies that win a lot of Oscars, I can't stand. "Sophie's Choice", "Ordinary People", "Kramer vs. Kramer", "Gandhi". All that stuff is safe, geriatric, coffee-table dog shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I hear you talkin' Clarence. We park our cars in the same garage. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like that Merchant-Ivory clap-trap. All those assholes make are unwatchable movies from unreadable books. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris starts placing clear-glass coffee cups in front of everybody and fills everybody's cup from a fancy coffee pot that he handles like an expert. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Clarence, there might be somebody somewhere that agrees with you more than I do, but I wouldn't count on it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is on a roll and he knows it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">They ain't plays, they ain't books, they certainly ain't movies, they're films. And do you know what films are? They're for people who don't like movies. "Mad Max", that's a movie. "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly", that's a movie. "Rio Bravo", that's a movie. "Rumble Fish", that's a fuckin' movie. And, "Coming Home in a Body Bag", that's a movie. It was the first movie with balls to win a lot of Oscars since the "The Deer Hunter". </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">They're all listening to this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">What's this guy doin'? Makin' a drug deal or gettin' a job on the "New Yorker"? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">My uncle Roger and uncle Cliff, both of which were in Nam, saw "Coming Home in a Body Bag" and thought it was the most accurate Vietnam film they'd ever seen. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">You know, Clarence, when a veteran of that bullshit wars says that, it makes the whole project worthwhile. Clarence, my friend, and I call you my friend because we have similar interests, let's take a look at what you have for me. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Thank God. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts the suitcase on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Lee, when you see this you're gonna shit. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys are at the desk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="spkdir">(quietly to the others) <P ID="dia">What was the Jew-boy's name? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">Donowitz, he said. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FRONT-DESK GUY <P ID="dia">How can I help you, Gentlemen? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Yeah, we're from Warner Bros. What room is Mr. Donowitz in? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Lee's looking over the cocaine and sampling it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now, that's practically uncut. You could, if you so desire, cut it a helluva lot more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Don't worry, I'll desire. Boris, could I have some more coffee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Me too, Boris. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris fills both of their cups. They both, calm as a lake, take cream and sugar. All eyes are on them. Lee uses light cream and sugar, he begins stirring this cup. Clarence uses very heavy cream and sugar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(stirring loudly) <P ID="dia">You like a little coffee with your cream and sugar? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not satisfied till the spoon stands straight up. </p><p><p ID="act">Both are cool as cucumbers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I have to hand it to you, this is not nose garbage, this is quality. Can Boris make anybody a sandwich? I got all kinds of sandwich shit from Canters in there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">No thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">No. But thanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No thanks, my stomach's a little upset. I ate somethin' at a restaurant that made me a little sick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Where'd you go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A Norms in Van Nuys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Bastards. That's why I always eat at Lawreys. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee continues looking at the merchandise. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama writes something in her napkin with a pencil. She slides the napkin over to Clarence. It says: "You're so cool" with a tiny heart drawn on the bottom of it. Clarence takes the pencil and draws an arrow through the heart. She takes the napkin and puts it in her pocket. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee looks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">OK, Clarence, the merchandise is perfect. But, whenever I'm offered a deal that's too good to be true, it's because it's a lie. Convince me you're on the level. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">If he don't bite, we ain't got shit except posession. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Convince him. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, Lee, it's like this. You're getting the bargain of a lifetime because I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. You're used to dealin' with professionals. I'm not a professional. I'm a rank amateur. I could take that, and I could cut it, and I could sell it a little bit at a time, and make a helluva lot more money. But, in order to do that, I'd have to become a drug dealer. Deal with cut-throat junkies, killers, worry about getting busted all of the time. Just meeting you here today scares the shit outta me, and you're not a junkie, a killer or a cop, you're a fucking movie-maker. I like you, and I'm still scared. I'm a punk kid who picked up a rock in the street, only to find out it's the Hope Diamond. It's worth a million dollars, but I can't get the million dollars for it. But, you can. So, I'll sell it to you for a couple a hundred thousand. You go to make a million. It's all found money to me anyway. Me and my wife are minimum wage kids, two hundred thousand is the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Elliot tells me you're fronting for a dirty cop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, Elliot wasn't supposed to tell you anythin'. <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot, bigmouth. I knew you were a squid the moment I laid eyes on you. In my book, buddy, you're a piece of shit. <P ID="spkdir">(to Lee) <P ID="dia">He's not a dirty cop, he's a good cop. He just saw his chance and he took it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Why does he trust you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We grew up together. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">If you don't know shit, why does he think you can sell it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I bullshitted him. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee starts laughing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">That's wild. This fucking guy's a madman. I love it. Monty, go in the other room and get the money. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama and Dick exchange looks. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes exchange looks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES & NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Bingo! </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys are coming up. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Alabama) <P ID="dia">What's your part in this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm his wife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(referring to Dick) <P ID="dia">How 'bout you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I know Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">And Elliot knows me. Tell me, Clarence, what department does you friend work in? </p><p><p ID="act">Dick and Alabama panic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(without missing a beat) <P ID="dia">Carson County Sheriffs. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">The internal affairs officers high five. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Monty brings in a briefcase of money and puts it down on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Wanna count your money? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Actually, they can count it. I'd like to use the little boy's room. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">They all stand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">OK, boys. Let's go get 'em. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LEE'S HOTEL ROOM - BATHROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence steps inside the bathroom and shuts the door. As soon as it's shut he starts doing the twist. He can't believe he's pulled it off. He goes to the toilet and starts taking a piss. He turns and sees Elvis sitting on the sink. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Clarence, I gotta hand it to ya. You were cooler than cool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I was dying. I thought for sure everyone could see it on my face. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">All anybody saw was Clint Eastwood drinkin' coffee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Can you develop an ulcer in two minutes? Being cool is hard on your body. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Oh, and your line to Charles Atlas in there: "I'll take that gun", "You'll have to". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That was cool, wasn't it? You know, I don't even know where that came from. I just opened my mouth and it came out. After I said it I thought, that's a cool line, I gotta remember that. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Everything's just as it was. </p><p><p ID="act">Sudenly, Nicholson, Dimes and the four Detectives break into the room with guns drawn. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES & NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Police! Freeze, you're all under arrest! </p><p><p ID="act">Everybody at the table stands up. Boris and Monty stand ready with the Uzis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You two! Put the guns on the floor and back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Fuck you! All you pigs put your guns on the floor and back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Monty, what are you talking about? So what they say. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This is your last warning! Drop those fuckin' guns! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">This is your last warning! We could kill all six of ya and ya fuckin' know it! Now get on the floor! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What the fuck am I doing here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Boris! Everybody's gonna get killed! They're cops! </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">So they're cops. Who gives a shit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">Lee, something I never told you about me. I don't like cops. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">OK, let's everybody calm down and get nice. Nobody has to die. We don't want it, and you don't want it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">We don't want it. </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys burst through the door, shotguns drawn, except for Frankie, who has two .45 automatics, one in each hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Half of the cops spin around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Freeze! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Who are you guys? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Police. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DARIO <P ID="spkdir">(to Lenny) <P ID="dia">Do we get any extra if we have to kill cops? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">BATHROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How do you think I'm doin' with Lee? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Are you kiddin'? He loves you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't think I'm kissin' his ass, do you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">You're tellin' him what he wants to hear, but that ain't the same thing as kissin' his ass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not lyin' to him. I mean it. I loved "Coming Home in a Body Bag". </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">That's why it doesn't come across as ass-kissin', because it's genuine, and he can see that. </p><p><p ID="act">Elvis fixes Clarence's collar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I like ya, Clarence. Always have. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">This is a Mexican stand-off if there ever was one. Gangsters on one end with shotguns. Bodyguards with machine guns on the other. And cops with handguns in the middle. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's ready to pass out. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's so scared she pees on herself. </p><p><p ID="act">For Elliot, this has been the worst day of his life, and he's just about had it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Officer Dimes? Officer Dimes. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes looks at Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia"> This has nothing to do with me anymore. Can I just leave and you guys just settle it by yourselves? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Elliot, shut the fuck up and stay put! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">How did you know his name? How the fuck did he know your name? Why, you fuckin' little piece of shit! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Lee, understand, I didn't want to - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Shut the fuck up! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Well, I hope you're not planning on acting any time in the next twenty years 'cause your career is over as of now! You might as weel burn your SAG card! To think I treated you as a son! And you stabbed me in the heart! </p><p><p ID="act">Lee can't control his anger any more. He grabs the coffee pot off the table and flings hot coffee into Elliot's face. Elliot screams and falls to his knees, </p><p><p ID="act">Instinctively, Nicholson shoots Lee twice. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris lets loose with his Uzi, pinting Nicholson red with bullets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="spkdir">(screaming) <P ID="dia">Cody!!! </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson flies backwards. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin fires his shotgun, hits Nicholson in the back, Nicholson's body jerks back and forth then on the floor. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence opens the bathroom door. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes hits the ground firing. </p><p><p ID="act">A shot catches Clarence in the forehead. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario fires his sawed-off. It catches Clarence in the chest, hurling him on the bathroom sink, smashing the mirror. </p><p><p ID="act">It might have been a stand-off before, but once the firing starts everybody either hits the ground or runs for cover. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes, Alabama, Dick, Lenny, an IA Officer and Wurtlitzer hit the ground. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris dives into the kitchen area. </p><p><p ID="act">Monty tips the table over. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin dives behind the sofa. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario runs out of the door and down the hall. </p><p><p ID="act">With bullets flying this way and that, some don't have time to anything. Two IA Officers are shot right away. </p><p><p ID="act">Frankie takes an Uzi hit. He goes down firing both automatics. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot gets it from both sides. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama is crawling across the floor, like a soldier in war, towards the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, still barely alive, lays on the sink, twitching. He moves and falls off. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama continues crawling. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin brings his sawed-off from behind the sofa and fires. The shotgun blast hits the glass table and Monty. Monty stands up screaming. </p><p><p ID="act">The Cops on the ground let loose, firing into Monty. </p><p><p ID="act">As Monty gets hit, his finger hits the trigger of the Uzi, spreading fire all over the apartment. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cop cars start arriving in twos in front of the hotel. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">GUNFIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama crawling. </p><p><p ID="act">The suitcase full of cocaine is by Dick. Dick grabs it and tosses it in the air. Marvin comes from behind the sofa and fires. The suitcase is hit in mid-air. White powder goes everywhere. The room is enveloped in cocaine. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick takes this cue and makes a dash out the door. </p><p><p ID="act">An IA Officer goes after him. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny makes a break for it. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer goes after him but is pinned down by Marvin. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama reaches the bathroom and finds Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sweety? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's face is awash with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I... I can't see you... I've got blood in my eyes... </p><p><p ID="act">He dies. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama tries to give him outh-to-mouth resuscitation. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - HALLWAY - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dario runs down the hall, right into a cluster of uniformed police. </p><p><p ID="act">He fires his shotgun, hitting two, just before the others chop him to ribbons. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ANOTHER HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">The hallway's empty but we hear footsteps approaching fast. Dick comes around the corner, running as if on fire. Then we see the IA Officer turn the same corner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">IA OFFICER <P ID="spkdir">(aiming gun) <P ID="dia">Freeze! </p><p><p ID="act">Dick does. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'm unarmed! </p><p><P ID="speaker">IA OFFICER <P ID="dia">Put your hands on your head, you son-of-a-bitch! </p><p><p ID="act">He does. Then, from off screen, a shotgun blast tears into the IA Officer, sending him to the wall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Oh shit. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts running again and runs out of frame, then Lenny turns around the corner and runs down the hall. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick runs into the elevator area, he hits the buttons, he's trapped, it's like a box. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny catches up. Dick raises his hands. Lenny aimes his sawed-off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, I don't know who you are, but whatever it was that I did to you, I'm sorry. </p><p><p ID="act">Two elevator doors on either side of them open. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny looks at Dick. He drops his aim and says: </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Lotsa luck. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny dives into one elevator car. Dick jumps into the other, just as the doors close. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">HOTEL ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">The Mexican stand-off has become two different groups of two pinning each other down. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer has Marvin pinned down behind the sofa and Dimes has Boris pinned down in the kitchen. </p><p><p ID="act">In the bathroom, Alabama's pounding on Clarence's bloody chest, trying to get his heart started. It's not working. She slaps him hard in the face a couple of times. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Wake up, goddamn it! </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes discards his handgun and pulls one of the sawed-off shotguns from the grip of a dead Wise-guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris peeks around the wall to fire. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes lets loose with a blast. A scream is heard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I'm shot! Stop! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Throw out your gun, asshole! </p><p><p ID="act">The Uzi's tossed out. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes goes to where Wurlitzer is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="spkdir">(to Marvin) <P ID="dia">OK, black jacket! It's two against one now! Toss the gun and lie face down on the floor or die like all you friends. </p><p><p ID="act">The shotgun's tossed out from behind the sofa. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ELEVATOR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's sitting on the ground, he can't believe any of this. The doors open on the fourth floor. He runs out into the hallway. </p><p><p ID="act">HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">He starts trying the room doors for an open one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Oh, God, if you just get me outta this I swear to God I'll never fuck up again. Please, just let me get to "T.J. Hooker" on Monday. </p><p><p ID="act">STEWARDESS'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick steps in. Three gorgeous girls are doing a killer aerobics workout to a video on TV. The music is so loud they're so into their exercises, they don't hear Dick tiptoe behind them and crawl underneath the bed. </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Boris has caught a lot of buckshots, but he'll live. He's lying on the kitchen floor. Dimes stands over him. He has the sawed-off in his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Don't even give me an excuse, motherfucker. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes pats him down for other weapons, there are none. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer puts the cuffs on Marvin and sits him down on the couch. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes looks in the bathroom and sees the dead Clarence with Alabama crying over him. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes walks over to Wurlitzer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Everything's under control here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Sorry about Nicholson. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Me too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">I'm gonna go see what's goin' on outside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You do that. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer exits. Dimes grabs the phone. </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Shotgun in hand, Lenny moves hurriedly down the lobby. </p><p><p ID="act">A Cop yells out. </p><p><p ID="act">COP You! Stop! </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny brings up his sawed-off and lets him have it. Other cops rush forward. Lenny grabs a woman standing by. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Get back or I'll blow this bitch's brains to kingdom come! </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes on the phone talking with the department. Boris is still moving on the floor. Marvin is sitting on the couch with his hands cuffed behind his back. Alabama is crying over Clarence, then she feels something in his jacket. She reaches in and pulls out his .38. She wipes her eyes. She holds the gun in her hand and remembers Clarence saying: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">She's a sixteen-calibre kitten, equally equipped for killin' an' lovin'! She carried a sawed-off shotgun in her purse, a black belt around her waist, and the white-hot fire of hate in her eyes! Alabama Whitman is Pam Grier! Pray for forgiveness, Rated R... for Ruthless Revenge! </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama steps out of the bathroom, gun in hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin turns his head toward her. She shoots him twice. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes, still on the phone, spins around in time to see her raise her gun. She fires. He's hit in the head and flung to the floor. </p><p><p ID="act">She sees Boris on the kitchen floor. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye-bye, Boris. Good luck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">You too, cutie. </p><p><p ID="act">She starts to leave and then spots the briefcase full of money. She takes it and walks out the door. </p><p><p ID="act">HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">The elevator opens and Wurlitzer steps out. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama comes around the corner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Hey, you! </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama shoots him three times in the belly. She steps into the elevator, the doors close. </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama enters the lobby and proceeds to walk out. In the background, cops are all over the place and Lenny is still yelling with the woman hostage. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">I wanna car here, takin' me to the airport, with a plane full of gas ready to take me to Kilimanjaro and... and a million bucks! <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Small bills! </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - PARKING LOT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama puts the briefcase in the trunk. She gets into the Mustang and drives away. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's driving fast down the freeway. The DJ on the radio is trying to be funny. She's muttering to herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I could have walked away. I told you that. I told you I could have walked away. This is not my fault. I did not do this. You did this one hundred percent to yourself. I'm not gonna give you the satisfaction of feeling bad. I should laugh 'cause you don't deserve any better. I could get another guy like that. I'm hot lookin'. What are you? Dead! Dumb jerk. Asshole. You're a asshole, you're a asshole, you're a asshole. You wanted it all, didn't ya? Didn't ya? Well watcha got now? You ain't got the money. You ain't got me. You ain't even got your body anymore. You got nothin'. Nada. Zip. Goose egg. Nil. Donut. </p><p><p ID="act">The song "Little Arrows" by Leapy Lee comes on the radio. Alabama breaks down and starts crying. She pulls the car over to the side. The song continues. She wipes her eyes with a napkin that she pulls out her jacket. She tosses it on the dashboard. She picks up the .38 and sticks it in her mouth. </p><p><p ID="act">She pulls back hammer. She looks up and sees her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She turns it the other way. She looks straight ahead. Her finger tightens on the trigger. She sees the napkin on the dashboard. She opens it up and reads it: "You're so cool". </p><p><p ID="act">She tosses the gun aside, opens up the trunk, and takes out the briefcase. She looks around for, and finally finds, the "Sgt. Fury" comic book Clarence bought her. </p><p><p ID="act">And with comic book in one hand, and briefcase in the other, Bama walks away from the Mustang forever. </p><p><p ID="slug">FADE OUT </p><p><p ID="act">THE END Screenplay by Quentin Tarantino Produced by Samuel Hadida Steve Perry Bill Unger Directed by Tony Scott Cast List: Christian Slater Clarence Worley Patricia Arquette Alabama Whitman Dennis Hopper Clifford Worley Michael Rapaport Dick Ritchie Bronson Pinchott Elliot Blitzer Christopher Walken Vincenzo Coccotti Saul Rubinek Lee Donowitz Samuel L. Jackson Big Don Brad Pitt Floyd Val Kilmer Elvis (Mentor) Typed with two bare fingers by Niki Wurster Removed from zip format and formatted in text format by Kale Whorton. Formatted in HTML by Dabrast Caustic </p> </div> <b> </b><b> </b> <b></b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How many years into the future was Soames sent?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "100." ]	11,198	narrativeqa	en	null	ef34f858c45b105916d82027347c397ca58151b0a6bd37aa	Produced by Judith Boss. Enoch Soames A Memory of the Eighteen-nineties By MAX BEERBOHM When a book about the literature of the eighteen-nineties was given by Mr. Holbrook Jackson to the world, I looked eagerly in the index for Soames, Enoch. It was as I feared: he was not there. But everybody else was. Many writers whom I had quite forgotten, or remembered but faintly, lived again for me, they and their work, in Mr. Holbrook Jackson's pages. The book was as thorough as it was brilliantly written. And thus the omission found by me was an all the deadlier record of poor Soames's failure to impress himself on his decade. I dare say I am the only person who noticed the omission. Soames had failed so piteously as all that! Nor is there a counterpoise in the thought that if he had had some measure of success he might have passed, like those others, out of my mind, to return only at the historian's beck. It is true that had his gifts, such as they were, been acknowledged in his lifetime, he would never have made the bargain I saw him make--that strange bargain whose results have kept him always in the foreground of my memory. But it is from those very results that the full piteousness of him glares out. Not my compassion, however, impels me to write of him. For his sake, poor fellow, I should be inclined to keep my pen out of the ink. It is ill to deride the dead. And how can I write about Enoch Soames without making him ridiculous? Or, rather, how am I to hush up the horrid fact that he WAS ridiculous? I shall not be able to do that. Yet, sooner or later, write about him I must. You will see in due course that I have no option. And I may as well get the thing done now. In the summer term of '93 a bolt from the blue flashed down on Oxford. It drove deep; it hurtlingly embedded itself in the soil. Dons and undergraduates stood around, rather pale, discussing nothing but it. Whence came it, this meteorite? From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. Its aim? To do a series of twenty-four portraits in lithograph. These were to be published from the Bodley Head, London. The matter was urgent. Already the warden of A, and the master of B, and the Regius Professor of C had meekly "sat." Dignified and doddering old men who had never consented to sit to any one could not withstand this dynamic little stranger. He did not sue; he invited: he did not invite; he commanded. He was twenty-one years old. He wore spectacles that flashed more than any other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of ideas. He knew Whistler. He knew Daudet and the Goncourts. He knew every one in Paris. He knew them all by heart. He was Paris in Oxford. It was whispered that, so soon as he had polished off his selection of dons, he was going to include a few undergraduates. It was a proud day for me when I--I was included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; and there arose between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, and been more and more valued by me, with every passing year. At the end of term he settled in, or, rather, meteoritically into, London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever-enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other August elders who dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were already famous among the few--Aubrey Beardsley by name. With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. By him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the domino-room of the Cafe Royal. There, on that October evening--there, in that exuberant vista of gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted and pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled on marble tables, I drew a deep breath and, "This indeed," said I to myself, "is life!" (Forgive me that theory. Remember the waging of even the South African War was not yet.) It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermuth. Those who knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering slowly up and down in search of vacant tables or of tables occupied by friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted to catch Rothenstein's eye. He had twice passed our table, with a hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. He had a thin, vague beard, or, rather, he had a chin on which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but in the nineties odd apparitions were more frequent, I think, than they are now. The young writers of that era--and I was sure this man was a writer--strove earnestly to be distinct in aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat of clerical kind, but of Bohemian intention, and a gray waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I decided that "dim" was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the period. The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up his mind to pause in front of it. "You don't remember me," he said in a toneless voice. Rothenstein brightly focused him. "Yes, I do," he replied after a moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive memory. "Edwin Soames." "Enoch Soames," said Enoch. "Enoch Soames," repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough to have hit on the surname. "We met in Paris a few times when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche." "And I came to your studio once." "Oh, yes; I was sorry I was out." "But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know. I hear you're in Chelsea now." "Yes." I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like a donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to me that "hungry" was perhaps the mot juste for him; but--hungry for what? He looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him to sit down and have something to drink. Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his cape with a gesture which, had not those wings been waterproof, might have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an absinthe. "Je me tiens toujours fidele," he told Rothenstein, "a la sorciere glauque." "It is bad for you," said Rothenstein, dryly. "Nothing is bad for one," answered Soames. "Dans ce monde il n'y a ni bien ni mal." "Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?" "I explained it all in the preface to 'Negations.'" "'Negations'?" "Yes, I gave you a copy of it." "Oh, yes, of course. But, did you explain, for instance, that there was no such thing as bad or good grammar?" "N-no," said Soames. "Of course in art there is the good and the evil. But in life--no." He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak, white hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained with nicotine. "In life there are illusions of good and evil, but"--his voice trailed away to a murmur in which the words "vieux jeu" and "rococo" were faintly audible. I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his throat and said, "Parlons d'autre chose." It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was young, and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was quite five or six years older than either of us. Also--he had written a book. It was wonderful to have written a book. If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what kind of book it was to be. "My poems," he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather thought of giving the book no title at all. "If a book is good in itself--" he murmured, and waved his cigarette. Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale of a book. "If," he urged, "I went into a bookseller's and said simply, 'Have you got?' or, 'Have you a copy of?' how would they know what I wanted?" "Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover," Soames answered earnestly. "And I rather want," he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, "to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece." Rothenstein admitted that this was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the country and would be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, exclaimed at the hour, paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. Soames remained at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch. "Why were you so determined not to draw him?" I asked. "Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn't exist?" "He is dim," I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein repeated that Soames was non-existent. Still, Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had read "Negations." He said he had looked into it, "but," he added crisply, "I don't profess to know anything about writing." A reservation very characteristic of the period! Painters would not then allow that any one outside their own order had a right to any opinion about painting. This law (graven on the tablets brought down by Whistler from the summit of Fuji-yama) imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were not utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practiced them, the law tottered--the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold good. Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book without warning you at any rate that his opinion was worthless. No one is a better judge of literature than Rothenstein; but it wouldn't have done to tell him so in those days, and I knew that I must form an unaided judgment of "Negations." Not to buy a book of which I had met the author face to face would have been for me in those days an impossible act of self-denial. When I returned to Oxford for the Christmas term I had duly secured "Negations." I used to keep it lying carelessly on the table in my room, and whenever a friend took it up and asked what it was about, I would say: "Oh, it's rather a remarkable book. It's by a man whom I know." Just "what it was about" I never was able to say. Head or tail was just what I hadn't made of that slim, green volume. I found in the preface no clue to the labyrinth of contents, and in that labyrinth nothing to explain the preface. Lean near to life. Lean very near-- nearer. Life is web and therein nor warp nor woof is, but web only. It is for this I am Catholick in church and in thought, yet do let swift Mood weave there what the shuttle of Mood wills. These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which followed were less easy to understand. Then came "Stark: A Conte," about a midinette who, so far as I could gather, murdered, or was about to murder, a mannequin. It was rather like a story by Catulle Mendes in which the translator had either skipped or cut out every alternate sentence. Next, a dialogue between Pan and St. Ursula, lacking, I rather thought, in "snap." Next, some aphorisms (entitled "Aphorismata" [spelled in Greek]). Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form, and the forms had evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather the substance that eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any substance at all? It did now occur to me: suppose Enoch Soames was a fool! Up cropped a rival hypothesis: suppose _I_ was! I inclined to give Soames the benefit of the doubt. I had read "L'Apres-midi d'un faune" without extracting a glimmer of meaning; yet Mallarme, of course, was a master. How was I to know that Soames wasn't another? There was a sort of music in his prose, not indeed, arresting, but perhaps, I thought, haunting, and laden, perhaps, with meanings as deep as Mallarme's own. I awaited his poems with an open mind. And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I had had a second meeting with him. This was on an evening in January. Going into the aforesaid domino-room, I had passed a table at which sat a pale man with an open book before him. He had looked from his book to me, and I looked back over my shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognized him. I returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I said with a glance to the open book, "I see I am interrupting you," and was about to pass on, but, "I prefer," Soames replied in his toneless voice, "to be interrupted," and I obeyed his gesture that I should sit down. I asked him if he often read here. "Yes; things of this kind I read here," he answered, indicating the title of his book--"The Poems of Shelley." "Anything that you really"--and I was going to say "admire?" But I cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I had done so, for he said with unwonted emphasis, "Anything second-rate." I had read little of Shelley, but, "Of course," I murmured, "he's very uneven." "I should have thought evenness was just what was wrong with him. A deadly evenness. That's why I read him here. The noise of this place breaks the rhythm. He's tolerable here." Soames took up the book and glanced through the pages. He laughed. Soames's laugh was a short, single, and mirthless sound from the throat, unaccompanied by any movement of the face or brightening of the eyes. "What a period!" he uttered, laying the book down. And, "What a country!" he added. I asked rather nervously if he didn't think Keats had more or less held his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He admitted that there were "passages in Keats," but did not specify them. Of "the older men," as he called them, he seemed to like only Milton. "Milton," he said, "wasn't sentimental." Also, "Milton had a dark insight." And again, "I can always read Milton in the reading-room." "The reading-room?" "Of the British Museum. I go there every day." "You do? I've only been there once. I'm afraid I found it rather a depressing place. It--it seemed to sap one's vitality." "It does. That's why I go there. The lower one's vitality, the more sensitive one is to great art. I live near the museum. I have rooms in Dyott Street." "And you go round to the reading-room to read Milton?" "Usually Milton." He looked at me. "It was Milton," he certificatively added, "who converted me to diabolism." "Diabolism? Oh, yes? Really?" said I, with that vague discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own religion. "You--worship the devil?" Soames shook his head. "It's not exactly worship," he qualified, sipping his absinthe. "It's more a matter of trusting and encouraging." "I see, yes. I had rather gathered from the preface to 'Negations' that you were a--a Catholic." "Je l'etais a cette epoque. In fact, I still am. I am a Catholic diabolist." But this profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see that what was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read "Negations." His pale eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt as one who is about to be examined viva voce on the very subject in which he is shakiest. I hastily asked him how soon his poems were to be published. "Next week," he told me. "And are they to be published without a title?" "No. I found a title at last. But I sha'n't tell you what it is," as though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. "I am not sure that it wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It suggests something of the quality of the poems--strange growths, natural and wild, yet exquisite," he added, "and many-hued, and full of poisons." I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort that was his laugh, and, "Baudelaire," he said, "was a bourgeois malgre lui." France had had only one poet--Villon; "and two thirds of Villon were sheer journalism." Verlaine was "an epicier malgre lui." Altogether, rather to my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. There were "passages" in Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. But, "I," he summed up, "owe nothing to France." He nodded at me. "You'll see," he predicted. I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of "Fungoids" did, unconsciously of course, owe something to the young Parisian decadents or to the young English ones who owed something to THEM. I still think so. The little book, bought by me in Oxford, lies before me as I write. Its pale-gray buckram cover and silver lettering have not worn well. Nor have its contents. Through these, with a melancholy interest, I have again been looking. They are not much. But at the time of their publication I had a vague suspicion that they MIGHT be. I suppose it is my capacity for faith, not poor Soames's work, that is weaker than it once was. TO A YOUNG WOMAN THOU ART, WHO HAST NOT BEEN! Pale tunes irresolute And traceries of old sounds Blown from a rotted flute Mingle with noise of cymbals rouged with rust, Nor not strange forms and epicene Lie bleeding in the dust, Being wounded with wounds. For this it is That in thy counterpart Of age-long mockeries THOU HAST NOT BEEN NOR ART! There seemed to me a certain inconsistency as between the first and last lines of this. I tried, with bent brows, to resolve the discord. But I did not take my failure as wholly incompatible with a meaning in Soames's mind. Might it not rather indicate the depth of his meaning? As for the craftsmanship, "rouged with rust" seemed to me a fine stroke, and "nor not" instead of "and" had a curious felicity. I wondered who the "young woman" was and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that Soames could not have made more of it than she. Yet even now, if one doesn't try to make any sense at all of the poem, and reads it just for the sound, there is a certain grace of cadence. Soames was an artist, in so far as he was anything, poor fellow! It seemed to me, when first I read "Fungoids," that, oddly enough, the diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism seemed to be a cheerful, even a wholesome influence in his life. NOCTURNE Round and round the shutter'd Square I strolled with the Devil's arm in mine. No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there And the ring of his laughter and mine. We had drunk black wine. I scream'd, "I will race you, Master!" "What matter," he shriek'd, "to-night Which of us runs the faster? There is nothing to fear to-night In the foul moon's light!" Then I look'd him in the eyes And I laugh'd full shrill at the lie he told And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise. It was true, what I'd time and again been told: He was old--old. There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza--a joyous and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly hysterical, perhaps. But I liked the third, it was so bracingly unorthodox, even according to the tenets of Soames's peculiar sect in the faith. Not much "trusting and encouraging" here! Soames triumphantly exposing the devil as a liar, and laughing "full shrill," cut a quite heartening figure, I thought, then! Now, in the light of what befell, none of his other poems depresses me so much as "Nocturne." I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to say. They seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little to say and those who had nothing. The second class was the larger, and the words of the first were cold; insomuch that Strikes a note of modernity. . . . These tripping numbers.--"The Preston Telegraph." was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames's publisher. I had hoped that when next I met the poet I could congratulate him on having made a stir, for I fancied he was not so sure of his intrinsic greatness as he seemed. I was but able to say, rather coarsely, when next I did see him, that I hoped "Fungoids" was "selling splendidly." He looked at me across his glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at a jest. "You don't suppose I CARE, do you?" he said, with something like a snarl. I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a tradesman. I said mildly that I wasn't, either, and murmured that an artist who gave truly new and great things to the world had always to wait long for recognition. He said he cared not a sou for recognition. I agreed that the act of creation was its own reward. His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded myself as a nobody. But ah! hadn't both John Lane and Aubrey Beardsley suggested that I should write an essay for the great new venture that was afoot--"The Yellow Book"? And hadn't Henry Harland, as editor, accepted my essay? And wasn't it to be in the very first number? At Oxford I was still in statu pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much indeed a graduate now--one whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to show off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he ought to contribute to "The Yellow Book." He uttered from the throat a sound of scorn for that publication. Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland paused in the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up his hands toward the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met "that absurd creature" in Paris, and this very morning had received some poems in manuscript from him. "Has he NO talent?" I asked. "He has an income. He's all right." Harland was the most joyous of men and most generous of critics, and he hated to talk of anything about which he couldn't be enthusiastic. So I dropped the subject of Soames. The news that Soames had an income did take the edge off solicitude. I learned afterward that he was the son of an unsuccessful and deceased bookseller in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of three hundred pounds from a married aunt, and had no surviving relatives of any kind. Materially, then, he was "all right." But there was still a spiritual pathos about him, sharpened for me now by the possibility that even the praises of "The Preston Telegraph" might not have been forthcoming had he not been the son of a Preston man He had a sort of weak doggedness which I could not but admire. Neither he nor his work received the slightest encouragement; but he persisted in behaving as a personage: always he kept his dingy little flag flying. Wherever congregated the jeunes feroces of the arts, in whatever Soho restaurant they had just discovered, in whatever music-hall they were most frequently, there was Soames in the midst of them, or, rather, on the fringe of them, a dim, but inevitable, figure. He never sought to propitiate his fellow-writers, never bated a jot of his arrogance about his own work or of his contempt for theirs. To the painters he was respectful, even humble; but for the poets and prosaists of "The Yellow Book" and later of "The Savoy" he had never a word but of scorn. He wasn't resented. It didn't occur to anybody that he or his Catholic diabolism mattered. When, in the autumn of '96, he brought out (at his own expense, this time) a third book, his last book, nobody said a word for or against it. I meant, but forgot, to buy it. I never saw it, and am ashamed to say I don't even remember what it was called. But I did, at the time of its publication, say to Rothenstein that I thought poor old Soames was really a rather tragic figure, and that I believed he would literally die for want of recognition. Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for a kind heart which I didn't possess; and perhaps this was so. But at the private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I beheld a pastel portrait of "Enoch Soames, Esq." It was very like him, and very like Rothenstein to have done it. Soames was standing near it, in his soft hat and his waterproof cape, all through the afternoon. Anybody who knew him would have recognized the portrait at a glance, but nobody who didn't know him would have recognized the portrait from its bystander: it "existed" so much more than he; it was bound to. Also, it had not that expression of faint happiness which on that day was discernible, yes, in Soames's countenance. Fame had breathed on him. Twice again in the course of the month I went to the New English, and on both occasions Soames himself was on view there. Looking back, I regard the close of that exhibition as having been virtually the close of his career. He had felt the breath of Fame against his cheek--so late, for such a little while; and at its withdrawal he gave in, gave up, gave out. He, who had never looked strong or well, looked ghastly now--a shadow of the shade he had once been. He still frequented the domino-room, but having lost all wish to excite curiosity, he no longer read books there. "You read only at the museum now?" I asked, with attempted cheerfulness. He said he never went there now. "No absinthe there," he muttered. It was the sort of thing that in old days he would have said for effect; but it carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the "personality" he had striven so hard to build up, was solace and necessity now. He no longer called it "la sorciere glauque." He had shed away all his French phrases. He had become a plain, unvarnished Preston man. Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even though it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I avoided Soames because he made me feel rather vulgar. John Lane had published, by this time, two little books of mine, and they had had a pleasant little success of esteem. I was a--slight, but definite--"personality." Frank Harris had engaged me to kick up my heels in "The Saturday Review," Alfred Harmsworth was letting me do likewise in "The Daily Mail." I was just what Soames wasn't. And he shamed my gloss. Had I known that he really and firmly believed in the greatness of what he as an artist had achieved, I might not have shunned him. No man who hasn't lost his vanity can be held to have altogether failed. Soames's dignity was an illusion of mine. One day, in the first week of June, 1897, that illusion went. But on the evening of that day Soames went, too. I had been out most of the morning and, as it was too late to reach home in time for luncheon, I sought the Vingtieme. This little place--Restaurant du Vingtieme Siecle, to give it its full title--had been discovered in '96 by the poets and prosaists, but had now been more or less abandoned in favor of some later find. I don't think it lived long enough to justify its name; but at that time there it still was, in Greek Street, a few doors from Soho Square, and almost opposite to that house where, in the first years of the century, a little girl, and with her a boy named De Quincey, made nightly encampment in darkness and hunger among dust and rats and old legal parchments. The Vingtieme was but a small whitewashed room, leading out into the street at one end and into a kitchen at the other. The proprietor and cook was a Frenchman, known to us as Monsieur Vingtieme; the waiters were his two daughters, Rose and Berthe; and the food, according to faith, was good. The tables were so narrow and were set so close together that there was space for twelve of them, six jutting from each wall. Only the two nearest to the door, as I went in, were occupied. On one side sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man whom I had seen from time to time in the domino-room and elsewhere. On the other side sat Soames. They made a queer contrast in that sunlit room, Soames sitting haggard in that hat and cape, which nowhere at any season had I seen him doff, and this other, this keenly vital man, at sight of whom I more than ever wondered whether he were a diamond merchant, a conjurer, or the head of a private detective agency. I was sure Soames didn't want my company; but I asked, as it would have seemed brutal not to, whether I might join him, and took the chair opposite to his. He was smoking a cigarette, with an untasted salmi of something on his plate and a half-empty bottle of Sauterne before him, and he was quite silent. I said that the preparations for the Jubilee made London impossible. (I rather liked them, really.) I professed a wish to go right away till the whole thing was over. In vain did I attune myself to his gloom. He seemed not to hear me or even to see me. I felt that his behavior made me ridiculous in the eyes of the other man. The gangway between the two rows of tables at the Vingtieme was hardly more than two feet wide (Rose and Berthe, in their ministrations, had always to edge past each other, quarreling in whispers as they did so), and any one at the table abreast of yours was virtually at yours. I thought our neighbor was amused at my failure to interest Soames, and so, as I could not explain to him that my insistence was merely charitable, I became silent. Without turning my head, I had him well within my range of vision. I hoped I looked less vulgar than he in contrast with Soames. I was sure he was not an Englishman, but what WAS his nationality? Though his jet-black hair was en brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, who waited on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native idiom and accent. I gathered that this was his first visit to the Vingtieme; but Berthe was offhand in her manner to him: he had not made a good impression. His eyes were handsome, but, like the Vingtieme's tables, too narrow and set too close together. His nose was predatory, and the points of his mustache, waxed up behind his nostrils, gave a fixity to his smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of discomfort in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat which tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest. This waistcoat wasn't wrong merely because of the heat, either. It was somehow all wrong in itself. It wouldn't have done on Christmas morning. It would have struck a jarring note at the first night of "Hernani." I was trying to account for its wrongness when Soames suddenly and strangely broke silence. "A hundred years hence!" he murmured, as in a trance. "We shall not be here," I briskly, but fatuously, added. "We shall not be here. No," he droned, "but the museum will still be just where it is. And the reading-room just where it is. And people will be able to go and read there." He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as of actual pain contorted his features. I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He did not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, "You think I haven't minded." "Minded what, Soames?" "Neglect. Failure." "FAILURE?" I said heartily. "Failure?" I repeated vaguely. "Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. Of course you haven't been--appreciated. But what, then? Any artist who--who gives--" What I wanted to say was, "Any artist who gives truly new and great things to the world has always to wait long for recognition"; but the flattery would not out: in the face of his misery--a misery so genuine and so unmasked--my lips would not say the words. And then he said them for me. I flushed. "That's what you were going to say, isn't it?" he asked. "How did you know?" "It's what you said to me three years ago, when 'Fungoids' was published." I flushed the more. I need not have flushed at all. "It's the only important thing I ever heard you say," he continued. "And I've never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a horrible truth. But--d'you remember what I answered? I said, 'I don't care a sou for recognition.' And you believed me. You've gone on believing I'm above that sort of thing. You're shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist's faith in himself and in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy. You've never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the"--his voice broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in him. "Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn't know that people are visiting his grave, visiting his birthplace, putting up tablets to him, unveiling statues of him. A dead man can't read the books that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could come back to life THEN--just for a few hours--and go to the reading-room and READ! Or, better still, if I could be projected now, at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I'd sell myself body and soul to the devil for that! Think of the pages and pages in the catalogue: 'Soames, Enoch' endlessly--endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, biographies"-- But here he was interrupted by a sudden loud crack of the chair at the next table. Our neighbor had half risen from his place. He was leaning toward us, apologetically intrusive. "Excuse--permit me," he said softly. "I have been unable not to hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon--might I, as the phrase is, cut in?" I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a full view of Soames. "Though not an Englishman," he explained, "I know my London well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm's, too--very known to me. Your point is, who am _I_?" He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, "I am the devil." I couldn't help it; I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me; but--I laughed with increasing volume. The devil's quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro; I lay back aching; I behaved deplorably. "I am a gentleman, and," he said with intense emphasis, "I thought I was in the company of GENTLEMEN." "Don't!" I gasped faintly. "Oh, don't!" "Curious, nicht wahr?" I heard him say to Soames. "There is a type of person to whom the very mention of my name is--oh, so awfully--funny! In your theaters the dullest comedien needs only to say 'The devil!' and right away they give him 'the loud laugh what speaks the vacant mind.' Is it not so?" I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames. "I am a man of business," he said, "and always I would put things through 'right now,' as they say in the States. You are a poet. Les affaires--you detest them. So be it. But with me you will deal, eh? What you have said just now gives me furiously to hope." Soames had not moved except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat crouched forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his head just above the level of his hands, staring up at the devil. "Go on," he nodded. I had no remnant of laughter in me now. "It will be the more pleasant, our little deal," the devil went on, "because you are--I mistake not?--a diabolist." "A Catholic diabolist," said Soames. The devil accepted the reservation genially. "You wish," he resumed, "to visit now--this afternoon as-ever-is--the reading-room of the British Museum, yes? But of a hundred years hence, yes? Parfaitement. Time--an illusion. Past and future--they are as ever present as the present, or at any rate only what you call 'just round the corner.' I switch you on to any date. I project you--pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room just as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find yourself standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very minute, yes? And to stay there till closing-time? Am I right?" Soames nodded. The devil looked at his watch. "Ten past two," he said. "Closing-time in summer same then as now--seven o'clock. That will give you almost five hours. At seven o'clock--pouf!--you find yourself again here, sitting at this table. I am dining to-night dans le monde--dans le higlif. That concludes my present visit to your great city. I come and fetch you here, Mr. Soames, on my way home." "Home?" I echoed. "Be it never so humble!" said the devil, lightly. "All right," said Soames. "Soames!" I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle. The devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the table, but he paused in his gesture. "A hundred years hence, as now," he smiled, "no smoking allowed in the reading-room. You would better therefore--" Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his glass of Sauterne. "Soames!" again I cried. "Can't you"--but the devil had now stretched forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on the table-cloth. Soames's chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden in his wine-glass. There was no other trace of him. For a few moments the devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at me out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant. A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and rose from my chair. "Very clever," I said condescendingly. "But--'The Time Machine' is a delightful book, don't you think? So entirely original!" "You are pleased to sneer," said the devil, who had also risen, "but it is one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a quite other thing to be a supernatural power." All the same, I had scored. Berthe had come forth at the sound of our rising. I explained to her that Mr. Soames had been called away, and that both he and I would be dining here. It was not until I was out in the open air that I began to feel giddy. I have but the haziest recollection of what I did, where I wandered, in the glaring sunshine of that endless afternoon. I remember the sound of carpenters' hammers all along Piccadilly and the bare chaotic look of the half-erected "stands." Was it in the Green Park or in Kensington Gardens or WHERE was it that I sat on a chair beneath a tree, trying to read an evening paper? There was a phrase in the leading article that went on repeating itself in my fagged mind: "Little is hidden from this August Lady full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty." I remember wildly conceiving a letter (to reach Windsor by an express messenger told to await answer): "Madam: Well knowing that your Majesty is full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty, I venture to ask your advice in the following delicate matter. Mr. Enoch Soames, whose poems you may or may not know--" Was there NO way of helping him, saving him? A bargain was a bargain, and I was the last man to aid or abet any one in wriggling out of a reasonable obligation. I wouldn't have lifted a little finger to save Faust. But poor Soames! Doomed to pay without respite an eternal price for nothing but a fruitless search and a bitter disillusioning. Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, in the waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last decade of the next century, poring over books not yet written, and seeing and seen by men not yet born. Uncannier and odder still that to-night and evermore he would be in hell. Assuredly, truth was stranger than fiction. Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with Soames, not, indeed, to stay in the reading-room, but to sally forth for a brisk sight-seeing walk around a new London. I wandered restlessly out of the park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to imagine myself an ardent tourist from the eighteenth century. Intolerable was the strain of the slow-passing and empty minutes. Long before seven o'clock I was back at the Vingtieme. I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe appeared for a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till Mr. Soames came. A hurdy-gurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the noise of a quarrel between some Frenchmen farther up the street. Whenever the tune was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever away from it to the clock over the kitchen door. Five minutes now to the hour! I remembered that clocks in restaurants are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes on the paper. I vowed I would not look away from it again. I held it upright, at its full width, close to my face, so that I had no view of anything but it. Rather a tremulous sheet? Only because of the draft, I told myself. My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not drop them--now. I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, what, then? What else had I come for? Yet I held tight that barrier of newspaper. Only the sound of Berthe's brisk footstep from the kitchen enabled me, forced me, to drop it, and to utter: "What shall we have to eat, Soames?" "Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?" asked Berthe. "He's only--tired." I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy--and whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the table exactly as when last I had seen him. It was as though he had never moved--he who had moved so unimaginably far. Once or twice in the afternoon it had for an instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey was not to be fruitless, that perhaps we had all been wrong in our estimate of the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right was horribly clear from the look of him. But, "Don't be discouraged," I falteringly said. "Perhaps it's only that you--didn't leave enough time. Two, three centuries hence, perhaps--" "Yes," his voice came; "I've thought of that." "And now--now for the more immediate future! Where are you going to hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express from Charing Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don't go on to Paris. Stop at Calais. Live in Calais. He'd never think of looking for you in Calais." "It's like my luck," he said, "to spend my last hours on earth with an ass." But I was not offended. "And a treacherous ass," he strangely added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing on it--some sort of gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently aside. "Come, Soames, pull yourself together! This isn't a mere matter of life or death. It's a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don't mean to say you're going to wait limply here till the devil comes to fetch you." "I can't do anything else. I've no choice." "Come! This is 'trusting and encouraging' with a vengeance! This is diabolism run mad!" I filled his glass with wine. "Surely, now that you've SEEN the brute--" "It's no good abusing him." "You must admit there's nothing Miltonic about him, Soames." "I don't say he's not rather different from what I expected." "He's a vulgarian, he's a swell mobs-man, he's the sort of man who hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies' jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!" "You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?" "Then why not slip quietly out of the way?" Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did not eat, and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that any dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the capture certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. I told Soames that for the honor of the human race he ought to make some show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for him. "Besides," he said, "can't you understand that I'm in his power? You saw him touch me, didn't you? There's an end of it. I've no will. I'm sealed." I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word "sealed." I began to realize that the wine had clouded his brain. No wonder! Foodless he had gone into futurity, foodless he still was. I urged him to eat, at any rate, some bread. It was maddening to think that he, who had so much to tell, might tell nothing. "How was it all," I asked, "yonder? Come, tell me your adventures!" "They'd make first-rate 'copy,' wouldn't they?" "I'm awfully sorry for you, Soames, and I make all possible allowances; but what earthly right have you to insinuate that I should make 'copy,' as you call it, out of you?" The poor fellow pressed his hands to his forehead. "I don't know," he said. "I had some reason, I know. I'll try to remember. He sat plunged in thought. "That's right. Try to remember everything. Eat a little more bread. What did the reading-room look like?" "Much as usual," he at length muttered. "Many people there?" "Usual sort of number." "What did they look like?" Soames tried to visualize them. "They all," he presently remembered, "looked very like one another." My mind took a fearsome leap. "All dressed in sanitary woolen?" "Yes, I think so. Grayish-yellowish stuff." "A sort of uniform?" He nodded. "With a number on it perhaps--a number on a large disk of metal strapped round the left arm? D. K. F. 78,910--that sort of thing?" It was even so. "And all of them, men and women alike, looking very well cared for? Very Utopian, and smelling rather strongly of carbolic, and all of them quite hairless?" I was right every time. Soames was only not sure whether the men and women were hairless or shorn. "I hadn't time to look at them very closely," he explained. "No, of course not. But--" "They stared at ME, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of attention." At last he had done that! "I think I rather scared them. They moved away whenever I came near. They followed me about, at a distance, wherever I went. The men at the round desk in the middle seemed to have a sort of panic whenever I went to make inquiries." "What did you do when you arrived?" Well, he had gone straight to the catalogue, of course,--to the S volumes,--and had stood long before SN-SOF, unable to take this volume out of the shelf because his heart was beating so. At first, he said, he wasn't disappointed; he only thought there was some new arrangement. He went to the middle desk and asked where the catalogue of twentieth-century books was kept. He gathered that there was still only one catalogue. Again he looked up his name, stared at the three little pasted slips he had known so well. Then he went and sat down for a long time. "And then," he droned, "I looked up the 'Dictionary of National Biography,' and some encyclopedias. I went back to the middle desk and asked what was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton's book was considered the best. I looked it up in the catalogue and filled in a form for it. It was brought to me. My name wasn't in the index, but--yes!" he said with a sudden change of tone, "that's what I'd forgotten. Where's that bit of paper? Give it me back." I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the floor, and handed it to him. He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. "I found myself glancing through Nupton's book," he resumed. "Not very easy reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling. All the modern books I saw were phonetic." "Then I don't want to hear any more, Soames, please." "The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for that I mightn't have noticed my own name." "Your own name? Really? Soames, I'm VERY glad." "And yours." "No!" "I thought I should find you waiting here to-night, so I took the trouble to copy out the passage. Read it." I snatched the paper. Soames's handwriting was characteristically dim. It and the noisome spelling and my excitement made me all the slower to grasp what T. K. Nupton was driving at. The document lies before me at this moment. Strange that the words I here copy out for you were copied out for me by poor Soames just eighty-two years hence! From page 234 of "Inglish Littracher 1890-1900" bi T. K. Nupton, publishd bi th Stait, 1992. Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimed Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive in th twentith senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid an immajnari karrakter kauld "Enoch Soames"--a thurd-rait poit hoo beleevz imself a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th Devvl in auder ter no wot posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot labud sattire, but not without vallu az showing hou seriusli the yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took themselvz. Nou that th littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a departmnt of publik servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav lernt ter doo their duti without thort ov th morro. "Th laibrer iz werthi ov hiz hire" an that iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch Soameses amung us to-dai! I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I commend to my reader) I was able to master them little by little. The clearer they became, the greater was my bewilderment, my distress and horror. The whole thing was a nightmare. Afar, the great grisly background of what was in store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at the table, fixing on me a gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow whom--whom evidently--but no: whatever down-grade my character might take in coming years, I should never be such a brute as to-- Again I examined the screed. "Immajnari." But here Soames was, no more imaginary, alas! than I. And "labud"--what on earth was that? (To this day I have never made out that word.) "It's all very--baffling," I at length stammered. Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. "Are you sure," I temporized, "quite sure you copied the thing out correctly?" "Quite." "Well, then, it's this wretched Nupton who must have made--must be going to make--some idiotic mistake. Look here Soames, you know me better than to suppose that I-- After all, the name Max Beerbohm is not at all an uncommon one, and there must be several Enoch Soameses running around, or, rather, Enoch Soames is a name that might occur to any one writing a story. And I don't write stories; I'm an essayist, an observer, a recorder. I admit that it's an extraordinary coincidence. But you must see--" "I see the whole thing," said Soames, quietly. And he added, with a touch of his old manner, but with more dignity than I had ever known in him, "Parlons d'autre chose." I accepted that suggestion very promptly. I returned straight to the more immediate future. I spent most of the long evening in renewed appeals to Soames to come away and seek refuge somewhere. I remember saying at last that if indeed I was destined to write about him, the supposed "stauri" had better have at least a happy ending. Soames repeated those last three words in a tone of intense scorn. "In life and in art," he said, "all that matters is an INEVITABLE ending." "But," I urged more hopefully than I felt, "an ending that can be avoided ISN'T inevitable." "You aren't an artist," he rasped. "And you're so hopelessly not an artist that, so far from being able to imagine a thing and make it seem true, you're going to make even a true thing seem as if you'd made it up. You're a miserable bungler. And it's like my luck." I protested that the miserable bungler was not I, was not going to be I, but T. K. Nupton; and we had a rather heated argument, in the thick of which it suddenly seemed to me that Soames saw he was in the wrong: he had quite physically cowered. But I wondered why--and now I guessed with a cold throb just why--he stared so past me. The bringer of that "inevitable ending" filled the doorway. I managed to turn in my chair and to say, not without a semblance of lightness, "Aha, come in!" Dread was indeed rather blunted in me by his looking so absurdly like a villain in a melodrama. The sheen of his tilted hat and of his shirt-front, the repeated twists he was giving to his mustache, and most of all the magnificence of his sneer, gave token that he was there only to be foiled. He was at our table in a stride. "I am sorry," he sneered witheringly, "to break up your pleasant party, but--" "You don't; you complete it," I assured him. "Mr. Soames and I want to have a little talk with you. Won't you sit? Mr. Soames got nothing, frankly nothing, by his journey this afternoon. We don't wish to say that the whole thing was a swindle, a common swindle. On the contrary, we believe you meant well. But of course the bargain, such as it was, is off." The devil gave no verbal answer. He merely looked at Soames and pointed with rigid forefinger to the door. Soames was wretchedly rising from his chair when, with a desperate, quick gesture, I swept together two dinner-knives that were on the table, and laid their blades across each other. The devil stepped sharp back against the table behind him, averting his face and shuddering. "You are not superstitious!" he hissed. "Not at all," I smiled. "Soames," he said as to an underling, but without turning his face, "put those knives straight!" With an inhibitive gesture to my friend, "Mr. Soames," I said emphatically to the devil, "is a Catholic diabolist"; but my poor friend did the devil's bidding, not mine; and now, with his master's eyes again fixed on him, he arose, he shuffled past me. I tried to speak. It was he that spoke. "Try," was the prayer he threw back at me as the devil pushed him roughly out through the door--"TRY to make them know that I did exist!" In another instant I, too, was through that door. I stood staring all ways, up the street, across it, down it. There was moonlight and lamplight, but there was not Soames nor that other. Dazed, I stood there. Dazed, I turned back at length into the little room, and I suppose I paid Berthe or Rose for my dinner and luncheon and for Soames's; I hope so, for I never went to the Vingtieme again. Ever since that night I have avoided Greek Street altogether. And for years I did not set foot even in Soho Square, because on that same night it was there that I paced and loitered, long and long, with some such dull sense of hope as a man has in not straying far from the place where he has lost something. "Round and round the shutter'd Square"--that line came back to me on my lonely beat, and with it the whole stanza, ringing in my brain and bearing in on me how tragically different from the happy scene imagined by him was the poet's actual experience of that prince in whom of all princes we should put not our trust! But strange how the mind of an essayist, be it never so stricken, roves and ranges! I remember pausing before a wide door-step and wondering if perchance it was on this very one that the young De Quincey lay ill and faint while poor Ann flew as fast as her feet would carry her to Oxford Street, the "stony-hearted stepmother" of them both, and came back bearing that "glass of port wine and spices" but for which he might, so he thought, actually have died. Was this the very door-step that the old De Quincey used to revisit in homage? I pondered Ann's fate, the cause of her sudden vanishing from the ken of her boy friend; and presently I blamed myself for letting the past override the present. Poor vanished Soames! And for myself, too, I began to be troubled. What had I better do? Would there be a hue and cry--"Mysterious Disappearance of an Author," and all that? He had last been seen lunching and dining in my company. Hadn't I better get a hansom and drive straight to Scotland Yard? They would think I was a lunatic. After all, I reassured myself, London was a very large place, and one very dim figure might easily drop out of it unobserved, now especially, in the blinding glare of the near Jubilee. Better say nothing at all, I thought. AND I was right. Soames's disappearance made no stir at all. He was utterly forgotten before any one, so far as I am aware, noticed that he was no longer hanging around. Now and again some poet or prosaist may have said to another, "What has become of that man Soames?" but I never heard any such question asked. As for his landlady in Dyott Street, no doubt he had paid her weekly, and what possessions he may have had in his rooms were enough to save her from fretting. The solicitor through whom he was paid his annuity may be presumed to have made inquiries, but no echo of these resounded. There was something rather ghastly to me in the general unconsciousness that Soames had existed, and more than once I caught myself wondering whether Nupton, that babe unborn, were going to be right in thinking him a figment of my brain. In that extract from Nupton's repulsive book there is one point which perhaps puzzles you. How is it that the author, though I have here mentioned him by name and have quoted the exact words he is going to write, is not going to grasp the obvious corollary that I have invented nothing? The answer can be only this: Nupton will not have read the later passages of this memoir. Such lack of thoroughness is a serious fault in any one who undertakes to do scholar's work. And I hope these words will meet the eye of some contemporary rival to Nupton and be the undoing of Nupton. I like to think that some time between 1992 and 1997 somebody will have looked up this memoir, and will have forced on the world his inevitable and startling conclusions. And I have reason for believing that this will be so. You realize that the reading-room into which Soames was projected by the devil was in all respects precisely as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997. You realize, therefore, that on that afternoon, when it comes round, there the selfsame crowd will be, and there Soames will be, punctually, he and they doing precisely what they did before. Recall now Soames's account of the sensation he made. You may say that the mere difference of his costume was enough to make him sensational in that uniformed crowd. You wouldn't say so if you had ever seen him, and I assure you that in no period would Soames be anything but dim. The fact that people are going to stare at him and follow him around and seem afraid of him, can be explained only on the hypothesis that they will somehow have been prepared for his ghostly visitation. They will have been awfully waiting to see whether he really would come. And when he does come the effect will of course be--awful. An authentic, guaranteed, proved ghost, but; only a ghost, alas! Only that. In his first visit Soames was a creature of flesh and blood, whereas the creatures among whom he was projected were but ghosts, I take it--solid, palpable, vocal, but unconscious and automatic ghosts, in a building that was itself an illusion. Next time that building and those creatures will be real. It is of Soames that there will be but the semblance. I wish I could think him destined to revisit the world actually, physically, consciously. I wish he had this one brief escape, this one small treat, to look forward to. I never forget him for long. He is where he is and forever. The more rigid moralists among you may say he has only himself to blame. For my part, I think he has been very hardly used. It is well that vanity should be chastened; and Enoch Soames's vanity was, I admit, above the average, and called for special treatment. But there was no need for vindictiveness. You say he contracted to pay the price he is paying. Yes; but I maintain that he was induced to do so by fraud. Well informed in all things, the devil must have known that my friend would gain nothing by his visit to futurity. The whole thing was a very shabby trick. The more I think of it, the more detestable the devil seems to me. Of him I have caught sight several times, here and there, since that day at the Vingtieme. Only once, however, have I seen him at close quarters. This was a couple of years ago, in Paris. I was walking one afternoon along the rue d'Antin, and I saw him advancing from the opposite direction, overdressed as ever, and swinging an ebony cane and altogether behaving as though the whole pavement belonged to him. At thought of Enoch Soames and the myriads of other sufferers eternally in this brute's dominion, a great cold wrath filled me, and I drew myself up to my full height. But--well, one is so used to nodding and smiling in the street to anybody whom one knows that the action becomes almost independent of oneself; to prevent it requires a very sharp effort and great presence of mind. I was miserably aware, as I passed the devil, that I nodded and smiled to him. And my shame was the deeper and hotter because he, if you please, stared straight at me with the utmost haughtiness. To be cut, deliberately cut, by HIM! I was, I still am, furious at having had that happen to me. [Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions in the text; e.g., "does n't" has become "doesn't" etc.] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Enoch Soames, by Max Beerbohm Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How did the housekeeper's feet get wet during Holmes' visit?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Holmes accidentally kicks over a water pot" ]	10,016	narrativeqa	en	null	00e523b3da92cec012d5262c1d0c98507f6c4b67e3c8aaf4	Produced by David Brannan. HTML version by Al Haines. The Adventure of the Devil's Foot By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve--in the following terms: Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have handled. I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers. It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early spring of that year we found ourselves together in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish peninsula. It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim humour of my patient. From the windows of our little whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end. With a northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection. Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale from the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out from that evil place. On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with an occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he spent much of his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and he had, I remember, conceived the idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived from the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of books upon philology and was settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a problem at our very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more mysterious than any of those which had driven us from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were violently interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of a series of events which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain some recollection of what was called at the time "The Cornish Horror," though a most imperfect account of the matter reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details of this inconceivable affair to the public. I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and as such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a considerable fund of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman's scanty resources by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to such an arrangement, though he had little in common with his lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression of actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our short visit we found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs. These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion upon the moors. "Mr. Holmes," said the vicar in an agitated voice, "the most extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night. It is the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a special Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all England you are the one man we need." I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained than the clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of his dark eyes showed that they shared a common emotion. "Shall I speak or you?" he asked of the vicar. "Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it may be, and the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps you had better do the speaking," said Holmes. I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise which Holmes's simple deduction had brought to their faces. "Perhaps I had best say a few words first," said the vicar, "and then you can judge if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis, or whether we should not hasten at once to the scene of this mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here spent last evening in the company of his two brothers, Owen and George, and of his sister Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is near the old stone cross upon the moor. He left them shortly after ten o'clock, playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent health and spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he walked in that direction before breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who explained that he had just been sent for on a most urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally went with him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his sister were seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards still spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their sockets. The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses stricken clean out of them. All three of them, the dead woman and the two demented men, retained upon their faces an expression of the utmost horror--a convulsion of terror which was dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of the presence of anyone in the house, except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that she had slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen or disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of what the horror can be which has frightened a woman to death and two strong men out of their senses. There is the situation, Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can help us to clear it up you will have done a great work." I had hoped that in some way I could coax my companion back into the quiet which had been the object of our journey; but one glance at his intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was now the expectation. He sat for some little time in silence, absorbed in the strange drama which had broken in upon our peace. "I will look into this matter," he said at last. "On the face of it, it would appear to be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you been there yourself, Mr. Roundhay?" "No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the account to the vicarage, and I at once hurried over with him to consult you." "How far is it to the house where this singular tragedy occurred?" "About a mile inland." "Then we shall walk over together. But before we start I must ask you a few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis." The other had been silent all this time, but I had observed that his more controlled excitement was even greater than the obtrusive emotion of the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his anxious gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands clasped convulsively together. His pale lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful experience which had befallen his family, and his dark eyes seemed to reflect something of the horror of the scene. "Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes," said he eagerly. "It is a bad thing to speak of, but I will answer you the truth." "Tell me about last night." "Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has said, and my elder brother George proposed a game of whist afterwards. We sat down about nine o'clock. It was a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I left them all round the table, as merry as could be." "Who let you out?" "Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I shut the hall door behind me. The window of the room in which they sat was closed, but the blind was not drawn down. There was no change in door or window this morning, or any reason to think that any stranger had been to the house. Yet there they sat, driven clean mad with terror, and Brenda lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over the arm of the chair. I'll never get the sight of that room out of my mind so long as I live." "The facts, as you state them, are certainly most remarkable," said Holmes. "I take it that you have no theory yourself which can in any way account for them?" "It's devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!" cried Mortimer Tregennis. "It is not of this world. Something has come into that room which has dashed the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance could do that?" "I fear," said Holmes, "that if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr. Tregennis, I take it you were divided in some way from your family, since they lived together and you had rooms apart?" "That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past and done with. We were a family of tin-miners at Redruth, but we sold our venture to a company, and so retired with enough to keep us. I won't deny that there was some feeling about the division of the money and it stood between us for a time, but it was all forgiven and forgotten, and we were the best of friends together." "Looking back at the evening which you spent together, does anything stand out in your memory as throwing any possible light upon the tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can help me." "There is nothing at all, sir." "Your people were in their usual spirits?" "Never better." "Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any apprehension of coming danger?" "Nothing of the kind." "You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?" Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a moment. "There is one thing occurs to me," said he at last. "As we sat at the table my back was to the window, and my brother George, he being my partner at cards, was facing it. I saw him once look hard over my shoulder, so I turned round and looked also. The blind was up and the window shut, but I could just make out the bushes on the lawn, and it seemed to me for a moment that I saw something moving among them. I couldn't even say if it was man or animal, but I just thought there was something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told me that he had the same feeling. That is all that I can say." "Did you not investigate?" "No; the matter passed as unimportant." "You left them, then, without any premonition of evil?" "None at all." "I am not clear how you came to hear the news so early this morning." "I am an early riser and generally take a walk before breakfast. This morning I had hardly started when the doctor in his carriage overtook me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy down with an urgent message. I sprang in beside him and we drove on. When we got there we looked into that dreadful room. The candles and the fire must have burned out hours before, and they had been sitting there in the dark until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been dead at least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She just lay across the arm of the chair with that look on her face. George and Owen were singing snatches of songs and gibbering like two great apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I couldn't stand it, and the doctor was as white as a sheet. Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of faint, and we nearly had him on our hands as well." "Remarkable--most remarkable!" said Holmes, rising and taking his hat. "I think, perhaps, we had better go down to Tredannick Wartha without further delay. I confess that I have seldom known a case which at first sight presented a more singular problem." Our proceedings of that first morning did little to advance the investigation. It was marked, however, at the outset by an incident which left the most sinister impression upon my mind. The approach to the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a narrow, winding, country lane. While we made our way along it we heard the rattle of a carriage coming towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it drove by us I caught a glimpse through the closed window of a horribly contorted, grinning face glaring out at us. Those staring eyes and gnashing teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision. "My brothers!" cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. "They are taking them to Helston." We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon its way. Then we turned our steps towards this ill-omened house in which they had met their strange fate. It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa than a cottage, with a considerable garden which was already, in that Cornish air, well filled with spring flowers. Towards this garden the window of the sitting-room fronted, and from it, according to Mortimer Tregennis, must have come that thing of evil which had by sheer horror in a single instant blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly and thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the path before we entered the porch. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over the watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged both our feet and the garden path. Inside the house we were met by the elderly Cornish housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl, looked after the wants of the family. She readily answered all Holmes's questions. She had heard nothing in the night. Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and she had never known them more cheerful and prosperous. She had fainted with horror upon entering the room in the morning and seeing that dreadful company round the table. She had, when she recovered, thrown open the window to let the morning air in, and had run down to the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for the doctor. The lady was on her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It took four strong men to get the brothers into the asylum carriage. She would not herself stay in the house another day and was starting that very afternoon to rejoin her family at St. Ives. We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had been a very beautiful girl, though now verging upon middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there still lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had been her last human emotion. From her bedroom we descended to the sitting-room, where this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table were the four guttered and burned-out candles, with the cards scattered over its surface. The chairs had been moved back against the walls, but all else was as it had been the night before. Holmes paced with light, swift steps about the room; he sat in the various chairs, drawing them up and reconstructing their positions. He tested how much of the garden was visible; he examined the floor, the ceiling, and the fireplace; but never once did I see that sudden brightening of his eyes and tightening of his lips which would have told me that he saw some gleam of light in this utter darkness. "Why a fire?" he asked once. "Had they always a fire in this small room on a spring evening?" Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp. For that reason, after his arrival, the fire was lit. "What are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. "I think, Watson, that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have so often and so justly condemned," said he. "With your permission, gentlemen, we will now return to our cottage, for I am not aware that any new factor is likely to come to our notice here. I will turn the facts over in my mind, Mr. Tregennis, and should anything occur to me I will certainly communicate with you and the vicar. In the meantime I wish you both good-morning." It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that Holmes broke his complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his armchair, his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down, his forehead contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he laid down his pipe and sprang to his feet. "It won't do, Watson!" said he with a laugh. "Let us walk along the cliffs together and search for flint arrows. We are more likely to find them than clues to this problem. To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson--all else will come. "Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson," he continued as we skirted the cliffs together. "Let us get a firm grip of the very little which we DO know, so that when fresh facts arise we may be ready to fit them into their places. I take it, in the first place, that neither of us is prepared to admit diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out of our minds. Very good. There remain three persons who have been grievously stricken by some conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm ground. Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left the room. That is a very important point. The presumption is that it was within a few minutes afterwards. The cards still lay upon the table. It was already past their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not changed their position or pushed back their chairs. I repeat, then, that the occurrence was immediately after his departure, and not later than eleven o'clock last night. "Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the movements of Mortimer Tregennis after he left the room. In this there is no difficulty, and they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my methods as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot than might otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path took it admirably. Last night was also wet, you will remember, and it was not difficult--having obtained a sample print--to pick out his track among others and to follow his movements. He appears to have walked away swiftly in the direction of the vicarage. "If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and yet some outside person affected the card-players, how can we reconstruct that person, and how was such an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs. Porter may be eliminated. She is evidently harmless. Is there any evidence that someone crept up to the garden window and in some manner produced so terrific an effect that he drove those who saw it out of their senses? The only suggestion in this direction comes from Mortimer Tregennis himself, who says that his brother spoke about some movement in the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the night was rainy, cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm these people would be compelled to place his very face against the glass before he could be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border outside this window, but no indication of a footmark. It is difficult to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so terrible an impression upon the company, nor have we found any possible motive for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You perceive our difficulties, Watson?" "They are only too clear," I answered with conviction. "And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that they are not insurmountable," said Holmes. "I fancy that among your extensive archives, Watson, you may find some which were nearly as obscure. Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until more accurate data are available, and devote the rest of our morning to the pursuit of neolithic man." I may have commented upon my friend's power of mental detachment, but never have I wondered at it more than upon that spring morning in Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed upon celts, arrowheads, and shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery were waiting for his solution. It was not until we had returned in the afternoon to our cottage that we found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our minds back to the matter in hand. Neither of us needed to be told who that visitor was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the beard--golden at the fringes and white near the lips, save for the nicotine stain from his perpetual cigar--all these were as well known in London as in Africa, and could only be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr. Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer. We had heard of his presence in the district and had once or twice caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths. He made no advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamed of doing so to him, as it was well known that it was his love of seclusion which caused him to spend the greater part of the intervals between his journeys in a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he lived an absolutely lonely life, attending to his own simple wants and paying little apparent heed to the affairs of his neighbours. It was a surprise to me, therefore, to hear him asking Holmes in an eager voice whether he had made any advance in his reconstruction of this mysterious episode. "The county police are utterly at fault," said he, "but perhaps your wider experience has suggested some conceivable explanation. My only claim to being taken into your confidence is that during my many residences here I have come to know this family of Tregennis very well--indeed, upon my Cornish mother's side I could call them cousins--and their strange fate has naturally been a great shock to me. I may tell you that I had got as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, but the news reached me this morning, and I came straight back again to help in the inquiry." Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Did you lose your boat through it?" "I will take the next." "Dear me! that is friendship indeed." "I tell you they were relatives." "Quite so--cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboard the ship?" "Some of it, but the main part at the hotel." "I see. But surely this event could not have found its way into the Plymouth morning papers." "No, sir; I had a telegram." "Might I ask from whom?" A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer. "You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes." "It is my business." With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure. "I have no objection to telling you," he said. "It was Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me." "Thank you," said Holmes. "I may say in answer to your original question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject of this case, but that I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It would be premature to say more." "Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?" "No, I can hardly answer that." "Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." The famous doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable ill-humour, and within five minutes Holmes had followed him. I saw him no more until the evening, when he returned with a slow step and haggard face which assured me that he had made no great progress with his investigation. He glanced at a telegram which awaited him and threw it into the grate. "From the Plymouth hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name of it from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale's account was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last night there, and that he has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on to Africa, while he returned to be present at this investigation. What do you make of that, Watson?" "He is deeply interested." "Deeply interested--yes. There is a thread here which we had not yet grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson, for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand. When it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us." Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened up an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my window in the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking up, saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at our door, and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our garden path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet him. Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but at last in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him. "We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-ridden!" he cried. "Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his hands!" He danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it were not for his ashy face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his terrible news. "Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the same symptoms as the rest of his family." Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant. "Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?" "Yes, I can." "Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are entirely at your disposal. Hurry--hurry, before things get disarranged." The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor or the police, so that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me describe exactly the scene as we saw it upon that misty March morning. It has left an impression which can never be effaced from my mind. The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness. The servant who had first entered had thrown up the window, or it would have been even more intolerable. This might partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning back in his chair, his thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead, and his lean dark face turned towards the window and twisted into the same distortion of terror which had marked the features of his dead sister. His limbs were convulsed and his fingers contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm of fear. He was fully clothed, though there were signs that his dressing had been done in a hurry. We had already learned that his bed had been slept in, and that the tragic end had come to him in the early morning. One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes's phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the moment that he entered the fatal apartment. In an instant he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast around and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give him some fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with loud ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry. The lamp, which was an ordinary standard, he examined with minute care, making certain measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized with his lens the talc shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped off some ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of them into an envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally, just as the doctor and the official police put in an appearance, he beckoned to the vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn. "I am glad to say that my investigation has not been entirely barren," he remarked. "I cannot remain to discuss the matter with the police, but I should be exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you would give the inspector my compliments and direct his attention to the bedroom window and to the sitting-room lamp. Each is suggestive, and together they are almost conclusive. If the police would desire further information I shall be happy to see any of them at the cottage. And now, Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better employed elsewhere." It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an amateur, or that they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of investigation; but it is certain that we heard nothing from them for the next two days. During this time Holmes spent some of his time smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in country walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours without remark as to where he had been. One experiment served to show me the line of his investigation. He had bought a lamp which was the duplicate of the one which had burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy. This he filled with the same oil as that used at the vicarage, and he carefully timed the period which it would take to be exhausted. Another experiment which he made was of a more unpleasant nature, and one which I am not likely ever to forget. "You will remember, Watson," he remarked one afternoon, "that there is a single common point of resemblance in the varying reports which have reached us. This concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the room in each case upon those who had first entered it. You will recollect that Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the episode of his last visit to his brother's house, remarked that the doctor on entering the room fell into a chair? You had forgotten? Well I can answer for it that it was so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted upon entering the room and had afterwards opened the window. In the second case--that of Mortimer Tregennis himself--you cannot have forgotten the horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived, though the servant had thrown open the window. That servant, I found upon inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You will admit, Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In each case there is evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there is combustion going on in the room--in the one case a fire, in the other a lamp. The fire was needed, but the lamp was lit--as a comparison of the oil consumed will show--long after it was broad daylight. Why? Surely because there is some connection between three things--the burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness or death of those unfortunate people. That is clear, is it not?" "It would appear so." "At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis. We will suppose, then, that something was burned in each case which produced an atmosphere causing strange toxic effects. Very good. In the first instance--that of the Tregennis family--this substance was placed in the fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally carry fumes to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect the effects of the poison to be less than in the second case, where there was less escape for the vapour. The result seems to indicate that it was so, since in the first case only the woman, who had presumably the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others exhibiting that temporary or permanent lunacy which is evidently the first effect of the drug. In the second case the result was complete. The facts, therefore, seem to bear out the theory of a poison which worked by combustion. "With this train of reasoning in my head I naturally looked about in Mortimer Tregennis's room to find some remains of this substance. The obvious place to look was the talc shelf or smoke-guard of the lamp. There, sure enough, I perceived a number of flaky ashes, and round the edges a fringe of brownish powder, which had not yet been consumed. Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in an envelope." "Why half, Holmes?" "It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the official police force. I leave them all the evidence which I found. The poison still remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it. Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought I knew my Watson. This chair I will place opposite yours, so that we may be the same distance from the poison and face to face. The door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position to watch the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our powder--or what remains of it--from the envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp. So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await developments." They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my chair before I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very first whiff of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes, and my mind told me that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon my appalled senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold, whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing horror took possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my eyes were protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my tongue like leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that something must surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself. At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror--the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in. Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension at each other to mark the last traces of that terrific experience which we had undergone. "Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry." "You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you." He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude to those about him. "It would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson," said he. "A candid observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined that the effect could be so sudden and so severe." He dashed into the cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held at full arm's length, he threw it among a bank of brambles. "We must give the room a little time to clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?" "None whatever." "But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come into the arbour here and let us discuss it together. That villainous stuff seems still to linger round my throat. I think we must admit that all the evidence points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been the criminal in the first tragedy, though he was the victim in the second one. We must remember, in the first place, that there is some story of a family quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that quarrel may have been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot tell. When I think of Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the small shrewd, beady eyes behind the spectacles, he is not a man whom I should judge to be of a particularly forgiving disposition. Well, in the next place, you will remember that this idea of someone moving in the garden, which took our attention for a moment from the real cause of the tragedy, emanated from him. He had a motive in misleading us. Finally, if he did not throw the substance into the fire at the moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The affair happened immediately after his departure. Had anyone else come in, the family would certainly have risen from the table. Besides, in peaceful Cornwall, visitors did not arrive after ten o'clock at night. We may take it, then, that all the evidence points to Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit." "Then his own death was suicide!" "Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not impossible supposition. The man who had the guilt upon his soul of having brought such a fate upon his own family might well be driven by remorse to inflict it upon himself. There are, however, some cogent reasons against it. Fortunately, there is one man in England who knows all about it, and I have made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts this afternoon from his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his time. Perhaps you would kindly step this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducing a chemical experiment indoors which has left our little room hardly fit for the reception of so distinguished a visitor." I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now the majestic figure of the great African explorer appeared upon the path. He turned in some surprise towards the rustic arbour in which we sat. "You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about an hour ago, and I have come, though I really do not know why I should obey your summons." "Perhaps we can clear the point up before we separate," said Holmes. "Meanwhile, I am much obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence. You will excuse this informal reception in the open air, but my friend Watson and I have nearly furnished an additional chapter to what the papers call the Cornish Horror, and we prefer a clear atmosphere for the present. Perhaps, since the matters which we have to discuss will affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it is as well that we should talk where there can be no eavesdropping." The explorer took his cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at my companion. "I am at a loss to know, sir," he said, "what you can have to speak about which affects me personally in a very intimate fashion." "The killing of Mortimer Tregennis," said Holmes. For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale's fierce face turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate veins started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward with clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and with a violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps, more suggestive of danger than his hot-headed outburst. "I have lived so long among savages and beyond the law," said he, "that I have got into the way of being a law to myself. You would do well, Mr. Holmes, not to forget it, for I have no desire to do you an injury." "Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale. Surely the clearest proof of it is that, knowing what I know, I have sent for you and not for the police." Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the first time in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance of power in Holmes's manner which could not be withstood. Our visitor stammered for a moment, his great hands opening and shutting in his agitation. "What do you mean?" he asked at last. "If this is bluff upon your part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a bad man for your experiment. Let us have no more beating about the bush. What DO you mean?" "I will tell you," said Holmes, "and the reason why I tell you is that I hope frankness may beget frankness. What my next step may be will depend entirely upon the nature of your own defence." "My defence?" "Yes, sir." "My defence against what?" "Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis." Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Upon my word, you are getting on," said he. "Do all your successes depend upon this prodigious power of bluff?" "The bluff," said Holmes sternly, "is upon your side, Dr. Leon Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a proof I will tell you some of the facts upon which my conclusions are based. Of your return from Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go on to Africa, I will say nothing save that it first informed me that you were one of the factors which had to be taken into account in reconstructing this drama--" "I came back--" "I have heard your reasons and regard them as unconvincing and inadequate. We will pass that. You came down here to ask me whom I suspected. I refused to answer you. You then went to the vicarage, waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your cottage." "How do you know that?" "I followed you." "I saw no one." "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. You spent a restless night at your cottage, and you formed certain plans, which in the early morning you proceeded to put into execution. Leaving your door just as day was breaking, you filled your pocket with some reddish gravel that was lying heaped beside your gate." Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes in amazement. "You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from the vicarage. You were wearing, I may remark, the same pair of ribbed tennis shoes which are at the present moment upon your feet. At the vicarage you passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming out under the window of the lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight, but the household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the gravel from your pocket, and you threw it up at the window above you." Sterndale sprang to his feet. "I believe that you are the devil himself!" he cried. Holmes smiled at the compliment. "It took two, or possibly three, handfuls before the lodger came to the window. You beckoned him to come down. He dressed hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room. You entered by the window. There was an interview--a short one--during which you walked up and down the room. Then you passed out and closed the window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a cigar and watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of Tregennis, you withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do you justify such conduct, and what were the motives for your actions? If you prevaricate or trifle with me, I give you my assurance that the matter will pass out of my hands forever." Our visitor's face had turned ashen gray as he listened to the words of his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with his face sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it on the rustic table before us. "That is why I have done it," said he. It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful woman. Holmes stooped over it. "Brenda Tregennis," said he. "Yes, Brenda Tregennis," repeated our visitor. "For years I have loved her. For years she has loved me. There is the secret of that Cornish seclusion which people have marvelled at. It has brought me close to the one thing on earth that was dear to me. I could not marry her, for I have a wife who has left me for years and yet whom, by the deplorable laws of England, I could not divorce. For years Brenda waited. For years I waited. And this is what we have waited for." A terrible sob shook his great frame, and he clutched his throat under his brindled beard. Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke on: "The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He would tell you that she was an angel upon earth. That was why he telegraphed to me and I returned. What was my baggage or Africa to me when I learned that such a fate had come upon my darling? There you have the missing clue to my action, Mr. Holmes." "Proceed," said my friend. Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet and laid it upon the table. On the outside was written "Radix pedis diaboli" with a red poison label beneath it. He pushed it towards me. "I understand that you are a doctor, sir. Have you ever heard of this preparation?" "Devil's-foot root! No, I have never heard of it." "It is no reflection upon your professional knowledge," said he, "for I believe that, save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is no other specimen in Europe. It has not yet found its way either into the pharmacopoeia or into the literature of toxicology. The root is shaped like a foot, half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful name given by a botanical missionary. It is used as an ordeal poison by the medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa and is kept as a secret among them. This particular specimen I obtained under very extraordinary circumstances in the Ubangi country." He opened the paper as he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like powder. "Well, sir?" asked Holmes sternly. "I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually occurred, for you already know so much that it is clearly to my interest that you should know all. I have already explained the relationship in which I stood to the Tregennis family. For the sake of the sister I was friendly with the brothers. There was a family quarrel about money which estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to be made up, and I afterwards met him as I did the others. He was a sly, subtle, scheming man, and several things arose which gave me a suspicion of him, but I had no cause for any positive quarrel. "One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage and I showed him some of my African curiosities. Among other things I exhibited this powder, and I told him of its strange properties, how it stimulates those brain centres which control the emotion of fear, and how either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy native who is subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him also how powerless European science would be to detect it. How he took it I cannot say, for I never left the room, but there is no doubt that it was then, while I was opening cabinets and stooping to boxes, that he managed to abstract some of the devil's-foot root. I well remember how he plied me with questions as to the amount and the time that was needed for its effect, but I little dreamed that he could have a personal reason for asking. "I thought no more of the matter until the vicar's telegram reached me at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I would be at sea before the news could reach me, and that I should be lost for years in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I could not listen to the details without feeling assured that my poison had been used. I came round to see you on the chance that some other explanation had suggested itself to you. But there could be none. I was convinced that Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer; that for the sake of money, and with the idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his family were all insane he would be the sole guardian of their joint property, he had used the devil's-foot powder upon them, driven two of them out of their senses, and killed his sister Brenda, the one human being whom I have ever loved or who has ever loved me. There was his crime; what was to be his punishment? "Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I knew that the facts were true, but could I help to make a jury of countrymen believe so fantastic a story? I might or I might not. But I could not afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I have said to you once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside the law, and that I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it was even now. I determined that the fate which he had given to others should be shared by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon him with my own hand. In all England there can be no man who sets less value upon his own life than I do at the present moment. "Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. I did, as you say, after a restless night, set off early from my cottage. I foresaw the difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some gravel from the pile which you have mentioned, and I used it to throw up to his window. He came down and admitted me through the window of the sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair, paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder above it, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my heart was flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent darling had not felt before him. There is my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would have done as much yourself. At any rate, I am in your hands. You can take what steps you like. As I have already said, there is no man living who can fear death less than I do." Holmes sat for some little time in silence. "What were your plans?" he asked at last. "I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My work there is but half finished." "Go and do the other half," said Holmes. "I, at least, am not prepared to prevent you." Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and walked from the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his pouch. "Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcome change," said he. "I think you must agree, Watson, that it is not a case in which we are called upon to interfere. Our investigation has been independent, and our action shall be so also. You would not denounce the man?" "Certainly not," I answered. "I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not offend your intelligence by explaining what is obvious. The gravel upon the window-sill was, of course, the starting-point of my research. It was unlike anything in the vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr. Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp shining in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield were successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and go back with a clear conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots which are surely to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic speech." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Adventure of the Devil's Foot, by Arthur Conan Doyle Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What would Socrates turn into if he agreed to break out of prison?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Go ahead and memorize the context. Here is the context: The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "He would turn into an outlaw." ]	6,598	narrativeqa	en	null	b7b3b83227d5bd105ada694c356855ffe9e2a5e09dd613ab	This etext was prepared by Sue Asscher <asschers@aia.net.au> CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? To this Crito is unable or unwilling to reply. Socrates proceeds:--Suppose the Laws of Athens to come and remonstrate with him: they will ask 'Why does he seek to overturn them?' and if he replies, 'they have injured him,' will not the Laws answer, 'Yes, but was that the agreement? Has he any objection to make to them which would justify him in overturning them? Was he not brought into the world and educated by their help, and are they not his parents? He might have left Athens and gone where he pleased, but he has lived there for seventy years more constantly than any other citizen.' Thus he has clearly shown that he acknowledged the agreement, which he cannot now break without dishonour to himself and danger to his friends. Even in the course of the trial he might have proposed exile as the penalty, but then he declared that he preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his footsteps? In any well-ordered state the Laws will consider him as an enemy. Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he may be welcomed at first, and the unseemly narrative of his escape will be regarded by the inhabitants as an amusing tale. But if he offends them he will have to learn another sort of lesson. Will he continue to give lectures in virtue? That would hardly be decent. And how will his children be the gainers if he takes them into Thessaly, and deprives them of Athenian citizenship? Or if he leaves them behind, does he expect that they will be better taken care of by his friends because he is in Thessaly? Will not true friends care for them equally whether he is alive or dead? Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life and children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks agreements, and returns evil for evil, they will be angry with him while he lives; and their brethren the Laws of the world below will receive him as an enemy. Such is the mystic voice which is always murmuring in his ears. That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made against him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated in later ages. The crimes of Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides, who had been his pupils, were still recent in the memory of the now restored democracy. The fact that he had been neutral in the death-struggle of Athens was not likely to conciliate popular good-will. Plato, writing probably in the next generation, undertakes the defence of his friend and master in this particular, not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and the world at large. Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of Crito and the proposal of escape is uncertain: Plato could easily have invented far more than that (Phaedr.); and in the selection of Crito, the aged friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to Socrates, we seem to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether any one who has been subjected by the laws of his country to an unjust judgment is right in attempting to escape, is a thesis about which casuists might disagree. Shelley (Prose Works) is of opinion that Socrates 'did well to die,' but not for the 'sophistical' reasons which Plato has put into his mouth. And there would be no difficulty in arguing that Socrates should have lived and preferred to a glorious death the good which he might still be able to perform. 'A rhetorician would have had much to say upon that point.' It may be observed however that Plato never intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only to exhibit the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil in order to avoid the greatest, and to show his master maintaining in death the opinions which he had professed in his life. Not 'the world,' but the 'one wise man,' is still the paradox of Socrates in his last hours. He must be guided by reason, although her conclusions may be fatal to him. The remarkable sentiment that the wicked can do neither good nor evil is true, if taken in the sense, which he means, of moral evil; in his own words, 'they cannot make a man wise or foolish.' This little dialogue is a perfect piece of dialectic, in which granting the 'common principle,' there is no escaping from the conclusion. It is anticipated at the beginning by the dream of Socrates and the parody of Homer. The personification of the Laws, and of their brethren the Laws in the world below, is one of the noblest and boldest figures of speech which occur in Plato. CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Crito. SCENE: The Prison of Socrates. SOCRATES: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early. CRITO: Yes, certainly. SOCRATES: What is the exact time? CRITO: The dawn is breaking. SOCRATES: I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in. CRITO: He knows me because I often come, Socrates; moreover. I have done him a kindness. SOCRATES: And are you only just arrived? CRITO: No, I came some time ago. SOCRATES: Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me? CRITO: I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest as you are--indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity. SOCRATES: Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at the approach of death. CRITO: And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from repining. SOCRATES: That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour. CRITO: I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me. SOCRATES: What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die? CRITO: No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life. SOCRATES: Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a delay of a day. CRITO: Why do you think so? SOCRATES: I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship? CRITO: Yes; that is what the authorities say. SOCRATES: But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep. CRITO: And what was the nature of the vision? SOCRATES: There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates, 'The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go.' (Homer, Il.) CRITO: What a singular dream, Socrates! SOCRATES: There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think. CRITO: Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this--that I should be thought to value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused. SOCRATES: But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many? Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these things truly as they occurred. CRITO: But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their good opinion. SOCRATES: I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil; for then they would also be able to do the greatest good-- and what a fine thing this would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance. CRITO: Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only one. CRITO: Fear not--there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great cost; and as for the informers they are far from being exorbitant in their demands--a little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service, and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do not say, as you did in the court (compare Apol.), that you will have a difficulty in knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies, who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier, which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently; and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors (compare Apol.). What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your old argument about the opinions of men?--we were saying that some of them are to be regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of talking--mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help, Crito:--whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded. Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow--at least, there is no human probability of this, and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was right in maintaining this? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: The good are to be regarded, and not the bad? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are evil? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, or of one man only--his physician or trainer, whoever he may be? CRITO: Of one man only. SOCRATES: And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only, and not of the many? CRITO: Clearly so. SOCRATES: And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put together? CRITO: True. SOCRATES: And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil? CRITO: Certainly he will. SOCRATES: And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the disobedient person? CRITO: Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil. SOCRATES: Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;--there is such a principle? CRITO: Certainly there is, Socrates. SOCRATES: Take a parallel instance:--if, acting under the advice of those who have no understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is--the body? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed, which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle, whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: More honourable than the body? CRITO: Far more. SOCRATES: Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable.--'Well,' some one will say, 'but the many can kill us.' CRITO: Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer. SOCRATES: And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another proposition--that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued? CRITO: Yes, that also remains unshaken. SOCRATES: And a good life is equivalent to a just and honorable one--that holds also? CRITO: Yes, it does. SOCRATES: From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of educating one's children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death--and with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation. CRITO: I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed? SOCRATES: Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can, and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment. And now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me. CRITO: I will. SOCRATES: Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonorable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then we must do no wrong? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure no one at all? (E.g. compare Rep.) CRITO: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Again, Crito, may we do evil? CRITO: Surely not, Socrates. SOCRATES: And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many--is that just or not? CRITO: Not just. SOCRATES: For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him? CRITO: Very true. SOCRATES: Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step. CRITO: You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind. SOCRATES: Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a question:--Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the right? CRITO: He ought to do what he thinks right. SOCRATES: But if this is true, what is the application? In leaving the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just--what do you say? CRITO: I cannot tell, Socrates, for I do not know. SOCRATES: Then consider the matter in this way:--Imagine that I am about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the government come and interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you about? are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us--the laws, and the whole state, as far as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?' What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply, 'Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' Suppose I say that? CRITO: Very good, Socrates. SOCRATES: 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would answer; 'or were you to abide by the sentence of the state?' And if I were to express my astonishment at their words, the law would probably add: 'Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes--you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,--What complaint have you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us who after birth regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to train you in music and gymnastic?' Right, I should reply. 'Well then, since you were brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands?--you would not say this? And because we think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return, and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the laws speak truly, or do they not? CRITO: I think that they do. SOCRATES: Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city, may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we maintain, thrice wrong: first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;--that is what we offer, and he does neither. 'These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above all other men have acknowledged the agreement. 'There is clear proof,' they will say, 'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be supposed to love (compare Phaedr.). For you never went out of the city either to see the games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our state; we were your especial favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you; and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But you pretended that you preferred death to exile (compare Apol.), and that you were not unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true or not?' How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent? CRITO: We cannot help it, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then will they not say: 'You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt, the blind, the maimed, were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city. 'For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself, if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away from well-governed states to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will live, but how?--as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?--eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner. And where will be your fine sentiments about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to live for the sake of your children--you want to bring them up and educate them--will you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them; for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for anything, they will--to be sure they will. 'Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito.' This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say. CRITO: I have nothing to say, Socrates. SOCRATES: Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he leads. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who acts as Falder's lawyer?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The context is a play called "Justice" by John Galsworthy. The play is divided into four acts. The first act takes place in the office of James and Walter How, a law firm, on a July morning. The office is old-fashioned and furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. SWEEDLE tells COKESON that there's a party wants to see FALDER, the firm's junior clerk. COKESON sends SWEEDLE to Morris's to send FALDER there. However, SWEEDLE returns and tells COKESON that the party is a woman, and she's brought her children with her. COKESON is hesitant but allows the woman, RUTH HONEYWILL, to see FALDER. RUTH tells FALDER that Honeywill, her husband, has been ill-treating her, and she's been living with FALDER. FALDER is torn between his love for RUTH and his desire to escape his situation. He gives RUTH seven pounds and tells her to meet him at the booking office at 11.45 that night. RUTH and FALDER share a passionate kiss before COKESON re-enters the room. COKESON is shocked and tries to intervene, but FALDER quickly composes himself and leaves the room. COKESON is left looking uncomfortable and tries to distract himself by adding up figures in his pass-book. WALTER HOW, the son of the firm's partner, enters the room and talks to COKESON about some business matters. COKESON mentions that he's been adding up figures in the pass-book and offers to let WALTER take it. WALTER agrees and takes the pass-book. JAMES HOW, the firm's partner, enters the room and talks to WALTER and COKESON about some business matters. COKESON mentions that he's been adding up figures in the pass-book and offers to let JAMES take it. JAMES agrees and takes the pass-book. COKESON is left looking uncomfortable and tries to Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Frome" ]	22,761	narrativeqa	en	null	effb0e0c603a8569abcfe4078c09c8c63f3c6f57e85df43c	Produced by David Widger GALSWORTHY PLAYS SECOND SERIES--NO. 1 JUSTICE By John Galsworthy PERSONS OF THE PLAY JAMES HOW, solicitor WALTER HOW, solicitor ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk SWEEDLE, their office-boy WISTER, a detective COWLEY, a cashier MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate HECTOR FROME, a young advocate CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain EDWARD CLEMENT, a prison doctor WOODER, a chief warder MOANEY, convict CLIFTON, convict O'CLEARY, convict RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman A NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITERS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS, JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS TIME: The Present. ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July. ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. ACT III. A prison. December. SCENE I. The Governor's office. SCENE II. A corridor. SCENE III. A cell. ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. March, two years later. CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINE Walter How MR. CHARLES MAUDE Cokeson MR. EDMUND GWENN Falder MR. DENNIS EADIE The Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEE The Detective MR. LESLIE CARTER The Cashier MR. C. E. VERNON The Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULT The Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYE The Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANT The Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEY The Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBEN The Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSON Wooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYD Moaney MR. ROBERT PATEMAN Clipton MR. O. P. HEGGIE O'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANE Ruth Honeywill Miss EDYTH OLIVE ACT I The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of James and Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned, furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the partners' room. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. COKESON. And five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks the page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one. SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carry two. Send him to Morris's. What name? SWEEDLE. Honeywill. COKESON. What's his business? SWEEDLE. It's a woman. COKESON. A lady? SWEEDLE. No, a person. COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closes the pass-book.] SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, please? RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She is a tall woman, twenty-six years old, unpretentiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. She stands very still, having a natural dignity of pose and gesture. SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young man's out. [Suspiciously] State your business, please. RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slight West-Country accent] It's a personal matter, sir. COKESON. We don't allow private callers here. Will you leave a message? RUTH. I'd rather see him, please. She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. Suppose I had my friends here to see me! It'd never do! RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here you are wanting to see a junior clerk! RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him. COKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of outraged interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to his private address. RUTH. He's not there. COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know what to say. It's no affair of the office. RUTH. But what am I to do? COKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. SWEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer office and passes through into it, with a quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully leaving the door an inch or two open. COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, this won't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in! An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer door of the outer office. SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some children outside here. RUTH. They're mine, please. SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check? RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON] COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk short as it is. RUTH. It's a matter of life and death. COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death! SWEEDLE. Here is Falder. FALDER has entered through the outer office. He is a pale, good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. He moves towards the door of the clerks' office, and stands there irresolute. COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not regular. Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' room. RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. He tried to cut my throat last night. I came out with the children before he was awake. I went round to you. FALDER. I've changed my digs. RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night? FALDER. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at the booking office. For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her with tragic intensity] Ruth! RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you? FALDER. Have you got your things, and the children's? RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but one bag. I can't go near home again. FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. How much must you have? RUTH. Six pounds--I could do with that, I think. FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [As if to himself] When I get out there I mean to forget it all. RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than take you against your will. FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'll have you. RUTH. You've just to say; it's not too late. FALDER. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. Booking office 11.45 to-night. If you weren't what you are to me, Ruth----! RUTH. Kiss me! They cling together passionately, there fly apart just as COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH turns and goes out through the outer office. COKESON advances deliberately to his chair and seats himself. COKESON. This isn't right, Falder. FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir. COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. FALDER. Yes, sir. COKESON. You quite understand-the party was in some distress; and, having children with her, I allowed my feelings----[He opens a drawer and produces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in the Home." It's a well-written thing. FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] Thank you, sir. COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left? FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir--for good. COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't mention about the party having called, but---- FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost apologetic voice. WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson. COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter. WALTER. My father here? COKESON. [Always with a certain patronage as to a young man who might be doing better] Mr. James has been here since eleven o'clock. WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the Guildhall. COKESON. [Looking at him as though this were exactly what was to be expected] Have you now--ye--es. This lease of Boulter's--am I to send it to counsel? WALTER. What does my father say? COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him. WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful. COKESON. It's such a little thing--hardly worth the fees. I thought you'd do it yourself. WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the responsibility. COKESON. [With an indescribable air of compassion] Just as you like. This "right-of-way" case--we've got 'em on the deeds. WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit of common ground. COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're the right side of the law. WALTER. I don't like it, COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want to set ourselves up against the law. Your father wouldn't waste his time doing that. As he speaks JAMES How comes in from the partners' room. He is a shortish man, with white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. JAMES. Morning, Walter. WALTER. How are you, father? COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as though deprecating their size] I'll just take Boulter's lease in to young Falder to draft the instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room.] WALTER. About that right-of-way case? JAMES. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I thought you told me yesterday the firm's balance was over four hundred. WALTER. So it is. JAMES. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three--five--one, no recent cheques. Just get me out the cheque-book. WALTER goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer and produces a cheque-book. JAMES. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, fifty-four, seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, eleven, fifty-two, seventy-one. Tally? WALTER. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure it was over four hundred. JAMES. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the check-book and cons the counterfoils] What's this ninety? WALTER. Who drew it? JAMES. You. WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's the day I went down to look over the Trenton Estate--last Friday week; I came back on the Tuesday, you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my expenses. It just covered all but half a crown. JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. [He sorts the cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] Seems all right. There's no nine here. This is bad. Who cashed that nine-pound cheque? WALTER. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see! I was finishing Mrs. Reddy's will--only just had time; yes--I gave it to Cokeson. JAMES. Look at that 't' 'y': that yours? WALTER. [After consideration] My y's curl back a little; this doesn't. JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room] We must ask him. Just come here and carry your mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you remember cashing a cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week--the day he went to Trenton? COKESON. Ye-es. Nine pounds. JAMES. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque.] COKESON. No! Nine pounds. My lunch was just coming in; and of course I like it hot; I gave the cheque to Davis to run round to the bank. He brought it back, all gold--you remember, Mr. Walter, you wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain contemptuous compassion] Here, let me see. You've got the wrong cheque. He takes cheque-book and pass-book from WALTER. WALTER. Afraid not. COKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. JAMES. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for Australia on Monday. Looks black, Cokeson. COKESON. [Puzzled and upset] why this'd be a felony! No, no! there's some mistake. JAMES. I hope so. COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort in the office the twenty-nine years I've been here. JAMES. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a very clever bit of work; a warning to you not to leave space after your figures, Walter. WALTER. [Vexed] Yes, I know--I was in such a tearing hurry that afternoon. COKESON. [Suddenly] This has upset me. JAMES. The counterfoil altered too--very deliberate piece of swindling. What was Davis's ship? WALTER. 'City of Rangoon'. JAMES. We ought to wire and have him arrested at Naples; he can't be there yet. COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young man. Dear, oh dear! In this office! WALTER. Shall I go to the bank and ask the cashier? JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring up Scotland Yard. WALTER. Really? He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces the room. He stops and looks at COKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the knees of his trousers. JAMES. Well, Cokeson! There's something in character, isn't there? COKESON. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't quite take you, sir. JAMES. Your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn't know you. COKESON. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with a sudden gravity] I'm sorry for that young man. I feel it as if it was my own son, Mr. James. JAMES. A nasty business! COKESON. It unsettles you. All goes on regular, and then a thing like this happens. Shan't relish my lunch to-day. JAMES. As bad as that, Cokeson? COKESON. It makes you think. [Confidentially] He must have had temptation. JAMES. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him yet. COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen. [He broods.] JAMES. I hope that fellow will hurry up. COKESON. [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] It isn't fifty yards, Mr. James. He won't be a minute. JAMES. The idea of dishonesty about this office it hits me hard, Cokeson. He goes towards the door of the partners' room. SWEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to COKESON in a low voice] She's popped up again, sir-something she forgot to say to Falder. COKESON. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh? Impossible. Send her away! JAMES. What's that? COKESON. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter. Here, I'll come myself. [He goes into the outer office as JAMES passes into the partners' room] Now, you really mustn't--we can't have anybody just now. RUTH. Not for a minute, sir? COKESON. Reely! Reely! I can't have it. If you want him, wait about; he'll be going out for his lunch directly. RUTH. Yes, sir. WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH as she leaves the outer office. COKESON. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary dragoon] Good-morning. [To WALTER] Your father's in there. WALTER crosses and goes into the partners' room. COKESON. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, Mr. Cowley. I'm quite ashamed to have to trouble you. COWLEY. I remember the cheque quite well. [As if it were a liver] Seemed in perfect order. COKESON. Sit down, won't you? I'm not a sensitive man, but a thing like this about the place--it's not nice. I like people to be open and jolly together. COWLEY. Quite so. COKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing toward the partners' room] Of course he's a young man. I've told him about it before now-- leaving space after his figures, but he will do it. COWLEY. I should remember the person's face--quite a youth. COKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show him to you, as a matter of fact. JAMES and WALTER have come back from the partners' room. JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen my son and myself, you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. It was none of us, I take it. The cashier shakes his head with a smile. JAMES. Be so good as to sit there. Cokeson, engage Mr. Cowley in conversation, will you? He goes toward FALDER'S room. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. JAMES. Well? COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man in there, do you? He's a nervous young feller. JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake of Falder's name, to say nothing of yours. COKESON. [With Some dignity] That'll look after itself, sir. He's been upset once this morning; I don't want him startled again. JAMES. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon niceness over a thing like this--too serious. Just talk to Mr. Cowley. He opens the door of FALDER'S room. JAMES. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will you, Falder? COKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs? The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer. COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare me, I suppose? At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to see FALDER standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on COWLEY, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake. FALDER. [Advancing with the papers] Here they are, sir! JAMES. [Taking them] Thank you. FALDER. Do you want me, sir? JAMES. No, thanks! FALDER turns and goes back into his own room. As he shuts the door JAMES gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the cashier nods. JAMES. Sure? This isn't as we suspected. COWLEY. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't slip out of that room? COKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window--a whole floor and a basement. The door of FALDER'S room is quietly opened, and FALDER, with his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office. JAMES. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder? FALDER. To have my lunch, sir. JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want to speak to you about this lease. FALDER. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room.] COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the young man who cashed the cheque. It was the last cheque I handled that morning before my lunch. These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slip of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning! JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley! COWLEY. [To COKESON] Good-morning. COKESON. [With Stupefaction] Good-morning. The cashier goes out through the outer office. COKESON sits down in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the morass of his feelings. WALTER. What are you going to do? JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and the counterfoil. COKESON. I don't understand. I thought young Davis---- JAMES. We shall see. WALTER. One moment, father: have you thought it out? JAMES. Call him in! COKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening FALDER'S door; hoarsely] Step in here a minute. FALDER. [Impassively] Yes, sir? JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] You know this cheque, Falder? FALDER. No, sir. JADES. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week. FALDER. Oh! yes, sir; that one--Davis gave it me. JAMES. I know. And you gave Davis the cash? FALDER. Yes, sir. JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this? FALDER. Yes, I think so, sir. JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque for nine pounds? FALDER. No, sir--ninety. JAMES. Nine, Falder. FALDER. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir. JAMES. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque was altered; whether by you or Davis is the question. FALDER. I--I COKESON. Take your time, take your time. FALDER. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir. JAMES. The cheque was handed to--Cokeson by Mr. Walter at one o'clock; we know that because Mr. Cokeson's lunch had just arrived. COKESON. I couldn't leave it. JAMES. Exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to Davis. It was cashed by you at 1.15. We know that because the cashier recollects it for the last cheque he handled before his lunch. FALDER. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me because some friends were giving him a farewell luncheon. JAMES. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then? FALDER. I don't know, sir--it's very funny. WALTER, who has come close to his father, says something to him in a low voice. JAMES. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, was he? COKESON. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young man, and seeing faint signs of their all being jolly once more] No, he sailed on the Monday. JAMES. Was he, Falder? FALDER. [Very faintly] No, sir. JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for the fact that this nought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after Tuesday? COKESON. [Surprised] How's that? FALDER gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull himself together, but he has gone all to pieces. JAMES. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson. The cheque-book remained in Mr. Walter's pocket till he came back from Trenton on Tuesday morning. In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny that you altered both cheque and counterfoil? FALDER. No, sir--no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I did it. COKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear! what a thing to do! FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I didn't know what I was doing. COKESON. However such a thing could have come into your head! FALDER. [Grasping at the words] I can't think, sir, really! It was just a minute of madness. JAMES. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the counterfoil] Four days at least. FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done till afterwards, and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! Sir, look over it! I'll pay the money back--I will, I promise. JAMES. Go into your room. FALDER, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room. There is silence. JAMES. About as bad a case as there could be. COKESON. To break the law like that-in here! WALTER. What's to be done? JAMES. Nothing for it. Prosecute. WALTER. It's his first offence. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of that. Too neat a piece of swindling altogether. COKESON. I shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted. JAMES. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, Mr. James. There was a woman come to see him this morning. WALTER. The woman we passed as we came in just now. Is it his wife? COKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in jollier circumstances would have been a wink] A married person, though. WALTER. How do you know? COKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised] There they were outside the office. JAMES. A real bad egg. WALTER. I should like to give him a chance. JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way he went to work-- counting on our suspecting young Davis if the matter came to light. It was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. WALTER. It must have been the temptation of a moment. He hadn't time. JAMES. A man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, if he's a clean mind and habits. He's rotten; got the eyes of a man who can't keep his hands off when there's money about. WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before. JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots of those fellows in my time. No doing anything with them except to keep 'em out of harm's way. They've got a blind spat. WALTER. It's penal servitude. COKESON. They're nahsty places-prisons. JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Out of the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine qua non'. COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is. JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst people who've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society. WALTER. But to brand him like this? JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd give him another chance. It's far from that. He has dissolute habits. COKESON. I didn't say that--extenuating circumstances. JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. If that's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know what is. WALTER. For the sake of his future, though. JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one would ever prosecute. WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it. COKESON. That's rather 'ex parte', Mr. Walter! We must have protection. JAMES. This is degenerating into talk. He moves towards the partners' room. WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father. JAMES. You ask too much of me. WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him. JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do this sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn't nothing'll make him. WALTER. He'll never do it again. COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk with him. We don't want to be hard on the young man. JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my mind. [He passes into the partners' room.] COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must excuse your father. I don't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right. WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You know you feel---- COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what I feel. WALTER. We shall regret it. COKESON. He must have known what he was doing. WALTER. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not strained." COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. Walter. We must try and see it sensible. SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir. COKESON. Put it down! While SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON's table, the detective, WISTER, enters the outer office, and, finding no one there, comes to the inner doorway. He is a square, medium-sized man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong boots. COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we doing? WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir. Detective-Sergeant Blister. WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my father. He goes into the partners' room. JAMES enters. JAMES. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture from COKESON] I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I felt I could. Open that door. [SWEEDLE, wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder. As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a sign from JAMES, slips his hand out and grasps his arm. FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh! no,--oh! no! WALTER. Come, come, there's a good lad. JAMES. I charge him with felony. FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one--I did it for her. Let me be till to-morrow. JAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of hardness, FALDER becomes rigid. Then, turning, he goes out quietly in the detective's grip. JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE, rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the outer office into the corridor. When they have all disappeared COKESON spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer office. COKESON: [Hoarsely] Here! What are we doing? There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief and mops the sweat from his face. Going back blindly to his table, sits down, and stares blankly at his lunch. The curtain falls. ACT II A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon crowded with barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. Sitting in the large, solid dock is FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to and unconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting exactly opposite to the JUDGE, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seems unconscious of and indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, the counsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middle age, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in a very white wig. Among the spectators, having already given their evidence, are JAMES and WALTER HOW, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! Gathering his robes together, he sits down. FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it please your lordship and gentlemen of the jury. I am not going to dispute the fact that the prisoner altered this cheque, but I am going to put before you evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that you would not be justified in finding that he was responsible for his actions at the time. I am going to show you, in fact, that he did this in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. I shall call before you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up to this act. You will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstances of her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she has inspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading a miserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, from whom she actually goes in terror of her life. I am not, of course, saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall in love with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue her from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying anything of the sort. But we all know the power of the passion of love; and I would ask you to remember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to a drunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enable a woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear that her husband is guilty. JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely--I shall be able to show your lordship that directly. JUDGE. Very well. FROME. In these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her? She could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of her life; or she could apply to the Court for a separation order. Well, gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this would have given her very insufficient protection from the violence of such a man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced her either to the workhouse or the streets--for it's not easy, as she is now finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood to support herself and her children without resorting either to the Poor Law or--to speak quite plainly--to the sale of her body. JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome. FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord. JUDGE. Let us hope so. FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark--and this is what I have been leading up to--this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on himself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. She saw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, where they would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. This was a desperate and, as my friend Mr. Cleaver will no doubt call it, an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation possibly have the right to hold up their hands--as to that I prefer to say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part of the prisoner's story--whatever opinion you form of the right of these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into their own hands--the fact remains that this young woman in her distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so devotedly attached to her, did conceive this--if you like-- reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, of course, they required money, and--they had none. As to the actual events of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility --I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the lips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takes up a sheet of paper, and waits.] COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him. FROME. What is your name? COKESON. Robert Cokeson. FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ the prisoner? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ? COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there--all but seventeen days. FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time? COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays. FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about his general character during those two years. COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprised at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. I'd no fault to find with him--quite the contrary. It was a great surprise to me when he did a thing like that. FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty? COKESON. No! To have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do. FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua non'. FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not? COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We were all very jolly and pleasant together, until this happened. Quite upset me. FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning on which the cheque was altered. What have you to say about his demeanour that morning? COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quite compos when he did it. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he was insane? COKESON. Not compos. THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please. FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion--[looking at the JUDGE]--such as it is--he was jumpy at the time. The jury will understand my meaning. FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that conclusion? COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in from the restaurant, a chop and a potato--saves time. That day it happened to come just as Mr. Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it hot; so I went into the clerks' office and I handed the cheque to Davis, the other clerk, and told him to get change. I noticed young Falder walking up and down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological Gardens, Falder." FROME. Do you remember what he answered? COKESON. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck me as funny. FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar? COKESON. I did. FROME. What was that? COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like a young man to be neat. I said to him: "Your collar's unbuttoned." FROME. And what did he answer? COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice. THE JUDGE. Stared at you? Isn't that a very common practice? COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain my meaning--it was funny. FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before? COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to the partners. We can't have anything eccentric in our profession. THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that occasion? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to trouble them about prime facey evidence. FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on your mind? COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same. FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the forgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that morning? COKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little deaf. FROME. Was there anything in the course of that morning--I mean before the discovery--that caught your attention? COKESON. Ye-es--a woman. THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind in which the prisoner committed this act, my lord. THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after the act. FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention. THE JUDGE. Well! FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. What for? COKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out at the moment. FROME. Did you see her? COKESON. I did. FROME. Did she come alone? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me in a difficulty. I mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me. FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so---- COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of "You are young--leave it to me"] But I think we can get round it. In answer to a question put to her by a third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, sir." THE JUDGE. What are? What were? COKESON. Her children. They were outside. THE JUDGE. HOW do you know? COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I shall have to tell you what I was told--and that'd never do. THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a statement. COKESON. Egg-zactly. FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the course of her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that you specially remember? COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to complete the sentence] A leetle more, sir. FROME. Or did she not? COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have led me to the answer. FROME. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the jury what it was? COKESON. "It's a matter of life and death." FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman said that? COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have said to you. FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in while she was there? [COKESON nods] And she saw him, and went away? COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go. FROME. Well, is she there now? COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No! FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down.] CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery the prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by that word? COKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. Have you ever seen a dog that's lost its master? He was kind of everywhere at once with his eyes. CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them "funny." What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what? COKESON. Ye-es, funny. COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not be funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, or fierce, or what? COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and you want me to give you another. CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean mad? CLEAVER. Not mad, fun---- CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Was it a hot day? COKESON. Ye-es; I think it was. CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it? COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did. CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted insanity? He sits downs. COKESON, who has opened his mouth to reply, is left gaping. FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelled state before? COKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet. FROME. That will do, thank you. COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though to rebuke counsel for not remembering that the JUDGE might wish to have a chance; arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next to JAMES and WALTER. FROME. Ruth Honeywill. RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the witness-box. She is sworn. FROME. What is your name, please? RUTH. Ruth Honeywill. FROME. How old are you? RUTH. Twenty-six. FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A little louder. RUTH. No, sir; not since July. FROME. Have you any children? RUTH. Yes, sir, two. FROME. Are they living with you? RUTH. Yes, sir. FROME. You know the prisoner? RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes. FROME. What was the nature of your relations with him? RUTH. We were friends. THE JUDGE. Friends? RUTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use that word? RUTH. We love each other. THE JUDGE. Yes, but---- RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship--not yet. THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well! FROME. What is your husband? RUTH. Traveller. FROME. And what was the nature of your married life? RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking about. FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what? RUTH. Ever since my first was born. FROME. In what way? RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me out of it, sir. We were going to South America. FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite--and what prevented you? RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearly broke my heart. FROME. You knew, then, that he had been arrested? RUTH. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, and [pointing to COKESON] that gentleman told me all about it. FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of Friday, July 7th? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Why? RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that morning. THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you! RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord. FROME. With his hands, or----? RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight to my friend. It was eight o'clock. THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influence of liquor then? RUTH. It wasn't always that. FROME. In what condition were you? RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was half choking. FROME. Did you tell your friend what had happened? RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had. FROME. It upset him? RUTH. Dreadfully. FROME. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? RUTH. Never. FROZE. Did he ever give you any money? RUTH. Yes. FROME. When was that? RUTH. On Saturday. FROME. The 8th? RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to start. FROME. Did that surprise you, or not? RUTH. What, sir? FROME. That he had money to give you. Ring. Yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed me my friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. He told me afterwards he'd come into a windfall. FROME. And when did you last see him? RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were to have started. FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him at all between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was his manner then? RUTH. Dumb--like--sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word. FROME. As if something unusual had happened to him? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what? RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him. FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the prisoner very much? RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes. FROME. And had he a very great affection for you? RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir. FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his actions? RUTH. Yes. FROME. His reason, even? RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would. FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairly calm? RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me. FROME. Do you still love him? RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me. FROME. Thank you. He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright in the witness-box. CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morning of Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, I suppose? RUTH. No, sir. CLEAVER. Thank you; I've no further questions to ask you. RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done the same for him; I would indeed. THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappy one? Faults on both sides? RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why I should, sir, not to a man like that. THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him? RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied him to keep things nice. THE JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner--was that it? RUTH. No; even after that. THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in this affection of yours for the prisoner. RUTH. [Hesitating] I--I do. It's the only thing in my life now. THE JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, please. RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her seat among the witnesses. FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord. FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly sworn. FROME. What is your name? FALDER. William Falder. FROME. And age? FALDER. Twenty-three. FROME. You are not married? FALDER shakes his head FROME. How long have you known the last witness? FALDER. Six months. FROME. Is her account of the relationship between you a correct one? FALDER. Yes. FROME. You became devotedly attached to her, however? FALDER. Yes. THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married woman? FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship. THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it? FALDER. I didn't seem able to. The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders. FROME. How did you come to know her? FALDER. Through my married sister. FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband? FALDER. It was trouble all the time. FROME. You knew her husband? FALDER. Only through her--he's a brute. THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person not present. FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To FALDER] You admit altering this cheque? FALDER bows his head. FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the 7th, and tell the jury what happened. FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my breakfast when she came. Her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seem to get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyes dreadfully. It frightened me, and then when she told me, I felt--I felt--well--it was too much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'd seen it, having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt the same, I know. FROME. Yes? FALDER. When she left me--because I had to go to the office--I was out of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what I could do. I couldn't work--all the morning I was like that--simply couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't think at all. I seemed to have to keep moving. When Davis--the other clerk--gave me the cheque--he said: "It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. You seem half off your chump this morning." Then when I had it in my hand--I don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that if I put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get her away. It just came and went--I never thought of it again. Then Davis went out to his luncheon, and I don't really remember what I did till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. I remember his saying "Gold or notes?" Then I suppose I knew what I'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted to chuck myself under a bus; I wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed I was in for it, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets I took for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, and all, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've restored. I keep thinking over and over however it was I came to do it, and how I can't have it all again to do differently! FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him. FROME. How far is it from your office to the bank? FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir. FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed the cheque, how long do you say it must have been? FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran all the way. FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing? FALDER. No, sir; only that I ran. FROME. Not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?' FALDER. No, sir. I don't really. FROME sits down, and CLEAVER rises. CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you? FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the bank. CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the cheque? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is casting over the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? Come. FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning, sir. CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the cashier? FALDER. It was an accident. CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't it? On which day did you alter the counterfoil? FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday morning. CLEAVER. Was that an accident too? FALDER. [Faintly] No. CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your opportunity, I suppose? FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes. CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under great excitement when you did that? FALDER. I was haunted. CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out? FALDER. [Very low] Yes. THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do was to confess to your employers, and restore the money? FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence] CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design of taking this woman away? FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that, to do it for nothing seemed so dreadful. I might just as well have chucked myself into the river. CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England --didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion would fall on him? FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought of it afterwards. CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done? FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got out there--I would have repaid the money. THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have been prosecuted. FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. I thought there'd be time. I didn't think they'd find it out so soon. FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if the discovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would have left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis, from the beginning. THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion would light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did you know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis had sailed? FALDER. I--I--thought--he---- THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth-yes or no! FALDER. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means of knowing. THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr. Frome. [FROME bows to the JUDGE] CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work that afternoon? FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back. CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keen for you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don't remember altering this cheque. [He sits down] FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage. FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back? FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep. FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between Davis's going out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollect nothing during those four minutes? FALDER. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson's face. FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what you were doing? FALDER. No, Sir. FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran out? FALDER. Yes, and while I was running. FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold or notes?" FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself--and it was too late. FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, my lord. The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock. FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship--Gentlemen of the Jury,--My friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I am free to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidence has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. My friend has alluded to the "romantic glamour" with which I have sought to invest this case. Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I have merely shown you the background of "life"--that palpitating life which, believe me--whatever my friend may say--always lies behind the commission of a crime. Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. But when we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love--what then? Just think of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the prisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! he is hardly the comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was devotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just the sort of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. You have heard the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at the word "funny"--I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which could have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that his mental irresponsibility--was more than a flash of darkness, in which all sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intent and treated as a patient. I admit that this is a plea which might well be abused. It is a matter for discretion. But here you have a case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four fatal minutes. What was his answer? "I thought of Mr. Cokeson's face!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is absolutely stamped with truth. You have seen the great affection [legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It is impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he committed this act. We well know what terrible havoc such distress can make in weak and highly nervous people. It was all the work of a moment. The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter impossibility of changing what you have done. Once this cheque was altered and presented, the work of four minutes--four mad minutes --the rest has been silence. But in those four minutes the boy before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great cage which never again quite lets a man go--the cage of the Law. His further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence--not of deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from which these subsequent acts arose; no--they are merely evidence of the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. But is a man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in all probability become one. I beg you not to return a verdict that may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the starting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be ground to pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of weakness? Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? Is that to be his voyage-from which so few return? Or is he to have another chance, to be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will come back? I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, stares him in the face. He can be saved now. Imprison him as a criminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost. He has neither the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he has undergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. He has lain in prison under this charge for more than two months. Is he likely ever to forget that? Imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. He has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decided to prosecute him. We are now already at the second stage. If you permit it to go on to the third I would not give--that for him. He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a circle, drops his hand, and sits dozen. The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towards the counsel for the Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spot that seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and then towards the jury. CLEAVER. May it please your lordship--[Rising on his toes] Gentlemen of the Jury,--The facts in this case are not disputed, and the defence, if my friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that I don't propose to waste the time of the Court by taking you over the evidence. The plea is one of temporary insanity. Well, gentlemen, I daresay it is clearer to me than it is to you why this rather--what shall we call it?--bizarre defence has been set up. The alternative would have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the prisoner had pleaded guilty my friend would have had to rely on a simple appeal to his lordship. Instead of that, he has gone into the byways and hedges and found this--er--peculiar plea, which has enabled him to show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box--to give, in fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I compliment my friend; I think it highly ingenious of him. By these means, he has--to a certain extent--got round the Law. He has brought the whole story of motive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he would not otherwise have been able to do. But when you have once grasped that fact, gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [With good-humoured contempt] For look at this plea of insanity; we can't put it lower than that. You have heard the woman. She has every reason to favour the prisoner, but what did she say? She said that the prisoner was not insane when she left him in the morning. If he were going out of his mind through distress, that was obviously the moment when insanity would have shown itself. You have heard the managing clerk, another witness for the defence. With some difficulty I elicited from him the admission that the prisoner, though jumpy [a word that he seemed to think you would understand, gentlemen, and I'm sure I hope you do], was not mad when the cheque was handed to Davis. I agree with my friend that it's unfortunate that we have not got Davis here, but the prisoner has told you the words with which Davis in turn handed him the cheque; he obviously, therefore, was not mad when he received it, or he would not have remembered those words. The cashier has told you that he was certainly in his senses when he cashed it. We have therefore the plea that a man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at fifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding the consequences of a crime, call himself insane between those points of time. Really, gentlemen, this is so peculiar a proposition that I am not disposed to weary you with further argument. You will form your own opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way of saying a great deal to you--and very eloquently--on the score of youth, temptation, and the like. I might point out, however, that the offence with which the prisoner is charged is one of the most serious known to our law; and there are certain features in this case, such as the suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent fellow-clerk, and his relations with this married woman, which will render it difficult for you to attach too much importance to such pleading. I ask you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which, in the circumstances, I regard you as, unfortunately, bound to record. Letting his eyes travel from the JUDGE and the jury to FROME, he sits down. THE JUDGE. [Bending a little towards the jury, and speaking in a business-like voice] Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence, and the comments on it. My only business is to make clear to you the issues you have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as the alteration of this cheque and counterfoil by the prisoner. The defence set up is that he was not in a responsible condition when he committed the crime. Well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the evidence of the other witnesses--so far as it bears on the point of insanity. If you think that what you have heard establishes the fact that the prisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you will find him guilty, but insane. If, on the other hand, you conclude from what you have seen and heard that the prisoner was sane--and nothing short of insanity will count--you will find him guilty. In reviewing the testimony as to his mental condition you must bear in mind very carefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct both before and after the act of forgery--the evidence of the prisoner himself, of the woman, of the witness--er--COKESON, and--er--of the cashier. And in regard to that I especially direct your attention to the prisoner's admission that the idea of adding the 'ty' and the nought did come into his mind at the moment when the cheque was handed to him; and also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to his subsequent conduct generally. The bearing of all this on the question of premeditation [and premeditation will imply sanity] is very obvious. You must not allow any considerations of age or temptation to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. Before you can come to a verdict of guilty but insane you must be well and thoroughly convinced that the condition of his mind was such as would have qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [He pauses, then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire or no, adds:] You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to do so. The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE. The JUDGE bends over his notes. FALDER, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly to his solicitor, pointing dawn at RUTH. The solicitor in turn speaks to FROME. FROME. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very anxious that I should ask you if your lordship would kindly request the reporters not to disclose the name of the woman witness in the Press reports of these proceedings. Your lordship will understand that the consequences might be extremely serious to her. THE JUDGE. [Pointedly--with the suspicion of a smile] well, Mr. Frome, you deliberately took this course which involved bringing her here. FROME. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship thinks I could have brought out the full facts in any other way? THE JUDGE. H'm! Well. FROME. There is very real danger to her, your lordship. THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for all that. FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I can assure your lordship that I am not exaggerating. THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain with me that the name of a witness should ever be suppressed. [With a glance at FALDER, who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH, who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on FALDER] I'll consider your application. It must depend. I have to remember that she may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. FROME. Your lordship, I really---- THE JUDGE. Yes, yes--I don't suggest anything of the sort, Mr. Frome. Leave it at that for the moment. As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the box. CLERK of ASSIZE. Gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? FOREMAN. We are. CLERK of ASSIZE. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but insane? FOREMAN. Guilty. The JUDGE nods; then, gathering up his notes, sits looking at FALDER, who stands motionless. FROME. [Rising] If your lordship would allow me to address you in mitigation of sentence. I don't know if your lordship thinks I can add anything to what I have said to the jury on the score of the prisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he acted. THE JUDGE. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome. FROME. If your lordship says so--I do most earnestly beg your lordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. [He sits down.] THE JUDGE. [To the CLERK] Call upon him. THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Have you anything to say for yourself, why the Court should not give you judgment according to law? [FALDER shakes his head] THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given fair trial and found guilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses; then, consulting his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that you were not responsible for your actions at the moment of committing this crime. There is no, doubt, I think, that this was a device to bring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which you succumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel was in reality making an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence of course enabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in that direction. Whether he was well advised to so is another matter. He claimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as a criminal. And this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the march of Justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completing the process of criminality. Now, in considering how far I should allow weight to his appeal; I have a number of factors to take into account. I have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of your offence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, to my mind, is a very grave point--and finally I have to consider the necessity of deterring others from following your example. On the other hand, I have to bear in mind that you are young, that you have hitherto borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of some emotional excitement when you committed this crime. I have every wish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to the community--to treat you with leniency. And this brings me to what are the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of your case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very serious element in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you on the ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of the crime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. It is said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. The story has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--Mrs. Honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy were in effect based. Now what is that story? It is that you, a young man, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed an attachment, which you both say--with what truth I am unable to gauge --had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admit was about to result in such relationship. Your counsel has made an attempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what he describes, I think, as "a hopeless position." As to that I can express no opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is patent that you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoral design. Now, however I might wish, I am not able to justify to my conscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality. It is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you for the completion of this immoral project. Your counsel has made an attempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is a defect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show that to punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. I do not follow him in these flights. The Law is what it is--a majestic edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another. I am concerned only with its administration. The crime you have committed is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance with my duty to Society to exercise the powers I have in your favour. You will go to penal servitude for three years. FALDER, who throughout the JUDGE'S speech has looked at him steadily, lets his head fall forward on his breast. RUTH starts up from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. There is a bustle in court. THE JUDGE. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen of the Press, I think that the name of the female witness should not be reported. The reporters bow their acquiescence. THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who is staring in the direction in which FALDER has disappeared] Do you understand, your name will not be mentioned? COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking to you. RUTH turns, stares at the JUDGE, and turns away. THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the next case. CLERK of ASSIZE. [To a warder] Put up John Booley. To cries of "Witnesses in the case of Booley": The curtain falls. ACT III SCENE I A prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large barred windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise yard, where men, in yellow clothes marked with arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are seen in single file at a distance of four yards from each other, walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on the concrete floor of the yard. Two warders in blue uniforms, with peaked caps and swords, are stationed amongst them. The room has distempered walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the prison on the wall, a writing-table covered with documents. It is Christmas Eve. The GOVERNOR, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, fair moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled hair, receding from the temples, is standing close to this writing-table looking at a sort of rough saw made out of a piece of metal. The hand in which he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are missing. The chief warder, WOODER, a tall, thin, military-looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and melancholy, monkey-like eyes, stands very upright two paces from him. THE GOVERNOR. [With a faint, abstracted smile] Queer-looking affair, Mr. Wooder! Where did you find it? WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come across such a thing for two years now. THE GOVERNOR. [With curiosity] Had he any set plan? WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [He holds up his thumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart] THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon. What's his name? Moaney! An old hand, I think? WOODER. Yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. You'd think an old lag like him would have had more sense by now. [With pitying contempt] Occupied his mind, he said. Breaking in and breaking out--that's all they think about. THE GOVERNOR. Who's next him? WOODER. O'Cleary, sir. THE GOVERNOR. The Irishman. WOODER. Next him again there's that young fellow, Falder--star class--and next him old Clipton. THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes! "The philosopher." I want to see him about his eyes. WOODER. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one of these tries at escape going on. It makes them restive--there's a regular wave going through them just now. THE GOVERNOR. [Meditatively] Odd things--those waves. [Turning to look at the prisoners exercising] Seem quiet enough out here! WOODER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging on his door this morning. Little thing like that's quite enough to upset the whole lot. They're just like dumb animals at times. THE GOVERNOR. I've seen it with horses before thunder--it'll run right through cavalry lines. The prison CHAPLAIN has entered. He is a dark-haired, ascetic man, in clerical undress, with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped face and slow, cultured speech. THE GOVERNOR. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, Miller? THE CHAPLAIN. Useful-looking specimen. THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes to the cupboard and opens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, and metal tools with labels tied on them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out] THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men last day or two, Miller? Seems going through the whole place. THE CHAPLAIN. No. I don't know of anything. THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dine with us on Christmas Day? THE CHAPLAIN. To-morrow. Thanks very much. THE GOVERNOR. Worries me to feel the men discontented. [Gazing at the saw] Have to punish this poor devil. Can't help liking a man who tries to escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks the cupboard again] THE CHAPLAIN. Extraordinary perverted will-power--some of them. Nothing to be done till it's broken. THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm afraid. Ground too hard for golf? WOODER comes in again. WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks to speak to you, sir. I told him it wasn't usual. THE GOVERNOR. What about? WOODER. Shall I put him off, sir? THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see him. Don't go, Miller. WOODER motions to some one without, and as the visitor comes in withdraws. The visitor is COKESON, who is attired in a thick overcoat to the knees, woollen gloves, and carries a top hat. COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been talking to the young man. THE GOVERNOR. We have a good many here. COKESON. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a card, and handing it to the GOVERNOR] Firm of James and Walter How. Well known in the law. THE GOVERNOR. [Receiving the card-with a faint smile] What do you want to see me about, sir? COKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] Why! what a sight! THE GOVERNOR. Yes, we have that privilege from here; my office is being done up. [Sitting down at his table] Now, please! COKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the window] I wanted to say a word to you; I shan't keep you long. [Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be here by rights. His sister came to me--he's got no father and mother--and she was in some distress. "My husband won't let me go and see him," she said; "says he's disgraced the family. And his other sister," she said, "is an invalid." And she asked me to come. Well, I take an interest in him. He was our junior--I go to the same chapel--and I didn't like to refuse. And what I wanted to tell you was, he seems lonely here. THE GOVERNOR. Not unnaturally. COKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see a lot of them about working together. THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The convicts serve their three months here in separate confinement, sir. COKESON. But we don't want to be unreasonable. He's quite downhearted. I wanted to ask you to let him run about with the others. THE GOVERNOR. [With faint amusement] Ring the bell-would you, Miller? [To COKESON] You'd like to hear what the doctor says about him, perhaps. THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not accustomed to prisons, it would seem, sir. COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite a young fellow. I said to him: "Before a month's up" I said, "you'll be out and about with the others; it'll be a nice change for you." "A month!" he said --like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. What's a month? Why, it's nothing!" "A day," he said, "shut up in your cell thinking and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside. I can't help it," he said; "I try--but I'm built that way, Mr. COKESON." And, he held his hand up to his face. I could see the tears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice. THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, isn't he? Not Church of England, I think? COKESON. No. THE CHAPLAIN. I know. THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be good enough to come here for a minute. [WOODER salutes, and goes out] Let's see, he's not married? COKESON. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party he's very much attached to, not altogether com-il-fa. It's a sad story. THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prison might be closed. COKESON. [Looking at the CHAPLAIN over his spectacles] Ye-es, but I wanted to tell you about that, special. He had hopes they'd have let her come and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked me questions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the poor young fellow a lie, with him in here--seemed like hitting him. But I'm afraid it's made him worse. THE GOVERNOR. What was this news then? COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a husband, and she'd left him. Fact is, she was going away with our young friend. It's not nice--but I've looked over it. Well, when he was put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait for him to come out. That was a great consolation to him. But after a month she came to me--I don't know her personally--and she said: "I can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--I've got no friends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else my husband'd get to know where I was. I'm very much reduced," she said. And she has lost flesh. "I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's a painful story. I said to her: "No," I said, "not that! I've got a wife an' family, but sooner than you should do that I'll spare you a little myself." "Really," she said--she's a nice creature--"I don't like to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband." Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but I didn't like to persuade her not to. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow dreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three years to serve. I want things to be pleasant for him. THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The Law hardly shares your view, I'm afraid. COKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut him up there by himself'll turn him silly. And nobody wants that, I s'pose. I don't like to see a man cry. THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that. COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility] I keep dogs. THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed? COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over. THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a sense of right and wrong. COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it. THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ. COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes 'em savage. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners. COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for years. He's eurotic--got no stamina. His father died of consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him harm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the wall." It's not nice. During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He is a medium-Sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye. He stands leaning against the window. THE GOVERNOR. This gentleman thinks the separate is telling on Q 3007--Falder, young thin fellow, star class. What do you say, Doctor Clements? THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm. COKESON. But he's told me. THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. He's lost no weight since he's been here. COKESON. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of. THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's nervous, rather melancholy. I don't see signs of anything more. I'm watching him carefully. COKESON. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say that. THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this period that we are able to make some impression on them, sir. I am speaking from my special standpoint. COKESON. [Turning bewildered to the GOVERNOR] I don't want to be unpleasant, but having given him this news, I do feel it's awkward. THE GOVERNOR. I'll make a point of seeing him to-day. COKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought perhaps seeing him every day you wouldn't notice it. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather sharply] If any sign of injury to his health shows itself his case will be reported at once. That's fully provided for. [He rises] COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, what you don't see doesn't trouble you; but having seen him, I don't want to have him on my mind. THE GOVERNOR. I think you may safely leave it to us, sir. COKESON. [Mollified and apologetic] I thought you'd understand me. I'm a plain man--never set myself up against authority. [Expanding to the CHAPLAIN] Nothing personal meant. Good-morning. As he goes out the three officials do not look at each other, but their faces wear peculiar expressions. THE CHAPLAIN. Our friend seems to think that prison is a hospital. COKESON. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] There's just one little thing. This woman--I suppose I mustn't ask you to let him see her. It'd be a rare treat for them both. He's thinking about her all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's quite safe in here. They're a pitiful couple. You couldn't make an exception? THE GOVERNOR. [Wearily] As you say, my dear sir, I couldn't make an exception; he won't be allowed another visit of any sort till he goes to a convict prison. COKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have troubled you. [He again goes out] THE CHAPLAIN. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain man indeed, poor fellow. Come and have some lunch, Clements? He and the DOCTOR go out talking. The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a pen. The curtain falls. SCENE II Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls are coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe of deeper green about the height of a man's shoulder, and above this line are whitewashed. The floor is of blackened stones. Daylight is filtering through a heavily barred window at the end. The doors of four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little round peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered by a little round disc, which, raised upwards, affords a view o f the cell. On the wall, close to each cell door, hangs a little square board with the prisoner's name, number, and record. Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor and second-floor corridors. The WARDER INSTRUCTOR, a bearded man in blue uniform, with an apron, and some dangling keys, is just emerging from one of the cells. INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell] I'll have another bit for you when that's finished. O'CLEARY. [Unseen--in an Irish voice] Little doubt o' that, sirr. INSTRUCTOR. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have it than nothing, I s'pose. O'CLEARY. An' that's the blessed truth. Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of approaching footsteps. INSTRUCTOR. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive over it! He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. The GOVERNOR comes walking down the corridor, followed by WOODER. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to report? INSTRUCTOR. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a cell] is behind with his work, sir. He'll lose marks to-day. The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end cell. The INSTRUCTOR goes away. THE GOVERNOR. This is our maker of saws, isn't it? He takes the saw from his pocket as WOODER throws open the door of the cell. The convict MOANEY is seen lying on his bed, athwart the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and stands in the middle of the cell. He is a raw-boned fellow, about fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce, staring, steel-coloured eyes. WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap] Out here! [MOANEY Comes to the door] THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding up the saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private] Anything to say about this, my man? [MOANEY is silent] Come! MOANEY. It passed the time. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough to do, eh? MOANEY. It don't occupy your mind. THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find a better way than this. MOANEY. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must keep my hand in against the time I get out. What's the good of anything else to me at my time of life? [With a gradual change to civility, as his tongue warms] Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or two, after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace meself when I'm out. You've got your pride keeping the prison smart; well, I've got mine. [Seeing that the GOVERNOR is listening with interest, he goes on, pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this. It's no harm to any one. I was five weeks makin' that saw--a bit of all right it is, too; now I'll get cells, I suppose, or seven days' bread and water. You can't help it, sir, I know that--I quite put meself in your place. THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass it over will you give me your word not to try it on again? Think! [He goes into the cell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries the window-bars] THE GOVERNOR. [Returning] Well? MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another six weeks to do in here, alone. I can't do it and think o' nothing. I must have something to interest me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but I can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive a gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four hours' steady work would have done it. THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then? Caught, brought back, punishment. Five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, while they put anew bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney? MOANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is. THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, well! Two days' cells-bread and water. MOANEY. Thank 'e, sir. He turns quickly like an animal and slips into his cell. The GOVERNOR looks after him and shakes his head as WOODER closes and locks the cell door. THE GOVERNOR. Open Clipton's cell. WOODER opens the door of CLIPTON'S cell. CLIPTON is sitting on a stool just inside the door, at work on a pair of trousers. He is a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost shaven head, and smouldering little dark eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets up and stands motionless in the doorway, peering at his visitors. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning] Come out here a minute, Clipton. CLIPTON, with a sort of dreadful quietness, comes into the corridor, the needle and thread in his hand. The GOVERNOR signs to WOODER, who goes into the cell and inspects it carefully. THE GOVERNOR. How are your eyes? CLIFTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see the sun here. [He makes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] There's just one thing, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd ask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter. THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want any tales, Clipton. CLIPTON. He keeps me awake. I don't know who he is. [With contempt] One of this star class, I expect. Oughtn't to be here with us. THE GOVERNOR. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton. He'll be moved when there's a cell vacant. CLIPTON. He knocks about like a wild beast in the early morning. I'm not used to it--stops me getting my sleep out. In the evening too. It's not fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. Sleep's the comfort I've got here; I'm entitled to take it out full. WOODER comes out of the cell, and instantly, as though extinguished, CLIPTON moves with stealthy suddenness back into his cell. WOODER. All right, sir. THE GOVERNOR nods. The door is closed and locked. THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on his door this morning? WOODER. [Going towards O'CLEARY'S cell] This one, sir; O'Cleary. He lifts the disc and glances through the peephole. THE GOVERNOR. Open. WOODER throws open the door. O'CLEARY, who is seated at a little table by the door as if listening, springs up and stands at attention jest inside the doorway. He is a broad-faced, middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, flexible mouth, and little holes under his high cheek-bones. THE GOVERNOR. Where's the joke, O'Cleary? O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour? I've not seen one for a long time. THE GOVERNOR. Banging on your door? O'CLEARY. Oh! that! THE GOVERNOR. It's womanish. O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two months past. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to complain of? O'CLEARY. NO, Sirr. THE GOVERNOR. You're an old hand; you ought to know better. O'CLEARY. Yes, I've been through it all. THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him. O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't always be the same steady man. THE GOVERNOR. Work all right? O'CLEARY. [Taking up a rush mat he is making] Oh! I can do it on me head. It's the miserablest stuff--don't take the brains of a mouse. [Working his mouth] It's here I feel it--the want of a little noise --a terrible little wud ease me. THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if you were out in the shops you wouldn't be allowed to talk. O'CLEARY. [With a look of profound meaning] Not with my mouth. THE GOVERNOR. Well, then? O'CLEARY. But it's the great conversation I'd have. THE GOVERNOR. [With a smile] Well, no more conversation on your door. O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit to repeat meself. THE GOVERNOR. [Turning] Good-night. O'CLEARY. Good-night, your honour. He turns into his cell. The GOVERNOR shuts the door. THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't help liking the poor blackguard. WOODER. He's an amiable man, sir. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask the doctor to come here, Mr. Wooder. WOODER salutes and goes away down the corridor. The GOVERNOR goes to the door of FALDER'S cell. He raises his uninjured hand to uncover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, after scrutinising the record board, he opens the cell door. FALDER, who is standing against it, lurches forward. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: can't you settle down, Falder? FALDER. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean? It's no good running your head against a stone wall, is it? FALDER. No, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Well, come. FALDER. I try, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Can't you sleep? FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and getting up's the worst time. THE GOVERNOR. How's that? FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't know, sir. I was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] Everything seems to get such a size then. I feel I'll never get out as long as I live. THE GOVERNOR. That's morbid, my lad. Pull yourself together. FALDER. [With an equally sudden dogged resentment] Yes--I've got to. THE GOVERNOR. Think of all these other fellows? FALDER. They're used to it. THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it once for the first time, just as you're doing now. FALDER. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in time, I suppose. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! That rests with you. Now come. Set your mind to it, like a good fellow. You're still quite young. A man can make himself what he likes. FALDER. [Wistfully] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Take a good hold of yourself. Do you read? FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his head] I know it's no good; but I can't help thinking of what's going on outside. In my cell I can't see out at all. It's thick glass, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You've had a visitor. Bad news? FALDER. Yes. THE GOVERNOR. You mustn't think about it. FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help it, sir? He suddenly becomes motionless as WOODER and the DOCTOR approach. The GOVERNOR motions to him to go back into his cell. FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my head, sir. [He goes back into his cell.] THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and see him, Clements. The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR pushes the door to, nearly closing it, and walks towards the window. WOODER. [Following] Sorry you should be troubled like this, sir. Very contented lot of men, on the whole. THE GOVERNOR. [Shortly] You think so? WOODER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my opinion. THE GOVERNOR. [To himself] Queer, that! WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? THE GOVERNOR. Christmas! He turns towards the window, leaving WOODER looking at him with a sort of pained anxiety. WOODER. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show enough, sir? If you'd like us to have more holly? THE GOVERNOR. Not at all, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. Very good, sir. The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell, and the GOVERNOR beckons to him. THE GOVERNOR. Well? THE DOCTOR. I can't make anything much of him. He's nervous, of course. THE GOVERNOR. Is there any sort of case to report? Quite frankly, Doctor. THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separates doing him any good; but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better in the shops, there's no doubt. THE GOVERNOR. You mean you'd have to recommend others? THE DOCTOR. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves. There's nothing tangible. That fellow there [pointing to O'CLEARY'S cell], for instance--feels it just as much, in his way. If I once get away from physical facts--I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously, sir, I don't know how to differentiate him. He hasn't lost weight. Nothing wrong with his eyes. His pulse is good. Talks all right. THE GOVERNOR. It doesn't amount to melancholia? THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on him if you like; but if I do I ought to report on others. THE GOVERNOR. I see. [Looking towards FALDER'S cell] The poor devil must just stick it then. As he says thin he looks absently at WOODER. WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns on his heel, and walks away. There is a sound as of beating on metal. THE GOVERNOR. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder? WOODER. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we should have more of that. He hurries forward, passing the GOVERNOR, who follows closely. The curtain falls. SCENE III FALDER's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass, with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet]. Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark ventilator under the window, and another over the door. FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under the window. In fast-failing daylight, FALDER, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. He springs suddenly upright--as if at a sound-and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. FALDER is seen gasping for breath. A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. FALDER shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; FALDER'S hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it. The curtain falls. ACT IV The scene is again COKESON'S room, at a few minutes to ten of a March morning, two years later. The doors are all open. SWEEDLE, now blessed with a sprouting moustache, is getting the offices ready. He arranges papers on COKESON'S table; then goes to a covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at himself in the mirror. While he is gazing his full RUTH HONEYWILL comes in through the outer office and stands in the doorway. There seems a kind of exultation and excitement behind her habitual impassivity. SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstand with a bang] Hello! It's you! RUTH. Yes. SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't waste their time hurrying down in the morning. Why, it must be two years since we had the pleasure of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been doing with yourself? RUTH. [Sardonically] Living. SWEEDLE. [Impressed] If you want to see him [he points to COKESON'S chair], he'll be here directly--never misses--not much. [Delicately] I hope our friend's back from the country. His time's been up these three months, if I remember. [RUTH nods] I was awful sorry about that. The governor made a mistake--if you ask me. RUTH. He did. SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. And, I say, the judge ought to ha' let him go after that. They've forgot what human nature's like. Whereas we know. [RUTH gives him a honeyed smile] SWEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload of bricks, flatten you out, and when you don't swell up again they complain of it. I know 'em--seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [He shakes his head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other day the governor---- But COKESON has come in through the outer office; brisk with east wind, and decidedly greyer. COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! it's you! [Then motioning SWEEDLE out, and closing the door] Quite a stranger! Must be two years. D'you want to see me? I can give you a minute. Sit down! Family well? RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was. COKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are more comfortable at home. RUTH. I couldn't stay with Honeywill, after all. COKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. I should be sorry if you'd done anything rash. RUTH. I've kept the children with me. COKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so jolly as ha had hoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen you. You've not heard from the young man, I suppose, since he came out? RUTH. Yes, I ran across him yesterday. COKESON. I hope he's well. RUTH. [With sudden fierceness] He can't get anything to do. It's dreadful to see him. He's just skin and bone. COKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that. [On his guard again] Didn't they find him a place when his time was up? RUTH. He was only there three weeks. It got out. COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you. I don't like to be snubby. RUTH. I can't bear his being like that. COKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I know his relations aren't very forthy about him. Perhaps you can do something for him, till he finds his feet. RUTH. Not now. I could have--but not now. COKESON. I don't understand. RUTH. [Proudly] I've seen him again--that's all over. COKESON. [Staring at her--disturbed] I'm a family man--I don't want to hear anything unpleasant. Excuse me--I'm very busy. RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, but they've never got over me marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise, Mr. Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when I married him. I thought the world of him, of course... he used to come travelling to our farm. COKESON. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got on better, after you saw me. RUTH. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't break my nerve, but I lost my health; and then he began knocking the children about. I couldn't stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were dying. COKESON. [Who has risen and is shifting about as though dodging a stream of lava] We mustn't be violent, must we? RUTH. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave better than that-- [There is silence] COKESON. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there you were! And what did you do then? RUTH. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left him before..., making skirts... cheap things. It was the best I could get, but I never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and working all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I kept at it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that; I wasn't made for it. I'd rather die. COKESON. My dear woman! We mustn't talk like that. RUTH. It was starvation for the children too--after what they'd always had. I soon got not to care. I used to be too tired. [She is silent] COKESON. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what happened then? RUTH. [With a laugh] My employer happened then--he's happened ever since. COKESON. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a thing like this. RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But I've done with that. [Suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the back of her hand] I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was just a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in there and sat down, and he told me all about himself. Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him another chance. COKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost your livings! What a horrible position! RUTH. If he could only get here--where there's nothing to find out about him! COKESON. We can't have anything derogative to the firm. RUTH. I've no one else to go to. COKESON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't think they'll take him, under the circumstances. I don't really. RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in the street. [She points to the window.] COKESON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done that until he's sent for. [Then softening at the look on her face] We've got a vacancy, as it happens, but I can't promise anything. RUTH. It would be the saving of him. COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not sanguine. Now tell him that I don't want him till I see how things are. Leave your address? [Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street? [He notes it on blotting-paper] Good-morning. RUTH. Thank you. She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not, and goes away. COKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a large white cotton handkerchief] What a business! [Then looking amongst his papers, he sounds his bell. SWEEDLE answers it] COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here to-day after the clerk's place? SWEEDLE. Yes. COKESON. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want to see him yet. SWEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir? COKESON. [With asperity] invent something. Use your brains. Don't stump him off altogether. SWEEDLE. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, sir? COKESON. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here to-day. SWEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? COKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remember Falder? I may be having him round to see me. Now, treat him like you'd have him treat you in a similar position. SWEEDLE. I naturally should do. COKESON. That's right. When a man's down never hit 'im. 'Tisn't necessary. Give him a hand up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you in life. It's sound policy. SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take him on again, sir? COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the sound of some one having entered the outer office] Who's there? SWEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's Falder, sir. COKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty of her. Tell him to call again. I don't want---- He breaks off as FALDER comes in. FALDER is thin, pale, older, his eyes have grown more restless. His clothes are very worn and loose. SWEEDLE, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. COKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous. [Trying to keep things pleasant] Shake hands! She's striking while the iron's hot. [He wipes his forehead] I don't blame her. She's anxious. FALDER timidly takes COKESON's hand and glances towards the partners' door. COKESON. No--not yet! Sit down! [FALDER sits in the chair at the aide of COKESON's table, on which he places his cap] Now you are here I'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [Looking at him over his spectacles] How's your health? FALDER. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that. About this matter. I don't like doing anything out of the ordinary; it's not my habit. I'm a plain man, and I want everything smooth and straight. But I promised your friend to speak to the partners, and I always keep my word. FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've paid for that job a thousand times and more. I have, sir. No one knows. They say I weighed more when I came out than when I went in. They couldn't weigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart, and gives a sort of laugh]. Till last night I'd have thought there was nothing in here at all. COKESON. [Concerned] You've not got heart disease? FALDER. Oh! they passed me sound enough. COKESON. But they got you a place, didn't they? FALSER. Yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me. I thought I was going to get on first rate. But one day, all of a sudden, the other clerks got wind of it.... I couldn't stick it, Mr. COKESON, I couldn't, sir. COKESON. Easy, my dear fellow, easy! FALDER. I had one small job after that, but it didn't last. COKESON. How was that? FALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. The fact is, I seem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. I can't explain it: it's as if I was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, it grows up there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about references; but what are you to do? You must have them. And that made me afraid, and I left. In fact, I'm--I'm afraid all the time now. He bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table. COKESON. I feel for you--I do really. Aren't your sisters going to do anything for you? FALDER. One's in consumption. And the other---- COKESON. Ye...es. She told me her husband wasn't quite pleased with you. FALDER. When I went there--they were at supper--my sister wanted to give me a kiss--I know. But he just looked at her, and said: "What have you come for?" Well, I pocketed my pride and I said: "Aren't you going to give me your hand, Jim? Cis is, I know," I said. "Look here!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd better come to an understanding. I've been expecting you, and I've made up my mind. I'll give you fifteen pounds to go to Canada with." "I see," I said--"good riddance! No, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds." Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where I have. COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen pound from me? [Flustered, as FALDER regards him with a queer smile] Quite without prejudice; I meant it kindly. FALDER. I'm not allowed to leave the country. COKESON. Oh! ye...es--ticket-of-leave? You aren't looking the thing. FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawns aren't all poetry there. But meeting her--I feel a different man this morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the best thing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. That's queer, isn't it? COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you. FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me. [With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate with criminals! COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That never did a man any good. Put a face on it. FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're independent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk about giving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over. COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven't made a Socialist of you. FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he utters a peculiar laugh. COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Really you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure. FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, but they down you all the same. This feeling--[He stares round him, as though at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden impersonality] I know it is. COKESON. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there! We must try and take it quiet. I'm sure I've often had you in my prayers. Now leave it to me. I'll use my gumption and take 'em when they're jolly. [As he speaks the two partners come in] COKESON [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put them all at ease] I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've just been having a talk with this young man. I think you'll remember him. JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How are you, Falder? WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] Very glad to see you again, Falder. FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] Thank you, sir. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To FALDER, pointing to the clerks' office] You might go in there a minute. You know your way. Our junior won't be coming this morning. His wife's just had a little family. FALDER, goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all about it. He's quite penitent. But there's a prejudice against him. And you're not seeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It's very trying to go without your dinner. JAMES. Is that so, COKESON? COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. Now we know all about him, and we want a clerk. There is a young fellow applying, but I'm keeping him in the air. JAMES. A gaol-bird in the office, COKESON? I don't see it. WALTER. "The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice!" I've never got that out of my head. JAMES. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this affair. What's he been doing since he came out? COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. He's sensitive--quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's down on him. JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow--never did from the first. "Weak character"'s written all over him. WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up. JAMES. He brought it all on himself. WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold in these days. JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold it for all that, my boy. WALTER. For oneself, yes--not for other people, thanks. JAMES. Well! I don't want to be hard. COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something [spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy. JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some one uncommonly like her outside as we came in. COKESON. That! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has met her. JAMES. Is she with her husband? COKESON. No. JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose? COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] I don't know that of my own knowledge. 'Tisn't my business. JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage him, COKESON. COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. I've had the party here this morning. JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Too shady altogether! COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you--I see that. WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what we have to do with his private life. JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come here. WALTER. Poor devil! COKESON. Will you--have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I can get him to see reason. JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, COKESON. WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON is summoning FALDER] His whole future may depend on what we do, dad. FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself together, and presents a steady front. JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you another chance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the first place: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notion that you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. You can't play fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. If Society didn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise that the better. FALDER. Yes, sir; but--may I say something? JAMES. Well? FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [He stops] COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, that if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a quarter of us would ever have got there. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that, Falder. FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you began it. FALDER. I never wanted to do wrong. JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did. FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knocked me out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not what I was. JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. FALDER. [Throwing over his caution from the intensity of his feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to the future. FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what prison is. It's here it gets you. He grips his chest. COKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he wanted nourishment. WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. Time's merciful. FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what you've got to do is to put all the past behind you and build yourself up a steady reputation. And that brings me to the second thing. This woman you were mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have done with that. There's no chance of your keeping straight if you're going to begin your future with such a relationship. FALDER. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted expression] But sir... but sir... it's the one thing I looked forward to all that time. And she too... I couldn't find her before last night. During this and what follows COKESON becomes more and more uneasy. JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself that it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come back--not otherwise. FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffens himself] I couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got. JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for the benefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of this connection. It was the cause of all your disaster. FALDER. But sir, it means-having gone through all that-getting broken up--my nerves are in an awful state--for nothing. I did it for her. JAMES. Come! If she's anything of a woman she'll see it for herself. She won't want to drag you down further. If there were a prospect of your being able to marry her--it might be another thing. FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him --she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble from the beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER]... If anybody would help her! It's only money wants now, I'm sure. COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and is about to speak] I don't think we need consider that--it's rather far-fetched. FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full cause since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, if it can be managed. FALDER. Oh, sir! He goes to the window and looks down into the street. COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr. Walter. I have my reasons. FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her? I can beckon to her from here. WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to JAMES. JAMES. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. FALDER beckons from the window. COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James. She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young man's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to swindle the Law. FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a sort of awed silence. FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some change--looking from one to the other] There's been nothing between us, sir, to prevent it.... What I said at the trial was true. And last night we only just sat in the Park. SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office. COKESON. What is it? SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honeywill. [There is silence] JAMES. Show her in. RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKESON turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed groove. JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door] We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be faced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falder again. RUTH. Yes--only yesterday. JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. [Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage, ma'am. RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to twist her hands in front of her as though prescient of disaster. FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us to get you a divorce. RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and WALTER. JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. FALDER. But, Sir----! JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're fond of him. RUTH. Yes, Sir; I love him. She looks miserably at FALDER. JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way, do you? RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce. There's been nothing between us, has there? RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head-without looking at him] No. FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help us--we promise. JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you? You see what I mean? RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes. COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. JAMES. The situation is impossible. RUTH. Must I, Sir? JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to you, ma'am. His future is in your hands. RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right! FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to give me up--after all this? There's something--[Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, I swear solemnly there's been nothing between us. JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He starts at RUTH, who is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as the truth dawns on him] What is it? You've not been-- WALTER. Father! JAMES. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do, that'll do! I'll give you your chance, Falder. Don't let me know what you do with yourselves, that's all. FALDER. [As if he has not heard] Ruth? RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands. There is silence. COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. [To RUTH] Go in here. You'll feel better by yourself for a minute. He points to the clerks' room and moves towards the outer office. FALDER does not move. RUTH puts out her hand timidly. He shrinks back from the touch. She turns and goes miserably into the clerks' room. With a brusque movement he follows, seizing her by the shoulder just inside the doorway. COKESON shuts the door. JAMES. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, whoever it is. SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice] Detective-Sergeant blister. The detective enters, and closes the door behind him. WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two years and a half ago: I arrested him in, this room. JAMES. What about him? WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his whereabouts from you. [There is an awkward silence] COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're not responsible for his movements; you know that. JAMES. What do you want with him? WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four weeks. WALTER. How d'you mean? WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police till then? WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare say we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employment with a forged reference. What with the two things together--we must have him. Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON steal glances at JAMES, who stands staring steadily at the detective. COKESON. [Expansively] We're very busy at the moment. If you could make it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but I dislike peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. If you want him you must find him without us. As he speaks his eye falls on FALDER'S cap, still lying on the table, and his face contracts. WISTER. [Noting the gesture--quietly] Very good, sir. I ought to warn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still a convict, and sheltering a convict. JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come here and ask questions which it's not my business to answer. WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quite understand, don't you? Good-morning! WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. COKESON. The other door.... the other door! WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTHS's voice is heard: "Oh, do!" and FALDER'S: "I can't!" There is a little pause; then, with sharp fright, RUTH says: "Who's that?" WISTER has gone in. The three men look aghast at the door. WISTER [From within] Keep back, please! He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in FALDER'S. The latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake! WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. FALDER. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up his head, and goes out through the outer office, half dragging WISTER after him. WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll go on for ever now. SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER's voice. JAMES. What's that? SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to behind him. There is dead silence. WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The woman-she's fainting! He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the clerks' room. COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! WALTER. Have you any brandy? COKESON. I've got sherry. WALTER. Get it, then. Quick! He places RUTH in a chair--which JAMES has dragged forward. COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They try to force the sherry between her lips.] There is the sound of feet, and they stop to listen. The outer door is reopened--WISTER and SWEEDLE are seen carrying some burden. JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it? They lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and all but RUTH cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices. WISTER. He jumped--neck's broken. WALTER. Good God! WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the slip like that. And what was it--just a few months! WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all? JAMES. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice unlike his own] Run for a doctor--you! [SWEEDLE rushes from the outer office] An ambulance! WISTER goes out. On RUTH's face an expression of fear and horror has been seen growing, as if she dared not turn towards the voices. She now rises and steals towards them. WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look! The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body. RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it? He's not breathing. [She crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! In the outer office doorway the figures of men am seen standing. RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead! [The figures of the men shrink back] COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] There, there, poor dear woman! At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at him. COKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! He's safe with gentle Jesus! RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at COKESON, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as one would to a lost dog. The curtain falls. End of Project Gutenberg's Justice (Second Series Plays), by John Galsworthy Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who asks the Ghostbusters for help?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and memorize the context. (Note: I will give you the question after you confirm that you have memorized the context.) \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Dana" ]	25,086	narrativeqa	en	null	0db2f34454b48e055fc1f54e54f6f19c4e2bd41c2e52795f	Ghostbusters II by Harold Ramis and Dan Aykroyd September 29, 1988 Last revised Feburary 27, 1989 <b>EXT. MANHATTAN ISLAND - DAY </b> A high AERIAL SHOT of the island features the Statue of Liberty prominently in the foreground then TRAVELS ACROSS the harbor, OVER the Battery and Lower Manhattan to Greenwich Village. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY </b> A car is being hoisted up by a municipal tow truck while its owner is having a terrible screaming arguement with a parking enforcement officer. DANA BARRETT comes home pushing a baby buggy, struggling with two full bags of groceries, and trying to dig her keys out of her purse. The building superintendent FRANK, sees her struggling but pretends not to notice. <b> DANA </b> (exasperated) Frank, do you think you could give me a hand with these bags? <b> FRANK </b> I'm not a doorman, Miss Barrett. I'm a building superintendent. <b> DANA </b> You're also a human being, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> (reluctantly going to help) Okay, okay. It's not my job, but what the hell. I'll do you a favor. He takes the grocery bags from her. <b> DANA </b> (setting the wheel brakes on the buggy) Thank you, Frank. I'll get the hang of this eventually. She continues digging in her purse while Frank leans over the buggy and makes funny faces at the baby, OSCAR, a very cute nine-month old boy. <b> FRANK </b> (to the baby) Hiya, Oscar. What do you say, slugger? <b> FRANK </b> (to Dana) That's a good-looking kid you got there, Ms. Barrett. <b> DANA </b> (finding her keys) Thank you, Frank. Oh, are you ever going to fix the radiator in my bedroom? I asked you last week. <b> FRANK </b> Didn't I do it? <b>BABY BUGGY </b> It starts to vibrate as if shaken by an unseen hand. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> He GURGLES with delight at the movement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DANA AND FRANK - DAY </b> Neither of them notice the movement of the carriage. <b> DANA </b> No, you didn't, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> Okay, that's no problem. <b> DANA </b> That's exactly what you said last week. <b>BUGGY WHEELS </b> The brakes unlock themselves. <b>DANA </b> She reaches for the handlebar of the buggy, but the buggy rolls forward just out of her reach and stops. Surprised by the movement, she reaches for the handlebar again, but this time the buggy rolls away even further. Alarmed now, Dana hurries after it, but the buggy keeps rolling down the street at ever increasing speed. <b>SIDEWALK </b> Dana chases the buggy down the street, shouting to passing pedestrians for help, but every time someone reaches out to stop it, the buggy swerves and continues unchecked. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars, trucks, and buses speed by in both directions as the buggy races toward the corner. <b>DANA </b> She puts her head down and sprints after the buggy like an Olympian. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> A city bus is on a collision course with the speeding baby buggy. <b>BUGGY </b> It careens toward the corner. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> Its eyes are wide open with excitement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> Bus and buggy are closing fast as the buggy bounces over the curb and into the crosswalk. <b>BUS </b> The bus driver reacts in helpless horror as he sees the buggy enter the intersection at high speed. <b>BUGGY </b> It comes to a dead stop right in the middle of the street. The bus continues missing the buggy by inches. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars and trucks swerve and hit their brakes as Dana runs into the intersection and snatches up the baby. She hugs it close, deeply relieved, then looks at the buggy with the dawning awareness that the supernatural has re-entered her life. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UPPER WEST SIDE - NEW YORK CITY STREET - GHOSTBUSTERS LOGO - DAY </b> THEME MUSIC kicks in strongly as we see the familiar "No Ghosts" symbol and PULL BACK to reveal that it's painted on the side of Ecto-1, the Ghostbusters' emergency vehicle, which is speeding up Broadway on the Upper West Side. RAY STANTZ is driving and WINSTON ZEDDEMORE is riding shotgun. <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> The Ectomobile pulls up in front of a carefully-restored brownstone. Stantz and Winston, wearing their official Ghostbuster uniforms, jump out of the old ambulance, shoulder their proton packs and enter the house. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> A WOMAN greets them and leads them through the expensively-furnished house. <b> STANTZ </b> (all business) How many of them are there, ma'am? <b> WOMAN </b> Fourteen. They're in the back. I hope you can handle them. It's been like a nightmare. <b> WINSTON </b> How big are they? She holds her hand out indicating about four feet. <b> WINSTON </b> (resolute) We'll do our best, ma'am. <b> WOMAN </b> They're right out here. She leads them to a set of French doors that open into another room. Stantz and Winston pause to make final adjustments to their equipment. <b> STANTZ </b> Ready? <b> WINSTON </b> I'm ready. <b> STANTZ </b> Then let's do it. He pushes through the French doors and they step into the room. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They are immediately attacked by fourteen or fifteen screaming KIDS between the ages of seven and ten. <b> KIDS </b> (disappointed) Ghostbusters!! Boooo!! Tables are set with party favors, ice cream and birthday cake and the room is strewn with discarded toys and games. A couple of weary parents sink onto lawn chairs as Stantz and Winston take over the party. <b> WINSTON </b> (trying his best) How you doin', kids? <b> LITTLE BOY </b> (nasty) I though we were having He-Man. <b> STANTZ </b> He-Man couldn't make it today. That's why we're here. <b> BOY </b> My dad says you're full of crap. <b> STANTZ </b> (stopped cold) Well, a lot of people have trouble believing in the paranormal. <b> BOY </b> No, he just says you're full of crap and that's why you went out of business. He kicks Stantz in the leg. Stantz grabs him by the shirtfront. <b> STANTZ </b> (low and menacing) I'm watching you. (to Winston) Song. Winston switches on a tiny TAPE RECORDER which starts PLAYING the Ghostbusters THEME SONG. Stantz and WInston start singing <b> STANTZ AND WINSTON </b> 'There's something wrong in the neighborhood. Who you gonna call?' <b> KIDS </b> (all together) He-Man!! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Stantz and Winston wearily load their equipment into the Ectomobile. <b> WINSTON </b> That's it, Ray. I've had it. No more parties. I'm tired of taking abuse from over-privileged nine-year-olds. <b> STANTZ </b> Come on, Winston. We can't quit now. The holidays are coming up. It's our best season. They get in the car <b>INT. ECTO-1 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz tries to start the car, but the engine won't turn over. <b> WINSTON </b> Give it up, Ray. You're living in the past. Ghostbusters doesn't exist anymore. In a year these kids won't even remember who we are. <b> STANTZ </b> (tries to start the car again) Ungrateful little Yuppie larvae. After all we did for this city. <b> WINSTON </b> Yeah, what did we do, Ray? The last real job we had we bubbled up a hundred foot marshmallow man and blew the top three floors off an uptown highrise. <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, but what a ride. You can't make a hamburger without chopping up a cow. He turns the key again, the ENGING TURNS OVER, then starts GRINDING and CLUNKING disastrously, chewing up vital parts and dropping twisted bits of metal onto the pavement. Finally, with a BLAST of black sooty exhaust from the tailpipe, Ecto-1 shudders and dies. Frustrated, Stantz bangs his head lightly on the steering wheel <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. WKRR-TV STUDIO RECEPTION AREA - DAY (LATER) </b> A bank of monitors in the lobby show the program now running on WKRR, Channel 10 in New York. We PUSH IN ON one of the monitors as a title card and logo come up accompanied by some EERIE SYNTHESIZER MUSIC, and we return to the show in progress: "World of the Psychic with Dr. Peter Venkman." There is a video dissolve to a standard talk show set and sitting there is our host PETER VENKMAN, the renowned and somewhat infamous ex-Ghostbuster. <b>VENKMAN </b> He turns TO CAMERA and talks to his viewers in a suavely engaging tone, understated and intimate. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, welcome back to the 'World of the Psychic,' I'm Peter Venkman and I'm chatting with my guest, author, lecturer and of course, psychic, Milton Anglund. (to his guest) Milt, your new book is called The End of the World. Isn't that kind of like writing about gum disease. Yes, it could happen, but do you think anybody wants to read a book about it? <b> MILTON </b> Well, I think it's important for people to know that the world is in danger. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, so can you tell us when it's going to happen or do we have to buy the book? <b> MILTON </b> I predict that the world will end at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> This year? That's cutting it a little close, isn't it? I mean, just from a sales point of view, the book just came out, right? So you're not even looking at the paperback release for maybe a year. And it's going to be at least another year after that if the thing has movie-of-the-week or mini-series potential. You would have been better off predicting 1992 or even '94 just to be safe. <b> MILTON </b> (irritated) This is not just some money-making scheme! I didn't just make up the date. I have a strong psychic belief that the world will end on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> (placating) Well, for your sake, I hope you're right. But I think my other guest may disagree with you. Elaine, you had another date in mind? The CAMERA REVEALS ELAINE, an attractive, aggressive New Jersey housewife, sitting on the other side of Venkman. <b> ELAINE </b> According to my sources, the world will end on February 14, in the year 2016. <b> VENKMAN </b> Valentine's Day. That's got to be a bummer. Where did you get that date, Elaine? <b> ELAINE </b> I received this information from an alien. I was at the Paramus Holiday Inn, I was having a drink in the bar when he approached me and started talking. Then he must have used some sort of ray or a mind control device because he made me follow him to his room and that's where he told me about the end of the world. <b> VENKMAN </b> Your alien had a room in the Holiday Inn? <b> ELAINE </b> It may have been a room on the spacecraft made up to look like a room in the Holiday Inn. I can't be sure, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (humoring her) No, you can't, and I think that's the whole problem with aliens; you just can't trust them. You may get some nice ones occasionally like Starman or E.T., but most of them turn out to be some kind of lizard. Anyway, we're just about out of time. (does his wrap-up right TO the CAMERA) Next week on 'World of the Psychic,' hairless pets. (holds up a hairless cat) Until then, this is Peter Venkman saying ... (puts a finger to his temple and sends out a though to his viewers) ... Good night. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. TV STUDIO - CORRIDOR - DAY (LATER) </b> Venkman comes out of the studio squabbling with his producer, NORMAN, a well-meaning young incompetent. <b> VENKMAN </b> Where do you find these people? I thought we were having the telekinetic guy who bends the spoons? <b> NORMAN </b> A lot of the better psychics won't come on the show. They think you're too skeptical. <b> VENKMAN </b> Skeptical! Norman, I'm a pushover. I think professional wrestling is real. There is a small commotion down the hall as two plainclothes cops come out of the next studio followed by a group of mayoral assistants. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Norman) What's all this? <b> NORMAN </b> They just interviewed the mayor on 'Cityline.' <b> VENKMAN </b> The Mayor! He's a friend of mine. Venkman starts down the hall as the MAYOR and his principal aide, JACK HARDEMEYER, come walking out of the studio. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calling to the Mayor) Lenny! The Mayor sees Venkman, blanches and hurries off, pretending not to know him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (starts to follow him) Lenny! It's Pete Venkman! The plainclothesmen cut Venkman off and Hardemeyer puts a heavy hand against Venkman's chest. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (snide) Can I help you? <b> VENKMAN </b> (dangerous) Yeah, you can get your hand off my chest. Hardemeyer smiles and drops his hand. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> I'm Jack Hardemeyer. I'm the mayor's assistant. What can I do for you? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm an old friend of the mayor's. I just want to say hello to him. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (scornful) I know who you are, Doctor Venkman. Busting any ghosts lately? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, that's what I want to talk to the mayor about. We did a little job for the city a while back and we ended up getting sued, screwed and tattooed by deskworms like you. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (bristling) Look, you stay away from the mayor. Next fall, barring a disaster, he's going to be elected governor of this state and the last thing we need is for him to be associated with two-bit frauds and publicity hounds like you and your friends. You read me? Hardemeyer walks off with the two cops. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, I get it. But I want you to tell Lenny that, because of you, I'm not voting for him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - DAY </b> The broad front steps of the museum are crowded with tourists and visitors. Dana arrives carrying a portfolio and artist's tackle box and enters the museum. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATER) </b> We are FULL-FRAME ON a larger-than-life, full-figure portrait of VIGO THE CARPATHIAN, a demented and sadistic 16th century despot with an incredibly powerful evil presence. Then we PULL BACK to reveal the studio, which is a large open space on the top floor of the museum, lit by large skylights in the ceiling. Working on the Vigo painting is JANOSZ POHA, a youngish art historian and painter, the head of the department, quirky, intense and somewhat creepy. Janosz is staring longingly across the room at Dana. <b>DANA </b> She is carefully cleaning a 19th Century landscape painting, still preoccupied by the extraordinary near-accident with the buggy. Janosz watches her for a moment, then comes up behind her and looks over her shoulder. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with an East European accent) Still working on the Turner? Dana jumps, startled by the intrusion. <b> DANA </b> Oh, yes, I got in a little late this morning, Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> You know, you are really doing very good work here. I think soon you may be ready to assist me in some of the more important restorations. <b> DANA </b> Thank you, Janosz. I've learned a lot here, but now that my baby's a little older, I was hoping to rejoin the orchestra. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> At the mention of Dana's baby, the figure of Vigo miraculously turns his head and looks at Dana. <b>JANOSZ AND DANA </b> Neither of them notice the movement in the painting. <b> JANOSZ </b> (disappointed) We'll be very sorry to lose you. Perhaps I could take you to lunch today? <b> DANA </b> Actually, I'm not eating lunch today. I have an appointment. (looks at her watch) In fact, I'd better go. She starts gathering up her things. <b> JANOSZ </b> Every day I ask you, and every day you've got something else to do. Do I have bad breath or something? <b> DANA </b> (trying to brush him off) I'm sorry. Perhaps some other time. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, I'll take a raincheck on that. Janosz smiles at her as she exits, then goes back to his easel. <b> JANOSZ </b> (to himself) I think she likes me. He switches on an English language TAPE and starts practicing the phrases as he resumes working. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UNIVERSITY - DAY </b> Dana Barrett crosses the quad and enters a modern building. A sign identifies it as "The Institute for Advanced Theoretical Research." <b>INT. UNIVERSITY - DAY (A LITTLE LATER) </b> Dana is explaining the buggy incident to EGON SPENGLER, the soberly intellectual techno-wizard and former Ghostbuster, as he conducts an experiment assisted by a research team of graduate students, all of whom are Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. The device he is testing is a black box about the size of a Sony Watchman with both digital and graphic displays. <b> DANA </b> ... and then the buggy just suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the street <b> SPENGLER </b> Did anyone else see this happen? <b> DANA </b> Hundreds of people. Believe me, I didn't imagine this. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm not saying you did. In science we always look for the simplest explanation. An ASSISTANT interrupts. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready, Dr. Spengler <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Assistant) We'll start with the negative calibration. He picks up the device and prepares to test it. <b> DANA </b> (curious) What are you working on, Egon? <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm trying to determine whether human emotional states have a measurable effect on the psychomagnetheric energy field. It's a theory Ray and I were working on when we had to dissolve Ghostbusters. An assistant draws a curtain revealing a large picture window, actually a two-way mirror, that looks into a small waiting room. Inside the waiting room they can see but not hear a youngish couple having a heated arguement. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Dana) They think they're here for marriage counseling. We've kept them waiting for two hours and we've been gradually increasing the temperature in the room. (checking a heat sensor) It's up to 95 degrees at the moment. Now my assistant is going to enter and ask them if they'd mind waiting another half-hour. As Spengler, Dana, and the research team watch, the assistant enters the waiting room and tells the couple about the new delay. They explode with anger both at him and each other while Spengler monitors them through the glass. After recording his readings, he returns to his Assistant. <b> SPENGLER </b> We'll do the happiness index next. (to Dana) I'd like to bring Ray in on your case, if it's all right with you. <b> DANA </b> Okay, whatever you think -- but not Venkman. <b> SPENGLER </b> Oh no. <b> DANA </b> (affectedly casual) Do you ever see him? <b> SPENGLER </b> Occasionally <b> DANA </b> How is he these days? <b> SPENGLER </b> Venkman? I think he was borderline for a while there. Then he crossed the border. <b> DANA </b> Does he ever mention me? <b> SPENGLER </b> No. Not that I can recall. They move to another two-way mirror through which they can see a lovely little girl playing with a wonderful array of toys. <b> DANA </b> (slightly disappointed) Well, we didn't part on very good terms and we sort of lost track of each other when I got married. The Assistant interrupts again. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready for the affection test. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the assistant) Good. Send in the puppy. <b> DANA </b> (continuing) I thought of calling him after my marriage ended, but --. Anyway, I appreciate you're doing this, Egon They watch as another assistant enters the playroom with an adorable Cocker Spaniel puppy and gives it to the little girl. Spengler monitors her as she jumps for joy and hugs the little dog. <b> DANA </b> (handing him a card) This is my address and telephone number. Will you call me? <b> SPENGLER </b> Certainly. <b> DANA </b> Egon, I'd rather you didn't mention any of this to Peter if you don't mind. <b> SPENGLER </b> I won't. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. She shakes his hand and exits. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to his assistant) Now let's see how she reacts when we take away the puppy <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOK STORE - DAY (LATER) </b> It's a small basement shop located on a quaint commercial block in Greenwich Village. The window is crowded with occult artifacts and old books full of arcane metaphysical lore. The TELEPHONE RINGS. <b> STANTZ </b> (v.o., answering the phone) Ray's Occult. <b>INT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOKS - CONTINUOUS </b> The shelves are jammed floor to ceiling with books on the paranormal. Ray sits on a barstool behind the counter wearing an old cardigan sweater over a T-shirt. He has on a pair of reading glasses and chews on a battered, reeking pipe. As he talks on the phone he prepares a cup of herb tea for Spengler who is thumbing through an arcane text. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the phone) Yeah ... mmhmm ... What do you need? ... What have I got? I've got alchemy, astrology, apparitions, Bundu Magic Men, demon intercession, U.F.O. abductions, psychic surgery, stigmata, modern miracles, pixie sightings, golden geese, geists, ghosts, I've got it all -- what are you looking for? ... Don't have any. Try the stockyards. He hangs up. <b> SPENGLER </b> Who was that? <b> STANTZ </b> Some crank. Looking for goat hooves. Come up with anything? <b> SPENGLER </b> (referring to the book) This one's interesting. Berlin, 1939, a flower cart took off by itself and rolled approximately half a kilometer over level ground. Three hundred eyewitnesses. <b> STANTZ </b> You might want to check those Duke University mean averaging studies on controlled psychokinesis. <b> SPENGLER </b> (going to the stacks) Good idea. The bones hanging over the door rattle as Venkman enters the shop. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, hello, perhaps you could help me. I'm looking for an aerosol love potion I could spray on a certain Penthouse Pet that would make her unconditionally submit to an unusual personal request. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, hiya, Pete. <b> VENKMAN </b> So, no goat hooves, huh? <b> STANTZ </b> (strung) I knew that voice sounded familiar. What's up? How's it going? <b> VENKMAN </b> Nowhere -- fast. Why don't you lock up and buy me a sub? <b> STANTZ </b> (slightly evasive) Uh, I can't. I'm kind of working on something. Spengler steps out of the stacks. <b> VENKMAN </b> Egon! <b> SPENGLER </b> Hello, Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> How've you been? How's teaching? I bet those science chicks really dig that big cranium of yours, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think they're more interested in my epididymis. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't even want to know where that is. Venkman steps behind the counter and takes a beer from Ray's mini-fridge. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, your book came in, Venkman. Magical Paths to Fortune and Power. He hands Venkman the book. <b> VENKMAN </b> Great. (reading the contents) So what are you guys working on? <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, just checking something for an old friend. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? <b> STANTZ </b> (at a loss) Who? Just -- someone we know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, Ray -- He grabs Stantz by both ears and pulls up. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? Who? Who? <b> STANTZ </b> Aaah! Nobody! I can't tell you! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who, Ray? <b> STANTZ </b> (giving in) Dana! Dana Barrett! Venkman lets go of his ears and smiles. Spengler looks at Stantz and shakes his head. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - DAY (LATER) </b> The apartment is old and creatively furnished with a comfortable mix of modern and traditional pieces. Maria, a young Hispanic woman who does day care for Dana, is feeding the baby in the kitchen when the DOORBELL <b>RINGS. </b> <b> CUT TO: </b> Dana enters from the bedroom and crosses to the front door. She opens it and admits Ray and Egon. <b> DANA </b> (hugging Ray) Hi, Ray. It's good to see you. Thanks for coming. <b> STANTZ </b> No problem. Always glad to help -- and hug. <b> DANA </b> (to Spengler) Hi, Egon. She shakes his hand and is about to close the door when Venkman appears in the doorway. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, Dana. Dana is caught completely off guard by Venkman's surprise appearance. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew you'd come crawling back to me. She regards him coolly, as always amused and amazed at his presumptuousness. <b> DANA </b> Hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) You know, Dana, I'm very very hurt that you didn't call me first. I'm still into all this stuff, you know. Haven't you ever seen my show? <b> DANA </b> I have. That's why I didn't call you first. <b> VENKMAN </b> I can see that you're still very bitter about us, but in the interest of science, I'm going to give it my best shot. Let's go to work, boys. Stantz and Spengler begin a comprehensive parapsychological work-up on the baby and the immediate physical environment. <b>VENKMAN AND DANA </b> Venkman starts nosing around the apartment. Dana follows him. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what happened to Mr. Right? I hear he ditched you and the kid and moved to Europe. <b> DANA </b> He didn't "ditch" me. We had some problems, he got a good offer from an orchestra in England and he took it. <b> VENKMAN </b> He ditched you. You should've married me, you know. <b> DANA </b> You never asked me, and every time I brought it up you'd get drowsy and fall asleep. <b> VENKMAN </b> Men are very sensitive, you know. We need to feel loved and desired, too. <b> DANA </b> Well, when you started introducing me as "the old ball and chain," that's when I left. <b> VENKMAN </b> I may have a few personal problems but one thing I am is a total professional. He leaves her and crosses to Spengler. <b>SPENGLER </b> He's taking a complete set of body and head measurements of the baby with a tape measure and calipers. <b> VENKMAN </b> What are you going to do, Egon? Knit him a snowsuit? Spengler ignores the remark and hands Venkman a specimen jar. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'd like to have a stool specimen <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, you would. Is that for personal or professional reasons? <b> VENKMAN </b> (picking up the baby) Okay, kid. Up you go. He starts clowning with the baby, holding him over his head and pressing his nose into the baby's belly, pretending that the baby is attacking him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Help! Please somebody help me! Get him off! Quickly! He's gone completely berserk! Dana is amused and somewhat disarmed by Venkman's rapport with the baby. <b> DANA </b> What do you think? <b> VENKMAN </b> There's no doubt about it. He's got his father's looks. The kid is ugly -- extremely ugly. And smelly. (resumes playing with the baby) You stink! It's just horrible. You are the stinkiest baby I ever smelled. (to Dana) What's his name? <b> DANA </b> His name is Oscar. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oscar! You poor kid! <b> DANA </b> (losing patience) Peter, this is serious. I need to know if you think there's anything unusual about him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Unusual? (holds up the baby and scrutinizes him) I don't know. I haven't had a lot of experience with babies. He looks at the baby, pulling his feet up, trying to get the sleeper off. <b> DANA </b> (taking the specimen jar) I'll do it. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll supervise. <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NURSERY - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman enters and finds Stantz monitoring the room. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) Well, Holmes, what do you think? <b> STANTZ </b> It's an interesting one, Pete. If anything was going on it's totally subdued now. Spengler enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) What now, Brainiac? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think we should see if we can find anything abnormal on the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finding something abnormal on the street shouldn't be too hard. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Dana walks down the street with Venkman, retracing the path of the runaway buggy. Spengler and Stantz follow, monitoring PKE valences from the pavement and the buildings. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana, nostalgic) Brings back a lot of sweet memories, doesn't it? (pointing out familiar neighborhood sights) There's our old cash machine. And the dry cleaners we used to go to. And the old video store. (he wipes away an imaginary tear) We really had some good times, didn't we? <b> DANA </b> We definitely had a moment or two. Dana stops at the intersection and points to the middle of the street. <b> DANA </b> That's where the buggy stopped. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, let's take a look. Venkman walks right out into the middle of the street, completely oblivious to the CARS HONKING and whizzing past him and starts motioning like a traffic cop, bringing traffic to a standstill. Then he signals for Dana, Stantz and Spengler to join him in the middle of the street. <b> STANTZ </b> (reading the PKE meter) Is this the spot? <b> DANA </b> A little to the left. Right there! That's where it stopped. Stantz reads the PKE meter. <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Not a trace. <b> SPENGLER </b> Why don't we try the Giga-meter? <b> VENKMAN </b> What's that? <b> STANTZ </b> Egon and I have been working on a gauge to measure psychomagnetheric energy in GEVs - giga electron volts. <b> SPENGLER </b> That's a thousand million electron volts. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew that. Spengler switches on the Giga-meter, the device he was testing in the lab, and passes it over the spot on the street where the buggy stopped. The indicator goes right into the red zone and the DEVICE starts CLICKING <b>WILDLY. </b> <b> STANTZ </b> I think we hit the honeypot, boys. There's something brewing under the street. <b> DANA </b> (worried, to Venkman) Peter, do you think maybe I have some genetic problem or something that makes me vulnerable to these supernatural things. <b> VENKMAN </b> You mean like the time you got possessed and turned into a monster terror dog? No, not a chance. Total coincidence. (to Stantz and Spengler) Am I right? Stantz and Spengler look at him skeptically, not convinced by the coincidence theory. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - LATE AFTERNOON </b> The museum has just closed for the day and the last of the visitors and employees are leaving. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is working late on the painting of Vigo. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> Unnoticed by Janosz, the eyes of Vigo start to glow. <b>JANOSZ </b> He touches his brush to the canvas and a powerful current of red, crackling energy surges through the brush and courses through his body, driving him to his knees. <b>PAINTING </b> The figure of Vigo comes to life, turns toward Janosz and gestures dramatically at him. Then he speaks to Janosz in a commanding voice. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia, the sorrow of Moldavia, command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (in agony) Command me, lord. <b> VIGO </b> On a mountain of skulls in a castle of pain, I sat on a throne of blood. What was will be, what is will be no more. Now is the season of evil. Find me a child that I might live again. Bolts of red-hot energy shoot from the eyes of Vigo into Janosz's eyes. He screams and falls to his knees. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. COFFEE SHOP - EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT </b> Venkman and Stantz come out with small boxes containing coffee, sandwiches and Danish and start walking up the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> I love this. We're onto something really big. I can smell it, Ray. We're going to make some headlines with this one. <b> STANTZ </b> Hey, hey, hey, stresshound! Are you nuts? If anybody found out about this we'd be in serious trouble. The judge couldn't have been clearer - no ghostbusting. <b> VENKMAN </b> Relax. We're going to keep this whole thing nice and quiet, low key, no profile. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Spengler, wearing a hardhat, is JACKHAMMERING a hole in the middle of the street. Safety cones and reflectors have been set up and a small area is lit by strong work lights. <b>POLICE CAR </b> It turns onto East 77th Street, cruises slowly up to the makeshift worksite and stops. The noise of the JACKHAMMER is so loud, Spengler doesn't notice the police car and the two COPS inside looking at them. Finally, he looks up, sees the police car and freezes. <b> FIRST COP </b> How ya doing? <b> SPENGLER </b> (reeking with guilt) Fine! It's cutting fine now. <b> FIRST COP </b> (curious) Why are you cutting? <b> SPENGLER </b> (looking for one of the others) Why are we cutting? Uh - boss! Venkman and Stantz arrive just in time wearing Con Ed hardhats, doing a good imitation of a Consolidated Edison repairman. <b> FIRST COP </b> What are you doing here? <b> VENKMAN </b> (belligerent) What the hell's it look like we're doing? We're bustin out asses over here 'cause some douchebag downtown ain't got nothin' better to do than make idiots like us work late on a Friday night, right? (looks to Spengler for agreement) <b> SPENGLER </b> (with a "right on" fist) Yo. The cops seem satisfied by the explanation. <b> FIRST COP </b> Okay, boys, take it easy. They drive off. Spengler breathes a great sigh of relief and starts rubbing his sore shoulders. <b> SPENGLER </b> You were supposed to help me with this. <b> VENKMAN </b> You need the exercise. Stantz resumes JACKHAMMERING, while Venkman and Spengler clear the rubble from the hole. Suddenly he hits metal. They clear away generations of paving material revealing an ornate iron manhole cover. The manhole cover bears a strange logo and the letters NYPRR. <b> STANTZ </b> (examing it) NYPRR. What the hell -- ? Help me lift this. They prey off the iron cover with crowbars, uncovering a very dark and very deep abyss. <b> STANTZ </b> (shining a flashlight into the hole) Wow! It's an old airshaft. It just goes forever. Spengler leans in with the giga-meter which is reading even higher now. <b> SPENGLER </b> Very intense. We need a deeper reading. Somebody has to go down there. Venkman and Spengler both look at Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> Thanks, boys. They snap Stantz into a harness and lower him into the hole on a strong cable attached to a winch. Ray calls out orders to them as he descends deeper and deeper. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (his voice echoing in the airshaft) Keep going -- more -- more -- <b>INT. HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz rappels off the sides of the airshaft as he continues his descent in total darkness. <b> STANTZ </b> (using a radio now) Lower -- lower -- (to himself) Gee, this really is deep. Suddenly, his feet kick thin air as he gets to the bottom of the airshaft and swings free in some kind of tunnel. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it! Steady! He pulls a powerful flashlight from his utility belt and shines it into the tunnel below. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - NIGHT </b> He is suspended near the top of a beautifully preserved chamber with rounded, polished tile walls ardorned with intricate, colorfully enameled Art Nouveau mosaics. A finely inlaid sign identifies it as VAN HORNE <b>STATION. </b> <b>STANTZ </b> He pans the walls with his flashlight, admiring the excellent tilework, and speaks quietly to Venkman and Spengler over his walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ </b> (reverently) This is it, boys, the end of the line. Van Horne Station. The old New York Pneumatic. It's still here. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman has no idea what he's talking about. <b> SPENGLER </b> (explaining) The New York Pneumatic Railway. It was an experimental subway system. Fan-forced air-trains, built around 1870. <b> STANTZ </b> (over the walkie-talkie) This is about as deep as you can go under Manhattan without digging your own hole. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) What's the reading? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz shines his flashlight on the meter and whistles at the extremely high reading. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Off the top of the scale. This place is really hot. Lower me to the floor. As Venkman and Spengler feed him some more cable, he pans his flashlight down the wall of the station, then onto the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it!! Stop!! Whoa!! <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - FLOOR - NIGHT </b> Below him is a river of bubbling seething, glowing slime, a veritable torrent of disgusting ooze. As he stares into the foul effluent, we become aware of the strangely amplified and magnified sounds of great ENGINES THROBBING and pulsing in the bowels of the city, of WATER RUSHING through pipes, STEAM HISSING through ducts, the muffled RUMBLE of the SUBWAY and the ROAR of TRAFFIC, and mixed with it all, the unmistakable sounds of human conflict and pain -- VOICES SHOUTING in anger, SCREAMING in fear, GROANING in pain, a sad and eerie symphony. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ - NIGHT </b> <b> STANTZ </b> (ranting on the radio) Oh, my God! It's a seething, bubbling, psychic cess! Interlocked tubes of plasm, crackling with negative GEVs! It's glowing and moving! It's -- it's a river of slime!! <b>STANTZ </b> He dangles from the end of the cable, holding his feet up as high as he can. He unhooks a device from his utility belt and pulls the trigger on it, shooting out a long telescoping fishing-pole with a scoop on the end. Reaching down, he scoops up a sample of the slime and starts retracting the pole. <b>SLIME </b> Suddenly, a grotesque arm with a long skeletal fingers reaches up out of the slime and snatches at Stantz's dangling feet. He jerks his legs up as several more arms poke up out of the slime and reach for him. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Haul me up, Venkman! Now! <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman and Spengler start hauling in the cable as a Con Ed Supervisor's car drives up, and behind it, the same police car they saw earlier. A burly SUPERVISOR gets out and crosses toward them, followed by the two cops. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (no nonsense) Okay, what's the story here? Venkman and Spengler stop pulling up the cable and Venkman tries the belligerent worker ploy again, only this time he's wearing a Nynex hardhat. <b> VENKMAN </b> What, I got time for this? We got three thousand phones out in the Village and about eight million miles of cable to check. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (not buying it) The phone lines are over there. (points to the curb) Venkman pops Spengler on the head. <b> VENKMAN </b> I told ya! Stantz can be heard ranting over Venkman's walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (filtered) Help! Help! Pull me up! It's alive! It's eating my boots. Venkman switches off the walkie-talkie. <b> FIRST COP </b> You ain't with Con Ed or the phone company. We checked. Tell me another one. Venkman stares at the Cop for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Gas leak? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - SAME TIME </b> Stantz is hanging there, looking down into the shaft at the slime which is now bubbling up the shaft after him. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouting) Get me out of here!! Desperate now, he kicks wildly and knocks loose a section of an old, rusting conduit. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - BOTTOM OF THE SHAFT </b> The conduit falls on a heavy electrical transmission line, ripping through the cable with a SHOWER OF SPARKS. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman, Spengler, the cops and the supervisor all react to a bright FLASH deep down in the hole and a SHOUT from Stantz. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - STREET - NIGHT </b> One by one, all the streetlights go out; then the lights on all the buildings along East 77th street; then the whole neighborhood blacks out, and finally the entire city is plunged into darkness. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> Sorry. <b>INT. DANA BARRETT'S APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> She walks around in the dark lighting candles and placing them all over the living room. Then she finds a transistor radio and turns it on for information about the blackout. She listens to a special news report for a moment, then has a compelling impulse to go check on the baby. She crosses to the nursery carrying a candle and quietly opens the door and looks in. Suddenly the DOORBELL RINGS, scaring her half to death. Leaving the chain on the door, she opens it a crack and sees Janosz standing in the hall, eerily lit by a red emergency spot at the end of the hallway. He looks slightly dazed and even creepier. <b> DANA </b> (surprised) Janosz? <b> JANOSZ </b> Hello, Dana. I happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop by to see if everything's all right with you -- you know, with the blackout and everything? Are you okay? Is the baby all right? His affected concern is chilling. She is frightened but conceals it from him. <b> DANA </b> (mechanically and cautiously) We're fine, Janosz. He tires to look around her into the apartment. <b> JANOSZ </b> Do you need anything? You want me to come in? <b> DANA </b> No, everything's fine. Honestly. Thanks anyway. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, just thought I'd check. Good night, Dana. Sleep well. Don't let the bedbugs bite you. <b> DANA </b> Good night, Janosz. She closes the door behind him and double locks it, then stands there staring into the candlelight, alone and afraid. <b>INT. HALLWAY OF DANA'S BUILDING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz stands there in semi-darkness, then his eyes light up like headlights and he walks off down the hall. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - NEXT DAY </b> The JUDGE, a rather sour-looking jurist of the old school, calls the court to order. <b> JUDGE </b> I want to make one thing very clear before we go any further. The law does not recognize the existence of ghosts, and I don't believe in them either, so I don't want to hear a lot of malarkey about goblins and spooks and demons. We're going to stick to the facts in this case and save the ghost stories for the kiddies. Understood? <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz leans over and whispers to Spengler. <b> STANTZ </b> Seems like a pretty open-minded guy, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> His nickname is "The Hammer." Stantz and Spengler are seated with their attorney LOUIS TULLY, lawyer, CPA and former demonic possession victim. Louis is desperately paging through a mountain of legal textbooks. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervous) I think you're making a big mistake here, fellas. I do mostly tax law and some probate stuff occasionally. I got my law degree at night school. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right. We got arrested at night. <b>SPECTATORS' GALLERY </b> Venkman is talking to Dana at the wooden rail in front of the gallery. <b> DANA </b> I wish I could stay. I feel personally responsible for you being here. <b> VENKMAN </b> You are personally responsible. If I can get conjugal rights, will you visit me at Sing Sing? <b> DANA </b> Please don't say that. You won't go to prison. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry about me. I'm like a cat. <b> DANA </b> You mean you cough up hairballs all over the rug? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm El Gato. I always land on my feet. <b> DANA </b> (sincerely) Good luck. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thanks. She gives him a quick, unexpected kiss and exits. Venkman savors it for a moment then goes back to the defense table. <b>PROSECUTION TABLE </b> Jack Hardemeyer, the mayor's principal aide, is goading the PROSECUTOR, a very sober, humorless woman in her late thirties. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> How are you doing, hon? Just put these guys away fast and make sure they go away for a long, long time. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> It shouldn't be hard with this list of charges. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Good. Very good. The mayor and future governor won't forget this. He smiles conspiratorially and makes a point of passing the defense table on his way out of the courtroom. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> The Ghostbusters look up as Hardemeyer approaches. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (gloating) Nice going, Venkman. Violating a judicial restraining order, willful destruction of public property, fraud, malicious mischief -- smooth move. See you in a couple years -- at your first parole hearing. Herdemeyer exits. Louis looks devastated. <b> LOUIS </b> Gee, the whole city's against us. I think I'm going to be sick. Spengler hands him a waste basket as the Prosecutor calls her first witness. <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - DAY (LATER) </b> The Con Ed Supervisor is testifying. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Mr. Fianella, please look at Exhibits A through F on the table over there. Do you recognize that equipment? <b>EXHIBIT TABLE </b> Lying on the table are the basic tools of the Ghostbusting trade: three proton packs and particle throwers, a couple of ghost traps, and various meters and detection devices. <b> CON ED </b> (o.c.) That's the stuff the cops found in their truck. <b>WITNESS STAND </b> She continues. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Do you know what this equipment is used for? <b> CON ED </b> (shrugs) I don't know. Catching ghosts, I guess. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> (to the Judge) May I remind the court that the defendants are under a judicial restraining order that specifically forbids them from performing services as paranormal investigators and eliminators. <b> JUDGE </b> So noted. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Now, Mr. Fianella, can you identify the substance in the jar on the table marked Exhibit F? <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She goes to the exhibit table and picks up a specimen jar containing the slime sample Stantz removed from the tunnel. <b> CON ED </b> I been working underground for Con Ed for 27 years and I never saw anything like that in my life. We checked out that tunnel the next day and we didn't find nothing. If it was down there, they must have put it there. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Venkman and Spengler look at Stantz. <b> STANTZ </b> (defensively) Hey, I didn't imagine it. There must have been ten thousand gallons of it down there. <b> SPENGLER </b> It may be ebbing and flowing from some tidal source. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervously) Should I say that? <b> SPENGLER </b> I doubt that they'd believe us. Louis moans and goes back to his notes. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - LATER </b> Venkman himself is on the stand and Louis is questioning him. <b> LOUIS </b> So like you were just trying to help out your old friend because she was scared and you didn't really mean to do anything bad and you really love the city and won't ever do anything like this again, right? <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection, your Honor. He's leading the witness. <b> JUDGE </b> The witness is leading him. Sustained. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, let me rephrase that question. (to venkman) Didn't you once coach a basketball team for underprivileged children? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yes, I did. We were city champs. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection. Irrelevant and immaterial. <b> JUDGE </b> Sustained. Mr. Tully, do you have anything to ask this witness that may have some bearing on this case? <b> LOUIS </b> (to Venkman) Do I? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I think you've helped them enough already. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the Judge) No, I guess not. (to the Prosecutor) Your witness. The Prosecutor rises and approaches the witness stand with relish. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So, Dr. Venkman, please explain to the court why it is you and your co-defendants took it upon yourselves to dig a big hole in the middle of the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Seventy-seventh and First Avenue has so many holes already we didn't think anyone would notice. The gallery laughs and the Judge gavels for order. <b> JUDGE </b> Keep that up, mister, and I'll find you in contempt. <b> VENKMAN </b> Sorry, your Honor, but when somebody sets me up like that I can't resist. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> I'll ask you again, Dr. Venkman. Why were you digging the hole? And please remember that you're under oath. <b> VENKMAN </b> I had my fingers crossed when they swore me in, but I'm going to tell you the truth. There are things in this world that go way beyond human understanding, things that can't be explained and that most people don't want to know about anyway. That's where we come in. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So what are you saying? That the world of the supernatural is your special province? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I guess I'm just saying that shit happens and somebody has to deal with it. The spectators in the gallery cheer and the judge gavels for order. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - LATER </b> The trial is nearing its end. The Judge calls on Louis to make his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> Does the counsel for the defense wish to make any final arguements? Louis rises. <b> LOUIS </b> Your honor, may I approach the bench? <b> JUDGE </b> (impatient) Yes. Louis crosses to the judge's bench. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the judge) Can I have some of your water? <b> JUDGE </b> Get on with it, counselor! <b> LOUIS </b> (scared) Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the -- (he remembers there's no jury) audience. I don't think it's fair to call my clients frauds. Okay, the blackout was a big problem for everybody. I was stuck in an elevator for about three hours and I had to go to the bathroom the whole time, but I don't blame them because once I turned into a dog and they helped me. Thank you. He goes back to the defense table and sits down. Stantz and Spengler hang their heads. Venkman pats Louis on the back. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Louis) Way to go. Concise and to the point. <b>JUDGE </b> He stares at Louis, astonished at his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> That's it? That's all you have to say? <b> LOUIS </b> Did I forget something? He searches through a disorderly pile of notes. <b> JUDGE </b> That was unquestionably the worst presentation of a case I've ever heard in a court of law! I ought to cite you for contempt and have you disbarred. As for your clients, Peter Venkman, Raymond Stantz and Egon Spengler, on the charges of conspiracy, fraud and the willful destruction of public property, I find you guilty on all counts. I order you to pay fines in the amount of $25,000 each and I sentence you to eighteen months in the city correctional facility at Ryker's Island. <b>STANTZ </b> He sees the activity in the jar <b> STANTZ </b> Uh-oh, she's twitchin'. <b>THE BENCH </b> The Judge continues <b> JUDGE </b> And on a more personal note, let me go on record as saying that there is no place in decent society for fakes, charlatans and tricksters like you who prey on the gullibility of innocent people. You're beneath the contempt of this court. And believe me, if my hands were not tied by the unalterable fetters of the law, a law which has become in my view far too permissive and inadequate in it's standards of punishment, I would invoke the tradition of our illustrious forebearers, reach back to a sterner, purer justice and have you burned at the stake! He hammers the bench with his gravel as the gallery erupts noisily. Then he feels a LOW RUMBLING TREMOR in the courtroom. <b>SPECIMEN JAR </b> The slime starts to pulse and swell, pushing up the lid on the jar. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz anticipates big trouble. <b> STANTZ </b> Under the table, boys! The Ghostbusters duck under the defense table. <b>LOUIS </b> He stands up and looks around fearfully. <b>INT. COURTROOM - GHOST BATTLE - DAY </b> Everybody is silent now as the rumbling increases. All eyes turn to the exhibit table. Then suddenly all Hell breaks loose as TWO FULL-TORSO APPARITIONS explode out of the specimen jar. <b>JUDGE </b> He looks up in terror at the two huge apparitions looming above him and recognizes them immediately. <b> JUDGE </b> (in horror) Oh, my God! The Scoleri Brothers! <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> Big in life, even bigger in death, the ghostly Scoleri brothers seem ten feet tall. They are strapped into electric chairs and on their heads are metal electrocution caps with live, sparking electrical wires still attached. Twenty-five hundred volts of electricity shoot through their bodies as they start to break free of the leather restraints, trying to get at the Judge. <b>JUDGE </b> Holding his gavel like a pitiful weapon, he crawls over to the defense table where Venkman, Stantz and Spengler are now crouched, assessing the spectral intruders. <b> JUDGE </b> (terrified) You've got to do something! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who are they? <b> JUDGE </b> They're the Scoleri Brothers. I tried them for murder. They were electrocuted up at Ossining in '48. Now they want to kill me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Maybe they just want to appeal. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They break loose from the electric chairs, then turn toward the defense table and BLAST it with HIGH-VOLTAGE FINGER-LIGHTNING. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She sprints for the door, pursued by one of the Scoleri brothers. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They jump to safety behind the rail of the jury box, pulling the Judge with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These boys aren't playing around. <b> JUDGE </b> (desperately) You've got to stop them. Please! <b> LOUIS </b> (thinking like a lawyer) Violating a judicial restraining order could expose my clients to serious criminal penalties. As their attorney I'd have to advise them against it. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They start punching through the jury box. <b>JUDGE </b> He is just about hysterical with fear. <b> JUDGE </b> All right! All right! I'm recinding the order. Case dismissed!! (he pounds his gavel on the floor) Now do something! <b> STANTZ </b> Let's go to work, boys. With that, the Ghostbusters leap over the rail of the jury box and dash across the courtroom to the exhibit table where their proton packs were being displayed as evidence. They strap them on hastily as the Brothers continue tearing up the seats looing for the Judge. <b> VENKMAN </b> (slinging the pack onto his back) Geez, I forgot how heavy these things are. <b> STANTZ </b> (grabbing other gear) Okay, let's heat 'em up! They flip the power switches on their packs and draw their particle throwers. <b> STANTZ </b> All right, throwers. Set for full neutronas on stream. They switch on their throwers and turn to face the raging phantasms. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They are just about to wipe out the Judge when a loud shout distracts them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size? The towering ghosts turn in a fury and raise their arms, ready to shoot lightning at their new adversaries. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the others) On my signal, boys. Open 'em up -- Now! They all pull their triggers and the wands EXPLODE with incredible powerful STREAMS OF ENERGY, doing even more damage to the courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Spengs, take the door. Ray, let's try and work them down and into the corner. Working as a team, they gradually confine the Scoleri Brothers with the streams, forcing them closer and closer to the traps Ray has set out on the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch it! I'm coming under you, Pete. They circle around the two ghosts, prodding them with the streams while ducking the lightning bolts shooting from their fingers. Finally, Ray sees his chance and pops open the traps which emit inverted pyramids of light energy. <b> STANTZ </b> Steady -- watch your streams -- easy now -- Venky, bring him left -- Spengy, pull him down -- trapping -- trapping -- now! He stomps on a control pedal and the Scoleri Brothers are drawn into the traps which snap shut. <b>INT. COURTROOM - TRAPS - DAY </b> LEDs on the outer casing start flashing, indicating the presence of a ghost inside each trap. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking the trap) Occupado. <b>INT. COURTROOM - JUDGE - DAY (AFTER GHOST BATTLE) </b> He sticks his head up slowly from behind the debris of his bench and looks around in total amazement. <b>LOUIS </b> He crawls out from under a chair. Reporters and spectators get back on their feet and start buzzing about the incredible manifestation. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She's lying on the floor, attended to by the Bailiff and the Court Clerk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Prosecutor) Brilliant summation. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They break into big smiles as photographers start snapping pictures of them standing in the wrecked courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Case closed, boys. We're back in business. The spectators cheer and applaud. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> The old, dilapidated Ghostbusters logo comes crashing to the ground, dropped by a pair of workmen on a ladder, and the new logo is hoisted into place over the main entrance. It's just like the original "No Ghosts" logo, but in the new one the ghost in the red circle is holding up two fingers. Venkman enters the firehouse. <b>INT. BEDROOM SET (TV COMMERCIAL - FULL SCREEN VIDEO) - NIGHT </b> A man and his wife are lying in bed reading. The man is played by Louis Tully and JANINE MELNITZ, the Ghostbusters' once and future receptionist, is playing his wife. They are both terrible actors. Suddenly, a ghost, actually a very bad puppet on a wire, floats through the bedroom. Janine sees it and screams. <b> LOUIS </b> What is it, honey? <b> JANINE </b> It's that darn ghost again! I don't know what to do anymore. He just won't leave us alone. I guess we'll just have to move. <b> LOUIS </b> Don't worry. We're not moving. He is. He picks up the phone. <b> JANINE </b> Who are you going to call? <b> LOUIS </b> (with a wink) Ghostbusters. As he starts to dial, the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the Ghostbusters standing in the bedroom. Their acting isn't much better than Louis and Janine's. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> Stantz speaks directly TO the CAMERA. <b> STANTZ </b> I'm Ray -- <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm Peter -- <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm Egon -- <b> STANTZ </b> And we're the ... <b> ALL </b> (together) Ghostbusters. <b> STANTZ </b> That's right -- Ghostbusters. We're back and we're better than ever with twice the know-how and twice the particle-power to deal with all your supernatural elimination needs. During his speech, Winston can be seen in the b.g. pretending to trap the fake ghost. <b> STANTZ </b> Careful, Winston. He's a mean one. <b> (TO CAMERA) </b> And to celebrate our grand reopening, we're giving you twice the value with our special half-price 'Welcome Back' service plan. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hold on, Ray! Half-price! Have you gone crazy? <b> STANTZ </b> I guess so, Pete, because that's not all. Tell them what else we've got, Egon. Spengler actually mouths everyone else's dialogue along with them, waiting for his cue. <b> SPENGLER </b> You mean the Ghostbusters hot beverage thermal mugs and free balloons for the kids? He holds up a mug and a limp, uninflated balloon. <b> STANTZ </b> You bet. As Stantz wraps it up, SUPERS APPEAR at the bottom of the SCREEN: FULLY <b>BONDED - FULLY LICENSED - SE HABLA ESPANOL. </b> <b> STANTZ </b><b> (TO CAMERA) </b> So don't wait another minute. Make your supernatural problem our supernatural problem. Call now, because we're still -- <b> ALL </b> (in unison, mechanically) -- Ready to believe you. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. JACK HARDEMEYER'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Hardemeyer is watching the Ghostbusters commercial on a TV in his office. He bangs his fist on his desk and angrily switches OFF the TV. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY (LATER) </b> The garage door opens and the new improved ECTOMOBILE comes ROARING out onto the street, its ghostly SIREN MOANING and WAILING. Louis comes running out after it. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis comes back into the garage bay and stops as he smells a foul odor. He sniffs around, following the smell. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, geez, smells like somebody took a really big -- He freezes. <b>INT. OFFICE AREA - LOUIS'S POV </b> Slimer, a spud-like green ghost, is hovering over Louis's desk, scarfing down Louis's bag lunch. Slimer looks up and sees Louis. <b>SLIMER AND LOUIS </b> They both scream and run off in opposite directions. <b>SLIMER </b> He passes right through a wall and disappears. <b>LOUIS </b> He runs right into a wall, recovers and exits in a hurry. <b> LOUIS </b> (screaming) Help! There's a thing! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK RESERVOIR - DAY (LATER) </b> Runners of both sexes and all ages are huffing and puffing as they jog along the track that circles the reservoir. One of the runners looks behind him at the sound of APPROACHING FOOTFALLS and screams. <b>GHOSTLY JOGGER </b> A ghost jogger is loping along at a pretty fair pace. Other runners stumble and run screaming into the park as he passes them. Seemingly oblivious to the effect he's having, the ghost jogger puts two fingers to his skeletal neck and checks his watch as if taking his pulse. <b>EXT. CLEARING IN PARK - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman is sitting on a park bench near the jogging track reading the newspaper, eating a donut and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. <b>STANTZ </b> He's sitting on a bench opposite Venkman's, casually watching the jogging track. <b>GHOST JOGGER </b> He approaches the benches where the Ghostbusters are waiting. As the ghost jogger passes the benches, Stantz and Venkman simultaneously hit concealed control buttons. A ghost trap buried in the track throws up a glowing inverted pyramid and catches the ghost jogger in mid-stride. Stantz and Venkman close the trap and capture the ghost jogger. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking his watch) You know he ran that last lap in under six minutes? <b> STANTZ </b> If he wasn't dead he'd be an Olympic prospect. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. JEWELRY STORE - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters come out carrying smoking traps, wearing cheap dime-store Santa Claus hats. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the client) Merry Christmas! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - ORREFORS GLASS STORE - DAY </b> The Ectomobile is parked at the curb and a curious crowd looks on as the Ghostbusters enter the store. <b>INT. ORREFORS GLASS STORE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> All the precious crystal is floating in the air, several feet above the glass shelves and display tables. Stantz and Venkman are talking to the manager while Winston and Spengler set up an array of electronic devices positioned in each corner of the store. On a signal from Stantz, Spengler and Winston switch on the devices which throw laser-type beams around the perimeter of the store. The manager watches in horror as all the GLASSWARE suddenly drops out of the air, SMASHES through the GLASS SHELVES and SHATTERS on the display tables. There is a long pregnant pause. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the manager) So will that be cash or a check? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) </b> Everyone else has gone home. Dana is cleaning her brushes and putting her supplies away. <b>VIGO PAINTING - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Vigo turns his head and watches Dana as she walks past the painting. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis is lurking behind a pillar, peeking out at the office area. We PAN DOWN TO the floor and see a foot pedal, then PAN ALONG the cord TO a ghost trap sitting on Louis's desk. Hanging from strings over the desk are several pieces of Kentucky fried chicken. <b>WALL </b> Slimer partially emerges and furtively sniffs the air, then spots the chicken bait. He licks his lips, materializes completely and flies to the chicken. <b>LOUIS </b> His eyes light up and he stomps the foot pedal. <b> LOUIS </b> (shouts) Gotcha! <b>DESK </b> The trap pops open and shoots out a powerful cone of energy. Slimer dodges it and escapes as a big section of the ceiling comes crashing down on Louis's desk. <b> LOUIS </b> (seeing the damage) Uh-oh. He slinks off, defeated. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - SECURITY DESK - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters commercial is playing on a portable TV on the security desk. Rudy, the Security Guard, is reading a National Enquirer with a giant front-page headline: GHOSTBUSTERS SAVE JUDGE. Venkman enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm looking for Dana Barrett. <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> Room 304 -- Restorations. (recognizing him) Hey! Dr. Venkman -- 'World of the Psychic.' I'm a big, big fan. That used to be one of my two favorite shows. <b> VENKMAN </b> (flattered) Thanks. What's the other one? <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> 'Bass Masters.' It's a fishing show. Ever see it? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, really great. Take it easy. He exits. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Dana is working on a valuable Flemish still-life by Ver Meer. Janosz is at the other end of the room, still working on the painting of Vigo. Venkman enters and sneaks up behind Dana. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the Ver Meer) So this is what you do, huh? <b> DANA </b> (glad to see him) Oh, hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> You're really good, you know. <b> DANA </b> I didn't paint it. I'm just cleaning it. It's an original Ver Meer. It's worth about ten million dollars. <b>VIGO </b> He turns his head and watches Venkman and Dana. <b>VENKMAN </b> Unaware that he's being watched, Venkman squints at the still life, holding up his thumb like he's seen artists do. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know you can go to Art World and get these huge sofa-size paintings for about forty-five bucks. He starts looking around at the other artwork in the studio. <b> DANA </b> I'm sure you didn't come here just to talk about art. <b> VENKMAN </b> As a matter of fact, I stopped by to tell you that I haven't forgotten your problem and that we're still on the case. They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> (smiling at Venkman) Dana, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend? <b> DANA </b> Oh, I'm sorry. This is Peter Venkman. Peter, Janosz Poha. Venkman warily shakes his hand, trying to size him up. <b> JANOSZ </b> (avoiding his gaze) Pleasure to meet you. I've seen you on television. <b> VENKMAN </b> How are you? (looking over at the Vigo painting) What's that you're working on, Johnny? Janosz winces at the nickname but lets it go. Venkman and Dana cross to the Vigo painting. Janosz steps protectively in front of it. <b> JANOSZ </b> It's a painting I'm restoring for the new Byzantine exhibition. It's a self-portrait of Prince Vigo, the Carpathian. He ruled most of Carpathia and Moldavia in the 17th Century. <b> VENKMAN </b> (staring at the painting) Too bad for the Moldavians. <b> JANOSZ </b> (defensive) He was a very powerful magician. A genius in many ways and quite a skilled painter. <b> DANA </b> He was also a lunatic and a genocidal madman. I hate this painting. I've felt very uncomfortable since they brought it up from storage. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, it's not the kind of thing you'd want to hang in the rec room. You know what it needs? (picking up a brush) A fluffy little white kitten in the corner. Venkman reaches toward the painting, but Janosz grabs his hand. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with forced good will) We don't go around altering valuable paintings, Dr. Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, I'd make an exception in this case if I were you. Dana looks disapprovingly at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) I'll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you. <b> JANOSZ </b> My pleasure. Venkman and Dana cross back to her workspace. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) I may be wrong, but I think you've got a little crush on this guy. <b> DANA </b> Good-bye, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (dragging his feet) I'd like to stay, but I really don't have time to hang around here. I'll call you. (calls out to Janosz) Later, Johnny! He exits. <b>VIGO </b> Vigo turns his head and follows Dana as she returns to her workbench. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LIVING QUARTERS - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> Venkman and Winston enter and find Stantz and Spengler at work in the lab area. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh good, you're here. Spengler and I have something really amazing to show you. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) It's not that thing you do with your nostrils, is it? Stantz goes to the refrigerator, opens the freezer, rummages around among the TV dinners and frozen pizza and pulls out a slime specimen in a Tupperware container. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Venkman) We've been studying the stuff that we took from the subway tunnel. He pops the specimen jar in the microwave and lets it thaw for a minute. <b> VENKMAN </b> And now you're going to eat it? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm just restoring it to its normal state. He takes the specimen out of the microwave and pours some of it into a large Petri dish. <b> STANTZ </b> Now watch this. He leans over the specimen and starts shouting at it. <b> STANTZ </b> (simulating anger) You worthless piece of slime!! (as the slime starts to twitch and glow) You ignorant disgusting blob!! <b>SPECIMEN </b> It bubbles and swells, changing color with each insult. <b> STANTZ </b> You foul, obnoxious muck!! <b>STANTZ </b> He continues venting his rage on the slime. <b> STANTZ </b> I've seen some real crud in my time, but you're a chemical disgrace!! The specimen doubles its size and starts spilling over the rim of the Petri dish. <b>STANTZ AND SPENGLER </b> They turn to Venkman for his reaction. He's dumbfounded. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is what you do with your spare time? <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) This is an incredible breakthrough, Venkman. A psychoreactive substance! Whatever this is, it clearly responds to human emotional states. <b> VENKMAN </b> 'Mood slime.' We ought to bottle this stuff and sell it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We've found it at every event site we've been to lately. <b> WINSTON </b> (poking at the slime) You mean this stuff actually feeds on 'bad vibes'? <b> STANTZ </b> Like a goat on garbage. <b> STANTZ </b> We're running tests to see if we can get an equally strong positive reaction. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of tests? <b> STANTZ </b> (a little embarrassed) Well, we sing to it, we talk to it, we say supportive, nurturing things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> You're not sleeping with this stuff, are you? Spengler reacts as if he might be. <b> STANTZ </b> It really responds to music. (to Spengler) Let's calm it down. Spengler picks up a guitar and he and Stantz start singing "Cumbaya" to the slime specimen. <b>SPECIMEN </b> It stops bubbling and starts to shrink. <b> WINSTON </b> Does it have any favorites? <b> STANTZ </b> It likes all the sappy stuff: 'Cumbaya,' 'Everything is Beautiful,' 'It's a Small World' -- but it loves Jackie Wilson. Venkman and Winston watch intently as Spengler spoons some of the psych-reactive slime onto an old toaster. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch this. Stantz turns on a CASSETTE PLAYER and Jackie Wilson's "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BLASTS from the speakers. <b>TOASTER </b> It shakes, spins and actually starts moving in time with the MUSIC. <b>VENKMAN </b> He stares in disbelief at the dancing toaster as it shoots two pieces of toast into the air and catches them without missing a beat. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't care what you say. This could be a major Christmas gift item. <b> WINSTON </b> Right, and the first time someone gets mad, their toaster will eat their hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> So we'll put a warning on the label. Stantz turns OFF the MUSIC and the toaster stops moving. Venkman looks at the toaster and sticks his fingers in the slot. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the toaster) Go ahead. I dare you. Suddenly, he yelps as if the toaster has actually bitten into his hand and won't let go. The others jump in to help him, but Venkman laughs and easily withdraws his hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> Just kidding. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Dana brings Oscar into the bathroom and lays him on the bassinet. She's wearing a robe over her nightgown, preparing to bathe the baby. She turns the taps on the old claw-footed bathtub, checks the water temperature, then turns away and starts to undress the baby. <b> DANA </b> (talking sweetly to the baby) Look at you. I think we got more food on your shirt than we got in your mouth. <b>BATHTUB </b> The water pouring from the faucet changes to slime and settles at the bottom of the tub. Dana reaches over and turns off the water without looking into the tub. When she turns away, both taps start to spin by themselves and the tub flexes and bulges. <b>DANA </b> Still unaware, she routinely reaches over and squirts some bubble bath into the tub. <b>BATHTUB </b> The rim of the tub puckers up and the sides convulse as if swallowing the bubble bath. <b>DANA </b>She picks the baby up off the bassinet and turns to place him in the tub. She is just about to lower him into the water when the tub starts to close up around the baby like a hugh mouth. Dana screams, snatches the baby away and runs from the room clutching Oscar to her bosom as the bathtub convulses and vomits up buckets of slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - SAME NIGHT (LATER) </b> The big open loft space is a chaotic clutter of mismatched furniture, old magazines, books, tapes, and sports equipment. Venkman is asleep on the floor, still wearing his coat, scarf, hat and gloves, having collapsed just short of the bedroom. The DOORBELL RINGS, he wakes up, lumbers to his feet and answers it. He opens the door and sees Dana standing there. She is wearing only a nightgown under her coat and Oscar is naked, wrapped in a baby blanket. <b> DANA </b> (somewhat embarrassed to be there) I'm sorry. Were you on your way out? <b> VENKMAN </b> (surprised to see her) No, I just got in -- a couple hours ago. Come on in. (noting her apparel) Are we having a pajama party? <b> DANA </b> (upset) Peter, the bathtub tried to eat Oscar. Venkman looks at her for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know, if anyone else told me that, I'd have serious doubts. But coming from you, I can't honestly say I'm surprised. <b> DANA </b> I must be losing my mind. At the museum today I could have sworn that terrible painting of Vigo looked right at me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who could blame him? Were you wearing this nightgown? <b> DANA </b> (distraught) I don't know what to do anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll get Ray and Egon to check out the bathtub. You better stay here. He exits to the bathroom. She looks around the loft, amazed at the disorder. Venkman comes back immediately with an old sweatshirt and takes Oscar from her. <b> VENKMAN </b> Now this kid has a serious nudity problem. He spreads the sweatshirt out on the sofa, lays the baby on it and starts tying it around him like a diaper. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the baby) This is Joe Namath's old number, you know. You could get a lot of chicks with this. Just don't pee in it. <b> DANA </b> Peter, what about the bathtub? <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the phone and dials) We'll take care of that. (on the phone) Ray, Pete. Listen, get over to Dana's right away ... Her bathtub pulled a fast one -- tried to eat the kid. <b> DANA </b> It was full of this awful pink ooze. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray) Sounds like another slime job ... No, they're all right. They're here now ... Right ... Let me know. He hangs up. <b> VENKMAN </b> They're going over there right now. You might as well make yourself at home. Let me show you around. (he crosses to the kitchen area) This is the cuisine de maison -- It's an incredible mess. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes and the counters are littered with all sorts of food trash. He grabs a big open Hefty bag on the floor and starts throwing garbage into it. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the sink) We may have to wash some of these if you get hungry -- (he looks in the fridge) -- but there's no food anyway so forget about it. I have all kinds of carry-out menus if you feel like ordering. He opens a drawer full of pizza, barbecue and Chinese food menus, then crosses to the bathroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Bathroom's right here -- let me just tidy up a few things. <b> DANA </b> Peter, this is very nice, but you don't have to do any of this, you know. He goes into the bathroom and we hear WATER RUNNING, the TOILET FLUSHING and more items going into the Hefty bag. <b> VENKMAN (O.S.) </b> The shower works but it's a little tricky. They're both marked "Hot." It takes a little practice, but at least this one won't try and eat you. He comes out of the bathroom with the now-loaded Hefty bag over his shoulder. <b> VENKMAN </b> Be careful on that sofa -- it's a butt-biter. But the bed's good and I just changed the sheets so if you get tired, feel free. In fact, I think you should definitely plan on spending the night here. <b> DANA </b> Really? And how would we handle the sleeping arrangements? <b> VENKMAN </b> For me it's best if I sleep on my side and you spoon up right behind me with your arms around me. If we go the other way I'm afraid your hair will be getting in my face all night. <b> DANA </b> How about you on the sofa and me in bed with the baby. <b> VENKMAN </b> Or we could do that. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. (she picks up Oscar) Poor baby. I think I should put him down now. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll put him down for you. (taking the baby) You are way too short! And your belly-button sticks out! You're nothing but a burden to your poor mother! Venkman carries the baby into the bedroom leaving Dana in the living room, feeling more relaxed and a lot safer. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> Venkman is waiting in front of the building as ECTO-2 pulls up and Stantz, Spengler and Winston get out and report on Dana's apartment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you find anything at Dana's? <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Just some mood-slime residue in and around the bathtub. But we did turn up some interesting stuff on this Vigo character you mentioned. I found the name Vigo the Carpathian in Leon Zundinger's Magicians, Martyrs and Madmen. Listen to this: <b> SPENGLER </b> (reads from xerox of entry) "Vigo the Carpathian, born 1505, died 1610 --" <b> VENKMAN </b> A hundred and five years? He really hung on, didn't he. <b> STANTZ </b> And he didn't die of old age either. He was poisoned, stabbed, shot, hung, stretched, disemboweled, drawn and quartered. <b> WINSTON </b> I guess he wasn't too popular at the end there. <b> SPENGLER </b> No, not exactly a man of the people. (reads) "Also known as Vigo the Cruel, Vigo the Torturer, Vigo the Despised, and Vigo the Unholy." <b> STANTZ </b> This guy was a bad monkey. He dabbled in all the Black Arts, and listen to this prophecy. Just before his head died, his last words were, "Death is but a door, time is but a window. I'll be back." <b> VENKMAN </b> That's it? "I'll be back?" <b> SPENGLER </b> It's a rough translation from the Moldavian. They enter the museum carrying their monitoring equipment. <b>INT. MUSEUM - SECURITY DESK - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Rudy the guard looks up in surprise as the Ghostbusters enter. <b> RUDY </b> Hey, Dr. Venkman. What's going on? <b> VENKMAN </b> We're just going up to Restorations for a minute. <b> RUDY </b> Oh, I can't let you do that. Mr. Poha told me not to let you up there anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> (with mock seriousness) Okay, we were trying to keep this quiet but I think you can be trusted. Tell him, Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> (very official) Mister, you have an Ecto-paritic, subfusionary flux in this building. <b> RUDY </b> We got a flux? <b> WINSTON </b> You got a flux and a half. <b> STANTZ </b> Now if you don't want to be the -- (he counts) -- fifth person ever to die in meta-shock from a planar rift, I suggest you get down behind that desk and don't move until we give you the signal "Stabilize -- All Clear." Rudy gulps and starts to hunker down behind the desk as the Ghostbusters head upstairs. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Janosz is working on the Vigo painting when the Ghostbusters enter. He rushes over and stops them at the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> Dr. Venkman? Dana is not here. <b> VENKMAN </b> I know. <b> JANOSZ </b> Then why have you come? <b> VENKMAN </b> We got a major creep alert and we're just going down the list. Your name was first. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Spengler and Winston) Let's sweep it, boys. They deploy and start scanning the studio with their monitoring devices. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) You know, I never got to ask you. Where you from, Johnny? <b> JANOSZ </b> (nervous) The Upper West Side. <b> SPENGLER </b> (consulting his PKE meter) This entire room is extremely hot, Peter. <b> JANOSZ </b> What exactly are you looking for, Dr. Venkman? <b> VENKMAN </b> We'll know when we find it. You just sit tight. This won't take long. <b>STANTZ </b> Using the Giga-meter, he traces a strong psychomagnetheric reading to the painting of Vigo in the alcove at the end of the studio. Venkman comes up behind him with Janosz right on his heels. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is the one that looked at Dana. <b> JANOSZ </b> It must be the chemical fumes in the studio. People start imagining things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (interrupts) I'm going to rule out the glue-sniffing theory. If she says it looked at her, it looked at her. (to Vigo) Hey, you! Vigie! Look at me. I'm talking to you. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you. They watch the painting for any sign of movement. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes stare lifelessly into the distance. <b>STANTZ AND VENKMAN </b> Venkman starts shooting Polaroids of Vigo. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Vigo) Beautiful, beautiful. Work with me, baby. Just have fun with it. (to Stantz) Okay, he's playing it cool. Let's finish up and get out of here. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll get one more reading. Venkman walks off leaving Stantz alone with the painting. Stantz scans the painting with the Giga-meter until his eyes meet Vigo's. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes seems to burn right through to the depths of Stantz's soul. <b>STANTZ </b> He stands there transfixed, unable to look away, as a strange and subtle transformation occurs within him. Winston comes up behind him and breaks the spell. <b> WINSTON </b> (looking at the painting) Now that's one ugly dude. <b> STANTZ </b> (coming back to his senses) Huh? What? <b> WINSTON </b> You finished here? <b> STANTZ </b> (distracted) What? Yeah. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? You coming down with something? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm fine. I just got light-headed for a second there. Let's go. They head for the door. <b>JANOSZ </b> He escorts the Ghostbusters to the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> So you see, everything is in order, is it not? <b> VENKMAN </b> Not. Don't leave town and report any change in your address to the proper authorities. We'll be back. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters cross to ECTO-2. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's definitely something going on in that studio. The PKE levels were max-plus and the Giga-meter was showing all red. <b> WINSTON </b> I'd put my money on that Vigo character. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, that's a safe bet. (to Stantz) You and Spengman see what else you can dig up on Vigo and this little weasel Poha. Those two were made for each other. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are driving back to the firehouse. Stantz is at the wheel. His eyes are vacant, he seems distracted and very tense. Stantz swerves suddenly and HONKS the horn angrily. <b> STANTZ </b> (to another driver) Idiot! (honking) Move it, you jerk! Venkman and Winston exchange surprised looks. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz drives extremely fast, HONKING vindictively, weaving dangerously through traffic. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks at Ray, concerned. <b> WINSTON </b> Going a little fast, aren't we, Ray? Stantz turns on him. <b> STANTZ </b> (viciously) Are you telling me how to drive? <b> WINSTON </b> No, I just thought -- <b> STANTZ </b> Well don't think! He HONKS again and tromps hard on the accelerator. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS) </b> Ecto-2 is now barreling down the avenue. Pedestrians leap to safety as Stantz runs a red light. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They hang on to the safety straps as Stantz continues his maniacal ride. <b> WINSTON </b> (to Stantz, really worried now) Are you crazy, man? You're going to kill somebody! Stantz looks at him and smile demonically. <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm going to kill everybody! He swerves off the road. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car heads right for a big tree. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> At the last possible moment, Winston cold-cocks Stantz, grabs the wheel and steps across to stomp on the brakes. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car skids into the tree and stops. The Ghostbusters stumble out dazed and shaken, but unhurt. Stantz rubs his eyes and looks at the others, completely at a loss. <b> STANTZ </b> (himself again) What happened? <b> VENKMAN </b> You just picked up three penalty points on your driver's license. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, I guess so. It was the strangest thing. I knew what I was doing but I couldn't stop. This really terrible feeling came over me and -- I don't know -- I just felt like driving into that tree and ending it all. Whew! Sorry, boys. They inspect the damage to the car. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially, to Spengler) Watch him, Egon. Don't even let him shave. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - DAY (LATER) </b> There's a KNOCK at the front door, a key turns in the lock, and Venkman enters somewhat tentatively holding a bouquet of flowers and a small suitcase of Dana's. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calls out) I'm home! He looks around the large open loft. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to himself) I knew it. She cleaned. He hears the SHOWER RUNNING and crosses to the bathroom. The door is half-open and he can see Dana in the shower (tastefully blurred) through the transparent vinyl curtain. He closes the bathroom door and looks at the baby asleep on the bed, surrounded by pillows to prevent him rolling off. Then he turns and bumps into Dana who's just coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She jumps back into the bathroom. She comes out again, this time wearing a robe. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you all squeaky clean now? <b> DANA </b> (humoring him) Yes, I'm very clean. Did they find anything at my apartment? She squeezes past him into the bedroom and closes the door. <b> VENKMAN </b> (through the door) Nothing. They stayed there all night, went through your personal stuff, made a bunch of long-distance phone calls and cleaned out your refrigerator. And didn't find anything. Dana opens the bedroom door. <b> DANA </b> They didn't find anything? In the bathtub ... the pink ooze ... nothing? So, what do I do now? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you get dressed and we go out. I got a babysitter and everything. Trust me, you need it. <b> DANA </b> I'm not here to date. I can't leave Oscar in a strange place with someone I don't know. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's Janine Melnitz, from my staff. She's one of my most valuable employees. <b> DANA </b> Does she know anything about babies? <b> VENKMAN </b> Janine Melnitz, are you kidding? (handing her the flowers) Do I have a vase? I brought some of your clothes. Wear something intriguing. I brought along some interesting possibilities. <b> DANA </b> Okay, but it's not a date. It's a dinner. She smiles and closes the door again. He opens the closet and starts looking for his good suit. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you happen to see some shirts on the floor in here? <b> DANA (O.S.) </b> I put them in your hamper. I thought they were dirty. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shaking his head) I have a hamper? Next time ask me first, okay. I have more than two grades of laundry. There're lots of subtle levels between clean and dirty. He pulls some clothes out of the hamper and inspects them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These aren't so bad yet. You just hang them up for a while and they're fine. <b> CUT TO: </b><b>INT. FIREHOUSE - RECEPTION AREA - EARLY EVENING </b> Janine covers her computer terminal and starts turning out the lights. Then she notices that the lights are still on upstairs. She starts primping and freshening up her makeup. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LAB AREA - SAME TIME </b> Louis is strapping on a proton pack, preparing to deal with Slimer once and for all. He's wearing a bicyclist's rearview mirror on a headband. <b> LOUIS </b> (to himself) Okay, Stinky, this is it. Showdown time. You and me, pal. You think you're smarter than I am? We'll see about that. (loud) Oh, hello, Pizza Man! Oh, two larges! I only ordered one. Oh, pepperoni and pineapple. My absolute favorite. I guess I'll have to eat these both by myself. <b>THE CEILING </b> Slimer pokes his head through the ceiling and scans the room hanging upside down. <b>LOUIS </b> He spots Slimer through the rearview mirror. <b> LOUIS </b> (quietly) Okay, let's boogie! He whirls around and fires a proton stream at Slimer, slicing a burning a gash across the ceiling. <b>THE STAIRS </b> Janine comes up and ducks as a bolt of energy streaks across the room and strikes the wall behind her. Slimer disappears. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed and apologetic) Oh migod! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It was an accident. <b> JANINE </b> What are you doing up here? <b> LOUIS </b> I was trying to get that smelly green thing. The guys asked me to help out. I'm like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> JANINE </b> Why would you want to be a Ghostbuster if you're already an accountant? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, no, it's just if one of the guys calls in sick or gets hurt. Louis quickly slips off the proton pack and sets it down. <b> JANINE </b> Have you made any plans yet? You know tomorrow is New Year's Eve. <b> LOUIS </b> No, I celebrate at the beginning of my corporate tax year which is March first. That way I beat the crowds. <b> JANINE </b> That's very practical. I hate going out on New Year's Eve, too. There is an awkward silence between them and Janine starts to leave. <b> JANINE </b> Well, good night, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> (on an impulse) Janine, do you feel like maybe getting something to eat on the way home? <b> JANINE </b> I'd like to, but I told Dr. Venkman I'd babysit. (seductively) Do you want to babysit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, sure, that sounds great. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> There is a KNOCK at the door and Venkman goes to answer it. He's dressed for the evening and looking very dapper. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - ENTRANCE HALL - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman opens the door and finds Stantz, Spengler and Winston standing there wearing over-the-hip rubberized waders, firemen's slickers, and miners' helmets, carrying tons of sensing devices, meters, collection jars and photographic equipment. They look like they're rigged out for a major spelunking expedition. <b> VENKMAN </b> (ushering them in) Don't tell me, let me guess. All-you-can-eat barbecue rib night at the Sizzler? <b> STANTZ </b> We're going down into the sewer system to see if we can trace the source of the psycho-reactive slime flow. We thought you might want to come along. <b> VENKMAN </b> Darn it! I wish I'd known you were going. I'm stuck with these damn dinner reservations. <b> SPENGLER </b> You know, animals and lower life forms often anticipate major disasters. Given the new magnetheric readings we could see a tremendous breeding surge in the cockroach population. <b> VENKMAN </b> Roach breeding? Sounds better and better. (calls out) Dana? The boys are going down under the sewers tonight to look for slime. Egon thinks there might even be some kind of big roach-breeding surge. Should we forget about dinner and go with them instead? Dana steps into the living room looking very beautiful. <b> STANTZ </b> Wow. Dana looks curiously at their outfits. <b> DANA </b> Hi. They nod and wave back. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray and Egon) I think we're going to have to pass on the sewer trip, boys. Let me know what you find out. <b> STANTZ </b> (on his exit) Okay, but you're missing all the fun. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Stantz, Spengler and Winston come down the stairs into the station, guided by a very old map of the underground city. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. Van Horne Station. Right where the old transit map said it would be. They cross to the edge of the platform and look into the river of slime. <b> STANTZ </b> Let's get a sounding on the depth of that flow. Stantz has a long, coiled, graduated cord with a plumb bob on the end of it attached to his utility belt. <b> STANTZ </b> Stand back. He takes the cord in his hand, swings the plumb bob over his head and casts it out into the middle of the flow. The plumb bob sinks and Spengler reads the depth. <b> SPENGLER </b> Six feet -- seven -- eight -- <b> STANTZ </b> That's it. It's on the bottom. <b> SPENGLER </b> Nine feet -- ten -- <b> WINSTON </b> Is the line sinking? <b> SPENGLER </b> No, the slime is rising. Stantz looks down and notices the slime rising over the edge of the platform and around his boots. <b> STANTZ </b> (alarmed) Let's get out of here, boys. He starts to pull out the plumb line but it seems to be stuck. Spengler tries to help, but whatever is pulling on the cord is stronger than all three of them. As their unseen adversary pulls them closer and closer to the edge, Stantz works desperately to unhook the cord from his belt but finally just unhooks the whole belt. Spengler lets go in time but Winston doesn't. He is jerked off his feet and into the slime flow. Stantz and Spengler look at each other, summon their courage and jump in after him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Dana and Venkman are sitting at a table in an elegant restaurant nibbling caviar and toasting with very expensive champagne. <b> VENKMAN </b> (very intimate) Here's to -- us. She sighs and drinks. <b> VENKMAN </b> So -- are you making any New Year's resolutions? <b> DANA </b> I want to stop getting involved with men who aren't good for me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Does that start exactly at midnight tomorrow, or could you hold off for a few days maybe? <b> DANA </b> For one night in your life, do you think it's possible for us to be completely real? <b> VENKMAN </b> All right, you want to be real? So tell me why did you dump me? <b> DANA </b> Oh, Peter, I didn't dump you. I just had to protect myself. You really weren't very good for me, you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm not even good for me. <b> DANA </b> Why do you say things like that? You're so much better than you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thank you. If I had that kind of support on a daily basis, I could definitely shape up by the turn of the century. <b> DANA </b> (already feeling the effects of the champagne) So why don't you give me a jingle in the year 2000? <b> VENKMAN </b> Let me jingle you right now. He leans over to kiss her. <b> DANA </b> Maybe I should call Janine. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry. Janine has a very special way with children. They kiss. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine is on the sofa doing her nails while Louis paces with the baby. <b> JANINE </b> (looking around) I can't believe a person could actually live like this. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the baby) So these dwarfs had a limited partnership in a small mining operation and then one day a beautiful princess came to live with them. <b> JANINE </b> It's really not a bad place. It just needs a woman's touch. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) So they bartered room and board in exchange for housekeeping services, which was a good deal for all of them because then they didn't have to withhold tax and social security, which I'm not saying is right but it's just a story, so I guess it's all right. I can finish this later if you're tired. Louis goes into the bedroom and puts the baby down. <b> JANINE </b> You're really good with children, Louis. I can tell. (as he returns) Why don't you come here and sit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Okay. He sits stiffly beside her on the sofa. <b> JANINE </b> (getting close) Motherhood is a very natural instinct for me. I'd like to have a baby myself. Wouldn't you? <b> LOUIS </b> (gulps) Tonight? <b>EXT. STREET - MANHOLE COVER - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A manhole cover is dislodged and pushed up from below. It slides away, and Winston crawls out of the manhole followed by Stantz and Spengler. They are exhausted and covered with slime. <b> WINSTON </b> (uncharacteristically angry) Nice going, Ray! What were you trying to do -- drown me? <b> STANTZ </b> (unusually mean) Look, Zeddemore, it wasn't my fault you were too stupid to drop that line. <b> WINSTON </b> (shoves him) You better watch your mouth, man, or I'll punch your lights out. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh yeah? Anytime, anytime. Just go ahead and try it. Spengler steps between them with unprecedented aggression. <b> SPENGLER </b> If you two are looking for a fight, you got one. (putting up his fists) Who wants it first? Come on, Ray. Try me, sucker. <b> STANTZ </b> (squaring off) Butt out, you pencil-necked geek. I've had it with you. They grab each other and start to tussle. Suddenly Spengler comes to his senses and pulls them apart. <b> SPENGLER </b> (forcefully) Strip! Right now! Get out of those clothes! He starts yanking off his slicker and waders. Bewildered, Stantz and Winston start doing the same. Spengler helps pull off their clothes and throws them into the open manhole. Now wearing only long underwear, they seem to return to normal. <b> WINSTON </b> What are we doing? Ray, I was ready to kill you. <b> STANTZ </b> Don't you see? It's the slime. That stuff is like pure, concentrated evil. Stantz looks around and sees that they are standing right in front of the museum. <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing right to this spot. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT ENTRANCE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The MAITRE D' looks up in surprise as Stantz, Spengler and Winston enter the restaurant wearing only long underwear. <b> MAITRE D' </b> (intercepting them) Can I help you? Stantz looks around and spots Venkman. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right, I see him. They blow right by the Maitre d' who jumps back in horror as they pass. <b>VENKMAN </b> He's just about to pour more champagne when he sees Ray, Egon and Winston coming toward him through the restaurant. <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) You should've been there, Venkman. Absolutely incredible! <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, sorry I missed it. (noting their attire) I guess you guys didn't know about the dress code here. It's really kind of a coat and tie place. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all over the city, Pete -- well, under it actually. <b> WINSTON </b> Rivers of the stuff! <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing toward the museum. He gestures excitedly and a big gob of slime flies across the room and lands on a well-dressed diner. <b> STANTZ </b> (calls out) Sorry! <b> DANA </b> Maybe we should discuss this somewhere else. Venkman notes the look of alarm on Dana's face and pulls his colleagues aside. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) Boys, listen. You're scaring the straights. Let's save this until tomorrow, okay? <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Venkman) This won't wait until tomorrow, Venkman. It's hot and it's ready to pop. <b>MAITRE D' </b> He hurries through the restaurant with two city COPS right behind him and makes straight for Venkman's table. <b> MAITRE D' </b> Arrest these men. <b> COP </b> (recognizing them) Hey! It's the Ghostbusters. You're out of uniform, gentlemen Stantz suddenly realizes how ridiculous they look. <b> STANTZ </b> (self-conscious) Uh -- well -- we had a little accident, but forget that. We have to see the mayor as soon as possible. <b> COP </b> Look, Doc, why don't you just go home. You'll get a good night's sleep and then you can give the mayor a call in the morning. Come on. He takes Stantz by the arm but Stantz resists. <b> STANTZ </b> We're not going anywhere with you. I told you we have to see the mayor now. <b> COP </b> (grabbing Stantz) I'm warning you. You can come along peaceably or -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the Cop) Hey, don't be an idiot. This is serious. <b> COP </b> (angry) Look, pal, keep this up and you're going with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, yeah? <b> COP </b> (has had enough) Yeah, let's go. You're all under arrest. The Cop catches Venkman in an armlock and starts walking him out of the restaurant. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) Finish your dessert -- it's already paid for. I'll call you. They all exit, causing a major commotion among the other diners. <b>EXT. ARMAND'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The police car is parked right behind Ecto-2. Spengler stops at the police car and confronts the cops. <b> SPENGLER </b> Look, we're not drunk and we're not crazy. This is a matter of vital importance. Venkman steps in and looks at the policemen's nametags. <b> COP </b> What are you doing? <b> VENKMAN </b> I just want to get your names right for when the mayor asks us why we didn't let him know about this sooner. The Cops look at each other, uncertain about what to do. <b> COP </b> (relenting) Okay, Doc. You want to see the mayor, you got it. Follow us. They head for their respective vehicles. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are on the sofa making out when Dana enters. They jump up and start smoothing their clothes. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed) Oh, hello, Dana. we were just -- we were -- <b> DANA </b> I know what you were doing, Louis. It's all right. <b> JANINE </b> How was your date? <b> DANA </b> Typical. Peter was arrested. Has he called? <b> LOUIS </b> No, nobody called. Dana frowns. <b> DANA </b> Is everything all right with Oscar? <b> JANINE </b> Oh, he's fine. He's such a good baby. He was a little fussy at first, but we gave him a Freach bread pizza and he went right to sleep. <b> DANA </b> (relieved) Oh, good. I'll just check on him. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana looks at Oscar sleeping peacefully on the bed. She starts to change clothes. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine aren't sure what to do. <b> LOUIS </b> Should we go? <b> JANINE </b> I don't think we should leave her alone. <b> LOUIS </b> You're right. We should stay. He grabs Janine and they start making out again. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz stands before the painting of Vigo. Vigo comes to life and repeats the litany of his power. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> (heard all this before) Yes, the scourge -- <b> VIGO </b> -- the sorrow of Moldavia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> -- the sorrow -- <b> VIGO </b> I command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (checking his watch) I await the word of Vigo. <b> VIGO </b> The season of evil begins with the birth of the new year. Bring me the child that I might live again. <b> JANOSZ </b> (abjectly humble) Lord Vigo, the mother, Dana, is fine and strong. I was wondering -- well, would it be possible -- if I bring the baby, could I have the woman? <b> VIGO </b> So be it. On this the day of darkness, she will be ours, wife to you and mother to me. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CARL SCHURZ PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Preceded by a police car, Ecto-2 enters the small park on the East River at 88th Street and disappears into an underground entrance. The CAMERA PANS UP to reveal Gracie Mansion, the residence of the Mayor of New York City. <b>INT. GRACIE MANSION - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters, now wearing police raincoats over their longjohns are ushered through the house by a butler to a set of double oak doors. The butler knocks lightly, then opens the door to reveal the MAYOR sitting in front of the fireplace in his well-appointed private study, flanked by Jack Hardemeyer, both in tuxedoes. The Ghostbusters enter. <b>INT. STUDY - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> The Mayor is impatient and a little angry at having been pulled out of his formal reception. He frowns at their bizarre attire. <b> MAYOR </b> All right -- the Ghostbusters. I'll tell you right now; I've got two hundred of the heaviest campaign contributors in the city out there eating bad roast chicken waiting for me to give the speech of my life. You've got two minutes. Make it good. <b> STANTZ </b> You get enough negative energy flowing in a dense environment like Manhattan, it starts to build up, and if we don't do something fast this whole place will blow like a frog on a hotplate. <b> WINSTON </b> Tell him about the toaster. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't think he's ready for the toaster. <b> MAYOR </b> (shaking his head) Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right. What am I supposed to do -- go on television and tell eight million people they have to be nice to each other? I'm sorry, none of this makes any sense to me, and if anything does happen we've got plenty of paid professionals to deal with it. Your two minutes are up. Good night, gentlemen. The mayor exits, leaving the Ghostbusters to Hardemeyer. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (smirking) That's quite a story. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, I think the Times might be interested, don't you? The Post might have a lot of fun with it, too. Hardemeyer's eyes go cold and calculating. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Before you go running to the newspapers with this, would you consider telling this slime thing to some people downtown? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you're talking. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - PSYCHIATRIC WARD - NIGHT (LATER) </b> An attendant opens a locked door with a wire mesh window and the Ghostbusters, in straitjackets, are led into the psych ward as Hardemeyer confers with the chief PSYCHIATRIST. <b> WINSTON </b> (protesting) I'm telling you, we're not crazy. He is! <b>HARDEMEYER </b> He laughs off the remark. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to the Psychiatrist) The mayor wants them kept under strict observation for a few days. We think they're seriously disturbed and potentially dangerous. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> We'll do whatever's necessary. Hardemeyer shakes his hand and exits as the door slams shut on the Ghostbusters. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are watching an old rerun on TV, eating popcorn, while Dana is stretched out on the other sofa. <b> DANA </b> (wishing they'd leave) You know you really don't have to stay. Peter should be back soon. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh no, we don't mind. She hears a little CRY from the nursery and sits up. <b> DANA </b> Excuse me. I think Oscar is up. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana enters and immediately notices that the crib is empty and the window is open. <b> DANA </b> (screams) Louis! Frantic now, Dana rushes to the window and looks out, as Louis and Janine come running in. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - DANA'S POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The baby is standing out on the ledge at the corner of the building, fifty feet above the street, staring off into the distance as if he's waiting for something. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana climbs out onto the ledge and starts inching slowly toward the baby. Then she stops as a miraculous apparition materializes. <b>LOUIS AND JANINE </b> They lean out the window, gaping at the apparition. <b>EXT. VENKMAN'S LEDGE - APPARITION </b> A sweet, kindly-looking English nanny appears, pushing a pram, strolling on thin air parallel to the ledge high above the ground. Her face looks remarkably like Janosz Poha's. The nanny extends her hand to the BABY who GURGLES sweetly as he reaches out to take it. <b>DANA </b> She watches in helpless horror. <b> DANA </b> (screams) No!! <b>GHOST NANNY </b> She picks up the baby and lays it gently in the pram, then turns and smiles at Dana. The smile turns to a hideous grin, then the nanny shrieks at Dana and takes off like a shot with the baby. <b>DANA </b> She watches the creature fly off with Oscar, then climbs back through the window assisted by Louis and Janine. <b> DANA </b> (resolutely) Louis, you have to find Peter and tell him what happened. <b> LOUIS </b> (confused and worried) Where're you going? <b> DANA </b> To get my baby back. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (A LITTLE LATER) </b> A taxi pulls up, Dana jumps out and rushes into the museum. The moment the door closes behind her, there is a loud THUNDERCLAP, the ground trembles and a massive amount of slime erupts from around the base of the museum and starts covering the walls, sealing her inside the building. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC - PADDED ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are in a padded cell. They are handcuffed and the cuffs are chained to thick leather belts around their waists. Venkman stands there banging his head into the padded wall while the others try to explain the situation to a skeptical Psychiatrist. <b> STANTZ </b> We think the spirit of Vigo the Carpathian is alive in a painting at the Manhattan Museum. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> I see. And are there any other paintings in the museum with bad spirits in them? <b> SPENGLER </b> (impatient) You're wasting valuable time! We have reason to believe that Vigo is drawing strength from a psychomagnetheric slime flow that's been collecting under the city. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> Yes, tell me about the slime. <b> WINSTON </b> It's potent stuff. We made a toaster dance with it, then a bathtub tried to eat his friend's baby. The psychiatrist looks at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't look at me. I think they're nuts. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Moonlight streams through the skylight above, bathing the studio in eerie white light. Oscar is lying safely on a table in front of the painting of Vigo. Dana enters cautiously and sees the baby. Seeing no one else about, she quickly sneaks down to the table and picks up the baby, hugging hin tight, greatly relieved to find him unharmed and intact. <b> JANOSZ (O.S.) </b> I knew you would come. Startled, Dana turns at the sound of his voice as Janosz steps out from behind the Vigo painting. <b> DANA </b> (defiantly) What do you want with my baby? <b> JANOSZ </b> No harm will come to the child. You might even say it's a privilege. He will be the vessel for the spirit of Vigo. And you -- well, you will be the mother of the ruler of the world. Doesn't that sound nice? <b> DANA </b> If this is what the world will be like, I don't want to live in it. <b> JANOSZ </b> (confidentially, indicating Vigo) I don't believe we have the luxury of choice. <b> DANA </b> Everybody has a choice. <b> JANOSZ </b> Not in this case, my dear. Take a look. That's not Gainsborough's Blue Boy up there. He's Vigo! <b> DANA </b> I don't care who he is. He's not taking my baby. Dana walks quickly to the door but suddenly Oscar flies out of her arms, floats across the room and lands lightly back in the cradle. <b>DANA </b> She turns and looks at Vigo, for the first time feeling his power. <b> JANOSZ </b> You will see. It's all for the best. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> It's the last day of the year and the sun is shining brightly. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC WARD - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> The Ghostbusters are sitting in the dayroom, a dingy lounge for patients in the locked ward. There is a television set, a Ping-Pong table and a few tables and chairs. Stantz is looking at the sky through the heavy wire mesh covering the windows. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. boys. It's starting. Shit-storm <b> 2000. </b> Venkman is doing occupational therapy, weaving on a little hand-loom. <b> VENKMAN </b> It better not start yet. I'm trying to finish my potholder before lunch. <b> WINSTON </b> You think all those predictions about the world coming to an end in the 1990s are true? A PATIENT at the next table joins the discussion. <b> PATIENT </b> (with certainty) 1997. My dog told me. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of dog? <b> PATIENT </b> Labrador. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shakes his head) Habitual liars. They can't help it. It's in the breed. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - EXAMINING ROOM - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Louis is pleading with his cousin, SHERMAN TULLY, a doctor on the staff at Parkview. He looks and sounds just like Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> Come on, Sherm. You're my cousin. Do this for me. I'm begging you. <b> SHERMAN </b> I can't do it, Louis. It isn't ethical. I could lose my license. <b> LOUIS </b> Why can't you just have them released? You're a doctor. <b> SHERMAN </b> I'm a dermatologist. I can't write orders on the psych ward. <b> LOUIS </b> Sherman, I've done lots of favors for you. <b> SHERMAN </b> Like what? <b> LOUIS </b> I got you out of those bad tax shelters. <b> SHERMAN </b> You were the one who got me in. <b> LOUIS </b> I fixed you up with Diane Troxler and she put out, didn't she? <b> SHERMAN </b> Yeah, I had to give her free dermabrasion for a year. Forget it, Louis. I could get in a lot of trouble. <b> LOUIS </b> I'm telling you, we're all going to be in big trouble if we don't do something fast. That ghost guy came and took my friend's baby and we got to get it back. It's just a scared little baby, Sherm. <b> SHERMAN </b> Then you should go to the police. I don't believe in any of that stuff. Sherman looks out the window. <b>EXT. SKY - SHERMAN'S POV </b> The sky begins to go dark as the sun is magically eclipsed. <b>INT. EXAMINING ROOM - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> The room goes dark. Louis switches on a lamp which casts an eerie light on his face. <b> LOUIS </b> (spooky) Do you believe it now, Sherm? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. HUDSON RIVER PIER - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> A drainpipe starts dripping slime into the river near the Cunard Line docks. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PUBLIC FOUNTAIN (59TH AND FIFTH) - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> With the Plaza Hotel in the background, the fountain starts to spout psycho-reactive slime. <b>HOTEL ENTRANCE </b> A well-heeled MAN and WOMAN step out of a limousine and walk up the steps toward the revolving door. She looks up at the sky and frowns. <b> WOMAN </b> (shrewish) I told you we should have stayed in Palm Beach. The weather here gets stranger every year. <b> MAN </b> Yes, dear. She doesn't notice it, but a small amount of slime falls on the back of her luxurious, full-length, white mink coat. The doorman nods courteously and extends a hand to help her up the stairs. <b>WOMAN </b> She yelps in pain. <b> WOMAN </b> (to the doorman) Something just bit me! The doorman looks curiously at her, then recoils in shock as her coat comes alive. MINK HEADS pop out of the thick fur, SNARLING, BARKING and YAPPING, their sharp, little teeth biting the air. Reacting quickly, the doorman yanks the coat off the woman's back, throws it to the ground and starts stomping on it as the Woman and her husband look on in horror. The coat scuttles down the steps and runs off down the street. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MIDTOWN CENTRAL POLICE PRECINCT - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The squad room is busy as DETECTIVES try to answer the flood of calls regarding the wave of supernatural events sweeping the city. <b> DETECTIVE ONE </b> (on the phone) Look, lady, of course there are dead people there. It's a cemetery ... (his face falls) They were asking you for directions? <b> DETECTIVE TWO </b> (on another phone) Was this a big dinosaur or a little dinosaur? ... Oh, just the skeleton, huh? Well, where is it now? <b> DETECTIVE THREE </b> (on the phone) Wait a second -- the park bench was chasing you? You mean, someone was chasing you in the park ... No, the bench itself was chasing you. I see -- A weary SERGEANT answers a RINGING PHONE. <b> SERGEANT </b> Manhattan Central, Flaherty speaking ... Yeah ... yeah? ... What? Who is this? ... Wait a second. He puts the caller on "Hold" and turns the LIEUTENANT. <b> SERGEANT </b> Lieutenant, I think you better talk to this guy. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> (on another call) What is it? I'm talkin' here! <b> SERGEANT </b> It's some dock supervisor down at Pier 34 on the Hudson. The guy's going nuts. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> What's the problem? <b> SERGEANT </b> (takes a deep breath) He says the Titanic just arrived. <b>INT. PORT AUTHORITY OFFICE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The dock supervisor stands there with the phone in his hand, an assistant beside him, both staring out the window at the ocean liner tied up at the pier. <b>EXT. PIER 34 - THEIR POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The name "R.M.S. Titanic" is clearly visible on the side of the huge ship. The gangplank is down and dozens of drowned passengers, sopping wet and festooned with seaweed, are disembarking while drowned porters off-load their waterlogged baggage. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER)(ECLIPSE) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside as Louis and Sherman come out of the hospital with the Ghostbusters, now wearing their standard uniforms. <b> STANTZ </b> Good work, Louis. How did you get us out? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, I pulled a few strings. I wouldn't want to say any more than that. Louis winks conspiratorially at Sherman. <b> LOUIS </b> This is my cousin Sherman. Sherm, say hello to the Ghostbusters. (sotto voce to Stantz) I promised him a ride in the car if he got you out. <b> SHERMAN </b> (to the Ghostbusters) Hi, it's really great to meet you guys. I know this sounds weird but once I had a dream that my grandfather was standing at the foot of my bed, but I knew it was impossible because he died and he started to tell me that -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ectomobile and drive off, leaving him and Louis standing at the curb. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> SHERMAN </b> I thought you were like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> LOUIS </b> I let them handle all the little stuff. I just come in on the big ones. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b>(original version of the above scene - 11/27/88) (TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: These two versions of this scene were put in my copy of the script, so I have included both of them here) <b> LOUIS </b> Actually, they still think you're crazy, but I convinced them you're not dangerous. <b> VENKMAN </b> (determined) Yeah, well guess again. <b>EXT. BELLEVUE HOSPITAL - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(MOMENTS LATER) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside and the Ghostbusters are hastily donning their standard uniforms. <b> LOUIS </b> I brought everything you asked for and I gassed up the car with Super Unleaded. It cost twenty cents more than Regular Unleaded but you get much better performance and in an old car like this that'll end up saving you money in the long run. I put it on my credit card, so you can either reimburse me or I can take it out of petty cash -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ecto-2 and drive off without him. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(LATER) </b> ECTO-2 pulls to the curb across the street from the museum. Hundreds of spectators are already there gawking at the building as the Ghostbusters jump out and gape at the sight that greets them. <b>EXT. MUSEUM THEIR POV - BUILDING </b> The building is now totally covered in a shell of psycho-reactive slime. CITY WORKMEN and FIREMEN are trying to cut their way in with blowtorches, jackhammers, power tools and the "jaws of life," but they can't even make a dent. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They size up the situation as they don their proton packs. <b> STANTZ </b> It looks like a giant Jello mold. <b> VENKMAN </b> I hate Jello. They stride manfully across the street and approach the main entrance to the museum. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the Fire Captain) Okay, give it a rest, Captain. We'll take it from here. <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> (skeptical) Be my guest. We been cutting here for three hours. What the hell's going on? You know the Titanic arrived this morning? <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, better late than never. The workmen and firemen put down their tools and fall back as the Ghostbusters draw their particle throwers. <b> SPENGLER </b> (monitoring valences) Full neutronas, maser assist. They adjust their settings and prepare to fire. <b> STANTZ </b> Throw 'em! They trigger their throwers and spray the front doors of the building with bolts of proton energy, but it has no effect on the hardened slime. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the firemen) Okay, who knows "Cumbaya?" A few of the firemen and workmen tentatively raise their hands. Venkman grabs them and lines them up at the entrance of the museum. <b> VENKMAN </b> All right. Nice and sweet -- (starts singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya -- Stantz, Spengler, Winston and the firemen sing along, reluctantly holding hands and swaying to the music. <b> ALL </b> (singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Oh, Lord, cumbaya. Stantz inspects the wall of slime with his infra-goggles and finds that they have only managed to open a hole the size of a dime. <b> STANTZ </b> Forget it. The Vienna Boys Choir couldn't get through this stuff. <b> VENKMAN </b> Good effort. Now what? Should we say supportive, nurturing things to it, Ray? <b> SPENGLER </b> It won't work. There's no way we could generate enough positive energy to crack that shell. <b> STANTZ </b> I can't believe things have gotten so bad in this city that there's no way back. Sure, it's crowded, it's dirty, it's noisy. And there are too many people who'd just as soon step on your face as look at you. But there've got to be a few sparks of sweet humanity left in this burned-out burg. We just have to mobilize it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We need something that everyone can get behind, a symbol -- His eyes fall on ECTO-2's New York State license plate which features a line drawing of the Statue of Liberty. <b> STANTZ </b> (he sees it, too) Something that appeals to the best in each and every one of us -- <b> SPENGLER </b> Something good -- <b> VENKMAN </b> And pure -- <b> WINSTON </b> And decent. <b>EXT. THE STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> There is a commotion among the crowd as the Mayor's limousine arrives with a police escort. Jack Hardemeyer steps out followed by the Mayor himself and they cross to the museum entrance. Hardemeyer, his ASSISTANT and several police BODYGUARDS confront the Ghostbusters. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Look, I've had it with you. Get your stuff together, get back in that clown car and get out of here. This is a city matter and everything's under control. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, you think so? Well, I've got news for you. You've got Dracula's brother-in-law in there and he's got my girlfriend and her kid. Around about midnight tonight, when you're partying uptown, this guy's going to come to life and start doing amateur head transplants. And that's just round one. <b> MAYOR </b> Are you telling me there're people trapped in there? <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to his assistant) This is dynamite. Call A.P., U.P.I., and C.N.N. and get them down here right away. When the police bring this kid out I want them to hand it right to the mayor and I want it all on camera. <b> STANTZ </b> Mr. Mayor, if we don't do something by midnight, you're going to go down in history as the man who let New York get sucked down into the tenth level of hell. The Mayor stops to consider the situation. <b> MAYOR </b> (to the Fire Captain) Can you get into that museum? <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> If I had a nuclear warhead, maybe. The Mayor turns to Venkman. <b> MAYOR </b> You know why all these things are happening? <b> VENKMAN </b> We tried to tell you last night, but Mr. Hard-On over here packed us off to the loony bin. Hardemeyer flips out. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> This is preposterous! You can't seriously believe all this mumbo-jumbo! It's the Twentieth Century, for crying out loud! (viciously, to Venkman) Look, mister, I don't know what this stuff is or how you got it all over the museum, but you better get it off and I mean right now! He pounds the wall of slime with his fist, and they all watch in amazement as his fist goes through the wall and he is sucked bodily through the slime curtain. Only his shoes can be seen, embedded in the slime. <b> MAYOR </b> (to Venkman) Okay, just tell me what you need. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND (NEW YORK HARBOR) - NIGHT </b> With the city skyline in the b.g., the Ghostbusters prepare their equipment. Each of them dons a makeshift backpack consisting of tanks, hoses, nozzles and an abundance of gauges, valves and regulators. Venkman looks up at the Statue of Liberty looming above them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it? <b> WINSTON </b> Wonder what? <b> VENKMAN </b> If she's naked under that toga. She's French, you know. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's nothing under that toga but 300 tons of iron and steel. Stantz is looking worried. <b> STANTZ </b> I hope we have enough stuff to do the job. <b> VENKMAN </b> Only one way to find out. (to Stantz) Ready, Teddy? They enter the statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters are working from the iron staircase that spirals straight up 100 feet inside the hollow super-structure of the statue. Spengler and Winston are busy assembling hundreds of wires connected to various relays on the interior surface of the statue. Venkman and Stantz are mounting large auditorium loudspeakers near the top of the staircase. They finish the installation, then Stantz dons one of the new backpacks and gives the order. <b> STANTZ </b> Okay, boys. Let's frost it. They begin hosing the inside of the statue with the psycho-reactive slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine watches as Louis, wearing a Ghostbuster uniform, slings a heavy proton pack onto his back. <b> JANINE </b> I'm not sure this is such a good idea? Do they know you're doing this? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, yeah, sure -- no. But there's really not much to do here and they might need some back-up at the museum. <b> JANINE </b> You're very brave, Louis. Good luck. She kisses Louis and he gets extremely self-conscious. <b> LOUIS </b> Uh -- oh -- well, I better hurry. He rushes out. <b>EXT STREET OUTSIDE FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> Louis stands on the street corner waiting for a bus. Finally, a bus pulls up, Louis climbs aboard and finds Slimer behind the wheel. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - OBSERVATION DECK - MOMENTS LATER </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are standing in the observation windows in the crown of the statue. It looks like they're on the bridge of an ocean liner, then the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the head of the statue. <b>STANTZ </b> He plugs the main cable lead into a transformer. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all yours, Pete. (checks his watch) There's not much time left. Venkman plugs the speaker cable into a Walkman and gives a downbeat. <b> VENKMAN </b> (giving the downbeat) Okay, one, two, three, four -- He hits "Play" on the Walkman and "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BOOMS from the huge SPEAKERS, amplified by the statue's vast hollow interior. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The head of the statue lurches suddenly, but the Ghostbusters cling to the rail and manage to keep their feet. <b> STANTZ </b> She's moving! <b> WINSTON </b> I've lived in New York all my life and I never visited the Statue of Liberty. Now I finally get here and we're taking her out for a walk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (reading the Giga-meter) We've got full power. Stantz picks up a Nintendo control paddle from a home video game and starts pushing the buttons. <b> VENKMAN </b> (into a microphone) Okay, Libby. Let's get it in gear. They feel a strong vibration and the statue starts to move. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. SOUTH STREET SEAPORT - NIGHT </b> New Years Eve celebrants line the riverfront, pointing and gawking at an incredible sight. <b>EXT. EAST RIVER - THEIR POV - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The statue is moving up the river almost completely submerged, only her head from the nose up is visible above the surface. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks out apprehensively. <b> WINSTON </b> How deep does it get? That water's cold and I can't swim. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's okay. I have my Senior Lifesaving card. <b> SPENGLER </b> With a water temperature of forty degrees we'd survive approximately fifteen minutes. Stantz studies a maritime navigational chart. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll keep to the middle of the channel. We're okay to 59th Street, then we'll go ashore and take First Avenue to 79th. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you kidding? We'll hit all that bridge traffic at 59th. I'm going to take 72nd straight up to Fifth. Trust me, I used to drive a cab. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RIVERFRONT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Spectators cheer wildly, inspired by the sight of the Statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz is sitting next to Dana, still wheedling her with promises and self-serving logic. <b> JANOSZ </b> Time is running out, Dana. Soon it will be midnight and the city will be mine -- and Vigo's. Well, mainly Vigo's. But we have a spectacular opportunity to make the best of our relationship. <b> DANA </b> We don't have a relationship. <b> JANOSZ </b> I know. Marry me, Dana, and together we will raise Vigo as our son. There are many perks that come with being the mother of a living god. I'm sure he will supply for us a magnificent apartment. And perhaps a car and free parking. <b> DANA </b> I hate and despise you and everything you stand for with all my heart and soul. I could never forgive what you've done to me and my child. <b> JANOSZ </b> Many marriages begin with a certain amount of distance, but after a while I believe we could learn to love each other. Think about it. <b> DANA </b> I'd rather not. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> People are jammed together shoulder to shoulder filling Times Square, watching the big Seiko clock count down the last ten minutes to midnight. Suddenly, they look down Broadway and see a magnificent sight. <b>EXT. BROADWAY - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue of Liberty is walking up Broadway approaching 42nd Street, with "Higher and Higher" BOOMING from the SPEAKERS inside. A great cheer goes up, and the crowd goes wild with joy, dancing and singing along with the MUSIC. <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS) </b> Spengler reads the Giga-meter. <b> SPENGLER </b> It's working. The positive GeV's are climbing. <b> VENKMAN </b> (patting the Statue) They love you, Lib. Keep it up. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The avenue has been closed to traffic and barricades placed, blocking all the side streets. A squadron of police motorcycles comes speeding around the corner at 72nd Street and proceeds up Fifth Avenue in the direction of the museum. Then MUSIC is heard BOOMING in the distance, the ground shakes and the Statue of Liberty comes walking around the corner onto Fifth Avenue followed by a wildly cheering throng. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters can see the museum ahead. <b> VENKMAN </b> So far so good. <b> SPENGLER </b> (worried) I'm worried. The vibrations could shake her to pieces. We should have padded her feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I don't think they make Nikes in her size. <b> VENKMAN </b> We're almost there, Lib. (to Stantz) Step on it. <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue's huge foot comes down and squashes a car. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters look down at the flattened car. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts out the window) My Fault! <b> VENKMAN </b> (shouts) She's new in town. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is painting the last of the mystical symbols on the baby's chest. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> The people still in the square start counting off the last ten seconds to midnight and the New Year. <b> CROWD </b> (chanting) Ten .. nine ... eight ... seven ... <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> A strange light spreads over the painting. As the light moves onto his face, Vigo spreads his arms wide and his upper body starts to emerge from the canvas. <b> VIGO </b> Soon my life begins. Then woe to the weak, all power to me, the world is mine. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ - NIGHT </b> The baby's body begins to glow as Vigo reaches out for it. Then suddenly a dark shadow falls across the skylight. Janosz looks up. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ'S POV - SKYLIGHT - NIGHT </b> The Statue of Liberty is looming over the skylight looking down on Janosz with an expression of righteous anger on it's face. <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Kneeling beside the museum, the statue draws back it's mighty right arm and smashes the skylight with its torch. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz retreats from the shower of broken glass as the Ghostbusters come sliding down ropes into the studio and confront Janosz with their new weapons. Quick as a flash, Dana seizes the moment, dashes across the studio and snatches the baby from Vigo's outstretched arms. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) Happy New Year. <b>INT. MUSEUM - VIGO PAINTING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Vigo bellows in rage. <b>INT. MUSEUM - STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz steps in front of the painting. <b> SPENGLER </b> Hi there. Feel free to try something stupid. Janosz sneers, trusting the invincibility of Vigo. <b> JANOSZ </b> You pitiful, miserable creatures! You dare to challenge the power of darkness? Don't you realize what you are dealing with? He's Vigo! You are like the buzzing of flies to him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (sighs) Oh, Johnny. Did you back the wrong horse. With that, the Ghostbusters fire their slime-blowers and hose Janosz from head to toe, blowing him into the corner. Then they turn to Vigo. <b>VIGO </b> He is now almost completely out of the painting, but still held from the knees down. He spits and rages at the Ghostbusters, trying to unleash his magic powers. <b>THE GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They stand fast, secure in the knowledge that Vigo's power has been neutralized by the good will of the people. <b> STANTZ </b> Vigi, Vigi, Vigi -- you have been a bad little monkey. <b> VENKMAN </b> The whole city's together on this one. We took a vote. Everybody's down on you, you know. <b> WINSTON </b> (arming his slime-blower) Say goodnight now. Suddenly Vigo grabs Stantz by the neck and holds him up as a shield. <b> SPENGLER </b> Don't shoot! You'll hit Ray! <b> STANTZ </b> (strangling) Do it! Just do it! Winston fires and hoses both Vigo and Ray. <b>VIGO </b> He bellows and drops Ray, then falls back into the painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> The paint turns liquid, melts off the canvas and runs onto the floor revealing another painting underneath it. <b>INT. MUSEUM - GHOSTBUSTERS - NIGHT (AFTER BATTLE) </b> Venkman, Spengler and Winston rush over to Ray and kneel beside him. He is completely covered with slime and motionless. <b> SPENGLER </b> (examining him) He's breathing. Winston wipes the slime off Ray's face and Ray opens his eyes. <b> WINSTON </b> Ray -- Ray -- How do you feel, man? <b> STANTZ </b> (smiles lovingly) Groovy. I've never felt better in my life. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, no. We've got to live with this? They pull him to his feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I love you guys. You're the best friends I've ever had. He hugs them each in turn, leaving them slimed as well. Venkman recoils in disgust. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey, I just had this suit cleaned. (indicating Janosz) Take care of the wiggler, will you. Venkman crosses to Dana who is snuggling the baby. She hugs Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> What is this -- a love in? (notes the symbols painted on the baby's body) Hey, sailor. I think the tattoos are a little much, don't you? He picks up the baby. <b> DANA </b> (to Venkman) I think he likes you. I think I do too. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finally came to your senses, huh? They hug and kiss. <b>SPENGLER, WINSTON AND STANTZ </b> They help Janosz to his feet. He's dazed but unhurt. <b> JANOSZ </b> (restored to normalcy) What happened? <b> STANTZ </b> (calmly) Sir, you had a violent, prolonged, transformative psychic episode. But it's over now. Want a coffee? <b> JANOSZ </b> (extremely nice) That's very kind of you. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) He's fine, Ray. Physically intact, psychomagnetherically neutral. <b> JANOSZ </b> Is that good? <b> WINSTON </b> It's where you want to be. As they exit they stop to examine the painting that was concealed by Vigo's self-portrait. <b> SPENGLER </b> Late Renaissance, I think. Caravaggio or Brunelleschi. <b> WINSTON </b> (staring at it) There's something very familiar about this painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - NEW PAINTING - NIGHT </b> It's a beautiful painting in the high-Renaissance style depicting four archangels hovering protectively over a cherubic baby. One holds a harp, one, an olive branch, the third, a book, and the last, a sword. Most remarkably, their faces bear an uncanny resemblance to Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A city bus pulls up near the museum and Louis steps off. He waves his thanks to Slimer who is behind the wheel. <b> LOUIS </b> (to Slimer) Okay, so Monday night we'll get something to eat and maybe go bowling? Can you bowl with those little arms? SLIMER GRUNTS and SLOBBERS a reply, flexing his scrawny biceps. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, I have to go save Dana. I'll see you later. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are greeted by wild cheering and applause as they come out the main entrance with Dana and the baby. Everybody starts singing "Auld Lang Syne." Louis picks his way through the celebrating crowd and finds the Ghostbusters. <b> LOUIS </b> Am I too late? <b> STANTZ </b> No, you're right on time. Stantz pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and hands it to him. <b>EXT. MUSEUM ENTRANCE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Hardemeyer staggers out of the museum covered in slime. He looks at the celebrating crowd and his eyes fill with tears. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (weepy) Happy New Year, everybody! He joins in on "Auld Lang Syne." <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The Statue of Liberty is sprawled inert on her back in the park behind the museum, her toga up over her knees. The Mayor looks nearly suicidal. The Ghostbusters stand beside him commiserating. <b> VENKMAN </b> She's all right. She's just sleeping it off. <b> MAYOR </b> (stricken) We just had it restored. <b> VENKMAN </b> This probably isn't a good time to bring this up, but the last time we did a job for the city you stiffed us. <b> STANTZ </b> (handing the Mayor an invoice) This is a bill for tonight's job. The Mayor looks at it and gasps at the amount. <b> MAYOR </b> What! This is way too much. (hands the bill back to Venkman) We won't pay. Venkman looks at the Statue. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) I think she looks pretty good here, don't you? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, and a lot easier to get to than that island. Realizing he has no alternative, the Mayor sighs and takes the bill back. <b> MAYOR </b> All right, all right. If you can wait until Monday I'll issue you a check. <b> SPENGLER </b> Sorry. No checks. Company policy. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND - DAY (WEEKS LATER) </b> The sun is shining brightly and Liberty is back on her pedestal where she belongs. The Mayor and a host of officials are commemorating her return. The Ghostbusters, Dana, Janine and Louis are there as honored guests. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking up at the statue) Pretty impressive, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> (musing) It's probably the first thing my grandparents saw when they came to this country. <b> VENKMAN </b> From where -- Neptune? <b> SPENGLER </b> They came from Ostrov in Eastern Poland. <b> VENKMAN </b> Ostrov? I've been there. Good party town. <b> STANTZ </b> (in a similarly reflective mood) My great-grandparents were Swiss. I still have the pictures they took of the statue from the boat when they arrived. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, right, you told me that. They came to America seeking other kinds of cheese, as I recall. How about you, Winston? <b> WINSTON </b> My people weren't taking any pictures from those slave ships, man. And there wasn't any Statue in Charleston Harbor to welcome them, either. What are you, Dana? <b> VENKMAN </b> Miss Blue Blood? Her family's been here since the year 12. <b> DANA </b> That's not true. It was 1620. <b> VENKMAN </b> Same difference. <b> STANTZ </b> What's your story, Pete? <b> VENKMAN </b> Me? I'm a little of everything. Some Irish, some German, some French, Dutch -- the women in my family slept around. And that's what made this country great. <b> DANA </b> That's a terrible thing to say. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what? It's a free country. (looking up at the Statue) Thanks, Lib. They all look up at the Statue. <b>EXT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - HEAD OF STATUE - DAY </b> Slimer flies out one of the observation windows, THEME MUSIC KICKS IN and the CAMERA PULLS UP and AWAY FROM the island TO a HIGH SHOT of the Statue, lower Manhattan and the shining sea beyond. <b> FADE OUT. </b> <b> THE END </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What is Soames unhappy about?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "the his works are not recognized" ]	11,194	narrativeqa	en	null	add987fbf4b13d64b945bf44fb0b7cc5a9284a6a5b75d71c	Produced by Judith Boss. Enoch Soames A Memory of the Eighteen-nineties By MAX BEERBOHM When a book about the literature of the eighteen-nineties was given by Mr. Holbrook Jackson to the world, I looked eagerly in the index for Soames, Enoch. It was as I feared: he was not there. But everybody else was. Many writers whom I had quite forgotten, or remembered but faintly, lived again for me, they and their work, in Mr. Holbrook Jackson's pages. The book was as thorough as it was brilliantly written. And thus the omission found by me was an all the deadlier record of poor Soames's failure to impress himself on his decade. I dare say I am the only person who noticed the omission. Soames had failed so piteously as all that! Nor is there a counterpoise in the thought that if he had had some measure of success he might have passed, like those others, out of my mind, to return only at the historian's beck. It is true that had his gifts, such as they were, been acknowledged in his lifetime, he would never have made the bargain I saw him make--that strange bargain whose results have kept him always in the foreground of my memory. But it is from those very results that the full piteousness of him glares out. Not my compassion, however, impels me to write of him. For his sake, poor fellow, I should be inclined to keep my pen out of the ink. It is ill to deride the dead. And how can I write about Enoch Soames without making him ridiculous? Or, rather, how am I to hush up the horrid fact that he WAS ridiculous? I shall not be able to do that. Yet, sooner or later, write about him I must. You will see in due course that I have no option. And I may as well get the thing done now. In the summer term of '93 a bolt from the blue flashed down on Oxford. It drove deep; it hurtlingly embedded itself in the soil. Dons and undergraduates stood around, rather pale, discussing nothing but it. Whence came it, this meteorite? From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. Its aim? To do a series of twenty-four portraits in lithograph. These were to be published from the Bodley Head, London. The matter was urgent. Already the warden of A, and the master of B, and the Regius Professor of C had meekly "sat." Dignified and doddering old men who had never consented to sit to any one could not withstand this dynamic little stranger. He did not sue; he invited: he did not invite; he commanded. He was twenty-one years old. He wore spectacles that flashed more than any other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of ideas. He knew Whistler. He knew Daudet and the Goncourts. He knew every one in Paris. He knew them all by heart. He was Paris in Oxford. It was whispered that, so soon as he had polished off his selection of dons, he was going to include a few undergraduates. It was a proud day for me when I--I was included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; and there arose between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, and been more and more valued by me, with every passing year. At the end of term he settled in, or, rather, meteoritically into, London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever-enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other August elders who dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were already famous among the few--Aubrey Beardsley by name. With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. By him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the domino-room of the Cafe Royal. There, on that October evening--there, in that exuberant vista of gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted and pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled on marble tables, I drew a deep breath and, "This indeed," said I to myself, "is life!" (Forgive me that theory. Remember the waging of even the South African War was not yet.) It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermuth. Those who knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering slowly up and down in search of vacant tables or of tables occupied by friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted to catch Rothenstein's eye. He had twice passed our table, with a hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. He had a thin, vague beard, or, rather, he had a chin on which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but in the nineties odd apparitions were more frequent, I think, than they are now. The young writers of that era--and I was sure this man was a writer--strove earnestly to be distinct in aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat of clerical kind, but of Bohemian intention, and a gray waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I decided that "dim" was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the period. The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up his mind to pause in front of it. "You don't remember me," he said in a toneless voice. Rothenstein brightly focused him. "Yes, I do," he replied after a moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive memory. "Edwin Soames." "Enoch Soames," said Enoch. "Enoch Soames," repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough to have hit on the surname. "We met in Paris a few times when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche." "And I came to your studio once." "Oh, yes; I was sorry I was out." "But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know. I hear you're in Chelsea now." "Yes." I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like a donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to me that "hungry" was perhaps the mot juste for him; but--hungry for what? He looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him to sit down and have something to drink. Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his cape with a gesture which, had not those wings been waterproof, might have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an absinthe. "Je me tiens toujours fidele," he told Rothenstein, "a la sorciere glauque." "It is bad for you," said Rothenstein, dryly. "Nothing is bad for one," answered Soames. "Dans ce monde il n'y a ni bien ni mal." "Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?" "I explained it all in the preface to 'Negations.'" "'Negations'?" "Yes, I gave you a copy of it." "Oh, yes, of course. But, did you explain, for instance, that there was no such thing as bad or good grammar?" "N-no," said Soames. "Of course in art there is the good and the evil. But in life--no." He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak, white hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained with nicotine. "In life there are illusions of good and evil, but"--his voice trailed away to a murmur in which the words "vieux jeu" and "rococo" were faintly audible. I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his throat and said, "Parlons d'autre chose." It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was young, and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was quite five or six years older than either of us. Also--he had written a book. It was wonderful to have written a book. If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what kind of book it was to be. "My poems," he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather thought of giving the book no title at all. "If a book is good in itself--" he murmured, and waved his cigarette. Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale of a book. "If," he urged, "I went into a bookseller's and said simply, 'Have you got?' or, 'Have you a copy of?' how would they know what I wanted?" "Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover," Soames answered earnestly. "And I rather want," he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, "to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece." Rothenstein admitted that this was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the country and would be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, exclaimed at the hour, paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. Soames remained at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch. "Why were you so determined not to draw him?" I asked. "Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn't exist?" "He is dim," I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein repeated that Soames was non-existent. Still, Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had read "Negations." He said he had looked into it, "but," he added crisply, "I don't profess to know anything about writing." A reservation very characteristic of the period! Painters would not then allow that any one outside their own order had a right to any opinion about painting. This law (graven on the tablets brought down by Whistler from the summit of Fuji-yama) imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were not utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practiced them, the law tottered--the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold good. Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book without warning you at any rate that his opinion was worthless. No one is a better judge of literature than Rothenstein; but it wouldn't have done to tell him so in those days, and I knew that I must form an unaided judgment of "Negations." Not to buy a book of which I had met the author face to face would have been for me in those days an impossible act of self-denial. When I returned to Oxford for the Christmas term I had duly secured "Negations." I used to keep it lying carelessly on the table in my room, and whenever a friend took it up and asked what it was about, I would say: "Oh, it's rather a remarkable book. It's by a man whom I know." Just "what it was about" I never was able to say. Head or tail was just what I hadn't made of that slim, green volume. I found in the preface no clue to the labyrinth of contents, and in that labyrinth nothing to explain the preface. Lean near to life. Lean very near-- nearer. Life is web and therein nor warp nor woof is, but web only. It is for this I am Catholick in church and in thought, yet do let swift Mood weave there what the shuttle of Mood wills. These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which followed were less easy to understand. Then came "Stark: A Conte," about a midinette who, so far as I could gather, murdered, or was about to murder, a mannequin. It was rather like a story by Catulle Mendes in which the translator had either skipped or cut out every alternate sentence. Next, a dialogue between Pan and St. Ursula, lacking, I rather thought, in "snap." Next, some aphorisms (entitled "Aphorismata" [spelled in Greek]). Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form, and the forms had evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather the substance that eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any substance at all? It did now occur to me: suppose Enoch Soames was a fool! Up cropped a rival hypothesis: suppose _I_ was! I inclined to give Soames the benefit of the doubt. I had read "L'Apres-midi d'un faune" without extracting a glimmer of meaning; yet Mallarme, of course, was a master. How was I to know that Soames wasn't another? There was a sort of music in his prose, not indeed, arresting, but perhaps, I thought, haunting, and laden, perhaps, with meanings as deep as Mallarme's own. I awaited his poems with an open mind. And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I had had a second meeting with him. This was on an evening in January. Going into the aforesaid domino-room, I had passed a table at which sat a pale man with an open book before him. He had looked from his book to me, and I looked back over my shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognized him. I returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I said with a glance to the open book, "I see I am interrupting you," and was about to pass on, but, "I prefer," Soames replied in his toneless voice, "to be interrupted," and I obeyed his gesture that I should sit down. I asked him if he often read here. "Yes; things of this kind I read here," he answered, indicating the title of his book--"The Poems of Shelley." "Anything that you really"--and I was going to say "admire?" But I cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I had done so, for he said with unwonted emphasis, "Anything second-rate." I had read little of Shelley, but, "Of course," I murmured, "he's very uneven." "I should have thought evenness was just what was wrong with him. A deadly evenness. That's why I read him here. The noise of this place breaks the rhythm. He's tolerable here." Soames took up the book and glanced through the pages. He laughed. Soames's laugh was a short, single, and mirthless sound from the throat, unaccompanied by any movement of the face or brightening of the eyes. "What a period!" he uttered, laying the book down. And, "What a country!" he added. I asked rather nervously if he didn't think Keats had more or less held his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He admitted that there were "passages in Keats," but did not specify them. Of "the older men," as he called them, he seemed to like only Milton. "Milton," he said, "wasn't sentimental." Also, "Milton had a dark insight." And again, "I can always read Milton in the reading-room." "The reading-room?" "Of the British Museum. I go there every day." "You do? I've only been there once. I'm afraid I found it rather a depressing place. It--it seemed to sap one's vitality." "It does. That's why I go there. The lower one's vitality, the more sensitive one is to great art. I live near the museum. I have rooms in Dyott Street." "And you go round to the reading-room to read Milton?" "Usually Milton." He looked at me. "It was Milton," he certificatively added, "who converted me to diabolism." "Diabolism? Oh, yes? Really?" said I, with that vague discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own religion. "You--worship the devil?" Soames shook his head. "It's not exactly worship," he qualified, sipping his absinthe. "It's more a matter of trusting and encouraging." "I see, yes. I had rather gathered from the preface to 'Negations' that you were a--a Catholic." "Je l'etais a cette epoque. In fact, I still am. I am a Catholic diabolist." But this profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see that what was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read "Negations." His pale eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt as one who is about to be examined viva voce on the very subject in which he is shakiest. I hastily asked him how soon his poems were to be published. "Next week," he told me. "And are they to be published without a title?" "No. I found a title at last. But I sha'n't tell you what it is," as though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. "I am not sure that it wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It suggests something of the quality of the poems--strange growths, natural and wild, yet exquisite," he added, "and many-hued, and full of poisons." I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort that was his laugh, and, "Baudelaire," he said, "was a bourgeois malgre lui." France had had only one poet--Villon; "and two thirds of Villon were sheer journalism." Verlaine was "an epicier malgre lui." Altogether, rather to my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. There were "passages" in Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. But, "I," he summed up, "owe nothing to France." He nodded at me. "You'll see," he predicted. I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of "Fungoids" did, unconsciously of course, owe something to the young Parisian decadents or to the young English ones who owed something to THEM. I still think so. The little book, bought by me in Oxford, lies before me as I write. Its pale-gray buckram cover and silver lettering have not worn well. Nor have its contents. Through these, with a melancholy interest, I have again been looking. They are not much. But at the time of their publication I had a vague suspicion that they MIGHT be. I suppose it is my capacity for faith, not poor Soames's work, that is weaker than it once was. TO A YOUNG WOMAN THOU ART, WHO HAST NOT BEEN! Pale tunes irresolute And traceries of old sounds Blown from a rotted flute Mingle with noise of cymbals rouged with rust, Nor not strange forms and epicene Lie bleeding in the dust, Being wounded with wounds. For this it is That in thy counterpart Of age-long mockeries THOU HAST NOT BEEN NOR ART! There seemed to me a certain inconsistency as between the first and last lines of this. I tried, with bent brows, to resolve the discord. But I did not take my failure as wholly incompatible with a meaning in Soames's mind. Might it not rather indicate the depth of his meaning? As for the craftsmanship, "rouged with rust" seemed to me a fine stroke, and "nor not" instead of "and" had a curious felicity. I wondered who the "young woman" was and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that Soames could not have made more of it than she. Yet even now, if one doesn't try to make any sense at all of the poem, and reads it just for the sound, there is a certain grace of cadence. Soames was an artist, in so far as he was anything, poor fellow! It seemed to me, when first I read "Fungoids," that, oddly enough, the diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism seemed to be a cheerful, even a wholesome influence in his life. NOCTURNE Round and round the shutter'd Square I strolled with the Devil's arm in mine. No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there And the ring of his laughter and mine. We had drunk black wine. I scream'd, "I will race you, Master!" "What matter," he shriek'd, "to-night Which of us runs the faster? There is nothing to fear to-night In the foul moon's light!" Then I look'd him in the eyes And I laugh'd full shrill at the lie he told And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise. It was true, what I'd time and again been told: He was old--old. There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza--a joyous and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly hysterical, perhaps. But I liked the third, it was so bracingly unorthodox, even according to the tenets of Soames's peculiar sect in the faith. Not much "trusting and encouraging" here! Soames triumphantly exposing the devil as a liar, and laughing "full shrill," cut a quite heartening figure, I thought, then! Now, in the light of what befell, none of his other poems depresses me so much as "Nocturne." I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to say. They seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little to say and those who had nothing. The second class was the larger, and the words of the first were cold; insomuch that Strikes a note of modernity. . . . These tripping numbers.--"The Preston Telegraph." was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames's publisher. I had hoped that when next I met the poet I could congratulate him on having made a stir, for I fancied he was not so sure of his intrinsic greatness as he seemed. I was but able to say, rather coarsely, when next I did see him, that I hoped "Fungoids" was "selling splendidly." He looked at me across his glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at a jest. "You don't suppose I CARE, do you?" he said, with something like a snarl. I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a tradesman. I said mildly that I wasn't, either, and murmured that an artist who gave truly new and great things to the world had always to wait long for recognition. He said he cared not a sou for recognition. I agreed that the act of creation was its own reward. His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded myself as a nobody. But ah! hadn't both John Lane and Aubrey Beardsley suggested that I should write an essay for the great new venture that was afoot--"The Yellow Book"? And hadn't Henry Harland, as editor, accepted my essay? And wasn't it to be in the very first number? At Oxford I was still in statu pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much indeed a graduate now--one whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to show off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he ought to contribute to "The Yellow Book." He uttered from the throat a sound of scorn for that publication. Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland paused in the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up his hands toward the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met "that absurd creature" in Paris, and this very morning had received some poems in manuscript from him. "Has he NO talent?" I asked. "He has an income. He's all right." Harland was the most joyous of men and most generous of critics, and he hated to talk of anything about which he couldn't be enthusiastic. So I dropped the subject of Soames. The news that Soames had an income did take the edge off solicitude. I learned afterward that he was the son of an unsuccessful and deceased bookseller in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of three hundred pounds from a married aunt, and had no surviving relatives of any kind. Materially, then, he was "all right." But there was still a spiritual pathos about him, sharpened for me now by the possibility that even the praises of "The Preston Telegraph" might not have been forthcoming had he not been the son of a Preston man He had a sort of weak doggedness which I could not but admire. Neither he nor his work received the slightest encouragement; but he persisted in behaving as a personage: always he kept his dingy little flag flying. Wherever congregated the jeunes feroces of the arts, in whatever Soho restaurant they had just discovered, in whatever music-hall they were most frequently, there was Soames in the midst of them, or, rather, on the fringe of them, a dim, but inevitable, figure. He never sought to propitiate his fellow-writers, never bated a jot of his arrogance about his own work or of his contempt for theirs. To the painters he was respectful, even humble; but for the poets and prosaists of "The Yellow Book" and later of "The Savoy" he had never a word but of scorn. He wasn't resented. It didn't occur to anybody that he or his Catholic diabolism mattered. When, in the autumn of '96, he brought out (at his own expense, this time) a third book, his last book, nobody said a word for or against it. I meant, but forgot, to buy it. I never saw it, and am ashamed to say I don't even remember what it was called. But I did, at the time of its publication, say to Rothenstein that I thought poor old Soames was really a rather tragic figure, and that I believed he would literally die for want of recognition. Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for a kind heart which I didn't possess; and perhaps this was so. But at the private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I beheld a pastel portrait of "Enoch Soames, Esq." It was very like him, and very like Rothenstein to have done it. Soames was standing near it, in his soft hat and his waterproof cape, all through the afternoon. Anybody who knew him would have recognized the portrait at a glance, but nobody who didn't know him would have recognized the portrait from its bystander: it "existed" so much more than he; it was bound to. Also, it had not that expression of faint happiness which on that day was discernible, yes, in Soames's countenance. Fame had breathed on him. Twice again in the course of the month I went to the New English, and on both occasions Soames himself was on view there. Looking back, I regard the close of that exhibition as having been virtually the close of his career. He had felt the breath of Fame against his cheek--so late, for such a little while; and at its withdrawal he gave in, gave up, gave out. He, who had never looked strong or well, looked ghastly now--a shadow of the shade he had once been. He still frequented the domino-room, but having lost all wish to excite curiosity, he no longer read books there. "You read only at the museum now?" I asked, with attempted cheerfulness. He said he never went there now. "No absinthe there," he muttered. It was the sort of thing that in old days he would have said for effect; but it carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the "personality" he had striven so hard to build up, was solace and necessity now. He no longer called it "la sorciere glauque." He had shed away all his French phrases. He had become a plain, unvarnished Preston man. Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even though it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I avoided Soames because he made me feel rather vulgar. John Lane had published, by this time, two little books of mine, and they had had a pleasant little success of esteem. I was a--slight, but definite--"personality." Frank Harris had engaged me to kick up my heels in "The Saturday Review," Alfred Harmsworth was letting me do likewise in "The Daily Mail." I was just what Soames wasn't. And he shamed my gloss. Had I known that he really and firmly believed in the greatness of what he as an artist had achieved, I might not have shunned him. No man who hasn't lost his vanity can be held to have altogether failed. Soames's dignity was an illusion of mine. One day, in the first week of June, 1897, that illusion went. But on the evening of that day Soames went, too. I had been out most of the morning and, as it was too late to reach home in time for luncheon, I sought the Vingtieme. This little place--Restaurant du Vingtieme Siecle, to give it its full title--had been discovered in '96 by the poets and prosaists, but had now been more or less abandoned in favor of some later find. I don't think it lived long enough to justify its name; but at that time there it still was, in Greek Street, a few doors from Soho Square, and almost opposite to that house where, in the first years of the century, a little girl, and with her a boy named De Quincey, made nightly encampment in darkness and hunger among dust and rats and old legal parchments. The Vingtieme was but a small whitewashed room, leading out into the street at one end and into a kitchen at the other. The proprietor and cook was a Frenchman, known to us as Monsieur Vingtieme; the waiters were his two daughters, Rose and Berthe; and the food, according to faith, was good. The tables were so narrow and were set so close together that there was space for twelve of them, six jutting from each wall. Only the two nearest to the door, as I went in, were occupied. On one side sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man whom I had seen from time to time in the domino-room and elsewhere. On the other side sat Soames. They made a queer contrast in that sunlit room, Soames sitting haggard in that hat and cape, which nowhere at any season had I seen him doff, and this other, this keenly vital man, at sight of whom I more than ever wondered whether he were a diamond merchant, a conjurer, or the head of a private detective agency. I was sure Soames didn't want my company; but I asked, as it would have seemed brutal not to, whether I might join him, and took the chair opposite to his. He was smoking a cigarette, with an untasted salmi of something on his plate and a half-empty bottle of Sauterne before him, and he was quite silent. I said that the preparations for the Jubilee made London impossible. (I rather liked them, really.) I professed a wish to go right away till the whole thing was over. In vain did I attune myself to his gloom. He seemed not to hear me or even to see me. I felt that his behavior made me ridiculous in the eyes of the other man. The gangway between the two rows of tables at the Vingtieme was hardly more than two feet wide (Rose and Berthe, in their ministrations, had always to edge past each other, quarreling in whispers as they did so), and any one at the table abreast of yours was virtually at yours. I thought our neighbor was amused at my failure to interest Soames, and so, as I could not explain to him that my insistence was merely charitable, I became silent. Without turning my head, I had him well within my range of vision. I hoped I looked less vulgar than he in contrast with Soames. I was sure he was not an Englishman, but what WAS his nationality? Though his jet-black hair was en brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, who waited on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native idiom and accent. I gathered that this was his first visit to the Vingtieme; but Berthe was offhand in her manner to him: he had not made a good impression. His eyes were handsome, but, like the Vingtieme's tables, too narrow and set too close together. His nose was predatory, and the points of his mustache, waxed up behind his nostrils, gave a fixity to his smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of discomfort in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat which tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest. This waistcoat wasn't wrong merely because of the heat, either. It was somehow all wrong in itself. It wouldn't have done on Christmas morning. It would have struck a jarring note at the first night of "Hernani." I was trying to account for its wrongness when Soames suddenly and strangely broke silence. "A hundred years hence!" he murmured, as in a trance. "We shall not be here," I briskly, but fatuously, added. "We shall not be here. No," he droned, "but the museum will still be just where it is. And the reading-room just where it is. And people will be able to go and read there." He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as of actual pain contorted his features. I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He did not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, "You think I haven't minded." "Minded what, Soames?" "Neglect. Failure." "FAILURE?" I said heartily. "Failure?" I repeated vaguely. "Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. Of course you haven't been--appreciated. But what, then? Any artist who--who gives--" What I wanted to say was, "Any artist who gives truly new and great things to the world has always to wait long for recognition"; but the flattery would not out: in the face of his misery--a misery so genuine and so unmasked--my lips would not say the words. And then he said them for me. I flushed. "That's what you were going to say, isn't it?" he asked. "How did you know?" "It's what you said to me three years ago, when 'Fungoids' was published." I flushed the more. I need not have flushed at all. "It's the only important thing I ever heard you say," he continued. "And I've never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a horrible truth. But--d'you remember what I answered? I said, 'I don't care a sou for recognition.' And you believed me. You've gone on believing I'm above that sort of thing. You're shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist's faith in himself and in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy. You've never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the"--his voice broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in him. "Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn't know that people are visiting his grave, visiting his birthplace, putting up tablets to him, unveiling statues of him. A dead man can't read the books that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could come back to life THEN--just for a few hours--and go to the reading-room and READ! Or, better still, if I could be projected now, at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I'd sell myself body and soul to the devil for that! Think of the pages and pages in the catalogue: 'Soames, Enoch' endlessly--endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, biographies"-- But here he was interrupted by a sudden loud crack of the chair at the next table. Our neighbor had half risen from his place. He was leaning toward us, apologetically intrusive. "Excuse--permit me," he said softly. "I have been unable not to hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon--might I, as the phrase is, cut in?" I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a full view of Soames. "Though not an Englishman," he explained, "I know my London well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm's, too--very known to me. Your point is, who am _I_?" He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, "I am the devil." I couldn't help it; I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me; but--I laughed with increasing volume. The devil's quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro; I lay back aching; I behaved deplorably. "I am a gentleman, and," he said with intense emphasis, "I thought I was in the company of GENTLEMEN." "Don't!" I gasped faintly. "Oh, don't!" "Curious, nicht wahr?" I heard him say to Soames. "There is a type of person to whom the very mention of my name is--oh, so awfully--funny! In your theaters the dullest comedien needs only to say 'The devil!' and right away they give him 'the loud laugh what speaks the vacant mind.' Is it not so?" I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames. "I am a man of business," he said, "and always I would put things through 'right now,' as they say in the States. You are a poet. Les affaires--you detest them. So be it. But with me you will deal, eh? What you have said just now gives me furiously to hope." Soames had not moved except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat crouched forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his head just above the level of his hands, staring up at the devil. "Go on," he nodded. I had no remnant of laughter in me now. "It will be the more pleasant, our little deal," the devil went on, "because you are--I mistake not?--a diabolist." "A Catholic diabolist," said Soames. The devil accepted the reservation genially. "You wish," he resumed, "to visit now--this afternoon as-ever-is--the reading-room of the British Museum, yes? But of a hundred years hence, yes? Parfaitement. Time--an illusion. Past and future--they are as ever present as the present, or at any rate only what you call 'just round the corner.' I switch you on to any date. I project you--pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room just as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find yourself standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very minute, yes? And to stay there till closing-time? Am I right?" Soames nodded. The devil looked at his watch. "Ten past two," he said. "Closing-time in summer same then as now--seven o'clock. That will give you almost five hours. At seven o'clock--pouf!--you find yourself again here, sitting at this table. I am dining to-night dans le monde--dans le higlif. That concludes my present visit to your great city. I come and fetch you here, Mr. Soames, on my way home." "Home?" I echoed. "Be it never so humble!" said the devil, lightly. "All right," said Soames. "Soames!" I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle. The devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the table, but he paused in his gesture. "A hundred years hence, as now," he smiled, "no smoking allowed in the reading-room. You would better therefore--" Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his glass of Sauterne. "Soames!" again I cried. "Can't you"--but the devil had now stretched forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on the table-cloth. Soames's chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden in his wine-glass. There was no other trace of him. For a few moments the devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at me out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant. A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and rose from my chair. "Very clever," I said condescendingly. "But--'The Time Machine' is a delightful book, don't you think? So entirely original!" "You are pleased to sneer," said the devil, who had also risen, "but it is one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a quite other thing to be a supernatural power." All the same, I had scored. Berthe had come forth at the sound of our rising. I explained to her that Mr. Soames had been called away, and that both he and I would be dining here. It was not until I was out in the open air that I began to feel giddy. I have but the haziest recollection of what I did, where I wandered, in the glaring sunshine of that endless afternoon. I remember the sound of carpenters' hammers all along Piccadilly and the bare chaotic look of the half-erected "stands." Was it in the Green Park or in Kensington Gardens or WHERE was it that I sat on a chair beneath a tree, trying to read an evening paper? There was a phrase in the leading article that went on repeating itself in my fagged mind: "Little is hidden from this August Lady full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty." I remember wildly conceiving a letter (to reach Windsor by an express messenger told to await answer): "Madam: Well knowing that your Majesty is full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty, I venture to ask your advice in the following delicate matter. Mr. Enoch Soames, whose poems you may or may not know--" Was there NO way of helping him, saving him? A bargain was a bargain, and I was the last man to aid or abet any one in wriggling out of a reasonable obligation. I wouldn't have lifted a little finger to save Faust. But poor Soames! Doomed to pay without respite an eternal price for nothing but a fruitless search and a bitter disillusioning. Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, in the waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last decade of the next century, poring over books not yet written, and seeing and seen by men not yet born. Uncannier and odder still that to-night and evermore he would be in hell. Assuredly, truth was stranger than fiction. Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with Soames, not, indeed, to stay in the reading-room, but to sally forth for a brisk sight-seeing walk around a new London. I wandered restlessly out of the park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to imagine myself an ardent tourist from the eighteenth century. Intolerable was the strain of the slow-passing and empty minutes. Long before seven o'clock I was back at the Vingtieme. I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe appeared for a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till Mr. Soames came. A hurdy-gurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the noise of a quarrel between some Frenchmen farther up the street. Whenever the tune was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever away from it to the clock over the kitchen door. Five minutes now to the hour! I remembered that clocks in restaurants are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes on the paper. I vowed I would not look away from it again. I held it upright, at its full width, close to my face, so that I had no view of anything but it. Rather a tremulous sheet? Only because of the draft, I told myself. My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not drop them--now. I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, what, then? What else had I come for? Yet I held tight that barrier of newspaper. Only the sound of Berthe's brisk footstep from the kitchen enabled me, forced me, to drop it, and to utter: "What shall we have to eat, Soames?" "Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?" asked Berthe. "He's only--tired." I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy--and whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the table exactly as when last I had seen him. It was as though he had never moved--he who had moved so unimaginably far. Once or twice in the afternoon it had for an instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey was not to be fruitless, that perhaps we had all been wrong in our estimate of the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right was horribly clear from the look of him. But, "Don't be discouraged," I falteringly said. "Perhaps it's only that you--didn't leave enough time. Two, three centuries hence, perhaps--" "Yes," his voice came; "I've thought of that." "And now--now for the more immediate future! Where are you going to hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express from Charing Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don't go on to Paris. Stop at Calais. Live in Calais. He'd never think of looking for you in Calais." "It's like my luck," he said, "to spend my last hours on earth with an ass." But I was not offended. "And a treacherous ass," he strangely added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing on it--some sort of gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently aside. "Come, Soames, pull yourself together! This isn't a mere matter of life or death. It's a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don't mean to say you're going to wait limply here till the devil comes to fetch you." "I can't do anything else. I've no choice." "Come! This is 'trusting and encouraging' with a vengeance! This is diabolism run mad!" I filled his glass with wine. "Surely, now that you've SEEN the brute--" "It's no good abusing him." "You must admit there's nothing Miltonic about him, Soames." "I don't say he's not rather different from what I expected." "He's a vulgarian, he's a swell mobs-man, he's the sort of man who hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies' jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!" "You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?" "Then why not slip quietly out of the way?" Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did not eat, and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that any dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the capture certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. I told Soames that for the honor of the human race he ought to make some show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for him. "Besides," he said, "can't you understand that I'm in his power? You saw him touch me, didn't you? There's an end of it. I've no will. I'm sealed." I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word "sealed." I began to realize that the wine had clouded his brain. No wonder! Foodless he had gone into futurity, foodless he still was. I urged him to eat, at any rate, some bread. It was maddening to think that he, who had so much to tell, might tell nothing. "How was it all," I asked, "yonder? Come, tell me your adventures!" "They'd make first-rate 'copy,' wouldn't they?" "I'm awfully sorry for you, Soames, and I make all possible allowances; but what earthly right have you to insinuate that I should make 'copy,' as you call it, out of you?" The poor fellow pressed his hands to his forehead. "I don't know," he said. "I had some reason, I know. I'll try to remember. He sat plunged in thought. "That's right. Try to remember everything. Eat a little more bread. What did the reading-room look like?" "Much as usual," he at length muttered. "Many people there?" "Usual sort of number." "What did they look like?" Soames tried to visualize them. "They all," he presently remembered, "looked very like one another." My mind took a fearsome leap. "All dressed in sanitary woolen?" "Yes, I think so. Grayish-yellowish stuff." "A sort of uniform?" He nodded. "With a number on it perhaps--a number on a large disk of metal strapped round the left arm? D. K. F. 78,910--that sort of thing?" It was even so. "And all of them, men and women alike, looking very well cared for? Very Utopian, and smelling rather strongly of carbolic, and all of them quite hairless?" I was right every time. Soames was only not sure whether the men and women were hairless or shorn. "I hadn't time to look at them very closely," he explained. "No, of course not. But--" "They stared at ME, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of attention." At last he had done that! "I think I rather scared them. They moved away whenever I came near. They followed me about, at a distance, wherever I went. The men at the round desk in the middle seemed to have a sort of panic whenever I went to make inquiries." "What did you do when you arrived?" Well, he had gone straight to the catalogue, of course,--to the S volumes,--and had stood long before SN-SOF, unable to take this volume out of the shelf because his heart was beating so. At first, he said, he wasn't disappointed; he only thought there was some new arrangement. He went to the middle desk and asked where the catalogue of twentieth-century books was kept. He gathered that there was still only one catalogue. Again he looked up his name, stared at the three little pasted slips he had known so well. Then he went and sat down for a long time. "And then," he droned, "I looked up the 'Dictionary of National Biography,' and some encyclopedias. I went back to the middle desk and asked what was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton's book was considered the best. I looked it up in the catalogue and filled in a form for it. It was brought to me. My name wasn't in the index, but--yes!" he said with a sudden change of tone, "that's what I'd forgotten. Where's that bit of paper? Give it me back." I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the floor, and handed it to him. He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. "I found myself glancing through Nupton's book," he resumed. "Not very easy reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling. All the modern books I saw were phonetic." "Then I don't want to hear any more, Soames, please." "The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for that I mightn't have noticed my own name." "Your own name? Really? Soames, I'm VERY glad." "And yours." "No!" "I thought I should find you waiting here to-night, so I took the trouble to copy out the passage. Read it." I snatched the paper. Soames's handwriting was characteristically dim. It and the noisome spelling and my excitement made me all the slower to grasp what T. K. Nupton was driving at. The document lies before me at this moment. Strange that the words I here copy out for you were copied out for me by poor Soames just eighty-two years hence! From page 234 of "Inglish Littracher 1890-1900" bi T. K. Nupton, publishd bi th Stait, 1992. Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimed Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive in th twentith senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid an immajnari karrakter kauld "Enoch Soames"--a thurd-rait poit hoo beleevz imself a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th Devvl in auder ter no wot posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot labud sattire, but not without vallu az showing hou seriusli the yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took themselvz. Nou that th littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a departmnt of publik servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav lernt ter doo their duti without thort ov th morro. "Th laibrer iz werthi ov hiz hire" an that iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch Soameses amung us to-dai! I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I commend to my reader) I was able to master them little by little. The clearer they became, the greater was my bewilderment, my distress and horror. The whole thing was a nightmare. Afar, the great grisly background of what was in store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at the table, fixing on me a gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow whom--whom evidently--but no: whatever down-grade my character might take in coming years, I should never be such a brute as to-- Again I examined the screed. "Immajnari." But here Soames was, no more imaginary, alas! than I. And "labud"--what on earth was that? (To this day I have never made out that word.) "It's all very--baffling," I at length stammered. Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. "Are you sure," I temporized, "quite sure you copied the thing out correctly?" "Quite." "Well, then, it's this wretched Nupton who must have made--must be going to make--some idiotic mistake. Look here Soames, you know me better than to suppose that I-- After all, the name Max Beerbohm is not at all an uncommon one, and there must be several Enoch Soameses running around, or, rather, Enoch Soames is a name that might occur to any one writing a story. And I don't write stories; I'm an essayist, an observer, a recorder. I admit that it's an extraordinary coincidence. But you must see--" "I see the whole thing," said Soames, quietly. And he added, with a touch of his old manner, but with more dignity than I had ever known in him, "Parlons d'autre chose." I accepted that suggestion very promptly. I returned straight to the more immediate future. I spent most of the long evening in renewed appeals to Soames to come away and seek refuge somewhere. I remember saying at last that if indeed I was destined to write about him, the supposed "stauri" had better have at least a happy ending. Soames repeated those last three words in a tone of intense scorn. "In life and in art," he said, "all that matters is an INEVITABLE ending." "But," I urged more hopefully than I felt, "an ending that can be avoided ISN'T inevitable." "You aren't an artist," he rasped. "And you're so hopelessly not an artist that, so far from being able to imagine a thing and make it seem true, you're going to make even a true thing seem as if you'd made it up. You're a miserable bungler. And it's like my luck." I protested that the miserable bungler was not I, was not going to be I, but T. K. Nupton; and we had a rather heated argument, in the thick of which it suddenly seemed to me that Soames saw he was in the wrong: he had quite physically cowered. But I wondered why--and now I guessed with a cold throb just why--he stared so past me. The bringer of that "inevitable ending" filled the doorway. I managed to turn in my chair and to say, not without a semblance of lightness, "Aha, come in!" Dread was indeed rather blunted in me by his looking so absurdly like a villain in a melodrama. The sheen of his tilted hat and of his shirt-front, the repeated twists he was giving to his mustache, and most of all the magnificence of his sneer, gave token that he was there only to be foiled. He was at our table in a stride. "I am sorry," he sneered witheringly, "to break up your pleasant party, but--" "You don't; you complete it," I assured him. "Mr. Soames and I want to have a little talk with you. Won't you sit? Mr. Soames got nothing, frankly nothing, by his journey this afternoon. We don't wish to say that the whole thing was a swindle, a common swindle. On the contrary, we believe you meant well. But of course the bargain, such as it was, is off." The devil gave no verbal answer. He merely looked at Soames and pointed with rigid forefinger to the door. Soames was wretchedly rising from his chair when, with a desperate, quick gesture, I swept together two dinner-knives that were on the table, and laid their blades across each other. The devil stepped sharp back against the table behind him, averting his face and shuddering. "You are not superstitious!" he hissed. "Not at all," I smiled. "Soames," he said as to an underling, but without turning his face, "put those knives straight!" With an inhibitive gesture to my friend, "Mr. Soames," I said emphatically to the devil, "is a Catholic diabolist"; but my poor friend did the devil's bidding, not mine; and now, with his master's eyes again fixed on him, he arose, he shuffled past me. I tried to speak. It was he that spoke. "Try," was the prayer he threw back at me as the devil pushed him roughly out through the door--"TRY to make them know that I did exist!" In another instant I, too, was through that door. I stood staring all ways, up the street, across it, down it. There was moonlight and lamplight, but there was not Soames nor that other. Dazed, I stood there. Dazed, I turned back at length into the little room, and I suppose I paid Berthe or Rose for my dinner and luncheon and for Soames's; I hope so, for I never went to the Vingtieme again. Ever since that night I have avoided Greek Street altogether. And for years I did not set foot even in Soho Square, because on that same night it was there that I paced and loitered, long and long, with some such dull sense of hope as a man has in not straying far from the place where he has lost something. "Round and round the shutter'd Square"--that line came back to me on my lonely beat, and with it the whole stanza, ringing in my brain and bearing in on me how tragically different from the happy scene imagined by him was the poet's actual experience of that prince in whom of all princes we should put not our trust! But strange how the mind of an essayist, be it never so stricken, roves and ranges! I remember pausing before a wide door-step and wondering if perchance it was on this very one that the young De Quincey lay ill and faint while poor Ann flew as fast as her feet would carry her to Oxford Street, the "stony-hearted stepmother" of them both, and came back bearing that "glass of port wine and spices" but for which he might, so he thought, actually have died. Was this the very door-step that the old De Quincey used to revisit in homage? I pondered Ann's fate, the cause of her sudden vanishing from the ken of her boy friend; and presently I blamed myself for letting the past override the present. Poor vanished Soames! And for myself, too, I began to be troubled. What had I better do? Would there be a hue and cry--"Mysterious Disappearance of an Author," and all that? He had last been seen lunching and dining in my company. Hadn't I better get a hansom and drive straight to Scotland Yard? They would think I was a lunatic. After all, I reassured myself, London was a very large place, and one very dim figure might easily drop out of it unobserved, now especially, in the blinding glare of the near Jubilee. Better say nothing at all, I thought. AND I was right. Soames's disappearance made no stir at all. He was utterly forgotten before any one, so far as I am aware, noticed that he was no longer hanging around. Now and again some poet or prosaist may have said to another, "What has become of that man Soames?" but I never heard any such question asked. As for his landlady in Dyott Street, no doubt he had paid her weekly, and what possessions he may have had in his rooms were enough to save her from fretting. The solicitor through whom he was paid his annuity may be presumed to have made inquiries, but no echo of these resounded. There was something rather ghastly to me in the general unconsciousness that Soames had existed, and more than once I caught myself wondering whether Nupton, that babe unborn, were going to be right in thinking him a figment of my brain. In that extract from Nupton's repulsive book there is one point which perhaps puzzles you. How is it that the author, though I have here mentioned him by name and have quoted the exact words he is going to write, is not going to grasp the obvious corollary that I have invented nothing? The answer can be only this: Nupton will not have read the later passages of this memoir. Such lack of thoroughness is a serious fault in any one who undertakes to do scholar's work. And I hope these words will meet the eye of some contemporary rival to Nupton and be the undoing of Nupton. I like to think that some time between 1992 and 1997 somebody will have looked up this memoir, and will have forced on the world his inevitable and startling conclusions. And I have reason for believing that this will be so. You realize that the reading-room into which Soames was projected by the devil was in all respects precisely as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997. You realize, therefore, that on that afternoon, when it comes round, there the selfsame crowd will be, and there Soames will be, punctually, he and they doing precisely what they did before. Recall now Soames's account of the sensation he made. You may say that the mere difference of his costume was enough to make him sensational in that uniformed crowd. You wouldn't say so if you had ever seen him, and I assure you that in no period would Soames be anything but dim. The fact that people are going to stare at him and follow him around and seem afraid of him, can be explained only on the hypothesis that they will somehow have been prepared for his ghostly visitation. They will have been awfully waiting to see whether he really would come. And when he does come the effect will of course be--awful. An authentic, guaranteed, proved ghost, but; only a ghost, alas! Only that. In his first visit Soames was a creature of flesh and blood, whereas the creatures among whom he was projected were but ghosts, I take it--solid, palpable, vocal, but unconscious and automatic ghosts, in a building that was itself an illusion. Next time that building and those creatures will be real. It is of Soames that there will be but the semblance. I wish I could think him destined to revisit the world actually, physically, consciously. I wish he had this one brief escape, this one small treat, to look forward to. I never forget him for long. He is where he is and forever. The more rigid moralists among you may say he has only himself to blame. For my part, I think he has been very hardly used. It is well that vanity should be chastened; and Enoch Soames's vanity was, I admit, above the average, and called for special treatment. But there was no need for vindictiveness. You say he contracted to pay the price he is paying. Yes; but I maintain that he was induced to do so by fraud. Well informed in all things, the devil must have known that my friend would gain nothing by his visit to futurity. The whole thing was a very shabby trick. The more I think of it, the more detestable the devil seems to me. Of him I have caught sight several times, here and there, since that day at the Vingtieme. Only once, however, have I seen him at close quarters. This was a couple of years ago, in Paris. I was walking one afternoon along the rue d'Antin, and I saw him advancing from the opposite direction, overdressed as ever, and swinging an ebony cane and altogether behaving as though the whole pavement belonged to him. At thought of Enoch Soames and the myriads of other sufferers eternally in this brute's dominion, a great cold wrath filled me, and I drew myself up to my full height. But--well, one is so used to nodding and smiling in the street to anybody whom one knows that the action becomes almost independent of oneself; to prevent it requires a very sharp effort and great presence of mind. I was miserably aware, as I passed the devil, that I nodded and smiled to him. And my shame was the deeper and hotter because he, if you please, stared straight at me with the utmost haughtiness. To be cut, deliberately cut, by HIM! I was, I still am, furious at having had that happen to me. [Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions in the text; e.g., "does n't" has become "doesn't" etc.] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Enoch Soames, by Max Beerbohm Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What is Mary's mother's name?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Eliza" ]	23,312	narrativeqa	en	null	971da5c683ec66c727895dbbab133b42bd4aff3e75c8eda5	E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Janet Blenkinship, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/) Transcriber's note: The author is Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-1797). MARY, A Fiction L'exercice des plus sublimes vertus éleve et nourrit le génie. ROUSSEAU. London, Printed for J. Johnson, St. Paul's Church-Yard. MDCCLXXXVIII ADVERTISEMENT. In delineating the Heroine of this Fiction, the Author attempts to develop a character different from those generally portrayed. This woman is neither a Clarissa, a Lady G----, nor a[A] Sophie.--It would be vain to mention the various modifications of these models, as it would to remark, how widely artists wander from nature, when they copy the originals of great masters. They catch the gross parts; but the subtile spirit evaporates; and not having the just ties, affectation disgusts, when grace was expected to charm. Those compositions only have power to delight, and carry us willing captives, where the soul of the author is exhibited, and animates the hidden springs. Lost in a pleasing enthusiasm, they live in the scenes they represent; and do not measure their steps in a beaten track, solicitous to gather expected flowers, and bind them in a wreath, according to the prescribed rules of art. These chosen few, wish to speak for themselves, and not to be an echo--even of the sweetest sounds--or the reflector of the most sublime beams. The[B] paradise they ramble in, must be of their own creating--or the prospect soon grows insipid, and not varied by a vivifying principle, fades and dies. In an artless tale, without episodes, the mind of a woman, who has thinking powers is displayed. The female organs have been thought too weak for this arduous employment; and experience seems to justify the assertion. Without arguing physically about _possibilities_--in a fiction, such a being may be allowed to exist; whose grandeur is derived from the operations of its own faculties, not subjugated to opinion; but drawn by the individual from the original source. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Rousseau.] [Footnote B: I here give the Reviewers an opportunity of being very witty about the Paradise of Fools, &c.] MARY CHAP. I. Mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who married Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that stamp. She carefully attended to the _shews_ of things, and her opinions, I should have said prejudices, were such as the generality approved of. She was educated with the expectation of a large fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of her attendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she never imagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions of her own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, and the years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments, without having any taste for them. When she was first introduced into the polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wished to be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in a more distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, and promised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool,) as in duty bound. While they resided in London, they lived in the usual fashionable style, and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when they wooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful country, where Nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around; for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved, and sought amusement in country sports. He hunted in the morning, and after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not enliven, it is not necessary to say which a _gourmand_ would give the preference to. Their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely more agreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor. Her voice was but the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, so relaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing. Many such noughts are there in the female world! yet she had a good opinion of her own merit,--truly, she said long prayers,--and sometimes read her Week's Preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarly called _hell_, the regions below; but whether her's was a mounting spirit, I cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet would have been proper for her, when she left her _material_ part in this world, let metaphysicians settle; I have nothing to say to her unclothed spirit. As she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her French waiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications, and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes from the glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodily dissipation, novels. I say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rational one can find no employment in polite circles. The glare of lights, the studied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at the shrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses. When she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, she tried another. The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and some other interesting tales were perused with eagerness. Nothing could be more natural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking than the views of the human heart. What delicate struggles! and uncommonly pretty turns of thought! The picture that was found on a bramble-bush, the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by the upper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait.--Fatal image!--It planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent a new kind of a knight-errant into the world. But even this was nothing to the catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornet settling on the sleeping lover's face. What a _heart-rending_ accident! She planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; but there was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered it with her tears.--Alas! Alas! If my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me credit for genius, I would go on and tell them such tales as would force the sweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautiful cheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, &c. &c. Nay, I would make it so interesting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser to settle the curls himself, and not interrupt her. She had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who shared her bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day. These she watched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmest caresses. This fondness for animals was not that kind of _attendrissement_ which makes a person take pleasure in providing for the subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded from vanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest French expressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attuned by tenderness. She was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that is, she did not make any actual _faux pas_; she feared the world, and was indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, she read all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had she thought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as she accompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them by the clear light of the moon. She wondered her husband did not stay at home. She was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze her hand, and look unutterable things? Gentle reader, I will tell thee; they neither of them felt what they could not utter. I will not pretend to say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of those feelings which are not easily analyzed. CHAP. II. In due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following year a daughter. After the mother's throes she felt very few sentiments of maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and she played with her dogs. Want of exercise prevented the least chance of her recovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on a consumption, to which her constitution tended. Her children all died in their infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of the son, as he was remarkably handsome. For years she divided her time between the sofa, and the card-table. She thought not of death, though on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her station occur to her as necessary. Her children were left in the nursery; and when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the awkward thing away. To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a house without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and she scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old house-keeper told her stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read. Her mother talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and, in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French. As she had learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in her way. Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and learned to think. She had heard of a separate state, and that angels sometimes visited this earth. She would sit in a thick wood in the park, and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them to tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweet and touching. Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was glad that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself about them. She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband was very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness, and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart through life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her own.--She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when she was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse. Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which she imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and confidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new world. Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious distress. She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concluded animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice of man; but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year after year rolled on, her mother still vegetating. A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her great attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child while she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the first began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every part of it. The impression that this accident made was indelible. As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to exert herself, her health would soon be re-established. In general he treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and visibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she could not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from the gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of it, she was pinched by hunger. She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner was she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the slave of compassion. CHAP. III. Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune; and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a distant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just at this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they took no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her natural disposition was very different. She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb; and now she had another motive to actuate her. As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend, mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their intercourse more agreeable. Young people are mostly fond of scribbling; Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend's letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes. As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits were fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain on account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter. Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these consequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, she found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the offspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran to her with delight, and not perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann's countenance, she has shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressions seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility. She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all reflection. In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and exercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her own unsettled mind. CHAP. IV. Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were, literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested, and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river. Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea. This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there. When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observe the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, she admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in existence, and darted into futurity. One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. A clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple of Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost. At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure. In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had not animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones which look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving more light to the beholders than they receive themselves. Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or comforted them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent, that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less interested observer. In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read, and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became a part of her mind. Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her Creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were mostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted to contemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think of the voice that could still the tumultuous deep. These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out those which the soil would have a tendency to nurse. Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination has strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity. Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, _conversing_ with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her own composing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end her various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth, which afterwards more fully unfolded itself. She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under the influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with redoubled force. Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her ecstacies arose from genius. She was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; and perusing the scriptures, and discussing some points of doctrine which puzzled her, she would sit up half the night, her favourite time for employing her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through a glass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectual researches, is one of the trials of a probationary state. But her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and she eagerly desired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor. The night before the important day, when she was to take on herself her baptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on her meditations, and found her not exhausted by her watching. The orient pearls were strewed around--she hailed the morn, and sung with wild delight, Glory to God on high, good will towards men. She was indeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternal preservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; and the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthly passions made it grow languid. These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the luxuriant shoots restrained by culture. The servants and the poor adored her. In order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, she practiced the most rigid oeconomy, and had such power over her appetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered them so entirely, that when her understanding or affections had an object, she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment. This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the passions. We will now enter on the more active field of life. CHAP. V. A few months after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was attacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach the school. She was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her of consequence, and did not call her _the child_. Proper masters were sent for; she was taught to dance, and an extraordinary master procured to perfect her in that most necessary of all accomplishments. A part of the estate she was to inherit had been litigated, and the heir of the person who still carried on a Chancery suit, was only two years younger than our heroine. The fathers, spite of the dispute, frequently met, and, in order to settle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle, determined to quash it by a marriage, and, by uniting the two estates, to preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their different claims. While this important matter was settling, Mary was otherwise employed. Ann's mother's resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty, made hasty strides to catch them in his clutches. Ann had not fortitude enough to brave such accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm was lodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. She denied herself every little comfort; things that would be no sacrifice when a person is well, are absolutely necessary to alleviate bodily pain, and support the animal functions. There were many elegant amusements, that she had acquired a relish for, which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; but these her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of relaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil he taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination, and that taste invigorated love. Poverty, and all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother's abode; and she, though a good sort of a woman, was not calculated to banish, by her trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was lost. This ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, a delicacy so truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold her without wishing to chase her sorrows away. She was timid and irresolute, and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to make her reflect. In every thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty, that caught her attention. And in composition, the polish of style, and harmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius, or abstracted speculations. She often wondered at the books Mary chose, who, though she had a lively imagination, would frequently study authors whose works were addressed to the understanding. This liking taught her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herself, even when under the influence of the most violent passions. Ann's misfortunes and ill health were strong ties to bind Mary to her; she wished so continually to have a home to receive her in, that it drove every other desire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tender schemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she longed most ardently to put them in practice. Fondly as she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whose decline was so imperceptible, that they were not aware of her approaching dissolution. The physician, however, observing the most alarming symptoms; her husband was apprised of her immediate danger; and then first mentioned to her his designs with respect to his daughter. She approved of them; Mary was sent for; she was not at home; she had rambled to visit Ann, and found her in an hysteric fit. The landlord of her little farm had sent his agent for the rent, which had long been due to him; and he threatened to seize the stock that still remained, and turn them out, if they did not very shortly discharge the arrears. As this man made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of the person to whom he was deputy, little was to be expected from his forbearance. All this was told to Mary--and the mother added, she had many other creditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch from them all that had been saved out of the wreck. "I could bear all," she cried; "but what will become of my children? Of this child," pointing to the fainting Ann, "whose constitution is already undermined by care and grief--where will she go?"--Mary's heart ceased to beat while she asked the question--She attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds died away. Before she had recovered herself, her father called himself to enquire for her; and desired her instantly to accompany him home. Engrossed by the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walked silently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours to live; and before she could return him any answer, informed her that they had both determined to marry her to Charles, his friend's son; he added, the ceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witness of it; for such a desire she had expressed with childish eagerness. Overwhelmed by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, with a vacant stare, fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longer a sense; they conveyed no ideas to the brain. As she drew near the house, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension of thought, a thousand darted into her mind,--her dying mother,--her friend's miserable situation,--and an extreme horror at taking--at being forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the reluctance, which arises from a prior attachment. She loved Ann better than any one in the world--to snatch her from the very jaws of destruction--she would have encountered a lion. To have this friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect to her family, would it not be superlative bliss? Full of these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they then fled at the sight of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; it feebly pressed her's. "My child," said the languid mother: the words reached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accents denoting affection; "My child, I have not always treated you with kindness--God forgive me! do you?"--Mary's tears strayed in a disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve the fluttering tenant. "I forgive you!" said she, in a tone of astonishment. The clergyman came in to read the service for the sick, and afterwards the marriage ceremony was performed. Mary stood like a statue of Despair, and pronounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and then ran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms. Her husband set off for the continent the same day, with a tutor, to finish his studies at one of the foreign universities. Ann was sent for to console her, not on account of the departure of her new relation, a boy she seldom took any notice of, but to reconcile her to her fate; besides, it was necessary she should have a female companion, and there was not any maiden aunt in the family, or cousin of the same class. CHAP. VI. Mary was allowed to pay the rent which gave her so much uneasiness, and she exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to succour the family; but the utmost she could obtain was a small sum very inadequate to the purpose, to enable the poor woman to carry into execution a little scheme of industry near the metropolis. Her intention of leaving that part of the country, had much more weight with him, than Mary's arguments, drawn from motives of philanthropy and friendship; this was a language he did not understand; expressive of occult qualities he never thought of, as they could not be seen or felt. After the departure of her mother, Ann still continued to languish, though she had a nurse who was entirely engrossed by the desire of amusing her. Had her health been re-established, the time would have passed in a tranquil, improving manner. During the year of mourning they lived in retirement; music, drawing, and reading, filled up the time; and Mary's taste and judgment were both improved by contracting a habit of observation, and permitting the simple beauties of Nature to occupy her thoughts. She had a wonderful quickness in discerning distinctions and combining ideas, that at the first glance did not appear to be similar. But these various pursuits did not banish all her cares, or carry off all her constitutional black bile. Before she enjoyed Ann's society, she imagined it would have made her completely happy: she was disappointed, and yet knew not what to complain of. As her friend could not accompany her in her walks, and wished to be alone, for a very obvious reason, she would return to her old haunts, retrace her anticipated pleasures--and wonder how they changed their colour in possession, and proved so futile. She had not yet found the companion she looked for. Ann and she were not congenial minds, nor did she contribute to her comfort in the degree she expected. She shielded her from poverty; but this was only a negative blessing; when under the pressure it was very grievous, and still more so were the apprehensions; but when exempt from them, she was not contented. Such is human nature, its laws were not to be inverted to gratify our heroine, and stop the progress of her understanding, happiness only flourished in paradise--we cannot taste and live. Another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. Ann had a hectic cough, and many unfavourable prognostics: Mary then forgot every thing but the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery would have made her happy. Her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only read books of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended in vanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what she could not prevent. As her mind expanded, her marriage appeared a dreadful misfortune; she was sometimes reminded of the heavy yoke, and bitter was the recollection! In one thing there seemed to be a sympathy between them, for she wrote formal answers to his as formal letters. An extreme dislike took root in her mind; the found of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all, listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame. She would then catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness, as if to save her from sinking into an opening grave. CHAP. VII. It was the will of Providence that Mary should experience almost every species of sorrow. Her father was thrown from his horse, when his blood was in a very inflammatory state, and the bruises were very dangerous; his recovery was not expected by the physical tribe. Terrified at seeing him so near death, and yet so ill prepared for it, his daughter sat by his bed, oppressed by the keenest anguish, which her piety increased. Her grief had nothing selfish in it; he was not a friend or protector; but he was her father, an unhappy wretch, going into eternity, depraved and thoughtless. Could a life of sensuality be a preparation for a peaceful death? Thus meditating, she passed the still midnight hour by his bedside. The nurse fell asleep, nor did a violent thunder storm interrupt her repose, though it made the night appear still more terrific to Mary. Her father's unequal breathing alarmed her, when she heard a long drawn breath, she feared it was his last, and watching for another, a dreadful peal of thunder struck her ears. Considering the separation of the soul and body, this night seemed sadly solemn, and the hours long. Death is indeed a king of terrors when he attacks the vicious man! The compassionate heart finds not any comfort; but dreads an eternal separation. No transporting greetings are anticipated, when the survivors also shall have finished their course; but all is black!--the grave may truly be said to receive the departed--this is the sting of death! Night after night Mary watched, and this excessive fatigue impaired her own health, but had a worse effect on Ann; though she constantly went to bed, she could not rest; a number of uneasy thoughts obtruded themselves; and apprehensions about Mary, whom she loved as well as her exhausted heart could love, harassed her mind. After a sleepless, feverish night she had a violent fit of coughing, and burst a blood-vessel. The physician, who was in the house, was sent for, and when he left the patient, Mary, with an authoritative voice, insisted on knowing his real opinion. Reluctantly he gave it, that her friend was in a critical state; and if she passed the approaching winter in England, he imagined she would die in the spring; a season fatal to consumptive disorders. The spring!--Her husband was then expected.--Gracious Heaven, could she bear all this. In a few days her father breathed his last. The horrid sensations his death occasioned were too poignant to be durable: and Ann's danger, and her own situation, made Mary deliberate what mode of conduct she should pursue. She feared this event might hasten the return of her husband, and prevent her putting into execution a plan she had determined on. It was to accompany Ann to a more salubrious climate. CHAP. VIII. I mentioned before, that Mary had never had any particular attachment, to give rise to the disgust that daily gained ground. Her friendship for Ann occupied her heart, and resembled a passion. She had had, indeed, several transient likings; but they did not amount to love. The society of men of genius delighted her, and improved her faculties. With beings of this class she did not often meet; it is a rare genus; her first favourites were men past the meridian of life, and of a philosophic turn. Determined on going to the South of France, or Lisbon; she wrote to the man she had promised to obey. The physicians had said change of air was necessary for her as well as her friend. She mentioned this, and added, "Her comfort, almost her existence, depended on the recovery of the invalid she wished to attend; and that should she neglect to follow the medical advice she had received, she should never forgive herself, or those who endeavoured to prevent her." Full of her design, she wrote with more than usual freedom; and this letter was like most of her others, a transcript of her heart. "This dear friend," she exclaimed, "I love for her agreeable qualities, and substantial virtues. Continual attention to her health, and the tender office of a nurse, have created an affection very like a maternal one--I am her only support, she leans on me--could I forsake the forsaken, and break the bruised reed--No--I would die first! I must--I will go." She would have added, "you would very much oblige me by consenting;" but her heart revolted--and irresolutely she wrote something about wishing him happy.--"Do I not wish all the world well?" she cried, as she subscribed her name--It was blotted, the letter sealed in a hurry, and sent out of her sight; and she began to prepare for her journey. By the return of the post she received an answer; it contained some common-place remarks on her romantic friendship, as he termed it; "But as the physicians advised change of air, he had no objection." CHAP. IX. There was nothing now to retard their journey; and Mary chose Lisbon rather than France, on account of its being further removed from the only person she wished not to see. They set off accordingly for Falmouth, in their way to that city. The journey was of use to Ann, and Mary's spirits were raised by her recovered looks--She had been in despair--now she gave way to hope, and was intoxicated with it. On ship-board Ann always remained in the cabin; the sight of the water terrified her: on the contrary, Mary, after she was gone to bed, or when she fell asleep in the day, went on deck, conversed with the sailors, and surveyed the boundless expanse before her with delight. One instant she would regard the ocean, the next the beings who braved its fury. Their insensibility and want of fear, she could not name courage; their thoughtless mirth was quite of an animal kind, and their feelings as impetuous and uncertain as the element they plowed. They had only been a week at sea when they hailed the rock of Lisbon, and the next morning anchored at the castle. After the customary visits, they were permitted to go on shore, about three miles from the city; and while one of the crew, who understood the language, went to procure them one of the ugly carriages peculiar to the country, they waited in the Irish convent, which is situated close to the Tagus. Some of the people offered to conduct them into the church, where there was a fine organ playing; Mary followed them, but Ann preferred staying with a nun she had entered into conversation with. One of the nuns, who had a sweet voice, was singing; Mary was struck with awe; her heart joined in the devotion; and tears of gratitude and tenderness flowed from her eyes. My Father, I thank thee! burst from her--words were inadequate to express her feelings. Silently, she surveyed the lofty dome; heard unaccustomed sounds; and saw faces, strange ones, that she could not yet greet with fraternal love. In an unknown land, she considered that the Being she adored inhabited eternity, was ever present in unnumbered worlds. When she had not any one she loved near her, she was particularly sensible of the presence of her Almighty Friend. The arrival of the carriage put a stop to her speculations; it was to conduct them to an hotel, fitted up for the reception of invalids. Unfortunately, before they could reach it there was a violent shower of rain; and as the wind was very high, it beat against the leather curtains, which they drew along the front of the vehicle, to shelter themselves from it; but it availed not, some of the rain forced its way, and Ann felt the effects of it, for she caught cold, spite of Mary's precautions. As is the custom, the rest of the invalids, or lodgers, sent to enquire after their health; and as soon as Ann left her chamber, in which her complaints seldom confined her the whole day, they came in person to pay their compliments. Three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; the one a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other an invalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. They entered into conversation immediately. People who meet in a strange country, and are all together in a house, soon get acquainted, without the formalities which attend visiting in separate houses, where they are surrounded by domestic friends. Ann was particularly delighted at meeting with agreeable society; a little hectic fever generally made her low-spirited in the morning, and lively in the evening, when she wished for company. Mary, who only thought of her, determined to cultivate their acquaintance, as she knew, that if her mind could be diverted, her body might gain strength. They were all musical, and proposed having little concerts. One of the gentlemen played on the violin, and the other on the german-flute. The instruments were brought in, with all the eagerness that attends putting a new scheme in execution. Mary had not said much, for she was diffident; she seldom joined in general conversations; though her quickness of penetration enabled her soon to enter into the characters of those she conversed with; and her sensibility made her desirous of pleasing every human creature. Besides, if her mind was not occupied by any particular sorrow, or study, she caught reflected pleasure, and was glad to see others happy, though their mirth did not interest her. This day she was continually thinking of Ann's recovery, and encouraging the cheerful hopes, which though they dissipated the spirits that had been condensed by melancholy, yet made her wish to be silent. The music, more than the conversation, disturbed her reflections; but not at first. The gentleman who played on the german-flute, was a handsome, well-bred, sensible man; and his observations, if not original, were pertinent. The other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and played a little Scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of the instrument, that Mary started, and looking at him with more attention than she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong lines of genius. His manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which is often found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered his opinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice. When the concert was over, they all retired to their apartments. Mary always slept with Ann, as she was subject to terrifying dreams; and frequently in the night was obliged to be supported, to avoid suffocation. They chatted about their new acquaintance in their own apartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion. CHAP. X. Every day almost they saw their new acquaintance; and civility produced intimacy. Mary sometimes left her friend with them; while she indulged herself in viewing new modes of life, and searching out the causes which produced them. She had a metaphysical turn, which inclined her to reflect on every object that passed by her; and her mind was not like a mirror, which receives every floating image, but does not retain them: she had not any prejudices, for every opinion was examined before it was adopted. The Roman Catholic ceremonies attracted her attention, and gave rise to conversations when they all met; and one of the gentlemen continually introduced deistical notions, when he ridiculed the pageantry they all were surprised at observing. Mary thought of both the subjects, the Romish tenets, and the deistical doubts; and though not a sceptic, thought it right to examine the evidence on which her faith was built. She read Butler's Analogy, and some other authors: and these researches made her a christian from conviction, and she learned charity, particularly with respect to sectaries; saw that apparently good and solid arguments might take their rise from different points of view; and she rejoiced to find that those she should not concur with had some reason on their side. CHAP. XI. When I mentioned the three ladies, I said they were fashionable women; and it was all the praise, as a faithful historian, I could bestow on them; the only thing in which they were consistent. I forgot to mention that they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. The daughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the mother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her. They were people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancient family, the title had descended to a very remote branch--a branch they took care to be intimate with; and servilely copied the Countess's airs. Their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerning propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which always hamper weak people. What will the world say? was the first thing that was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had not done before. Or what would the Countess do on such an occasion? And when this question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered without the trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads. This same Countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a most harmonic dance around her. After this account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds had received very little cultivation. They were taught French, Italian, and Spanish; English was their vulgar tongue. And what did they learn? Hamlet will tell you--words--words. But let me not forget that they squalled Italian songs in the true _gusto_. Without having any seeds sown in their understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work, they were brought out of their nursery, or the place they were secluded in, to prevent their faces being common; like blazing stars, to captivate Lords. They were pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another, occasioned the disorder which required change of air. The mother, if we except her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature; and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciously adhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, some trivial points of ceremony, as a matter of the last importance; of which she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionable world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do to the sun. It appears to me that every creature has some notion--or rather relish, of the sublime. Riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime of weak minds:--These images fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls. One afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, Ann was so ill, that Mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending the tea-table. The apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, with a look of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name was Henry, and said; "Though people of the first fashion are frequently at places of this kind, intimate with they know not who; yet I do not choose that my daughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with any one she would blush to know elsewhere. It is only on that account, for I never suffer her to be with any one but in my company," added she, sitting more erect; and a smile of self-complacency dressed her countenance. "I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune." "Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a romantic creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the large fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard the Countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much admired; but she is married." She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who picked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls. "She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed, and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise it. The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses like the sweet south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears almost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had taken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine she had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this welcome guest.--And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety, that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid. No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look, to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered the room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken words, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed, "I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, what a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they, "have you not a husband?" Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. A delicate sense of propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered reason.--Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyes followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange behaviour. CHAP. XII. The physician was sent for; his prescription afforded Ann a little temporary relief; and they again joined the circle. Unfortunately, the weather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confined them to the house. Ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when they sat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and, but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away in listless indolence. The bad weather had had as ill an effect on Henry as on Ann. He was frequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy would of itself have attracted Mary's notice, if she had not found his conversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group. When she conversed with him, all the faculties of her soul unfolded themselves; genius animated her expressive countenance and the most graceful, unaffected gestures gave energy to her discourse. They frequently discussed very important subjects, while the rest were singing or playing cards, nor were they observed for doing so, as Henry, whom they all were pleased with, in the way of gallantry shewed them all more attention than her. Besides, as there was nothing alluring in her dress or manner, they never dreamt of her being preferred to them. Henry was a man of learning; he had also studied mankind, and knew many of the intricacies of the human heart, from having felt the infirmities of his own. His taste was just, as it had a standard--Nature, which he observed with a critical eye. Mary could not help thinking that in his company her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. She increased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved. He was also a pious man; his rational religious sentiments received warmth from his sensibility; and, except on very particular occasions, kept it in proper bounds; these sentiments had likewise formed his temper; he was gentle, and easily to be intreated. The ridiculous ceremonies they were every day witness to, led them into what are termed grave subjects, and made him explain his opinions, which, at other times, he was neither ashamed of, nor unnecessarily brought forward to notice. CHAP. XIII. When the weather began to clear up, Mary sometimes rode out alone, purposely to view the ruins that still remained of the earthquake: or she would ride to the banks of the Tagus, to feast her eyes with the sight of that magnificent river. At other times she would visit the churches, as she was particularly fond of seeing historical paintings. One of these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party descanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soon adverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters in which they should wish to be drawn. Mary did not fix on one--when Henry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "I would give the world for your picture, with the expression I have seen in your face, when you have been supporting your friend." This delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her heart. She then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--for whom was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, so strongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown away--given in with an estate. As Mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her thoughts were employed about the objects around her. She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. She saw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers may fall from the lips without purifying the heart. They who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers, or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainly allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfish principles; how then can they be called good? The pattern of all goodness went about _doing_ good. Wrapped up in themselves, the nuns only thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of intrigues were carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts were fixed: Such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that were servile or laborious. In short, when they could be neither wives nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations? In these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of grief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step. The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow, the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart. She will find that those affections that have once been called forth and strengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, by disappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrode the heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for which there is no specific. The community at large Mary disliked; but pitied many of them whose private distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were the same things with her. The exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and dignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but never mean or cunning. CHAP. XIV. The Portuguese are certainly the most uncivilized nation in Europe. Dr. Johnson would have said, "They have the least mind.". And can such serve their Creator in spirit and in truth? No, the gross ritual of Romish ceremonies is all they can comprehend: they can do penance, but not conquer their revenge, or lust. Religion, or love, has never humanized their hearts; they want the vital part; the mere body worships. Taste is unknown; Gothic finery, and unnatural decorations, which they term ornaments, are conspicuous in their churches and dress. Reverence for mental excellence is only to be found in a polished nation. Could the contemplation of such a people gratify Mary's heart? No: she turned disgusted from the prospects--turned to a man of refinement. Henry had been some time ill and low-spirited; Mary would have been attentive to any one in that situation; but to him she was particularly so; she thought herself bound in gratitude, on account of his constant endeavours to amuse Ann, and prevent her dwelling on the dreary prospect before her, which sometimes she could not help anticipating with a kind of quiet despair. She found some excuse for going more frequently into the room they all met in; nay, she avowed her desire to amuse him: offered to read to him, and tried to draw him into amusing conversations; and when she was full of these little schemes, she looked at him with a degree of tenderness that she was not conscious of. This divided attention was of use to her, and prevented her continually thinking of Ann, whose fluctuating disorder often gave rise to false hopes. A trifling thing occurred now which occasioned Mary some uneasiness. Her maid, a well-looking girl, had captivated the clerk of a neighbouring compting-house. As the match was an advantageous one, Mary could not raise any objection to it, though at this juncture it was very disagreeable to her to have a stranger about her person. However, the girl consented to delay the marriage, as she had some affection for her mistress; and, besides, looked forward to Ann's death as a time of harvest. Henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gave Mary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interested about him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which the purity of her heart made her never wish to restrain. The only visible return he made was not obvious to common observers. He would sometimes fix his eyes on her, and take them off with a sigh that was coughed away; or when he was leisurely walking into the room, and did not expect to see her, he would quicken his steps, and come up to her with eagerness to ask some trivial question. In the same style, he would try to detain her when he had nothing to say--or said nothing. Ann did not take notice of either his or Mary's behaviour, nor did she suspect that he was a favourite, on any other account than his appearing neither well nor happy. She had often seen that when a person was unfortunate, Mary's pity might easily be mistaken for love, and, indeed, it was a temporary sensation of that kind. Such it was--why it was so, let others define, I cannot argue against instincts. As reason is cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this may have given rise to the assertion, "That as judgment improves, genius evaporates." CHAP. XV. One morning they set out to visit the aqueduct; though the day was very fine when they left home, a very heavy shower fell before they reached it; they lengthened their ride, the clouds dispersed, and the sun came from behind them uncommonly bright. Mary would fain have persuaded Ann not to have left the carriage; but she was in spirits, and obviated all her objections, and insisted on walking, tho' the ground was damp. But her strength was not equal to her spirits; she was soon obliged to return to the carriage so much fatigued, that she fainted, and remained insensible a long time. Henry would have supported her; but Mary would not permit him; her recollection was instantaneous, and she feared sitting on the damp ground might do him a material injury: she was on that account positive, though the company did not guess the cause of her being so. As to herself, she did not fear bodily pain; and, when her mind was agitated, she could endure the greatest fatigue without appearing sensible of it. When Ann recovered, they returned slowly home; she was carried to bed, and the next morning Mary thought she observed a visible change for the worse. The physician was sent for, who pronounced her to be in the most imminent danger. All Mary's former fears now returned like a torrent, and carried every other care away; she even added to her present anguish by upbraiding herself for her late tranquillity--it haunted her in the form of a crime. The disorder made the most rapid advances--there was no hope!--Bereft of it, Mary again was tranquil; but it was a very different kind of tranquillity. She stood to brave the approaching storm, conscious she only could be overwhelmed by it. She did not think of Henry, or if her thoughts glanced towards him, it was only to find fault with herself for suffering a thought to have strayed from Ann.--Ann!--this dear friend was soon torn from her--she died suddenly as Mary was assisting her to walk across the room.--The first string was severed from her heart--and this "slow, sudden-death" disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable to reflect, or even to feel her misery. The body was stolen out of the house the second night, and Mary refused to see her former companions. She desired her maid to conclude her marriage, and request her intended husband to inform her when the first merchantman was to leave the port, as the packet had just sailed, and she determined not to stay in that hated place any longer than was absolutely necessary. She then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid a parade of grief--her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not to admit of increase or softening. She was right; the sight of them did not affect her, or turn the stream of her sullen sorrow; the black wave rolled along in the same course, it was equal to her where she cast her eyes; all was impenetrable gloom. CHAP. XVI. Soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry, requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: she consented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. She ran eagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his countenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed hers seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unable to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death; but her conversation was incoherent. She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest. Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!" Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart." "I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store." "Impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that she was in love with misery. He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took very little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined: and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations, rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in order to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me: these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I was witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution is naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain some dominion over my passions. At least," added he, stifling a sigh, "over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection only renders the tender ones more tyrannic. "I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--the object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion has pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and pursuits.--I am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin I tell the sorrows I now confide with thee. The object I loved forfeited my esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequently delighted to form a creature that I could love, that could convey to my soul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conception of." He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a listening attitude, continued his little narrative. "I kept up an irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance and ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I hastened to comfort her--and was a comfort to her. "My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness. But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain. No: I have frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts; and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant. "I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending this winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had before visited the Continent." He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with the most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her friendship? If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the fate of a darling child, than he did in her's." Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that she in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant. Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it: accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection. Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. He had exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had succeeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself for defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt on Henry's misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fate was a balm to her sick mind. She did not reason on the subject; but she felt he was attached to her: lost in this delirium, she never asked herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to; nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thought with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an affection for her, and that person she admired--had a friendship for. He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by accident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His child, what an association of ideas! If I had had a father, such a father!--She could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves. Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul. Lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry's account of himself; till she actually thought she would tell Ann--a bitter recollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she begged forgiveness of her. By these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to bed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not refresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her waking train of thoughts. One instant she was supporting her dying mother; then Ann was breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her. The unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell the truth, she thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spirits in motion: but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell her that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could be accommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger on board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on that account--Mary did not want a companion. As she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first vessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for the lonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of the first fair wind. She had too much strength of mind to waver in her determination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old wounds, and made them bleed afresh. What was she to do? where go? Could she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her--her soul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the world by such mock heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!" There is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while, stills the tumult of passion. Mary's mind had been thrown off its poise; her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but less regular. She forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth, and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the first serious thought: when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to render life bearable she gave way to fancy--this was madness. In a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was very tempestuous--what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every other trifling--it was not the contending elements, but _herself_ she feared! CHAP. XVII. In order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she went out in a carriage. The day was fine; but all nature was to her a universal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she could not. She passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill she got out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did not avoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed glad to contend with it, or rather walk against it. Exhausted she returned to the carriage was soon at home, and in the old room. Henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before her complexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire. He was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and he owned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormant tenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by the present happiness of seeing, of hearing him. Once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, to depart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow; should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus she thought, and insensibly grew more calm. The Ladies prevailed on her to spend the evening with them; but she retired very early to rest, and sat on the side of her bed several hours, then threw herself on it, and waited for the dreaded to-morrow. CHAP. XVIII. The ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that she was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at the Custom-house. Henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary called up all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from the females her internal struggles. She durst not encounter Henry's glances when she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, she knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began to laugh she could not stop herself. Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such benignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and, the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained silent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn. Henry began. "You are going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind is not in a state to be left to its own operations--yet I cannot, dissuade you; if I attempted to do it, I should ill deserve the title I wish to merit. I only think of your happiness; could I obey the strongest impulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to England; but such a step might endanger your future peace." Mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explained her situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that he trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me to love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did she not fix on Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and if Ann had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some remote corner to have escaped from him. "I intend," said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall I hear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine," replied Mary. "I am well, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the most precarious state." She then mentioned her intention of going to Ann's relations. "I am her representative, I have duties to fulfil for her: during my voyage I have time enough for reflection; though I think I have already determined." "Be not too hasty, my child," interrupted Henry; "far be it from me to persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thy future life may probably take its colour from thy present mode of conduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the object you now shun may appear in a different light." He paused. "In advising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary." She only answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary--yet they can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite a part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form my taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies, and make me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives its stamp to the rest--because I am capable of loving one, I have that kind of charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked. Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly we may ascend." She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface them but death--No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be created afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted from my Ann--I could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--I could not bear to think that time could wear away an affection that was founded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt to persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose from certain modifications of it." "Dear enthusiastic creature," whispered Henry, "how you steal into my soul." She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me to adore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that he only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder strokes to them. I knew I am in some degree under the influence of a delusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am _of subtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of the imagination point to futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause in nature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule? have I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will they never be gratified? shall I never be happy? My feelings do not accord with the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of bliss, it will be the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great part of our happiness. "With these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? can I listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits, and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I wish to please--one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I am bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could I consider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awful day of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience does not smite me, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approve of what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I brave His presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary to conviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could the world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed against the feeling heart! "Riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me to sit down and enjoy them--I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I do, what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good, an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me for eternity--when I no longer see through a glass darkly I shall not reason about, but _feel_ in what happiness consists." Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and that these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well digested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour, and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He was startled, if not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestures were all persuasive. Some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue; it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in a cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary to reveal it? He wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; she knew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, or rest satisfied with any inferior gratification. When passion first enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after, and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out. CHAP. XIX. Two days passed away without any particular conversation; Henry, trying to be indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. The conflict was too violent for his present state of health; the spirit was willing, but the body suffered; he lost his appetite, and looked wretchedly; his spirits were calmly low--the world seemed to fade away--what was that world to him that Mary did not inhabit; she lived not for him. He was mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dear prop she had sunk into the grave of her lost--long-loved friend;--his attention snatched her from despair. Inscrutable are the ways of Heaven! The third day Mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the wind continued in the same point, they should set sail the next evening. She tried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not useless she appeared less agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyage with composure. On great occasions she was generally calm and collected, her resolution would brace her unstrung nerves; but after the victory she had no triumph; she would sink into a state of moping melancholy, and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was over. The morning of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone with Henry only a few moments, and an awkward kind of formality made them slip away without their having said much to each other. Henry was afraid to discover his passion, or give any other name to his regard but friendship; yet his anxious solicitude for her welfare was ever breaking out-while she as artlessly expressed again and again, her fears with respect to his declining health. "We shall soon meet," said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; she caught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not knowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room. When she was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The few precious moments I have thus thrown away may never return," she thought-the reflection led to misery. She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She could not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her more than can be well conceived. The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For a while the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry, though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his own. "My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this spot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah! no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement! Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?" Ann occupied her until they reached the ship. The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the last;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of parting with him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she looked round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time. She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole which was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. On this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable to close her eyes. A small taper made the darkness visible; and the third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment. "Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling winds and dashing waves;--on no human support can I rest--when not lost to hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to them. How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it over--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will only be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.--Yet surely, I am not alone!" Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them. "Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to be composed--to forget my Henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawn across in an agony. CHAP. XX. The mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her some refreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness or civility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted: peevishly she desired him not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when her heart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink. After drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into a death-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, on the contrary, she awoke languid and stupid. The wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had she struggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever, which sometimes gave her false spirits. The winds then became very tempestuous, the Great Deep was troubled, and all the passengers appalled. Mary then left her bed, and went on deck, to survey the contending elements: the scene accorded with the present state of her soul; she thought in a few hours I may go home; the prisoner may be released. The vessel rose on a wave and descended into a yawning gulph--Not slower did her mounting soul return to earth, for--Ah! her treasure and her heart was there. The squalls rattled amongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then die away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with a tremendous roar. In a little vessel in the midst of such a storm she was not dismayed; she felt herself independent. Just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help of a glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, drifted about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm. Mary's thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink of destruction. They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed the trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loud cries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and with ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launched their boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of the sea. Stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched the boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view--she ceased to breathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again. At last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and Mary caught the poor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them in thanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to still the raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour. Amongst the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when she was hauled on board: Mary undressed her, and when she had recovered, and soothed her, left her to enjoy the rest she required to recruit her strength, which fear had quite exhausted. She returned again to view the angry deep; and when she gazed on its perturbed state, she thought of the Being who rode on the wings of the wind, and stilled the noise of the sea; and the madness of the people--He only could speak peace to her troubled spirit! she grew more calm; the late transaction had gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself. One of the sailors, happening to say to another, "that he believed the world was going to be at an end;" this observation led her into a new train of thoughts: some of Handel's sublime compositions occurred to her, and she sung them to the grand accompaniment. The Lord God Omnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever!--Why then did she fear the sorrows that were passing away, when she knew that He would bind up the broken-hearted, and receive those who came out of great tribulation. She retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book that was now her only confident. It was after midnight. "At this solemn hour, the great day of judgment fills my thoughts; the day of retribution, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed; when all worldly distinctions will fade away, and be no more seen. I have not words to express the sublime images which the bare contemplation of this awful day raises in my mind. Then, indeed, the Lord Omnipotent will reign, and He will wipe the tearful eye, and support the trembling heart--yet a little while He hideth his face, and the dun shades of sorrow, and the thick clouds of folly separate us from our God; but when the glad dawn of an eternal day breaks, we shall know even as we are known. Here we walk by faith, and not by sight; and we have this alternative, either to enjoy the pleasures of life which are but for a season, or look forward to the prize of our high calling, and with fortitude, and that wisdom which is from above, endeavour to bear the warfare of life. We know that many run the race; but he that striveth obtaineth the crown of victory. Our race is an arduous one! How many are betrayed by traitors lodged in their own breasts, who wear the garb of Virtue, and are so near akin; we sigh to think they should ever lead into folly, and slide imperceptibly into vice. Surely any thing like happiness is madness! Shall probationers of an hour presume to pluck the fruit of immortality, before they have conquered death? it is guarded, when the great day, to which I allude, arrives, the way will again be opened. Ye dear delusions, gay deceits, farewel! and yet I cannot banish ye for ever; still does my panting soul push forward, and live in futurity, in the deep shades o'er which darkness hangs.--I try to pierce the gloom, and find a resting-place, where my thirst of knowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object to fix them. Every thing material must change; happiness and this fluctating principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, and happiness,--what are ye? How shall I grasp the mighty and fleeting conceptions ye create?" After writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of the Father of Spirits; and slept in peace. CHAP. XXI. Mary rose early, refreshed by the seasonable rest, and went to visit the poor woman, whom she found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard that she had lately buried her husband, a common sailor; and that her only surviving child had been washed over-board the day before. Full of her own danger, she scarcely thought of her child till that was over; and then she gave way to boisterous emotions. Mary endeavoured to calm her at first, by sympathizing with her; and she tried to point out the only solid source of comfort but in doing this she encountered many difficulties; she found her grossly ignorant, yet she did not despair: and as the poor creature could not receive comfort from the operations of her own mind, she laboured to beguile the hours, which grief made heavy, by adapting her conversation to her capacity. There are many minds that only receive impressions through the medium of the senses: to them did Mary address herself; she made her some presents, and promised to assist her when they should arrive in England. This employment roused her out of her late stupor, and again set the faculties of her soul in motion; made the understanding contend with the imagination, and the heart throbbed not so irregularly during the contention. How short-lived was the calm! when the English coast was descried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor.--She was to visit and comfort the mother of her lost friend--And where then should she take up her residence? These thoughts suspended the exertions of her understanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarming apprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude. CHAP. XXII. In England then landed the forlorn wanderer. She looked round for some few moments--her affections were not attracted to any particular part of the Island. She knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to which she was going: the mass of buildings appeared to her a huge body without an informing soul. As she passed through the streets in an hackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. She met some women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors, made her shrink into herself, and exclaim, are these my fellow creatures! Detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up the river in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she saw vulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first time such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight.--Forgetting her own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view of innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and could not bear to see her own species sink below them. In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the mother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did not resemble Ann. To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the unfortunate mother of her loss. The poor woman, oppressed by it, and her many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all her past misfortunes, and present cares. The heavy tale lasted until midnight, and the impression it made on Mary's mind was so strong, that it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things. She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging, and relieved her present necessities. A few days were spent in a kind of listless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thought of returning home. She had hitherto treated her with the greatest respect, and concealed her wonder at Mary's choosing a remote room in the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as if she intended living in it. Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probable she would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she could not have talked of her passion to any human creature. She deliberated, and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living with her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--Not live with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could not answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more? I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave. CHAP. XXIII. Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more intimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want of education. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind. One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she resided in, caught her eye. She accosted him; in a confused manner, he informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the bread he could not earn. Mary desired to be conducted to his habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tattered shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth; round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of festivity. It was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or singing indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yet she had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On the floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the broken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children, all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes, exhibited none of the charms of childhood. Some were fighting, and others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary was petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and, regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch, and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want. Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband for a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a shop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of horror and satisfaction. She visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary to her expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesome food had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw her rising as it were from the grave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of it till she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such an alarming progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but the disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; and Mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the crisis, the symptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, without regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low: she wanted a tender nurse. For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the woman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto supported her; as her finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try to earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse. Two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from Henry. He was sick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and all the people ungrateful. She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she wrote in her book another fragment: "Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude, disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel joy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly susceptible of misery? It is true, I have experienced the most rapturous emotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, which only serves to shew my present misery--yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and my brain--why dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why do thoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappear leave such deep traces? I could almost wish for the madman's happiness, and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe. "Oh! reason, thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when I most need thy assistance! Canst thou not calm this internal tumult, and drive away the death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me,--a sadness surely very nearly allied to despair. I am now the prey of apathy--I could wish for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimes illumined my path; I had a pursuit; but now _it visits not my haunts forlorn_. Too well have I loved my fellow creatures! I have been wounded by ingratitude; from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth. "When overwhelmed by sorrow, I have met unkindness; I looked for some one to have pity on me; but found none!--The healing balm of sympathy is denied; I weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my cheeks. I have not the medicine of life, the dear chimera I have so often chased, a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! dost thou ever visit thy poor Mary? Refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep, to see her struggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which corrode her small portion of comfort!" She could not write any more; she wished herself far distant from all human society; a thick gloom spread itself over her mind: but did not make her forget the very beings she wished to fly from. She sent for the poor woman she found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herself and children, and buy some furniture for a little hut, in a large garden, the master of which agreed to employ her husband, who had been bred a gardener. Mary promised to visit the family, and see their new abode when she was able to go out. CHAP. XXIV. Mary still continued weak and low, though it was spring, and all nature began to look gay; with more than usual brightness the sun shone, and a little robin which she had cherished during the winter sung one of his best songs. The family were particularly civil this fine morning, and tried to prevail on her to walk out. Any thing like kindness melted her; she consented. Softer emotions banished her melancholy, and she directed her steps to the habitation she had rendered comfortable. Emerging out of a dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when she had last walked out, snow covered the ground, and bleak winds pierced her through and through: now the hedges were green, the blossoms adorned the trees, and the birds sung. She reached the dwelling, without being much exhausted and while she rested there, observed the children sporting on the grass, with improved complexions. The mother with tears thanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. Mary's tears flowed not only from sympathy, but a complication of feelings and recollections the affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again to play, and reanimated nature. She observed the change in herself, tried to account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapsody on sensibility. "Sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul is susceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it last unmixed, we might form some conjecture of the bliss of those paradisiacal days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion of reason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction. "It is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us to relish the sublime touches of the poet, and the painter; it is this, which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed with tenderness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of a good action. The same effect we experience in the spring, when we hail the returning sun, and the consequent renovation of nature; when the flowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice of music is heard in the land. Softened by tenderness; the soul is disposed to be virtuous. Is any sensual gratification to be compared to that of feelings the eves moistened after having comforted the unfortunate? "Sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but these raptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by what strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of nature escape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections.--But it is only to be felt; it escapes discussion." She then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which was rendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian of life, of polished manners, and dazzling wit. He endeavoured to draw Mary out, and succeeded; she entered into conversation, and some of her artless flights of genius struck him with surprise; he found she had a capacious mind, and that her reason was as profound as her imagination was lively. She glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light of truth. Her expressive countenance shewed what passed in her mind, and her tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicity never threw a shade over her words or actions. Mary found him a man of learning; and the exercise of her understanding would frequently make her forget her griefs, when nothing else could, except benevolence. This man had known the mistress of the house in her youth; good nature induced him to visit her; but when he saw Mary he had another inducement. Her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivation of mind, roused his curiosity; but her dignified manners had such an effect on him, he was obliged to suppress it. He knew men, as well as books; his conversation was entertaining and improving. In Mary's company he doubted whether heaven was peopled with spirits masculine; and almost forgot that he had called the sex "the pretty play things that render life tolerable." He had been the slave of beauty, the captive of sense; love he ne'er had felt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it made the body appear lovely in his eyes. He was humane, despised meanness; but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a useful member of society. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any solid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, or rather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him to hunt down pleasure, he was discontented. Mary observed his character, and wrote down a train of reflections, which these observations led her to make; these reflections received a tinge from her mind; the present state of it, was that kind of painful quietness which arises from reason clouded by disgust; she had not yet learned to be resigned; vague hopes agitated her. "There are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as you dissipate one, another overspreads it. Of this kind are our reasonings concerning happiness; till we are obliged to cry out with the Apostle, _That it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive in what it could consist_, or how satiety could be prevented. Man seems formed for action, though the passions are seldom properly managed; they are either so languid as not to serve as a spur, or else so violent, as to overleap all bounds. "Every individual has its own peculiar trials; and anguish, in one shape or other, visits every heart. Sensibility produces flights of virtue; and not curbed by reason, is on the brink of vice talking, and even thinking of virtue. "Christianity can only afford just principles to govern the wayward feelings and impulses of the heart: every good disposition runs wild, if not transplanted into this soil; but how hard is it to keep the heart diligently, though convinced that the issues of life depend on it. "It is very difficult to discipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcile him to the weakness, the inconsistency of his understanding; and a still more laborious task for him to conquer his passions, and learn to seek content, instead of happiness. Good dispositions, and virtuous propensities, without the light of the Gospel, produce eccentric characters: comet-like, they are always in extremes; while revelation resembles the laws of attraction, and produces uniformity; but too often is the attraction feeble; and the light so obscured by passion, as to force the bewildered soul to fly into void space, and wander in confusion." CHAP. XXV. A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: the servant waited for an answer. Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry; she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his sailing in the first packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquiries were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were expressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as it stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and illness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--she read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt by--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. She wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her the next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of his letter. Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run before to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come; certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret. To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were sung; the books they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a hundred times.--Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she was trying to decypher Chinese characters. After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the street door opened. At last he came, and she who had been counting the hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped the approaching interview. With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful presentiment stilled the internal conflict. She caught his hand, and looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!" "I am very far from well; but it matters not," added he with a smile of resignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is a tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee." Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. She enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought experience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she was sure he would soon recover. She would then look in his face, to see if he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. She tried to avoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise of visiting her the next day. Her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herself to think that she feared an event she could not name. She still saw his pale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she tried to retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed. Henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fade away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck behind? These thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as if to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all was not well there. Out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrival of a letter from her husband; it came to Lisbon after her departure: Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver it himself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced a conversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution took its rise almost equally from benevolence and love. She could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: her fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informed her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master, and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to visit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground, where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the masquerades, and such burlesque amusements. These instances of folly relieved Mary, in some degree reconciled her to herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced something like a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when she reflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to the seemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination, however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, or force us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and that the most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties, refines our affections, and enables us to be useful. One reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty; her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power of comforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy. Heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of His benevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to her own inclinations? These suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion, increased her misery. One moment she was a heroine, half determined to bear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--and tenderness possessed her whole soul. Some instances of Henry's affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her. CHAP. XXVI. Henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of the following week; but still Mary kept up some little formality, a certain consciousness restrained her; and Henry did not enter on the subject which he found she wished to avoid. In the course of conversation, however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain a place in one of the public offices for Ann's brother, as the family were again in a declining way. Henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the following week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whom he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would infallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety. Mary could not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused her face; her blood eloquently spoke. She delighted to receive benefits through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them from Henry was exquisite pleasure. As the summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his fixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him. He could not think of going far off, but chose a little village on the banks of the Thames, near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his mother. They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his violin, and Mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them. She pleased his mother; she inchanted him. It was an advantage to Mary that friendship first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of humanity:--and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one sprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it. The last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black, and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness that had prevailed previous to it. The thunder roared; and the oars plying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a not unpleasing sound. Mary drew still nearer Henry; she wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him.--She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind--he felt them; threw his arm round her waist--and they enjoyed the luxury of wretchedness.--As they touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry was wet; with eager anxiety she cried, What shall I do!--this day will kill thee, and I shall not die with thee! This accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured him, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to--perhaps it was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. In vain did Mary try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! Henry every day grew worse and worse. CHAP. XXVII. Oppressed by her foreboding fears, her sore mind was hurt by new instances of ingratitude: disgusted with the family, whose misfortunes had often disturbed her repose, and lost in anticipated sorrow, she rambled she knew not where; when turning down a shady walk, she discovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. She saw Henry sitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden-gate, and she sat down by him. "I did not," said he, "expect to see thee this evening, my dearest Mary; but I was thinking of thee. Heaven has endowed thee with an uncommon portion of fortitude, to support one of the most affectionate hearts in the world. This is not a time for disguise; I know I am dear to thee--and my affection for thee is twisted with every fibre of my heart.--I loved thee ever since I have been acquainted with thine: thou art the being my fancy has delighted to form; but which I imagined existed only there! In a little while the shades of death will encompass me--ill-fated love perhaps added strength to my disease, and smoothed the rugged path. Try, my love, to fulfil thy destined course--try to add to thy other virtues patience. I could have wished, for thy sake, that we could have died together--or that I could live to shield thee from the assaults of an unfeeling world! Could I but offer thee an asylum in these arms--a faithful bosom, in which thou couldst repose all thy griefs--" He pressed her to it, and she returned the pressure--he felt her throbbing heart. A mournful silence ensued! when he resumed the conversation. "I wished to prepare thee for the blow--too surely do I feel that it will not be long delayed! The passion I have nursed is so pure, that death cannot extinguish it--or tear away the impression thy virtues have made on my soul. I would fain comfort thee--" "Talk not of comfort," interrupted Mary, "it will be in heaven with thee and Ann--while I shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!"--She grasped his hand. "There we shall meet, my love, my Mary, in our Father's--" His voice faultered; he could not finish the sentence; he was almost suffocated--they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walked slowly to the garden-gate (Mary would not go into the house); they could not say farewel when they reached it--and Mary hurried down the lane; to spare Henry the pain of witnessing her emotions. When she lost sight of the house she sat down on the ground, till it grew late, thinking of all that had passed. Full of these thoughts, she crept along, regardless of the descending rain; when lifting up her eyes to heaven, and then turning them wildly on the prospects around, without marking them; she only felt that the scene accorded with her present state of mind. It was the last glimmering of twilight, with a full moon, over which clouds continually flitted. Where am I wandering, God of Mercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what a labyrinth am I lost! What miseries have I already encountered--and what a number lie still before me. Her thoughts flew rapidly to something. I could be happy listening to him, soothing his cares.--Would he not smile upon me--call me his own Mary? I am not his--said she with fierceness--I am a wretch! and she heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were running into confusion. Wherefore am I made thus? Vain are my efforts--I cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness.--Yet I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction. She looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters.--No where could she find rest. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is not my abiding place--may I not too go home! Ah! no. Is this complying with my Henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to associate with his? Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. She felt the rain, and turned to her solitary home. Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers. Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten to draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre; the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked; her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one object. Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the Window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's scene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe, were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these arms shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world." The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy; but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated. Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the remnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to come after that? CHAP. XXVIII. Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother called on her. "My son is worse to-day," said she, "I come to request you to spend not only this day, but a week or two with me.--Why should I conceal any thing from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and, in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when I shall be childless. I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked thus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a widow--may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?" This new instance of Henry's disinterested affection, Mary felt most forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth the wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forced tears from her, by saying, "I deserve this blow; my partial fondness made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect, perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous Heaven has made my crime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss my child--my only child!" When they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; but during the short ride, the mother related several instances of Henry's goodness of heart. Mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the display of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human nature prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a more genial clime. CHAP. XXIX. She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declared he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certain he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by opiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sigh did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. She would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of hope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head where she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--she could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven be done. While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him believe he was resigned, than really to be so. She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which was to extend beyond the grave. She did so, and received comfort from it; she rose above her misery. His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyes appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for his last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent emotion. The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time only attended to Mary--Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience increased her sorrow; she whispered him, "Thy mother weeps, disregarded by thee; oh! comfort her!--My mother, thy son blesses thee.--" The oppressed parent left the room. And Mary _waited_ to see him die. She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened his eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gave a look--it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted? Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not a complete wretch! The words almost choked her. He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. At last, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up. Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die in her arms. Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its prison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last sigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, she calmly cried. The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light from an opened window discovered the pale face. She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained the body. Every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful rapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. She sat till midnight.--Then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, and desired those who watched the body to retire. She knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame the dictates of despair.--She prayed most ardently to be supported, and dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she had committed the spirit she almost adored--again--and again,--she prayed wildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--her head swum--she sunk-- CHAP. XXX. Three months after, her only friend, the mother of her lost Henry began to be alarmed, at observing her altered appearance; and made her own health a pretext for travelling. These complaints roused Mary out of her torpid state; she imagined a new duty now forced her to exert herself--a duty love made sacred!-- They went to Bath, from that to Bristol; but the latter place they quickly left; the sight of the sick that resort there, they neither of them could bear. From Bristol they flew to Southampton. The road was pleasant--yet Mary shut her eyes;--or if they were open, green fields and commons, passed in quick succession, and left no more traces behind than if they had been waves of the sea. Some time after they were settled at Southampton, they met the man who took so much notice of Mary, soon after her return to England. He renewed his acquaintance; he was really interested in her fate, as he had heard her uncommon story; besides, he knew her husband; knew him to be a good-natured, weak man. He saw him soon after his arrival in his native country, and prevented his hastening to enquire into the reasons of Mary's strange conduct. He desired him not to be too precipitate, if he ever wished to possess an invaluable treasure. He was guided by him, and allowed him to follow Mary to Southampton, and speak first to her friend. This friend determined to trust to her native strength of mind, and informed her of the circumstance; but she overrated it: Mary was not able, for a few days after the intelligence, to fix on the mode of conduct she ought now to pursue. But at last she conquered her disgust, and wrote her _husband_ an account of what had passed since she had dropped his correspondence. He came in person to answer the letter. Mary fainted when he approached her unexpectedly. Her disgust returned with additional force, in spite of previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed on to promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year, travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her. The time too quickly elapsed, and she gave him her hand--the struggle was almost more than she could endure. She tried to appear calm; time mellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husband would take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantly feel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, that the earth would open and swallow her. CHAP. XXXI. Mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; but her nerves were not to be restored to their former state. She then retired to her house in the country, established manufactories, threw the estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this way to dissipate care, and banish unavailing regret. She visited the sick, supported the old, and educated the young. These occupations engrossed her mind; but there were hours when all her former woes would return and haunt her.--Whenever she did, or said, any thing she thought Henry would have approved of--she could not avoid thinking with anguish, of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed to her heart--a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence and religion could not fill. The latter taught her to struggle for resignation; and the former rendered life supportable. Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments of solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind--She thought she was hastening to that world _where there is neither marrying_, nor giving in marriage. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What gang did Rodgers and the other humans fight while he was at the camp?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "The Hans" ]	27,516	narrativeqa	en	null	7b71f8fab58b267e1a174412725a0d0df25f260d596d9c70	Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net ARMAGEDDON--2419 A.D. _By Philip Francis Nowlan_ _Here, once more, is a real scientifiction story plus. It is a story which will make the heart of many readers leap with joy._ _We have rarely printed a story in this magazine that for scientific interest, as well as suspense, could hold its own with this particular story. We prophesy that this story will become more valuable as the years go by. It certainly holds a number of interesting prophecies, of which no doubt, many will come true. For wealth of science, it will be hard to beat for some time to come. It is one of those rare stories that will bear reading and re-reading many times._ _This story has impressed us so favorably, that we hope the author may be induced to write a sequel to it soon._ Foreword Elsewhere I have set down, for whatever interest they have in this, the 25th Century, my personal recollections of the 20th Century. Now it occurs to me that my memoirs of the 25th Century may have an equal interest 500 years from now--particularly in view of that unique perspective from which I have seen the 25th Century, entering it as I did, in one leap across a gap of 492 years. This statement requires elucidation. There are still many in the world who are not familiar with my unique experience. Five centuries from now there may be many more, especially if civilization is fated to endure any worse convulsions than those which have occurred between 1975 A.D. and the present time. I should state therefore, that I, Anthony Rogers, am, so far as I know, the only man alive whose normal span of eighty-one years of life has been spread over a period of 573 years. To be precise, I lived the first twenty-nine years of my life between 1898 and 1927; the other fifty-two since 2419. The gap between these two, a period of nearly five hundred years, I spent in a state of suspended animation, free from the ravages of katabolic processes, and without any apparent effect on my physical or mental faculties. When I began my long sleep, man had just begun his real conquest of the air in a sudden series of transoceanic flights in airplanes driven by internal combustion motors. He had barely begun to speculate on the possibilities of harnessing sub-atomic forces, and had made no further practical penetration into the field of ethereal pulsations than the primitive radio and television of that day. The United States of America was the most powerful nation in the world, its political, financial, industrial and scientific influence being supreme; and in the arts also it was rapidly climbing into leadership. I awoke to find the America I knew a total wreck--to find Americans a hunted race in their own land, hiding in the dense forests that covered the shattered and leveled ruins of their once magnificent cities, desperately preserving, and struggling to develop in their secret retreats, the remnants of their culture and science--and the undying flame of their sturdy independence. World domination was in the hands of Mongolians and the center of world power lay in inland China, with Americans one of the few races of mankind unsubdued--and it must be admitted in fairness to the truth, not worth the trouble of subduing in the eyes of the Han Airlords who ruled North America as titular tributaries of the Most Magnificent. For they needed not the forests in which the Americans lived, nor the resources of the vast territories these forests covered. With the perfection to which they had reduced the synthetic production of necessities and luxuries, their remarkable development of scientific processes and mechanical accomplishment of work, they had no economic need for the forests, and no economic desire for the enslaved labor of an unruly race. They had all they needed for their magnificently luxurious and degraded scheme of civilization, within the walls of the fifteen cities of sparkling glass they had flung skyward on the sites of ancient American centers, into the bowels of the earth underneath them, and with relatively small surrounding areas of agriculture. Complete domination of the air rendered communication between these centers a matter of ease and safety. Occasional destructive raids on the waste lands were considered all that was necessary to keep the "wild" Americans on the run within the shelter of their forests, and prevent their becoming a menace to the Han civilization. But nearly three hundred years of easily maintained security, the last century of which had been nearly sterile in scientific, social and economic progress, had softened and devitalized the Hans. It had likewise developed, beneath the protecting foliage of the forest, the growth of a vigorous new American civilization, remarkable in the mobility and flexibility of its organization, in its conquest of almost insuperable obstacles, in the development and guarding of its industrial and scientific resources, all in anticipation of that "Day of Hope" to which it had been looking forward for generations, when it would be strong enough to burst from the green chrysalis of the forests, soar into the upper air lanes and destroy the yellow incubus. At the time I awoke, the "Day of Hope" was almost at hand. I shall not attempt to set forth a detailed history of the Second War of Independence, for that has been recorded already by better historians than I am. Instead I shall confine myself largely to the part I was fortunate enough to play in this struggle and in the events leading up to it. [Illustration: Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance.] It all resulted from my interest in radioactive gases. During the latter part of 1927 my company, the American Radioactive Gas Corporation, had been keeping me busy investigating reports of unusual phenomena observed in certain abandoned coal mines near the Wyoming Valley, in Pennsylvania. With two assistants and a complete equipment of scientific instruments, I began the exploration of a deserted working in a mountainous district, where several weeks before, a number of mining engineers had reported traces of carnotite[1] and what they believed to be radioactive gases. Their report was not without foundation, it was apparent from the outset, for in our examination of the upper levels of the mine, our instruments indicated a vigorous radioactivity. [1] A hydrovanadate of uranium, and other metals; used as a source of radium compounds. On the morning of December 15th, we descended to one of the lowest levels. To our surprise, we found no water there. Obviously it had drained off through some break in the strata. We noticed too that the rock in the side walls of the shaft was soft, evidently due to the radioactivity, and pieces crumbled under foot rather easily. We made our way cautiously down the shaft, when suddenly the rotted timbers above us gave way. I jumped ahead, barely escaping the avalanche of coal and soft rock, but my companions, who were several paces behind me, were buried under it, and undoubtedly met instant death. I was trapped. Return was impossible. With my electric torch I explored the shaft to its end, but could find no other way out. The air became increasingly difficult to breathe, probably from the rapid accumulation of the radioactive gas. In a little while my senses reeled and I lost consciousness. When I awoke, there was a cool and refreshing circulation of air in the shaft. I had no thought that I had been unconscious more than a few hours, although it seems that the radioactive gas had kept me in a state of suspended animation for something like 500 years. My awakening, I figured out later, had been due to some shifting of the strata which reopened the shaft and cleared the atmosphere in the working. This must have been the case, for I was able to struggle back up the shaft over a pile of debris, and stagger up the long incline to the mouth of the mine, where an entirely different world, overgrown with a vast forest and no visible sign of human habitation, met my eyes. I shall pass over the days of mental agony that followed in my attempt to grasp the meaning of it all. There were times when I felt that I was on the verge of insanity. I roamed the unfamiliar forest like a lost soul. Had it not been for the necessity of improvising traps and crude clubs with which to slay my food, I believe I should have gone mad. Suffice it to say, however, that I survived this psychic crisis. I shall begin my narrative proper with my first contact with Americans of the year 2419 A.D. CHAPTER I Floating Men My first glimpse of a human being of the 25th Century was obtained through a portion of woodland where the trees were thinly scattered, with a dense forest beyond. I had been wandering along aimlessly, and hopelessly, musing over my strange fate, when I noticed a figure that cautiously backed out of the dense growth across the glade. I was about to call out joyfully, but there was something furtive about the figure that prevented me. The boy's attention (for it seemed to be a lad of fifteen or sixteen) was centered tensely on the heavy growth of trees from which he had just emerged. He was clad in rather tight-fitting garments entirely of green, and wore a helmet-like cap of the same color. High around his waist he wore a broad, thick belt, which bulked up in the back across the shoulders, into something of the proportions of a knapsack. As I was taking in these details, there came a vivid flash and heavy detonation, like that of a hand grenade, not far to the left of him. He threw up an arm and staggered a bit in a queer, gliding way; then he recovered himself and slipped cautiously away from the place of the explosion, crouching slightly, and still facing the denser part of the forest. Every few steps he would raise his arm, and point into the forest with something he held in his hand. Wherever he pointed there was a terrific explosion, deeper in among the trees. It came to me then that he was shooting with some form of pistol, though there was neither flash nor detonation from the muzzle of the weapon itself. After firing several times, he seemed to come to a sudden resolution, and turning in my general direction, leaped--to my amazement sailing through the air between the sparsely scattered trees in such a jump as I had never in my life seen before. That leap must have carried him a full fifty feet, although at the height of his arc, he was not more than ten or twelve feet from the ground. When he alighted, his foot caught in a projecting root, and he sprawled gently forward. I say "gently" for he did not crash down as I expected him to do. The only thing I could compare it with was a slow-motion cinema, although I had never seen one in which horizontal motions were registered at normal speed and only the vertical movements were slowed down. Due to my surprise, I suppose my brain did not function with its normal quickness, for I gazed at the prone figure for several seconds before I saw the blood that oozed out from under the tight green cap. Regaining my power of action, I dragged him out of sight back of the big tree. For a few moments I busied myself in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The wound was not a deep one. My companion was more dazed than hurt. But what of the pursuers? I took the weapon from his grasp and examined it hurriedly. It was not unlike the automatic pistol to which I was accustomed, except that it apparently fired with a button instead of a trigger. I inserted several fresh rounds of ammunition into its magazine from my companion's belt, as rapidly as I could, for I soon heard, near us, the suppressed conversation of his pursuers. There followed a series of explosions round about us, but none very close. They evidently had not spotted our hiding place, and were firing at random. I waited tensely, balancing the gun in my hand, to accustom myself to its weight and probable throw. Then I saw a movement in the green foliage of a tree not far away, and the head and face of a man appeared. Like my companion, he was clad entirely in green, which made his figure difficult to distinguish. But his face could be seen clearly. It was an evil face, and had murder in it. That decided me. I raised the gun and fired. My aim was bad, for there was no kick in the gun, as I had expected, and I hit the trunk of the tree several feet below him. It blew him from his perch like a crumpled bit of paper, and he _floated_ down to the ground, like some limp, dead thing, gently lowered by an invisible hand. The tree, its trunk blown apart by the explosion, crashed down. There followed another series of explosions around us. These guns we were using made no sound in the firing, and my opponents were evidently as much at sea as to my position as I was to theirs. So I made no attempt to reply to their fire, contenting myself with keeping a sharp lookout in their general direction. And patience had its reward. Very soon I saw a cautious movement in the top of another tree. Exposing myself as little as possible, I aimed carefully at the tree trunk and fired again. A shriek followed the explosion. I heard the tree crash down; then a groan. There was silence for a while. Then I heard a faint sound of boughs swishing. I shot three times in its direction, pressing the button as rapidly as I could. Branches crashed down where my shells had exploded, but there was no body. Then I saw one of them. He was starting one of those amazing leaps from the bough of one tree to another, about forty feet away. I threw up my gun impulsively and fired. By now I had gotten the feel of the weapon, and my aim was good. I hit him. The "bullet" must have penetrated his body and exploded. For one moment I saw him flying through the air. Then the explosion, and he had vanished. He never finished his leap. It was annihilation. How many more of them there were I don't know. But this must have been too much for them. They used a final round of shells on us, all of which exploded harmlessly, and shortly after I heard them swishing and crashing away from us through the tree tops. Not one of them descended to earth. Now I had time to give some attention to my companion. She was, I found, a girl, and not a boy. Despite her bulky appearance, due to the peculiar belt strapped around her body high up under the arms, she was very slender, and very pretty. There was a stream not far away, from which I brought water and bathed her face and wound. Apparently the mystery of these long leaps, the monkey-like ability to jump from bough to bough, and of the bodies that floated gently down instead of falling, lay in the belt. The thing was some sort of anti-gravity belt that almost balanced the weight of the wearer, thereby tremendously multiplying the propulsive power of the leg muscles, and the lifting power of the arms. When the girl came to, she regarded me as curiously as I did her, and promptly began to quiz me. Her accent and intonation puzzled me a lot, but nevertheless we were able to understand each other fairly well, except for certain words and phrases. I explained what had happened while she lay unconscious, and she thanked me simply for saving her life. "You are a strange exchange," she said, eying my clothing quizzically. Evidently she found it mirth provoking by contrast with her own neatly efficient garb. "Don't you understand what I mean by 'exchange?' I mean ah--let me see--a stranger, somebody from some other gang. What gang do you belong to?" (She pronounced it "gan," with only a suspicion of a nasal sound.) I laughed. "I'm not a gangster," I said. But she evidently did not understand this word. "I don't belong to any gang," I explained, "and never did. Does everybody belong to a gang nowadays?" "Naturally," she said, frowning. "If you don't belong to a gang, where and how do you live? Why have you not found and joined a gang? How do you eat? Where do you get your clothing?" "I've been eating wild game for the past two weeks," I explained, "and this clothing I--er--ah--." I paused, wondering how I could explain that it must be many hundred years old. In the end I saw I would have to tell my story as well as I could, piecing it together with my assumptions as to what had happened. She listened patiently; incredulously at first, but with more confidence as I went on. When I had finished, she sat thinking for a long time. "That's hard to believe," she said, "but I believe it." She looked me over with frank interest. "Were you married when you slipped into unconsciousness down in that mine?" she asked me suddenly. I assured her I had never married. "Well, that simplifies matters," she continued. "You see, if you were technically classed as a family man, I could take you back only as an invited exchange and I, being unmarried, and no relation of yours, couldn't do the inviting." CHAPTER II The Forest Gangs She gave me a brief outline of the very peculiar social and economic system under which her people lived. At least it seemed very peculiar from my 20th Century viewpoint. I learned with amazement that exactly 492 years had passed over my head as I lay unconscious in the mine. Wilma, for that was her name, did not profess to be a historian, and so could give me only a sketchy outline of the wars that had been fought, and the manner in which such radical changes had come about. It seemed that another war had followed the First World War, in which nearly all the European nations had banded together to break the financial and industrial power of America. They succeeded in their purpose, though they were beaten, for the war was a terrific one, and left America, like themselves, gasping, bleeding and disorganized, with only the hollow shell of a victory. This opportunity had been seized by the Russian Soviets, who had made a coalition with the Chinese, to sweep over all Europe and reduce it to a state of chaos. America, industrially geared to world production and the world trade, collapsed economically, and there ensued a long period of stagnation and desperate attempts at economic reconstruction. But it was impossible to stave off war with the Mongolians, who by now had subjugated the Russians, and were aiming at a world empire. In about 2109, it seems, the conflict was finally precipitated. The Mongolians, with overwhelming fleets of great airships, and a science that far outstripped that of crippled America, swept in over the Pacific and Atlantic Coasts, and down from Canada, annihilating American aircraft, armies and cities with their terrific _disintegrator_ rays. These rays were projected from a machine not unlike a searchlight in appearance, the reflector of which, however, was not material substance, but a complicated balance of interacting electronic forces. This resulted in a terribly destructive beam. Under its influence, material substance melted into "nothingness"; i. e., into electronic vibrations. It destroyed all then known substances, from air to the most dense metals and stone. They settled down to the establishment of what became known as the Han dynasty in America, as a sort of province in their World Empire. Those were terrible days for the Americans. They were hunted like wild beasts. Only those survived who finally found refuge in mountains, canyons and forests. Government was at an end among them. Anarchy prevailed for several generations. Most would have been eager to submit to the Hans, even if it meant slavery. But the Hans did not want them, for they themselves had marvelous machinery and scientific process by which all difficult labor was accomplished. Ultimately they stopped their active search for, and annihilation of, the widely scattered groups of now savage Americans. So long as they remained hidden in their forests, and did not venture near the great cities the Hans had built, little attention was paid to them. Then began the building of the new American civilization. Families and individuals gathered together in clans or "gangs" for mutual protection. For nearly a century they lived a nomadic and primitive life, moving from place to place, in desperate fear of the casual and occasional Han air raids, and the terrible disintegrator ray. As the frequency of these raids decreased, they began to stay permanently in given localities, organizing upon lines which in many respects were similar to those of the military households of the Norman feudal barons, except that instead of gathering together in castles, their defense tactics necessitated a certain scattering of living quarters for families and individuals. They lived virtually in the open air, in the forests, in green tents, resorting to camouflage tactics that would conceal their presence from air observers. They dug underground factories and laboratories, that they might better be shielded from the electrical detectors of the Hans. They tapped the radio communication lines of the Hans, with crude instruments at first; better ones later on. They bent every effort toward the redevelopment of science. For many generations they labored as unseen, unknown scholars of the Hans, picking up their knowledge piecemeal, as fast as they were able to. During the earlier part of this period, there were many deadly wars fought between the various gangs, and occasional courageous but childishly futile attacks upon the Hans, followed by terribly punitive raids. But as knowledge progressed, the sense of American brotherhood redeveloped. Reciprocal arrangements were made among the gangs over constantly increasing areas. Trade developed to a certain extent, as between one gang and another. But the interchange of knowledge became more important than that of goods, as skill in the handling of synthetic processes developed. Within the gang, an economy was developed that was a compromise between individual liberty and a military socialism. The right of private property was limited practically to personal possessions, but private privileges were many, and sacredly regarded. Stimulation to achievement lay chiefly in the winning of various kinds of leadership and prerogatives, and only in a very limited degree in the hope of owning anything that might be classified as "wealth," and nothing that might be classified as "resources." Resources of every description, for military safety and efficiency, belonged as a matter of public interest to the community as a whole. In the meantime, through these many generations, the Hans had developed a luxury economy, and with it the perfection of gilded vice and degradation. The Americans were regarded as "wild men of the woods." And since they neither needed nor wanted the woods or the wild men, they treated them as beasts, and were conscious of no human brotherhood with them. As time went on, and synthetic processes of producing foods and materials were further developed, less and less ground was needed by the Hans for the purposes of agriculture, and finally, even the working of mines was abandoned when it became cheaper to build up metal from electronic vibrations than to dig them out of the ground. The Han race, devitalized by its vices and luxuries, with machinery and scientific processes to satisfy its every want, with virtually no necessity of labor, began to assume a defensive attitude toward the Americans. And quite naturally, the Americans regarded the Hans with a deep, grim hatred. Conscious of individual superiority as men, knowing that latterly they were outstripping the Hans in science and civilization, they longed desperately for the day when they should be powerful enough to rise and annihilate the Yellow Blight that lay over the continent. At the time of my awakening, the gangs were rather loosely organized, but were considering the establishment of a special military force, whose special business it would be to harry the Hans and bring down their air ships whenever possible without causing general alarm among the Mongolians. This force was destined to become the nucleus of the national force, when the Day of Retribution arrived. But that, however, did not happen for ten years, and is another story. [Illustration: On the left of the illustration is a Han girl, and on the right is an American girl, who, like all of her race, is equipped with an inertron belt and a rocket gun.] Wilma told me she was a member of the Wyoming Gang, which claimed the entire Wyoming Valley as its territory, under the leadership of Boss Hart. Her mother and father were dead, and she was unmarried, so she was not a "family member." She lived in a little group of tents known as Camp 17, under a woman Camp Boss, with seven other girls. Her duties alternated between military or police scouting and factory work. For the two-week period which would end the next day, she had been on "air patrol." This did not mean, as I first imagined, that she was flying, but rather that she was on the lookout for Han ships over this outlying section of the Wyoming territory, and had spent most of her time perched in the tree tops scanning the skies. Had she seen one she would have fired a "drop flare" several miles off to one side, which would ignite when it was floating vertically toward the earth, so that the direction or point from which it had been fired might not be guessed by the airship and bring a blasting play of the disintegrator ray in her vicinity. Other members of the air patrol would send up rockets on seeing hers, until finally a scout equipped with an ultrophone, which, unlike the ancient radio, operated on the ultronic ethereal vibrations, would pass the warning simultaneously to the headquarters of the Wyoming Gang and other communities within a radius of several hundred miles, not to mention the few American rocket ships that might be in the air, and which instantly would duck to cover either through forest clearings or by flattening down to earth in green fields where their coloring would probably protect them from observation. The favorite American method of propulsion was known as "_rocketing_." The _rocket_ is what I would describe, from my 20th Century comprehension of the matter, as an extremely powerful gas blast, atomically produced through the stimulation of chemical action. Scientists of today regard it as a childishly simple reaction, but by that very virtue, most economical and efficient. But tomorrow, she explained, she would go back to work in the cloth plant, where she would take charge of one of the synthetic processes by which those wonderful substitutes for woven fabrics of wool, cotton and silk are produced. At the end of another two weeks, she would be back on military duty again, perhaps at the same work, or maybe as a "contact guard," on duty where the territory of the Wyomings merged with that of the Delawares, or the "Susquannas" (Susquehannas) or one of the half dozen other "gangs" in that section of the country which I knew as Pennsylvania and New York States. Wilma cleared up for me the mystery of those flying leaps which she and her assailants had made, and explained in the following manner, how the inertron belt balances weight: "_Jumpers_" were in common use at the time I "awoke," though they were costly, for at that time _inertron_ had not been produced in very great quantity. They were very useful in the forest. They were belts, strapped high under the arms, containing an amount of inertron adjusted to the wearer's weight and purposes. In effect they made a man weigh as little as he desired; two pounds if he liked. "_Floaters_" are a later development of "_jumpers_"--rocket motors encased in _inertron_ blocks and strapped to the back in such a way that the wearer floats, when drifting, facing slightly downward. With his motor in operation, he moves like a diver, headforemost, controlling his direction by twisting his body and by movements of his outstretched arms and hands. Ballast weights locked in the front of the belt adjust weight and lift. Some men prefer a few ounces of weight in floating, using a slight motor thrust to overcome this. Others prefer a buoyance balance of a few ounces. The inadvertent dropping of weight is not a serious matter. The motor thrust always can be used to descend. But as an extra precaution, in case the motor should fail, for any reason, there are built into every belt a number of detachable sections, one or more of which can be discarded to balance off any loss in weight. "But who were your assailants," I asked, "and why were you attacked?" Her assailants, she told me, were members of an outlaw gang, referred to as "Bad Bloods," a group which for several generations had been under the domination of conscienceless leaders who tried to advance the interests of their clan by tactics which their neighbors had come to regard as unfair, and who in consequence had been virtually boycotted. Their purpose had been to slay her near the Delaware frontier, making it appear that the crime had been committed by Delaware scouts and thus embroil the Delawares and Wyomings in acts of reprisal against each other, or at least cause suspicions. Fortunately they had not succeeded in surprising her, and she had been successful in dodging them for some two hours before the shooting began, at the moment when I arrived on the scene. "But we must not stay here talking," Wilma concluded. "I have to take you in, and besides I must report this attack right away. I think we had better slip over to the other side of the mountain. Whoever is on that post will have a phone, and I can make a direct report. But you'll have to have a belt. Mine alone won't help much against our combined weights, and there's little to be gained by jumping heavy. It's almost as bad as walking." After a little search, we found one of the men I had killed, who had floated down among the trees some distance away and whose belt was not badly damaged. In detaching it from his body, it nearly got away from me and shot up in the air. Wilma caught it, however, and though it reinforced the lift of her own belt so that she had to hook her knee around a branch to hold herself down, she saved it. I climbed the tree and, with my weight added to hers, we floated down easily. CHAPTER III Life in the 25th Century We were delayed in starting for quite a while since I had to acquire a few crude ideas about the technique of using these belts. I had been sitting down, for instance, with the belt strapped about me, enjoying an ease similar to that of a comfortable armchair; when I stood up with a natural exertion of muscular effort, I shot ten feet into the air, with a wild instinctive thrashing of arms and legs that amused Wilma greatly. But after some practice, I began to get the trick of gauging muscular effort to a minimum of vertical and a maximum of horizontal. The correct form, I found, was in a measure comparable to that of skating. I found, also, that in forest work particularly the arms and hands could be used to great advantage in swinging along from branch to branch, so prolonging leaps almost indefinitely at times. In going up the side of the mountain, I found that my 20th Century muscles did have an advantage, in spite of lack of skill with the belt, and since the slopes were very sharp, and most of our leaps were upward, I could have distanced Wilma easily. But when we crossed the ridge and descended, she outstripped me with her superior technique. Choosing the steepest slopes, she would crouch in the top of a tree, and propel herself outward, literally diving until, with the loss of horizontal momentum, she would assume a more upright position and float downward. In this manner she would sometimes cover as much as a quarter of a mile in a single leap, while I leaped and scrambled clumsily behind, thoroughly enjoying the novel sensation. Half way down the mountain, we saw another green-clad figure leap out above the tree tops toward us. The three of us perched on an outcropping of rock from which a view for many miles around could be had, while Wilma hastily explained her adventure and my presence to her fellow guard; whose name was Alan. I learned later that this was the modern form of Helen. "You want to report by phone then, don't you?" Alan took a compact packet about six inches square from a holster attached to her belt and handed it to Wilma. So far as I could see, it had no special receiver for the ear. Wilma merely threw back a lid, as though she were opening a book, and began to talk. The voice that came back from the machine was as audible as her own. She was queried closely as to the attack upon her, and at considerable length as to myself, and I could tell from the tone of that voice that its owner was not prepared to take me at my face value as readily as Wilma had. For that matter, neither was the other girl. I could realize it from the suspicious glances she threw my way, when she thought my attention was elsewhere, and the manner in which her hand hovered constantly near her gun holster. Wilma was ordered to bring me in at once, and informed that another scout would take her place on the other side of the mountain. So she closed down the lid of the phone and handed it back to Alan, who seemed relieved to see us departing over the tree tops in the direction of the camps. We had covered perhaps ten miles, in what still seemed to me a surprisingly easy fashion, when Wilma explained, that from here on we would have to keep to the ground. We were nearing the camps, she said, and there was always the possibility that some small Han scoutship, invisible high in the sky, might catch sight of us through a projectoscope and thus find the general location of the camps. Wilma took me to the Scout office, which proved to be a small building of irregular shape, conforming to the trees around it, and substantially constructed of green sheet-like material. I was received by the assistant Scout Boss, who reported my arrival at once to the historical office, and to officials he called the Psycho Boss and the History Boss, who came in a few minutes later. The attitude of all three men was at first polite but skeptical, and Wilma's ardent advocacy seemed to amuse them secretly. For the next two hours I talked, explained and answered questions. I had to explain, in detail, the manner of my life in the 20th Century and my understanding of customs, habits, business, science and the history of that period, and about developments in the centuries that had elapsed. Had I been in a classroom, I would have come through the examination with a very poor mark, for I was unable to give any answer to fully half of their questions. But before long I realized that the majority of these questions were designed as traps. Objects, of whose purpose I knew nothing, were casually handed to me, and I was watched keenly as I handled them. In the end I could see both amazement and belief begin to show in the faces of my inquisitors, and at last the Historical and Psycho Bosses agreed openly that they could find no flaw in my story or reactions, and that unbelievable as it seemed, my story must be accepted as genuine. They took me at once to Big Boss Hart. He was a portly man with a "poker face." He would probably have been the successful politician even in the 20th Century. They gave him a brief outline of my story and a report of their examination of me. He made no comment other than to nod his acceptance of it. Then he turned to me. "How does it feel?" he asked. "Do we look funny to you?" "A bit strange," I admitted. "But I'm beginning to lose that dazed feeling, though I can see I have an awful lot to learn." "Maybe we can learn some things from you, too," he said. "So you fought in the First World War. Do you know, we have very little left in the way of records of the details of that war, that is, the precise conditions under which it was fought, and the tactics employed. We forgot many things during the Han terror, and--well, I think you might have a lot of ideas worth thinking over for our raid masters. By the way, now that you're here, and can't go back to your own century, so to speak, what do you want to do? You're welcome to become one of us. Or perhaps you'd just like to visit with us for a while, and then look around among the other gangs. Maybe you'd like some of the others better. Don't make up your mind now. We'll put you down as an exchange for a while. Let's see. You and Bill Hearn ought to get along well together. He's Camp Boss of Number 34 when he isn't acting as Raid Boss or Scout Boss. There's a vacancy in his camp. Stay with him and think things over as long as you want to. As soon as you make up your mind to anything, let me know." We all shook hands, for that was one custom that had not died out in five hundred years, and I set out with Bill Hearn. Bill, like all the others, was clad in green. He was a big man. That is, he was about my own height, five feet eleven. This was considerably above the average now, for the race had lost something in stature, it seemed, through the vicissitudes of five centuries. Most of the women were a bit below five feet, and the men only a trifle above this height. For a period of two weeks Bill was to confine himself to camp duties, so I had a good chance to familiarize myself with the community life. It was not easy. There were so many marvels to absorb. I never ceased to wonder at the strange combination of rustic social life and feverish industrial activity. At least, it was strange to me. For in my experience, industrial development meant crowded cities, tenements, paved streets, profusion of vehicles, noise, hurrying men and women with strained or dull faces, vast structures and ornate public works. Here, however, was rustic simplicity, apparently isolated families and groups, living in the heart of the forest, with a quarter of a mile or more between households, a total absence of crowds, no means of conveyance other than the belts called jumpers, almost constantly worn by everybody, and an occasional rocket ship, used only for longer journeys, and underground plants or factories that were to my mind more like laboratories and engine rooms; many of them were excavations as deep as mines, with well finished, lighted and comfortable interiors. These people were adepts at camouflage against air observation. Not only would their activity have been unsuspected by an airship passing over the center of the community, but even by an enemy who might happen to drop through the screen of the upper branches to the floor of the forest. The camps, or household structures, were all irregular in shape and of colors that blended with the great trees among which they were hidden. There were 724 dwellings or "camps" among the Wyomings, located within an area of about fifteen square miles. The total population was 8,688, every man, woman and child, whether member or "exchange," being listed. The plants were widely scattered through the territory also. Nowhere was anything like congestion permitted. So far as possible, families and individuals were assigned to living quarters, not too far from the plants or offices in which their work lay. All able-bodied men and women alternated in two-week periods between military and industrial service, except those who were needed for household work. Since working conditions in the plants and offices were ideal, and everybody thus had plenty of healthy outdoor activity in addition, the population was sturdy and active. Laziness was regarded as nearly the greatest of social offenses. Hard work and general merit were variously rewarded with extra privileges, advancement to positions of authority, and with various items of personal equipment for convenience and luxury. In leisure moments, I got great enjoyment from sitting outside the dwelling in which I was quartered with Bill Hearn and ten other men, watching the occasional passers-by, as with leisurely, but swift movements, they swung up and down the forest trail, rising from the ground in long almost-horizontal leaps, occasionally swinging from one convenient branch overhead to another before "sliding" back to the ground farther on. Normal traveling pace, where these trails were straight enough, was about twenty miles an hour. Such things as automobiles and railroad trains (the memory of them not more than a month old in my mind) seemed inexpressibly silly and futile compared with such convenience as these belts or jumpers offered. Bill suggested that I wander around for several days, from plant to plant, to observe and study what I could. The entire community had been apprised of my coming, my rating as an "exchange" reaching every building and post in the community, by means of ultronic broadcast. Everywhere I was welcomed in an interested and helpful spirit. I visited the plants where ultronic vibrations were isolated from the ether and through slow processes built up into sub-electronic, electronic and atomic forms into the two great synthetic elements, ultron and inertron. I learned something, superficially at least, of the processes of combined chemical and mechanical action through which were produced the various forms of synthetic cloth. I watched the manufacture of the machines which were used at locations of construction to produce the various forms of building materials. But I was particularly interested in the munitions plants and the rocket-ship shops. Ultron is a solid of great molecular density and moderate elasticity, which has the property of being 100 percent conductive to those pulsations known as light, electricity and heat. Since it is completely permeable to light vibrations, it is therefore _absolutely invisible and non-reflective_. Its magnetic response is almost, but not quite, 100 percent also. It is therefore very heavy under normal conditions but extremely responsive to the _repellor_ or anti-gravity rays, such as the Hans use as "_legs_" for their airships. Inertron is the second great triumph of American research and experimentation with ultronic forces. It was developed just a few years before my awakening in the abandoned mine. It is a synthetic element, built up, through a complicated heterodyning of ultronic pulsations, from "infra-balanced" sub-ionic forms. It is completely inert to both electric and magnetic forces in all the orders above the _ultronic_; that is to say, the _sub-electronic_, the _electronic_, the _atomic_ and the _molecular_. In consequence it has a number of amazing and valuable properties. One of these is _the total lack of weight_. Another is a total lack of heat. It has no molecular vibration whatever. It reflects 100 percent of the heat and light impinging upon it. It does not feel cold to the touch, of course, since it will not absorb the heat of the hand. It is a solid, very dense in molecular structure despite its lack of weight, of great strength and considerable elasticity. It is a perfect shield against the disintegrator rays. [Illustration: Setting his rocket gun for a long-distance shot.] Rocket guns are very simple contrivances so far as the mechanism of launching the bullet is concerned. They are simple light tubes, closed at the rear end, with a trigger-actuated pin for piercing the thin skin at the base of the cartridge. This piercing of the skin starts the chemical and atomic reaction. The entire cartridge leaves the tube under its own power, at a very easy initial velocity, just enough to insure accuracy of aim; so the tube does not have to be of heavy construction. The bullet increases in velocity as it goes. It may be solid or explosive. It may explode on contact or on time, or a combination of these two. Bill and I talked mostly of weapons, military tactics and strategy. Strangely enough he had no idea whatever of the possibilities of the barrage, though the tremendous effect of a "curtain of fire" with such high-explosive projectiles as these modern rocket guns used was obvious to me. But the barrage idea, it seemed, has been lost track of completely in the air wars that followed the First World War, and in the peculiar guerilla tactics developed by Americans in the later period of operations from the ground against Han airships, and in the gang wars which, until a few generations ago I learned, had been almost continuous. "I wonder," said Bill one day, "if we couldn't work up some form of barrage to spring on the Bad Bloods. The Big Boss told me today that he's been in communication with the other gangs, and all are agreed that the Bad Bloods might as well be wiped out for good. That attempt on Wilma Deering's life and their evident desire to make trouble among the gangs, has stirred up every community east of the Alleghenies. The Boss says that none of the others will object if we go after them. So I imagine that before long we will. Now show me again how you worked that business in the Argonne forest. The conditions ought to be pretty much the same." I went over it with him in detail, and gradually we worked out a modified plan that would be better adapted to our more powerful weapons, and the use of jumpers. "It will be easy," Bill exulted. "I'll slide down and talk it over with the Boss tomorrow." During the first two weeks of my stay with the Wyomings, Wilma Deering and I saw a great deal of each other. I naturally felt a little closer friendship for her, in view of the fact that she was the first human being I saw after waking from my long sleep; her appreciation of my saving her life, though I could not have done otherwise than I did in that matter, and most of all my own appreciation of the fact that she had not found it as difficult as the others to believe my story, operated in the same direction. I could easily imagine my story must have sounded incredible. It was natural enough too, that she should feel an unusual interest in me. In the first place, I was her personal discovery. In the second, she was a girl of studious and reflective turn of mind. She never got tired of my stories and descriptions of the 20th Century. The others of the community, however, seemed to find our friendship a bit amusing. It seemed that Wilma had a reputation for being cold toward the opposite sex, and so others, not being able to appreciate some of her fine qualities as I did, misinterpreted her attitude, much to their own delight. Wilma and I, however, ignored this as much as we could. CHAPTER IV A Han Air Raid There was a girl in Wilma's camp named Gerdi Mann, with whom Bill Hearn was desperately in love, and the four of us used to go around a lot together. Gerdi was a distinct type. Whereas Wilma had the usual dark brown hair and hazel eyes that marked nearly every member of the community, Gerdi had red hair, blue eyes and very fair skin. She has been dead many years now, but I remember her vividly because she was a throwback in physical appearance to a certain 20th Century type which I have found very rare among modern Americans; also because the four of us were engaged one day in a discussion of this very point, when I obtained my first experience of a Han air raid. We were sitting high on the side of a hill overlooking the valley that teemed with human activity, invisible beneath its blanket of foliage. The other three, who knew of the Irish but vaguely and indefinitely, as a race on the other side of the globe, which, like ourselves, had succeeded in maintaining a precarious and fugitive existence in rebellion against the Mongolian domination of the earth, were listening with interest to my theory that Gerdi's ancestors of several hundred years ago must have been Irish. I explained that Gerdi was an Irish type, evidently a throwback, and that her surname might well have been McMann, or McMahan, and still more anciently "mac Mathghamhain." They were interested too in my surmise that "Gerdi" was the same name as that which had been "Gerty" or "Gertrude" in the 20th Century. In the middle of our discussion, we were startled by an alarm rocket that burst high in the air, far to the north, spreading a pall of red smoke that drifted like a cloud. It was followed by others at scattered points in the northern sky. "A Han raid!" Bill exclaimed in amazement. "The first in seven years!" "Maybe it's just one of their ships off its course," I ventured. "No," said Wilma in some agitation. "That would be green rockets. Red means only one thing, Tony. They're sweeping the countryside with their dis beams. Can you see anything, Bill?" "We had better get under cover," Gerdi said nervously. "The four of us are bunched here in the open. For all we know they may be twelve miles up, out of sight, yet looking at us with a projecto'." Bill had been sweeping the horizon hastily with his glass, but apparently saw nothing. "We had better scatter, at that," he said finally. "It's orders, you know. See!" He pointed to the valley. Here and there a tiny human figure shot for a moment above the foliage of the treetops. "That's bad," Wilma commented, as she counted the jumpers. "No less than fifteen people visible, and all clearly radiating from a central point. Do they want to give away our location?" The standard orders covering air raids were that the population was to scatter individually. There should be no grouping, or even pairing, in view of the destructiveness of the disintegrator rays. Experience of generations had proved that if this were done, and everybody remained hidden beneath the tree screens, the Hans would have to sweep mile after mile of territory, foot by foot, to catch more than a small percentage of the community. Gerdi, however, refused to leave Bill, and Wilma developed an equal obstinacy against quitting my side. I was inexperienced at this sort of thing, she explained, quite ignoring the fact that she was too; she was only thirteen or fourteen years old at the time of the last air raid. However, since I could not argue her out of it, we leaped together about a quarter of a mile to the right, while Bill and Gerdi disappeared down the hillside among the trees. Wilma and I both wanted a point of vantage from which we might overlook the valley and the sky to the north, and we found it near the top of the ridge, where, protected from visibility by thick branches, we could look out between the tree trunks, and get a good view of the valley. No more rockets went up. Except for a few of those warning red clouds, drifting lazily in a blue sky, there was no visible indication of man's past or present existence anywhere in the sky or on the ground. Then Wilma gripped my arm and pointed. I saw it; away off in the distance; looking like a phantom dirigible airship, in its coat of low-visibility paint, a bare spectre. "Seven thousand feet up," Wilma whispered, crouching close to me. "Watch." The ship was about the same shape as the great dirigibles of the 20th Century that I had seen, but without the suspended control car, engines, propellors, rudders or elevating planes. As it loomed rapidly nearer, I saw that it was wider and somewhat flatter than I had supposed. Now I could see the repellor rays that held the ship aloft, like searchlight beams faintly visible in the bright daylight (and still faintly visible to the human eye at night). Actually, I had been informed by my instructors, there were two rays; the visible one generated by the ship's apparatus, and directed toward the ground as a beam of "carrier" impulses; and the true repellor ray, the complement of the other in one sense, induced by the action of the "carrier" and reacting in a concentrating upward direction from the mass of the earth, becoming successively electronic, atomic and finally molecular, in its nature, according to various ratios of distance between earth mass and "carrier" source, until, in the last analysis, the ship itself actually is supported on an upward rushing column of air, much like a ball continuously supported on a fountain jet. The raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum. The ship was operating two disintegrator rays, though only in a casual, intermittent fashion. But whenever they flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them. When later I inspected the scars left by these rays I found them some five feet deep and thirty feet wide, the exposed surfaces being lava-like in texture, but of a pale, iridescent, greenish hue. No systematic use of the rays was made by the ship, however, until it reached a point over the center of the valley--the center of the community's activities. There it came to a sudden stop by shooting its repellor beams sharply forward and easing them back gradually to the vertical, holding the ship floating and motionless. Then the work of destruction began systematically. Back and forth traveled the destroying rays, ploughing parallel furrows from hillside to hillside. We gasped in dismay, Wilma and I, as time after time we saw it plough through sections where we knew camps or plants were located. "This is awful," she moaned, a terrified question in her eyes. "How could they know the location so exactly, Tony? Did you see? They were never in doubt. They stalled at a predetermined spot--and--and it was exactly the right spot." We did not talk of what might happen if the rays were turned in our direction. We both knew. We would simply disintegrate in a split second into mere scattered electronic vibrations. Strangely enough, it was this self-reliant girl of the 25th Century, who clung to me, a relatively primitive man of the 20th, less familiar than she with the thought of this terrifying possibility, for moral support. We knew that many of our companions must have been whisked into absolute non-existence before our eyes in these few moments. The whole thing paralyzed us into mental and physical immobility for I do not know how long. It couldn't have been long, however, for the rays had not ploughed more than thirty of their twenty-foot furrows or so across the valley, when I regained control of myself, and brought Wilma to herself by shaking her roughly. "How far will this rocket gun shoot, Wilma?" I demanded, drawing my pistol. "It depends on your rocket, Tony. It will take even the longest range rocket, but you could shoot more accurately from a longer tube. But why? You couldn't penetrate the shell of that ship with rocket force, even if you could reach it." I fumbled clumsily with my rocket pouch, for I was excited. I had an idea I wanted to try; a "hunch" I called it, forgetting that Wilma could not understand my ancient slang. But finally, with her help, I selected the longest range explosive rocket in my pouch, and fitted it to my pistol. "It won't carry seven thousand feet, Tony," Wilma objected. But I took aim carefully. It was another thought that I had in my mind. The supporting repellor ray, I had been told, became molecular in character at what was called a logarithmic level of five (below that it was a purely electronic "flow" or pulsation between the source of the "carrier" and the average mass of the earth). Below that level if I could project my explosive bullet into this stream where it began to carry material substance upward, might it not rise with the air column, gathering speed and hitting the ship with enough impact to carry it through the shell? It was worth trying anyhow. Wilma became greatly excited, too, when she grasped the nature of my inspiration. Feverishly I looked around for some formation of branches against which I could rest the pistol, for I had to aim most carefully. At last I found one. Patiently I sighted on the hulk of the ship far above us, aiming at the far side of it, at such an angle as would, so far as I could estimate, bring my bullet path through the forward repellor beam. At last the sights wavered across the point I sought and I pressed the button gently. For a moment we gazed breathlessly. Suddenly the ship swung bow down, as on a pivot, and swayed like a pendulum. Wilma screamed in her excitement. "Oh, Tony, you hit it! You hit it! Do it again; bring it down!" We had only one more rocket of extreme range between us, and we dropped it three times in our excitement in inserting it in my gun. Then, forcing myself to be calm by sheer will power, while Wilma stuffed her little fist into her mouth to keep from shrieking, I sighted carefully again and fired. In a flash, Wilma had grasped the hope that this discovery of mine might lead to the end of the Han domination. The elapsed time of the rocket's invisible flight seemed an age. Then we saw the ship falling. It seemed to plunge lazily, but actually it fell with terrific acceleration, turning end over end, its disintegrator rays, out of control, describing vast, wild arcs, and once cutting a gash through the forest less than two hundred feet from where we stood. The crash with which the heavy craft hit the ground reverberated from the hills--the momentum of eighteen or twenty thousand tons, in a sheer drop of seven thousand feet. A mangled mass of metal, it buried itself in the ground, with poetic justice, in the middle of the smoking, semi-molten field of destruction it had been so deliberately ploughing. The silence, the vacuity of the landscape, was oppressive, as the last echoes died away. Then far down the hillside, a single figure leaped exultantly above the foliage screen. And in the distance another, and another. In a moment the sky was punctured by signal rockets. One after another the little red puffs became drifting clouds. "Scatter! Scatter!" Wilma exclaimed. "In half an hour there'll be an entire Han fleet here from Nu-yok, and another from Bah-flo. They'll get this instantly on their recordographs and location finders. They'll blast the whole valley and the country for miles beyond. Come, Tony. There's no time for the gang to rally. See the signals. We've got to jump. Oh, I'm so proud of you!" Over the ridge we went, in long leaps toward the east, the country of the Delawares. From time to time signal rockets puffed in the sky. Most of them were the "red warnings," the "scatter" signals. But from certain of the others, which Wilma identified as Wyoming rockets, she gathered that whoever was in command (we did not know whether the Boss was alive or not) was ordering an ultimate rally toward the south, and so we changed our course. It was a great pity, I thought, that the clan had not been equipped throughout its membership with ultrophones, but Wilma explained to me, that not enough of these had been built for distribution as yet, although general distribution had been contemplated within a couple of months. We traveled far before nightfall overtook us, trying only to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the valley. When gathering dusk made jumping too dangerous, we sought a comfortable spot beneath the trees, and consumed part of our emergency rations. It was the first time I had tasted the stuff--a highly nutritive synthetic substance called "concentro," which was, however, a bit bitter and unpalatable. But as only a mouthful or so was needed, it did not matter. Neither of us had a cloak, but we were both thoroughly tired and happy, so we curled up together for warmth. I remember Wilma making some sleepy remark about our mating, as she cuddled up, as though the matter were all settled, and my surprise at my own instant acceptance of the idea, for I had not consciously thought of her that way before. But we both fell asleep at once. In the morning we found little time for love making. The practical problem facing us was too great. Wilma felt that the Wyoming plan must be to rally in the Susquanna territory, but she had her doubts about the wisdom of this plan. In my elation at my success in bringing down the Han ship, and my newly found interest in my charming companion, who was, from my viewpoint of another century, at once more highly civilized and yet more primitive than myself, I had forgotten the ominous fact that the Han ship I had destroyed must have known the exact location of the Wyoming Works. This meant, to Wilma's logical mind, either that the Hans had perfected new instruments as yet unknown to us, or that somewhere, among the Wyomings or some other nearby gang, there were traitors so degraded as to commit that unthinkable act of trafficking in information with the Hans. In either contingency, she argued, other Han raids would follow, and since the Susquannas had a highly developed organization and more than usually productive plants, the next raid might be expected to strike them. But at any rate it was clearly our business to get in touch with the other fugitives as quickly as possible, so in spite of muscles that were sore from the excessive leaping of the day before, we continued on our way. We traveled for only a couple of hours when we saw a multi-colored rocket in the sky, some ten miles ahead of us. "Bear to the left, Tony," Wilma said, "and listen for the whistle." "Why?" I asked. "Haven't they given you the rocket code yet?" she replied. "That's what the green, followed by yellow and purple means; to concentrate five miles east of the rocket position. You know the rocket position itself might draw a play of disintegrator beams." It did not take us long to reach the neighborhood of the indicated rallying, though we were now traveling beneath the trees, with but an occasional leap to a top branch to see if any more rocket smoke was floating above. And soon we heard a distant whistle. We found about half the Gang already there, in a spot where the trees met high above a little stream. The Big Boss and Raid Bosses were busy reorganizing the remnants. We reported to Boss Hart at once. He was silent, but interested, when he heard our story. "You two stick close to me," he said, adding grimly, "I'm going back to the valley at once with a hundred picked men, and I'll need you." CHAPTER V Setting the Trap Inside of fifteen minutes we were on our way. A certain amount of caution was sacrificed for the sake of speed, and the men leaped away either across the forest top, or over open spaces of ground, but concentration was forbidden. The Big Boss named the spot on the hillside as the rallying point. "We'll have to take a chance on being seen, so long as we don't group," he declared, "at least until within five miles of the rallying spot. From then on I want every man to disappear from sight and to travel under cover. And keep your ultrophones open, and tuned on ten-four-seven-six." Wilma and I had received our battle equipment from the Gear boss. It consisted of a long-gun, a hand-gun, with a special case of ammunition constructed of inertron, which made the load weigh but a few ounces, and a short sword. This gear we strapped over each other's shoulders, on top of our jumping belts. In addition, we each received an ultrophone, and a light inertron blanket rolled into a cylinder about six inches long by two or three in diameter. This fabric was exceedingly thin and light, but it had considerable warmth, because of the mixture of inertron in its composition. [Illustration: The Han raider neared with incredible speed. Its rays were both slanted astern at a sharp angle, so that it slid forward with tremendous momentum.... Whenever the disintegrator rays flashed downward with blinding brilliancy, forest, rocks and ground melted instantaneously into nothing, where they played upon them.] "This looks like business," Wilma remarked to me with sparkling eyes. (And I might mention a curious thing here. The word "business" had survived from the 20th Century American vocabulary, but not with any meaning of "industry" or "trade," for such things being purely community activities were spoken of as "work" and "clearing." Business simply meant fighting, and that was all.) "Did you bring all this equipment from the valley?" I asked the Gear Boss. "No," he said. "There was no time to gather anything. All this stuff we cleared from the Susquannas a few hours ago. I was with the Boss on the way down, and he had me jump on ahead and arrange it. But you two had better be moving. He's beckoning you now." Hart was about to call us on our phones when we looked up. As soon as we did so, he leaped away, waving us to follow closely. He was a powerful man, and he darted ahead in long, swift, low leaps up the banks of the stream, which followed a fairly straight course at this point. By extending ourselves, however, Wilma and I were able to catch up to him. As we gradually synchronized our leaps with his, he outlined to us, between the grunts that accompanied each leap, his plan of action. "We have to start the big business--unh--sooner or later," he said. "And if--unh--the Hans have found any way of locating our positions--unh--it's time to start now, although the Council of Bosses--unh--had intended waiting a few years until enough rocket ships have been--unh--built. But no matter what the sacrifice--unh--we can't afford to let them get us on the run--unh--. We'll set a trap for the yellow devils in the--unh--valley if they come back for their wreckage--unh--and if they don't, we'll go rocketing for some of their liners--unh--on the Nu-yok, Clee-lan, Si-ka-ga course. We can use--unh--that idea of yours of shooting up the repellor--unh--beams. Want you to give us a demonstration." With further admonition to follow him closely, he increased his pace, and Wilma and I were taxed to our utmost to keep up with him. It was only in ascending the slopes that my tougher muscles overbalanced his greater skill, and I was able to set the pace for him, as I had for Wilma. We slept in greater comfort that night, under our inertron blankets, and were off with the dawn, leaping cautiously to the top of the ridge overlooking the valley which Wilma and I had left. The Boss scanned the sky with his ultroscope, patiently taking some fifteen minutes to the task, and then swung his phone into use, calling the roll and giving the men their instructions. His first order was for us all to slip our ear and chest discs into permanent position. These ultrophones were quite different from the one used by Wilma's companion scout the day I saved her from the vicious attack of the bandit Gang. That one was contained entirely in a small pocket case. These, with which we were now equipped, consisted of a pair of ear discs, each a separate and self-contained receiving set. They slipped into little pockets over our ears in the fabric helmets we wore, and shut out virtually all extraneous sounds. The chest discs were likewise self-contained sending sets, strapped to the chest a few inches below the neck and actuated by the vibrations from the vocal cords through the body tissues. The total range of these sets was about eighteen miles. Reception was remarkably clear, quite free from the static that so marked the 20th Century radios, and of a strength in direct proportion to the distance of the speaker. The Boss' set was triple powered, so that his orders would cut in on any local conversations, which were indulged in, however, with great restraint, and only for the purpose of maintaining contacts. I marveled at the efficiency of this modern method of battle communication in contrast to the clumsy signaling devices of more ancient times; and also at other military contrasts in which the 20th and 25th Century methods were the reverse of each other in efficiency. These modern Americans, for instance, knew little of hand to hand fighting, and nothing, naturally, of trench warfare. Of barrages they were quite ignorant, although they possessed weapons of terrific power. And until my recent flash of inspiration, no one among them, apparently, had ever thought of the scheme of shooting a rocket into a repellor beam and letting the beam itself hurl it upward into the most vital part of the Han ship. Hart patiently placed his men, first giving his instructions to the campmasters, and then remaining silent, while they placed the individuals. In the end, the hundred men were ringed about the valley, on the hillsides and tops, each in a position from which he had a good view of the wreckage of the Han ship. But not a man had come in view, so far as I could see, in the whole process. The Boss explained to me that it was his idea that he, Wilma and I should investigate the wreck. If Han ships should appear in the sky, we would leap for the hillsides. I suggested to him to have the men set up their long-guns trained on an imaginary circle surrounding the wreck. He busied himself with this after the three of us leaped down to the Han ship, serving as a target himself, while he called on the men individually to aim their pieces and lock them in position. In the meantime Wilma and I climbed into the wreckage, but did not find much. Practically all of the instruments and machinery had been twisted out of all recognizable shape, or utterly destroyed by the ship's disintegrator rays which apparently had continued to operate in the midst of its warped remains for some moments after the crash. It was unpleasant work searching the mangled bodies of the crew. But it had to be done. The Han clothing, I observed, was quite different from that of the Americans, and in many respects more like the garb to which I had been accustomed in the earlier part of my life. It was made of synthetic fabrics like silks, loose and comfortable trousers of knee length, and sleeveless shirts. No protection, except that against drafts, was needed, Wilma explained to me, for the Han cities were entirely enclosed, with splendid arrangements for ventilation and heating. These arrangements of course were equally adequate in their airships. The Hans, indeed, had quite a distaste for unshaded daylight, since their lighting apparatus diffused a controlled amount of violet rays, making the unmodified sunlight unnecessary for health, and undesirable for comfort. Since the Hans did not have the secret of inertron, none of them wore anti-gravity belts. Yet in spite of the fact that they had to bear their own full weights at all times, they were physically far inferior to the Americans, for they lived lives of degenerative physical inertia, having machinery of every description for the performance of all labor, and convenient conveyances for any movement of more than a few steps. Even from the twisted wreckage of this ship I could see that seats, chairs and couches played an extremely important part in their scheme of existence. But none of the bodies were overweight. They seemed to have been the bodies of men in good health, but muscularly much underdeveloped. Wilma explained to me that they had mastered the science of gland control, and of course dietetics, to the point where men and women among them not uncommonly reached the age of a hundred years with arteries and general health in splendid condition. I did not have time to study the ship and its contents as carefully as I would have liked, however. Time pressed, and it was our business to discover some clue to the deadly accuracy with which the ship had spotted the Wyoming Works. The Boss had hardly finished his arrangements for the ring barrage, when one of the scouts on an eminence to the north, announced the approach of seven Han ships, spread out in a great semi-circle. Hart leaped for the hillside, calling to us to do likewise, but Wilma and I had raised the flaps of our helmets and switched off our "speakers" for conversation between ourselves, and by the time we discovered what had happened, the ships were clearly visible, so fast were they approaching. "Jump!" we heard the Boss order, "Deering to the north. Rogers to the east." But Wilma looked at me meaningly and pointed to where the twisted plates of the ship, projecting from the ground, offered a shelter. "Too late, Boss," she said. "They'd see us. Besides I think there's something here we ought to look at. It's probably their magnetic graph." "You're signing your death warrant," Hart warned. "We'll risk it," said Wilma and I together. "Good for you," replied the Boss. "Take command then, Rogers, for the present. Do you all know his voice, boys?" A chorus of assent rang in our ears, and I began to do some fast thinking as the girl and I ducked into the twisted mass of metal. "Wilma, hunt for that record," I said, knowing that by the simple process of talking I could keep the entire command continuously informed as to the situation. "On the hillsides, keep your guns trained on the circles and stand by. On the hilltops, how many of you are there? Speak in rotation from Bald Knob around to the east, north, west." In turn the men called their names. There were twenty of them. I assigned them by name to cover the various Han ships, numbering the latter from left to right. "Train your rockets on their repellor rays about three-quarters of the way up, between ships and ground. Aim is more important than elevation. Follow those rays with your aim continuously. Shoot when I tell you, not before. Deering has the record. The Hans probably have not seen us, or at least think there are but two of us in the valley, since they're settling without opening up disintegrators. Any opinions?" My ear discs remained silent. "Deering and I remain here until they land and debark. Stand by and keep alert." Rapidly and easily the largest of the Han ships settled to the earth. Three scouted sharply to the south, rising to a higher level. The others floated motionless about a thousand feet above. Peeping through a small fissure between two plates, I saw the vast hulk of the ship come to rest full on the line of our prospective ring barrage. A door clanged open a couple of feet from the ground, and one by one the crew emerged. CHAPTER VI The "Wyoming Massacre" "They're coming out of the ship." I spoke quietly, with my hand over my mouth, for fear they might hear me. "One--two--three--four, five--six--seven--eight--nine. That seems to be all. Who knows how many men a ship like that is likely to carry?" "About ten, if there are no passengers," replied one of my men, probably one of those on the hillside. "How are they armed?" I asked. "Just knives," came the reply. "They never permit hand-rays on the ships. Afraid of accidents. Have a ruling against it." "Leave them to us then," I said, for I had a hastily formed plan in my mind. "You, on the hillsides, take the ships above. Abandon the ring target. Divide up in training on those repellor rays. You, on the hilltops, all train on the repellors of the ships to the south. Shoot at the word, but not before. "Wilma, crawl over to your left where you can make a straight leap for the door in that ship. These men are all walking around the wreck in a bunch. When they're on the far side, I'll give the word and you leap through that door in one bound. I'll follow. Maybe we won't be seen. We'll overpower the guard inside, but don't shoot. We may escape being seen by both this crew and ships above. They can't see over this wreck." It was so easy that it seemed too good to be true. The Hans who had emerged from the ship walked round the wreckage lazily, talking in guttural tones, keenly interested in the wreck, but quite unsuspicious. At last they were on the far side. In a moment they would be picking their way into the wreck. "Wilma, leap!" I almost whispered the order. The distance between Wilma's hiding place and the door in the side of the Han ship was not more than fifteen feet. She was already crouched with her feet braced against a metal beam. Taking the lift of that wonderful inertron belt into her calculation, she dove headforemost, like a green projectile, through the door. I followed in a split second, more clumsily, but no less speedily, bruising my shoulder painfully, as I ricocheted from the edge of the opening and brought up sliding against the unconscious girl; for she evidently had hit her head against the partition within the ship into which she had crashed. We had made some noise within the ship. Shuffling footsteps were approaching down a well lit gangway. "Any signs we have been observed?" I asked my men on the hillsides. "Not yet," I heard the Boss reply. "Ships overhead still standing. No beams have been broken out. Men on ground absorbed in wreck. Most of them have crawled into it out of sight." "Good," I said quickly. "Deering hit her head. Knocked out. One or more members of the crew approaching. We're not discovered yet. I'll take care of them. Stand a bit longer, but be ready." I think my last words must have been heard by the man who was approaching, for he stopped suddenly. I crouched at the far side of the compartment, motionless. I would not draw my sword if there were only one of them. He would be a weakling, I figured, and I should easily overcome him with my bare hands. Apparently reassured at the absence of any further sound, a man came around a sort of bulkhead--and I leaped. I swung my legs up in front of me as I did so, catching him full in the stomach and knocked him cold. I ran forward along the keel gangway, searching for the control room. I found it well up in the nose of the ship. And it was deserted. What could I do to jam the controls of the ships that would not register on the recording instruments of the other ships? I gazed at the mass of controls. Levers and wheels galore. In the center of the compartment, on a massively braced universal joint mounting, was what I took for the repellor generator. A dial on it glowed and a faint hum came from within its shielding metallic case. But I had no time to study it. Above all else, I was afraid that some automatic telephone apparatus existed in the room, through which I might be heard on the other ships. The risk of trying to jam the controls was too great. I abandoned the idea and withdrew softly. I would have to take a chance that there was no other member of the crew aboard. I ran back to the entrance compartment. Wilma still lay where she had slumped down. I heard the voices of the Hans approaching. It was time to act. The next few seconds would tell whether the ships in the air would try or be able to melt us into nothingness. I spoke. "Are you boys all ready?" I asked, creeping to a position opposite the door and drawing my hand-gun. Again there was a chorus of assent. "Then on the count of three, shoot up those repellor rays--all of them--and for God's sake, don't miss." And I counted. I think my "three" was a bit weak. I know it took all the courage I had to utter it. For an agonizing instant nothing happened, except that the landing party from the ship strolled into my range of vision. Then startled, they turned their eyes upward. For an instant they stood frozen with horror at whatever they saw. One hurled his knife at me. It grazed my cheek. Then a couple of them made a break for the doorway. The rest followed. But I fired pointblank with my hand-gun, pressing the button as fast as I could and aiming at their feet to make sure my explosive rockets would make contact and do their work. The detonations of my rockets were deafening. The spot on which the Hans stood flashed into a blinding glare. Then there was nothing there except their torn and mutilated corpses. They had been fairly bunched, and I got them all. I ran to the door, expecting any instant to be hurled into infinity by the sweep of a disintegrator ray. Some eighth of a mile away I saw one of the ships crash to earth. A disintegrator ray came into my line of vision, wavered uncertainly for a moment and then began to sweep directly toward the ship in which I stood. But it never reached it. Suddenly, like a light switched off, it shot to one side, and a moment later another vast hulk crashed to earth. I looked out, then stepped out on the ground. The only Han ships in the sky were two of the scouts to the south which were hanging perpendicularly, and sagging slowly down. The others must have crashed down while I was deafened by the sound of the explosion of my own rockets. Somebody hit the other repellor ray of one of the two remaining ships and it fell out of sight beyond a hilltop. The other, farther away, drifted down diagonally, its disintegrator ray playing viciously over the ground below it. I shouted with exultation and relief. "Take back the command, Boss!" I yelled. His commands, sending out jumpers in pursuit of the descending ship, rang in my ears, but I paid no attention to them. I leaped back into the compartment of the Han ship and knelt beside my Wilma. Her padded helmet had absorbed much of the blow, I thought; otherwise, her skull might have been fractured. "Oh, my head!" she groaned, coming to as I lifted her gently in my arms and strode out in the open with her. "We must have won, dearest, did we?" "We most certainly did," I reassured her. "All but one crashed and that one is drifting down toward the south; we've captured this one we're in intact. There was only one member of the crew aboard when we dove in." [Illustration: As the American leaped, he swung his legs up in front of him, catching the Han full in the stomach.] Less than an hour afterward the Big Boss ordered the outfit to tune in ultrophones on three-twenty-three to pick up a translated broadcast of the Han intelligence office in Nu-yok from the Susquanna station. It was in the form of a public warning and news item, and read as follows: "This is Public Intelligence Office, Nu-yok, broadcasting warning to navigators of private ships, and news of public interest. The squadron of seven ships, which left Nu-yok this morning to investigate the recent destruction of the GK-984 in the Wyoming Valley, has been destroyed by a series of mysterious explosions similar to those which wrecked the GK-984. "The phones, viewplates, and all other signaling devices of five of the seven ships ceased operating suddenly at approximately the same moment, about seven-four-nine." (According to the Han system of reckoning time, seven and forty-nine one hundredths after midnight.) "After violent disturbances the location finders went out of operation. Electroactivity registers applied to the territory of the Wyoming Valley remain dead. "The Intelligence Office has no indication of the kind of disaster which overtook the squadron except certain evidences of explosive phenomena similar to those in the case of the GK-984, which recently went dead while beaming the valley in a systematic effort to wipe out the works and camps of the tribesmen. The Office considers, as obvious, the deduction that the tribesmen have developed a new, and as yet undetermined, technique of attack on airships, and has recommended to the Heaven-Born that immediate and unlimited authority be given the Navigation Intelligence Division to make an investigation of this technique and develop a defense against it. "In the meantime it urges that private navigators avoid this territory in particular, and in general hold as closely as possible to the official inter-city routes, which now are being patrolled by the entire force of the Military Office, which is beaming the routes generously to a width of ten miles. The Military Office reports that it is at present considering no retaliatory raids against the tribesmen. With the Navigation Intelligence Division, it holds that unless further evidence of the nature of the disaster is developed in the near future, the public interest will be better served, and at smaller cost of life, by a scientific research than by attempts at retaliation, which may bring destruction on all ships engaging therein. So unless further evidence actually is developed, or the Heaven-Born orders to the contrary, the Military will hold to a defensive policy. "Unofficial intimations from Lo-Tan are to the effect that the Heaven-Council has the matter under consideration. "The Navigation Intelligence Office permits the broadcast of the following condensation of its detailed observations: "The squadron proceeded to a position above the Wyoming Valley where the wreck of the GK-984 was known to be, from the record of its location finder before it went dead recently. There the bottom projectoscope relays of all ships registered the wreck of the GK-984. Teleprojectoscope views of the wreck and the bowl of the valley showed no evidence of the presence of tribesmen. Neither ship registers nor base registers showed any indication of electroactivity except from the squadron itself. On orders from the Base Squadron Commander, the LD-248, LK-745 and LG-25 scouted southward at 3,000 feet. The GK-43, GK-981 and GK-220 stood above at 2,500 feet, and the GK-18 landed to permit personal inspection of the wreck by the science committee. The party debarked, leaving one man on board in the control cabin. He set all projectoscopes at universal focus except RB-3," (this meant the third projectoscope from the bow of the ship, on the right-hand side of the lower deck) "with which he followed the landing group as it walked around the wreck. "The first abnormal phenomenon recorded by any of the instruments at Base was that relayed automatically from projectoscope RB-4 of the GK-18, which as the party disappeared from view in back of the wreck, recorded two green missiles of roughly cylindrical shape, projected from the wreckage into the landing compartment of the ship. At such close range these were not clearly defined, owing to the universal focus at which the projectoscope was set. The Base Captain of GK-18 at once ordered the man in the control room to investigate, and saw him leave the control room in compliance with this order. An instant later confused sounds reached the control-room electrophone, such as might be made by a man falling heavily, and footsteps reapproached the control room, a figure entering and leaving the control room hurriedly. The Base Captain now believes, and the stills of the photorecord support his belief, that this was not the crew member who had been left in the control room. Before the Base Captain could speak to him he left the room, nor was any response given to the attention signal the Captain flashed throughout the ship. "At this point projectoscope RB-3 of the ship now out of focus control, dimly showed the landing party walking back toward the ship. RB-4 showed it more clearly. Then on both these instruments, a number of blinding explosives in rapid succession were seen and the electrophone relays registered terrific concussions; the ship's electronic apparatus and projectoscopes apparatus went dead. "Reports of the other ships' Base Observers and Executives, backed by the photorecords, show the explosions as taking place in the midst of the landing party as it returned, evidently unsuspicious, to the ship. Then in rapid succession they indicate that terrific explosions occurred inside and outside the three ships standing above close to their rep-ray generators, and all signals from these ships thereupon went dead. "Of the three ships scouting to the south, the LD-248 suffered an identical fate, at the same moment. Its records add little to the knowledge of the disaster. But with the LK-745 and the LG-25 it was different. "The relay instruments of the LK-745 indicated the destruction by an explosion of the rear rep-ray generator, and that the ship hung stern down for a short space, swinging like a pendulum. The forward viewplates and indicators did not cease functioning, but their records are chaotic, except for one projectoscope still, which shows the bowl of the valley, and the GK-981 falling, but no visible evidence of tribesmen. The control-room viewplate is also a chaotic record of the ship's crew tumbling and falling to the rear wall. Then the forward rep-ray generator exploded, and all signals went dead. "The fate of the LG-25 was somewhat similar, except that this ship hung nose down, and drifted on the wind southward as it slowly descended out of control. "As its control room was shattered, verbal report from its Action Captain was precluded. The record of the interior rear viewplate shows members of the crew climbing toward the rear rep-ray generator in an attempt to establish manual control of it, and increase the lift. The projectoscope relays, swinging in wide arcs, recorded little of value except at the ends of their swings. One of these, from a machine which happened to be set in telescopic focus, shows several views of great value in picturing the falls of the other ships, and all of the rear projectoscope records enable the reconstruction in detail of the pendulum and torsional movements of the ship, and its sag toward the earth. But none of the views showing the forest below contain any indication of tribesmen's presence. A final explosion put this ship out of commission at a height of 1,000 feet, and at a point four miles S. by E. of the center of the valley." The message ended with a repetition of the warning to other airmen to avoid the valley. CHAPTER VII Incredible Treason After receiving this report, and reassurances of support from the Big Bosses of the neighboring Gangs, Hart determined to reestablish the Wyoming Valley community. A careful survey of the territory showed that it was only the northern sections and slopes that had been "beamed" by the first Han ship. The synthetic-fabrics plant had been partially wiped out, though the lower levels underground had not been reached by the dis ray. The forest screen above it, however, had been annihilated, and it was determined to abandon it, after removing all usable machinery and evidences of the processes that might be of interest to the Han scientists, should they return to the valley in the future. The ammunition plant, and the rocket-ship plant, which had just been about to start operation at the time of the raid, were intact, as were the other important plants. Hart brought the Camboss up from the Susquanna Works, and laid out new camp locations, scattering them farther to the south, and avoiding ground which had been seared by the Han beams and the immediate locations of the Han wrecks. During this period, a sharp check was kept upon Han messages, for the phone plant had been one of the first to be put in operation, and when it became evident that the Hans did not intend any immediate reprisals, the entire membership of the community was summoned back, and normal life was resumed. Wilma and I had been married the day after the destruction of the ships, and spent this intervening period in a delightful honeymoon, camping high in the mountains. On our return, we had a camp of our own, of course. We were assigned to location 1017. And as might be expected, we had a great deal of banter over which one of us was Camp Boss. The title stood after my name on the Big Boss' records, and those of the Big Camboss, of course, but Wilma airily held that this meant nothing at all--and generally succeeded in making me admit it whenever she chose. I found myself a full-fledged member of the Gang now, for I had elected to search no farther for a permanent alliance, much as I would have liked to familiarize myself with this 25th Century life in other sections of the country. The Wyomings had a high morale, and had prospered under the rule of Big Boss Hart for many years. But many of the gangs, I found, were badly organized, lacked strong hands in authority, and were rife with intrigue. On the whole, I thought I would be wise to stay with a group which had already proved its friendliness, and in which I seemed to have prospects of advancement. Under these modern social and economic conditions, the kind of individual freedom to which I had been accustomed in the 20th Century was impossible. I would have been as much of a nonentity in every phase of human relationship by attempting to avoid alliances, as any man of the 20th Century would have been politically, who aligned himself with no political party. This entire modern life, it appeared to me, judging from my ancient viewpoint, was organized along what I called "political" lines. And in this connection, it amused me to notice how universal had become the use of the word "boss." The leader, the person in charge or authority over anything, was a "boss." There was as little formality in his relations with his followers as there was in the case of the 20th Century political boss, and the same high respect paid him by his followers as well as the same high consideration by him of their interests. He was just as much of an autocrat, and just as much dependent upon the general popularity of his actions for the ability to maintain his autocracy. The sub-boss who could not command the loyalty of his followers was as quickly deposed, either by them or by his superiors, as the ancient ward leader of the 20th Century who lost control of his votes. As society was organized in the 20th Century, I do not believe the system could have worked in anything but politics. I tremble to think what would have happened, had the attempt been made to handle the A. E. F. this way during the First World War, instead of by that rigid military discipline and complete assumption of the individual as a mere standardized cog in the machine. But owing to the centuries of desperate suffering the people had endured at the hands of the Hans, there developed a spirit of self-sacrifice and consideration for the common good that made the scheme applicable and efficient in all forms of human co-operation. I have a little heresy about all this, however. My associates regard the thought with as much horror as many worthy people of the 20th Century felt in regard to any heretical suggestion that the original outline of government as laid down in the First Constitution did not apply as well to 20th Century conditions as to those of the early 19th. In later years, I felt that there was a certain softening of moral fiber among the people, since the Hans had been finally destroyed with all their works; and Americans have developed a new luxury economy. I have seen signs of the reawakening of greed, of selfishness. The eternal cycle seems to be at work. I fear that slowly, though surely, private wealth is reappearing, codes of inflexibility are developing; they will be followed by corruption, degradation; and in the end some cataclysmic event will end this era and usher in a new one. All this, however, is wandering afar from my story, which concerns our early battles against the Hans, and not our more modern problems of self-control. Our victory over the seven Han ships had set the country ablaze. The secret had been carefully communicated to the other gangs, and the country was agog from one end to the other. There was feverish activity in the ammunition plants, and the hunting of stray Han ships became an enthusiastic sport. The results were disastrous to our hereditary enemies. From the Pacific Coast came the report of a great transpacific liner of 75,000 tons "lift" being brought to earth from a position of invisibility above the clouds. A dozen Sacramentos had caught the hazy outlines of its rep rays approaching them, head-on, in the twilight, like ghostly pillars reaching into the sky. They had fired rockets into it with ease, whereas they would have had difficulty in hitting it if it had been moving at right angles to their position. They got one rep ray. The other was not strong enough to hold it up. It floated to earth, nose down, and since it was unarmed and unarmored, they had no difficulty in shooting it to pieces and massacring its crew and passengers. It seemed barbarous to me. But then I did not have centuries of bitter persecution in my blood. From the Jersey Beaches we received news of the destruction of a Nu-yok-A-lan-a liner. The Sand-snipers, practically invisible in their sand-colored clothing, and half buried along the beaches, lay in wait for days, risking the play of dis beams along the route, and finally registering four hits within a week. The Hans discontinued their service along this route, and as evidence that they were badly shaken by our success, sent no raiders down the Beaches. It was a few weeks later that Big Boss Hart sent for me. "Tony," he said, "There are two things I want to talk to you about. One of them will become public property in a few days, I think. We aren't going to get any more Han ships by shooting up their repellor rays unless we use much larger rockets. They are wise to us now. They're putting armor of great thickness in the hulls of their ships below the rep-ray machines. Near Bah-flo this morning a party of Eries shot one without success. The explosions staggered her, but did not penetrate. As near as we can gather from their reports, their laboratories have developed a new alloy of great tensile strength and elasticity which nevertheless lets the rep rays through like a sieve. Our reports indicate that the Eries' rockets bounced off harmlessly. Most of the party was wiped out as the dis rays went into action on them. "This is going to mean real business for all of the gangs before long. The Big Bosses have just held a national ultrophone council. It was decided that America must organize on a national basis. The first move is to develop sectional organization by Zones. I have been made Superboss of the Mid-Atlantic Zone. "We're in for it now. The Hans are sure to launch reprisal expeditions. If we're to save the race we must keep them away from our camps and plants. I'm thinking of developing a permanent field force, along the lines of the regular armies of the 20th Century you told me about. Its business will be twofold: to carry the warfare as much as possible to the Hans, and to serve as a decoy, to keep their attention from our plants. I'm going to need your help in this. "The other thing I wanted to talk to you about is this: Amazing and impossible as it seems, there is a group, or perhaps an entire gang, somewhere among us, that is betraying us to the Hans. It may be the Bad Bloods, or it may be one of those gangs who live near one of the Han cities. You know, a hundred and fifteen or twenty years ago there were certain of these people's ancestors who actually degraded themselves by mating with the Hans, sometimes even serving them as slaves, in the days before they brought all their service machinery to perfection. "There is such a gang, called the Nagras, up near Bah-flo, and another in Mid-Jersey that men call the Pineys. But I hardly suspect the Pineys. There is little intelligence among them. They wouldn't have the information to give the Hans, nor would they be capable of imparting it. They're absolute savages." "Just what evidence is there that anybody has been clearing information to the Hans?" I asked. "Well," he replied, "first of all there was that raid upon us. That first Han ship knew the location of our plants exactly. You remember it floated directly into position above the valley and began a systematic beaming. Then, the Hans quite obviously have learned that we are picking up their electrophone waves, for they've gone back to their old, but extremely accurate, system of directional control. But we've been getting them for the past week by installing automatic re-broadcast units along the scar paths. This is what the Americans called those strips of country directly under the regular ship routes of the Hans, who as a matter of precaution frequently blasted them with their dis beams to prevent the growth of foliage which might give shelter to the Americans. But they've been beaming those paths so hard, it looks as though they even had information of this strategy. And in addition, they've been using code. Finally, we've picked up three of their messages in which they discuss, with some nervousness, the existence of our 'mysterious' ultrophone." "But they still have no knowledge of the nature and control of ultronic activity?" I asked. "No," said the Big Boss thoughtfully, "they don't seem to have a bit of information about it." "Then it's quite clear," I ventured, "that whoever is 'clearing' us to them is doing it piecemeal. It sounds like a bit of occasional barter, rather than an out-and-out alliance. They're holding back as much information as possible for future bartering, perhaps." "Yes," Hart said, "and it isn't information the Hans are giving in return, but some form of goods, or privilege. The trick would be to locate the goods. I guess I'll have to make a personal trip around among the Big Bosses." CHAPTER VIII The Han City This conversation set me thinking. All of the Han electrophone inter-communication had been an open record to the Americans for a good many years, and the Hans were just finding it out. For centuries they had not regarded us as any sort of a menace. Unquestionably it had never occurred to them to secrete their own records. Somewhere in Nu-yok or Bah-flo, or possibly in Lo-Tan itself, the record of this traitorous transaction would be more or less openly filed. If we could only get at it! I wondered if a raid might not be possible. Bill Hearn and I talked it over with our Han-affairs Boss and his experts. There ensued several days of research, in which the Han records of the entire decade were scanned and analyzed. In the end they picked out a mass of detail, and fitted it together into a very definite picture of the great central filing office of the Hans in Nu-yok, where the entire mass of official records was kept, constantly available for instant projectoscoping to any of the city's offices, and of the system by which the information was filed. The attempt began to look feasible, though Hart instantly turned the idea down when I first presented it to him. It was unthinkable, he said. Sheer suicide. But in the end I persuaded him. "I will need," I said, "Blash, who is thoroughly familiar with the Han library system; Bert Gaunt, who for years has specialized on their military offices; Bill Barker, the ray specialist, and the best swooper pilot we have." _Swoopers_ are one-man and two-man ships, developed by the Americans, with skeleton backbones of inertron (during the war painted green for invisibility against the green forests below) and "bellies" of clear ultron. "That will be Mort Gibbons," said Hart. "We've only got three swoopers left, Tony, but I'll risk one of them if you and the others will voluntarily risk your existences. But mind, I won't urge or order one of you to go. I'll spread the word to every Plant Boss at once to give you anything and everything you need in the way of equipment." When I told Wilma of the plan, I expected her to raise violent and tearful objections, but she didn't. She was made of far sterner stuff than the women of the 20th Century. Not that she couldn't weep as copiously or be just as whimsical on occasion; but she wouldn't weep for the same reasons. She just gave me an unfathomable look, in which there seemed to be a bit of pride, and asked eagerly for the details. I confess I was somewhat disappointed that she could so courageously risk my loss, even though I was amazed at her fortitude. But later I was to learn how little I knew her then. We were ready to slide off at dawn the next morning. I had kissed Wilma good-bye at our camp, and after a final conference over our plans, we boarded our craft and gently glided away over the tree tops on a course, which, after crossing three routes of the Han ships, would take us out over the Atlantic, off the Jersey coast, whence we would come up on Nu-yok from the ocean. Twice we had to nose down and lie motionless on the ground near a route while Han ships passed. Those were tense moments. Had the green back of our ship been observed, we would have been disintegrated in a second. But it wasn't. Once over the water, however, we climbed in a great spiral, ten miles in diameter, until our altimeter registered ten miles. Here Gibbons shut off his rocket motor, and we floated, far above the level of the Atlantic liners, whose course was well to the north of us anyhow, and waited for nightfall. Then Gibbons turned from his control long enough to grin at me. "I have a surprise for you, Tony," he said, throwing back the lid of what I had supposed was a big supply case. And with a sigh of relief, Wilma stepped out of the case. "If you 'go into zero' (a common expression of the day for being annihilated by the disintegrator ray), you don't think I'm going to let you go alone, do you, Tony? I couldn't believe my ears last night when you spoke of going without me, until I realized that you are still five hundred years behind the times in lots of ways. Don't you know, dear heart, that you offered me the greatest insult a husband could give a wife? You didn't, of course." The others, it seemed, had all been in on the secret, and now they would have kidded me unmercifully, except that Wilma's eyes blazed dangerously. At nightfall, we maneuvered to a position directly above the city. This took some time and calculation on the part of Bill Barker, who explained to me that he had to determine our point by ultronic bearings. The slightest resort to an electronic instrument, he feared, might be detected by our enemies' locators. In fact, we did not dare bring our swooper any lower than five miles for fear that its capacity might be reflected in their instruments. Finally, however, he succeeded in locating above the central tower of the city. "If my calculations are as much as ten feet off," he remarked with confidence, "I'll eat the tower. Now the rest is up to you, Mort. See what you can do to hold her steady. No--here, watch this indicator--the red beam, not the green one. See--if you keep it exactly centered on the needle, you're O.K. The width of the beam represents seventeen feet. The tower platform is fifty feet square, so we've got a good margin to work on." For several moments we watched as Gibbons bent over his levers, constantly adjusting them with deft touches of his fingers. After a bit of wavering, the beam remained centered on the needle. "Now," I said, "let's drop." I opened the trap and looked down, but quickly shut it again when I felt the air rushing out of the ship into the rarefied atmosphere in a torrent. Gibbons literally yelled a protest from his instrument board. "I forgot," I mumbled. "Silly of me. Of course, we'll have to drop out of compartment." The compartment, to which I referred, was similar to those in some of the 20th Century submarines. We all entered it. There was barely room for us to stand, shoulder to shoulder. With some struggles, we got into our special air helmets and adjusted the pressure. At our signal, Gibbons exhausted the air in the compartment, pumping it into the body of the ship, and as the little signal light flashed, Wilma threw open the hatch. Setting the ultron-wire reel, I climbed through, and began to slide down gently. We all had our belts on, of course, adjusted to a weight balance of but a few ounces. And the five-mile reel of ultron wire that was to be our guide, was of gossamer fineness, though, anyway, I believe it would have lifted the full weight of the five of us, so strong and tough was this invisible metal. As an extra precaution, since the wire was of the purest metal, and therefore totally invisible, even in daylight, we all had our belts hooked on small rings that slid down the wire. I went down with the end of the wire. Wilma followed a few feet above me, then Barker, Gaunt and Blash. Gibbons, of course, stayed behind to hold the ship in position and control the paying out of the line. We all had our ultrophones in place inside our air helmets, and so could converse with one another and with Gibbons. But at Wilma's suggestion, although we would have liked to let the Big Boss listen in, we kept them adjusted to short-range work, for fear that those who had been clearing with the Hans, and against whom we were on a raid for evidence, might also pick up our conversation. We had no fear that the Hans would hear us. In fact, we had the added advantage that, even after we landed, we could converse freely without danger of their hearing our voices through our air helmets. For a while I could see nothing below but utter darkness. Then I realized, from the feel of the air as much as from anything, that we were sinking through a cloud layer. We passed through two more cloud layers before anything was visible to us. Then there came under my gaze, about two miles below, one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen; the soft, yet brilliant, radiance of the great Han city of Nu-yok. Every foot of its structural members seemed to glow with a wonderful incandescence, tower piled up on tower, and all built on the vast base-mass of the city, which, so I had been told, sheered upward from the surface of the rivers to a height of 728 levels. The city, I noticed with some surprise, did not cover anything like the same area as the New York of the 20th Century. It occupied, as a matter of fact, only the lower half of Manhattan Island, with one section straddling the East River, and spreading out sufficiently over what once had been Brooklyn, to provide berths for the great liners and other air craft. Straight beneath my feet was a tiny dark patch. It seemed the only spot in the entire city that was not aflame with radiance. This was the central tower, in the top floors of which were housed the vast library of record files and the main projectoscope plant. "You can shoot the wire now," I ultrophoned Gibbons, and let go the little weighted knob. It dropped like a plummet, and we followed with considerable speed, but braking our descent with gloved hands sufficiently to see whether the knob, on which a faint light glowed as a signal for ourselves, might be observed by any Han guard or night prowler. Apparently it was not, and we again shot down with accelerated speed. We landed on the roof of the tower without any mishap, and fortunately for our plan, in darkness. Since there was nothing above it on which it would have been worth while to shed illumination, or from which there was any need to observe it, the Hans had neglected to light the tower roof, or indeed to occupy it at all. This was the reason we had selected it as our landing place. As soon as Gibbons had our word, he extinguished the knob light, and the knob, as well as the wire, became totally invisible. At our ultrophoned word, he would light it again. "No gun play now," I warned. "Swords only, and then only if absolutely necessary." Closely bunched, and treading as lightly as only inertron-belted people could, we made our way cautiously through a door and down an inclined plane to the floor below, where Gaunt and Blash assured us the military offices were located. Twice Barker cautioned us to stop as we were about to pass in front of mirror-like "windows" in the passage wall, and flattening ourselves to the floor, we crawled past them. "Projectoscopes," he said. "Probably on automatic record only, at this time of night. Still, we don't want to leave any records for them to study after we're gone." "Were you ever here before?" I asked. "No," he replied, "but I haven't been studying their electrophone communications for seven years without being able to recognize these machines when I run across them." CHAPTER IX The Fight in the Tower So far we had not laid eyes on a Han. The tower seemed deserted. Blash and Gaunt, however, assured me that there would be at least one man on "duty" in the military offices, though he would probably be asleep, and two or three in the library proper and the projectoscope plant. "We've got to put them out of commission," I said. "Did you bring the 'dope' cans, Wilma?" "Yes," she said, "two for each. Here," and she distributed them. We were now two levels below the roof, and at the point where we were to separate. I did not want to let Wilma out of my sight, but it was necessary. According to our plan, Barker was to make his way to the projectoscope plant, Blash and I to the library, and Wilma and Gaunt to the military office. Blash and I traversed a long corridor, and paused at the great arched doorway of the library. Cautiously we peered in. Seated at three great switchboards were library operatives. Occasionally one of them would reach lazily for a lever, or sleepily push a button, as little numbered lights winked on and off. They were answering calls for electrograph and viewplate records on all sorts of subjects from all sections of the city. I apprised my companions of the situation. "Better wait a bit," Blash added. "The calls will lessen shortly." Wilma reported an officer in the military office sound asleep. "Give him the can, then," I said. Barker was to do nothing more than keep watch in the projectoscope plant, and a few moments later he reported himself well concealed, with a splendid view of the floor. "I think we can take a chance now," Blash said to me, and at my nod, he opened the lid of his dope can. Of course, the fumes did not affect us, through our helmets. They were absolutely without odor or visibility, and in a few seconds the librarians were unconscious. We stepped into the room. There ensued considerable cautious observation and experiment on the part of Gaunt, working from the military office, and Blash in the library; while Wilma and I, with drawn swords and sharply attuned microphones, stood guard, and occasionally patrolled nearby corridors. "I hear something approaching," Wilma said after a bit, with excitement in her voice. "It's a soft, gliding sound." "That's an elevator somewhere," Barker cut in from the projectoscope floor. "Can you locate it? I can't hear it." "It's to the east of me," she replied. "And to my west," said I, faintly catching it. "It's between us, Wilma, and nearer you than me. Be careful. Have you got any information yet, Blash and Gaunt?" "Getting it now," one of them replied. "Give us two minutes more." "Keep at it then," I said. "We'll guard." The soft, gliding sound ceased. "I think it's very close to me," Wilma almost whispered. "Come closer, Tony. I have a feeling something is going to happen. I've never known my nerves to get taut like this without reason." In some alarm, I launched myself down the corridor in a great leap toward the intersection whence I knew I could see her. In the middle of my leap my ultrophone registered her gasp of alarm. The next instant I glided to a stop at the intersection to see Wilma backing toward the door of the military office, her sword red with blood, and an inert form on the corridor floor. Two other Hans were circling to either side of her with wicked-looking knives, while a third evidently a high officer, judging by the resplendence of his garb tugged desperately to get an electrophone instrument out of a bulky pocket. If he ever gave the alarm, there was no telling what might happen to us. I was at least seventy feet away, but I crouched low and sprang with every bit of strength in my legs. It would be more correct to say that I dived, for I reached the fellow head on, with no attempt to draw my legs beneath me. Some instinct must have warned him, for he turned suddenly as I hurtled close to him. But by this time I had sunk close to the floor, and had stiffened myself rigidly, lest a dragging knee or foot might just prevent my reaching him. I brought my blade upward and over. It was a vicious slash that laid him open, bisecting him from groin to chin, and his dead body toppled down on me, as I slid to a tangled stop. The other two startled, turned. Wilma leaped at one and struck him down with a side slash. I looked up at this instant, and the dazed fear on his face at the length of her leap registered vividly. The Hans knew nothing of our inertron belts, it seemed, and these leaps and dives of ours filled them with terror. As I rose to my feet, a gory mess, Wilma, with a poise and speed which I found time to admire even in this crisis, again leaped. This time she dove head first as I had done and, with a beautifully executed thrust, ran the last Han through the throat. Uncertainly, she scrambled to her feet, staggered queerly, and then sank gently prone on the corridor. She had fainted. At this juncture, Blash and Gaunt reported with elation that they had the record we wanted. "Back to the roof, everybody!" I ordered, as I picked Wilma up in my arms. With her inertron belt, she felt as light as a feather. Gaunt joined me at once from the military office, and at the intersection of the corridor, we came upon Blash waiting for us. Barker, however, was not in evidence. "Where are you, Barker?" I called. "Go ahead," he replied. "I'll be with you on the roof at once." We came out in the open without any further mishap, and I instructed Gibbons in the ship to light the knob on the end of the ultron wire. It flashed dully a few feet away from us. Just how he had maneuvered the ship to keep our end of the line in position, without its swinging in a tremendous arc, I have never been able to understand. Had not the night been an unusually still one, he could not have checked the initial pendulum-like movements. As it was, there was considerable air current at certain of the levels, and in different directions too. But Gibbons was an expert of rare ability and sensitivity in the handling of a rocket ship, and he managed, with the aid of his delicate instruments, to sense the drifts almost before they affected the fine ultron wire, and to neutralize them with little shifts in the position of the ship. Blash and Gaunt fastened their rings to the wire, and I hooked my own and Wilma's on, too. But on looking around, I found Barker was still missing. "Barker, come!" I called. "We're waiting." "Coming!" he replied, and indeed, at that instant, his figure appeared up the ramp. He chuckled as he fastened his ring to the wire, and said something about a little surprise he had left for the Hans. "Don't reel in the wire more than a few hundred feet," I instructed Gibbons. "It will take too long to wind it in. We'll float up, and when we're aboard, we can drop it." In order to float up, we had to dispense with a pound or two of weight apiece. We hurled our swords from us, and kicked off our shoes as Gibbons reeled up the line a bit, and then letting go of the wire, began to hum upward on our rings with increasing velocity. The rush of air brought Wilma to, and I hastily explained to her that we had been successful. Receding far below us now, I could see our dully shining knob swinging to and fro in an ever widening arc, as it crossed and recrossed the black square of the tower roof. As an extra precaution, I ordered Gibbons to shut off the light, and to show one from the belly of the ship, for so great was our speed now, that I began to fear we would have difficulty in checking ourselves. We were literally falling upward, and with terrific acceleration. Fortunately, we had several minutes in which to solve this difficulty, which none of us, strangely enough, had foreseen. It was Gibbons who found the answer. "You'll be all right if all of you grab the wire tight when I give the word," he said. "First I'll start reeling it in at full speed. You won't get much of a jar, and then I'll decrease its speed again gradually, and its weight will hold you back. Are you ready? One--two--three!" We all grabbed tightly with our gloved hands as he gave the word. We must have been rising a good bit faster than he figured, however, for it wrenched our arms considerably, and the maneuver set up a sickening pendulum motion. For a while all we could do was swing there in an arc that may have been a quarter of a mile across, about three and a half miles above the city, and still more than a mile from our ship. Gibbons skilfully took up the slack as our momentum pulled up the line. Then at last we had ourselves under control again, and continued our upward journey, checking our speed somewhat with our gloves. There was not one of us who did not breathe a big sigh of relief when we scrambled through the hatch safely into the ship again, cast off the ultron line and slammed the trap shut. Little realizing that we had a still more terrible experience to go through, we discussed the information Blash and Gaunt had between them extracted from the Han records, and the advisability of ultrophoning Hart at once. CHAPTER X The Walls of Hell The traitors were, it seemed, a degenerate gang of Americans, located a few miles north of Nu-yok on the wooded banks of the Hudson, the Sinsings. They had exchanged scraps of information to the Hans in return for several old repellor-ray machines, and the privilege of tuning in on the Han electronic power broadcast for their operation, provided their ships agreed to subject themselves to the orders of the Han traffic office, while aloft. The rest wanted to ultrophone their news at once, since there was always danger that we might never get back to the gang with it. I objected, however. The Sinsings would be likely to pick up our message. Even if we used the directional projector, they might have scouts out to the west and south in the big inter-gang stretches of country. They would flee to Nu-yok and escape the punishment they merited. It seemed to be vitally important that they should not, for the sake of example to other weak groups among the American gangs, as well as to prevent a crisis in which they might clear more vital information to the enemy. "Out to sea again," I ordered Gibbons. "They'll be less likely to look for us in that direction." "Easy, Boss, easy," he replied. "Wait until we get up a mile or two more. They must have discovered evidences of our raid by now, and their dis-ray wall may go in operation any moment." Even as he spoke, the ship lurched downward and to one side. "There it is!" he shouted. "Hang on, everybody. We're going to nose straight up!" And he flipped the rocket-motor control wide open. Looking through one of the rear ports, I could see a nebulous, luminous ring, and on all sides the atmosphere took on a faint iridescence. We were almost over the destructive range of the disintegrator-ray wall, a hollow cylinder of annihilation shooting upward from a solid ring of generators surrounding the city. It was the main defense system of the Hans, which had never been used except in periodic tests. They may or may not have suspected that an American rocket ship was within the cylinder; probably they had turned on their generators more as a precaution to prevent any reaching a position above the city. But even at our present great height, we were in great danger. It was a question how much we might have been harmed by the rays themselves, for their effective range was not much more than seven or eight miles. The greater danger lay in the terrific downward rush of air within the cylinder to replace that which was being burned into nothingness by the continual play of the disintegrators. The air fell into the cylinder with the force of a gale. It would be rushing toward the wall from the outside with terrific force also, but, naturally, the effect was intensified on the interior. Our ship vibrated and trembled. We had only one chance of escape--to fight our way well above the current. To drift down with it meant ultimately, and inevitably, to be sucked into the destruction wall at some lower level. But very gradually and jerkily our upward movement, as shown on the indicators, began to increase, and after an hour of desperate struggle we were free of the maelstrom and into the rarefied upper levels. The terror beneath us was now invisible through several layers of cloud formations. Gibbons brought the ship back to an even keel, and drove her eastward into one of the most brilliantly gorgeous sunrises I have ever seen. We described a great circle to the south and west, in a long easy dive, for he had cut out his rocket motors to save them as much as possible. We had drawn terrifically on their fuel reserves in our battle with the elements. For the moment, the atmosphere below cleared, and we could see the Jersey coast far beneath, like a great map. "We're not through yet," remarked Gibbons suddenly, pointing at his periscope, and adjusting it to telescopic focus. "A Han ship, and a 'drop ship' at that--and he's seen us. If he whips that beam of his on us, we're done." I gazed, fascinated, at the viewplate. What I saw was a cigar-shaped ship not dissimilar to our own in design, and from the proportional size of its ports, of about the same size as our swoopers. We learned later that they carried crews, for the most part of not more than three or four men. They had streamline hulls and tails that embodied universal-jointed double fish-tail rudders. In operation they rose to great heights on their powerful repellor rays, then gathered speed either by a straight nose dive, or an inclined dive in which they sometimes used the repellor ray slanted at a sharp angle. He was already above us, though several miles to the north. He could, of course, try to get on our tail and "spear" us with his beam as he dropped at us from a great height. Suddenly his beam blazed forth in a blinding flash, whipping downward slowly to our right. He went through a peculiar corkscrew-like evolution, evidently maneuvering to bring his beam to bear on us with a spiral motion. Gibbons instantly sent our ship into a series of evolutions that must have looked like those of a frightened hen. Alternately, he used the forward and the reverse rocket blasts, and in varying degree. We fluttered, we shot suddenly to right and left, and dropped like a plummet in uncertain movements. But all the time the Han scout dropped toward us, determinedly whipping the air around us with his beam. Once it sliced across beneath us, not more than a hundred feet, and we dropped with a jar into the pocket formed by the destruction of the air. He had dropped to within a mile of us, and was coming with the speed of a projectile, when the end came. Gibbons always swore it was sheer luck. Maybe it was, but I like pilots who are lucky that way. In the midst of a dizzy, fluttering maneuver of our own, with the Han ship enlarging to our gaze with terrifying rapidity, and its beam slowly slicing toward us in what looked like certain destruction within the second, I saw Gibbons' fingers flick at the lever of his rocket gun and a split second later the Han ship flew apart like a clay pigeon. We staggered, and fluttered crazily for several moments while Gibbons struggled to bring our ship into balance, and a section of about four square feet in the side of the ship near the stern slowly crumbled like rusted metal. His beam actually had touched us, but our explosive rocket had got him a thousandth of a second sooner. Part of our rudder had been annihilated, and our motor damaged. But we were able to swoop gently back across Jersey, fortunately crossing the ship lanes without sighting any more Han craft, and finally settling to rest in the little glade beneath the trees, near Hart's camp. CHAPTER XI The New Boss We had ultrophoned our arrival and the Big Boss himself, surrounded by the Council, was on hand to welcome us and learn our news. In turn we were informed that during the night a band of raiding Bad Bloods, disguised under the insignia of the Altoonas, a gang some distance to the west of us, had destroyed several of our camps before our people had rallied and driven them off. Their purpose, evidently, had been to embroil us with the Altoonas, but fortunately, one of our exchanges recognized the Bad Blood leader, who had been slain. The Big Boss had mobilized the full raiding force of the Gang, and was on the point of heading an expedition for the extermination of the Bad Bloods. I looked around the grim circle of the sub-bosses, and realized the fate of America, at this moment, lay in their hands. Their temper demanded the immediate expenditure of our full effort in revenging ourselves for this raid. But the strategic exigencies, to my mind, quite clearly demanded the instant and absolute extermination of the Sinsings. It might be only a matter of hours, for all we knew, before these degraded people would barter clues to the American ultronic secrets to the Hans. "How large a force have we?" I asked Hart. "Every man and maid who can be spared," he replied. "That gives us seven hundred married and unmarried men, and three hundred girls, more than the entire Bad Blood Gang. Every one is equipped with belts, ultrophones, rocket guns and swords, and all fighting mad." I meditated how I might put the matter to these determined men, and was vaguely conscious that they were awaiting my words. Finally I began to speak. I do not remember to this day just what I said. I talked calmly, with due regard for their passion, but with deep conviction. I went over the information we had collected, point by point, building my case logically, and painting a lurid picture of the danger impending in that half-alliance between the Sinsings and the Hans of Nu-yok. I became impassioned, culminating, I believe, with a vow to proceed single-handed against the hereditary enemies of our race, "if the Wyomings were blindly set on placing a gang feud ahead of honor and duty and the hopes of all America." As I concluded, a great calm came over me, as of one detached. I had felt much the same way during several crises in the First World War. I gazed from face to face, striving to read their expressions, and in a mood to make good my threat without any further heroics, if the decision was against me. But it was Hart who sensed the temper of the Council more quickly than I did, and looked beyond it into the future. He arose from the tree trunk on which he had been sitting. "That settles it," he said, looking around the ring. "I have felt this thing coming on for some time now. I'm sure the Council agrees with me that there is among us a man more capable than I, to boss the Wyoming Gang, despite his handicap of having had all too short a time in which to familiarize himself with our modern ways and facilities. Whatever I can do to support his effective leadership, at any cost, I pledge myself to do." As he concluded, he advanced to where I stood, and taking from his head the green-crested helmet that constituted his badge of office, to my surprise he placed it in my mechanically extended hand. The roar of approval that went up from the Council members left me dazed. Somebody ultrophoned the news to the rest of the Gang, and even though the earflaps of my helmet were turned up, I could hear the cheers with which my invisible followers greeted me, from near and distant hillsides, camps and plants. My first move was to make sure that the Phone Boss, in communicating this news to the members of the Gang, had not re-broadcast my talk nor mentioned my plan of shifting the attack from the Bad Bloods to the Sinsings. I was relieved by his assurance that he had not, for it would have wrecked the whole plan. Everything depended upon our ability to surprise the Sinsings. So I pledged the Council and my companions to secrecy, and allowed it to be believed that we were about to take to the air and the trees against the Bad Bloods. That outfit must have been badly scared, the way they were "burning" the ether with ultrophone alibis and propaganda for the benefit of the more distant gangs. It was their old game, and the only method by which they had avoided extermination long ago from their immediate neighbors--these appeals to the spirit of American brotherhood, addressed to gangs too far away to have had the sort of experience with them that had fallen to our lot. I chuckled. Here was another good reason for the shift in my plans. Were we actually to undertake the exterminations of the Bad Bloods at once, it would have been a hard job to convince some of the gangs that we had not been precipitate and unjustified. Jealousies and prejudices existed. There were gangs which would give the benefit of the doubt to the Bad Bloods, rather than to ourselves, and the issue was now hopelessly beclouded with the clever lies that were being broadcast in an unceasing stream. But the extermination of the Sinsings would be another thing. In the first place, there would be no warning of our action until it was all over, I hoped. In the second place, we would have indisputable proof, in the form of their rep-ray ships and other paraphernalia, of their traffic with the Hans; and the state of American prejudice, at the time of which I write held trafficking with the Hans a far more heinous thing than even a vicious gang feud. I called an executive session of the Council at once. I wanted to inventory our military resources. I created a new office on the spot, that of "Control Boss," and appointed Ned Garlin to the post, turning over his former responsibility as Plants Boss to his assistant. I needed someone, I felt, to tie in the records of the various functional activities of the campaign, and take over from me the task of keeping the records of them up to the minute. I received reports from the bosses of the ultrophone unit, and those of food, transportation, fighting gear, chemistry, electronic activity and electrophone intelligence, ultroscopes, air patrol and contact guard. My ideas for the campaign, of course, were somewhat tinged with my 20th Century experience, and I found myself faced with the task of working out a staff organization that was a composite of the best and most easily applied principles of business and military efficiency, as I knew them from the viewpoint of immediate practicality. What I wanted was an organization that would be specialized, functionally, not as that indicated above, but from the angles of: intelligence as to the Sinsings' activities; intelligence as to Han activities; perfection of communication with my own units; co-operation of field command; and perfect mobilization of emergency supplies and resources. It took several hours of hard work with the Council to map out the plan. First we assigned functional experts and equipment to each "Division" in accordance with its needs. Then these in turn were reassigned by the new Division Bosses to the Field Commands as needed, or as Independent or Headquarters Units. The two intelligence divisions were named the White and the Yellow, indicating that one specialized on the American enemy and the other on the Mongolians. The division in charge of our own communications, the assignment of ultrophone frequencies and strengths, and the maintenance of operators and equipment, I called "Communications." I named Bill Hearn to the post of Field Boss, in charge of the main or undetached fighting units, and to the Resources Division, I assigned all responsibility for what few aircraft we had; and all transportation and supply problems, I assigned to "Resources." The functional bosses stayed with this division. We finally completed our organization with the assignment of liaison representatives among the various divisions as needed. Thus I had a "Headquarters Staff" composed of the Division Bosses who reported directly to Ned Garlin as Control Boss, or to Wilma as my personal assistant. And each of the Division Bosses had a small staff of his own. In the final summing up of our personnel and resources, I found we had roughly a thousand "troops," of whom some three hundred and fifty were, in what I called the Service Divisions, the rest being in Bill Hearn's Field Division. This latter number, however, was cut down somewhat by the assignment of numerous small units to detached service. Altogether, the actual available fighting force, I figured, would number about five hundred, by the time we actually went into action. We had only six small swoopers, but I had an ingenious plan in my mind, as the result of our little raid on Nu-yok, that would make this sufficient, since the reserves of inertron blocks were larger than I expected to find them. The Resources Division, by packing its supply cases a bit tight, or by slipping in extra blocks of inertron, was able to reduce each to a weight of a few ounces. These easily could be floated and towed by the swoopers in any quantity. Hitched to ultron lines, it would be a virtual impossibility for them to break loose. The entire personnel, of course, was supplied with jumpers, and if each man and girl was careful to adjust balances properly, the entire number could also be towed along through the air, grasping wires of ultron, swinging below the swoopers, or stringing out behind them. There would be nothing tiring about this, because the strain would be no greater than that of carrying a one or two pound weight in the hand, except for air friction at high speeds. But to make doubly sure that we should lose none of our personnel, I gave strict orders that the belts and tow lines should be equipped with rings and hooks. So great was the efficiency of the fundamental organization and discipline of the Gang, that we got under way at nightfall. One by one the swoopers eased into the air, each followed by its long train or "kite-tail" of humanity and supply cases hanging lightly from its tow line. For convenience, the tow lines were made of an alloy of ultron which, unlike the metal itself, is visible. At first these "tails" hung downward, but as the ships swung into formation and headed eastward toward the Bad Blood territory, gathering speed, they began to string out behind. And swinging low from each ship on heavily weighted lines, ultroscope, ultrophone, and straight-vision observers keenly scanned the countryside, while intelligence men in the swoopers above bent over their instrument boards and viewplates. Leaving Control Boss Ned Garlin temporarily in charge of affairs, Wilma and I dropped a weighted line from our ship, and slid down about half way to the under lookouts, that is to say, about a thousand feet. The sensation of floating swiftly through the air like this, in the absolute security of one's confidence in the inertron belt, was one of never-ending delight to me. We reascended into the swooper as the expedition approached the territory of the Bad Bloods, and directed the preparations for the bombardment. It was part of my plan to appear to carry out the attack as originally planned. About fifteen miles from their camps our ships came to a halt and maintained their positions for a while with the idling blasts of their rocket motors, to give the ultroscope operators a chance to make a thorough examination of the territory below us, for it was very important that this next step in our program should be carried out with all secrecy. At length they reported the ground below us entirely clear of any appearance of human occupation, and a gun unit of long-range specialists was lowered with a dozen rocket guns, equipped with special automatic devices that the Resources Division had developed at my request, a few hours before our departure. These were aiming and timing devices. After calculating the range, elevation and rocket charges carefully, the guns were left, concealed in a ravine, and the men were hauled up into the ship again. At the predetermined hour, those unmanned rocket guns would begin automatically to bombard the Bad Bloods' hillsides, shifting their aim and elevation slightly with each shot, as did many of our artillery pieces in the First World War. In the meantime, we turned south about twenty miles, and grounded, waiting for the bombardment to begin before we attempted to sneak across the Han ship lane. I was relying for security on the distraction that the bombardment might furnish the Han observers. It was tense work waiting, but the affair went through as planned, our squadron drifting across the route high enough to enable the ships' tails of troops and supply cases to clear the ground. In crossing the second ship route, out along the Beaches of Jersey, we were not so successful in escaping observation. A Han ship came speeding along at a very low elevation. We caught it on our electronic location and direction finders, and also located it with our ultroscopes, but it came so fast and so low that I thought it best to remain where we had grounded the second time, and lie quiet, rather than get under way and cross in front of it. The point was this. While the Hans had no such devices as our ultroscopes, with which we could see in the dark (within certain limitations of course), and their electronic instruments would be virtually useless in uncovering our presence, since all but natural electronic activities were carefully eliminated from our apparatus, except electrophone receivers (which are not easily spotted), the Hans did have some very highly sensitive sound devices which operated with great efficiency in calm weather, so far as sounds emanating from the air were concerned. But the "ground roar" greatly confused their use of these instruments in the location of specific sounds floating up from the surface of the earth. This ship must have caught some slight noise of ours, however, in its sensitive instruments, for we heard its electronic devices go into play, and picked up the routine report of the noise to its Base Ship Commander. But from the nature of the conversation, I judged they had not identified it, and were, in fact, more curious about the detonations they were picking up now from the Bad Blood lands some sixty miles or so to the west. Immediately after this ship had shot by, we took the air again, and following much the same route that I had taken the previous night, climbed in a long semi-circle out over the ocean, swung toward the north and finally the west. We set our course, however, for the Sinsings' land north of Nu-yok, instead of for the city itself. CHAPTER XII The Finger of Doom As we crossed the Hudson River, a few miles north of the city, we dropped several units of the Yellow Intelligence Division, with full instrumental equipment. Their apparatus cases were nicely balanced at only a few ounces weight each, and the men used their chute capes to ease their drops. We recrossed the river a little distance above and began dropping White Intelligence units and a few long and short range gun units. Then we held our position until we began to get reports. Gradually we ringed the territory of the Sinsings, our observation units working busily and patiently at their locators and scopes, both aloft and aground, until Garlin finally turned to me with the remark: "The map circle is complete now, Boss. We've got clear locations all the way around them." "Let me see it," I replied, and studied the illuminated viewplate map, with its little overlapping circles of light that indicated spots proved clear of the enemy by ultroscopic observation. I nodded to Bill Hearn. "Go ahead now, Hearn," I said, "and place your barrage men." He spoke into his ultrophone, and three of the ships began to glide in a wide ring around the enemy territory. Every few seconds, at the word from his Unit Boss, a gunner would drop off the wire, and slipping the clasp of his chute cape, drift down into the darkness below. Bill formed two lines, parallel to and facing the river, and enclosing the entire territory of the enemy between them. Above and below, straddling the river, were two defensive lines. These latter were merely to hold their positions. The others were to close in toward each other, pushing a high-explosive barrage five miles ahead of them. When the two barrages met, both lines were to switch to short-vision-range barrage and continue to close in on any of the enemy who might have drifted through the previous curtain of fire. In the meantime Bill kept his reserves, a picked corps of a hundred men (the same that had accompanied Hart and myself in our fight with the Han squadron) in the air, divided about equally among the "kite-tails" of four ships. A final roll call, by units, companies, divisions and functions, established the fact that all our forces were in position. No Han activity was reported, and no Han broadcasts indicated any suspicion of our expedition. Nor was there any indication that the Sinsings had any knowledge of the fate in store for them. The idling of rep-ray generators was reported from the center of their camp, obviously those of the ships the Hans had given them--the price of their treason to their race. Again I gave the word, and Hearn passed on the order to his subordinates. Far below us, and several miles to the right and left, the two barrage lines made their appearance. From the great height to which we had risen, they appeared like lines of brilliant, winking lights, and the detonations were muffled by the distances into a sort of rumbling, distant thunder. Hearn and his assistants were very busy: measuring, calculating, and snapping out ultrophone orders to unit commanders that resulted in the straightening of lines and the closing of gaps in the barrage. The White Division Boss reported the utmost confusion in the Sinsing organization. They were, as might be expected, an inefficient, loosely disciplined gang, and repeated broadcasts for help to neighboring gangs. Ignoring the fact that the Mongolians had not used explosives for many generations, they nevertheless jumped at the conclusion that they were being raided by the Hans. Their frantic broadcasts persisted in this thought, despite the nervous electrophonic inquiries of the Hans themselves, to whom the sound of the battle was evidently audible, and who were trying to locate the trouble. At this point, the swooper I had sent south toward the city went into action as a diversion, to keep the Hans at home. Its "kite-tail" loaded with long-range gunners, using the most highly explosive rockets we had, hung invisible in the darkness of the sky and bombarded the city from a distance of about five miles. With an entire city to shoot at, and the object of creating as much commotion therein as possible, regardless of actual damage, the gunners had no difficulty in hitting the mark. I could see the glow of the city and the stabbing flashes of exploding rockets. In the end, the Hans, uncertain as to what was going on, fell back on a defensive policy, and shot their "hell cylinder," or wall of upturned disintegrator rays into operation. That, of course, ended our bombardment of them. The rays were a perfect defense, disintegrating our rockets as they were reached. If they had not sent out ships before turning on the rays, and if they had none within sufficient radius already in the air, all would be well. I queried Garlin on this, but he assured me Yellow Intelligence reported no indications of Han ships nearer than 800 miles. This would probably give us a free hand for a while, since most of their instruments recorded only imperfectly or not at all, through the death wall. Requisitioning one of the viewplates of the headquarters ship, and the services of an expert operator, I instructed him to focus on our lines below. I wanted a close-up of the men in action. He began to manipulate his controls and chaotic shadows moved rapidly across the plate, fading in and out of focus, until he reached an adjustment that gave me a picture of the forest floor, apparently 100 feet wide, with the intervening branches and foliage of the trees appearing like shadows that melted into reality a few feet above the ground. I watched one man setting up his long-gun with skillful speed. His lips pursed slightly as though he were whistling, as he adjusted the tall tripod on which the long tube was balanced. Swiftly he twirled the knobs controlling the aim and elevation of his piece. Then, lifting a belt of ammunition from the big box, which itself looked heavy enough to break down the spindly tripod, he inserted the end of it in the lock of his tube and touched the proper combination of buttons. Then he stepped aside, and occupied himself with peering carefully through the trees ahead. Not even a tremor shook the tube, but I knew that at intervals of something less than a second, it was discharging small projectiles which, traveling under their own continuously reduced power, were arching into the air, to fall precisely five miles ahead and explode with the force of eight-inch shells, such as we used in the First World War. Another gunner, fifty feet to the right of him, waved a hand and called out something to him. Then, picking up his own tube and tripod, he gauged the distance between the trees ahead of him, and the height of their lowest branches, and bending forward a bit, flexed his muscles and leaped lightly, some twenty-five feet. Another leap took him another twenty feet or so, where he began to set up his piece. I ordered my observer then to switch to the barrage itself. He got a close focus on it, but this showed little except a continuous series of blinding flashes, which, from the viewplate, lit up the entire interior of the ship. An eight-hundred-foot focus proved better. I had thought that some of our French and American artillery of the 20th Century had achieved the ultimate in mathematical precision of fire, but I had never seen anything to equal the accuracy of that line of terrific explosions as it moved steadily forward, mowing down trees as a scythe cuts grass (or used to 500 years ago), literally churning up the earth and the splintered, blasted remains of the forest giants, to a depth of from ten to twenty feet. By now the two curtains of fire were nearing each other, lines of vibrant, shimmering, continuous, brilliant destruction, inevitably squeezing the panic-stricken Sinsings between them. Even as I watched, a group of them, who had been making a futile effort to get their three rep-ray machines into the air, abandoned their efforts, and rushed forth into the milling mob. I queried the Control Boss sharply on the futility of this attempt of theirs, and learned that the Hans, apparently in doubt as to what was going on, had continued to "play safe," and broken off their power broadcast, after ordering all their own ships east of the Alleghenies to the ground, for fear these ships they had traded to the Sinsings might be used against them. Again I turned to my viewplate, which was still focussed on the central section of the Sinsing works. The confusion of the traitors was entirely that of fear, for our barrage had not yet reached them. Some of them set up their long-guns and fired at random over the barrage line, then gave it up. They realized that they had no target to shoot at, no way of knowing whether our gunners were a few hundred feet or several miles beyond it. Their ultrophone men, of whom they did not have many, stood around in tense attitudes, their helmet phones strapped around their ears, nervously fingering the tuning controls at their belts. Unquestionably they must have located some of our frequencies, and overheard many of our reports and orders. But they were confused and disorganized. If they had an Ultrophone Boss they evidently were not reporting to him in an organized way. They were beginning to draw back now before our advancing fire. With intermittent desperation, they began to shoot over our barrage again, and the explosions of their rockets flashed at widely scattered points beyond. A few took distance "pot shots." Oddly enough it was our own forces that suffered the first casualties in the battle. Some of these distance shots by chance registered hits, while our men were under strict orders not to exceed their barrage distances. Seen upon the ultroscope viewplate, the battle looked as though it were being fought in daylight, perhaps on a cloudy day, while the explosions of the rockets appeared as flashes of extra brilliance. The two barrage lines were not more than five hundred feet apart when the Sinsings resorted to tactics we had not foreseen. We noticed first that they began to lighten themselves by throwing away extra equipment. A few of them in their excitement threw away too much, and shot suddenly into the air. Then a scattering few floated up gently, followed by increasing numbers, while still others, preserving a weight balance, jumped toward the closing barrages and leaped high, hoping to clear them. Some succeeded. We saw others blown about like leaves in a windstorm, to crumple and drift slowly down, or else to fall into the barrage, their belts blown from their bodies. However, it was not part of our plan to allow a single one of them to escape and find his way to the Hans. I quickly passed the word to Bill Hearn to have the alternate men in his line raise their barrages and heard him bark out a mathematical formula to the Unit Bosses. We backed off our ships as the explosions climbed into the air in stagger formation until they reached a height of three miles. I don't believe any of the Sinsings who tried to float away to freedom succeeded. But we did know later, that a few who leaped the barrage got away and ultimately reached Nu-yok. It was those who managed to jump the barrage who gave us the most trouble. With half of our long-guns turned aloft, I foresaw we would not have enough to establish successive ground barrages and so ordered the barrage back two miles, from which positions our "curtains" began to close in again, this time, however, gauged to explode, not on contact, but thirty feet in the air. This left little chance for the Sinsings to leap either over or under it. Gradually, the two barrages approached each other until they finally met, and in the grey dawn the battle ended. Our own casualties amounted to forty-seven men in the ground forces, eighteen of whom had been slain in hand to hand fighting with the few of the enemy who managed to reach our lines, and sixty-two in the crew and "kite-tail" force of swooper No. 4, which had been located by one of the enemy's ultroscopes and brought down with long-gun fire. Since nearly every member of the Sinsing Gang had, so far as we knew, been killed, we considered the raid a great success. It had, however, a far greater significance than this. To all of us who took part in the expedition, the effectiveness of our barrage tactics definitely established a confidence in our ability to overcome the Hans. As I pointed out to Wilma: "It has been my belief all along, dear, that the American explosive rocket is a far more efficient weapon than the disintegrator ray of the Hans, once we can train all our gangs to use it systematically and in co-ordinated fashion. As a weapon in the hands of a single individual, shooting at a mark in direct line of vision, the rocket-gun is inferior in destructive power to the dis ray, except as its range may be a little greater. The trouble is that to date it has been used only as we used our rifles and shot guns in the 20th Century. The possibilities of its use as artillery, in laying barrages that advance along the ground, or climb into the air, are tremendous. "The dis ray inevitably reveals its source of emanation. The rocket gun does not. The dis ray can reach its target only in a straight line. The rocket may be made to travel in an arc, over intervening obstacles, to an unseen target. "Nor must we forget that our ultronists now are promising us a perfect shield against the dis ray in inertron." "I tremble though, Tony dear, when I think of the horrors that are ahead of us. The Hans are clever. They will develop defenses against our new tactics. And they are sure to mass against us not only the full force of their power in America, but the united forces of the World Empire. They are a cowardly race in one sense, but clever as the very Devils in Hell, and inheritors of a calm, ruthless, vicious persistency." "Nevertheless," I prophesied, "the Finger of Doom points squarely at them today, and unless you and I are killed in the struggle, we shall live to see America blast the Yellow Blight from the face of the Earth." THE END. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ August 1928. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of Project Gutenberg's Armageddon--2419 A.D., by Philip Francis Nowlan Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Where does Alabama meet Clarence for the first time?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The story is a movie script, specifically the script for the movie "True Romance" (1993) directed by Tony Scott and written by Quentin Tarantino. The story revolves around Clarence Worley, a young man who falls in love with Alabama Whitman, a call girl, and gets involved in a series of events that lead to a violent confrontation with a group of gangsters. The story also features a number of subplots, including Clarence's relationship with his father, his friendship with Dick Ritchie, and the involvement of a number of other characters, including Vincenzo Coccotti, a Sicilian gangster, and Lee Donowitz, a movie producer. The story is known for its non-linear narrative, witty dialogue, and graphic violence. It features a number of memorable characters, including Clarence, Alabama, Dick, and Vincenzo, and explores themes of love, loyalty, and redemption. The script is written in a style that is characteristic of Tarantino's work, with a focus on dialogue and a non-linear narrative structure. It features a number of homages to other movies and TV shows, including "The Godfather" and "The Sopranos." The story takes place in a number of locations, including Detroit, Los Angeles, and the Beverly Wilshire hotel. It features a number of action sequences, including a shootout at the Beverly Wilshire hotel, and a number of dramatic moments, including Clarence's confrontation with Vincenzo. The script is notable for its use of violence and profanity, and has been praised for its originality and style. It has been compared to other Tarantino movies, including "Pulp Fiction" and "Reservoir Dogs." The story is also notable for its use of music, including a number of songs by Elvis Presley. The script features a number of references to Elvis, including a scene in which Clarence and Alabama sing a duet of "Can't Help Falling in Love." The story has been praised for its originality and style, and has been compared to other Tarantino movies. It has also been criticized for its graphic violence and profanity. The script is written in a style that is characteristic of Tarantino's work, with a focus on dialogue and a non-linear narrative structure. It features a number of homages to other movies and TV shows, including "The Godfather" and "The Sopranos." The story takes place in a number of locations, including Detroit, Los Angeles, and the Beverly Wilshire hotel. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "At a Detroit theater. " ]	29,635	narrativeqa	en	null	ac44a02780985754f0c439cdc0fa9b0ed3a9f80e76da0304	<b><HTML> <HEAD> <TITLE>TRUE ROMANCE</TITLE> </b><LINK rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"> <META http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <style type="text/css"> BODY { background-color: "#FFFFFF"; font-family: Courier New, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size:10.0pt } DIV { position:absolute; left:5px; top:20px; width:734px; height:500px; } #loc { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.2in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in;text-transform:uppercase } #slug { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal; margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.2in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in; text-transform:uppercase; <b> </b><b>} </b> #act { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.8in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in } #speaker { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:2.8in;text-transform:uppercase } #spkdir { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:2.7in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:2.2in } #dia { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:2.6in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:1.6in } #pg { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.75in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:6.5in } #right { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:0.75in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:5.0in } </style> <div id="Layer1"> <b></HEAD> </b> <b><BODY> </b></p><p><p ID="act">True Romance </p><p><p ID="act">by Quentin Tarantino </p><p><p ID="act">When you are tired of relationships, try a romance. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BAR - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A smoky cocktail bar downtown Detroit. </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE WORLEY, a young hipster hepcat, is trying to pick up an older lady named LUCY. She isn't bothered by him, in fact, she's alittle charmed. But, you can tell, that she isn't going to leave her barstool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In "Jailhouse Rock" he's everything rockabilly's about. I mean he is rockabilly: mean, surly, nasty, rude. In that movie he couldn't give a fuck about anything except rockin' and rollin', livin' fast, dyin' young, and leaving a good-looking corpse. I love that scene where after he's made it big he's throwing a big cocktail party, and all these highbrows are there, and he's singing, "Baby You're So Square... Baby, I Don't Care". Now, they got him dressed like a dick. He's wearing these stupid-lookin' pants, this horrible sweater. Elvis ain't no sweater boy. I even think they got him wearin' penny loafers. Despite all that shit, all the highbrows at the party, big house, the stupid clothes, he's still a rude-lookin' motherfucker. I'd watch that hillbilly and I'd want to be him so bad. Elvis looked good. I'm no fag, but Elvis was good-lookin'. He was fuckin' prettier than most women. I always said if I ever had to fuck a guy... I mean had too 'cause my life depended on it... I'd fuck Elvis. </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy takes a drag from her cigarette. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">I'd fuck Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">When he was alive. I wouldn't fuck him now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I don't blame you. <P ID="spkdir">(they laugh) <P ID="dia">So we'd both fuck Elvis. It's nice to meet people with common interests, isn't it? </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy laughs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, enough about the King, how 'bout you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">How 'bout me what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How 'bout you go to the movies with me tonight? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">What are we gonna see? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A Donny Chiba triple feature. "The Streetfighter", "Return of the Streetfighter", and "Sister Streetfighter". </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">Who's Sonny Chiba? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He is, bar none, the greatest actor working in martial arts movies ever. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="spkdir">(not believing this) <P ID="dia">You wanna take me to a kung fu movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(holding up three fingers) <P ID="dia">Three kung fu movies. </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy takes a drag from her cigarette. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">I don't think so, not my cup of tea. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DINGY HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The sounds of the city flow in through an open window: car horns, gun shots and violence. Paint is peeling off the walls and the once green carpet is stained black. </p><p><p ID="act">On the bed nearby is a huge open suitcase filled with clear plastic bags of cocaine. Shotguns and pistols have been dropped carelessly around the suitcase. On the far end of the room, against the wall, is a TV. "Bewitched" is playing. </p><p><p ID="act">At the opposite end of the room, by the front, is a table. DREXL SPIVEY and FLOYD DIXON sit around. Cocaine is on the table as well as little plastic bags and a weigher. Floyd is black, Drexl is a white boy, though you wouldn't know it listen to him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, get outta my face with that bullshit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw man, I don't be eatin' that shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">That's bullshit. </p><p><p ID="act">BIG DON WATTS, a stout, mean-looking black man who's older than Drexl and Floyd. Walks through the door carrying hamburgers and french fries in two greasy brown-paper bags. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw man, that's some serious shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, you lie like a big dog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">What the fuck are you talkin' about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Floyd say he don't be eatin' pussy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Shit, any nigger say he don't eat pussy is lyin' his ass off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">I heard that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Hold on a second, Big D. You sayin' you eat pussy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Nigger, I eat everything. I eat pussy. I eat the butt. I eat every motherfuckin' thang. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Preach on, Big D. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Look here. If I ever did eat some pussy - I would never eat any pussy - but, if I did eat some pussy, I sure as hell wouldn't tell no goddamn body. I'd be ashamed as a motherfucker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Shit! Nigger you smoke enough sherm your dumb ass'll do a lot a crazy ass things. So you won't eat pussy? Motherfucker, you be up there suckin' niggers' dicks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Heard that. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D bump fists. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yeah, that's right, laugh. It's so funny, oh it's so funny. <P ID="spkdir">(he takes a hit off of a joint) <P ID="dia">There used to be a time when sisters didn't know shit about gettin' their pussy licked. Then the sixties came an' they started fuckin' around with white boys. And white boys are freaks for that shit - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">- Because it's good! </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Then, after a while sisters use to gettin' their little pussy eat. And because you white boys had to make pigs out of yourselves, you fucked it up for every nigger in the world everywhere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Drexl. On behalf of me and all the brothers who aren't here, I'd like to express our gratitude - </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D bust up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Go on pussy-eaters... laugh. You look like you be eatin' pussy. You got pussy-eatin' mugs. Now if a nigger wants to get his dick sucked he's got to do a bunch of fucked-up shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">So you do eat pussy! </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw naw! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">You don't like it, but you eat that shit. <P ID="spkdir">(to Drexl) <P ID="dia">He eats it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Damn skippy. He like it, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(mock English accent) <P ID="dia">Me thinketh he doth protest too much. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Well fuck you guys then! You guys are fucked up! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Why you trippin'? We jus' fuckin' with ya. But I wanna ask you a question. You with some fine bitch, I mean a brick shithouse bitch - you're with Jayne Kennedy. You're with Jayne Kennedy and you say "Bitch, suck my dick!" and then Jayne Kennedy says, "First things first, nigger, I ain't suckin' shit till you bring your ass over here and lick my bush!" Now, what do you say? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I tell Jayne Kennedy, "Suck my dick or I'll beat your ass!" </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Nigger, get real. You touch Jayne Kennedy she'll have you ass in Wayne County so fast - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, back off, you ain't beatin' shit. Now what would you do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I'd say fuck it! </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D get up from the table disgusted and walk away, leaving Floyd sitting all alone. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D sits on the bed, his back turned to Floyd, watching "Bewitched". </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="spkdir">(yelling after them) <P ID="dia">Ain't no man have to eat pussy! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(not even looking) <P ID="dia">Take that shit somewhere else. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(marching back) <P ID="dia">You tell Jayne Kennedy to fuck it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">If it came down to who eats who, damn skippy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">With that terrible mug of yours if Jayne Kennedy told you to eat her pussy, kiss her ass, lick her feet, chow on her shit, and suck her dog's dick, nigger, you'd aim to please. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(glued on TV) <P ID="dia">I'm hip. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">In fact, I'm gonna show you what I mean with a little demonstration. Big D, toss me that shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Without turning away from "Bewitched" he picks up the shotgun and tosses it to Drexl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Floyd) <P ID="dia">All right, check this out. <P ID="spkdir">(referring to shotgun) <P ID="dia">Now, pretend this is Jayne Kennedy. And you're you. </p><p><p ID="act">Then, in a blink, he points the shotgun at Floyd and blows him away. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D leaps off the bed and spins toward Drexl. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl, waiting for him, fires from across the room. </p><p><p ID="act">The blast hits the big man in the right arm and shoulder, spinning him around. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl makes a beeline for his victim and fires again. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D is hit with a blast, full in the back. He slams into the wall and drops. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl collects the suitcase full of cocaine and leaves. As he gets to the front door he surveys the carnage, spits and walks out. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. CLIFF'S MOVING CAR - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">A big white Chevy Nova is driving down the road with a sunrise sky as a backdrop. The song "Little Bitty Tear" is heard a capella. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLIFF'S MOVING CAR - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff Worley is driving his car home from work, singing this song gently to the sunrise. He's a forty-five-years-old ex-cop, at present a security guard. In between singing he takes sips from a cup of take-out coffee. He's dressed in a security guard uniform. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER PARK - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's Nova pulls in as he continues crooning. He pulls up to his trailer to see something that stops him short. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's POV Through windshield </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and a nice-looking YOUNG WOMAN are watching for him in front of his trailer. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - CLIFF </p><p><p ID="act">Upon seeing Clarence, a little bitty tear rolls down Cliff's cheek. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLIFF'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Young Woman walk over to the car. Clarence sticks his face through the driver's side window. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Good Morning, Daddy. Long time no see. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">All three enter the trailer home. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Excuse the place, I haven't been entertaining company as of late. Sorry if I'm acting a little dense, but you're the last person in the world I expected to see this morning. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Young Girl walk into the living room. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, well, tha's OK, Daddy, I tend to have that effect on people. I'm dyin' on thirst, you got anything to drink? </p><p><p ID="act">He moves past Cliff and heads straight for his refridgerator. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I think there's a Seven-Up in there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(rumaging around the fridge) <P ID="dia">Anything stronger? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Oh, probably not. Beer? You can drink beer, can't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I can, but I don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(closing the fridge) <P ID="dia">That's about all I ever eat. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff looks at the Girl. She smiles sweetly at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="spkdir">(to Girl) <P ID="dia">I'm sorry... I'm his father. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG GIRL <P ID="spkdir">(sticking her hand out) <P ID="dia">That's OK, I'm his wife. <P ID="spkdir">(shaking his hand vigorously) <P ID="dia">Alabama Worley, pleased to meetcha. </p><p><p ID="act">She is really pumping his arm, just like a used-car salesman. However, that's where the similarities end; Alabama's totally sincere. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence steps back into the living room, holding a bunch of little ceramic fruit magnets in his hand. He throws his other arm around Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh yeah, we got married. <P ID="spkdir">(referring to the magnets) <P ID="dia">You still have these. <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">This isn't a complete set; when I was five I swallowed the pomegranate one. I never shit it out, so I guess it's still there. Loverdoll, why don't you be a sport and go get us some beer. I want some beer. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Do you want some beer? Well, if you want some it's here. </p><p><p ID="act">He hands her some money and his car keys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Go to the liquor store - <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Where is there a liquor store around here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Uh, yeah... there's a party store down 54th. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Get a six-pack of something imported. It's hard to tell you what to get 'cause different places have different things. If they got Fosters, get that, if not, ask the guy at the thing what the strongest imported beer he has. Look, since you're making a beer run, would you mind too terribly if you did a foot run as well. I'm fuckin' starvin' to death. Are you hungry too? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm pretty hungry. When I went to the store I was gonna get some Ding-Dongs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, fuck that shit, we'll get some real food. What would taste good. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">What do you think would taste good? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I'm really not very - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know what would taste good? Chicken. I haven't had chicken in a while. Chicken would really hit the spot about now. Chicken and beer, definitly, absolutely, without a doubt. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Where's a good chicken place around here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I really don't know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't know the chicken places around where you live? <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Ask the guy at the place where a chicken place is. </p><p><p ID="act">He gives her some more money. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This should cover it, Auggie-Doggie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Okee-dokee, Doggie-Daddy. </p><p><p ID="act">She opens the door and starts out. Clarence turns to his dad as the door shuts. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Isn't she the sweetest goddamned girl you ever saw in your whole life? Is she a four alarm fire, or what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">She seems very nice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Daddy. Nice isn't the word. Nice is an insult. She's a peach. That's the only word for it, she's a peach. She even tastes like a peach. You can tell I'm in love with her. You can tell by my face, can't ya? It's a dead giveaway. It's written all over it. Ya know what? She loves me back. Take a seat, Pop, we gotta talk - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Clarence, just shut up, you're giving me a headache! I can't believe how much like your mother you are. You're your fuckin' mother through and through. I haven't heard from ya in three years. Then ya show up all of a sudden at eight o'clock in the morning. You walk in like a goddamn bulldozer... don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see you... just slow it down. Now, when did you get married? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Daddy, I'm in big fuckin' trouble and I really need your help. </p><p><p ID="act">BLACK TITLE CARD: "HOLLYWOOD" </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. OUTSIDE OF CASTING DIRECTOR'S OFFICER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">FOUR YOUNG ACTORS are sitting on a couch with sheets of paper in their hands silently mouthing lines. One of the actors is DICK RITCHIE. The casting director, MARY LOUISE RAVENCROFT, steps into the waiting room, clip board in hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Dick Ritchie? </p><p><p ID="act">Dick pops up from the pack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'm me... I mean, that's me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Step inside. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CASTING DIRECTOR'S OFFICE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">She sits behind a large desk. Her name-plate rests on the desktop. Several posters advertising "The Return of T.J. Hooker" hang on the wall. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick sits in a chair, holding his sheets in his hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Well, the part you're reading for is one of the bad guys. There's Brian and Marty. Peter Breck's already been cast as Brian. And you're reading for the part of Marty. Now in this scene you're both in a car and Bill Shatner's hanging on the hood. And what you're trying to do is get him off. <P ID="spkdir">(she picks a up a copy of the script) <P ID="dia">Whenever you're ready. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(reading and miming driving) <P ID="dia">Where'd you come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="spkdir">(reading from the script lifelessly) <P ID="dia">I don't know. He just appeared as magic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(reading from script) <P ID="dia">Well, don't just sit there, shoot him. </p><p><p ID="act">She puts her script down, and smiles at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">That was very good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">If we decided on making him a New York type, could you do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Sure. No problem. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Could we try it now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Absolutely. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick picks up the script and begins, but this time with a Brooklyn accent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Where'd he come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="spkdir">(monotone, as before) <P ID="dia">I don't know. He just appeared as magic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, don't just sit there, shoot him. </p><p><p ID="act">Ravencroft puts her script down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Well, Mr. Ritchie, I'm impressed. You're a very fine actor. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick smiles. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's completely aghast. He just stares, unable to come to grips with what Clarence has told him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, I don't know this is pretty heavy-duty, so if you wanna explode, feel free. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You're always making jokes. That's what you do, isn't it? Make jokes. Making jokes is the one thing you're good at, isn't it? But if you make a joke about this - <P ID="spkdir">(raising his voice) <P ID="dia">- I'm gonna go completely out of my fuckin' head! </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff pauses and collects himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What do you want from me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Stop acting like an infant. You're here because you want me to help you in some way. What do you need from me? You need money? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you still have friends on the force? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yes, I still have friends on the force. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Could you find out if they know anythin'? I don't know they know shit about us. But I don't wanna think, I wanna know. You could find out for sure what's goin' on. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Daddy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What makes you think I could do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You were a cop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What makes you think I would do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm your son. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You got it all worked out, don't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, goddamnit, I never asked you for a goddamn thing! I've tried to make your parental obligation as easy as possible. After Mom divorced you, did I ask you for anything? When I wouldn't see ya for six months to a year at a time, did you ever get your shit about it? No, it was always "OK", "No problem", "You're a busy guy, I understand". The whole time you were a drunk, did I ever point my finger at you and talk shit? No! Everybody else did. I never did. You see, I know that you're just a bad parent. You're not really very good at it. But I know you love me. I'm basically a pretty resourceful guy. If I didn't really need it I wouldn't ask. And if you say no, don't worry about it. I'm gone. No problems. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks in through the door carrying a shopping bag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">The forager's back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank God. I could eat a horse if you slap enough catsup on it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I didn't get any chicken. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's nine o'clock in the morning. Nothing's open. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - BEDROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's on the telephone in his bedroom, pacing as he talks. The living room od the trailer can be seen from his doorway, where Clarence and Alabama are horsing around. They giggle and cut up throughout the scene. As Cliff talks, all the noise and hubbub of a police station comes through over the line. He's talking to DETECTIVE WILSON, an old friend of his from the force. </p><p><p ID="act">We see both inside the conversation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">It's about that pimp that was shot a couple of days ago, Drexl Spivey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">What about him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Well, Ted, to tell you the truth, I found out through the grapevine that it might be, and I only said might be, the Drexl Spivey that was responsible for that restaurant break-in on Riverdale. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">Are you still working security for Foster & Langley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah, and the restaurant's on my route. And you know, I stuck my nose in for the company to try to put a stop to some of these break-ins. Now, while I have no proof, the name Drexl Spivey kept comin' up Who's case is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">McTeague. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I don't know him. Is he a nice guy? You think he'll help me out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">I don't see why not. When you gonna come round and see my new place? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You and Robin moved? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">Shit, are you behind. Me and Robin got a divorce six months ago. Got myself a new place - mirrors all over the bedroom, ceiling fans above the bed. Guy'd have to look as ugly as King Kong not to get laid in this place. I'm serious, a guy'd have to look like a gorilla. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER HOME - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Cliff stand by Clarence's 1965 red Mustang. Alabama's amusing herself by doing cartwheels and handstands in the background. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">They have nothing. In fact, they think it's drug related. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do tell. Why drug related? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Apparently, Drexl had a big toe stuck in shit like that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No shit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah. Drexl had an association with a fella named Blue Lou Boyle. Name mean anything to you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">If you don't hang around in this circle, no reason it should. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who is he? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Gangster. Drug Dealer. Somebody you don't want on your ass. Look, Clarence, the more I hear about this Drexl fucker, the more I think you did the right thing. That guy wasn't just some wild flake. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's what I've been tellin' ya. The guy was like a mad dog. So the cops aren't looking for me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Naw, until they hear something better they'll assume Drexl and Blue Lou had a falling out. So, once you leave twon, I wouldn't worry about it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sticks his hand out to shake. Cliff takes it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot, Daddy. You really came through for me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I got some money I can give you - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Keep it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Well, son, I want you to know I hope everything works out with you and Alabama. I like her. I think you make a cute couple. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We do make a cute couple, don't we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah, well, just stay outta trouble. Remeber, you got a wife to think about. Quit fuckin' around. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I love you son. </p><p><p ID="act">They hug each other, </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes a pice of paper out and puts it into Cliff's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This is Dick's number in Hollywood. We don't know where we'll be, but you can get a hold of me through him. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns toward Alabama and yells to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Bama, we're outta here. Kiss Pops goodbye, </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama runs across from where she was and throws her arms around Cliff and gives him a big smackeroo on the lips. Cliff's a little startled. Alabama's bubbling like a Fresca. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye, Daddy! Hope to see you again real soon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(mock anger) <P ID="dia">What kind of daughterly smackeroo was that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, hush up. </p><p><p ID="act">The two get into the Mustang. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">We'll send you a postcard as soon as we get to Hollywood. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence starts the engine. The convertible roof opens as they talk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Bama, you take care of that one for me. Keep him out of trouble. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Don't worry, Daddy, I'm keepin' this fella on a short leash. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, slowly, starts driving away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">As the sun sets slowly in the west we bid a fond farewell to all the friends we've made... and, with a touch of melancholy, we look forward to the time when we will all be together again. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence peels out, shooting a shower of gravel up in the air. </p><p><p ID="act">As the Mustang disappears Cliff runs his tongue over his lips. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF </p><p><p ID="act">The-son-of-a-bitch was right... she does taste like a peach. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's apartment is standard issue for a young actor. Things are pretty neat and clean. A nice stereo unit sits on the shelf. A framed picture of a ballet dancer's feet hangs on the wall. </p><p><p ID="act">The phone rings, Dick answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick here. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOTEL SUITE - LAS VEGAS - SUNSET </p><p><p ID="act">Top floor, Las Vegas, Nevada hotel room with a huge picture window overlooking the neon-filled strip and the flaming red and orange sunset sky. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence paces up and down with the telephone in his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(big bopper voice) <P ID="dia">Heeeellllloooo baaaabbbbbyyyy!!! </p><p><p ID="act">Note: We intercut both sides of the conversation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(unsure) <P ID="dia">Clarence? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You got it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's great to hear from you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, you're gonna be seein' me shortly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You comin' to L.A.? When? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What's up? Why're leavin' Detroit? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sits down on the hotel room bed. Alabama, wearing only a long T-shirt with a big picture of Bullwinkle on it, crawls behind him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, there's a story behind all that. I'll tell you when I see you. By the way, I won't be alone. I'm bringing my wife with me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Get the fuck outta here! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm a married man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Get the fuck outta here! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Believe it or not, I actually tricked a girl into falling in love with me. I'm not quite sure how I did it. I'd hate to have to do it again. But I did it. Wanna say hi to my better half? </p><p><p ID="act">Before Dick can respond Clarence puts Alabama on the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick. I'm Alabama Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hello, Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I can't wait to meet you. Clarence told me all about you. He said you were his best friend. So, I guess that makes you my best friend, too. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence start dictating to her what to say. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him we gotta go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence says we gotta be hittin' it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him we'll be hittin' his area some time tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">He said don't go nowhere. We'll be there some time tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Wait a minute - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him not to eat anything. We're gonna scarf when we get there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Don't eat anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Alabama, could you tell Clar - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ask him if he got the letter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Did you get the letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">What letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The letter I sent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">The letter he sent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence sent a letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Has he gotten his mail today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Gotten your mail yet? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, my room-mate leaves it on the TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Has he looked through it yet? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Ya looked through it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Not yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Nope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him to look through it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Get it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Let me speak to Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">He wants to speak with you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No time. Gotta go. Just tell him to read the letter, the letter explains all. Tell him I love him. And tell him, as of tomorrow, all his money problems are over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">He can't. We gotta go, but he wants you to read the letter. The letter explains it all. He wants you to know he loves you. And he wants you to know that as of tomorrow, all of your money problems are over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Money problems? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now tell him goodbye. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye-bye. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now hang up. </p><p><p ID="act">She hangs up the phone. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick hears the click on the other end. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hello, hello, Clarence? Clarence's wife?... I mean Alabama... hello? </p><p><p ID="act">Extremely confused, Dick jangs up the phone. He goes over to the TV and picks up the day's mail. He goes through it. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Southern California Gas Company. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Group W. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Fossenkemp Photography. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Columbia Record and Tape Club. </p><p><p ID="act">LETTER: It's obviously from Clarence. Addressed to Dick. Dick opens it. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">A lower-middle-class trailer park named Astro World, which has a neon sign in front of it in the shape of a planet. </p><p><p ID="act">A big, white Chevy Nova pulls into the park. It parks by a trailer that's slightly less kept up than the others. Cliff gets out of the Chevy. He's drinking out of a fast-food soda cup as he opens the door to his trailer. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">He steps inside the doorway and then, before he knows it, a gun is pressed to his temple and a big hand grabs his shoulder. </p><p><P ID="speaker">GUN CARRIER (DARIO) <P ID="dia">Welcome home, alchy. We're havin' a party. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff is roughly shoved into his living room. Waiting for him are four men, standing: VIRGIL, FRANKIE (young Wise-guy) LENNY (an old Wise-guy), and Tooth-pick Vic (a fireplug pitbull type). </p><p><p ID="act">Sitting in Cliff's recliner is VINCENZO COCCOTTI, the Frank Nitti to Detroid mob leader Blue Lou Boyle. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff is knocked to his knees. He looks up and sees the sitting Coccotti. Dario and Lenny pick him up and roughly drop him in a chair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(to Frankie) <P ID="dia">Tell Tooth-pick Vic to go outside and do you-know-what. </p><p><p ID="act">In Italian Frankie tells Tooth-pick Vic what Coccotti said. He nods and exits. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's chair is moved closer to Coccotti's. Dario stands on one side of Cliff. Frankie and Lenny ransack the trailer. Virgil has a bottle of Chivas Regal in his hand, but he has yet to touch a drop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Do you know who I am, Mr. Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I give up. Who are you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm the Anti-Christ. You get me in a vendetta kind of mood, you will tell the angels in heaven that you had never seen pure evil so singularly personified as you did in the face of the man who killed you. My name is Vincenzo Coccotti. I work as a counsel for Mr. Blue Lou Boyle, the man your son stole from. I hear you were once a cop so I assume you've heard od us before. Am I correct? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I've heard of Blue Lou Boyle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm glad. Hopefully that will clear up the how-full-of-shit-I-am question you've been asking yourself. Now, we're gonna have a little Q and A, and, at the risk of sounding redundant, please make your answers genuine. <P ID="spkdir">(taking out a pack of Chesterfields) <P ID="dia">Want a Chesterfield? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(as he lights up) <P ID="dia">I have a son of my own. About you boy's age. I can imagine how painful this must be for you. But Clarence and that bitch-whore girlfriend of his brought this all on themselves. And I implore you not to go down the road with 'em. You can always take comfort in the fact that you never had a choice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Look, I'd help ya if I could, but I haven't seen Clarence - </p><p><p ID="act">Before Cliff can finish his sentence, Coccotti slams him hard in the nose with his fist. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Smarts, don't it? Gettin' slammed in the nose fucks you all up. You got that pain shootin' through your brain. Your eyes fill up with water. It ain't any kind of fun. But what I have to offer you. That's as good as it's ever gonna get, and it won't ever get that good again. We talked to your neighbors. They saw a Mustang, a red Mustang, Clarence's red Mustang, parked in front of your trailer yesterday. Mr. Worley, have you seen your son? </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's defeated. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I've seen him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Now I can't be sure of how much of what he told you. So in the chance you're in the dark about some of this, let me shed some light. That whore your boy hangs around with, her pimp is an associate of mine, and I don't just mean pimpin', in other affairs he works for me in a courier capacity. Well, apparently, that dirty little whore found out when we're gonna do some business, 'cause your son, the cowboy and his flame, came in the room blastin' and didn't stop till they were pretty sure everybody was dead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What are you talkin' about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm talkin' about a massacre. They snatched my narcotics and hightailed it outta there. Wouldda gotten away with it, but your son, fuckhead that he is, left his driver's license in a dead guy's hand. A whore hiding in the commode filled in all the blanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I don't believe you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">That's of minor importance. But what's of major fuckin' importance is that I believe you. Where did they go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">On their honeymoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm gettin' angry askin' the same question a second time. Where did they go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">They didn't tell me. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Now, wait a minute and listen. I haven't seen Clarence in three years. Yesterday he shows up here with a girl, sayin' he got married. He told me he needed some quick cash for a honeymoon, so he asked if he could borrow five hundred dollars. I wanted to help him out so I wrote out a check. We went to breakfast and that's the last I saw of him. So help me God. They never thought to tell me where they were goin'. And I never thought to ask. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him for a long moment. He then gives Virgil a look. Virgil, quick as greased lightning, grabs Cliff's hand and turns it palm up. He then whips out a butterfly knife and slices Cliff's palm open and pours Chivas Regal on the wound. Cliff screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti puffs on a Chesterfield. </p><p><p ID="act">Tooth-pic Vic returns to the trailer, and reports in Italian that there's nothing in the car. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil walks into the kitchen and gets a dishtowel. Cliff holds his bleeding palm in agony. Virgil hands him the dishtowel. Cliff uses it to wrap up his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Sicilians are great liars. The best in the world. I'm a Sicilian. And my old man was the world heavyweight champion of Sicilian liars. And from growin' up with him I learned the pantomime. Now there are seventeen different things a guy can do when he lies to give him away. A guy has seventeen pantomimes. A woman's got twenty, but a guy's got seventeen. And if you know 'em like ya know your own face, they beat lie detectors to hell. What we got here is a little game of show and tell. You don't wanna show me nothin'. But you're tellin' me everything. Now I know you know where they are. So tell me, before I do some damage you won't walk away from. </p><p><p ID="act">The awful pain in Cliff's hand is being replaced by the awful pain in his heart. He looks deep into Coccotti's eyes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Could I have one of those Chesterfields now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Sure. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti leans over and hands him a smoke. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Got a match? </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Oh, don't bother. I got one. <P ID="spkdir">(he lights the cigarette) <P ID="dia">So you're a Sicilian, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(intensly) <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You know I read a lot. Especially things that have to do with history. I find that shit fascinating. In fact, I don't know if you know this or not, Sicilians were spawned by niggers. </p><p><p ID="act">All the men stop what they were doing and look at Cliff, except for Tooth-pic Vic who doesn't speak English and so isn't insulted. Coccotti can't believe what he's hearing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Come again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">It's a fact. Sicilians have nigger blood pumpin' through their hearts. If you don't believe me, look it up. You see, hundreds and hundreds of years ago the Moors conquered Sicily. And Moors are niggers. Way back then, Sicilians were like the wops in northern Italy. Blond hair, blue eyes. But, once the Moors moved in there, they changed the whole country. They did so much fuckin' with the Sicilian women, they changed the blood-line for ever, from blond hair and blue eyes to black hair and dark skin. I find it absolutely amazing to think that to this day, hundreds of years later, Sicilians still carry that nigger gene. I'm just quotin' history. It's a fact. It's written. Your ancestors were niggers. Your great, great, great, great, great-grandmother was fucked by a nigger, and had a half-nigger kid. That is a fact. Now tell me, am I lyin'? </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him for a moment then jumps up, whips out an automatic, grabs hold of Cliff's hair, puts the barrel to his temple, and pumps three bullets through Cliff's head. </p><p><p ID="act">He pushes the body violently aside. Coccotti pauses. Unable to express his feelings and frustrated by the blood in his hands, he simply drops his weapon, and turns to his men. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I haven't killed anybody since 1974. Goddamn his soul to burn for eternity in fuckin' hell for makin' me spill blood on my hands! Go to this comedian's son's apartment and come back with somethin' that tells me where that asshole went so I can wipe this egg off of my face and fix this fucked-up family for good. </p><p><p ID="act">Tooth-pick Vic taps Frankie's shoulder and, in Italianm asks him what that was all about. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny, who has been going through Cliff's refridgerator, has found a beer. When he closes the refridgerator door he finds a note held on by a ceramic banana magnet that says: "Clarence in L.A.: Dick Ritchie (number and address)". </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Boss, get ready to get happy. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "CLARENCE AND ALABAMA HIT L.A." </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT- MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's asleep in a recliner. He's wearing his clothes from the night before. His room-mate FLOYD is lying on the sofa watching TV. </p><p><p ID="act">The sound of our hands knocking on his door wakes Dick up. He shakes the bats out of his belfry, opens the door, and finds the cutest couple in Los Angeles standing in his doorway. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama immediately start singing "Hello My Baby" like the frog in the old Chuck Jones cartoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE/ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Hello my baby, Hello my honey, Hello my ragtime gal - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hi guys. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama throws her arms around Dick, and gives him a quick kiss. After she breaks, Clarence does the same. Clarence and Alabama walk right past Dick and into his apartment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Wow. Neat place. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. PINK'S HOT-DOG STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The Pink's employees work like skilled Benihana chefs as they assemble the ultimate masterpiece hot-dog. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. PINK'S HOT-DOG STAND - PATIO - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, and Dick are sitting at an outdoor table chowing down on chili dogs. Alabama is in the middle of a story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">... when my mom went into labor, my dad panicked. He never had a kid before, and crashed the car. Now, picture this: their car's demolished, crowd is starting to gather, my mom is yelling, going into contractions, and my dad, who was losing it before, is now completely screaming yellow zonkers. Then, out of nowhere, as if from thin air, this big giant bus appears, and the bus-driver says, "Get her in here.". He forgot all about his route and just drove straight to the hospital. So, because he was such a nice guy, they wanted to name the baby after him, as a sign of gratitude. Well, his name was Waldo, and no matter how grateful they were, even if I'da been a boy, they would't call me Waldo. So they asked Waldo where he was from. And, so there you go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">And here we are. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">That's a pretty amazing story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, she's a pretty amazing girl. What are women like out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Just like in Detroit, only skinnier. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You goin' out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, for the past couple of years I've been goin' out with girls from my acting class. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Good for you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What's so fuckin' good about it? Actresses are the most fucked-in-the-head bunch of women in the world. It's like they gotta pass a test of emotional instability before they can get their SAG card. Oh, guess what? I had a really good reading for "T.J. Hooker" the other day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You're gonna be on "T.J. Hooker"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Knock wood. </p><p><p ID="act">He knocks the table and then looks at it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">... formica. I did real well. I think she liked me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did you meet Captain Kirk? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You don't meet him in the audition. That comes later. Hope, hope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(finishing her hot-dog) <P ID="dia">That was so good I am gonna have another. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You can't have just one. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama leaves to get another hot-dog. Clarence never takes his eyes off her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">How much of that letter was on the up and up? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Every word of it. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick sees where Clarence's attention is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You're really in love, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">For the very first time in my life. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Do you know what that's like? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is so intense Dick doesn't know how to answer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(regretfully) <P ID="dia">No, I don't <P ID="spkdir">(he looks at Alabama) <P ID="dia">How did you two meet? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence leans back thoughtfully and takes a sip from his Hebrew cream soda. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you remember The Lyric? </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Sonny Chiba, as "Streetfighter" Terry Surki, drives into a group of guys, fists and feet flying and whips ass on the silver screen. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sits, legs over the back of the chair in front of him, nibbling on popcorn, eyes big as sourcers, and a big smile on his face. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A cab pulls up to the outside of The Lyric. The marquee carries the names of the triple feature: "The Streetfighter", "Return of the Streetfighter" and "Sister Streetfighter". Alabama steps out of the taxi cab and walks up to the box office. </p><p><p ID="act">A box office girl reading comic looks at her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">One please. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BOX OFFICE GIRL <P ID="dia">Ninety-nine cents. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Which one is on now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BOX OFFICE GIRL <P ID="dia">"Return of the Streetfighter". It's been on about forty-five minutes. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - LOBBY - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks into the lobby and goes over to the concession stand. A young usher takes care of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Can I have a medium popcorn? A super-large Mr. Pibb, and a box of Goobers. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's still assholes and elbows on the screen with Sonny Chiba taking on all-comers. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks through the doors with her bounty of food. She makes a quick scan of the theater. Not many people are there. She makes a beeline for the front whick happens to be Clarence's area of choice. She picks the row of seats just behind Clarence and starts asking her way down it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns and sees this beautiful girl all alone moving towards him. He turns his attention back to the screen, trying not to be so obvious. </p><p><p ID="act">When Alabama gets right behind Clarence, her foot thunks a discarded wine bottle, causing her to trip and spill her popcorn over Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, look what happened. Oh god, I'm so sorry. Are you OK? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. I'm fine. It didn't hurt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm the clumsiest person in the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(picking popcorn out of his hair) <P ID="dia">It's OK. Don't worry about it. Accidents happen. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(picking popcorn out of his hair) <P ID="dia">What a wonderful philosophy. Thanks for being such a sweetheart. You could have been a real dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama sits back in her seat to watch the movie. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence tries to wipe her out of his mind, which isn't easy, and get back into the movie. </p><p><p ID="act">They both watch the screen for a moment. Then, Alabama leans forward and taps Clarence on the shoulder. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Excuse me... I hate to bother you again. Would you mind too terribly filling me in on what I missed? </p><p><p ID="act">Jumping on this opportunity. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Not at all. I, this guy here, he's Sonny Chiba. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">The oriental. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The oriental in black. He's an assasin. Now, at the beginning he was hired to kill this guy the cops had. So he got himself arrested. They take him into the police station. And he starts kickin' all the cops' asses. Now, while keepin' them at bay, he finds the guy he was supposed to kill. Does a number on him. Kicks the cops' asses some more. Kicks the bars out of the window. And jumps out into a getaway car that was waiting for him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Want some Goobers? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I thought Sonny was the good guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He ain't so much good guy as he's just a bad motherfucker. Sonny don't be bullshittin'. He fucks dudes up for life. Hold on, a fight scene's coming up. </p><p><p ID="act">They both watch, eyes wide, as Sonny Chiba kicks asses. </p><p><p ID="right">TIME CUT: </p><p><p ID="act">On the screen, Sonny Chiba's all jacked up. Dead bodies lie all around him. THE END (in Japanese) flashes on the screen. </p><p><p ID="act">The theater light go up. Alabama's now sitting in the next seat to Clarence. They're both applauding. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Great movie. Action-packed! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Does Sonny kick ass or does Sonny kick ass? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sonny kicks ass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You shoulda saw the first original uncut version of the "Streetfighter". It was the only movie up to that time rated X for violence. But we just saw the R. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">If that was the R, I'd love to see the X. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">My name is Clarence, and what is yours? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Alabama Whitman. Pleased to meet ya. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is that your real name? Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">That's my real name, really. I got proof. See. </p><p><p ID="act">She shows Clarence her driver's license. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, cut my legs off and call me Shorty. That's a pretty original moniker there, Alabama. Sounds like a Pam Grier movie. <P ID="spkdir">(announcer voice) <P ID="dia">She's a sixteen-calibre kitten, equally equipped for killin' an' lovin'! She carried a sawed-off shotgun in her purse, a black belt around her waist, and the white-hot fire of hate in her eyes! Alabama Whitman is Pam Grier! Pray for forgiveness, Rated R... for Ruthless Revenge! </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are outside the theater. With the marquee lit up in the background they both perform unskilled martial arts moves. Clarence and Alabama break up laughing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Where's your car? I'll walk you to it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I took a cab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You took a cab to see three kung fu movies? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sure. Why not? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nothing. It's just you're a girl after my own heart. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What time is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">'Bout twelve. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I suppose you gotta get up early, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No. Not particularly. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Well, it's just when I see a really good movie I really like to go out and get some pie, and talk about it. It's sort of tradition. Do you like to eat pie after you've seen a good movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I love to get pie after a movie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Would you like to get some pie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'd love some pie. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DENNY'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are sitting in a booth at an all-night Denny's. It's about 12:40 a.m. Clarence is having a piece of chocolate cream pie and a coke. Alabama's nibbling on a peace of heated apple pie and sipping on a large Tab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, enough about the King. How about you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How 'bout me what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell me about yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">There's nothing to tell. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">C'mon. What're ya tryin' to be? The Phantom Lady? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What do you want to know? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, for starters, what do you do? Where're ya from? What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite movie star? What kinda music do you like? What are your turn-ons and turn-offs? Do you have a fella? What's the story behind you takin' a cab to the most dangerous part of town alone? And, in a theater full of empty seats, why did you sit by me? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama takes a bite of pie, puts down her fork, and looks at Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Ask me them again. One by one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What do you do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't remember. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Where are you from. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Might be from Tallahassee. But I'm not sure yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's your favorite color? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't remember. But off the top of my head, I'd say black. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's your favorite movie star? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Burt Reynolds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Would you like a bite of my pie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yes, I would. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence scoops up a piece on his fork and Alabama bites it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Very much. Now, where were we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What kinda music do you like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Phil Spector. Girl group stuff. You know, like "He's a Rebel". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What are your turn-ons? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Mickey Rourke, somebody who can appreciate the finer things in life, like Elvis's voice, good kung fu, and a tasty piece of pie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Turn-offs? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm sure there must be something, but I don't really remember. The only thing that comes to mind are Persians. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you have a fella? </p><p><p ID="act">She looks at Clarence and smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm not sure yet. Ask me again later. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's the story behind you takin' a cab to the most dangerous part of town alone? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Apparently, I was hit on the head with something really heavy, giving me a form of amnesia. When I came to, I didn't know who I was, where I was, or where I came from. Luckily, I had my driver's license or I wouldn't even know my name. I hoped it would tell me where I lived but it had a Tallahassee address on it, and I stopped somebody on the street and they told me I was in Detroit. So that was no help. But I did have some money on me, so I hopped in a cab until I saw somethin' that looked familiar. For some reason, and don't ask me why, that theater looked familiar. So I told him to stop and I got out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">And in a theater full of empty seats, why did you sit by me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Because you looked like a nice guy, and I was a little scared. And I sure couldda used a nice guy about that time, so I spilled my popcorn on you. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at her closely. He picks up his soda and sucks on the straw until it makes that slurping sound. He puts it aside and stares into her soul. </p><p><p ID="act">A smile cracks on her face and develops into a big wide grin. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Aren't you just dazzled by my imagination, lover boy? <P ID="spkdir">(eats her last piece of pie) <P ID="dia">Where to next? </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. COMIC BOOK STORE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's about 1:30 a.m. Clarence has taken Alabama to where he works. It's a comic book store called Heroes For Sale. Alabama thinks this place is super-cool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Wow. What a swell place to work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, I got the key, so I come here at night, hang out, read comic books, play music. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How long have you worked here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Almost four years. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">That's a long time. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm hip. But you know, I'm comfortable here. It's easy work. I know what I'm doing. Everybody who works here is my buddy. I'm friendly with most of the customers. I just hang around and talk about comic books all day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Do you get paid a lot? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's where trouble comes into paradise. But the boss let's you borrow some money if you need it. Wanna see what "Spiderman" number one looks like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You bet. How much is that worth? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence gets a box off the shelf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Four hundred bucks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I didn't even know they had stores that just sold comic books. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, we sell other things too. Cool stuff. "Man from U.N.C.L.E." Lunch boxes. "Green Hornet" board games. Shit like that. But comic books are main business. There's a lot of collectors around here. </p><p><p ID="act">She holds up a little GI Joe sized action figure of a black policeman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's a "Rookies" doll. George Sanford Brown. We gotta lotta dolls. They're real cool. Did you know they came out with dolls for all the actors in "The Black Hole"? I always found it funny somewhere there's a kid playin' with a little figure of Earnest Borgnine. </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls a plastic-cased "Spiderman" comic form the box. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Spiderman", number one. The one that started it all. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence shows the comic book to Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">God, Spiderman looks different. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He was just born, remember? This is the first one. You know that guy, Dr. Gene Scott? He said that the story of Spiderman is the story of Christ, just disguised. Well, I thought about that even before I heard him say it. Hold on, let me show you my favorite comic book cover of all time. </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls out another comic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos". One of the coolest series known to man. They're completely worthless. You can get number one for about four bucks. But that's one of the cool things about them, they're so cheap. <P ID="spkdir">(he opens one up) <P ID="dia">Just look at that artwork, will ya. Great stories. Great Characters. Look at this one. </p><p><p ID="act">We see the "Sgt. Fury" panels. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nick's gotten a ring from his sweetheart and he wears it around his neck on a chain. OK, later in the story he gets into a fight with a Nazi bastard on a ship. He knocks the guy overboard, but the Kraut grabs ahold of his chain and the ring goes overboard too. So, Nick dives into the ocean to get it. Isn't that cool? </p><p><p ID="act">She's looking into Clarence's eyes. He turns and meets her gaze. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Alabama, I'd like you to have this. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence hands her the "Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos" comic book that he loves so much. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's bedroom is a pop culture explosion. Movie posters, pictures of Elvis, anything you can imagine. The two walk through the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What a cool room! </p><p><p ID="act">She runs and does a jumping somersault into his bed. </p><p><p ID="act">Later. Alabama's sitting Indian-style going through Clarence's photo album. Clarence is behind her planting little kisses on her neck and shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oooooh, you look so cute in your little cowboy outfit. How old were you then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Five. </p><p><p ID="act">She turns the page. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, you look so cute as little Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I finally knew what I wanted when I grew up. </p><p><p ID="act">LATER - LIVING ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama slow dance in the middle of his room to Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know when you sat behind me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">At the movies? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Uh-huh, I was tryin' to think of somethin' to say to you, then I thought, she doesn't want me bothering her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What would make you think that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I dunno. I guess I'm just stupid. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You're not stupid. Just wrong. </p><p><p ID="act">They move to the music. Alabama softly, quietly sings some of the words to the song. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I love Janis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, a lot of people have misconceptions of how she died. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">She OD'd, didn't she? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, she OD'd. But wasn't on her last legs or anythin'. She didn't take too much. It shouldn't have killed her. There was somethin' wrong with what she took. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You mean she got a bad batch? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's what happened. In fact, when she died, it was considered to be the happiest time of her life. She'd been fucked over so much by men she didn't trust them. She was havin' this relationship with this guy and he asked her to marry him. Now, other people had asked to marry her before, but she couldn't be sure whether they really loved her or were just after her money. So, she said no. And the guy says, "Look, I really love you, and I wanna prove it. So have your lawyers draw up a paper that says no matter what happens, I can never get any of your money, and I'll sign it." So she did, and he asked her, and she said yes. And once they were engaged he told her a secret about himself that she never knew: he was a millionaire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">So he really loved her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">It's the next day, around 1 p.m. Clarence wakes up in his bed, alone. He looks around, and no Alabama. Then he hears crying in the distance. He puts on a robe and investigates. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's wearing one of Clarence's old shirts. She's curled up in a chair crying. Clarence approaches her. She tries to compose herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's wrong, sweetheart? Did I do something? What did I do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You didn't do nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did you hurt yourself? <P ID="spkdir">(he takes her foot) <P ID="dia">Whatd'ya do? Step on a thumbtack? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence, I've got something to tell you. I didn't just happen to be at the theater. I was paid to be there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What are you, a theater checker? You check up on the box office girls. Make sure they're not rippin' the place off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm not a theater checker. I'm a call girl. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You're a whore? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm a call girl. There's a difference, ya know. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't know. Maybe there's not. That place you took me to last night, that comic book place. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Heroes For Sale"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yeah, that one. Somebody who works there arranged to have me meet you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't know. I didn't talk with them. The plan was for me to bump into you, pick you up, spend the night, and skip out after you fell asleep. I was gonna write you a note and say that this was my last day in America. That I was leaving on a plane this morning up to Ukraine to marry a rich millionaire, and thank you for making my last day in America my best day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That dazzling imagination. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's over on the TV. All it says is: "Dear Clarence." I couldn't write anymore. I didn't not want to ever see you again. In fact, it's stupid not to ever see you again. Las night... I don't know... I felt... I hadn't had that much fun since Girl Scouts. So I just said, "Alabama, come clean, Let him know what's what, and if he tells you to go fuck yourself then go back to Drexl and fuck yourself." </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who and what is a Drexl? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">My pimp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You have a pimp? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A real live pimp? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he black? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">He thinks he is. He says his mother was Apache, but I suspect he's lying. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he nice? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Well, I wouldn't go so far as to call him nice, but he's treated me pretty decent. But I've only been there about four days. He got a little rough with Arlene the other day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What did he do to Arlene? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Slapped her around a little. Punched her in the stomch. It was pretty scary. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This motherfucker sounds charming! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is on his feet, furious. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Goddamn it, Alabama, you gotta get the fuck outta there! How much longer before he's slappin' you around? Punchin' you in the stomach? How the fuck did you get hooked up with a douche-bag like this in the first place? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">At the bus station. He said I'd be a perfect call girl. And that he knew an agency in California that, on his recommendation, would handle me. They have a very exclusive clientele: movie stars, big businessmen, total white-collar. And all the girls in the agency get a grand a night. At least five hundred. They drive Porsches, live in condos, have stockbrokers, carry beepers, you know, like Nancy Allen in "Dressed to Kill". And when I was ready he'd call 'em, give me a plane ticket, and send me on my way. He says he makes a nice finder's fee for finding them hot prospects. But no one's gonna pay a grand a night for a girl who doesn't know whether to shit or wind her watch. So what I'm doin' for Drexl now is just sorta learnin' the ropes. It seemed like a lotta fun, but I don't really like it much, till last night. You were only my third trick, but you didn't feel like a trick. Since it was a secret, I just pretended I was on a date. An, um, I guess I want a second date. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank you. I wanna see you again too. And again, and again, and again. Bama, I know we haven't known each other long, but my parents went together all throughout high school, and they still got a divorce. So, fuck it, you wanna marry me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Will you be my wife? </p><p><p ID="act">When Alabama gives her answer, her voice cracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(a little surprised) <P ID="dia">You will? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You better not be fucking teasing me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You better not be fuckin' teasin' me. </p><p><p ID="act">They seal it with a kiss. </p><p><p ID="act">LATER - THAT NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Alabama's wedding ring. </p><p><p ID="act">The newlyweds are snuggling up together onthe couch watching TV. The movie they're watching is "The Incredible One-Armed Boxer vs. the Master of the Flying Guillotine". Alabama watches the screen, but every so often she looks down to admre the ring on her hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did ya ever see "The Chinese Professionals"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't believe so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, that's the one that explains how Jimmy Wang Yu became the Incredible One-Armed Boxer. </p><p><p ID="act">We hear, off screen, the TV Announcer say: </p><p><P ID="speaker">TV ANNOUNCER <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">We'll return to Jimmy Wang Yu in... "The Incredible One-Armed Boxer vs. the Master of the Flying Guillotine", tonight's eight o'clock movie, after these important messages... </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at the TV. He feels the warmth of Alabama's hand holding his. We see commercials playing. </p><p><p ID="act">He turns in her direction. She's absent-mindedly looking at her wedding ring. </p><p><p ID="act">He smiles and turns back to the TV. </p><p><p ID="act">More commercials. </p><p><p ID="act">Dolly close on Clarence's face </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, right after he proposed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You better not be fucking teasing me. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">In a cute, all-night wedding chapel. Clarence dressed in a rented tuxedo and Alabama in a rented white wedding gown. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama, dressed in tux and gown, doing a lover's waltz on a ballroom dance floor. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama in a taxi cab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Hello, Mrs. Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How do you do, Mr. Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Top o' the morning, Mrs. Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bottom of the ninth . Mr. Worley. Oh, by the by, Mr. Worley, have you seen your lovely wife today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh, you're speaking of my charming wife Mrs. Alabama Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Of course. Are there others, Mr. Worley? </p><p><p ID="act">Moving on top of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Not for me. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts kissing her and moving her down on the seat. She resists. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(playfully) <P ID="dia">No no no no no no no no no... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(playfully) <P ID="dia">Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes... </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">A big mean-looking black man in pimp's clothes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">Bitch, you better git yo ass back on the street an' git me my money. </p><p><p ID="act">Pimp on street corner with his arm around Alabama, giving her a sales pitch to a potential customer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">I'm tellin' you, my man, this bitch is fine. This girl's a freak! You can fuck 'er in the ass, fuck 'er in the mouth. Rough stuff, too. She's a freak for it. Jus' try not to fuck 'er up for life. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Pimp beating Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">You holdin' out on me, girl? Bitch, you never learn! </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama passionately kissing the uninterested pimp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">Hang it up, momma. I got no time for this bullshit. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">TV showing kung fu film. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's face. There's definitely something different about his eyes. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence springs off the couch and goes into his bedroom. Alabama's startled by his sudden movement. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(yelling after him) <P ID="dia">Where you goin', honey? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I just gotta get somethin'. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence splashes water on his face, trying to wash away the images that keep polluting his mind. Then, he hears a familiar voice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FAMILIAR VOICE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">Well? Can you live with it? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns and sees that the voice belongs to Elvis Presley. Clarence isn't surprised to see him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Can you live with it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Live with what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">With that son-of-a-bitch walkin' around breathin' the same air as you? And gettin' away with it every day. Are you haunted? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">You wanna get unhaunted? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Then shoot 'em. Shoot 'em in the face. And feed that boy to the dogs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I can't believe what you're tellin' me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I ain't tellin' ya nothin'. I'm just sayin' what I'd do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You'd really do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">He don't got no right to live. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, Elvis, he is hauntin' me. He doesn't deserve to live. And I do want to kill him. But I don't wanna go to jail for the rest of my life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I don't blame you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">If I thought I could get away with it - </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Killin' 'em's the hard part. Gettin' away with it's the easy part. Whaddaya think the cops do when a pimp's killed? Burn the midnight oil tryin' to find who done it? They couldn't give a flyin' fuck if all the pimps in the whole wide world took two in the back of the fuckin' head. If you don't get caught at the scene with the smokin' gun in your hand, you got away with it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Clarence, I like ya. Always have, always will. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - A snub-nosed .38, which Clarence loads and sticks down his heavy athletic sock. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CALRENCE'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence returns. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sweetheart, write down your former address. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Write down Drexl's address. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Why? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">So I can go over there and pick up your things. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(really scared) <P ID="dia">No, Clarence. Just forget it, babe. I just wanna disappear from there. </p><p><p ID="act">He kneels down before her and holds her hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, sweetheart, he scares you. But I'm not scared of that motherfucker. He can't touch you now. You're completely out of his reach. He poses absolutely no threat to us. So, if he doesn't matter, which he doesn't, it would be stupid to lose your things, now wouldn't it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You don't know him - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't know me. Not when it comes to shit like this. I have to do this. I need for you to know you can count on me to protect you. Now write down the address. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "CASS QUARTER, HEART OF DETROIT" </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. DOWNTOWN DETROIT STREET - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's pretty late at night. Clarence steps out of his red Mustang. He's right smack dab in the middle of a bad place to be in daytime. He checks the pulse on his neck; it's beating like a race horse. To pump himself up he does a quick Elvis Presley gyration. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(in Elvis voice) <P ID="dia">Yeah... Yeah... </p><p><p ID="act">He makes a beeline for the front door of a large, dark apartment building. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DARK BUILDING - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">He's inside. His heart's really racing now. He has the TV guide that Alabama wrote the address on in his hand. He climbs a flight of stairs and makes his way down a dark hallway to apartment 22, the residence of Drexl Spivey. Clarence knock on the door. </p><p><p ID="act">A Young Black Man, about twenty years old, answers the door. He has really big biceps and is wearing a black and white fishnet football jersey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG BLACK MAN <P ID="dia">You want somethin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Drexl? </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG BLACK MAN <P ID="dia">Naw, man, I'm Marty. Watcha want? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I gotta talk to Drexl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Well, what the fuck you wanna tell him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It's about Alabama. </p><p><p ID="act">A figure jumps in the doorway wearing a yellow Farah Fawcett T-shirt. It's our friend, Drexl Spivey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Where the fuck is that bitch? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">She's with me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Who the fuck are you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm her husband. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Well. That makes us practically related. Bring your ass on in. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DREXL'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Marty about-face and walk into the room, continuing a conversation they were having and leaving Clarence standing in the doorway. This is not the confrontation Clarence expected. He trails in behind Drexl and Marty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">What was I sayin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Rock whores. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">You ain't seen nothin' like these rock whores. They ass be young man. They got that fine young pussy. Bitches want the rock they be a freak for you. They give you hips, lips, and fingertips. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl looks over his shoulder at Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You know what I'm talkin' about. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl gestures to one of the three stoned Hookers lounging about the apartment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">These bitches over here ain't shit. You stomp them bitches to death to get the kind of pussy I'm talkin' about. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl sits down at a couch with a card table in front of it, scattered with take-out boxes of Chinese food. A black exploitation movie is playing on TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Looky here, you want the bitches to really fly high, make your rocks with Cherry Seven-Up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Pussy love pink rocks. </p><p><p ID="act">This is not how Clarence expected to confront Drexl, but this is exactly what he expected Drexl to be like. He positions himself in front of the food table, demanding Drexl's attention. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(eating with chopsticks, to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Grab a seat there, boy. Want some dinner? Grab yourself an egg roll. We got everything here from a diddle-eyed-Joe to a damned-if-I-know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No thanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">No thanks? What does that mean? Means you ate before you came down here? All full. Is that it? Naw, I don't think so. I think you're too scared to be eatin'. Now, see we're sittin' down here, ready to negotiate, and you've already given up your shit. I'm still a mystery to you. But I know exactly where your ass is comin' from. See, if I asked you if you wanted some dinner and you grabbed an egg roll and started to chow down, I'd say to myself, "This motherfucker's carryin' on like he ain't got a care in the world. Who know? Maybe he don't. Maybe this fool's such a bad motherfucker, he don't got to worry about nothin', he just sit down, eat my Chinese, watch my TV." See? You ain't even sat down yet. On that TV there, since you been in the room, is a woman with her titties hangin' out, and you ain't even bothered to look. You just been starin' at me. Now, I know I'm pretty, but I ain't as pretty as a couple of titties. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes out an envelope and throws it on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not eatin' 'cause I'm not hungry. I'm not sittin' 'cause I'm not stayin'. I'm not lookin' at the movie 'cause I saw it seven years ago. It's "The Mack" with Max Julian, Carol Speed, and Richard Pryor, written by Bobby Poole, directed by Michael Campus, and released by Cinerama Releasing Company in 1984. I'm not scared of you. I just don't like you. In that envelope is some payoff money. Alabama's moving on to some greener pastures. We're not negotiatin'. I don't like to barter. I don't like to dicker. I never have fun in Tijuana. That price is non-negotiable. What's in that envelope is for my peace of mind. My peace of mind is worth that much. Not one penny more, not one penny more. </p><p><p ID="act">You could hear a pin drop. Once Clarence starts talking Marty goes on full alert. Drexl stops eating and the Whores stop breathing. All eyes are on Drexl. Drexl drops his chopsticks and opens the envelope. It's empty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">It's empty. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence flashes a wide Cheshire cat grin that says, "That's right, asshole." </p><p><p ID="act">Silence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Oooooooooh weeeeeeee! This child is terrible. Marty, you know what we got here? Motherfuckin' Charles Bronson. Is that who you supposed to be? Mr. Majestyk? Looky here, Charlie, none of this shit is necessary. I ain't got no hold on Alabama. I just tryin' to lend the girl a helpin' hand - </p><p><p ID="act">Before Drexl finishes his sentence he picks up the card table and throws it at Clarence, catching him of guard. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty comes up behind Clarence and throws his arm around his neck, putting him in a tight choke hold. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, with his free arm, hits Marty hard with his elbow in the solar plexus. We'll never know if that blow had any effect because at just that moment Drexl takes a flying leap and tackles the two guys. </p><p><p ID="act">All of them go crashing into the stereo unit and a couple of shelves that hold records, all of which collapse to the floor in a shower of LPs. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty, who's on the bottom of the pile, hasn't let go of Clarence. </p><p><p ID="act">Since Drexl's on top, he starts slamming fists into Clarence's face. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who's sandwiched between these two guys, can't do a whole lot about it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Ya wanna fuck with me? <P ID="spkdir">(hits Clarence) <P ID="dia">Ya wanna fuck with me? <P ID="spkdir">(hits Clarence) <P ID="dia">I'll show ya who you're fuckin' wit! </p><p><p ID="act">He hits Clarence hard in the face with both fists. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who has no leverage whatsoever, grabs hold of Drexl's face and digs his nails in. He sticks his thumb in Drexl's mouth, grabs a piece of cheek, and starts twisting. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty, who's in an even worse position, can do nothing but tighten his grip aroud Clarence's neck, until Clarence feels like his eyes are going to pop out of his head. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl's face is getting torn up, but he's also biting down hard on Clarence's thumb. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence raises his head and brings it down fast, crunching Marty's face, and busting his nose. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty loosens his grip around Clarence's neck. Clarence wiggles free and gets up on his knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Clarence are now on an even but awkward footing. The two are going at each other like a pair of alley cats, not aiming their punches, keeping them coming fast and furious. They're not doing much damage to each other because of their positions, it's almost like a hockey fight. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty sneaks up behind Clarence and smashes him in the head with a stack of LPs. This disorients Clarence. Marty grabs him from behind and pulls him to his feet. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl socks him in the face: one, two three! Then he kicks him hard in the balls. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty lets go and Clarence hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. He curls up into a fetal position and holds his balls, tears coming out of his eyes. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl's face is torn up from Clarence's nails. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty has blood streaming down his face frim his nose and on to his shirt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">You OK? That stupid dumb-ass didn't break your nose, did he? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Naw. It don't feel too good but it's alright. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl kicks Clarence, who's still on the ground hurting. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You see what you get when you fuck wit me, white boy? You're gonna walk in my goddamn house, my house! Gonna come in here and tell me! Talkin' smack, in my house, in front of my employees. Shit! Your ass must be crazy. <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">I don't think that white boy's got good sense. Hey, Marty. <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">He must of thought it was white boy day. It ain't white boy day, is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">Naw, man, it ain't white boy day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Shit, man, you done fucked up again. Next time you bogart your way into a nigger's crib, an' get all his face, make sure you do it on white boy day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(hurting) <P ID="dia">Wannabee nigger... </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Fuck you! My mother was Apache. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl kicks him again. Clarence curls up. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl bends down and looks for Clarence's wallet in his jacket. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence still can't do much. The kick to his balls still has him down. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl finds it and pulls it out. He flips it open to driver's license. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Well, well, well, looky what we got here. Clarence Worley. Sounds almost like a nigger name. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Hey, dummy. </p><p><p ID="act">He puts his foot on Clarence's chest. Clarence's POV as he looks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Before you bought your dumb ass through the door, I didn't know shit. I just chalked it up to au revoir Alabama. But, because you think you're some macho motherfucker, I know who she's with. You. I know who you are, Clarence Worley. And, I know where you live, 4900 116th street, apartment 48. And I'll make a million-dollar bet, Alabama's at the same address. Marty, take the car and go get 'er. Bring her dumb ass back here. </p><p><p ID="act">He hands Marty the driver's license. Maty goes to get the car keys and a jacket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">I'll keep lover boy here entertained. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You know the first thing I'll do when she gets here. I think I'll make her suck my dick, and I'll come all in her face. I mean it ain't nuttin' new. She's done it before. But I want you as a audience. <P ID="spkdir">(hollering to Marty) <P ID="dia">Marty, what the fuck are you doin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I'm tryin' to find my jacket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Look in the hamper. Linda's been dumpin' everybody's stray clothes there lately. </p><p><p ID="act">While Drexl has his attention turned to Marty, Clarence reaches into his sock and pulls out the .38. he stick the barrel between Drexl's legs. Drexl, who's standing over Clarence, looks down just in time to see Clarence pull the trigger and blow his balls to bits. Tiny spots of blood speckle Clarence's face. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl shrieks in horror and pain, and falls to the ground. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">What's happening? </p><p><p ID="act">Marty steps into the room. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence doesn't hesitate, he shoots Marty four times in the chest. </p><p><p ID="act">Two of three Hookers have run out of the front door, screaming. The other Hooker is curled up in the corner. She's too stoned to run, but stoned enough to be terrified. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl, still alive, is laying on the ground howling, holding what's left of his balls and his dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence points the gun at the remaining Hooker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Get a bag and put Alabama's thing in it! </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't move. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You wanna get shot? I ain't got all fuckin' day, so move it! </p><p><p ID="act">The Hooker, tears of fear ruining her mascara, grabs a suitcase from under the bed, and, on her hands and knees, pushes it along the floor to Clarence. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes it by the handle and wobbles over to Drexl, who's curled up like a pillbug. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Clarence's forgotten driver's license in Marty's bloody hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts his foot on Drexl's chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Drexl) <P ID="dia">Open you eyes, laughing boy. </p><p><p ID="act">He doesn't. Clarence gives him a kick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Open your eyes! </p><p><p ID="act">He does. It's now Drexl's POV from the floor. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You thought it was pretty funny, didn't you? </p><p><p ID="act">He fires. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - The bullet comes out of the gun and heads right toward us. When it reaches us, the screen goes awash in red. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The front swings open and Clarence walks in. Alabama jumps off the couch and runs toward Clarence, before she reaches him he blurts out: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I killed him. </p><p><p ID="act">She stops short. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I've got some food in the car, I'll be right back. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence leaves. Except for the TV playing, the room is quiet. Alabama sits on the couch. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks back into the room with a whole bounty of take-out food. He heaps it on to the coffee table and starts to chow down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Help yourself. I got enough. I am fuckin' starvin'. I think I ordered one of everythin'. </p><p><p ID="act">He stops and looks at here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I am so hungry. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts eating french fries and hamburgers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(in a daze) <P ID="dia">Was it him or you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. But to be honest, I put myself in that position. When I drove up there I said to myself, "If I can kill 'em and get away with it, I'll do it." I could. So I did. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Is this a joke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No joke. This is probably the best hamburger I've ever had. I'm serious, I've never had a hamburger taste this good. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama starts to cry. Clarence continues eating, ignoring her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Come on, Bama, eat something. You'll feel better. </p><p><p ID="act">She continues crying. He continues eating and ignoring her. Finally he spins on her, yelling: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Why are you crying? He's not worth one of your tears. Would you rather it had been me? Do you love him? <P ID="spkdir">(no answer) <P ID="dia">Do you love him? <P ID="spkdir">(no answer) <P ID="dia">Do you love him? </p><p><p ID="act">She looks at Clarence, having a hard time getting a word out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think what you did was... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think what you did... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">... was so romantic. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is completely taken back. They meet in a long, passionate lovers' kiss. Their kiss breaks and slowly the world comes back to normal. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I gotta get outta these clothes. </p><p><p ID="act">He picks up the suitcase and drops it on the table in front of them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(comically) <P ID="dia">Clean clothes. There is a god, </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence flips open the suitcase. Alabama's and her husband's jaws drop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence. Those aren't my clothes. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We see the Hollywood Holiday Inn sign. Pan to the parking lot where Clarence's empty red Mustang is parked. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CALRENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Dick's jaw drops. His hand reaches out of shot. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - The reason for all the jaw dropping... the suitcase is full of cocaine! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence smiles, holding a bottle of wine. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's watching the cable TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Holy Mary, Mother of God. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">This is great, we got cable. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Bama, you got your blade? </p><p><p ID="act">Keeping her eyes on the TV, she pulls out from her purse a Swiss army knife with a tiny dinosaur on it and tosses it to Clarence. Clarence takes off the corkscrew and opens the wine. </p><p><p ID="act">He pours some wine into a couple of hotel plastic cups, a big glass for Dick, a little one for himself. He hands it to Dick. Dick takes it and drinks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">This shit can't be real. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It'll get ya high. </p><p><p ID="act">He tosses the knife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you want some wine, sweetheart? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Nope. I'm not really a wine gal. </p><p><p ID="act">Using the knife, Dick snorts some of the cocaine. He jumps back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's fuckin' real! <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">It's fuckin' real! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I certainly hope so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You've got a helluva lotta coke there, man! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you have any idea how much fuckin' coke you got? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I don't know! A fuckin' lot! </p><p><p ID="act">He downs his wine. Clarence fills his glass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">This is Drexl's coke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Drexl's dead. This is Clarence's coke and Clarence can do whatever he wants with it. And what Clarence wants to do is sell it. Then me and Bama are gonna leave on a jet plane and spend the rest of our lives spendin'. So, you got my letter, have you lined up any buyers? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, Clarence, I'm not Joe Cocaine. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick gulps half of his wine. Clarence fills up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But you're an actor. I hear these Hollywood guys have it delivered to the set. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, they do. And maybe when I start being a successful actor I'll know those guys. But most of the people I know are like me. They ain't got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Now, if you want to sell a little bit at a time - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No way! The whole enchilada in one shot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you have any idea how difficult that's gonna be? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm offering a half a million dollars worth of white for two hundred thousand. How difficult can that be? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's difficult because you're sellin' it to a particular group. Big shots. Fat cats. Guys who can use that kind of quantity. Guys who can afford two hundred thousand. Basically, guys I don't know. You don't know. And, more important, they don't know you. I did talk with one guy who could possibly help you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he big league? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">He's nothing. He's in my acting class. But he works as an assistant to a very powerful movie producer named Lee Donowitz. I thought Donowitz could be interested in a deal like this. He could use it. He could afford it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What'd'ya tell 'em? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hardly anything. I wasn't sure from your letter what was bullshit, and what wasn't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's this acting class guy's name? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Elliot what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Elliot Blitzer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK, call 'im up and arrange a meeting, so we can get through all the getting to know you stuff. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Where? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">The zoo. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">The zoo. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What are you waiting for? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Would you just shut up a minute and let me think? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's to think about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Shut up! First you come waltzing into my life after two years. You're married. You killed a guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Two guys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Two guys. Now you want me to help you with some big drug deal. Fuck, Clarence, you killed somebody and you're blowin' it off like it don't mean shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't expect me to be all broken up over poor Drexl. I think he was a fuckin', freeloadin', parasitic scumbag, and he got exactly what he deserved. I got no pity for a mad dog like that. I think I should get a merit badge or somethin'. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick rests his head in his hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, buddy, I realize I'm layin' some pretty heavy shit on ya, but I need you to rise to the occasion. So, drink some more wine. Get used to the idea, and get your friend to the phone. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - A black panther, the four-legged kind, paces back and forth. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, Dick and Elliot Blitzer are walking through the zoo. One look at Elliot and you can see what type of actor he is, a real GQ, blow-dry boy. As they walk and talk, Clarence is eating a box of animal crackers and Alabama is blowing soap bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">So you guys got five hundred thousand dollars worth of cola that you're unloading - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Want an animal cracker? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah, OK. </p><p><p ID="act">He takes one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Leave the gorillas. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">- that you're unloading for two hundred thousand dollars - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Unloading? That's a helluva way to describe the bargain of a lifetime. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(trying to chill him out) <P ID="dia">Clarence... </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Where did you get it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I grow it on my window-sill. The lights really great there and I'm up high enough so you can't see it from the street. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(forcing a laugh) <P ID="dia">Ha ha ha. No really, where does it come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Coco leaves. You see, they take the leaves and mash it down until it's kind of a paste - </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(turning to Dick) <P ID="dia">Look, Dick, I don't - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">No problem, Elliot. I'm just fuckin' wit ya, that's all. Actually, I'll tell you but you gotta keep it quiet. Understand, if Dick didn't assure me you're good people I'd just tell ya, none of your fuckin' business. But, as a sign of good faith, here it goes: I gotta friend in the department. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What department? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What do you think, eightball? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">The police department? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Duh. What else would I be talking about? Now stop askin' stupid doorknob questions. Well, a year and a half ago, this friend of mine got access to the evidence room for an hour. He snagged this coke. But, he's a good cop with a wife and a kid, so he sat on it for a year and a half until he found a guy he could trust. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">He trusts you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We were in Four H together. We've known each other since childhood. So, I'm handling the sales part. He's my silent partner and he knows if I get fucked up, I won't drop dime on him. I didn't tell you nothin' and you didn't hear nothin'. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Sure. I didn't hear anything. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is more than satisfied. Clarence makes a comical face at Dick when Elliot's not looking. Dick is wearing I-don't-believe-this-guy expresion. Alabama is forever blowing bubbles. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - SNACK BAR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We're in the snack bar area of the zoo. Alabama, Dick, and Elliot are sitting around a plastic outdoor table. Clarence is pacing around the table as he talks. Alabama is still blowing bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">Do I look like a beautiful blond with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice-cream? </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot hasn't the slightest idea what that is supposed to mean. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do I look like a beautiful blond with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice-cream? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(with conviction) <P ID="dia">No. No, you don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Then why are you telling me all this bullshit just so you can fuck me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Let me handle this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Get it straight, Lee isn't into taking risks. He deals with a couple of guys, and he's been dealing with them for years. They're reliable. They're dependable. And, they're safe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Riddle me this, Batman. If you're all so much in love with each other, what the fuck are you doing here? I'm sure you got better things to do with your time than walk around in circles starin' up a panther's ass. Your guy's interested because with that much shit at his fingertips he can play Joe fuckin' Hollywood till the wheels come off. He can sell it, he can snort it, he can play Santa Claus with it. At the price he's payin', he'll be everybody's best friend. And, you know, that's what we're talkin' about here. I'm not puttin' him down. Hey, let him run wild. Have a ball, it's his money. But, don't expect me to hang around forever waitin' for you guys to grow some guts. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot has been silenced. He nods his head in agreement. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. PORSCHE - MOVING - MULHOLLAND DRIVE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Movie producer, Lee Donowitz, is driving his Porsche through the winding Hollywood hills, just enjoying being rich and powerful. His cellular car phone rings, he answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Hello. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Elliot, it's Sunday. Why am I talkin' to you on Sunday? I don't see enough of you during the week I gotta talk to you on Sunday? Why is it you always call me when I'm on the windiest street in L.A.? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is on the zoo payphone. Clarence is next to him. Dick is next to Clarence. Alabama is next to Dick, blowing bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(on phone) <P ID="dia">I'm with that party you wanted me to get together with. Do you know what I'm talking about, Lee? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Store-fronts whiz by in the background. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Why the hell are you calling my phone to talk about that? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Well, he'd here right now, and he insists on talking to you. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">In the 7th street tunnel. Lee's voice echoes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Are you outta your fuckin' mind? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You said if I didn't get you on the - </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes the receiverout of Elliot's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(into phone) <P ID="dia">Hello, Lee, it's Clarence. At last we meet. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil's knocking on Dick's door. Floyd (Dick's room-mate) answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Hello, is Dick Ritchie here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw, he ain't home right now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Do you live here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yeah, I live here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Sorta room-mates? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Exactly room-mates. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Maybe you can help me. Actually, who I'm looking for is a friend of ours from Detroit. Clarence Worley? I heard he was in town. Might be travelling with a pretty girl named Alabama. Have you seen him? Are they stayin' here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw, they ain't stayin' here. But, I know who you're talkin' about. They're stayin' at the Hollywood Holiday Inn. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">How do you know? You been there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">No, I ain't been there. But I heard him say. Hollywood Holiday Inn. Kinda easy to remember. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You're right. It is. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - PAYPHONE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is still on the phone with Lee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Lee, the reason I'm talkin' with you is I want to open "Doctor Zhivago" in L.A. And I want you to distribute it. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Stopped in the traffic on Sunset Boulevard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I don't know, Clarence, "Doctor Zhivago" is a pretty big movie. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The biggest. The biggest movie you've ever dealt with, Lee. We're talkin' a lot of film. A man'd have ta be an idiot not to be a little cautious about a movie like that. And Lee, you're no idiot. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">He's still on Sunset Boulevard, the traffic's moving better now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I'm not sayin' I'm not interested. But being a distributer's not what I'm all about. I'm a film producer, I'm on this world to make good movies. Nothing more. Now, having my big toe dipped into the distribution end helps me on many levels. </p><p><p ID="act">Traffic breaks and Lee speeds along. The background whizzes past him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(continuing) <P ID="dia">But the bottom line is: I'm not Paramount. I have a select group of distributers I deal with. I buy their little movies. Accomplish what I wanna accomplish, end of story. Easy, business-like, very little risk. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now that's bullshit, Lee. Every time you buy one of those little movies it's a risk. I'm not sellin' you something that's gonna play two weeks, six weeks, then go straight to cable. This is "Doctor Zhivago". This'll be packin' 'em in for a year and a half. Two years! That's two years you don't have to work with anybody's movie but mine. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Speeding down a benchside road. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Well, then, what's the hurry? Is it true the rights to "Doctor Zhivago" are in arbitration? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I wanna be able to announce this deal at Cannes. If I had time for a courtship, Lee, I would. I'd take ya out, I'd hold your hand, I'd kiss you on the cheek at the door. But, I'm not in that position. I need to know if we're in bed together, or not. If you want my movie, Lee, you're just gonna have to come to terms with your Fear and Desire. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. Clarence hands the phone to Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">He wants to talk ya. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(into phone) <P ID="dia">Mr. Donowitz? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told you, through Dick. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">He's in my acting class. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">About a year. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Yeah, he's good. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">They grew up together. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Sure thing. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot hangs up the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">He says Wednesday at three o'clock at the Beverly Wilshire. He wants everybody there. <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Clarence) <P ID="dia">He'll talk to you. If after talkin' to you he's convinced you're OK, he'll do business. If not, he'll say fuck it and walk out the door. He also wants a sample bag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No problems on both counts. </p><p><p ID="act">He offers Elliot the animal crackers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Have a cookie. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot takes one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Thanks. </p><p><p ID="act">He puts it in the mouth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That wasn't a gorilla, was it? </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The red Mustang with Clarence and Alabama pulls up to the hotel. Alabama hops out. Clarence stays in. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You did it, Quickdraw. I'm so proud of you. You were like a ninja. Did I do my part OK? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Babalouey, you were perfect, I could hardly keep from busting up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I felt so stupid just blowing those bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You were chillin', kind of creepy even. You totally fucked with his head. I'm gonna go grab dinner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm gonna hop in the tub and get all wet, and slippery, and soapy. Then I'm gonna lie in the waterbed, not even both to dry off, and watch X-rated movies till you get your ass back to my lovin' arms. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We now return to "Bullit" already in progress. </p><p><p ID="act">He slams the Mustang in reverse and peels out of the hotel. Alabama walks her little walk from the parking lot to the pool area. Somebody whistles at her, she turns to them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><p ID="act">She gets to her door, takes out the key, and opens the door. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CALRENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">She steps in only to find Virgil sitting on a chair placed in front of the door with a sawed-off shotgun aimed right at her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="spkdir">(calmly) <P ID="dia">Step inside and shut the door. </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't move, she's frozen. Virgil leans forward. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="spkdir">(calmly) <P ID="dia">Lady. I'm gonna shoot you in the face. </p><p><p ID="act">She does exactly as he says. Virgil rises, still aiming the sawed-off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Step away from the door, move into the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">She does. He puts the shotgun down on the chair, then steps closer to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, Alabama, where's our coke, where's Clarence, and when's he coming back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think you got the wrong room, my name is Sadie. I don't have any Coke, but there's a Pepsi machine downstairs. I don't know any Clarence, but maybe my husband does. You might have heard of him, he plays football. Al Lylezado. He'll be home any minute, you can ask him. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil can't help but smile. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You're cute. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil jumps up and does a mid-air kung fu kick which catches Alabama square in the face, lifting her off the ground and dropping her flat on her back. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, in his car, driving to get something to eat, singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(singing) <P ID="dia">"Land of stardust, land of glamour, Vistavision and Cinema, Everything about it is a must, To get to Hollywood, or bust..." </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's laying flat. She actually blacks out for a moment, but the salty taste of the blood in her mouth wakes her up. She opens her eyes and sees Virgil standing there, smiling. She closes them, hoping it's a dream. They open again to the same sight. She has never felt more helpless in her life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Hurts, don't it? It better. Took me a long time to kick like that. I'm third-degree blackbelt, you know? At home I got trophies. Tournaments I was in. Kicked all kinds of ass. I got great technique. You ain't hurt that bad. Get on your feet, Fruitloop. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama wobbily complies. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Where's our coke? Where's Clarence? And when he's comin' back? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama looks in Virgil's eyes and realizes that without a doubt she's going to die, because this man is going to kill her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Go take a flying fuck and a rolling donut. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil doesn't waste a second. He gives her a sidekick straight to the stomach. The air is sucked out of her lungs. She falls to her knees. She's on all fours gasping for air that's just not there. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil whips out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He lights one up with a Zippo lighter. He takes a long, deep drag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Whatsamatta? Can't breathe? Get used to it. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HAMBURGER STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks through the door of some mom and pop fast-food restaurant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Woah! Smells like hamburgers in here! What's the biggest, fattest hamburger you guys got? </p><p><p ID="act">The Iranian Guy at the counter says: </p><p><P ID="speaker">IRANIAN GUY <P ID="dia">That would be Steve's double chili cheeseburger. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I want two of them bad boys. Two large orders of chili fries. Two large Diet Cokes. <P ID="spkdir">(looking at a menu at the wall) <P ID="dia">And I'll tell you what, why don't you give me a combination burrito as well. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama is violently thrown into a corner of the room. She braces herself against the wall. She is very punchy. Virgil steps in front of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You think your boyfriend would go through this kind of shit for you? Dream on, cunt. You're nothin' but a fuckin' fool. And your pretty face is gonna turn awful goddamn ugly in about two seconds. Now, where's my fuckin' coke? </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't answer. He delivers a spinning roundhouse kick on the head. Her head slams into the left side of the wall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Where's Clarence?! </p><p><p ID="act">Nothing. He gives her another kick to the head, this time from the other side. Her legs start to give way. He catches her and throws her back. He slaps her lightly in the face to revive her, she looks at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">When's Clarence getting back? </p><p><p ID="act">She can barely raise her arm, but she somehow manages, and she gives him the middle finger. Virgil can't help but smile. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You gotta lot of heart, kid. </p><p><p ID="act">He gives her a spinning roadhouse kick to the head that sends her to the floor. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HAMBURGER STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Burgers sizzling on a griddle, Chili and cheese is put on them. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is waiting for his order. He notices a CUSTOMER reading a copy of "Newsweek" with Elvis on the cover. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's a great issue. </p><p><p ID="act">The Customer lowers his magazine a little bit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">Yeah, I subscribe. It's a pretty decent one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Have you read the story on Elvis? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">No. Not yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, I saw it on the stands, my first inclination was to buy it. But, I look at the price and say forget it, it's just gonna be the same old shit. I ended up breaking down and buying it a few days later. Man, I was ever wrong. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">That good, huh? </p><p><p ID="act">He takes the magazine from the Customer's hands and starts flipping to the Elvis article. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It tried to pin down what the attraction is after all these years. It covers the whole spectrum of fans, the people who love his music, the people who grew up with him, the artists he inspired - Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and the fanatics, like these guys. I don't know about you, but they give me the creeps. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia"> I can see what you mean. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like, look at her. She looks like she fell off an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Elvis wouldn't fuck her with Pat Boone's dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Customer laugh. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's pretty beat up. She has a fat lip and her face is black and blue. She's crawling around on the floor. Virgil is tearing the place apart looking for the cocaine. He's also carrying on a running commentary. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia"> Now the first guy you kill is always the hardest. I don't care if you're the Boston Strangler or Wyatt Earp. You can bet that Texas boy, Charles Whitman, the fella who shot all them guys from that tower, I'll bet you green money that that first little black dot that he took a bead on, was the bitch of the bunch. No foolin' the first one's a tough row to hoe. Now, the second one, while it ain't no Mardi Gras, it ain't half as tough row to hoe. You still feel somethin' but it's just so deluted this time around. Then you completely level off on the third one. The third one's easy. It's gotten to the point now I'll do it just to watch their expressions change. </p><p><p ID="act">He's tearing the motel room up in general. Then he flips the matress up off the bed, and the black suitcase is right there. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's crawling, unnoticed to where her purse is lying. Virgil flips open the black case and almost goes snow blind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Well, well, well, looky here. I guess I just reached journey's end. Great. One less thing I gotta worry about. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil closes the case. Alabama sifts through her purse. </p><p><p ID="act">She pulls out her Swiss army knife, opens it up. Virgil turns toward her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, Sugarpop, we've come to what I like to call the moment of truth - </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama slowly rises clutching the thrust-out knife in both hands. Mr. Karate-man smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Kid, you got a lotta heart. </p><p><p ID="act">He moves toward her. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's hands are shaking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you a free swing. Now, I only do that for people I like. </p><p><p ID="act">He moves close. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's eyes study him. He grabs the front of his shirt and rips it open. Buttons fly everywhere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Go ahead, girl, take a stab at it. <P ID="spkdir">(giggling) <P ID="dia">You don't have anything to lose. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Alabama's face. Virgil's right, she doesn't have anything to lose. Virgil's also right about his being the moment of truth. The ferocity in women that comes out at certain times, and is just here under the surface in many women all of the time, is unleashed. The absolute feeling of helplessness she felt only a moment ago has taken a one hundred and eighty degree turn into "I'll take this motherfucker with me if it's the last thing I do" seething hatred. </p><p><p ID="act">Letting out a bloodcurling yell, she raises the knfe high above her head, then drops to her knees and plunges it deep into Virgil's right foot. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - VIRGIL'S FACE </p><p><p ID="act">Talk about bloodcurling yells. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil bends down and carefully pulls the knife from his foot, tears running down his face. </p><p><p ID="act">While Virgil's bent down, Alabama smashes an Elvis Presley whiskey decanter that Clarence bought her in Oklahoma over his head. It's only made of plaster, so it doesn't kill him. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil's moving toward Alabama, limping on his bad foot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, no more Mr. Nice-guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama picks up the hotel TV and tosses it to him. He instinctively catches it and, with his arms full of television, Alabama cold-cocks him with her fist in the nose, breaking it. </p><p><p ID="act">Her eyes go straight to the door, then to the sawed-off shotgun by it. She runs to it, bends over the chair for the gun. Virgil's left foot kicks her in the back, sending her flying over the chair and smashing into the door. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil furiously throws the chair out of the way and stands over Alabama. Alabama's lying on the ground laughing. Virgil has killed a lot of people, but not one of them has ever laughed before he did it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">What's so fuckin' funny?!! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">You look so ridiculous. </p><p><p ID="act">She laughs louder. Virgil's insane. He picks her off the floor, then lifts her off the ground and throws her through the glass shower door in the bathroom. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Laugh it up, cunt. You were in hysterics a minute ago. Why ain't you laughing now? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, lying in the bathtub, grabs a small bottle of hotel shampoo and squeezes it out in her hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil reaches in the shower and grabs hold of her hair. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama rubs the shampoo in his face. He lets go of her and his hands go to his eyes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Oh Jesus! </p><p><p ID="act">She grabs hold of a hefty piece of broken glass and plunges it into his face. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Oh Mary, help me! </p><p><p ID="act">The battered and bruised and bloody Alabama emerges from the shower. She's clutching a big, bloody piece of broken glass. She's vaguely reminiscent of a Tasmanian devil. Poor Virgil can't see very well, but he sees her figure coming toward him. He lets out a wild haymaker that catches her in the jaw and knocks her into the toilet. </p><p><p ID="act">He recovers almost immediately and takes the porcelain lid off the back of the toilet tank. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil whips out a .45 automatic from his shoulder holster, just as Alabama brings the lid down on his head. He's pressed up against the wall with this toilet lid hitting him. He can't get a good shot in this tight environment, but he fires anyway, hitting the floor, the all, the toilet, and the sink. </p><p><p ID="act">The toilet lid finally shatters against Virgil's head. He falls to the ground. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama goes to the medicine cabinet and whips out a big can of Final Net hairspray. She pulls a Bic lighter out of her pocket, and, just as Virgil raises his gun at her, she flicks the Bic and sends a stream of hairspray through the flame, which results in a big ball of fire that hits Virgil right in the face. </p><p><p ID="act">He fires off two shots. One hits the wall, another hits the sink pipe, sending water spraying. </p><p><p ID="act">Upon getting his face fried Virgil screams and jumps up, knocking Alabama down, and runs out of the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil collapses on the floor of the living room. Then, he sees the sawed-off laying on the ground. He crawls toward it. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, in the bathroom, sees where he's heading. She picks up the .45 automatic and fires at him. It's empty. She's on her feet and into the room. </p><p><p ID="act">He reaches the shotgun, his hands grasp it. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama spots and picks up the bloody Swiss army knife. She takes a knife-first-running-dive at Virgil's back. She hits him. </p><p><p ID="act">He arches up, firing the sawed-off into the ceiling, dropping the gun, and sending a cloud of plaster and stucco all over the room. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama snatches the shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Arched over on his back Virgil and Alabama make eye contact. </p><p><p ID="act">The first blast hits him in the shoulder, almost tearing his arm off. The second hits him in the knee. The third plays hell with his chest. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama then runs at him, hitting him in the head with the butt of the shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Ever since he's been firing it's as if some other part of her brain has been functioning independently. She's been absent-mindedly saying the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who's been hearing gunshots, bursts through the door, gun drawn, only to see Alabama, hitting a dead guy on the head, with a shotgun. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Honey? </p><p><p ID="act">She continues. He puts his gun away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sweetheart? Cops are gonna be here any minute, </p><p><p ID="act">She continues. He takes the gun away from her, and she falls to the ground. She lies on the floor trembling, continuing with the downward swings of her arms. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence grabs the shotgun and the cocaine, and tosses Alabama over his shoulder. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Everybody is outside their rooms watching as Clarence walks through the pool area with his bundle. Sirens can be heard. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is driving like mad. Alabama's passed out in the passenger seat. She's muttering to herself. Clarence has one hand on the steering wheel and the other strokes Alabama's hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sleep baby. Don't dream. Don't worry. Just sleep. You deserve better than this. I'm so sorry. Sleep my angel. Sleep peacefully. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MOTEL 6 - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A new motel. Clarence's red Mustang is parked outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOTEL 6 - CLARENCE'S ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, with a fat lip and a black and blue face, is asleep in bed. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. NOWHERE </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is in a nondescript room speaking directly to the camera. He's in a headshot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I feel so horrible about what she went through. That fucker really beat the shit out of her. She never told him where I was. It's like I always felt that the way she felt about me was a mistake. She couldn't really care that much. I always felt in the back of my mind, I don't know, she was jokin'. But, to go through that and remain loyal, it's very easy to be unraptured with words, but to remain loyal when it's easier, even excusable, not to - that's a test of oneself. That's a true romance. I swear to God, I'll cut off my hands and gouge out my eyes before I'll every let anything happen to that lady again. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HILLS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A wonderful, gracefully flowing shot of the Hollywood Hills. Off in the distance we hear the roar of a car engine. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MULLHOLLAND DRIVE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Vaaarrroooooommmm!!! A silver Porsche is driving hells bells, taking quick corners, pushing it to the edge. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING PORSCHE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot Blitzer is the driver, standing on it. A blond, glitzy Coke Whore is sitting next to him. They're having a ball. Then they're seeing a red and blue light flashing in the rear-view window. It's the cops. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Fuck! I knew it! I fucking knew it! I should have my head examined, driving like this! <P ID="spkdir">(he pulls over) <P ID="dia">Kandi, you gotta help me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">What can I do? </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls out the sample bag of cocaine that Clarence gave him earlier. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You gotta hold this for me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">You must be high. Uh-huh. No way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(frantically) <P ID="dia">Just put it in your purse. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">I'm not gonna put that shit in my purse. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">They won't search you. I promise. You haven't done anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">No way, Jos. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Please, they'll be here any minute. Just put it in your bra. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">I'm not wearing a bra. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(pleading) <P ID="dia">Put it in your pants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You're the one who wanted to drive fast. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">Read my lips. </p><p><p ID="act">She mouths the word "no". </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">After all I've done for you, you fuckin' whore!! </p><p><p ID="act">She goes to slap him, she hits the bag of cocaine instead. It rips open. Cocaine completely covers his blue suit. At that moment Elliot turns to face a flashing beam. Tears fill his eyes. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. POLICE STATION - INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is sitting in a chair at the table. Two young, good-looking, casually dressed, Starsky and Hutch-type POLICE DETECTIVES are questioning him. They're known in the department as Nicholson and Dimes. The dark-haired one is Cody Nicholson, and the blond is Nicky Dimes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Look, sunshine, we found a sandwich bag of uncut cocaine - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Not a tiny little vial - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">But a fuckin' baggie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">No don't sit here and feed us some shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You got caught. It's all fun and fuckin' games till you get caught. But now we gotcha. OK, Mr. Elliot actor, you've just made the big time - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You're no longer an extra - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Or a bit player - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Or a supporting actor - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You're a fuckin' star! And you're gonna be playin' your little one-man show nightly for the next two fuckin' years for a captive audience - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">But there is a bright side though. If you ever have to play a part of a guy who gets fucked in the ass on a daily basis by throat-slitting niggers, you'll have so much experience to draw on - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">And just think, when you get out in a few years, you'll meet some girl, get married, and you'll be so understanding to your wife's needs, because you'll know what it's like to be a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">'Course you'll wanna fuck her in the ass. Pussy just won't feed right anymore - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">That is, of course, if you don't catch Aids from all your anal intrusions. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot starts crying. Nicholson and Dimes exchange looks and smile. Mission accomplished. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. POLICE STATION - CAPTAIN KRINKLE'S OFFICE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CAPTAIN BUFFORD KRINKLE is sitting behind his desk, where he spends about seventy-five percent of his day. He's you standard rough, gruff, no-nonsense, by-the-book-type police captain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia"> Nicholson! Dimes! Het in here! </p><p><p ID="act">The two casually dressed, sneaker-wearing cops rush in, both shouting at once. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Krinkle, this is it. We got it, man. And it's all ours. I mean talk about fallin' into somethin'. You shoulda seen it, it was beautiful. Dimes is hittin' him from the left about being fucked in the ass by niggers, I'm hittin' him form the right about not likin' pussy anymore, finally he starts cryin', and then it was all over - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia"> Krinkle, you're lookin' at the two future cops of the month. We have it, and if I say we, I don't mean me and him, I'm referring to the whole department. Haven't had a decent bust this whole month. Well, we mighta come in like a lamb, but we're goin' out like a lion - </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Both you, idiots shut up, I can't understand shit! Now, what's happened, what's going on, and what are you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Okee-dokee. It's like this, Krinkle; a patrol car stops this dork for speeding, they walk up to window and the guy's covered in coke. So they bring his ass in and me an' Nicholson go to work on him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Nicholson and I. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Nicholson and I go to work on him. Now er know somthing's rotten in Denmark, 'cause this dickhead had a big bag, and it's uncut, too, so we're sweatin' him, trying to find out where he got it. Scarin' the shit outta him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Which wasn't too hard, the guy was a real squid. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">So we got this guy scared shitless and he starts talkin'. And, Krinkle, you ain't gonna fuckin' believe it. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. RESTAURANT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Detroit. Very fancy restaurant. Four wise-guy Hoods, one older, the other three, youngsters, are seated at the table with Mr. Coccotti. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">- And so, tomorrow morning comes, and no Virgil. I check with Nick Cardella, who Virgil was supposed to leave my narcotics with, he never shows. Now, children, somebody is stickin' a red-hot poker up my asshole and what I don't know is whose hand's on the handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #1 (FRANKIE) <P ID="dia">You think Virgil started gettin' big ideas? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">It's possible. Anybody can be carried away with delusions of grandeur. But after that incident in Ann Arbor, I trust Virgil. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #2 (DARIO) <P ID="dia">What happened? </p><p><P ID="speaker">OLD WISE-GUY(LENNY) <P ID="dia"> Virgil got picked up in a warehouse shakedown. He got five years, he served three. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Anybody who clams up and does hid time, I don't care how I feel about him personally, he's OK. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">KRINKLE'S OFFICE </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">It seems a cop from some department, we don't know where, stole a half a million dollars of coke from the property cage and he's been sittin' on it for a year and a half. Now the cops got this weirdo - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Suspect's words - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">To front for him. So Elliot is workin' out the deal between them and his boss, a big movie producer named Lee Donowitz. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He produced "Coming Home in a Body Bag". </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">That Vietnam movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">That was a good fuckin' movie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Sure was. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Do you believe him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">I believe he believes him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">He's so spooked he'd turn over his momma, his daddy, his two-panny granny, and Anna and the King of Siam if he had anything on him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This rabbit'll do anything not to do time, including wearing a wire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">He'll wear a wire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">We talked him into it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Dirty cops. We'll have to bring in internal affairs on this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Look, we don't care if you bring in the state milita, the volunteer fire department, the L.A. Thunderbirds, the ghost of Steve McQueen, and the twelve Roman gladiators, so long as we get credit for the bust. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Cocaine. Dirty cops. Hollywood. This is Crocket and Tubbs all the way. And we found it, so we want the fuckin' collar. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. RESTAURANT - DAY </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #3 (MARVIN) <P ID="dia">Maybe Virgil dropped it off at Cardella's. Cardella turns Virgil's switch off, and Cardella decides to open up his own fruit stand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Excuse me, Mr. Coccotti. <P ID="spkdir">(to Marvin) <P ID="dia">Do you know Nick Cardella? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Then where the hell do you get off talkin' that kind of talk? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">I didn't mean - </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Shut your mouth. Nick Cardella was provin' what his words was worth before you were in your daddy's nutsack. What sun do you walk under you can throw a shadow on Nick Cardella? Nick Cardella's a stand-up guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Children, we're digressing. Another possibility is that rat-fuck whore and her wack-a-doo cowboy boyfriend out-aped Virgil. Knowing Virgil, I find that hard to believe. But they sent Drexl to hell, and Drexl was no faggot. So you see, children, I got a lot of questions and no answers. Find out who this wing-and-a-prayer artist is and take him off at the neck. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "THE BIG DAY" </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. IMPERIAL HIGHWAY - SUNRISE </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's red Mustang is parked on top of a hill just off of Imperial Highway. As luck would have it, somebody has abandoned a ratty old sofa on the side of the road. Clarence and Alabama sit on the sofa, sharing a Jumbo Java, and enjoying the sunrise and wonderful view of the LAX Airport runways, where planes are taking off and landing. A plane takes off, and they stop and watch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ya know, I used to fuckin' hate airports. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">With a vengeance, I hated them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I used to live by one back in Dearborn. It's real frustratin' to be surrounded by airplanes when you ain't got shit. I hated where I was, but I couldn't do anythin' about it. I didn't have enough money. It was tough enough just tryin' to pay my rent every month, an' here I was livin' next to an airport. Whenever I went outside, I saw fuckin' planes take off drownin' out my show. All day long I'm seein', hearin' people doin' what I wanted to do most, but couldn't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Leavin' Detroit. Goin' off on vacations, startin' new lives, business trips. Fun, fun, fun, fun. </p><p><p ID="act">Another plane takes off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But knowin' me and you gonna be nigger-rich gives me a whole new outlook. I love airports now. Me 'n' you can get on any one of those planes out there, and go anywhere we ant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You ain't kiddin', we got lives to start over, we should go somewhere where we can really start from scatch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I been in America all my life. I'm due for a change. I wanna see what TV in other countries is like. Besides, it's more dramatic. Where should we fly off to, my little turtledove? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Cancoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Why Cancoon? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's got a nice ring to it. It sounds like a movie. "Clarence and Alabama Go to Cancoon". Don't 'cha think? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But in my movie, baby, you get the top billing. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't you worry 'bout anything. It's all gonna work out for us. We deserve it. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick, Clarence and Alabama are just getting ready to leave for the drug deal. Floyd lays on the couch watching TV. Alabama's wearing dark glasses because of the black eye she has. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Floyd) <P ID="dia">You sure that's how you get to the Beverly Wilshire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I've partied there twice. Yeah, I'm sure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, well if we got lost, it's your ass. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Come on, Clarence, lets go. Elliot's going to meet us in the lobby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm just makin' sure we got everything. <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Alabama) <P ID="dia"> You got yours? </p><p><p ID="act">She holds up the suitcase. The phone rings. The three pile out the door. Floyd picks up the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Hello? </p><p><p ID="act">He puts his hand over the receiver. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Dick, it's for you. You here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">No. I left. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts to close the door then opens it again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'll take it. <P ID="spkdir">(he takes the receiver) <P ID="dia">Hello. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Hi, Catherine, I was just walkin' out the - <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Really? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't believe it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">She really said that? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'll be by first thing. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">No, thank you for sending me out. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Bye-bye. </p><p><p ID="act">He hangs up and looks to Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(stunned) <P ID="dia">I got the part on "T.J. Hooker". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No shit? Dick, that's great! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are jumping around. Floyd even smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(still stunned) <P ID="dia">They didn't even want a callback. They just hired me like that. Me and Peter Breck are the two heavies. We start shooting Monday. My call is for seven o'clock in the morning. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ah, Dick, let's talk about it in the car. We can't be late. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick looks at Clarence. He doesn't want to go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Um, nothing, let's go? </p><p><p ID="act">They exit. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LAX AIRPORT - HOTEL - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We see the airport and move in closer on a hotel on a landscape. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. LAX AIRPORT - HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny can be seen putting a shotgun together. He is sitting on a bed. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario enters the frame with his own shotgun. He goes over to Lenny and gives him some shells. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin walks through the frame cocking his own shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">The bathroom door opens behind Lenny and Frankie walks out twirling a couple of .45 automatics in his hands. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - COP S' HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes and FOUR DETECTIVES from internal affairs are in a room on the same floor as Donowitz. They have just put a wire on Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">OK, say something. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(talking loud into the wire) <P ID="dia">Hello! Hello! Hello! How now brown cow! </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Just talk regular. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(normal tone) <P ID="dia">"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief -" </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Are you gettin' this shit? </p><p><p ID="act">DETECTIVE BY TAPE MACHINE Clear as a bell. </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson, Dime, and the head IA Officer, Wurlitzer, huddle by Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Now, remember, we'll be monitoring just down the hall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">And if there's any sign of trouble you'll come in. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Like gang-busters. Now, remember, if you don't want to go to jail, we gotta put your boss in jail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">We have to show in court that, without a doubt, a successful man, an important figure in the Hollywood community, is also dealing cocaine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">So you gotta get him to admit on tape that he's buying this coke. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">And this fellow Clarence? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">You gotta get him name the police officer behind all this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I'll try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You do more than try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Hope you're a good actor, Elliot. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Dick and Alabama en route. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You got that playing basketball? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yeah. I got elbowed right in the eye. And if that wasn't enough, I got hurled the ball when I'm not looking. Wam! Right in my face. </p><p><p ID="act">They stop at a red light. Clarence looks at Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Red light means love, baby. </p><p><p ID="act">He and Alabama start kissing. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING CADILLAC - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin, Frankie, Lenny and Dario in a rented Caddy. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE PARKING LOT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, and Dick get out of the red Mustang. Dick takes the suitcase. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'll take that. Now, remember, both of you, let me do the talking. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes out his .38. Dick reacts. They walk and talk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What the fuck did you bring that for. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In case. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">In case of what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In case they try to kill us. I don't know, what do you want me to say? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, Dillinger, Lee Donowitz is not a pimp - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I know that Richard. I don't think I'll need it. But something this last week has taught me, it's better to have a gun and not to need it than to need a gun and not to have it. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. Clarence stops walking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Hold it, guys. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm pretty scared. What say we forget the whole thing. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick and Alabama are both surprised and relieved. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you really mean it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No, I don't really mean it. Well, I mean, this is our last chance to think about it. How 'bout you, Bama? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I thought it was what you wanted, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It is what I want. But I don't want to spend the next ten years in jail. I don't want you guys to go to jail. We don't know what could be waiting for us up there. It'll probably be just what it's supposed to be. The only thing that's waiting for us is two hundred thousand dollars. I'm just looking at the downside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Now's a helluva time to play "what if". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This is our last chance to play "what if". I want to do it. I'm just scared of getting caught. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's been fun thinking about the money but I can walk away from it, honey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That rhymes. </p><p><p ID="act">He kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, if we're not gonna do it, let's just get in the car and get the fuck outta here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, let's just get outta here. </p><p><p ID="act">The three walk back to the car. Clarence gets behind the wheel. The other two climb in. Clarence hops back out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm sorry guys, I gotta do it. As petrified as I am, I just can't walk away. I'm gonna be kicking myself in the ass for the rest of my life if I don't go in there. Lee Donowitz isn't a gangster lookin' to skin us, and he's not a cop, he's a famous movie producer lookin' to get high. And I'm just the man who can get him there. So what say we throw caution to the wind and let the chips fall where they may. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence grabs the suitcase and makes a beeline for the hotel. Dick and Alabama exchange looks and follow. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LOBBY - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot's walking around the lobby. He's very nervous, so he's singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(singing) <P ID="dia">There's a man who leads a life of danger, To everyone he meets he stays a stranger. Be careful what you say, you'll give yourself away... </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - COPS' HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson, Dimes, Wurlitzer, and the three other Detectives surround the tape machine. Coming from the machine: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT'S VOICE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">... odds are you won't live to see tomorrow, secret agent man, secret agent man.... </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson looks at Dimes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Why, all of the sudden, have I got a bad feeling? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence enters the lobby alone, he's carrying the suitcase. He spots Elliot and goes in his direction. Elliot sees Clarence approaching him. He says to himself, quietly: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Elliot, your motivation is to stay out of jail. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks up to Elliot, they shake hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Where's everybody else? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">They'll be along. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama and Dick enter the lobby, they join up with Clarence and Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">How you doin', Elliot? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I guess it's about that time. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I guess so. Follow me. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ELEVATOR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The four of them are riding in the elevator. As luck would have it, they have the car to themselves. Rinky-drink elevator Muzak is playing. They are all silent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Get on your knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Not sure he heard him right. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence hits the stop button on the elevator panel and whips out his .38. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I said get on your fuckin' knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot does it immediately. Dick and Alabama react. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Shut up, both of you, I know what I'm doin'. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Pandemonium. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He knows. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">How the fuck could he know? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He saw the wire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">How's he supposed to see the wire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He knows something's up. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts the .38 against Elliot's forehead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You must think I'm pretty stupid, don't you? </p><p><p ID="act">No answer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(petrified) <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(yelling) <P ID="dia">Don't lie to me, motherfucker. You apparently think I'm the dumbest motherfucker in the world! Don't you? Say: Clarence, you are without a doubt, the dumbest motherfucker in the whole wide world. Say it! </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">We gotta get him outta there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Whatta we gonna do? He's in an elevator. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Say it, goddamn it! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You are the dumbest person in the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Apparently I'm not as dumb as you thought I am. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">No. No you're not. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's waiting for us up there. Tell me or I'll pump two right in your face. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">He's bluffin ya, Elliot. Can't you see that? You're an actor, remember, the show must go on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This guy's gonna kill him. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Stand up. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot does. The .38 is still pressed against his forehead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like Nick Carter used to say: I I'm wrong, I'll apologize. I want you to tell me what's waiting for us up there. Something's amiss. I can feel it. If anything out of the ordinary goes down, believe this, you're gonna be the first one shot. Trust me, I am AIDS, you fuck with me, you die. Now quit making me mad and tell me why I'm so fucking nervous. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He's bluffin', I knew it. He doesn't know shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Don't blow it, Elliot. He's bluffin'. He just told you so himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You're an actor, so act, motherfucker. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot still hasn't answered. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK. </p><p><p ID="act">With the .38 up against Elliot's head Clarence puts his palm over the top of the gun to shield himself from the splatter. Alabama and Dick can't believe what he's gonna do. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot, tears running down, starts talking for the benefit of the people at the other end of the wire. He sounds like a little boy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I don't wanna be here. I wanna go home. I wish somebody would just come and get me 'cause I don't like this. This is not what I thought it would be. And I wish somebody would just take me away. Just take me away Come and get me. 'Cause I don't like this anymore. I can't take this. I'm sorry but I just can't. So, if somebody would just come to my rescue, everything would be alright. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes shake their hands, They have a "well, that's that" expression an their faces. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts down the gun and hugs Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sorry, Elliot. Nothing personal. I just hadda make sure you're all right. I'm sure. I really apologize for scaring you so bad, but believe me, I'm just as scared as you. Friends? </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot, in a state of shock, takes Clarence's hand. Dick and Alabama are relieved. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes listen open-mouthed, not believing what they're hearing. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Floyd still lying on the couch watching TV. He hasn't moved since we last saw him. </p><p><p ID="act">There is a knock from the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="spkdir">(not turning away from TV) <P ID="dia">It's open. </p><p><p ID="act">The front door flies open and the four Wise-guys rapidly enter the room. The door slams shut. All have their sawed-offs drawn and pointing at Floyd. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Are you Dick Ritchie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Do you know a Clarence Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Do you know where we can find him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">He's at the Beverly Wilshire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Where's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Well, you go down Beechwood... </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LEE'S HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The door opens and reveals an extremely muscular guy with an Uzi strapped to his shoulder standing in the doorway, his name is Monty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Hi, Elliot. Are these your friends? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You could say that. Everybody, this is Monty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">C'mon in. Lee's in the can. He'll be out in a quick. </p><p><p ID="act">They all move into the room, it is very luxurious. </p><p><p ID="act">Another incredibly muscular GUY, Boris, is sitting on the sofa, he too has an Uzi. Monty begins patting everybody down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Sorry, nothin personal. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts to search Clarence. Clarence back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No need to search me, daredevil. All you'll find is a .38 calibre. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris gets up from the couch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">What compelled you to bring that along? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The same thing that compelled you, Beastmaster, to bring rapid-fire weaponry to a business meeting. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">I'll take that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You'll have to. </p><p><p ID="act">The toilet flushes in the bathroom. The door swings open and Lee Donowitz emerges. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">They're here. Who's who? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Lee, this is my friend Dick, and these are his friends, Clarence and Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="spkdir">(pointing at Clarence) <P ID="dia">This guy's packin'. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I have to admit, walkin' through the door and seein' these "Soldier of Fortune" poster boys made me a bit nervous. But, Lee, I'm fairly confident that you came here to do business, not to be a wise-guy. So, if you want, I'll put the gun on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I don't think that'll be necessary. Let's all have a seat. Boris, why don't you be nice and get coffee for everybody. </p><p><p ID="act">They all sit around a fancy glass table except for Boris, who's getting the coffee, and Monty, who's standing behind Lee's chair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh, Mr. Donowitz - </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Lee, Clarence . Please don't insult me. Call me Lee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK, sorry, Lee. I just wanna tell you "Coming Home in a Body Bag" is one of my favorite movies. After "Apocalypse Now" I think it's the best Vietnam movie ever. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Thank you very much, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, most movies that win a lot of Oscars, I can't stand. "Sophie's Choice", "Ordinary People", "Kramer vs. Kramer", "Gandhi". All that stuff is safe, geriatric, coffee-table dog shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I hear you talkin' Clarence. We park our cars in the same garage. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like that Merchant-Ivory clap-trap. All those assholes make are unwatchable movies from unreadable books. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris starts placing clear-glass coffee cups in front of everybody and fills everybody's cup from a fancy coffee pot that he handles like an expert. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Clarence, there might be somebody somewhere that agrees with you more than I do, but I wouldn't count on it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is on a roll and he knows it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">They ain't plays, they ain't books, they certainly ain't movies, they're films. And do you know what films are? They're for people who don't like movies. "Mad Max", that's a movie. "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly", that's a movie. "Rio Bravo", that's a movie. "Rumble Fish", that's a fuckin' movie. And, "Coming Home in a Body Bag", that's a movie. It was the first movie with balls to win a lot of Oscars since the "The Deer Hunter". </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">They're all listening to this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">What's this guy doin'? Makin' a drug deal or gettin' a job on the "New Yorker"? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">My uncle Roger and uncle Cliff, both of which were in Nam, saw "Coming Home in a Body Bag" and thought it was the most accurate Vietnam film they'd ever seen. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">You know, Clarence, when a veteran of that bullshit wars says that, it makes the whole project worthwhile. Clarence, my friend, and I call you my friend because we have similar interests, let's take a look at what you have for me. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Thank God. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts the suitcase on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Lee, when you see this you're gonna shit. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys are at the desk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="spkdir">(quietly to the others) <P ID="dia">What was the Jew-boy's name? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">Donowitz, he said. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FRONT-DESK GUY <P ID="dia">How can I help you, Gentlemen? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Yeah, we're from Warner Bros. What room is Mr. Donowitz in? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Lee's looking over the cocaine and sampling it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now, that's practically uncut. You could, if you so desire, cut it a helluva lot more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Don't worry, I'll desire. Boris, could I have some more coffee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Me too, Boris. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris fills both of their cups. They both, calm as a lake, take cream and sugar. All eyes are on them. Lee uses light cream and sugar, he begins stirring this cup. Clarence uses very heavy cream and sugar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(stirring loudly) <P ID="dia">You like a little coffee with your cream and sugar? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not satisfied till the spoon stands straight up. </p><p><p ID="act">Both are cool as cucumbers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I have to hand it to you, this is not nose garbage, this is quality. Can Boris make anybody a sandwich? I got all kinds of sandwich shit from Canters in there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">No thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">No. But thanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No thanks, my stomach's a little upset. I ate somethin' at a restaurant that made me a little sick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Where'd you go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A Norms in Van Nuys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Bastards. That's why I always eat at Lawreys. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee continues looking at the merchandise. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama writes something in her napkin with a pencil. She slides the napkin over to Clarence. It says: "You're so cool" with a tiny heart drawn on the bottom of it. Clarence takes the pencil and draws an arrow through the heart. She takes the napkin and puts it in her pocket. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee looks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">OK, Clarence, the merchandise is perfect. But, whenever I'm offered a deal that's too good to be true, it's because it's a lie. Convince me you're on the level. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">If he don't bite, we ain't got shit except posession. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Convince him. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, Lee, it's like this. You're getting the bargain of a lifetime because I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. You're used to dealin' with professionals. I'm not a professional. I'm a rank amateur. I could take that, and I could cut it, and I could sell it a little bit at a time, and make a helluva lot more money. But, in order to do that, I'd have to become a drug dealer. Deal with cut-throat junkies, killers, worry about getting busted all of the time. Just meeting you here today scares the shit outta me, and you're not a junkie, a killer or a cop, you're a fucking movie-maker. I like you, and I'm still scared. I'm a punk kid who picked up a rock in the street, only to find out it's the Hope Diamond. It's worth a million dollars, but I can't get the million dollars for it. But, you can. So, I'll sell it to you for a couple a hundred thousand. You go to make a million. It's all found money to me anyway. Me and my wife are minimum wage kids, two hundred thousand is the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Elliot tells me you're fronting for a dirty cop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, Elliot wasn't supposed to tell you anythin'. <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot, bigmouth. I knew you were a squid the moment I laid eyes on you. In my book, buddy, you're a piece of shit. <P ID="spkdir">(to Lee) <P ID="dia">He's not a dirty cop, he's a good cop. He just saw his chance and he took it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Why does he trust you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We grew up together. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">If you don't know shit, why does he think you can sell it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I bullshitted him. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee starts laughing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">That's wild. This fucking guy's a madman. I love it. Monty, go in the other room and get the money. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama and Dick exchange looks. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes exchange looks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES & NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Bingo! </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys are coming up. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Alabama) <P ID="dia">What's your part in this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm his wife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(referring to Dick) <P ID="dia">How 'bout you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I know Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">And Elliot knows me. Tell me, Clarence, what department does you friend work in? </p><p><p ID="act">Dick and Alabama panic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(without missing a beat) <P ID="dia">Carson County Sheriffs. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">The internal affairs officers high five. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Monty brings in a briefcase of money and puts it down on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Wanna count your money? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Actually, they can count it. I'd like to use the little boy's room. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">They all stand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">OK, boys. Let's go get 'em. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LEE'S HOTEL ROOM - BATHROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence steps inside the bathroom and shuts the door. As soon as it's shut he starts doing the twist. He can't believe he's pulled it off. He goes to the toilet and starts taking a piss. He turns and sees Elvis sitting on the sink. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Clarence, I gotta hand it to ya. You were cooler than cool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I was dying. I thought for sure everyone could see it on my face. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">All anybody saw was Clint Eastwood drinkin' coffee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Can you develop an ulcer in two minutes? Being cool is hard on your body. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Oh, and your line to Charles Atlas in there: "I'll take that gun", "You'll have to". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That was cool, wasn't it? You know, I don't even know where that came from. I just opened my mouth and it came out. After I said it I thought, that's a cool line, I gotta remember that. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Everything's just as it was. </p><p><p ID="act">Sudenly, Nicholson, Dimes and the four Detectives break into the room with guns drawn. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES & NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Police! Freeze, you're all under arrest! </p><p><p ID="act">Everybody at the table stands up. Boris and Monty stand ready with the Uzis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You two! Put the guns on the floor and back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Fuck you! All you pigs put your guns on the floor and back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Monty, what are you talking about? So what they say. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This is your last warning! Drop those fuckin' guns! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">This is your last warning! We could kill all six of ya and ya fuckin' know it! Now get on the floor! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What the fuck am I doing here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Boris! Everybody's gonna get killed! They're cops! </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">So they're cops. Who gives a shit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">Lee, something I never told you about me. I don't like cops. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">OK, let's everybody calm down and get nice. Nobody has to die. We don't want it, and you don't want it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">We don't want it. </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys burst through the door, shotguns drawn, except for Frankie, who has two .45 automatics, one in each hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Half of the cops spin around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Freeze! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Who are you guys? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Police. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DARIO <P ID="spkdir">(to Lenny) <P ID="dia">Do we get any extra if we have to kill cops? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">BATHROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How do you think I'm doin' with Lee? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Are you kiddin'? He loves you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't think I'm kissin' his ass, do you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">You're tellin' him what he wants to hear, but that ain't the same thing as kissin' his ass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not lyin' to him. I mean it. I loved "Coming Home in a Body Bag". </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">That's why it doesn't come across as ass-kissin', because it's genuine, and he can see that. </p><p><p ID="act">Elvis fixes Clarence's collar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I like ya, Clarence. Always have. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">This is a Mexican stand-off if there ever was one. Gangsters on one end with shotguns. Bodyguards with machine guns on the other. And cops with handguns in the middle. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's ready to pass out. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's so scared she pees on herself. </p><p><p ID="act">For Elliot, this has been the worst day of his life, and he's just about had it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Officer Dimes? Officer Dimes. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes looks at Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia"> This has nothing to do with me anymore. Can I just leave and you guys just settle it by yourselves? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Elliot, shut the fuck up and stay put! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">How did you know his name? How the fuck did he know your name? Why, you fuckin' little piece of shit! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Lee, understand, I didn't want to - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Shut the fuck up! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Well, I hope you're not planning on acting any time in the next twenty years 'cause your career is over as of now! You might as weel burn your SAG card! To think I treated you as a son! And you stabbed me in the heart! </p><p><p ID="act">Lee can't control his anger any more. He grabs the coffee pot off the table and flings hot coffee into Elliot's face. Elliot screams and falls to his knees, </p><p><p ID="act">Instinctively, Nicholson shoots Lee twice. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris lets loose with his Uzi, pinting Nicholson red with bullets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="spkdir">(screaming) <P ID="dia">Cody!!! </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson flies backwards. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin fires his shotgun, hits Nicholson in the back, Nicholson's body jerks back and forth then on the floor. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence opens the bathroom door. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes hits the ground firing. </p><p><p ID="act">A shot catches Clarence in the forehead. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario fires his sawed-off. It catches Clarence in the chest, hurling him on the bathroom sink, smashing the mirror. </p><p><p ID="act">It might have been a stand-off before, but once the firing starts everybody either hits the ground or runs for cover. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes, Alabama, Dick, Lenny, an IA Officer and Wurtlitzer hit the ground. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris dives into the kitchen area. </p><p><p ID="act">Monty tips the table over. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin dives behind the sofa. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario runs out of the door and down the hall. </p><p><p ID="act">With bullets flying this way and that, some don't have time to anything. Two IA Officers are shot right away. </p><p><p ID="act">Frankie takes an Uzi hit. He goes down firing both automatics. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot gets it from both sides. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama is crawling across the floor, like a soldier in war, towards the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, still barely alive, lays on the sink, twitching. He moves and falls off. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama continues crawling. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin brings his sawed-off from behind the sofa and fires. The shotgun blast hits the glass table and Monty. Monty stands up screaming. </p><p><p ID="act">The Cops on the ground let loose, firing into Monty. </p><p><p ID="act">As Monty gets hit, his finger hits the trigger of the Uzi, spreading fire all over the apartment. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cop cars start arriving in twos in front of the hotel. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">GUNFIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama crawling. </p><p><p ID="act">The suitcase full of cocaine is by Dick. Dick grabs it and tosses it in the air. Marvin comes from behind the sofa and fires. The suitcase is hit in mid-air. White powder goes everywhere. The room is enveloped in cocaine. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick takes this cue and makes a dash out the door. </p><p><p ID="act">An IA Officer goes after him. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny makes a break for it. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer goes after him but is pinned down by Marvin. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama reaches the bathroom and finds Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sweety? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's face is awash with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I... I can't see you... I've got blood in my eyes... </p><p><p ID="act">He dies. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama tries to give him outh-to-mouth resuscitation. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - HALLWAY - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dario runs down the hall, right into a cluster of uniformed police. </p><p><p ID="act">He fires his shotgun, hitting two, just before the others chop him to ribbons. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ANOTHER HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">The hallway's empty but we hear footsteps approaching fast. Dick comes around the corner, running as if on fire. Then we see the IA Officer turn the same corner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">IA OFFICER <P ID="spkdir">(aiming gun) <P ID="dia">Freeze! </p><p><p ID="act">Dick does. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'm unarmed! </p><p><P ID="speaker">IA OFFICER <P ID="dia">Put your hands on your head, you son-of-a-bitch! </p><p><p ID="act">He does. Then, from off screen, a shotgun blast tears into the IA Officer, sending him to the wall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Oh shit. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts running again and runs out of frame, then Lenny turns around the corner and runs down the hall. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick runs into the elevator area, he hits the buttons, he's trapped, it's like a box. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny catches up. Dick raises his hands. Lenny aimes his sawed-off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, I don't know who you are, but whatever it was that I did to you, I'm sorry. </p><p><p ID="act">Two elevator doors on either side of them open. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny looks at Dick. He drops his aim and says: </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Lotsa luck. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny dives into one elevator car. Dick jumps into the other, just as the doors close. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">HOTEL ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">The Mexican stand-off has become two different groups of two pinning each other down. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer has Marvin pinned down behind the sofa and Dimes has Boris pinned down in the kitchen. </p><p><p ID="act">In the bathroom, Alabama's pounding on Clarence's bloody chest, trying to get his heart started. It's not working. She slaps him hard in the face a couple of times. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Wake up, goddamn it! </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes discards his handgun and pulls one of the sawed-off shotguns from the grip of a dead Wise-guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris peeks around the wall to fire. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes lets loose with a blast. A scream is heard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I'm shot! Stop! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Throw out your gun, asshole! </p><p><p ID="act">The Uzi's tossed out. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes goes to where Wurlitzer is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="spkdir">(to Marvin) <P ID="dia">OK, black jacket! It's two against one now! Toss the gun and lie face down on the floor or die like all you friends. </p><p><p ID="act">The shotgun's tossed out from behind the sofa. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ELEVATOR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's sitting on the ground, he can't believe any of this. The doors open on the fourth floor. He runs out into the hallway. </p><p><p ID="act">HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">He starts trying the room doors for an open one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Oh, God, if you just get me outta this I swear to God I'll never fuck up again. Please, just let me get to "T.J. Hooker" on Monday. </p><p><p ID="act">STEWARDESS'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick steps in. Three gorgeous girls are doing a killer aerobics workout to a video on TV. The music is so loud they're so into their exercises, they don't hear Dick tiptoe behind them and crawl underneath the bed. </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Boris has caught a lot of buckshots, but he'll live. He's lying on the kitchen floor. Dimes stands over him. He has the sawed-off in his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Don't even give me an excuse, motherfucker. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes pats him down for other weapons, there are none. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer puts the cuffs on Marvin and sits him down on the couch. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes looks in the bathroom and sees the dead Clarence with Alabama crying over him. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes walks over to Wurlitzer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Everything's under control here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Sorry about Nicholson. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Me too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">I'm gonna go see what's goin' on outside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You do that. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer exits. Dimes grabs the phone. </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Shotgun in hand, Lenny moves hurriedly down the lobby. </p><p><p ID="act">A Cop yells out. </p><p><p ID="act">COP You! Stop! </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny brings up his sawed-off and lets him have it. Other cops rush forward. Lenny grabs a woman standing by. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Get back or I'll blow this bitch's brains to kingdom come! </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes on the phone talking with the department. Boris is still moving on the floor. Marvin is sitting on the couch with his hands cuffed behind his back. Alabama is crying over Clarence, then she feels something in his jacket. She reaches in and pulls out his .38. She wipes her eyes. She holds the gun in her hand and remembers Clarence saying: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">She's a sixteen-calibre kitten, equally equipped for killin' an' lovin'! She carried a sawed-off shotgun in her purse, a black belt around her waist, and the white-hot fire of hate in her eyes! Alabama Whitman is Pam Grier! Pray for forgiveness, Rated R... for Ruthless Revenge! </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama steps out of the bathroom, gun in hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin turns his head toward her. She shoots him twice. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes, still on the phone, spins around in time to see her raise her gun. She fires. He's hit in the head and flung to the floor. </p><p><p ID="act">She sees Boris on the kitchen floor. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye-bye, Boris. Good luck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">You too, cutie. </p><p><p ID="act">She starts to leave and then spots the briefcase full of money. She takes it and walks out the door. </p><p><p ID="act">HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">The elevator opens and Wurlitzer steps out. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama comes around the corner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Hey, you! </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama shoots him three times in the belly. She steps into the elevator, the doors close. </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama enters the lobby and proceeds to walk out. In the background, cops are all over the place and Lenny is still yelling with the woman hostage. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">I wanna car here, takin' me to the airport, with a plane full of gas ready to take me to Kilimanjaro and... and a million bucks! <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Small bills! </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - PARKING LOT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama puts the briefcase in the trunk. She gets into the Mustang and drives away. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's driving fast down the freeway. The DJ on the radio is trying to be funny. She's muttering to herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I could have walked away. I told you that. I told you I could have walked away. This is not my fault. I did not do this. You did this one hundred percent to yourself. I'm not gonna give you the satisfaction of feeling bad. I should laugh 'cause you don't deserve any better. I could get another guy like that. I'm hot lookin'. What are you? Dead! Dumb jerk. Asshole. You're a asshole, you're a asshole, you're a asshole. You wanted it all, didn't ya? Didn't ya? Well watcha got now? You ain't got the money. You ain't got me. You ain't even got your body anymore. You got nothin'. Nada. Zip. Goose egg. Nil. Donut. </p><p><p ID="act">The song "Little Arrows" by Leapy Lee comes on the radio. Alabama breaks down and starts crying. She pulls the car over to the side. The song continues. She wipes her eyes with a napkin that she pulls out her jacket. She tosses it on the dashboard. She picks up the .38 and sticks it in her mouth. </p><p><p ID="act">She pulls back hammer. She looks up and sees her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She turns it the other way. She looks straight ahead. Her finger tightens on the trigger. She sees the napkin on the dashboard. She opens it up and reads it: "You're so cool". </p><p><p ID="act">She tosses the gun aside, opens up the trunk, and takes out the briefcase. She looks around for, and finally finds, the "Sgt. Fury" comic book Clarence bought her. </p><p><p ID="act">And with comic book in one hand, and briefcase in the other, Bama walks away from the Mustang forever. </p><p><p ID="slug">FADE OUT </p><p><p ID="act">THE END Screenplay by Quentin Tarantino Produced by Samuel Hadida Steve Perry Bill Unger Directed by Tony Scott Cast List: Christian Slater Clarence Worley Patricia Arquette Alabama Whitman Dennis Hopper Clifford Worley Michael Rapaport Dick Ritchie Bronson Pinchott Elliot Blitzer Christopher Walken Vincenzo Coccotti Saul Rubinek Lee Donowitz Samuel L. Jackson Big Don Brad Pitt Floyd Val Kilmer Elvis (Mentor) Typed with two bare fingers by Niki Wurster Removed from zip format and formatted in text format by Kale Whorton. Formatted in HTML by Dabrast Caustic </p> </div> <b> </b><b> </b> <b></b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How is Oscar related to Dana?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Please go ahead and memorize the context. (Note: I will give you the question after you confirm that you have memorized the context.) \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "It's her son" ]	25,086	narrativeqa	en	null	e1514d530becf70246cb43e50b44a1c615cbbded416ccb15	Ghostbusters II by Harold Ramis and Dan Aykroyd September 29, 1988 Last revised Feburary 27, 1989 <b>EXT. MANHATTAN ISLAND - DAY </b> A high AERIAL SHOT of the island features the Statue of Liberty prominently in the foreground then TRAVELS ACROSS the harbor, OVER the Battery and Lower Manhattan to Greenwich Village. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY </b> A car is being hoisted up by a municipal tow truck while its owner is having a terrible screaming arguement with a parking enforcement officer. DANA BARRETT comes home pushing a baby buggy, struggling with two full bags of groceries, and trying to dig her keys out of her purse. The building superintendent FRANK, sees her struggling but pretends not to notice. <b> DANA </b> (exasperated) Frank, do you think you could give me a hand with these bags? <b> FRANK </b> I'm not a doorman, Miss Barrett. I'm a building superintendent. <b> DANA </b> You're also a human being, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> (reluctantly going to help) Okay, okay. It's not my job, but what the hell. I'll do you a favor. He takes the grocery bags from her. <b> DANA </b> (setting the wheel brakes on the buggy) Thank you, Frank. I'll get the hang of this eventually. She continues digging in her purse while Frank leans over the buggy and makes funny faces at the baby, OSCAR, a very cute nine-month old boy. <b> FRANK </b> (to the baby) Hiya, Oscar. What do you say, slugger? <b> FRANK </b> (to Dana) That's a good-looking kid you got there, Ms. Barrett. <b> DANA </b> (finding her keys) Thank you, Frank. Oh, are you ever going to fix the radiator in my bedroom? I asked you last week. <b> FRANK </b> Didn't I do it? <b>BABY BUGGY </b> It starts to vibrate as if shaken by an unseen hand. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> He GURGLES with delight at the movement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DANA AND FRANK - DAY </b> Neither of them notice the movement of the carriage. <b> DANA </b> No, you didn't, Frank. <b> FRANK </b> Okay, that's no problem. <b> DANA </b> That's exactly what you said last week. <b>BUGGY WHEELS </b> The brakes unlock themselves. <b>DANA </b> She reaches for the handlebar of the buggy, but the buggy rolls forward just out of her reach and stops. Surprised by the movement, she reaches for the handlebar again, but this time the buggy rolls away even further. Alarmed now, Dana hurries after it, but the buggy keeps rolling down the street at ever increasing speed. <b>SIDEWALK </b> Dana chases the buggy down the street, shouting to passing pedestrians for help, but every time someone reaches out to stop it, the buggy swerves and continues unchecked. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars, trucks, and buses speed by in both directions as the buggy races toward the corner. <b>DANA </b> She puts her head down and sprints after the buggy like an Olympian. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> A city bus is on a collision course with the speeding baby buggy. <b>BUGGY </b> It careens toward the corner. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - BABY - DAY </b> Its eyes are wide open with excitement. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - INTERSECTION - DAY </b> Bus and buggy are closing fast as the buggy bounces over the curb and into the crosswalk. <b>BUS </b> The bus driver reacts in helpless horror as he sees the buggy enter the intersection at high speed. <b>BUGGY </b> It comes to a dead stop right in the middle of the street. The bus continues missing the buggy by inches. <b>INTERSECTION </b> Cars and trucks swerve and hit their brakes as Dana runs into the intersection and snatches up the baby. She hugs it close, deeply relieved, then looks at the buggy with the dawning awareness that the supernatural has re-entered her life. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UPPER WEST SIDE - NEW YORK CITY STREET - GHOSTBUSTERS LOGO - DAY </b> THEME MUSIC kicks in strongly as we see the familiar "No Ghosts" symbol and PULL BACK to reveal that it's painted on the side of Ecto-1, the Ghostbusters' emergency vehicle, which is speeding up Broadway on the Upper West Side. RAY STANTZ is driving and WINSTON ZEDDEMORE is riding shotgun. <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> The Ectomobile pulls up in front of a carefully-restored brownstone. Stantz and Winston, wearing their official Ghostbuster uniforms, jump out of the old ambulance, shoulder their proton packs and enter the house. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> A WOMAN greets them and leads them through the expensively-furnished house. <b> STANTZ </b> (all business) How many of them are there, ma'am? <b> WOMAN </b> Fourteen. They're in the back. I hope you can handle them. It's been like a nightmare. <b> WINSTON </b> How big are they? She holds her hand out indicating about four feet. <b> WINSTON </b> (resolute) We'll do our best, ma'am. <b> WOMAN </b> They're right out here. She leads them to a set of French doors that open into another room. Stantz and Winston pause to make final adjustments to their equipment. <b> STANTZ </b> Ready? <b> WINSTON </b> I'm ready. <b> STANTZ </b> Then let's do it. He pushes through the French doors and they step into the room. <b>INT. BROWNSTONE - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They are immediately attacked by fourteen or fifteen screaming KIDS between the ages of seven and ten. <b> KIDS </b> (disappointed) Ghostbusters!! Boooo!! Tables are set with party favors, ice cream and birthday cake and the room is strewn with discarded toys and games. A couple of weary parents sink onto lawn chairs as Stantz and Winston take over the party. <b> WINSTON </b> (trying his best) How you doin', kids? <b> LITTLE BOY </b> (nasty) I though we were having He-Man. <b> STANTZ </b> He-Man couldn't make it today. That's why we're here. <b> BOY </b> My dad says you're full of crap. <b> STANTZ </b> (stopped cold) Well, a lot of people have trouble believing in the paranormal. <b> BOY </b> No, he just says you're full of crap and that's why you went out of business. He kicks Stantz in the leg. Stantz grabs him by the shirtfront. <b> STANTZ </b> (low and menacing) I'm watching you. (to Winston) Song. Winston switches on a tiny TAPE RECORDER which starts PLAYING the Ghostbusters THEME SONG. Stantz and WInston start singing <b> STANTZ AND WINSTON </b> 'There's something wrong in the neighborhood. Who you gonna call?' <b> KIDS </b> (all together) He-Man!! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. WEST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Stantz and Winston wearily load their equipment into the Ectomobile. <b> WINSTON </b> That's it, Ray. I've had it. No more parties. I'm tired of taking abuse from over-privileged nine-year-olds. <b> STANTZ </b> Come on, Winston. We can't quit now. The holidays are coming up. It's our best season. They get in the car <b>INT. ECTO-1 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz tries to start the car, but the engine won't turn over. <b> WINSTON </b> Give it up, Ray. You're living in the past. Ghostbusters doesn't exist anymore. In a year these kids won't even remember who we are. <b> STANTZ </b> (tries to start the car again) Ungrateful little Yuppie larvae. After all we did for this city. <b> WINSTON </b> Yeah, what did we do, Ray? The last real job we had we bubbled up a hundred foot marshmallow man and blew the top three floors off an uptown highrise. <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, but what a ride. You can't make a hamburger without chopping up a cow. He turns the key again, the ENGING TURNS OVER, then starts GRINDING and CLUNKING disastrously, chewing up vital parts and dropping twisted bits of metal onto the pavement. Finally, with a BLAST of black sooty exhaust from the tailpipe, Ecto-1 shudders and dies. Frustrated, Stantz bangs his head lightly on the steering wheel <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. WKRR-TV STUDIO RECEPTION AREA - DAY (LATER) </b> A bank of monitors in the lobby show the program now running on WKRR, Channel 10 in New York. We PUSH IN ON one of the monitors as a title card and logo come up accompanied by some EERIE SYNTHESIZER MUSIC, and we return to the show in progress: "World of the Psychic with Dr. Peter Venkman." There is a video dissolve to a standard talk show set and sitting there is our host PETER VENKMAN, the renowned and somewhat infamous ex-Ghostbuster. <b>VENKMAN </b> He turns TO CAMERA and talks to his viewers in a suavely engaging tone, understated and intimate. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, welcome back to the 'World of the Psychic,' I'm Peter Venkman and I'm chatting with my guest, author, lecturer and of course, psychic, Milton Anglund. (to his guest) Milt, your new book is called The End of the World. Isn't that kind of like writing about gum disease. Yes, it could happen, but do you think anybody wants to read a book about it? <b> MILTON </b> Well, I think it's important for people to know that the world is in danger. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, so can you tell us when it's going to happen or do we have to buy the book? <b> MILTON </b> I predict that the world will end at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> This year? That's cutting it a little close, isn't it? I mean, just from a sales point of view, the book just came out, right? So you're not even looking at the paperback release for maybe a year. And it's going to be at least another year after that if the thing has movie-of-the-week or mini-series potential. You would have been better off predicting 1992 or even '94 just to be safe. <b> MILTON </b> (irritated) This is not just some money-making scheme! I didn't just make up the date. I have a strong psychic belief that the world will end on New Year's Eve. <b> VENKMAN </b> (placating) Well, for your sake, I hope you're right. But I think my other guest may disagree with you. Elaine, you had another date in mind? The CAMERA REVEALS ELAINE, an attractive, aggressive New Jersey housewife, sitting on the other side of Venkman. <b> ELAINE </b> According to my sources, the world will end on February 14, in the year 2016. <b> VENKMAN </b> Valentine's Day. That's got to be a bummer. Where did you get that date, Elaine? <b> ELAINE </b> I received this information from an alien. I was at the Paramus Holiday Inn, I was having a drink in the bar when he approached me and started talking. Then he must have used some sort of ray or a mind control device because he made me follow him to his room and that's where he told me about the end of the world. <b> VENKMAN </b> Your alien had a room in the Holiday Inn? <b> ELAINE </b> It may have been a room on the spacecraft made up to look like a room in the Holiday Inn. I can't be sure, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (humoring her) No, you can't, and I think that's the whole problem with aliens; you just can't trust them. You may get some nice ones occasionally like Starman or E.T., but most of them turn out to be some kind of lizard. Anyway, we're just about out of time. (does his wrap-up right TO the CAMERA) Next week on 'World of the Psychic,' hairless pets. (holds up a hairless cat) Until then, this is Peter Venkman saying ... (puts a finger to his temple and sends out a though to his viewers) ... Good night. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. TV STUDIO - CORRIDOR - DAY (LATER) </b> Venkman comes out of the studio squabbling with his producer, NORMAN, a well-meaning young incompetent. <b> VENKMAN </b> Where do you find these people? I thought we were having the telekinetic guy who bends the spoons? <b> NORMAN </b> A lot of the better psychics won't come on the show. They think you're too skeptical. <b> VENKMAN </b> Skeptical! Norman, I'm a pushover. I think professional wrestling is real. There is a small commotion down the hall as two plainclothes cops come out of the next studio followed by a group of mayoral assistants. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Norman) What's all this? <b> NORMAN </b> They just interviewed the mayor on 'Cityline.' <b> VENKMAN </b> The Mayor! He's a friend of mine. Venkman starts down the hall as the MAYOR and his principal aide, JACK HARDEMEYER, come walking out of the studio. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calling to the Mayor) Lenny! The Mayor sees Venkman, blanches and hurries off, pretending not to know him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (starts to follow him) Lenny! It's Pete Venkman! The plainclothesmen cut Venkman off and Hardemeyer puts a heavy hand against Venkman's chest. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (snide) Can I help you? <b> VENKMAN </b> (dangerous) Yeah, you can get your hand off my chest. Hardemeyer smiles and drops his hand. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> I'm Jack Hardemeyer. I'm the mayor's assistant. What can I do for you? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm an old friend of the mayor's. I just want to say hello to him. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (scornful) I know who you are, Doctor Venkman. Busting any ghosts lately? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, that's what I want to talk to the mayor about. We did a little job for the city a while back and we ended up getting sued, screwed and tattooed by deskworms like you. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (bristling) Look, you stay away from the mayor. Next fall, barring a disaster, he's going to be elected governor of this state and the last thing we need is for him to be associated with two-bit frauds and publicity hounds like you and your friends. You read me? Hardemeyer walks off with the two cops. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, I get it. But I want you to tell Lenny that, because of you, I'm not voting for him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - DAY </b> The broad front steps of the museum are crowded with tourists and visitors. Dana arrives carrying a portfolio and artist's tackle box and enters the museum. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATER) </b> We are FULL-FRAME ON a larger-than-life, full-figure portrait of VIGO THE CARPATHIAN, a demented and sadistic 16th century despot with an incredibly powerful evil presence. Then we PULL BACK to reveal the studio, which is a large open space on the top floor of the museum, lit by large skylights in the ceiling. Working on the Vigo painting is JANOSZ POHA, a youngish art historian and painter, the head of the department, quirky, intense and somewhat creepy. Janosz is staring longingly across the room at Dana. <b>DANA </b> She is carefully cleaning a 19th Century landscape painting, still preoccupied by the extraordinary near-accident with the buggy. Janosz watches her for a moment, then comes up behind her and looks over her shoulder. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with an East European accent) Still working on the Turner? Dana jumps, startled by the intrusion. <b> DANA </b> Oh, yes, I got in a little late this morning, Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> You know, you are really doing very good work here. I think soon you may be ready to assist me in some of the more important restorations. <b> DANA </b> Thank you, Janosz. I've learned a lot here, but now that my baby's a little older, I was hoping to rejoin the orchestra. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> At the mention of Dana's baby, the figure of Vigo miraculously turns his head and looks at Dana. <b>JANOSZ AND DANA </b> Neither of them notice the movement in the painting. <b> JANOSZ </b> (disappointed) We'll be very sorry to lose you. Perhaps I could take you to lunch today? <b> DANA </b> Actually, I'm not eating lunch today. I have an appointment. (looks at her watch) In fact, I'd better go. She starts gathering up her things. <b> JANOSZ </b> Every day I ask you, and every day you've got something else to do. Do I have bad breath or something? <b> DANA </b> (trying to brush him off) I'm sorry. Perhaps some other time. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, I'll take a raincheck on that. Janosz smiles at her as she exits, then goes back to his easel. <b> JANOSZ </b> (to himself) I think she likes me. He switches on an English language TAPE and starts practicing the phrases as he resumes working. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. UNIVERSITY - DAY </b> Dana Barrett crosses the quad and enters a modern building. A sign identifies it as "The Institute for Advanced Theoretical Research." <b>INT. UNIVERSITY - DAY (A LITTLE LATER) </b> Dana is explaining the buggy incident to EGON SPENGLER, the soberly intellectual techno-wizard and former Ghostbuster, as he conducts an experiment assisted by a research team of graduate students, all of whom are Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. The device he is testing is a black box about the size of a Sony Watchman with both digital and graphic displays. <b> DANA </b> ... and then the buggy just suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the street <b> SPENGLER </b> Did anyone else see this happen? <b> DANA </b> Hundreds of people. Believe me, I didn't imagine this. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm not saying you did. In science we always look for the simplest explanation. An ASSISTANT interrupts. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready, Dr. Spengler <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Assistant) We'll start with the negative calibration. He picks up the device and prepares to test it. <b> DANA </b> (curious) What are you working on, Egon? <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm trying to determine whether human emotional states have a measurable effect on the psychomagnetheric energy field. It's a theory Ray and I were working on when we had to dissolve Ghostbusters. An assistant draws a curtain revealing a large picture window, actually a two-way mirror, that looks into a small waiting room. Inside the waiting room they can see but not hear a youngish couple having a heated arguement. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Dana) They think they're here for marriage counseling. We've kept them waiting for two hours and we've been gradually increasing the temperature in the room. (checking a heat sensor) It's up to 95 degrees at the moment. Now my assistant is going to enter and ask them if they'd mind waiting another half-hour. As Spengler, Dana, and the research team watch, the assistant enters the waiting room and tells the couple about the new delay. They explode with anger both at him and each other while Spengler monitors them through the glass. After recording his readings, he returns to his Assistant. <b> SPENGLER </b> We'll do the happiness index next. (to Dana) I'd like to bring Ray in on your case, if it's all right with you. <b> DANA </b> Okay, whatever you think -- but not Venkman. <b> SPENGLER </b> Oh no. <b> DANA </b> (affectedly casual) Do you ever see him? <b> SPENGLER </b> Occasionally <b> DANA </b> How is he these days? <b> SPENGLER </b> Venkman? I think he was borderline for a while there. Then he crossed the border. <b> DANA </b> Does he ever mention me? <b> SPENGLER </b> No. Not that I can recall. They move to another two-way mirror through which they can see a lovely little girl playing with a wonderful array of toys. <b> DANA </b> (slightly disappointed) Well, we didn't part on very good terms and we sort of lost track of each other when I got married. The Assistant interrupts again. <b> ASSISTANT </b> We're ready for the affection test. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the assistant) Good. Send in the puppy. <b> DANA </b> (continuing) I thought of calling him after my marriage ended, but --. Anyway, I appreciate you're doing this, Egon They watch as another assistant enters the playroom with an adorable Cocker Spaniel puppy and gives it to the little girl. Spengler monitors her as she jumps for joy and hugs the little dog. <b> DANA </b> (handing him a card) This is my address and telephone number. Will you call me? <b> SPENGLER </b> Certainly. <b> DANA </b> Egon, I'd rather you didn't mention any of this to Peter if you don't mind. <b> SPENGLER </b> I won't. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. She shakes his hand and exits. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to his assistant) Now let's see how she reacts when we take away the puppy <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOK STORE - DAY (LATER) </b> It's a small basement shop located on a quaint commercial block in Greenwich Village. The window is crowded with occult artifacts and old books full of arcane metaphysical lore. The TELEPHONE RINGS. <b> STANTZ </b> (v.o., answering the phone) Ray's Occult. <b>INT. RAY'S OCCULT BOOKS - CONTINUOUS </b> The shelves are jammed floor to ceiling with books on the paranormal. Ray sits on a barstool behind the counter wearing an old cardigan sweater over a T-shirt. He has on a pair of reading glasses and chews on a battered, reeking pipe. As he talks on the phone he prepares a cup of herb tea for Spengler who is thumbing through an arcane text. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the phone) Yeah ... mmhmm ... What do you need? ... What have I got? I've got alchemy, astrology, apparitions, Bundu Magic Men, demon intercession, U.F.O. abductions, psychic surgery, stigmata, modern miracles, pixie sightings, golden geese, geists, ghosts, I've got it all -- what are you looking for? ... Don't have any. Try the stockyards. He hangs up. <b> SPENGLER </b> Who was that? <b> STANTZ </b> Some crank. Looking for goat hooves. Come up with anything? <b> SPENGLER </b> (referring to the book) This one's interesting. Berlin, 1939, a flower cart took off by itself and rolled approximately half a kilometer over level ground. Three hundred eyewitnesses. <b> STANTZ </b> You might want to check those Duke University mean averaging studies on controlled psychokinesis. <b> SPENGLER </b> (going to the stacks) Good idea. The bones hanging over the door rattle as Venkman enters the shop. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, hello, perhaps you could help me. I'm looking for an aerosol love potion I could spray on a certain Penthouse Pet that would make her unconditionally submit to an unusual personal request. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, hiya, Pete. <b> VENKMAN </b> So, no goat hooves, huh? <b> STANTZ </b> (strung) I knew that voice sounded familiar. What's up? How's it going? <b> VENKMAN </b> Nowhere -- fast. Why don't you lock up and buy me a sub? <b> STANTZ </b> (slightly evasive) Uh, I can't. I'm kind of working on something. Spengler steps out of the stacks. <b> VENKMAN </b> Egon! <b> SPENGLER </b> Hello, Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> How've you been? How's teaching? I bet those science chicks really dig that big cranium of yours, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think they're more interested in my epididymis. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't even want to know where that is. Venkman steps behind the counter and takes a beer from Ray's mini-fridge. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, your book came in, Venkman. Magical Paths to Fortune and Power. He hands Venkman the book. <b> VENKMAN </b> Great. (reading the contents) So what are you guys working on? <b> STANTZ </b> Oh, just checking something for an old friend. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? <b> STANTZ </b> (at a loss) Who? Just -- someone we know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, Ray -- He grabs Stantz by both ears and pulls up. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who? Who? Who? <b> STANTZ </b> Aaah! Nobody! I can't tell you! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who, Ray? <b> STANTZ </b> (giving in) Dana! Dana Barrett! Venkman lets go of his ears and smiles. Spengler looks at Stantz and shakes his head. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - DAY (LATER) </b> The apartment is old and creatively furnished with a comfortable mix of modern and traditional pieces. Maria, a young Hispanic woman who does day care for Dana, is feeding the baby in the kitchen when the DOORBELL <b>RINGS. </b> <b> CUT TO: </b> Dana enters from the bedroom and crosses to the front door. She opens it and admits Ray and Egon. <b> DANA </b> (hugging Ray) Hi, Ray. It's good to see you. Thanks for coming. <b> STANTZ </b> No problem. Always glad to help -- and hug. <b> DANA </b> (to Spengler) Hi, Egon. She shakes his hand and is about to close the door when Venkman appears in the doorway. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hi, Dana. Dana is caught completely off guard by Venkman's surprise appearance. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew you'd come crawling back to me. She regards him coolly, as always amused and amazed at his presumptuousness. <b> DANA </b> Hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) You know, Dana, I'm very very hurt that you didn't call me first. I'm still into all this stuff, you know. Haven't you ever seen my show? <b> DANA </b> I have. That's why I didn't call you first. <b> VENKMAN </b> I can see that you're still very bitter about us, but in the interest of science, I'm going to give it my best shot. Let's go to work, boys. Stantz and Spengler begin a comprehensive parapsychological work-up on the baby and the immediate physical environment. <b>VENKMAN AND DANA </b> Venkman starts nosing around the apartment. Dana follows him. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what happened to Mr. Right? I hear he ditched you and the kid and moved to Europe. <b> DANA </b> He didn't "ditch" me. We had some problems, he got a good offer from an orchestra in England and he took it. <b> VENKMAN </b> He ditched you. You should've married me, you know. <b> DANA </b> You never asked me, and every time I brought it up you'd get drowsy and fall asleep. <b> VENKMAN </b> Men are very sensitive, you know. We need to feel loved and desired, too. <b> DANA </b> Well, when you started introducing me as "the old ball and chain," that's when I left. <b> VENKMAN </b> I may have a few personal problems but one thing I am is a total professional. He leaves her and crosses to Spengler. <b>SPENGLER </b> He's taking a complete set of body and head measurements of the baby with a tape measure and calipers. <b> VENKMAN </b> What are you going to do, Egon? Knit him a snowsuit? Spengler ignores the remark and hands Venkman a specimen jar. <b> SPENGLER </b> I'd like to have a stool specimen <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, you would. Is that for personal or professional reasons? <b> VENKMAN </b> (picking up the baby) Okay, kid. Up you go. He starts clowning with the baby, holding him over his head and pressing his nose into the baby's belly, pretending that the baby is attacking him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Help! Please somebody help me! Get him off! Quickly! He's gone completely berserk! Dana is amused and somewhat disarmed by Venkman's rapport with the baby. <b> DANA </b> What do you think? <b> VENKMAN </b> There's no doubt about it. He's got his father's looks. The kid is ugly -- extremely ugly. And smelly. (resumes playing with the baby) You stink! It's just horrible. You are the stinkiest baby I ever smelled. (to Dana) What's his name? <b> DANA </b> His name is Oscar. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oscar! You poor kid! <b> DANA </b> (losing patience) Peter, this is serious. I need to know if you think there's anything unusual about him. <b> VENKMAN </b> Unusual? (holds up the baby and scrutinizes him) I don't know. I haven't had a lot of experience with babies. He looks at the baby, pulling his feet up, trying to get the sleeper off. <b> DANA </b> (taking the specimen jar) I'll do it. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll supervise. <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NURSERY - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman enters and finds Stantz monitoring the room. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) Well, Holmes, what do you think? <b> STANTZ </b> It's an interesting one, Pete. If anything was going on it's totally subdued now. Spengler enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) What now, Brainiac? <b> SPENGLER </b> I think we should see if we can find anything abnormal on the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finding something abnormal on the street shouldn't be too hard. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - DAY (LATER) </b> Dana walks down the street with Venkman, retracing the path of the runaway buggy. Spengler and Stantz follow, monitoring PKE valences from the pavement and the buildings. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana, nostalgic) Brings back a lot of sweet memories, doesn't it? (pointing out familiar neighborhood sights) There's our old cash machine. And the dry cleaners we used to go to. And the old video store. (he wipes away an imaginary tear) We really had some good times, didn't we? <b> DANA </b> We definitely had a moment or two. Dana stops at the intersection and points to the middle of the street. <b> DANA </b> That's where the buggy stopped. <b> VENKMAN </b> Okay, let's take a look. Venkman walks right out into the middle of the street, completely oblivious to the CARS HONKING and whizzing past him and starts motioning like a traffic cop, bringing traffic to a standstill. Then he signals for Dana, Stantz and Spengler to join him in the middle of the street. <b> STANTZ </b> (reading the PKE meter) Is this the spot? <b> DANA </b> A little to the left. Right there! That's where it stopped. Stantz reads the PKE meter. <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Not a trace. <b> SPENGLER </b> Why don't we try the Giga-meter? <b> VENKMAN </b> What's that? <b> STANTZ </b> Egon and I have been working on a gauge to measure psychomagnetheric energy in GEVs - giga electron volts. <b> SPENGLER </b> That's a thousand million electron volts. <b> VENKMAN </b> I knew that. Spengler switches on the Giga-meter, the device he was testing in the lab, and passes it over the spot on the street where the buggy stopped. The indicator goes right into the red zone and the DEVICE starts CLICKING <b>WILDLY. </b> <b> STANTZ </b> I think we hit the honeypot, boys. There's something brewing under the street. <b> DANA </b> (worried, to Venkman) Peter, do you think maybe I have some genetic problem or something that makes me vulnerable to these supernatural things. <b> VENKMAN </b> You mean like the time you got possessed and turned into a monster terror dog? No, not a chance. Total coincidence. (to Stantz and Spengler) Am I right? Stantz and Spengler look at him skeptically, not convinced by the coincidence theory. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - LATE AFTERNOON </b> The museum has just closed for the day and the last of the visitors and employees are leaving. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is working late on the painting of Vigo. <b>VIGO PAINTING </b> Unnoticed by Janosz, the eyes of Vigo start to glow. <b>JANOSZ </b> He touches his brush to the canvas and a powerful current of red, crackling energy surges through the brush and courses through his body, driving him to his knees. <b>PAINTING </b> The figure of Vigo comes to life, turns toward Janosz and gestures dramatically at him. Then he speaks to Janosz in a commanding voice. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia, the sorrow of Moldavia, command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (in agony) Command me, lord. <b> VIGO </b> On a mountain of skulls in a castle of pain, I sat on a throne of blood. What was will be, what is will be no more. Now is the season of evil. Find me a child that I might live again. Bolts of red-hot energy shoot from the eyes of Vigo into Janosz's eyes. He screams and falls to his knees. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. COFFEE SHOP - EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT </b> Venkman and Stantz come out with small boxes containing coffee, sandwiches and Danish and start walking up the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> I love this. We're onto something really big. I can smell it, Ray. We're going to make some headlines with this one. <b> STANTZ </b> Hey, hey, hey, stresshound! Are you nuts? If anybody found out about this we'd be in serious trouble. The judge couldn't have been clearer - no ghostbusting. <b> VENKMAN </b> Relax. We're going to keep this whole thing nice and quiet, low key, no profile. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Spengler, wearing a hardhat, is JACKHAMMERING a hole in the middle of the street. Safety cones and reflectors have been set up and a small area is lit by strong work lights. <b>POLICE CAR </b> It turns onto East 77th Street, cruises slowly up to the makeshift worksite and stops. The noise of the JACKHAMMER is so loud, Spengler doesn't notice the police car and the two COPS inside looking at them. Finally, he looks up, sees the police car and freezes. <b> FIRST COP </b> How ya doing? <b> SPENGLER </b> (reeking with guilt) Fine! It's cutting fine now. <b> FIRST COP </b> (curious) Why are you cutting? <b> SPENGLER </b> (looking for one of the others) Why are we cutting? Uh - boss! Venkman and Stantz arrive just in time wearing Con Ed hardhats, doing a good imitation of a Consolidated Edison repairman. <b> FIRST COP </b> What are you doing here? <b> VENKMAN </b> (belligerent) What the hell's it look like we're doing? We're bustin out asses over here 'cause some douchebag downtown ain't got nothin' better to do than make idiots like us work late on a Friday night, right? (looks to Spengler for agreement) <b> SPENGLER </b> (with a "right on" fist) Yo. The cops seem satisfied by the explanation. <b> FIRST COP </b> Okay, boys, take it easy. They drive off. Spengler breathes a great sigh of relief and starts rubbing his sore shoulders. <b> SPENGLER </b> You were supposed to help me with this. <b> VENKMAN </b> You need the exercise. Stantz resumes JACKHAMMERING, while Venkman and Spengler clear the rubble from the hole. Suddenly he hits metal. They clear away generations of paving material revealing an ornate iron manhole cover. The manhole cover bears a strange logo and the letters NYPRR. <b> STANTZ </b> (examing it) NYPRR. What the hell -- ? Help me lift this. They prey off the iron cover with crowbars, uncovering a very dark and very deep abyss. <b> STANTZ </b> (shining a flashlight into the hole) Wow! It's an old airshaft. It just goes forever. Spengler leans in with the giga-meter which is reading even higher now. <b> SPENGLER </b> Very intense. We need a deeper reading. Somebody has to go down there. Venkman and Spengler both look at Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> Thanks, boys. They snap Stantz into a harness and lower him into the hole on a strong cable attached to a winch. Ray calls out orders to them as he descends deeper and deeper. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (his voice echoing in the airshaft) Keep going -- more -- more -- <b>INT. HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz rappels off the sides of the airshaft as he continues his descent in total darkness. <b> STANTZ </b> (using a radio now) Lower -- lower -- (to himself) Gee, this really is deep. Suddenly, his feet kick thin air as he gets to the bottom of the airshaft and swings free in some kind of tunnel. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it! Steady! He pulls a powerful flashlight from his utility belt and shines it into the tunnel below. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - NIGHT </b> He is suspended near the top of a beautifully preserved chamber with rounded, polished tile walls ardorned with intricate, colorfully enameled Art Nouveau mosaics. A finely inlaid sign identifies it as VAN HORNE <b>STATION. </b> <b>STANTZ </b> He pans the walls with his flashlight, admiring the excellent tilework, and speaks quietly to Venkman and Spengler over his walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ </b> (reverently) This is it, boys, the end of the line. Van Horne Station. The old New York Pneumatic. It's still here. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman has no idea what he's talking about. <b> SPENGLER </b> (explaining) The New York Pneumatic Railway. It was an experimental subway system. Fan-forced air-trains, built around 1870. <b> STANTZ </b> (over the walkie-talkie) This is about as deep as you can go under Manhattan without digging your own hole. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) What's the reading? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz shines his flashlight on the meter and whistles at the extremely high reading. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Off the top of the scale. This place is really hot. Lower me to the floor. As Venkman and Spengler feed him some more cable, he pans his flashlight down the wall of the station, then onto the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts) Hold it!! Stop!! Whoa!! <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ'S POV - FLOOR - NIGHT </b> Below him is a river of bubbling seething, glowing slime, a veritable torrent of disgusting ooze. As he stares into the foul effluent, we become aware of the strangely amplified and magnified sounds of great ENGINES THROBBING and pulsing in the bowels of the city, of WATER RUSHING through pipes, STEAM HISSING through ducts, the muffled RUMBLE of the SUBWAY and the ROAR of TRAFFIC, and mixed with it all, the unmistakable sounds of human conflict and pain -- VOICES SHOUTING in anger, SCREAMING in fear, GROANING in pain, a sad and eerie symphony. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - STANTZ - NIGHT </b> <b> STANTZ </b> (ranting on the radio) Oh, my God! It's a seething, bubbling, psychic cess! Interlocked tubes of plasm, crackling with negative GEVs! It's glowing and moving! It's -- it's a river of slime!! <b>STANTZ </b> He dangles from the end of the cable, holding his feet up as high as he can. He unhooks a device from his utility belt and pulls the trigger on it, shooting out a long telescoping fishing-pole with a scoop on the end. Reaching down, he scoops up a sample of the slime and starts retracting the pole. <b>SLIME </b> Suddenly, a grotesque arm with a long skeletal fingers reaches up out of the slime and snatches at Stantz's dangling feet. He jerks his legs up as several more arms poke up out of the slime and reach for him. <b> STANTZ </b> (on the radio) Haul me up, Venkman! Now! <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Venkman and Spengler start hauling in the cable as a Con Ed Supervisor's car drives up, and behind it, the same police car they saw earlier. A burly SUPERVISOR gets out and crosses toward them, followed by the two cops. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (no nonsense) Okay, what's the story here? Venkman and Spengler stop pulling up the cable and Venkman tries the belligerent worker ploy again, only this time he's wearing a Nynex hardhat. <b> VENKMAN </b> What, I got time for this? We got three thousand phones out in the Village and about eight million miles of cable to check. <b> SUPERVISOR </b> (not buying it) The phone lines are over there. (points to the curb) Venkman pops Spengler on the head. <b> VENKMAN </b> I told ya! Stantz can be heard ranting over Venkman's walkie-talkie. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> (filtered) Help! Help! Pull me up! It's alive! It's eating my boots. Venkman switches off the walkie-talkie. <b> FIRST COP </b> You ain't with Con Ed or the phone company. We checked. Tell me another one. Venkman stares at the Cop for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Gas leak? <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - SAME TIME </b> Stantz is hanging there, looking down into the shaft at the slime which is now bubbling up the shaft after him. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouting) Get me out of here!! Desperate now, he kicks wildly and knocks loose a section of an old, rusting conduit. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - BOTTOM OF THE SHAFT </b> The conduit falls on a heavy electrical transmission line, ripping through the cable with a SHOWER OF SPARKS. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - HOLE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman, Spengler, the cops and the supervisor all react to a bright FLASH deep down in the hole and a SHOUT from Stantz. <b>EXT. EAST 77TH STREET - STREET - NIGHT </b> One by one, all the streetlights go out; then the lights on all the buildings along East 77th street; then the whole neighborhood blacks out, and finally the entire city is plunged into darkness. <b> STANTZ (O.S.) </b> Sorry. <b>INT. DANA BARRETT'S APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> She walks around in the dark lighting candles and placing them all over the living room. Then she finds a transistor radio and turns it on for information about the blackout. She listens to a special news report for a moment, then has a compelling impulse to go check on the baby. She crosses to the nursery carrying a candle and quietly opens the door and looks in. Suddenly the DOORBELL RINGS, scaring her half to death. Leaving the chain on the door, she opens it a crack and sees Janosz standing in the hall, eerily lit by a red emergency spot at the end of the hallway. He looks slightly dazed and even creepier. <b> DANA </b> (surprised) Janosz? <b> JANOSZ </b> Hello, Dana. I happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop by to see if everything's all right with you -- you know, with the blackout and everything? Are you okay? Is the baby all right? His affected concern is chilling. She is frightened but conceals it from him. <b> DANA </b> (mechanically and cautiously) We're fine, Janosz. He tires to look around her into the apartment. <b> JANOSZ </b> Do you need anything? You want me to come in? <b> DANA </b> No, everything's fine. Honestly. Thanks anyway. <b> JANOSZ </b> Okay, just thought I'd check. Good night, Dana. Sleep well. Don't let the bedbugs bite you. <b> DANA </b> Good night, Janosz. She closes the door behind him and double locks it, then stands there staring into the candlelight, alone and afraid. <b>INT. HALLWAY OF DANA'S BUILDING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz stands there in semi-darkness, then his eyes light up like headlights and he walks off down the hall. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - NEXT DAY </b> The JUDGE, a rather sour-looking jurist of the old school, calls the court to order. <b> JUDGE </b> I want to make one thing very clear before we go any further. The law does not recognize the existence of ghosts, and I don't believe in them either, so I don't want to hear a lot of malarkey about goblins and spooks and demons. We're going to stick to the facts in this case and save the ghost stories for the kiddies. Understood? <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz leans over and whispers to Spengler. <b> STANTZ </b> Seems like a pretty open-minded guy, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> His nickname is "The Hammer." Stantz and Spengler are seated with their attorney LOUIS TULLY, lawyer, CPA and former demonic possession victim. Louis is desperately paging through a mountain of legal textbooks. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervous) I think you're making a big mistake here, fellas. I do mostly tax law and some probate stuff occasionally. I got my law degree at night school. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right. We got arrested at night. <b>SPECTATORS' GALLERY </b> Venkman is talking to Dana at the wooden rail in front of the gallery. <b> DANA </b> I wish I could stay. I feel personally responsible for you being here. <b> VENKMAN </b> You are personally responsible. If I can get conjugal rights, will you visit me at Sing Sing? <b> DANA </b> Please don't say that. You won't go to prison. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry about me. I'm like a cat. <b> DANA </b> You mean you cough up hairballs all over the rug? <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm El Gato. I always land on my feet. <b> DANA </b> (sincerely) Good luck. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thanks. She gives him a quick, unexpected kiss and exits. Venkman savors it for a moment then goes back to the defense table. <b>PROSECUTION TABLE </b> Jack Hardemeyer, the mayor's principal aide, is goading the PROSECUTOR, a very sober, humorless woman in her late thirties. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> How are you doing, hon? Just put these guys away fast and make sure they go away for a long, long time. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> It shouldn't be hard with this list of charges. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Good. Very good. The mayor and future governor won't forget this. He smiles conspiratorially and makes a point of passing the defense table on his way out of the courtroom. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> The Ghostbusters look up as Hardemeyer approaches. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (gloating) Nice going, Venkman. Violating a judicial restraining order, willful destruction of public property, fraud, malicious mischief -- smooth move. See you in a couple years -- at your first parole hearing. Herdemeyer exits. Louis looks devastated. <b> LOUIS </b> Gee, the whole city's against us. I think I'm going to be sick. Spengler hands him a waste basket as the Prosecutor calls her first witness. <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - DAY (LATER) </b> The Con Ed Supervisor is testifying. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Mr. Fianella, please look at Exhibits A through F on the table over there. Do you recognize that equipment? <b>EXHIBIT TABLE </b> Lying on the table are the basic tools of the Ghostbusting trade: three proton packs and particle throwers, a couple of ghost traps, and various meters and detection devices. <b> CON ED </b> (o.c.) That's the stuff the cops found in their truck. <b>WITNESS STAND </b> She continues. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Do you know what this equipment is used for? <b> CON ED </b> (shrugs) I don't know. Catching ghosts, I guess. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> (to the Judge) May I remind the court that the defendants are under a judicial restraining order that specifically forbids them from performing services as paranormal investigators and eliminators. <b> JUDGE </b> So noted. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Now, Mr. Fianella, can you identify the substance in the jar on the table marked Exhibit F? <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She goes to the exhibit table and picks up a specimen jar containing the slime sample Stantz removed from the tunnel. <b> CON ED </b> I been working underground for Con Ed for 27 years and I never saw anything like that in my life. We checked out that tunnel the next day and we didn't find nothing. If it was down there, they must have put it there. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Venkman and Spengler look at Stantz. <b> STANTZ </b> (defensively) Hey, I didn't imagine it. There must have been ten thousand gallons of it down there. <b> SPENGLER </b> It may be ebbing and flowing from some tidal source. <b> LOUIS </b> (nervously) Should I say that? <b> SPENGLER </b> I doubt that they'd believe us. Louis moans and goes back to his notes. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - WITNESS STAND - LATER </b> Venkman himself is on the stand and Louis is questioning him. <b> LOUIS </b> So like you were just trying to help out your old friend because she was scared and you didn't really mean to do anything bad and you really love the city and won't ever do anything like this again, right? <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection, your Honor. He's leading the witness. <b> JUDGE </b> The witness is leading him. Sustained. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, let me rephrase that question. (to venkman) Didn't you once coach a basketball team for underprivileged children? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yes, I did. We were city champs. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> Objection. Irrelevant and immaterial. <b> JUDGE </b> Sustained. Mr. Tully, do you have anything to ask this witness that may have some bearing on this case? <b> LOUIS </b> (to Venkman) Do I? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I think you've helped them enough already. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the Judge) No, I guess not. (to the Prosecutor) Your witness. The Prosecutor rises and approaches the witness stand with relish. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So, Dr. Venkman, please explain to the court why it is you and your co-defendants took it upon yourselves to dig a big hole in the middle of the street. <b> VENKMAN </b> Seventy-seventh and First Avenue has so many holes already we didn't think anyone would notice. The gallery laughs and the Judge gavels for order. <b> JUDGE </b> Keep that up, mister, and I'll find you in contempt. <b> VENKMAN </b> Sorry, your Honor, but when somebody sets me up like that I can't resist. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> I'll ask you again, Dr. Venkman. Why were you digging the hole? And please remember that you're under oath. <b> VENKMAN </b> I had my fingers crossed when they swore me in, but I'm going to tell you the truth. There are things in this world that go way beyond human understanding, things that can't be explained and that most people don't want to know about anyway. That's where we come in. <b> PROSECUTOR </b> So what are you saying? That the world of the supernatural is your special province? <b> VENKMAN </b> No, I guess I'm just saying that shit happens and somebody has to deal with it. The spectators in the gallery cheer and the judge gavels for order. <b> WIPE TO: </b> <b>INT. COURTROOM - LATER </b> The trial is nearing its end. The Judge calls on Louis to make his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> Does the counsel for the defense wish to make any final arguements? Louis rises. <b> LOUIS </b> Your honor, may I approach the bench? <b> JUDGE </b> (impatient) Yes. Louis crosses to the judge's bench. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the judge) Can I have some of your water? <b> JUDGE </b> Get on with it, counselor! <b> LOUIS </b> (scared) Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the -- (he remembers there's no jury) audience. I don't think it's fair to call my clients frauds. Okay, the blackout was a big problem for everybody. I was stuck in an elevator for about three hours and I had to go to the bathroom the whole time, but I don't blame them because once I turned into a dog and they helped me. Thank you. He goes back to the defense table and sits down. Stantz and Spengler hang their heads. Venkman pats Louis on the back. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Louis) Way to go. Concise and to the point. <b>JUDGE </b> He stares at Louis, astonished at his summation. <b> JUDGE </b> That's it? That's all you have to say? <b> LOUIS </b> Did I forget something? He searches through a disorderly pile of notes. <b> JUDGE </b> That was unquestionably the worst presentation of a case I've ever heard in a court of law! I ought to cite you for contempt and have you disbarred. As for your clients, Peter Venkman, Raymond Stantz and Egon Spengler, on the charges of conspiracy, fraud and the willful destruction of public property, I find you guilty on all counts. I order you to pay fines in the amount of $25,000 each and I sentence you to eighteen months in the city correctional facility at Ryker's Island. <b>STANTZ </b> He sees the activity in the jar <b> STANTZ </b> Uh-oh, she's twitchin'. <b>THE BENCH </b> The Judge continues <b> JUDGE </b> And on a more personal note, let me go on record as saying that there is no place in decent society for fakes, charlatans and tricksters like you who prey on the gullibility of innocent people. You're beneath the contempt of this court. And believe me, if my hands were not tied by the unalterable fetters of the law, a law which has become in my view far too permissive and inadequate in it's standards of punishment, I would invoke the tradition of our illustrious forebearers, reach back to a sterner, purer justice and have you burned at the stake! He hammers the bench with his gravel as the gallery erupts noisily. Then he feels a LOW RUMBLING TREMOR in the courtroom. <b>SPECIMEN JAR </b> The slime starts to pulse and swell, pushing up the lid on the jar. <b>DEFENSE TABLE </b> Stantz anticipates big trouble. <b> STANTZ </b> Under the table, boys! The Ghostbusters duck under the defense table. <b>LOUIS </b> He stands up and looks around fearfully. <b>INT. COURTROOM - GHOST BATTLE - DAY </b> Everybody is silent now as the rumbling increases. All eyes turn to the exhibit table. Then suddenly all Hell breaks loose as TWO FULL-TORSO APPARITIONS explode out of the specimen jar. <b>JUDGE </b> He looks up in terror at the two huge apparitions looming above him and recognizes them immediately. <b> JUDGE </b> (in horror) Oh, my God! The Scoleri Brothers! <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> Big in life, even bigger in death, the ghostly Scoleri brothers seem ten feet tall. They are strapped into electric chairs and on their heads are metal electrocution caps with live, sparking electrical wires still attached. Twenty-five hundred volts of electricity shoot through their bodies as they start to break free of the leather restraints, trying to get at the Judge. <b>JUDGE </b> Holding his gavel like a pitiful weapon, he crawls over to the defense table where Venkman, Stantz and Spengler are now crouched, assessing the spectral intruders. <b> JUDGE </b> (terrified) You've got to do something! <b> VENKMAN </b> Who are they? <b> JUDGE </b> They're the Scoleri Brothers. I tried them for murder. They were electrocuted up at Ossining in '48. Now they want to kill me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Maybe they just want to appeal. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They break loose from the electric chairs, then turn toward the defense table and BLAST it with HIGH-VOLTAGE FINGER-LIGHTNING. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She sprints for the door, pursued by one of the Scoleri brothers. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They jump to safety behind the rail of the jury box, pulling the Judge with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These boys aren't playing around. <b> JUDGE </b> (desperately) You've got to stop them. Please! <b> LOUIS </b> (thinking like a lawyer) Violating a judicial restraining order could expose my clients to serious criminal penalties. As their attorney I'd have to advise them against it. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They start punching through the jury box. <b>JUDGE </b> He is just about hysterical with fear. <b> JUDGE </b> All right! All right! I'm recinding the order. Case dismissed!! (he pounds his gavel on the floor) Now do something! <b> STANTZ </b> Let's go to work, boys. With that, the Ghostbusters leap over the rail of the jury box and dash across the courtroom to the exhibit table where their proton packs were being displayed as evidence. They strap them on hastily as the Brothers continue tearing up the seats looing for the Judge. <b> VENKMAN </b> (slinging the pack onto his back) Geez, I forgot how heavy these things are. <b> STANTZ </b> (grabbing other gear) Okay, let's heat 'em up! They flip the power switches on their packs and draw their particle throwers. <b> STANTZ </b> All right, throwers. Set for full neutronas on stream. They switch on their throwers and turn to face the raging phantasms. <b>SCOLERI BROTHERS </b> They are just about to wipe out the Judge when a loud shout distracts them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size? The towering ghosts turn in a fury and raise their arms, ready to shoot lightning at their new adversaries. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the others) On my signal, boys. Open 'em up -- Now! They all pull their triggers and the wands EXPLODE with incredible powerful STREAMS OF ENERGY, doing even more damage to the courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Spengs, take the door. Ray, let's try and work them down and into the corner. Working as a team, they gradually confine the Scoleri Brothers with the streams, forcing them closer and closer to the traps Ray has set out on the floor. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch it! I'm coming under you, Pete. They circle around the two ghosts, prodding them with the streams while ducking the lightning bolts shooting from their fingers. Finally, Ray sees his chance and pops open the traps which emit inverted pyramids of light energy. <b> STANTZ </b> Steady -- watch your streams -- easy now -- Venky, bring him left -- Spengy, pull him down -- trapping -- trapping -- now! He stomps on a control pedal and the Scoleri Brothers are drawn into the traps which snap shut. <b>INT. COURTROOM - TRAPS - DAY </b> LEDs on the outer casing start flashing, indicating the presence of a ghost inside each trap. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking the trap) Occupado. <b>INT. COURTROOM - JUDGE - DAY (AFTER GHOST BATTLE) </b> He sticks his head up slowly from behind the debris of his bench and looks around in total amazement. <b>LOUIS </b> He crawls out from under a chair. Reporters and spectators get back on their feet and start buzzing about the incredible manifestation. <b>PROSECUTOR </b> She's lying on the floor, attended to by the Bailiff and the Court Clerk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to the Prosecutor) Brilliant summation. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They break into big smiles as photographers start snapping pictures of them standing in the wrecked courtroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Case closed, boys. We're back in business. The spectators cheer and applaud. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> The old, dilapidated Ghostbusters logo comes crashing to the ground, dropped by a pair of workmen on a ladder, and the new logo is hoisted into place over the main entrance. It's just like the original "No Ghosts" logo, but in the new one the ghost in the red circle is holding up two fingers. Venkman enters the firehouse. <b>INT. BEDROOM SET (TV COMMERCIAL - FULL SCREEN VIDEO) - NIGHT </b> A man and his wife are lying in bed reading. The man is played by Louis Tully and JANINE MELNITZ, the Ghostbusters' once and future receptionist, is playing his wife. They are both terrible actors. Suddenly, a ghost, actually a very bad puppet on a wire, floats through the bedroom. Janine sees it and screams. <b> LOUIS </b> What is it, honey? <b> JANINE </b> It's that darn ghost again! I don't know what to do anymore. He just won't leave us alone. I guess we'll just have to move. <b> LOUIS </b> Don't worry. We're not moving. He is. He picks up the phone. <b> JANINE </b> Who are you going to call? <b> LOUIS </b> (with a wink) Ghostbusters. As he starts to dial, the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the Ghostbusters standing in the bedroom. Their acting isn't much better than Louis and Janine's. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> Stantz speaks directly TO the CAMERA. <b> STANTZ </b> I'm Ray -- <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm Peter -- <b> SPENGLER </b> I'm Egon -- <b> STANTZ </b> And we're the ... <b> ALL </b> (together) Ghostbusters. <b> STANTZ </b> That's right -- Ghostbusters. We're back and we're better than ever with twice the know-how and twice the particle-power to deal with all your supernatural elimination needs. During his speech, Winston can be seen in the b.g. pretending to trap the fake ghost. <b> STANTZ </b> Careful, Winston. He's a mean one. <b> (TO CAMERA) </b> And to celebrate our grand reopening, we're giving you twice the value with our special half-price 'Welcome Back' service plan. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hold on, Ray! Half-price! Have you gone crazy? <b> STANTZ </b> I guess so, Pete, because that's not all. Tell them what else we've got, Egon. Spengler actually mouths everyone else's dialogue along with them, waiting for his cue. <b> SPENGLER </b> You mean the Ghostbusters hot beverage thermal mugs and free balloons for the kids? He holds up a mug and a limp, uninflated balloon. <b> STANTZ </b> You bet. As Stantz wraps it up, SUPERS APPEAR at the bottom of the SCREEN: FULLY <b>BONDED - FULLY LICENSED - SE HABLA ESPANOL. </b> <b> STANTZ </b><b> (TO CAMERA) </b> So don't wait another minute. Make your supernatural problem our supernatural problem. Call now, because we're still -- <b> ALL </b> (in unison, mechanically) -- Ready to believe you. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. JACK HARDEMEYER'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Hardemeyer is watching the Ghostbusters commercial on a TV in his office. He bangs his fist on his desk and angrily switches OFF the TV. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIREHOUSE - DAY (LATER) </b> The garage door opens and the new improved ECTOMOBILE comes ROARING out onto the street, its ghostly SIREN MOANING and WAILING. Louis comes running out after it. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis comes back into the garage bay and stops as he smells a foul odor. He sniffs around, following the smell. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, geez, smells like somebody took a really big -- He freezes. <b>INT. OFFICE AREA - LOUIS'S POV </b> Slimer, a spud-like green ghost, is hovering over Louis's desk, scarfing down Louis's bag lunch. Slimer looks up and sees Louis. <b>SLIMER AND LOUIS </b> They both scream and run off in opposite directions. <b>SLIMER </b> He passes right through a wall and disappears. <b>LOUIS </b> He runs right into a wall, recovers and exits in a hurry. <b> LOUIS </b> (screaming) Help! There's a thing! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK RESERVOIR - DAY (LATER) </b> Runners of both sexes and all ages are huffing and puffing as they jog along the track that circles the reservoir. One of the runners looks behind him at the sound of APPROACHING FOOTFALLS and screams. <b>GHOSTLY JOGGER </b> A ghost jogger is loping along at a pretty fair pace. Other runners stumble and run screaming into the park as he passes them. Seemingly oblivious to the effect he's having, the ghost jogger puts two fingers to his skeletal neck and checks his watch as if taking his pulse. <b>EXT. CLEARING IN PARK - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman is sitting on a park bench near the jogging track reading the newspaper, eating a donut and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. <b>STANTZ </b> He's sitting on a bench opposite Venkman's, casually watching the jogging track. <b>GHOST JOGGER </b> He approaches the benches where the Ghostbusters are waiting. As the ghost jogger passes the benches, Stantz and Venkman simultaneously hit concealed control buttons. A ghost trap buried in the track throws up a glowing inverted pyramid and catches the ghost jogger in mid-stride. Stantz and Venkman close the trap and capture the ghost jogger. <b> VENKMAN </b> (checking his watch) You know he ran that last lap in under six minutes? <b> STANTZ </b> If he wasn't dead he'd be an Olympic prospect. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. JEWELRY STORE - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters come out carrying smoking traps, wearing cheap dime-store Santa Claus hats. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the client) Merry Christmas! <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - ORREFORS GLASS STORE - DAY </b> The Ectomobile is parked at the curb and a curious crowd looks on as the Ghostbusters enter the store. <b>INT. ORREFORS GLASS STORE - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> All the precious crystal is floating in the air, several feet above the glass shelves and display tables. Stantz and Venkman are talking to the manager while Winston and Spengler set up an array of electronic devices positioned in each corner of the store. On a signal from Stantz, Spengler and Winston switch on the devices which throw laser-type beams around the perimeter of the store. The manager watches in horror as all the GLASSWARE suddenly drops out of the air, SMASHES through the GLASS SHELVES and SHATTERS on the display tables. There is a long pregnant pause. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the manager) So will that be cash or a check? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) </b> Everyone else has gone home. Dana is cleaning her brushes and putting her supplies away. <b>VIGO PAINTING - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Vigo turns his head and watches Dana as she walks past the painting. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - DAY </b> Louis is lurking behind a pillar, peeking out at the office area. We PAN DOWN TO the floor and see a foot pedal, then PAN ALONG the cord TO a ghost trap sitting on Louis's desk. Hanging from strings over the desk are several pieces of Kentucky fried chicken. <b>WALL </b> Slimer partially emerges and furtively sniffs the air, then spots the chicken bait. He licks his lips, materializes completely and flies to the chicken. <b>LOUIS </b> His eyes light up and he stomps the foot pedal. <b> LOUIS </b> (shouts) Gotcha! <b>DESK </b> The trap pops open and shoots out a powerful cone of energy. Slimer dodges it and escapes as a big section of the ceiling comes crashing down on Louis's desk. <b> LOUIS </b> (seeing the damage) Uh-oh. He slinks off, defeated. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MANHATTAN MUSEUM OF ART - SECURITY DESK - DAY </b> The Ghostbusters commercial is playing on a portable TV on the security desk. Rudy, the Security Guard, is reading a National Enquirer with a giant front-page headline: GHOSTBUSTERS SAVE JUDGE. Venkman enters. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm looking for Dana Barrett. <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> Room 304 -- Restorations. (recognizing him) Hey! Dr. Venkman -- 'World of the Psychic.' I'm a big, big fan. That used to be one of my two favorite shows. <b> VENKMAN </b> (flattered) Thanks. What's the other one? <b> SECURITY GUARD </b> 'Bass Masters.' It's a fishing show. Ever see it? <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, really great. Take it easy. He exits. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Dana is working on a valuable Flemish still-life by Ver Meer. Janosz is at the other end of the room, still working on the painting of Vigo. Venkman enters and sneaks up behind Dana. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the Ver Meer) So this is what you do, huh? <b> DANA </b> (glad to see him) Oh, hello, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> You're really good, you know. <b> DANA </b> I didn't paint it. I'm just cleaning it. It's an original Ver Meer. It's worth about ten million dollars. <b>VIGO </b> He turns his head and watches Venkman and Dana. <b>VENKMAN </b> Unaware that he's being watched, Venkman squints at the still life, holding up his thumb like he's seen artists do. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know you can go to Art World and get these huge sofa-size paintings for about forty-five bucks. He starts looking around at the other artwork in the studio. <b> DANA </b> I'm sure you didn't come here just to talk about art. <b> VENKMAN </b> As a matter of fact, I stopped by to tell you that I haven't forgotten your problem and that we're still on the case. They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Janosz. <b> JANOSZ </b> (smiling at Venkman) Dana, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend? <b> DANA </b> Oh, I'm sorry. This is Peter Venkman. Peter, Janosz Poha. Venkman warily shakes his hand, trying to size him up. <b> JANOSZ </b> (avoiding his gaze) Pleasure to meet you. I've seen you on television. <b> VENKMAN </b> How are you? (looking over at the Vigo painting) What's that you're working on, Johnny? Janosz winces at the nickname but lets it go. Venkman and Dana cross to the Vigo painting. Janosz steps protectively in front of it. <b> JANOSZ </b> It's a painting I'm restoring for the new Byzantine exhibition. It's a self-portrait of Prince Vigo, the Carpathian. He ruled most of Carpathia and Moldavia in the 17th Century. <b> VENKMAN </b> (staring at the painting) Too bad for the Moldavians. <b> JANOSZ </b> (defensive) He was a very powerful magician. A genius in many ways and quite a skilled painter. <b> DANA </b> He was also a lunatic and a genocidal madman. I hate this painting. I've felt very uncomfortable since they brought it up from storage. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, it's not the kind of thing you'd want to hang in the rec room. You know what it needs? (picking up a brush) A fluffy little white kitten in the corner. Venkman reaches toward the painting, but Janosz grabs his hand. <b> JANOSZ </b> (with forced good will) We don't go around altering valuable paintings, Dr. Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, I'd make an exception in this case if I were you. Dana looks disapprovingly at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) I'll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you. <b> JANOSZ </b> My pleasure. Venkman and Dana cross back to her workspace. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) I may be wrong, but I think you've got a little crush on this guy. <b> DANA </b> Good-bye, Peter. <b> VENKMAN </b> (dragging his feet) I'd like to stay, but I really don't have time to hang around here. I'll call you. (calls out to Janosz) Later, Johnny! He exits. <b>VIGO </b> Vigo turns his head and follows Dana as she returns to her workbench. <b>DANA </b> She stops, vaguely aware of the movement, and looks up curiously at the painting. As she starts to walk on, Vigo looks at her again, but Dana turns suddenly and catches the movement. Frightened now, she hastily leaves the studio. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LIVING QUARTERS - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> Venkman and Winston enter and find Stantz and Spengler at work in the lab area. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh good, you're here. Spengler and I have something really amazing to show you. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Spengler) It's not that thing you do with your nostrils, is it? Stantz goes to the refrigerator, opens the freezer, rummages around among the TV dinners and frozen pizza and pulls out a slime specimen in a Tupperware container. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Venkman) We've been studying the stuff that we took from the subway tunnel. He pops the specimen jar in the microwave and lets it thaw for a minute. <b> VENKMAN </b> And now you're going to eat it? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm just restoring it to its normal state. He takes the specimen out of the microwave and pours some of it into a large Petri dish. <b> STANTZ </b> Now watch this. He leans over the specimen and starts shouting at it. <b> STANTZ </b> (simulating anger) You worthless piece of slime!! (as the slime starts to twitch and glow) You ignorant disgusting blob!! <b>SPECIMEN </b> It bubbles and swells, changing color with each insult. <b> STANTZ </b> You foul, obnoxious muck!! <b>STANTZ </b> He continues venting his rage on the slime. <b> STANTZ </b> I've seen some real crud in my time, but you're a chemical disgrace!! The specimen doubles its size and starts spilling over the rim of the Petri dish. <b>STANTZ AND SPENGLER </b> They turn to Venkman for his reaction. He's dumbfounded. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is what you do with your spare time? <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) This is an incredible breakthrough, Venkman. A psychoreactive substance! Whatever this is, it clearly responds to human emotional states. <b> VENKMAN </b> 'Mood slime.' We ought to bottle this stuff and sell it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We've found it at every event site we've been to lately. <b> WINSTON </b> (poking at the slime) You mean this stuff actually feeds on 'bad vibes'? <b> STANTZ </b> Like a goat on garbage. <b> STANTZ </b> We're running tests to see if we can get an equally strong positive reaction. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of tests? <b> STANTZ </b> (a little embarrassed) Well, we sing to it, we talk to it, we say supportive, nurturing things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> You're not sleeping with this stuff, are you? Spengler reacts as if he might be. <b> STANTZ </b> It really responds to music. (to Spengler) Let's calm it down. Spengler picks up a guitar and he and Stantz start singing "Cumbaya" to the slime specimen. <b>SPECIMEN </b> It stops bubbling and starts to shrink. <b> WINSTON </b> Does it have any favorites? <b> STANTZ </b> It likes all the sappy stuff: 'Cumbaya,' 'Everything is Beautiful,' 'It's a Small World' -- but it loves Jackie Wilson. Venkman and Winston watch intently as Spengler spoons some of the psych-reactive slime onto an old toaster. <b> STANTZ </b> Watch this. Stantz turns on a CASSETTE PLAYER and Jackie Wilson's "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BLASTS from the speakers. <b>TOASTER </b> It shakes, spins and actually starts moving in time with the MUSIC. <b>VENKMAN </b> He stares in disbelief at the dancing toaster as it shoots two pieces of toast into the air and catches them without missing a beat. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't care what you say. This could be a major Christmas gift item. <b> WINSTON </b> Right, and the first time someone gets mad, their toaster will eat their hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> So we'll put a warning on the label. Stantz turns OFF the MUSIC and the toaster stops moving. Venkman looks at the toaster and sticks his fingers in the slot. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the toaster) Go ahead. I dare you. Suddenly, he yelps as if the toaster has actually bitten into his hand and won't let go. The others jump in to help him, but Venkman laughs and easily withdraws his hand. <b> VENKMAN </b> Just kidding. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. DANA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Dana brings Oscar into the bathroom and lays him on the bassinet. She's wearing a robe over her nightgown, preparing to bathe the baby. She turns the taps on the old claw-footed bathtub, checks the water temperature, then turns away and starts to undress the baby. <b> DANA </b> (talking sweetly to the baby) Look at you. I think we got more food on your shirt than we got in your mouth. <b>BATHTUB </b> The water pouring from the faucet changes to slime and settles at the bottom of the tub. Dana reaches over and turns off the water without looking into the tub. When she turns away, both taps start to spin by themselves and the tub flexes and bulges. <b>DANA </b> Still unaware, she routinely reaches over and squirts some bubble bath into the tub. <b>BATHTUB </b> The rim of the tub puckers up and the sides convulse as if swallowing the bubble bath. <b>DANA </b>She picks the baby up off the bassinet and turns to place him in the tub. She is just about to lower him into the water when the tub starts to close up around the baby like a hugh mouth. Dana screams, snatches the baby away and runs from the room clutching Oscar to her bosom as the bathtub convulses and vomits up buckets of slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - SAME NIGHT (LATER) </b> The big open loft space is a chaotic clutter of mismatched furniture, old magazines, books, tapes, and sports equipment. Venkman is asleep on the floor, still wearing his coat, scarf, hat and gloves, having collapsed just short of the bedroom. The DOORBELL RINGS, he wakes up, lumbers to his feet and answers it. He opens the door and sees Dana standing there. She is wearing only a nightgown under her coat and Oscar is naked, wrapped in a baby blanket. <b> DANA </b> (somewhat embarrassed to be there) I'm sorry. Were you on your way out? <b> VENKMAN </b> (surprised to see her) No, I just got in -- a couple hours ago. Come on in. (noting her apparel) Are we having a pajama party? <b> DANA </b> (upset) Peter, the bathtub tried to eat Oscar. Venkman looks at her for a long moment. <b> VENKMAN </b> You know, if anyone else told me that, I'd have serious doubts. But coming from you, I can't honestly say I'm surprised. <b> DANA </b> I must be losing my mind. At the museum today I could have sworn that terrible painting of Vigo looked right at me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Who could blame him? Were you wearing this nightgown? <b> DANA </b> (distraught) I don't know what to do anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll get Ray and Egon to check out the bathtub. You better stay here. He exits to the bathroom. She looks around the loft, amazed at the disorder. Venkman comes back immediately with an old sweatshirt and takes Oscar from her. <b> VENKMAN </b> Now this kid has a serious nudity problem. He spreads the sweatshirt out on the sofa, lays the baby on it and starts tying it around him like a diaper. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the baby) This is Joe Namath's old number, you know. You could get a lot of chicks with this. Just don't pee in it. <b> DANA </b> Peter, what about the bathtub? <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the phone and dials) We'll take care of that. (on the phone) Ray, Pete. Listen, get over to Dana's right away ... Her bathtub pulled a fast one -- tried to eat the kid. <b> DANA </b> It was full of this awful pink ooze. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray) Sounds like another slime job ... No, they're all right. They're here now ... Right ... Let me know. He hangs up. <b> VENKMAN </b> They're going over there right now. You might as well make yourself at home. Let me show you around. (he crosses to the kitchen area) This is the cuisine de maison -- It's an incredible mess. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes and the counters are littered with all sorts of food trash. He grabs a big open Hefty bag on the floor and starts throwing garbage into it. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking at the sink) We may have to wash some of these if you get hungry -- (he looks in the fridge) -- but there's no food anyway so forget about it. I have all kinds of carry-out menus if you feel like ordering. He opens a drawer full of pizza, barbecue and Chinese food menus, then crosses to the bathroom. <b> VENKMAN </b> Bathroom's right here -- let me just tidy up a few things. <b> DANA </b> Peter, this is very nice, but you don't have to do any of this, you know. He goes into the bathroom and we hear WATER RUNNING, the TOILET FLUSHING and more items going into the Hefty bag. <b> VENKMAN (O.S.) </b> The shower works but it's a little tricky. They're both marked "Hot." It takes a little practice, but at least this one won't try and eat you. He comes out of the bathroom with the now-loaded Hefty bag over his shoulder. <b> VENKMAN </b> Be careful on that sofa -- it's a butt-biter. But the bed's good and I just changed the sheets so if you get tired, feel free. In fact, I think you should definitely plan on spending the night here. <b> DANA </b> Really? And how would we handle the sleeping arrangements? <b> VENKMAN </b> For me it's best if I sleep on my side and you spoon up right behind me with your arms around me. If we go the other way I'm afraid your hair will be getting in my face all night. <b> DANA </b> How about you on the sofa and me in bed with the baby. <b> VENKMAN </b> Or we could do that. <b> DANA </b> Thank you. (she picks up Oscar) Poor baby. I think I should put him down now. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'll put him down for you. (taking the baby) You are way too short! And your belly-button sticks out! You're nothing but a burden to your poor mother! Venkman carries the baby into the bedroom leaving Dana in the living room, feeling more relaxed and a lot safer. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> Venkman is waiting in front of the building as ECTO-2 pulls up and Stantz, Spengler and Winston get out and report on Dana's apartment. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you find anything at Dana's? <b> STANTZ </b> Nothing. Just some mood-slime residue in and around the bathtub. But we did turn up some interesting stuff on this Vigo character you mentioned. I found the name Vigo the Carpathian in Leon Zundinger's Magicians, Martyrs and Madmen. Listen to this: <b> SPENGLER </b> (reads from xerox of entry) "Vigo the Carpathian, born 1505, died 1610 --" <b> VENKMAN </b> A hundred and five years? He really hung on, didn't he. <b> STANTZ </b> And he didn't die of old age either. He was poisoned, stabbed, shot, hung, stretched, disemboweled, drawn and quartered. <b> WINSTON </b> I guess he wasn't too popular at the end there. <b> SPENGLER </b> No, not exactly a man of the people. (reads) "Also known as Vigo the Cruel, Vigo the Torturer, Vigo the Despised, and Vigo the Unholy." <b> STANTZ </b> This guy was a bad monkey. He dabbled in all the Black Arts, and listen to this prophecy. Just before his head died, his last words were, "Death is but a door, time is but a window. I'll be back." <b> VENKMAN </b> That's it? "I'll be back?" <b> SPENGLER </b> It's a rough translation from the Moldavian. They enter the museum carrying their monitoring equipment. <b>INT. MUSEUM - SECURITY DESK - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Rudy the guard looks up in surprise as the Ghostbusters enter. <b> RUDY </b> Hey, Dr. Venkman. What's going on? <b> VENKMAN </b> We're just going up to Restorations for a minute. <b> RUDY </b> Oh, I can't let you do that. Mr. Poha told me not to let you up there anymore. <b> VENKMAN </b> (with mock seriousness) Okay, we were trying to keep this quiet but I think you can be trusted. Tell him, Ray. <b> STANTZ </b> (very official) Mister, you have an Ecto-paritic, subfusionary flux in this building. <b> RUDY </b> We got a flux? <b> WINSTON </b> You got a flux and a half. <b> STANTZ </b> Now if you don't want to be the -- (he counts) -- fifth person ever to die in meta-shock from a planar rift, I suggest you get down behind that desk and don't move until we give you the signal "Stabilize -- All Clear." Rudy gulps and starts to hunker down behind the desk as the Ghostbusters head upstairs. <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) </b> Janosz is working on the Vigo painting when the Ghostbusters enter. He rushes over and stops them at the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> Dr. Venkman? Dana is not here. <b> VENKMAN </b> I know. <b> JANOSZ </b> Then why have you come? <b> VENKMAN </b> We got a major creep alert and we're just going down the list. Your name was first. <b> STANTZ </b> (to Spengler and Winston) Let's sweep it, boys. They deploy and start scanning the studio with their monitoring devices. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) You know, I never got to ask you. Where you from, Johnny? <b> JANOSZ </b> (nervous) The Upper West Side. <b> SPENGLER </b> (consulting his PKE meter) This entire room is extremely hot, Peter. <b> JANOSZ </b> What exactly are you looking for, Dr. Venkman? <b> VENKMAN </b> We'll know when we find it. You just sit tight. This won't take long. <b>STANTZ </b> Using the Giga-meter, he traces a strong psychomagnetheric reading to the painting of Vigo in the alcove at the end of the studio. Venkman comes up behind him with Janosz right on his heels. <b> VENKMAN </b> This is the one that looked at Dana. <b> JANOSZ </b> It must be the chemical fumes in the studio. People start imagining things -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (interrupts) I'm going to rule out the glue-sniffing theory. If she says it looked at her, it looked at her. (to Vigo) Hey, you! Vigie! Look at me. I'm talking to you. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you. They watch the painting for any sign of movement. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes stare lifelessly into the distance. <b>STANTZ AND VENKMAN </b> Venkman starts shooting Polaroids of Vigo. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Vigo) Beautiful, beautiful. Work with me, baby. Just have fun with it. (to Stantz) Okay, he's playing it cool. Let's finish up and get out of here. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll get one more reading. Venkman walks off leaving Stantz alone with the painting. Stantz scans the painting with the Giga-meter until his eyes meet Vigo's. <b>VIGO </b> His eyes seems to burn right through to the depths of Stantz's soul. <b>STANTZ </b> He stands there transfixed, unable to look away, as a strange and subtle transformation occurs within him. Winston comes up behind him and breaks the spell. <b> WINSTON </b> (looking at the painting) Now that's one ugly dude. <b> STANTZ </b> (coming back to his senses) Huh? What? <b> WINSTON </b> You finished here? <b> STANTZ </b> (distracted) What? Yeah. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? You coming down with something? <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm fine. I just got light-headed for a second there. Let's go. They head for the door. <b>JANOSZ </b> He escorts the Ghostbusters to the door. <b> JANOSZ </b> So you see, everything is in order, is it not? <b> VENKMAN </b> Not. Don't leave town and report any change in your address to the proper authorities. We'll be back. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters cross to ECTO-2. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's definitely something going on in that studio. The PKE levels were max-plus and the Giga-meter was showing all red. <b> WINSTON </b> I'd put my money on that Vigo character. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, that's a safe bet. (to Stantz) You and Spengman see what else you can dig up on Vigo and this little weasel Poha. Those two were made for each other. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are driving back to the firehouse. Stantz is at the wheel. His eyes are vacant, he seems distracted and very tense. Stantz swerves suddenly and HONKS the horn angrily. <b> STANTZ </b> (to another driver) Idiot! (honking) Move it, you jerk! Venkman and Winston exchange surprised looks. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Stantz drives extremely fast, HONKING vindictively, weaving dangerously through traffic. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks at Ray, concerned. <b> WINSTON </b> Going a little fast, aren't we, Ray? Stantz turns on him. <b> STANTZ </b> (viciously) Are you telling me how to drive? <b> WINSTON </b> No, I just thought -- <b> STANTZ </b> Well don't think! He HONKS again and tromps hard on the accelerator. <b>EXT. STREET - DAY (CONTINUOUS) </b> Ecto-2 is now barreling down the avenue. Pedestrians leap to safety as Stantz runs a red light. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> They hang on to the safety straps as Stantz continues his maniacal ride. <b> WINSTON </b> (to Stantz, really worried now) Are you crazy, man? You're going to kill somebody! Stantz looks at him and smile demonically. <b> STANTZ </b> No, I'm going to kill everybody! He swerves off the road. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car heads right for a big tree. <b>INT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> At the last possible moment, Winston cold-cocks Stantz, grabs the wheel and steps across to stomp on the brakes. <b>EXT. ECTO-2 - DAY (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The car skids into the tree and stops. The Ghostbusters stumble out dazed and shaken, but unhurt. Stantz rubs his eyes and looks at the others, completely at a loss. <b> STANTZ </b> (himself again) What happened? <b> VENKMAN </b> You just picked up three penalty points on your driver's license. <b> WINSTON </b> Are you all right? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, I guess so. It was the strangest thing. I knew what I was doing but I couldn't stop. This really terrible feeling came over me and -- I don't know -- I just felt like driving into that tree and ending it all. Whew! Sorry, boys. They inspect the damage to the car. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially, to Spengler) Watch him, Egon. Don't even let him shave. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - DAY (LATER) </b> There's a KNOCK at the front door, a key turns in the lock, and Venkman enters somewhat tentatively holding a bouquet of flowers and a small suitcase of Dana's. <b> VENKMAN </b> (calls out) I'm home! He looks around the large open loft. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to himself) I knew it. She cleaned. He hears the SHOWER RUNNING and crosses to the bathroom. The door is half-open and he can see Dana in the shower (tastefully blurred) through the transparent vinyl curtain. He closes the bathroom door and looks at the baby asleep on the bed, surrounded by pillows to prevent him rolling off. Then he turns and bumps into Dana who's just coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She jumps back into the bathroom. She comes out again, this time wearing a robe. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you all squeaky clean now? <b> DANA </b> (humoring him) Yes, I'm very clean. Did they find anything at my apartment? She squeezes past him into the bedroom and closes the door. <b> VENKMAN </b> (through the door) Nothing. They stayed there all night, went through your personal stuff, made a bunch of long-distance phone calls and cleaned out your refrigerator. And didn't find anything. Dana opens the bedroom door. <b> DANA </b> They didn't find anything? In the bathtub ... the pink ooze ... nothing? So, what do I do now? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you get dressed and we go out. I got a babysitter and everything. Trust me, you need it. <b> DANA </b> I'm not here to date. I can't leave Oscar in a strange place with someone I don't know. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's Janine Melnitz, from my staff. She's one of my most valuable employees. <b> DANA </b> Does she know anything about babies? <b> VENKMAN </b> Janine Melnitz, are you kidding? (handing her the flowers) Do I have a vase? I brought some of your clothes. Wear something intriguing. I brought along some interesting possibilities. <b> DANA </b> Okay, but it's not a date. It's a dinner. She smiles and closes the door again. He opens the closet and starts looking for his good suit. <b> VENKMAN </b> Did you happen to see some shirts on the floor in here? <b> DANA (O.S.) </b> I put them in your hamper. I thought they were dirty. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shaking his head) I have a hamper? Next time ask me first, okay. I have more than two grades of laundry. There're lots of subtle levels between clean and dirty. He pulls some clothes out of the hamper and inspects them. <b> VENKMAN </b> These aren't so bad yet. You just hang them up for a while and they're fine. <b> CUT TO: </b><b>INT. FIREHOUSE - RECEPTION AREA - EARLY EVENING </b> Janine covers her computer terminal and starts turning out the lights. Then she notices that the lights are still on upstairs. She starts primping and freshening up her makeup. <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - LAB AREA - SAME TIME </b> Louis is strapping on a proton pack, preparing to deal with Slimer once and for all. He's wearing a bicyclist's rearview mirror on a headband. <b> LOUIS </b> (to himself) Okay, Stinky, this is it. Showdown time. You and me, pal. You think you're smarter than I am? We'll see about that. (loud) Oh, hello, Pizza Man! Oh, two larges! I only ordered one. Oh, pepperoni and pineapple. My absolute favorite. I guess I'll have to eat these both by myself. <b>THE CEILING </b> Slimer pokes his head through the ceiling and scans the room hanging upside down. <b>LOUIS </b> He spots Slimer through the rearview mirror. <b> LOUIS </b> (quietly) Okay, let's boogie! He whirls around and fires a proton stream at Slimer, slicing a burning a gash across the ceiling. <b>THE STAIRS </b> Janine comes up and ducks as a bolt of energy streaks across the room and strikes the wall behind her. Slimer disappears. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed and apologetic) Oh migod! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It was an accident. <b> JANINE </b> What are you doing up here? <b> LOUIS </b> I was trying to get that smelly green thing. The guys asked me to help out. I'm like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> JANINE </b> Why would you want to be a Ghostbuster if you're already an accountant? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, no, it's just if one of the guys calls in sick or gets hurt. Louis quickly slips off the proton pack and sets it down. <b> JANINE </b> Have you made any plans yet? You know tomorrow is New Year's Eve. <b> LOUIS </b> No, I celebrate at the beginning of my corporate tax year which is March first. That way I beat the crowds. <b> JANINE </b> That's very practical. I hate going out on New Year's Eve, too. There is an awkward silence between them and Janine starts to leave. <b> JANINE </b> Well, good night, Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> (on an impulse) Janine, do you feel like maybe getting something to eat on the way home? <b> JANINE </b> I'd like to, but I told Dr. Venkman I'd babysit. (seductively) Do you want to babysit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, sure, that sounds great. They exit. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> There is a KNOCK at the door and Venkman goes to answer it. He's dressed for the evening and looking very dapper. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - ENTRANCE HALL - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> Venkman opens the door and finds Stantz, Spengler and Winston standing there wearing over-the-hip rubberized waders, firemen's slickers, and miners' helmets, carrying tons of sensing devices, meters, collection jars and photographic equipment. They look like they're rigged out for a major spelunking expedition. <b> VENKMAN </b> (ushering them in) Don't tell me, let me guess. All-you-can-eat barbecue rib night at the Sizzler? <b> STANTZ </b> We're going down into the sewer system to see if we can trace the source of the psycho-reactive slime flow. We thought you might want to come along. <b> VENKMAN </b> Darn it! I wish I'd known you were going. I'm stuck with these damn dinner reservations. <b> SPENGLER </b> You know, animals and lower life forms often anticipate major disasters. Given the new magnetheric readings we could see a tremendous breeding surge in the cockroach population. <b> VENKMAN </b> Roach breeding? Sounds better and better. (calls out) Dana? The boys are going down under the sewers tonight to look for slime. Egon thinks there might even be some kind of big roach-breeding surge. Should we forget about dinner and go with them instead? Dana steps into the living room looking very beautiful. <b> STANTZ </b> Wow. Dana looks curiously at their outfits. <b> DANA </b> Hi. They nod and wave back. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Ray and Egon) I think we're going to have to pass on the sewer trip, boys. Let me know what you find out. <b> STANTZ </b> (on his exit) Okay, but you're missing all the fun. <b>INT. VAN HORNE STATION - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Stantz, Spengler and Winston come down the stairs into the station, guided by a very old map of the underground city. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. Van Horne Station. Right where the old transit map said it would be. They cross to the edge of the platform and look into the river of slime. <b> STANTZ </b> Let's get a sounding on the depth of that flow. Stantz has a long, coiled, graduated cord with a plumb bob on the end of it attached to his utility belt. <b> STANTZ </b> Stand back. He takes the cord in his hand, swings the plumb bob over his head and casts it out into the middle of the flow. The plumb bob sinks and Spengler reads the depth. <b> SPENGLER </b> Six feet -- seven -- eight -- <b> STANTZ </b> That's it. It's on the bottom. <b> SPENGLER </b> Nine feet -- ten -- <b> WINSTON </b> Is the line sinking? <b> SPENGLER </b> No, the slime is rising. Stantz looks down and notices the slime rising over the edge of the platform and around his boots. <b> STANTZ </b> (alarmed) Let's get out of here, boys. He starts to pull out the plumb line but it seems to be stuck. Spengler tries to help, but whatever is pulling on the cord is stronger than all three of them. As their unseen adversary pulls them closer and closer to the edge, Stantz works desperately to unhook the cord from his belt but finally just unhooks the whole belt. Spengler lets go in time but Winston doesn't. He is jerked off his feet and into the slime flow. Stantz and Spengler look at each other, summon their courage and jump in after him. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Dana and Venkman are sitting at a table in an elegant restaurant nibbling caviar and toasting with very expensive champagne. <b> VENKMAN </b> (very intimate) Here's to -- us. She sighs and drinks. <b> VENKMAN </b> So -- are you making any New Year's resolutions? <b> DANA </b> I want to stop getting involved with men who aren't good for me. <b> VENKMAN </b> Does that start exactly at midnight tomorrow, or could you hold off for a few days maybe? <b> DANA </b> For one night in your life, do you think it's possible for us to be completely real? <b> VENKMAN </b> All right, you want to be real? So tell me why did you dump me? <b> DANA </b> Oh, Peter, I didn't dump you. I just had to protect myself. You really weren't very good for me, you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> I'm not even good for me. <b> DANA </b> Why do you say things like that? You're so much better than you know. <b> VENKMAN </b> Thank you. If I had that kind of support on a daily basis, I could definitely shape up by the turn of the century. <b> DANA </b> (already feeling the effects of the champagne) So why don't you give me a jingle in the year 2000? <b> VENKMAN </b> Let me jingle you right now. He leans over to kiss her. <b> DANA </b> Maybe I should call Janine. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't worry. Janine has a very special way with children. They kiss. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine is on the sofa doing her nails while Louis paces with the baby. <b> JANINE </b> (looking around) I can't believe a person could actually live like this. <b> LOUIS </b> (to the baby) So these dwarfs had a limited partnership in a small mining operation and then one day a beautiful princess came to live with them. <b> JANINE </b> It's really not a bad place. It just needs a woman's touch. <b> LOUIS </b> (continuing) So they bartered room and board in exchange for housekeeping services, which was a good deal for all of them because then they didn't have to withhold tax and social security, which I'm not saying is right but it's just a story, so I guess it's all right. I can finish this later if you're tired. Louis goes into the bedroom and puts the baby down. <b> JANINE </b> You're really good with children, Louis. I can tell. (as he returns) Why don't you come here and sit with me? <b> LOUIS </b> Okay. He sits stiffly beside her on the sofa. <b> JANINE </b> (getting close) Motherhood is a very natural instinct for me. I'd like to have a baby myself. Wouldn't you? <b> LOUIS </b> (gulps) Tonight? <b>EXT. STREET - MANHOLE COVER - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A manhole cover is dislodged and pushed up from below. It slides away, and Winston crawls out of the manhole followed by Stantz and Spengler. They are exhausted and covered with slime. <b> WINSTON </b> (uncharacteristically angry) Nice going, Ray! What were you trying to do -- drown me? <b> STANTZ </b> (unusually mean) Look, Zeddemore, it wasn't my fault you were too stupid to drop that line. <b> WINSTON </b> (shoves him) You better watch your mouth, man, or I'll punch your lights out. <b> STANTZ </b> Oh yeah? Anytime, anytime. Just go ahead and try it. Spengler steps between them with unprecedented aggression. <b> SPENGLER </b> If you two are looking for a fight, you got one. (putting up his fists) Who wants it first? Come on, Ray. Try me, sucker. <b> STANTZ </b> (squaring off) Butt out, you pencil-necked geek. I've had it with you. They grab each other and start to tussle. Suddenly Spengler comes to his senses and pulls them apart. <b> SPENGLER </b> (forcefully) Strip! Right now! Get out of those clothes! He starts yanking off his slicker and waders. Bewildered, Stantz and Winston start doing the same. Spengler helps pull off their clothes and throws them into the open manhole. Now wearing only long underwear, they seem to return to normal. <b> WINSTON </b> What are we doing? Ray, I was ready to kill you. <b> STANTZ </b> Don't you see? It's the slime. That stuff is like pure, concentrated evil. Stantz looks around and sees that they are standing right in front of the museum. <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing right to this spot. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. ARMAND RESTAURANT ENTRANCE - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The MAITRE D' looks up in surprise as Stantz, Spengler and Winston enter the restaurant wearing only long underwear. <b> MAITRE D' </b> (intercepting them) Can I help you? Stantz looks around and spots Venkman. <b> STANTZ </b> That's all right, I see him. They blow right by the Maitre d' who jumps back in horror as they pass. <b>VENKMAN </b> He's just about to pour more champagne when he sees Ray, Egon and Winston coming toward him through the restaurant. <b> STANTZ </b> (very excited) You should've been there, Venkman. Absolutely incredible! <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, sorry I missed it. (noting their attire) I guess you guys didn't know about the dress code here. It's really kind of a coat and tie place. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all over the city, Pete -- well, under it actually. <b> WINSTON </b> Rivers of the stuff! <b> SPENGLER </b> And it's all flowing toward the museum. He gestures excitedly and a big gob of slime flies across the room and lands on a well-dressed diner. <b> STANTZ </b> (calls out) Sorry! <b> DANA </b> Maybe we should discuss this somewhere else. Venkman notes the look of alarm on Dana's face and pulls his colleagues aside. <b> VENKMAN </b> (confidentially) Boys, listen. You're scaring the straights. Let's save this until tomorrow, okay? <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Venkman) This won't wait until tomorrow, Venkman. It's hot and it's ready to pop. <b>MAITRE D' </b> He hurries through the restaurant with two city COPS right behind him and makes straight for Venkman's table. <b> MAITRE D' </b> Arrest these men. <b> COP </b> (recognizing them) Hey! It's the Ghostbusters. You're out of uniform, gentlemen Stantz suddenly realizes how ridiculous they look. <b> STANTZ </b> (self-conscious) Uh -- well -- we had a little accident, but forget that. We have to see the mayor as soon as possible. <b> COP </b> Look, Doc, why don't you just go home. You'll get a good night's sleep and then you can give the mayor a call in the morning. Come on. He takes Stantz by the arm but Stantz resists. <b> STANTZ </b> We're not going anywhere with you. I told you we have to see the mayor now. <b> COP </b> (grabbing Stantz) I'm warning you. You can come along peaceably or -- <b> VENKMAN </b> (grabs the Cop) Hey, don't be an idiot. This is serious. <b> COP </b> (angry) Look, pal, keep this up and you're going with them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, yeah? <b> COP </b> (has had enough) Yeah, let's go. You're all under arrest. The Cop catches Venkman in an armlock and starts walking him out of the restaurant. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Dana) Finish your dessert -- it's already paid for. I'll call you. They all exit, causing a major commotion among the other diners. <b>EXT. ARMAND'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The police car is parked right behind Ecto-2. Spengler stops at the police car and confronts the cops. <b> SPENGLER </b> Look, we're not drunk and we're not crazy. This is a matter of vital importance. Venkman steps in and looks at the policemen's nametags. <b> COP </b> What are you doing? <b> VENKMAN </b> I just want to get your names right for when the mayor asks us why we didn't let him know about this sooner. The Cops look at each other, uncertain about what to do. <b> COP </b> (relenting) Okay, Doc. You want to see the mayor, you got it. Follow us. They head for their respective vehicles. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are on the sofa making out when Dana enters. They jump up and start smoothing their clothes. <b> LOUIS </b> (embarrassed) Oh, hello, Dana. we were just -- we were -- <b> DANA </b> I know what you were doing, Louis. It's all right. <b> JANINE </b> How was your date? <b> DANA </b> Typical. Peter was arrested. Has he called? <b> LOUIS </b> No, nobody called. Dana frowns. <b> DANA </b> Is everything all right with Oscar? <b> JANINE </b> Oh, he's fine. He's such a good baby. He was a little fussy at first, but we gave him a Freach bread pizza and he went right to sleep. <b> DANA </b> (relieved) Oh, good. I'll just check on him. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana looks at Oscar sleeping peacefully on the bed. She starts to change clothes. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine aren't sure what to do. <b> LOUIS </b> Should we go? <b> JANINE </b> I don't think we should leave her alone. <b> LOUIS </b> You're right. We should stay. He grabs Janine and they start making out again. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz stands before the painting of Vigo. Vigo comes to life and repeats the litany of his power. <b> VIGO </b> I, Vigo, the scourge of Carpathia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> (heard all this before) Yes, the scourge -- <b> VIGO </b> -- the sorrow of Moldavia -- <b> JANOSZ </b> -- the sorrow -- <b> VIGO </b> I command you. <b> JANOSZ </b> (checking his watch) I await the word of Vigo. <b> VIGO </b> The season of evil begins with the birth of the new year. Bring me the child that I might live again. <b> JANOSZ </b> (abjectly humble) Lord Vigo, the mother, Dana, is fine and strong. I was wondering -- well, would it be possible -- if I bring the baby, could I have the woman? <b> VIGO </b> So be it. On this the day of darkness, she will be ours, wife to you and mother to me. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CARL SCHURZ PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> Preceded by a police car, Ecto-2 enters the small park on the East River at 88th Street and disappears into an underground entrance. The CAMERA PANS UP to reveal Gracie Mansion, the residence of the Mayor of New York City. <b>INT. GRACIE MANSION - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters, now wearing police raincoats over their longjohns are ushered through the house by a butler to a set of double oak doors. The butler knocks lightly, then opens the door to reveal the MAYOR sitting in front of the fireplace in his well-appointed private study, flanked by Jack Hardemeyer, both in tuxedoes. The Ghostbusters enter. <b>INT. STUDY - CONTINUOUS ACTION </b> The Mayor is impatient and a little angry at having been pulled out of his formal reception. He frowns at their bizarre attire. <b> MAYOR </b> All right -- the Ghostbusters. I'll tell you right now; I've got two hundred of the heaviest campaign contributors in the city out there eating bad roast chicken waiting for me to give the speech of my life. You've got two minutes. Make it good. <b> STANTZ </b> You get enough negative energy flowing in a dense environment like Manhattan, it starts to build up, and if we don't do something fast this whole place will blow like a frog on a hotplate. <b> WINSTON </b> Tell him about the toaster. <b> VENKMAN </b> I don't think he's ready for the toaster. <b> MAYOR </b> (shaking his head) Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right. What am I supposed to do -- go on television and tell eight million people they have to be nice to each other? I'm sorry, none of this makes any sense to me, and if anything does happen we've got plenty of paid professionals to deal with it. Your two minutes are up. Good night, gentlemen. The mayor exits, leaving the Ghostbusters to Hardemeyer. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (smirking) That's quite a story. <b> VENKMAN </b> Yeah, I think the Times might be interested, don't you? The Post might have a lot of fun with it, too. Hardemeyer's eyes go cold and calculating. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Before you go running to the newspapers with this, would you consider telling this slime thing to some people downtown? <b> VENKMAN </b> Now you're talking. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - PSYCHIATRIC WARD - NIGHT (LATER) </b> An attendant opens a locked door with a wire mesh window and the Ghostbusters, in straitjackets, are led into the psych ward as Hardemeyer confers with the chief PSYCHIATRIST. <b> WINSTON </b> (protesting) I'm telling you, we're not crazy. He is! <b>HARDEMEYER </b> He laughs off the remark. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to the Psychiatrist) The mayor wants them kept under strict observation for a few days. We think they're seriously disturbed and potentially dangerous. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> We'll do whatever's necessary. Hardemeyer shakes his hand and exits as the door slams shut on the Ghostbusters. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S LOFT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Louis and Janine are watching an old rerun on TV, eating popcorn, while Dana is stretched out on the other sofa. <b> DANA </b> (wishing they'd leave) You know you really don't have to stay. Peter should be back soon. <b> LOUIS </b> Oh no, we don't mind. She hears a little CRY from the nursery and sits up. <b> DANA </b> Excuse me. I think Oscar is up. She crosses to the bedroom. <b>INT. VENKMAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana enters and immediately notices that the crib is empty and the window is open. <b> DANA </b> (screams) Louis! Frantic now, Dana rushes to the window and looks out, as Louis and Janine come running in. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - DANA'S POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The baby is standing out on the ledge at the corner of the building, fifty feet above the street, staring off into the distance as if he's waiting for something. <b>EXT. WINDOW LEDGE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Dana climbs out onto the ledge and starts inching slowly toward the baby. Then she stops as a miraculous apparition materializes. <b>LOUIS AND JANINE </b> They lean out the window, gaping at the apparition. <b>EXT. VENKMAN'S LEDGE - APPARITION </b> A sweet, kindly-looking English nanny appears, pushing a pram, strolling on thin air parallel to the ledge high above the ground. Her face looks remarkably like Janosz Poha's. The nanny extends her hand to the BABY who GURGLES sweetly as he reaches out to take it. <b>DANA </b> She watches in helpless horror. <b> DANA </b> (screams) No!! <b>GHOST NANNY </b> She picks up the baby and lays it gently in the pram, then turns and smiles at Dana. The smile turns to a hideous grin, then the nanny shrieks at Dana and takes off like a shot with the baby. <b>DANA </b> She watches the creature fly off with Oscar, then climbs back through the window assisted by Louis and Janine. <b> DANA </b> (resolutely) Louis, you have to find Peter and tell him what happened. <b> LOUIS </b> (confused and worried) Where're you going? <b> DANA </b> To get my baby back. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (A LITTLE LATER) </b> A taxi pulls up, Dana jumps out and rushes into the museum. The moment the door closes behind her, there is a loud THUNDERCLAP, the ground trembles and a massive amount of slime erupts from around the base of the museum and starts covering the walls, sealing her inside the building. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC - PADDED ROOM - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are in a padded cell. They are handcuffed and the cuffs are chained to thick leather belts around their waists. Venkman stands there banging his head into the padded wall while the others try to explain the situation to a skeptical Psychiatrist. <b> STANTZ </b> We think the spirit of Vigo the Carpathian is alive in a painting at the Manhattan Museum. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> I see. And are there any other paintings in the museum with bad spirits in them? <b> SPENGLER </b> (impatient) You're wasting valuable time! We have reason to believe that Vigo is drawing strength from a psychomagnetheric slime flow that's been collecting under the city. <b> PSYCHIATRIST </b> Yes, tell me about the slime. <b> WINSTON </b> It's potent stuff. We made a toaster dance with it, then a bathtub tried to eat his friend's baby. The psychiatrist looks at Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> Don't look at me. I think they're nuts. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Moonlight streams through the skylight above, bathing the studio in eerie white light. Oscar is lying safely on a table in front of the painting of Vigo. Dana enters cautiously and sees the baby. Seeing no one else about, she quickly sneaks down to the table and picks up the baby, hugging hin tight, greatly relieved to find him unharmed and intact. <b> JANOSZ (O.S.) </b> I knew you would come. Startled, Dana turns at the sound of his voice as Janosz steps out from behind the Vigo painting. <b> DANA </b> (defiantly) What do you want with my baby? <b> JANOSZ </b> No harm will come to the child. You might even say it's a privilege. He will be the vessel for the spirit of Vigo. And you -- well, you will be the mother of the ruler of the world. Doesn't that sound nice? <b> DANA </b> If this is what the world will be like, I don't want to live in it. <b> JANOSZ </b> (confidentially, indicating Vigo) I don't believe we have the luxury of choice. <b> DANA </b> Everybody has a choice. <b> JANOSZ </b> Not in this case, my dear. Take a look. That's not Gainsborough's Blue Boy up there. He's Vigo! <b> DANA </b> I don't care who he is. He's not taking my baby. Dana walks quickly to the door but suddenly Oscar flies out of her arms, floats across the room and lands lightly back in the cradle. <b>DANA </b> She turns and looks at Vigo, for the first time feeling his power. <b> JANOSZ </b> You will see. It's all for the best. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - DAY (NEXT MORNING) </b> It's the last day of the year and the sun is shining brightly. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW PSYCHIATRIC WARD - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> The Ghostbusters are sitting in the dayroom, a dingy lounge for patients in the locked ward. There is a television set, a Ping-Pong table and a few tables and chairs. Stantz is looking at the sky through the heavy wire mesh covering the windows. <b> STANTZ </b> This is it. boys. It's starting. Shit-storm <b> 2000. </b> Venkman is doing occupational therapy, weaving on a little hand-loom. <b> VENKMAN </b> It better not start yet. I'm trying to finish my potholder before lunch. <b> WINSTON </b> You think all those predictions about the world coming to an end in the 1990s are true? A PATIENT at the next table joins the discussion. <b> PATIENT </b> (with certainty) 1997. My dog told me. <b> VENKMAN </b> What kind of dog? <b> PATIENT </b> Labrador. <b> VENKMAN </b> (shakes his head) Habitual liars. They can't help it. It's in the breed. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - EXAMINING ROOM - DAY (SAME TIME) </b> Louis is pleading with his cousin, SHERMAN TULLY, a doctor on the staff at Parkview. He looks and sounds just like Louis. <b> LOUIS </b> Come on, Sherm. You're my cousin. Do this for me. I'm begging you. <b> SHERMAN </b> I can't do it, Louis. It isn't ethical. I could lose my license. <b> LOUIS </b> Why can't you just have them released? You're a doctor. <b> SHERMAN </b> I'm a dermatologist. I can't write orders on the psych ward. <b> LOUIS </b> Sherman, I've done lots of favors for you. <b> SHERMAN </b> Like what? <b> LOUIS </b> I got you out of those bad tax shelters. <b> SHERMAN </b> You were the one who got me in. <b> LOUIS </b> I fixed you up with Diane Troxler and she put out, didn't she? <b> SHERMAN </b> Yeah, I had to give her free dermabrasion for a year. Forget it, Louis. I could get in a lot of trouble. <b> LOUIS </b> I'm telling you, we're all going to be in big trouble if we don't do something fast. That ghost guy came and took my friend's baby and we got to get it back. It's just a scared little baby, Sherm. <b> SHERMAN </b> Then you should go to the police. I don't believe in any of that stuff. Sherman looks out the window. <b>EXT. SKY - SHERMAN'S POV </b> The sky begins to go dark as the sun is magically eclipsed. <b>INT. EXAMINING ROOM - CONTINUOUS ACTION - DAY </b> The room goes dark. Louis switches on a lamp which casts an eerie light on his face. <b> LOUIS </b> (spooky) Do you believe it now, Sherm? <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. HUDSON RIVER PIER - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> A drainpipe starts dripping slime into the river near the Cunard Line docks. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PUBLIC FOUNTAIN (59TH AND FIFTH) - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> With the Plaza Hotel in the background, the fountain starts to spout psycho-reactive slime. <b>HOTEL ENTRANCE </b> A well-heeled MAN and WOMAN step out of a limousine and walk up the steps toward the revolving door. She looks up at the sky and frowns. <b> WOMAN </b> (shrewish) I told you we should have stayed in Palm Beach. The weather here gets stranger every year. <b> MAN </b> Yes, dear. She doesn't notice it, but a small amount of slime falls on the back of her luxurious, full-length, white mink coat. The doorman nods courteously and extends a hand to help her up the stairs. <b>WOMAN </b> She yelps in pain. <b> WOMAN </b> (to the doorman) Something just bit me! The doorman looks curiously at her, then recoils in shock as her coat comes alive. MINK HEADS pop out of the thick fur, SNARLING, BARKING and YAPPING, their sharp, little teeth biting the air. Reacting quickly, the doorman yanks the coat off the woman's back, throws it to the ground and starts stomping on it as the Woman and her husband look on in horror. The coat scuttles down the steps and runs off down the street. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MIDTOWN CENTRAL POLICE PRECINCT - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The squad room is busy as DETECTIVES try to answer the flood of calls regarding the wave of supernatural events sweeping the city. <b> DETECTIVE ONE </b> (on the phone) Look, lady, of course there are dead people there. It's a cemetery ... (his face falls) They were asking you for directions? <b> DETECTIVE TWO </b> (on another phone) Was this a big dinosaur or a little dinosaur? ... Oh, just the skeleton, huh? Well, where is it now? <b> DETECTIVE THREE </b> (on the phone) Wait a second -- the park bench was chasing you? You mean, someone was chasing you in the park ... No, the bench itself was chasing you. I see -- A weary SERGEANT answers a RINGING PHONE. <b> SERGEANT </b> Manhattan Central, Flaherty speaking ... Yeah ... yeah? ... What? Who is this? ... Wait a second. He puts the caller on "Hold" and turns the LIEUTENANT. <b> SERGEANT </b> Lieutenant, I think you better talk to this guy. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> (on another call) What is it? I'm talkin' here! <b> SERGEANT </b> It's some dock supervisor down at Pier 34 on the Hudson. The guy's going nuts. <b> LIEUTENANT </b> What's the problem? <b> SERGEANT </b> (takes a deep breath) He says the Titanic just arrived. <b>INT. PORT AUTHORITY OFFICE - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The dock supervisor stands there with the phone in his hand, an assistant beside him, both staring out the window at the ocean liner tied up at the pier. <b>EXT. PIER 34 - THEIR POV - NIGHT (ECLIPSE) </b> The name "R.M.S. Titanic" is clearly visible on the side of the huge ship. The gangplank is down and dozens of drowned passengers, sopping wet and festooned with seaweed, are disembarking while drowned porters off-load their waterlogged baggage. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. PARKVIEW HOSPITAL - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER)(ECLIPSE) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside as Louis and Sherman come out of the hospital with the Ghostbusters, now wearing their standard uniforms. <b> STANTZ </b> Good work, Louis. How did you get us out? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, I pulled a few strings. I wouldn't want to say any more than that. Louis winks conspiratorially at Sherman. <b> LOUIS </b> This is my cousin Sherman. Sherm, say hello to the Ghostbusters. (sotto voce to Stantz) I promised him a ride in the car if he got you out. <b> SHERMAN </b> (to the Ghostbusters) Hi, it's really great to meet you guys. I know this sounds weird but once I had a dream that my grandfather was standing at the foot of my bed, but I knew it was impossible because he died and he started to tell me that -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ectomobile and drive off, leaving him and Louis standing at the curb. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> SHERMAN </b> I thought you were like the fifth Ghostbuster. <b> LOUIS </b> I let them handle all the little stuff. I just come in on the big ones. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b>(original version of the above scene - 11/27/88) (TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: These two versions of this scene were put in my copy of the script, so I have included both of them here) <b> LOUIS </b> Actually, they still think you're crazy, but I convinced them you're not dangerous. <b> VENKMAN </b> (determined) Yeah, well guess again. <b>EXT. BELLEVUE HOSPITAL - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(MOMENTS LATER) </b> Ecto-2 is parked outside and the Ghostbusters are hastily donning their standard uniforms. <b> LOUIS </b> I brought everything you asked for and I gassed up the car with Super Unleaded. It cost twenty cents more than Regular Unleaded but you get much better performance and in an old car like this that'll end up saving you money in the long run. I put it on my credit card, so you can either reimburse me or I can take it out of petty cash -- While he's talking, the Ghostbusters jump in the Ecto-2 and drive off without him. <b> LOUIS </b> Hey! Wait! Okay, I'll meet you there. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>----------------------------------------------------------------------- </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (ECLIPSE)(LATER) </b> ECTO-2 pulls to the curb across the street from the museum. Hundreds of spectators are already there gawking at the building as the Ghostbusters jump out and gape at the sight that greets them. <b>EXT. MUSEUM THEIR POV - BUILDING </b> The building is now totally covered in a shell of psycho-reactive slime. CITY WORKMEN and FIREMEN are trying to cut their way in with blowtorches, jackhammers, power tools and the "jaws of life," but they can't even make a dent. <b>GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They size up the situation as they don their proton packs. <b> STANTZ </b> It looks like a giant Jello mold. <b> VENKMAN </b> I hate Jello. They stride manfully across the street and approach the main entrance to the museum. <b> STANTZ </b> (to the Fire Captain) Okay, give it a rest, Captain. We'll take it from here. <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> (skeptical) Be my guest. We been cutting here for three hours. What the hell's going on? You know the Titanic arrived this morning? <b> VENKMAN </b> Well, better late than never. The workmen and firemen put down their tools and fall back as the Ghostbusters draw their particle throwers. <b> SPENGLER </b> (monitoring valences) Full neutronas, maser assist. They adjust their settings and prepare to fire. <b> STANTZ </b> Throw 'em! They trigger their throwers and spray the front doors of the building with bolts of proton energy, but it has no effect on the hardened slime. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to the firemen) Okay, who knows "Cumbaya?" A few of the firemen and workmen tentatively raise their hands. Venkman grabs them and lines them up at the entrance of the museum. <b> VENKMAN </b> All right. Nice and sweet -- (starts singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya -- Stantz, Spengler, Winston and the firemen sing along, reluctantly holding hands and swaying to the music. <b> ALL </b> (singing) Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Cumbaya, milord, cumbaya, Oh, Lord, cumbaya. Stantz inspects the wall of slime with his infra-goggles and finds that they have only managed to open a hole the size of a dime. <b> STANTZ </b> Forget it. The Vienna Boys Choir couldn't get through this stuff. <b> VENKMAN </b> Good effort. Now what? Should we say supportive, nurturing things to it, Ray? <b> SPENGLER </b> It won't work. There's no way we could generate enough positive energy to crack that shell. <b> STANTZ </b> I can't believe things have gotten so bad in this city that there's no way back. Sure, it's crowded, it's dirty, it's noisy. And there are too many people who'd just as soon step on your face as look at you. But there've got to be a few sparks of sweet humanity left in this burned-out burg. We just have to mobilize it. <b> SPENGLER </b> We need something that everyone can get behind, a symbol -- His eyes fall on ECTO-2's New York State license plate which features a line drawing of the Statue of Liberty. <b> STANTZ </b> (he sees it, too) Something that appeals to the best in each and every one of us -- <b> SPENGLER </b> Something good -- <b> VENKMAN </b> And pure -- <b> WINSTON </b> And decent. <b>EXT. THE STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> There is a commotion among the crowd as the Mayor's limousine arrives with a police escort. Jack Hardemeyer steps out followed by the Mayor himself and they cross to the museum entrance. Hardemeyer, his ASSISTANT and several police BODYGUARDS confront the Ghostbusters. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> Look, I've had it with you. Get your stuff together, get back in that clown car and get out of here. This is a city matter and everything's under control. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, you think so? Well, I've got news for you. You've got Dracula's brother-in-law in there and he's got my girlfriend and her kid. Around about midnight tonight, when you're partying uptown, this guy's going to come to life and start doing amateur head transplants. And that's just round one. <b> MAYOR </b> Are you telling me there're people trapped in there? <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (to his assistant) This is dynamite. Call A.P., U.P.I., and C.N.N. and get them down here right away. When the police bring this kid out I want them to hand it right to the mayor and I want it all on camera. <b> STANTZ </b> Mr. Mayor, if we don't do something by midnight, you're going to go down in history as the man who let New York get sucked down into the tenth level of hell. The Mayor stops to consider the situation. <b> MAYOR </b> (to the Fire Captain) Can you get into that museum? <b> FIRE CAPTAIN </b> If I had a nuclear warhead, maybe. The Mayor turns to Venkman. <b> MAYOR </b> You know why all these things are happening? <b> VENKMAN </b> We tried to tell you last night, but Mr. Hard-On over here packed us off to the loony bin. Hardemeyer flips out. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> This is preposterous! You can't seriously believe all this mumbo-jumbo! It's the Twentieth Century, for crying out loud! (viciously, to Venkman) Look, mister, I don't know what this stuff is or how you got it all over the museum, but you better get it off and I mean right now! He pounds the wall of slime with his fist, and they all watch in amazement as his fist goes through the wall and he is sucked bodily through the slime curtain. Only his shoes can be seen, embedded in the slime. <b> MAYOR </b> (to Venkman) Okay, just tell me what you need. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND (NEW YORK HARBOR) - NIGHT </b> With the city skyline in the b.g., the Ghostbusters prepare their equipment. Each of them dons a makeshift backpack consisting of tanks, hoses, nozzles and an abundance of gauges, valves and regulators. Venkman looks up at the Statue of Liberty looming above them. <b> VENKMAN </b> Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it? <b> WINSTON </b> Wonder what? <b> VENKMAN </b> If she's naked under that toga. She's French, you know. <b> SPENGLER </b> There's nothing under that toga but 300 tons of iron and steel. Stantz is looking worried. <b> STANTZ </b> I hope we have enough stuff to do the job. <b> VENKMAN </b> Only one way to find out. (to Stantz) Ready, Teddy? They enter the statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - MOMENTS LATER </b> The Ghostbusters are working from the iron staircase that spirals straight up 100 feet inside the hollow super-structure of the statue. Spengler and Winston are busy assembling hundreds of wires connected to various relays on the interior surface of the statue. Venkman and Stantz are mounting large auditorium loudspeakers near the top of the staircase. They finish the installation, then Stantz dons one of the new backpacks and gives the order. <b> STANTZ </b> Okay, boys. Let's frost it. They begin hosing the inside of the statue with the psycho-reactive slime. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janine watches as Louis, wearing a Ghostbuster uniform, slings a heavy proton pack onto his back. <b> JANINE </b> I'm not sure this is such a good idea? Do they know you're doing this? <b> LOUIS </b> Oh, yeah, sure -- no. But there's really not much to do here and they might need some back-up at the museum. <b> JANINE </b> You're very brave, Louis. Good luck. She kisses Louis and he gets extremely self-conscious. <b> LOUIS </b> Uh -- oh -- well, I better hurry. He rushes out. <b>EXT STREET OUTSIDE FIREHOUSE - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> Louis stands on the street corner waiting for a bus. Finally, a bus pulls up, Louis climbs aboard and finds Slimer behind the wheel. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - OBSERVATION DECK - MOMENTS LATER </b> Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston are standing in the observation windows in the crown of the statue. It looks like they're on the bridge of an ocean liner, then the CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal the head of the statue. <b>STANTZ </b> He plugs the main cable lead into a transformer. <b> STANTZ </b> It's all yours, Pete. (checks his watch) There's not much time left. Venkman plugs the speaker cable into a Walkman and gives a downbeat. <b> VENKMAN </b> (giving the downbeat) Okay, one, two, three, four -- He hits "Play" on the Walkman and "HIGHER AND HIGHER" BOOMS from the huge SPEAKERS, amplified by the statue's vast hollow interior. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The head of the statue lurches suddenly, but the Ghostbusters cling to the rail and manage to keep their feet. <b> STANTZ </b> She's moving! <b> WINSTON </b> I've lived in New York all my life and I never visited the Statue of Liberty. Now I finally get here and we're taking her out for a walk. <b> SPENGLER </b> (reading the Giga-meter) We've got full power. Stantz picks up a Nintendo control paddle from a home video game and starts pushing the buttons. <b> VENKMAN </b> (into a microphone) Okay, Libby. Let's get it in gear. They feel a strong vibration and the statue starts to move. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. SOUTH STREET SEAPORT - NIGHT </b> New Years Eve celebrants line the riverfront, pointing and gawking at an incredible sight. <b>EXT. EAST RIVER - THEIR POV - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The statue is moving up the river almost completely submerged, only her head from the nose up is visible above the surface. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Winston looks out apprehensively. <b> WINSTON </b> How deep does it get? That water's cold and I can't swim. <b> VENKMAN </b> It's okay. I have my Senior Lifesaving card. <b> SPENGLER </b> With a water temperature of forty degrees we'd survive approximately fifteen minutes. Stantz studies a maritime navigational chart. <b> STANTZ </b> I'll keep to the middle of the channel. We're okay to 59th Street, then we'll go ashore and take First Avenue to 79th. <b> VENKMAN </b> Are you kidding? We'll hit all that bridge traffic at 59th. I'm going to take 72nd straight up to Fifth. Trust me, I used to drive a cab. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. RIVERFRONT - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Spectators cheer wildly, inspired by the sight of the Statue. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Janosz is sitting next to Dana, still wheedling her with promises and self-serving logic. <b> JANOSZ </b> Time is running out, Dana. Soon it will be midnight and the city will be mine -- and Vigo's. Well, mainly Vigo's. But we have a spectacular opportunity to make the best of our relationship. <b> DANA </b> We don't have a relationship. <b> JANOSZ </b> I know. Marry me, Dana, and together we will raise Vigo as our son. There are many perks that come with being the mother of a living god. I'm sure he will supply for us a magnificent apartment. And perhaps a car and free parking. <b> DANA </b> I hate and despise you and everything you stand for with all my heart and soul. I could never forgive what you've done to me and my child. <b> JANOSZ </b> Many marriages begin with a certain amount of distance, but after a while I believe we could learn to love each other. Think about it. <b> DANA </b> I'd rather not. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> People are jammed together shoulder to shoulder filling Times Square, watching the big Seiko clock count down the last ten minutes to midnight. Suddenly, they look down Broadway and see a magnificent sight. <b>EXT. BROADWAY - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue of Liberty is walking up Broadway approaching 42nd Street, with "Higher and Higher" BOOMING from the SPEAKERS inside. A great cheer goes up, and the crowd goes wild with joy, dancing and singing along with the MUSIC. <b>INT. STATUE OF LIBERTY OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS) </b> Spengler reads the Giga-meter. <b> SPENGLER </b> It's working. The positive GeV's are climbing. <b> VENKMAN </b> (patting the Statue) They love you, Lib. Keep it up. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The avenue has been closed to traffic and barricades placed, blocking all the side streets. A squadron of police motorcycles comes speeding around the corner at 72nd Street and proceeds up Fifth Avenue in the direction of the museum. Then MUSIC is heard BOOMING in the distance, the ground shakes and the Statue of Liberty comes walking around the corner onto Fifth Avenue followed by a wildly cheering throng. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters can see the museum ahead. <b> VENKMAN </b> So far so good. <b> SPENGLER </b> (worried) I'm worried. The vibrations could shake her to pieces. We should have padded her feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I don't think they make Nikes in her size. <b> VENKMAN </b> We're almost there, Lib. (to Stantz) Step on it. <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Statue's huge foot comes down and squashes a car. <b>INT. OBSERVATION DECK - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> The Ghostbusters look down at the flattened car. <b> STANTZ </b> (shouts out the window) My Fault! <b> VENKMAN </b> (shouts) She's new in town. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - RESTORATION STUDIO - SAME TIME </b> Janosz is painting the last of the mystical symbols on the baby's chest. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. TIMES SQUARE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> The people still in the square start counting off the last ten seconds to midnight and the New Year. <b> CROWD </b> (chanting) Ten .. nine ... eight ... seven ... <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> A strange light spreads over the painting. As the light moves onto his face, Vigo spreads his arms wide and his upper body starts to emerge from the canvas. <b> VIGO </b> Soon my life begins. Then woe to the weak, all power to me, the world is mine. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ - NIGHT </b> The baby's body begins to glow as Vigo reaches out for it. Then suddenly a dark shadow falls across the skylight. Janosz looks up. <b>INT. MUSEUM - JANOSZ'S POV - SKYLIGHT - NIGHT </b> The Statue of Liberty is looming over the skylight looking down on Janosz with an expression of righteous anger on it's face. <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Kneeling beside the museum, the statue draws back it's mighty right arm and smashes the skylight with its torch. <b>INT. RESTORATION STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz retreats from the shower of broken glass as the Ghostbusters come sliding down ropes into the studio and confront Janosz with their new weapons. Quick as a flash, Dana seizes the moment, dashes across the studio and snatches the baby from Vigo's outstretched arms. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Janosz) Happy New Year. <b>INT. MUSEUM - VIGO PAINTING - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Vigo bellows in rage. <b>INT. MUSEUM - STUDIO - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS ACTION) </b> Janosz steps in front of the painting. <b> SPENGLER </b> Hi there. Feel free to try something stupid. Janosz sneers, trusting the invincibility of Vigo. <b> JANOSZ </b> You pitiful, miserable creatures! You dare to challenge the power of darkness? Don't you realize what you are dealing with? He's Vigo! You are like the buzzing of flies to him. <b> VENKMAN </b> (sighs) Oh, Johnny. Did you back the wrong horse. With that, the Ghostbusters fire their slime-blowers and hose Janosz from head to toe, blowing him into the corner. Then they turn to Vigo. <b>VIGO </b> He is now almost completely out of the painting, but still held from the knees down. He spits and rages at the Ghostbusters, trying to unleash his magic powers. <b>THE GHOSTBUSTERS </b> They stand fast, secure in the knowledge that Vigo's power has been neutralized by the good will of the people. <b> STANTZ </b> Vigi, Vigi, Vigi -- you have been a bad little monkey. <b> VENKMAN </b> The whole city's together on this one. We took a vote. Everybody's down on you, you know. <b> WINSTON </b> (arming his slime-blower) Say goodnight now. Suddenly Vigo grabs Stantz by the neck and holds him up as a shield. <b> SPENGLER </b> Don't shoot! You'll hit Ray! <b> STANTZ </b> (strangling) Do it! Just do it! Winston fires and hoses both Vigo and Ray. <b>VIGO </b> He bellows and drops Ray, then falls back into the painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - PAINTING - NIGHT </b> The paint turns liquid, melts off the canvas and runs onto the floor revealing another painting underneath it. <b>INT. MUSEUM - GHOSTBUSTERS - NIGHT (AFTER BATTLE) </b> Venkman, Spengler and Winston rush over to Ray and kneel beside him. He is completely covered with slime and motionless. <b> SPENGLER </b> (examining him) He's breathing. Winston wipes the slime off Ray's face and Ray opens his eyes. <b> WINSTON </b> Ray -- Ray -- How do you feel, man? <b> STANTZ </b> (smiles lovingly) Groovy. I've never felt better in my life. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, no. We've got to live with this? They pull him to his feet. <b> STANTZ </b> I love you guys. You're the best friends I've ever had. He hugs them each in turn, leaving them slimed as well. Venkman recoils in disgust. <b> VENKMAN </b> Hey, I just had this suit cleaned. (indicating Janosz) Take care of the wiggler, will you. Venkman crosses to Dana who is snuggling the baby. She hugs Venkman. <b> VENKMAN </b> What is this -- a love in? (notes the symbols painted on the baby's body) Hey, sailor. I think the tattoos are a little much, don't you? He picks up the baby. <b> DANA </b> (to Venkman) I think he likes you. I think I do too. <b> VENKMAN </b> Finally came to your senses, huh? They hug and kiss. <b>SPENGLER, WINSTON AND STANTZ </b> They help Janosz to his feet. He's dazed but unhurt. <b> JANOSZ </b> (restored to normalcy) What happened? <b> STANTZ </b> (calmly) Sir, you had a violent, prolonged, transformative psychic episode. But it's over now. Want a coffee? <b> JANOSZ </b> (extremely nice) That's very kind of you. <b> SPENGLER </b> (to Stantz) He's fine, Ray. Physically intact, psychomagnetherically neutral. <b> JANOSZ </b> Is that good? <b> WINSTON </b> It's where you want to be. As they exit they stop to examine the painting that was concealed by Vigo's self-portrait. <b> SPENGLER </b> Late Renaissance, I think. Caravaggio or Brunelleschi. <b> WINSTON </b> (staring at it) There's something very familiar about this painting. <b>INT. MUSEUM - NEW PAINTING - NIGHT </b> It's a beautiful painting in the high-Renaissance style depicting four archangels hovering protectively over a cherubic baby. One holds a harp, one, an olive branch, the third, a book, and the last, a sword. Most remarkably, their faces bear an uncanny resemblance to Venkman, Stantz, Spengler and Winston. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. STREET - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> A city bus pulls up near the museum and Louis steps off. He waves his thanks to Slimer who is behind the wheel. <b> LOUIS </b> (to Slimer) Okay, so Monday night we'll get something to eat and maybe go bowling? Can you bowl with those little arms? SLIMER GRUNTS and SLOBBERS a reply, flexing his scrawny biceps. <b> LOUIS </b> Okay, I have to go save Dana. I'll see you later. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. MUSEUM - NIGHT (LITTLE LATER) </b> The Ghostbusters are greeted by wild cheering and applause as they come out the main entrance with Dana and the baby. Everybody starts singing "Auld Lang Syne." Louis picks his way through the celebrating crowd and finds the Ghostbusters. <b> LOUIS </b> Am I too late? <b> STANTZ </b> No, you're right on time. Stantz pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and hands it to him. <b>EXT. MUSEUM ENTRANCE - NIGHT (SAME TIME) </b> Hardemeyer staggers out of the museum covered in slime. He looks at the celebrating crowd and his eyes fill with tears. <b> HARDEMEYER </b> (weepy) Happy New Year, everybody! He joins in on "Auld Lang Syne." <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. CENTRAL PARK - NIGHT (LATER) </b> The Statue of Liberty is sprawled inert on her back in the park behind the museum, her toga up over her knees. The Mayor looks nearly suicidal. The Ghostbusters stand beside him commiserating. <b> VENKMAN </b> She's all right. She's just sleeping it off. <b> MAYOR </b> (stricken) We just had it restored. <b> VENKMAN </b> This probably isn't a good time to bring this up, but the last time we did a job for the city you stiffed us. <b> STANTZ </b> (handing the Mayor an invoice) This is a bill for tonight's job. The Mayor looks at it and gasps at the amount. <b> MAYOR </b> What! This is way too much. (hands the bill back to Venkman) We won't pay. Venkman looks at the Statue. <b> VENKMAN </b> (to Stantz) I think she looks pretty good here, don't you? <b> STANTZ </b> Yeah, and a lot easier to get to than that island. Realizing he has no alternative, the Mayor sighs and takes the bill back. <b> MAYOR </b> All right, all right. If you can wait until Monday I'll issue you a check. <b> SPENGLER </b> Sorry. No checks. Company policy. <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>EXT. LIBERTY ISLAND - DAY (WEEKS LATER) </b> The sun is shining brightly and Liberty is back on her pedestal where she belongs. The Mayor and a host of officials are commemorating her return. The Ghostbusters, Dana, Janine and Louis are there as honored guests. <b> VENKMAN </b> (looking up at the statue) Pretty impressive, huh? <b> SPENGLER </b> (musing) It's probably the first thing my grandparents saw when they came to this country. <b> VENKMAN </b> From where -- Neptune? <b> SPENGLER </b> They came from Ostrov in Eastern Poland. <b> VENKMAN </b> Ostrov? I've been there. Good party town. <b> STANTZ </b> (in a similarly reflective mood) My great-grandparents were Swiss. I still have the pictures they took of the statue from the boat when they arrived. <b> VENKMAN </b> Oh, right, you told me that. They came to America seeking other kinds of cheese, as I recall. How about you, Winston? <b> WINSTON </b> My people weren't taking any pictures from those slave ships, man. And there wasn't any Statue in Charleston Harbor to welcome them, either. What are you, Dana? <b> VENKMAN </b> Miss Blue Blood? Her family's been here since the year 12. <b> DANA </b> That's not true. It was 1620. <b> VENKMAN </b> Same difference. <b> STANTZ </b> What's your story, Pete? <b> VENKMAN </b> Me? I'm a little of everything. Some Irish, some German, some French, Dutch -- the women in my family slept around. And that's what made this country great. <b> DANA </b> That's a terrible thing to say. <b> VENKMAN </b> So what? It's a free country. (looking up at the Statue) Thanks, Lib. They all look up at the Statue. <b>EXT. STATUE OF LIBERTY - HEAD OF STATUE - DAY </b> Slimer flies out one of the observation windows, THEME MUSIC KICKS IN and the CAMERA PULLS UP and AWAY FROM the island TO a HIGH SHOT of the Statue, lower Manhattan and the shining sea beyond. <b> FADE OUT. </b> <b> THE END </b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What does Socrates believe about being judged in the after life if he breaks out of prison?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Go ahead and memorize the context. Here is the context: The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "It would have a negative effect" ]	6,602	narrativeqa	en	null	fb2d8ee43b24c62eaa479e62d1ac1fabdbb461cc1a60099b	This etext was prepared by Sue Asscher <asschers@aia.net.au> CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state... The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places. Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance of them? To this Crito is unable or unwilling to reply. Socrates proceeds:--Suppose the Laws of Athens to come and remonstrate with him: they will ask 'Why does he seek to overturn them?' and if he replies, 'they have injured him,' will not the Laws answer, 'Yes, but was that the agreement? Has he any objection to make to them which would justify him in overturning them? Was he not brought into the world and educated by their help, and are they not his parents? He might have left Athens and gone where he pleased, but he has lived there for seventy years more constantly than any other citizen.' Thus he has clearly shown that he acknowledged the agreement, which he cannot now break without dishonour to himself and danger to his friends. Even in the course of the trial he might have proposed exile as the penalty, but then he declared that he preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his footsteps? In any well-ordered state the Laws will consider him as an enemy. Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he may be welcomed at first, and the unseemly narrative of his escape will be regarded by the inhabitants as an amusing tale. But if he offends them he will have to learn another sort of lesson. Will he continue to give lectures in virtue? That would hardly be decent. And how will his children be the gainers if he takes them into Thessaly, and deprives them of Athenian citizenship? Or if he leaves them behind, does he expect that they will be better taken care of by his friends because he is in Thessaly? Will not true friends care for them equally whether he is alive or dead? Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life and children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks agreements, and returns evil for evil, they will be angry with him while he lives; and their brethren the Laws of the world below will receive him as an enemy. Such is the mystic voice which is always murmuring in his ears. That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made against him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated in later ages. The crimes of Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides, who had been his pupils, were still recent in the memory of the now restored democracy. The fact that he had been neutral in the death-struggle of Athens was not likely to conciliate popular good-will. Plato, writing probably in the next generation, undertakes the defence of his friend and master in this particular, not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and the world at large. Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of Crito and the proposal of escape is uncertain: Plato could easily have invented far more than that (Phaedr.); and in the selection of Crito, the aged friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to Socrates, we seem to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether any one who has been subjected by the laws of his country to an unjust judgment is right in attempting to escape, is a thesis about which casuists might disagree. Shelley (Prose Works) is of opinion that Socrates 'did well to die,' but not for the 'sophistical' reasons which Plato has put into his mouth. And there would be no difficulty in arguing that Socrates should have lived and preferred to a glorious death the good which he might still be able to perform. 'A rhetorician would have had much to say upon that point.' It may be observed however that Plato never intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only to exhibit the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil in order to avoid the greatest, and to show his master maintaining in death the opinions which he had professed in his life. Not 'the world,' but the 'one wise man,' is still the paradox of Socrates in his last hours. He must be guided by reason, although her conclusions may be fatal to him. The remarkable sentiment that the wicked can do neither good nor evil is true, if taken in the sense, which he means, of moral evil; in his own words, 'they cannot make a man wise or foolish.' This little dialogue is a perfect piece of dialectic, in which granting the 'common principle,' there is no escaping from the conclusion. It is anticipated at the beginning by the dream of Socrates and the parody of Homer. The personification of the Laws, and of their brethren the Laws in the world below, is one of the noblest and boldest figures of speech which occur in Plato. CRITO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Crito. SCENE: The Prison of Socrates. SOCRATES: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early. CRITO: Yes, certainly. SOCRATES: What is the exact time? CRITO: The dawn is breaking. SOCRATES: I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in. CRITO: He knows me because I often come, Socrates; moreover. I have done him a kindness. SOCRATES: And are you only just arrived? CRITO: No, I came some time ago. SOCRATES: Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me? CRITO: I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest as you are--indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity. SOCRATES: Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at the approach of death. CRITO: And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from repining. SOCRATES: That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour. CRITO: I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me. SOCRATES: What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die? CRITO: No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life. SOCRATES: Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a delay of a day. CRITO: Why do you think so? SOCRATES: I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship? CRITO: Yes; that is what the authorities say. SOCRATES: But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep. CRITO: And what was the nature of the vision? SOCRATES: There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates, 'The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go.' (Homer, Il.) CRITO: What a singular dream, Socrates! SOCRATES: There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think. CRITO: Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this--that I should be thought to value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused. SOCRATES: But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many? Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these things truly as they occurred. CRITO: But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their good opinion. SOCRATES: I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil; for then they would also be able to do the greatest good-- and what a fine thing this would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance. CRITO: Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only one. CRITO: Fear not--there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great cost; and as for the informers they are far from being exorbitant in their demands--a little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service, and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do not say, as you did in the court (compare Apol.), that you will have a difficulty in knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies, who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier, which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently; and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and do as I say. SOCRATES: Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors (compare Apol.). What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your old argument about the opinions of men?--we were saying that some of them are to be regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of talking--mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help, Crito:--whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded. Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow--at least, there is no human probability of this, and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was right in maintaining this? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: The good are to be regarded, and not the bad? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are evil? CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, or of one man only--his physician or trainer, whoever he may be? CRITO: Of one man only. SOCRATES: And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only, and not of the many? CRITO: Clearly so. SOCRATES: And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put together? CRITO: True. SOCRATES: And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil? CRITO: Certainly he will. SOCRATES: And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the disobedient person? CRITO: Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil. SOCRATES: Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;--there is such a principle? CRITO: Certainly there is, Socrates. SOCRATES: Take a parallel instance:--if, acting under the advice of those who have no understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is--the body? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed, which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle, whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the body? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: More honourable than the body? CRITO: Far more. SOCRATES: Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable.--'Well,' some one will say, 'but the many can kill us.' CRITO: Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer. SOCRATES: And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another proposition--that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued? CRITO: Yes, that also remains unshaken. SOCRATES: And a good life is equivalent to a just and honorable one--that holds also? CRITO: Yes, it does. SOCRATES: From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of educating one's children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death--and with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation. CRITO: I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed? SOCRATES: Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can, and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment. And now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me. CRITO: I will. SOCRATES: Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonorable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not? CRITO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then we must do no wrong? CRITO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure no one at all? (E.g. compare Rep.) CRITO: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Again, Crito, may we do evil? CRITO: Surely not, Socrates. SOCRATES: And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many--is that just or not? CRITO: Not just. SOCRATES: For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him? CRITO: Very true. SOCRATES: Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step. CRITO: You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind. SOCRATES: Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a question:--Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the right? CRITO: He ought to do what he thinks right. SOCRATES: But if this is true, what is the application? In leaving the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just--what do you say? CRITO: I cannot tell, Socrates, for I do not know. SOCRATES: Then consider the matter in this way:--Imagine that I am about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the government come and interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you about? are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us--the laws, and the whole state, as far as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?' What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply, 'Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' Suppose I say that? CRITO: Very good, Socrates. SOCRATES: 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would answer; 'or were you to abide by the sentence of the state?' And if I were to express my astonishment at their words, the law would probably add: 'Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes--you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,--What complaint have you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us who after birth regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to train you in music and gymnastic?' Right, I should reply. 'Well then, since you were brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands?--you would not say this? And because we think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return, and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the laws speak truly, or do they not? CRITO: I think that they do. SOCRATES: Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city, may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we maintain, thrice wrong: first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;--that is what we offer, and he does neither. 'These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above all other men have acknowledged the agreement. 'There is clear proof,' they will say, 'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be supposed to love (compare Phaedr.). For you never went out of the city either to see the games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our state; we were your especial favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you; and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But you pretended that you preferred death to exile (compare Apol.), and that you were not unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true or not?' How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent? CRITO: We cannot help it, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then will they not say: 'You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt, the blind, the maimed, were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city. 'For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself, if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away from well-governed states to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will live, but how?--as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?--eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner. And where will be your fine sentiments about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to live for the sake of your children--you want to bring them up and educate them--will you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them; for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for anything, they will--to be sure they will. 'Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito.' This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say. CRITO: I have nothing to say, Socrates. SOCRATES: Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he leads. Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Madame de Merret threatened to leave her husband if he did what?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Opened the closet" ]	8,146	narrativeqa	en	null	99ff684ab5baa313a2e0a02355fa055b0c4ae1137b44a153	Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny LA GRANDE BRETECHE (Sequel to "Another Study of Woman.") By Honore De Balzac Translated by Ellen Marriage and Clara Bell LA GRANDE BRETECHE "Ah! madame," replied the doctor, "I have some appalling stories in my collection. But each one has its proper hour in a conversation--you know the pretty jest recorded by Chamfort, and said to the Duc de Fronsac: 'Between your sally and the present moment lie ten bottles of champagne.'" "But it is two in the morning, and the story of Rosina has prepared us," said the mistress of the house. "Tell us, Monsieur Bianchon!" was the cry on every side. The obliging doctor bowed, and silence reigned. "At about a hundred paces from Vendome, on the banks of the Loir," said he, "stands an old brown house, crowned with very high roofs, and so completely isolated that there is nothing near it, not even a fetid tannery or a squalid tavern, such as are commonly seen outside small towns. In front of this house is a garden down to the river, where the box shrubs, formerly clipped close to edge the walks, now straggle at their own will. A few willows, rooted in the stream, have grown up quickly like an enclosing fence, and half hide the house. The wild plants we call weeds have clothed the bank with their beautiful luxuriance. The fruit-trees, neglected for these ten years past, no longer bear a crop, and their suckers have formed a thicket. The espaliers are like a copse. The paths, once graveled, are overgrown with purslane; but, to be accurate there is no trace of a path. "Looking down from the hilltop, to which cling the ruins of the old castle of the Dukes of Vendome, the only spot whence the eye can see into this enclosure, we think that at a time, difficult now to determine, this spot of earth must have been the joy of some country gentleman devoted to roses and tulips, in a word, to horticulture, but above all a lover of choice fruit. An arbor is visible, or rather the wreck of an arbor, and under it a table still stands not entirely destroyed by time. At the aspect of this garden that is no more, the negative joys of the peaceful life of the provinces may be divined as we divine the history of a worthy tradesman when we read the epitaph on his tomb. To complete the mournful and tender impressions which seize the soul, on one of the walls there is a sundial graced with this homely Christian motto, '_Ultimam cogita_.' "The roof of this house is dreadfully dilapidated; the outside shutters are always closed; the balconies are hung with swallows' nests; the doors are for ever shut. Straggling grasses have outlined the flagstones of the steps with green; the ironwork is rusty. Moon and sun, winter, summer, and snow have eaten into the wood, warped the boards, peeled off the paint. The dreary silence is broken only by birds and cats, polecats, rats, and mice, free to scamper round, and fight, and eat each other. An invisible hand has written over it all: 'Mystery.' "If, prompted by curiosity, you go to look at this house from the street, you will see a large gate, with a round-arched top; the children have made many holes in it. I learned later that this door had been blocked for ten years. Through these irregular breaches you will see that the side towards the courtyard is in perfect harmony with the side towards the garden. The same ruin prevails. Tufts of weeds outline the paving-stones; the walls are scored by enormous cracks, and the blackened coping is laced with a thousand festoons of pellitory. The stone steps are disjointed; the bell-cord is rotten; the gutter-spouts broken. What fire from heaven could have fallen there? By what decree has salt been sown on this dwelling? Has God been mocked here? Or was France betrayed? These are the questions we ask ourselves. Reptiles crawl over it, but give no reply. This empty and deserted house is a vast enigma of which the answer is known to none. "It was formerly a little domain, held in fief, and is known as La Grande Breteche. During my stay at Vendome, where Despleins had left me in charge of a rich patient, the sight of this strange dwelling became one of my keenest pleasures. Was it not far better than a ruin? Certain memories of indisputable authenticity attach themselves to a ruin; but this house, still standing, though being slowly destroyed by an avenging hand, contained a secret, an unrevealed thought. At the very least, it testified to a caprice. More than once in the evening I boarded the hedge, run wild, which surrounded the enclosure. I braved scratches, I got into this ownerless garden, this plot which was no longer public or private; I lingered there for hours gazing at the disorder. I would not, as the price of the story to which this strange scene no doubt was due, have asked a single question of any gossiping native. On that spot I wove delightful romances, and abandoned myself to little debauches of melancholy which enchanted me. If I had known the reason--perhaps quite commonplace--of this neglect, I should have lost the unwritten poetry which intoxicated me. To me this refuge represented the most various phases of human life, shadowed by misfortune; sometimes the peace of the graveyard without the dead, who speak in the language of epitaphs; one day I saw in it the home of lepers; another, the house of the Atridae; but, above all, I found there provincial life, with its contemplative ideas, its hour-glass existence. I often wept there, I never laughed. "More than once I felt involuntary terrors as I heard overhead the dull hum of the wings of some hurrying wood-pigeon. The earth is dank; you must be on the watch for lizards, vipers, and frogs, wandering about with the wild freedom of nature; above all, you must have no fear of cold, for in a few moments you feel an icy cloak settle on your shoulders, like the Commendatore's hand on Don Giovanni's neck. "One evening I felt a shudder; the wind had turned an old rusty weathercock, and the creaking sounded like a cry from the house, at the very moment when I was finishing a gloomy drama to account for this monumental embodiment of woe. I returned to my inn, lost in gloomy thoughts. When I had supped, the hostess came into my room with an air of mystery, and said, 'Monsieur, here is Monsieur Regnault.' "'Who is Monsieur Regnault?' "'What, sir, do you not know Monsieur Regnault?--Well, that's odd,' said she, leaving the room. "On a sudden I saw a man appear, tall, slim, dressed in black, hat in hand, who came in like a ram ready to butt his opponent, showing a receding forehead, a small pointed head, and a colorless face of the hue of a glass of dirty water. You would have taken him for an usher. The stranger wore an old coat, much worn at the seams; but he had a diamond in his shirt frill, and gold rings in his ears. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'whom have I the honor of addressing?'--He took a chair, placed himself in front of my fire, put his hat on my table, and answered while he rubbed his hands: 'Dear me, it is very cold.--Monsieur, I am Monsieur Regnault.' "I was encouraging myself by saying to myself, '_Il bondo cani!_ Seek!' "'I am,' he went on, 'notary at Vendome.' "'I am delighted to hear it, monsieur,' I exclaimed. 'But I am not in a position to make a will for reasons best known to myself.' "'One moment!' said he, holding up his hand as though to gain silence. 'Allow me, monsieur, allow me! I am informed that you sometimes go to walk in the garden of la Grande Breteche.' "'Yes, monsieur.' "'One moment!' said he, repeating his gesture. 'That constitutes a misdemeanor. Monsieur, as executor under the will of the late Comtesse de Merret, I come in her name to beg you to discontinue the practice. One moment! I am not a Turk, and do not wish to make a crime of it. And besides, you are free to be ignorant of the circumstances which compel me to leave the finest mansion in Vendome to fall into ruin. Nevertheless, monsieur, you must be a man of education, and you should know that the laws forbid, under heavy penalties, any trespass on enclosed property. A hedge is the same as a wall. But, the state in which the place is left may be an excuse for your curiosity. For my part, I should be quite content to make you free to come and go in the house; but being bound to respect the will of the testatrix, I have the honor, monsieur, to beg that you will go into the garden no more. I myself, monsieur, since the will was read, have never set foot in the house, which, as I had the honor of informing you, is part of the estate of the late Madame de Merret. We have done nothing there but verify the number of doors and windows to assess the taxes I have to pay annually out of the funds left for that purpose by the late Madame de Merret. Ah! my dear sir, her will made a great commotion in the town.' "The good man paused to blow his nose. I respected his volubility, perfectly understanding that the administration of Madame de Merret's estate had been the most important event of his life, his reputation, his glory, his Restoration. As I was forced to bid farewell to my beautiful reveries and romances, I was to reject learning the truth on official authority. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'would it be indiscreet if I were to ask you the reasons for such eccentricity?' "At these words an expression, which revealed all the pleasure which men feel who are accustomed to ride a hobby, overspread the lawyer's countenance. He pulled up the collar of his shirt with an air, took out his snuffbox, opened it, and offered me a pinch; on my refusing, he took a large one. He was happy! A man who has no hobby does not know all the good to be got out of life. A hobby is the happy medium between a passion and a monomania. At this moment I understood the whole bearing of Sterne's charming passion, and had a perfect idea of the delight with which my uncle Toby, encouraged by Trim, bestrode his hobby-horse. "'Monsieur,' said Monsieur Regnault, 'I was head-clerk in Monsieur Roguin's office, in Paris. A first-rate house, which you may have heard mentioned? No! An unfortunate bankruptcy made it famous.--Not having money enough to purchase a practice in Paris at the price to which they were run up in 1816, I came here and bought my predecessor's business. I had relations in Vendome; among others, a wealthy aunt, who allowed me to marry her daughter.--Monsieur,' he went on after a little pause, 'three months after being licensed by the Keeper of the Seals, one evening, as I was going to bed--it was before my marriage--I was sent for by Madame la Comtesse de Merret, to her Chateau of Merret. Her maid, a good girl, who is now a servant in this inn, was waiting at my door with the Countess' own carriage. Ah! one moment! I ought to tell you that Monsieur le Comte de Merret had gone to Paris to die two months before I came here. He came to a miserable end, flinging himself into every kind of dissipation. You understand? "'On the day when he left, Madame la Comtesse had quitted la Grand Breteche, having dismantled it. Some people even say that she had burnt all the furniture, the hangings--in short, all the chattels and furniture whatever used in furnishing the premises now let by the said M.--(Dear, what am I saying? I beg your pardon, I thought I was dictating a lease.)--In short, that she burnt everything in the meadow at Merret. Have you been to Merret, monsieur?--No,' said he, answering himself, 'Ah, it is a very fine place.' "'For about three months previously,' he went on, with a jerk of his head, 'the Count and Countess had lived in a very eccentric way; they admitted no visitors; Madame lived on the ground-floor, and Monsieur on the first floor. When the Countess was left alone, she was never seen excepting at church. Subsequently, at home, at the chateau, she refused to see the friends, whether gentlemen or ladies, who went to call on her. She was already very much altered when she left la Grande Breteche to go to Merret. That dear lady--I say dear lady, for it was she who gave me this diamond, but indeed I saw her but once--that kind lady was very ill; she had, no doubt, given up all hope, for she died without choosing to send for a doctor; indeed, many of our ladies fancied she was not quite right in her head. Well, sir, my curiosity was strangely excited by hearing that Madame de Merret had need of my services. Nor was I the only person who took an interest in the affair. That very night, though it was already late, all the town knew that I was going to Merret. "'The waiting-woman replied but vaguely to the questions I asked her on the way; nevertheless, she told me that her mistress had received the Sacrament in the course of the day at the hands of the Cure of Merret, and seemed unlikely to live through the night. It was about eleven when I reached the chateau. I went up the great staircase. After crossing some large, lofty, dark rooms, diabolically cold and damp, I reached the state bedroom where the Countess lay. From the rumors that were current concerning this lady (monsieur, I should never end if I were to repeat all the tales that were told about her), I had imagined her a coquette. Imagine, then, that I had great difficulty in seeing her in the great bed where she was lying. To be sure, to light this enormous room, with old-fashioned heavy cornices, and so thick with dust that merely to see it was enough to make you sneeze, she had only an old Argand lamp. Ah! but you have not been to Merret. Well, the bed is one of those old world beds, with a high tester hung with flowered chintz. A small table stood by the bed, on which I saw an "Imitation of Christ," which, by the way, I bought for my wife, as well as the lamp. There were also a deep armchair for her confidential maid, and two small chairs. There was no fire. That was all the furniture, not enough to fill ten lines in an inventory. "'My dear sir, if you had seen, as I then saw, that vast room, papered and hung with brown, you would have felt yourself transported into a scene of a romance. It was icy, nay more, funereal,' and he lifted his hand with a theatrical gesture and paused. "'By dint of seeking, as I approached the bed, at last I saw Madame de Merret, under the glimmer of the lamp, which fell on the pillows. Her face was as yellow as wax, and as narrow as two folded hands. The Countess had a lace cap showing her abundant hair, but as white as linen thread. She was sitting up in bed, and seemed to keep upright with great difficulty. Her large black eyes, dimmed by fever, no doubt, and half-dead already, hardly moved under the bony arch of her eyebrows.--There,' he added, pointing to his own brow. 'Her forehead was clammy; her fleshless hands were like bones covered with soft skin; the veins and muscles were perfectly visible. She must have been very handsome; but at this moment I was startled into an indescribable emotion at the sight. Never, said those who wrapped her in her shroud, had any living creature been so emaciated and lived. In short, it was awful to behold! Sickness so consumed that woman, that she was no more than a phantom. Her lips, which were pale violet, seemed to me not to move when she spoke to me. "'Though my profession has familiarized me with such spectacles, by calling me not infrequently to the bedside of the dying to record their last wishes, I confess that families in tears and the agonies I have seen were as nothing in comparison with this lonely and silent woman in her vast chateau. I heard not the least sound, I did not perceive the movement which the sufferer's breathing ought to have given to the sheets that covered her, and I stood motionless, absorbed in looking at her in a sort of stupor. In fancy I am there still. At last her large eyes moved; she tried to raise her right hand, but it fell back on the bed, and she uttered these words, which came like a breath, for her voice was no longer a voice: "I have waited for you with the greatest impatience." A bright flush rose to her cheeks. It was a great effort to her to speak. "'"Madame," I began. She signed to me to be silent. At that moment the old housekeeper rose and said in my ear, "Do not speak; Madame la Comtesse is not in a state to bear the slightest noise, and what you say might agitate her." "'I sat down. A few instants after, Madame de Merret collected all her remaining strength to move her right hand, and slipped it, not without infinite difficulty, under the bolster; she then paused a moment. With a last effort she withdrew her hand; and when she brought out a sealed paper, drops of perspiration rolled from her brow. "I place my will in your hands--Oh! God! Oh!" and that was all. She clutched a crucifix that lay on the bed, lifted it hastily to her lips, and died. "'The expression of her eyes still makes me shudder as I think of it. She must have suffered much! There was joy in her last glance, and it remained stamped on her dead eyes. "'I brought away the will, and when it was opened I found that Madame de Merret had appointed me her executor. She left the whole of her property to the hospital at Vendome excepting a few legacies. But these were her instructions as relating to la Grande Breteche: She ordered me to leave the place, for fifty years counting from the day of her death, in the state in which it might be at the time of her death, forbidding any one, whoever he might be, to enter the apartments, prohibiting any repairs whatever, and even settling a salary to pay watchmen if it were needful to secure the absolute fulfilment of her intentions. At the expiration of that term, if the will of the testatrix has been duly carried out, the house is to become the property of my heirs, for, as you know, a notary cannot take a bequest. Otherwise la Grande Breteche reverts to the heirs-at-law, but on condition of fulfilling certain conditions set forth in a codicil to the will, which is not to be opened till the expiration of the said term of fifty years. The will has not been disputed, so----' And without finishing his sentence, the lanky notary looked at me with an air of triumph; I made him quite happy by offering him my congratulations. "'Monsieur,' I said in conclusion, 'you have so vividly impressed me that I fancy I see the dying woman whiter than her sheets; her glittering eyes frighten me; I shall dream of her to-night.--But you must have formed some idea as to the instructions contained in that extraordinary will.' "'Monsieur,' said he, with comical reticence, 'I never allow myself to criticise the conduct of a person who honors me with the gift of a diamond.' "However, I soon loosened the tongue of the discreet notary of Vendome, who communicated to me, not without long digressions, the opinions of the deep politicians of both sexes whose judgments are law in Vendome. But these opinions were so contradictory, so diffuse, that I was near falling asleep in spite of the interest I felt in this authentic history. The notary's ponderous voice and monotonous accent, accustomed no doubt to listen to himself and to make himself listened to by his clients or fellow-townsmen, were too much for my curiosity. Happily, he soon went away. "'Ah, ha, monsieur,' said he on the stairs, 'a good many persons would be glad to live five-and-forty years longer; but--one moment!' and he laid the first finger of his right hand to his nostril with a cunning look, as much as to say, 'Mark my words!--To last as long as that--as long as that,' said he, 'you must not be past sixty now.' "I closed my door, having been roused from my apathy by this last speech, which the notary thought very funny; then I sat down in my armchair, with my feet on the fire-dogs. I had lost myself in a romance _a la_ Radcliffe, constructed on the juridical base given me by Monsieur Regnault, when the door, opened by a woman's cautious hand, turned on the hinges. I saw my landlady come in, a buxom, florid dame, always good-humored, who had missed her calling in life. She was a Fleming, who ought to have seen the light in a picture by Teniers. "'Well, monsieur,' said she, 'Monsieur Regnault has no doubt been giving you his history of la Grande Breteche?' "'Yes, Madame Lepas.' "'And what did he tell you?' "I repeated in a few words the creepy and sinister story of Madame de Merret. At each sentence my hostess put her head forward, looking at me with an innkeeper's keen scrutiny, a happy compromise between the instinct of a police constable, the astuteness of a spy, and the cunning of a dealer. "'My good Madame Lepas,' said I as I ended, 'you seem to know more about it. Heh? If not, why have you come up to me?' "'On my word, as an honest woman----' "'Do not swear; your eyes are big with a secret. You knew Monsieur de Merret; what sort of man was he?' "'Monsieur de Merret--well, you see he was a man you never could see the top of, he was so tall! A very good gentleman, from Picardy, and who had, as we say, his head close to his cap. He paid for everything down, so as never to have difficulties with any one. He was hot-tempered, you see! All our ladies liked him very much.' "'Because he was hot-tempered?' I asked her. "'Well, may be,' said she; 'and you may suppose, sir, that a man had to have something to show for a figurehead before he could marry Madame de Merret, who, without any reflection on others, was the handsomest and richest heiress in our parts. She had about twenty thousand francs a year. All the town was at the wedding; the bride was pretty and sweet-looking, quite a gem of a woman. Oh, they were a handsome couple in their day!' "'And were they happy together?' "'Hm, hm! so-so--so far as can be guessed, for, as you may suppose, we of the common sort were not hail-fellow-well-met with them.--Madame de Merret was a kind woman and very pleasant, who had no doubt sometimes to put up with her husband's tantrums. But though he was rather haughty, we were fond of him. After all, it was his place to behave so. When a man is a born nobleman, you see----' "'Still, there must have been some catastrophe for Monsieur and Madame de Merret to part so violently?' "'I did not say there was any catastrophe, sir. I know nothing about it.' "'Indeed. Well, now, I am sure you know everything.' "'Well, sir, I will tell you the whole story.--When I saw Monsieur Regnault go up to see you, it struck me that he would speak to you about Madame de Merret as having to do with la Grande Breteche. That put it into my head to ask your advice, sir, seeming to me that you are a man of good judgment and incapable of playing a poor woman like me false--for I never did any one a wrong, and yet I am tormented by my conscience. Up to now I have never dared to say a word to the people of these parts; they are all chatter-mags, with tongues like knives. And never till now, sir, have I had any traveler here who stayed so long in the inn as you have, and to whom I could tell the history of the fifteen thousand francs----' "'My dear Madame Lepas, if there is anything in your story of a nature to compromise me,' I said, interrupting the flow of her words, 'I would not hear it for all the world.' "'You need have no fears,' said she; 'you will see.' "Her eagerness made me suspect that I was not the only person to whom my worthy landlady had communicated the secret of which I was to be the sole possessor, but I listened. "'Monsieur,' said she, 'when the Emperor sent the Spaniards here, prisoners of war and others, I was required to lodge at the charge of the Government a young Spaniard sent to Vendome on parole. Notwithstanding his parole, he had to show himself every day to the sub-prefect. He was a Spanish grandee--neither more nor less. He had a name in _os_ and _dia_, something like Bagos de Feredia. I wrote his name down in my books, and you may see it if you like. Ah! he was a handsome young fellow for a Spaniard, who are all ugly they say. He was not more than five feet two or three in height, but so well made; and he had little hands that he kept so beautifully! Ah! you should have seen them. He had as many brushes for his hands as a woman has for her toilet. He had thick, black hair, a flame in his eye, a somewhat coppery complexion, but which I admired all the same. He wore the finest linen I have ever seen, though I have had princesses to lodge here, and, among others, General Bertrand, the Duc and Duchesse d'Abrantes, Monsieur Descazes, and the King of Spain. He did not eat much, but he had such polite and amiable ways that it was impossible to owe him a grudge for that. Oh! I was very fond of him, though he did not say four words to me in a day, and it was impossible to have the least bit of talk with him; if he was spoken to, he did not answer; it is a way, a mania they all have, it would seem. "'He read his breviary like a priest, and went to mass and all the services quite regularly. And where did he post himself?--we found this out later.--Within two yards of Madame de Merret's chapel. As he took that place the very first time he entered the church, no one imagined that there was any purpose in it. Besides, he never raised his nose above his book, poor young man! And then, monsieur, of an evening he went for a walk on the hill among the ruins of the old castle. It was his only amusement, poor man; it reminded him of his native land. They say that Spain is all hills! "'One evening, a few days after he was sent here, he was out very late. I was rather uneasy when he did not come in till just on the stroke of midnight; but we all got used to his whims; he took the key of the door, and we never sat up for him. He lived in a house belonging to us in the Rue des Casernes. Well, then, one of our stable-boys told us one evening that, going down to wash the horses in the river, he fancied he had seen the Spanish Grandee swimming some little way off, just like a fish. When he came in, I told him to be careful of the weeds, and he seemed put out at having been seen in the water. "'At last, monsieur, one day, or rather one morning, we did not find him in his room; he had not come back. By hunting through his things, I found a written paper in the drawer of his table, with fifty pieces of Spanish gold of the kind they call doubloons, worth about five thousand francs; and in a little sealed box ten thousand francs worth of diamonds. The paper said that in case he should not return, he left us this money and these diamonds in trust to found masses to thank God for his escape and for his salvation. "'At that time I still had my husband, who ran off in search of him. And this is the queer part of the story: he brought back the Spaniard's clothes, which he had found under a big stone on a sort of breakwater along the river bank, nearly opposite la Grande Breteche. My husband went so early that no one saw him. After reading the letter, he burnt the clothes, and, in obedience to Count Feredia's wish, we announced that he had escaped. "'The sub-prefect set all the constabulary at his heels; but, pshaw! he was never caught. Lepas believed that the Spaniard had drowned himself. I, sir, have never thought so; I believe, on the contrary, that he had something to do with the business about Madame de Merret, seeing that Rosalie told me that the crucifix her mistress was so fond of that she had it buried with her, was made of ebony and silver; now in the early days of his stay here, Monsieur Feredia had one of ebony and silver which I never saw later.--And now, monsieur, do not you say that I need have no remorse about the Spaniard's fifteen thousand francs? Are they not really and truly mine?' "'Certainly.--But have you never tried to question Rosalie?' said I. "'Oh, to be sure I have, sir. But what is to be done? That girl is like a wall. She knows something, but it is impossible to make her talk.' "After chatting with me for a few minutes, my hostess left me a prey to vague and sinister thoughts, to romantic curiosity, and a religious dread, not unlike the deep emotion which comes upon us when we go into a dark church at night and discern a feeble light glimmering under a lofty vault--a dim figure glides across--the sweep of a gown or of a priest's cassock is audible--and we shiver! La Grande Breteche, with its rank grasses, its shuttered windows, its rusty iron-work, its locked doors, its deserted rooms, suddenly rose before me in fantastic vividness. I tried to get into the mysterious dwelling to search out the heart of this solemn story, this drama which had killed three persons. "Rosalie became in my eyes the most interesting being in Vendome. As I studied her, I detected signs of an inmost thought, in spite of the blooming health that glowed in her dimpled face. There was in her soul some element of ruth or of hope; her manner suggested a secret, like the expression of devout souls who pray in excess, or of a girl who has killed her child and for ever hears its last cry. Nevertheless, she was simple and clumsy in her ways; her vacant smile had nothing criminal in it, and you would have pronounced her innocent only from seeing the large red and blue checked kerchief that covered her stalwart bust, tucked into the tight-laced bodice of a lilac- and white-striped gown. 'No,' said I to myself, 'I will not quit Vendome without knowing the whole history of la Grande Breteche. To achieve this end, I will make love to Rosalie if it proves necessary.' "'Rosalie!' said I one evening. "'Your servant, sir?' "'You are not married?' She started a little. "'Oh! there is no lack of men if ever I take a fancy to be miserable!' she replied, laughing. She got over her agitation at once; for every woman, from the highest lady to the inn-servant inclusive, has a native presence of mind. "'Yes; you are fresh and good-looking enough never to lack lovers! But tell me, Rosalie, why did you become an inn-servant on leaving Madame de Merret? Did she not leave you some little annuity?' "'Oh yes, sir. But my place here is the best in all the town of Vendome.' "This reply was such an one as judges and attorneys call evasive. Rosalie, as it seemed to me, held in this romantic affair the place of the middle square of the chess-board: she was at the very centre of the interest and of the truth; she appeared to me to be tied into the knot of it. It was not a case for ordinary love-making; this girl contained the last chapter of a romance, and from that moment all my attentions were devoted to Rosalie. By dint of studying the girl, I observed in her, as in every woman whom we make our ruling thought, a variety of good qualities; she was clean and neat; she was handsome, I need not say; she soon was possessed of every charm that desire can lend to a woman in whatever rank of life. A fortnight after the notary's visit, one evening, or rather one morning, in the small hours, I said to Rosalie: "'Come, tell me all you know about Madame de Merret.' "'Oh!' she said, 'I will tell you; but keep the secret carefully.' "'All right, my child; I will keep all your secrets with a thief's honor, which is the most loyal known.' "'If it is all the same to you,' said she, 'I would rather it should be with your own.' "Thereupon she set her head-kerchief straight, and settled herself to tell the tale; for there is no doubt a particular attitude of confidence and security is necessary to the telling of a narrative. The best tales are told at a certain hour--just as we are all here at table. No one ever told a story well standing up, or fasting. "If I were to reproduce exactly Rosalie's diffuse eloquence, a whole volume would scarcely contain it. Now, as the event of which she gave me a confused account stands exactly midway between the notary's gossip and that of Madame Lepas, as precisely as the middle term of a rule-of-three sum stands between the first and third, I have only to relate it in as few words as may be. I shall therefore be brief. "The room at la Grande Breteche in which Madame de Merret slept was on the ground floor; a little cupboard in the wall, about four feet deep, served her to hang her dresses in. Three months before the evening of which I have to relate the events, Madame de Merret had been seriously ailing, so much so that her husband had left her to herself, and had his own bedroom on the first floor. By one of those accidents which it is impossible to foresee, he came in that evening two hours later than usual from the club, where he went to read the papers and talk politics with the residents in the neighborhood. His wife supposed him to have come in, to be in bed and asleep. But the invasion of France had been the subject of a very animated discussion; the game of billiards had waxed vehement; he had lost forty francs, an enormous sum at Vendome, where everybody is thrifty, and where social habits are restrained within the bounds of a simplicity worthy of all praise, and the foundation perhaps of a form of true happiness which no Parisian would care for. "For some time past Monsieur de Merret had been satisfied to ask Rosalie whether his wife was in bed; on the girl's replying always in the affirmative, he at once went to his own room, with the good faith that comes of habit and confidence. But this evening, on coming in, he took it into his head to go to see Madame de Merret, to tell her of his ill-luck, and perhaps to find consolation. During dinner he had observed that his wife was very becomingly dressed; he reflected as he came home from the club that his wife was certainly much better, that convalescence had improved her beauty, discovering it, as husbands discover everything, a little too late. Instead of calling Rosalie, who was in the kitchen at the moment watching the cook and the coachman playing a puzzling hand at cards, Monsieur de Merret made his way to his wife's room by the light of his lantern, which he set down at the lowest step of the stairs. His step, easy to recognize, rang under the vaulted passage. "At the instant when the gentleman turned the key to enter his wife's room, he fancied he heard the door shut of the closet of which I have spoken; but when he went in, Madame de Merret was alone, standing in front of the fireplace. The unsuspecting husband fancied that Rosalie was in the cupboard; nevertheless, a doubt, ringing in his ears like a peal of bells, put him on his guard; he looked at his wife, and read in her eyes an indescribably anxious and haunted expression. "'You are very late,' said she.--Her voice, usually so clear and sweet, struck him as being slightly husky. "Monsieur de Merret made no reply, for at this moment Rosalie came in. This was like a thunder-clap. He walked up and down the room, going from one window to another at a regular pace, his arms folded. "'Have you had bad news, or are you ill?' his wife asked him timidly, while Rosalie helped her to undress. He made no reply. "'You can go, Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret to her maid; 'I can put in my curl-papers myself.'--She scented disaster at the mere aspect of her husband's face, and wished to be alone with him. As soon as Rosalie was gone, or supposed to be gone, for she lingered a few minutes in the passage, Monsieur de Merret came and stood facing his wife, and said coldly, 'Madame, there is some one in your cupboard!' She looked at her husband calmly, and replied quite simply, 'No, monsieur.' "This 'No' wrung Monsieur de Merret's heart; he did not believe it; and yet his wife had never appeared purer or more saintly than she seemed to be at this moment. He rose to go and open the closet door. Madame de Merret took his hand, stopped him, looked at him sadly, and said in a voice of strange emotion, 'Remember, if you should find no one there, everything must be at an end between you and me.' "The extraordinary dignity of his wife's attitude filled him with deep esteem for her, and inspired him with one of those resolves which need only a grander stage to become immortal. "'No, Josephine,' he said, 'I will not open it. In either event we should be parted for ever. Listen; I know all the purity of your soul, I know you lead a saintly life, and would not commit a deadly sin to save your life.'--At these words Madame de Merret looked at her husband with a haggard stare.--'See, here is your crucifix,' he went on. 'Swear to me before God that there is no one in there; I will believe you--I will never open that door.' "Madame de Merret took up the crucifix and said, 'I swear it.' "'Louder,' said her husband; 'and repeat: "I swear before God that there is nobody in that closet."' She repeated the words without flinching. "'That will do,' said Monsieur de Merret coldly. After a moment's silence: 'You have there a fine piece of work which I never saw before,' said he, examining the crucifix of ebony and silver, very artistically wrought. "'I found it at Duvivier's; last year when that troop of Spanish prisoners came through Vendome, he bought it of a Spanish monk.' "'Indeed,' said Monsieur de Merret, hanging the crucifix on its nail; and he rang the bell. "He had to wait for Rosalie. Monsieur de Merret went forward quickly to meet her, led her into the bay of the window that looked on to the garden, and said to her in an undertone: "'I know that Gorenflot wants to marry you, that poverty alone prevents your setting up house, and that you told him you would not be his wife till he found means to become a master mason.--Well, go and fetch him; tell him to come here with his trowel and tools. Contrive to wake no one in his house but himself. His reward will be beyond your wishes. Above all, go out without saying a word--or else!' and he frowned. "Rosalie was going, and he called her back. 'Here, take my latch-key,' said he. "'Jean!' Monsieur de Merret called in a voice of thunder down the passage. Jean, who was both coachman and confidential servant, left his cards and came. "'Go to bed, all of you,' said his master, beckoning him to come close; and the gentleman added in a whisper, 'When they are all asleep--mind, _asleep_--you understand?--come down and tell me.' "Monsieur de Merret, who had never lost sight of his wife while giving his orders, quietly came back to her at the fireside, and began to tell her the details of the game of billiards and the discussion at the club. When Rosalie returned she found Monsieur and Madame de Merret conversing amiably. "Not long before this Monsieur de Merret had had new ceilings made to all the reception-rooms on the ground floor. Plaster is very scarce at Vendome; the price is enhanced by the cost of carriage; the gentleman had therefore had a considerable quantity delivered to him, knowing that he could always find purchasers for what might be left. It was this circumstance which suggested the plan he carried out. "'Gorenflot is here, sir,' said Rosalie in a whisper. "'Tell him to come in,' said her master aloud. "Madame de Merret turned paler when she saw the mason. "'Gorenflot,' said her husband, 'go and fetch some bricks from the coach-house; bring enough to wall up the door of this cupboard; you can use the plaster that is left for cement.' Then, dragging Rosalie and the workman close to him--'Listen, Gorenflot,' said he, in a low voice, 'you are to sleep here to-night; but to-morrow morning you shall have a passport to take you abroad to a place I will tell you of. I will give you six thousand francs for your journey. You must live in that town for ten years; if you find you do not like it, you may settle in another, but it must be in the same country. Go through Paris and wait there till I join you. I will there give you an agreement for six thousand francs more, to be paid to you on your return, provided you have carried out the conditions of the bargain. For that price you are to keep perfect silence as to what you have to do this night. To you, Rosalie, I will secure ten thousand francs, which will not be paid to you till your wedding day, and on condition of your marrying Gorenflot; but, to get married, you must hold your tongue. If not, no wedding gift!' "'Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret, 'come and brush my hair.' "Her husband quietly walked up and down the room, keeping an eye on the door, on the mason, and on his wife, but without any insulting display of suspicion. Gorenflot could not help making some noise. Madame de Merret seized a moment when he was unloading some bricks, and when her husband was at the other end of the room to say to Rosalie: 'My dear child, I will give you a thousand francs a year if only you will tell Gorenflot to leave a crack at the bottom.' Then she added aloud quite coolly: 'You had better help him.' "Monsieur and Madame de Merret were silent all the time while Gorenflot was walling up the door. This silence was intentional on the husband's part; he did not wish to give his wife the opportunity of saying anything with a double meaning. On Madame de Merret's side it was pride or prudence. When the wall was half built up the cunning mason took advantage of his master's back being turned to break one of the two panes in the top of the door with a blow of his pick. By this Madame de Merret understood that Rosalie had spoken to Gorenflot. They all three then saw the face of a dark, gloomy-looking man, with black hair and flaming eyes. "Before her husband turned round again the poor woman had nodded to the stranger, to whom the signal was meant to convey, 'Hope.' "At four o'clock, as the day was dawning, for it was the month of September, the work was done. The mason was placed in charge of Jean, and Monsieur de Merret slept in his wife's room. "Next morning when he got up he said with apparent carelessness, 'Oh, by the way, I must go to the Maire for the passport.' He put on his hat, took two or three steps towards the door, paused, and took the crucifix. His wife was trembling with joy. "'He will go to Duvivier's,' thought she. "As soon as he had left, Madame de Merret rang for Rosalie, and then in a terrible voice she cried: 'The pick! Bring the pick! and set to work. I saw how Gorenflot did it yesterday; we shall have time to make a gap and build it up again.' "In an instant Rosalie had brought her mistress a sort of cleaver; she, with a vehemence of which no words can give an idea, set to work to demolish the wall. She had already got out a few bricks, when, turning to deal a stronger blow than before, she saw behind her Monsieur de Merret. She fainted away. "'Lay madame on her bed,' said he coldly. "Foreseeing what would certainly happen in his absence, he had laid this trap for his wife; he had merely written to the Maire and sent for Duvivier. The jeweler arrived just as the disorder in the room had been repaired. "'Duvivier,' asked Monsieur de Merret, 'did not you buy some crucifixes of the Spaniards who passed through the town?' "'No, monsieur.' "'Very good; thank you,' said he, flashing a tiger's glare at his wife. 'Jean,' he added, turning to his confidential valet, 'you can serve my meals here in Madame de Merret's room. She is ill, and I shall not leave her till she recovers.' "The cruel man remained in his wife's room for twenty days. During the earlier time, when there was some little noise in the closet, and Josephine wanted to intercede for the dying man, he said, without allowing her to utter a word, 'You swore on the Cross that there was no one there.'" After this story all the ladies rose from table, and thus the spell under which Bianchon had held them was broken. But there were some among them who had almost shivered at the last words. ADDENDUM The following personage appears in other stories of the Human Comedy. Bianchon, Horace Father Goriot The Atheist's Mass Cesar Birotteau The Commission in Lunacy Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Government Clerks Pierrette A Study of Woman Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Honorine The Seamy Side of History The Magic Skin A Second Home A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two Brides The Muse of the Department The Imaginary Mistress The Middle Classes Cousin Betty The Country Parson In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: Another Study of Woman End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of La Grande Breteche, by Honore de Balzac Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who moved to Chicago to perform mercy killings?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "Seth Lazarus" ]	8,724	narrativeqa	en	null	ba3c942a713b66ab70a132aed673b0e9f46faf4727d59f6b	Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net DOCTOR BY MURRAY LEINSTER Illustrated by FINLAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine February 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly the biggest thing in the universe was the very tiniest. There were suns, which were nearby, and there were stars which were so far away that no way of telling their distance had any meaning. The suns had planets, most of which did not matter, but the ones that did count had seas and continents, and the continents had cities and highways and spaceports. And people. The people paid no attention to their insignificance. They built ships which went through emptiness beyond imagining, and they landed upon planets and rebuilt them to their own liking. Suns flamed terribly, renting their impertinence, and storms swept across the planets they preëmpted, but the people built more strongly and were secure. Everything in the universe was bigger or stronger than the people, but they ignored the fact. They went about the businesses they had contrived for themselves. They were not afraid of anything until somewhere on a certain small planet an infinitesimal single molecule changed itself. It was one molecule among unthinkably many, upon one planet of one solar system among uncountable star clusters. It was not exactly alive, but it acted as if it were, in which it was like all the important matter of the cosmos. It was actually a combination of two complicated substances not too firmly joined together. When one of the parts changed, it became a new molecule. But, like the original one, it was still capable of a process called autocatalysis. It practiced that process and catalyzed other molecules into existence, which in each case were duplicates of itself. Then mankind had to take notice, though it ignored flaming suns and monstrous storms and emptiness past belief. Men called the new molecule a virus and gave it a name. They called it and its duplicates "chlorophage." And chlorophage was, to people, the most terrifying thing in the universe. * * * * * In a strictly temporary orbit around the planet Altaira, the _Star Queen_ floated, while lift-ships brought passengers and cargo up to it. The ship was too large to be landed economically at an unimportant spaceport like Altaira. It was a very modern ship and it made the Regulus-to-Cassim run, which is five hundred light-years, in only fifty days of Earthtime. Now the lift-ships were busy. There was an unusual number of passengers to board the _Star Queen_ at Altaira and an unusual number of them were women and children. The children tended to pudginess and the women had the dieted look of the wives of well-to-do men. Most of them looked red-eyed, as if they had been crying. One by one the lift-ships hooked onto the airlock of the _Star Queen_ and delivered passengers and cargo to the ship. Presently the last of them was hooked on, and the last batch of passengers came through to the liner, and the ship's doctor watched them stream past him. His air was negligent, but he was actually impatient. Like most doctors, Nordenfeld approved of lean children and wiry women. They had fewer things wrong with them and they responded better to treatment. Well, he was the doctor of the _Star Queen_ and he had much authority. He'd exerted it back on Regulus to insist that a shipment of botanical specimens for Cassim travel in quarantine--to be exact, in the ship's practically unused hospital compartment--and he was prepared to exercise authority over the passengers. He had a sheaf of health slips from the examiners on the ground below. There was one slip for each passenger. It certified that so-and-so had been examined and could safely be admitted to the _Star Queen's_ air, her four restaurants, her two swimming pools, her recreation areas and the six levels of passenger cabins the ship contained. He impatiently watched the people go by. Health slips or no health slips, he looked them over. A characteristic gait or a typical complexion tint, or even a certain lack of hair luster, could tell him things that ground physicians might miss. In such a case the passenger would go back down again. It was not desirable to have deaths on a liner in space. Of course nobody was ever refused passage because of chlorophage. If it were ever discovered, the discovery would already be too late. But the health regulations for space travel were very, very strict. He looked twice at a young woman as she passed. Despite applied complexion, there was a trace of waxiness in her skin. Nordenfeld had never actually seen a case of chlorophage. No doctor alive ever had. The best authorities were those who'd been in Patrol ships during the quarantine of Kamerun when chlorophage was loose on that planet. They'd seen beamed-up pictures of patients, but not patients themselves. The Patrol ships stayed in orbit while the planet died. Most doctors, and Nordenfeld was among them, had only seen pictures of the screens which showed the patients. * * * * * He looked sharply at the young woman. Then he glanced at her hands. They were normal. The young woman went on, unaware that for the fraction of an instant there had been the possibility of the landing of the _Star Queen_ on Altaira, and the destruction of her space drive, and the establishment of a quarantine which, if justified, would mean that nobody could ever leave Altaira again, but must wait there to die. Which would not be a long wait. A fat man puffed past. The gravity on Altaira was some five per cent under ship-normal and he felt the difference at once. But the veins at his temples were ungorged. Nordenfeld let him go by. There appeared a white-haired, space-tanned man with a briefcase under his arm. He saw Nordenfeld and lifted a hand in greeting. The doctor knew him. He stepped aside from the passengers and stood there. His name was Jensen, and he represented a fund which invested the surplus money of insurance companies. He traveled a great deal to check on the business interests of that organization. The doctor grunted, "What're you doing here? I thought you'd be on the far side of the cluster." "Oh, I get about," said Jensen. His manner was not quite normal. He was tense. "I got here two weeks ago on a Q-and-C tramp from Regulus. We were a ship load of salt meat. There's romance for you! Salt meat by the spaceship load!" The doctor grunted again. All sorts of things moved through space, naturally. The _Star Queen_ carried a botanical collection for a museum and pig-beryllium and furs and enzymes and a list of items no man could remember. He watched the passengers go by, automatically counting them against the number of health slips in his hand. "Lots of passengers this trip," said Jensen. "Yes," said the doctor, watching a man with a limp. "Why?" Jensen shrugged and did not answer. He was uneasy, the doctor noted. He and Jensen were as much unlike as two men could very well be, but Jensen was good company. A ship's doctor does not have much congenial society. The file of passengers ended abruptly. There was no one in the _Star Queen's_ airlock, but the "Connected" lights still burned and the doctor could look through into the small lift-ship from the planet down below. He frowned. He fingered the sheaf of papers. "Unless I missed count," he said annoyedly, "there's supposed to be one more passenger. I don't see--" A door opened far back in the lift-ship. A small figure appeared. It was a little girl perhaps ten years old. She was very neatly dressed, though not quite the way a mother would have done it. She wore the carefully composed expression of a child with no adult in charge of her. She walked precisely from the lift-ship into the _Star Queen's_ lock. The opening closed briskly behind her. There was the rumbling of seals making themselves tight. The lights flickered for "Disconnect" and then "All Clear." They went out, and the lift-ship had pulled away from the _Star Queen_. "There's my missing passenger," said the doctor. * * * * * The child looked soberly about. She saw him. "Excuse me," she said very politely. "Is this the way I'm supposed to go?" "Through that door," said the doctor gruffly. "Thank you," said the little girl. She followed his direction. She vanished through the door. It closed. There came a deep, droning sound, which was the interplanetary drive of the _Star Queen_, building up that directional stress in space which had seemed such a triumph when it was first contrived. The ship swung gently. It would be turning out from orbit around Altaira. It swung again. The doctor knew that its astrogators were feeling for the incredibly exact pointing of its nose toward the next port which modern commercial ship operation required. An error of fractional seconds of arc would mean valuable time lost in making port some ten light-years of distance away. The drive droned and droned, building up velocity while the ship's aiming was refined and re-refined. The drive cut off abruptly. Jensen turned white. The doctor said impatiently, "There's nothing wrong. Probably a message or a report should have been beamed down to the planet and somebody forgot. We'll go on in a minute." But Jensen stood frozen. He was very pale. The interplanetary drive stayed off. Thirty seconds. A minute. Jensen swallowed audibly. Two minutes. Three. The steady, monotonous drone began again. It continued interminably, as if while it was off the ship's head had swung wide of its destination and the whole business of lining up for a jump in overdrive had to be done all over again. Then there came that "Ping-g-g-g!" and the sensation of spiral fall which meant overdrive. The droning ceased. Jensen breathed again. The ship's doctor looked at him sharply. Jensen had been taut. Now the tensions had left his body, but he looked as if he were going to shiver. Instead, he mopped a suddenly streaming forehead. "I think," said Jensen in a strange voice, "that I'll have a drink. Or several. Will you join me?" Nordenfeld searched his face. A ship's doctor has many duties in space. Passengers can have many things wrong with them, and in the absolute isolation of overdrive they can be remarkably affected by each other. "I'll be at the fourth-level bar in twenty minutes," said Nordenfeld. "Can you wait that long?" "I probably won't wait to have a drink," said Jensen. "But I'll be there." The doctor nodded curtly. He went away. He made no guesses, though he'd just observed the new passengers carefully and was fully aware of the strict health regulations that affect space travel. As a physician he knew that the most deadly thing in the universe was chlorophage and that the planet Kamerun was only one solar system away. It had been a stop for the _Star Queen_ until four years ago. He puzzled over Jensen's tenseness and the relief he'd displayed when the overdrive field came on. But he didn't guess. Chlorophage didn't enter his mind. Not until later. * * * * * He saw the little girl who'd come out of the airlock last of all the passengers. She sat on a sofa as if someone had told her to wait there until something or other was arranged. Doctor Nordenfeld barely glanced at her. He'd known Jensen for a considerable time. Jensen had been a passenger on the _Star Queen_ half a dozen times, and he shouldn't have been upset by the temporary stoppage of an interplanetary drive. Nordenfeld divided people into two classes, those who were not and those who were worth talking to. There weren't many of the latter. Jensen was. He filed away the health slips. Then, thinking of Jensen's pallor, he asked what had happened to make the _Star Queen_ interrupt her slow-speed drive away from orbit around Altaira. The purser told him. But the purser was fussily concerned because there were so many extra passengers from Altaira. He might not be able to take on the expected number of passengers at the next stop-over point. It would be bad business to have to refuse passengers! It would give the space line a bad name. Then the air officer stopped Nordenfeld as he was about to join Jensen in the fourth-level bar. It was time for a medical inspection of the quarter-acre of Banthyan jungle which purified and renewed the air of the ship. Nordenfeld was expected to check the complex ecological system of the air room. Specifically, he was expected to look for and identify any patches of colorlessness appearing on the foliage of the jungle plants the _Star Queen_ carried through space. The air officer was discreet and Nordenfeld was silent about the ultimate reason for the inspection. Nobody liked to think about it. But if a particular kind of bleaching appeared, as if the chlorophyll of the leaves were being devoured by something too small to be seen by an optical microscope--why, that would be chlorophage. It would also be a death sentence for the _Star Queen_ and everybody in her. But the jungle passed medical inspection. The plants grew lushly in soil which periodically was flushed with hydroponic solution and then drained away again. The UV lamps were properly distributed and the different quarters of the air room were alternately lighted and darkened. And there were no colorless patches. A steady wind blew through the air room and had its excess moisture and unpleasing smells wrung out before it recirculated through the ship. Doctor Nordenfeld authorized the trimming of some liana-like growths which were developing woody tissue at the expense of leaves. The air officer also told him about the reason for the turning off of the interplanetary drive. He considered it a very curious happening. The doctor left the air room and passed the place where the little girl--the last passenger to board the _Star Queen_--waited patiently for somebody to arrange something. Doctor Nordenfeld took a lift to the fourth level and went into the bar where Jensen should be waiting. He was. He had an empty glass before him. Nordenfeld sat down and dialed for a drink. He had an indefinite feeling that something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. There are always things going wrong for a ship's doctor, though. There are so many demands on his patience that he is usually short of it. Jensen watched him sip at his drink. "A bad day?" he asked. He'd gotten over his own tension. * * * * * Nordenfeld shrugged, but his scowl deepened. "There are a lot of new passengers." He realized that he was trying to explain his feelings to himself. "They'll come to me feeling miserable. I have to tell each one that if they feel heavy and depressed, it may be the gravity-constant of the ship, which is greater than their home planet. If they feel light-headed and giddy, it may be because the gravity-constant of the ship is less than they're used to. But it doesn't make them feel better, so they come back for a second assurance. I'll be overwhelmed with such complaints within two hours." Jensen waited. Then he said casually--too casually, "Does anybody ever suspect chlorophage?" "No," said Nordenfeld shortly. Jensen fidgeted. He sipped. Then he said, "What's the news from Kamerun, anyhow?" "There isn't any," said Nordenfeld. "Naturally! Why ask?" "I just wondered," said Jensen. After a moment: "What was the last news?" "There hasn't been a message from Kamerun in two years," said Nordenfeld curtly. "There's no sign of anything green anywhere on the planet. It's considered to be--uninhabited." Jensen licked his lips. "That's what I understood. Yes." Nordenfeld drank half his drink and said unpleasantly, "There were thirty million people on Kamerun when the chlorophage appeared. At first it was apparently a virus which fed on the chlorophyll of plants. They died. Then it was discovered that it could also feed on hemoglobin, which is chemically close to chlorophyll. Hemoglobin is the red coloring matter of the blood. When the virus consumed it, people began to die. Kamerun doctors found that the chlorophage virus was transmitted by contact, by inhalation, by ingestion. It traveled as dust particles and on the feet of insects, and it was in drinking water and the air one breathed. The doctors on Kamerun warned spaceships off and the Patrol put a quarantine fleet in orbit around it to keep anybody from leaving. And nobody left. And everybody died. _And_ so did every living thing that had chlorophyll in its leaves or hemoglobin in its blood, or that needed plant or animal tissues to feed on. There's not a person left alive on Kamerun, nor an animal or bird or insect, nor a fish nor a tree, or plant or weed or blade of grass. There's no longer a quarantine fleet there. Nobody'll go there and there's nobody left to leave. But there are beacon satellites to record any calls and to warn any fool against landing. If the chlorophage got loose and was carried about by spaceships, it could kill the other forty billion humans in the galaxy, together with every green plant or animal with hemoglobin in its blood." "That," said Jensen, and tried to smile, "sounds final." "It isn't," Nordenfeld told him. "If there's something in the universe which can kill every living thing except its maker, that something should be killed. There should be research going on about the chlorophage. It would be deadly dangerous work, but it should be done. A quarantine won't stop contagion. It can only hinder it. That's useful, but not enough." Jensen moistened his lips. Nordenfeld said abruptly, "I've answered your questions. Now what's on your mind and what has it to do with chlorophage?" Jensen started. He went very pale. "It's too late to do anything about it," said Nordenfeld. "It's probably nonsense anyhow. But what is it?" Jensen stammered out his story. It explained why there were so many passengers for the _Star Queen_. It even explained his departure from Altaira. But it was only a rumor--the kind of rumor that starts up untraceably and can never be verified. This one was officially denied by the Altairan planetary government. But it was widely believed by the sort of people who usually were well-informed. Those who could sent their families up to the _Star Queen_. And that was why Jensen had been tense and worried until the liner had actually left Altaira behind. Then he felt safe. Nordenfeld's jaw set as Jensen told his tale. He made no comment, but when Jensen was through he nodded and went away, leaving his drink unfinished. Jensen couldn't see his face; it was hard as granite. And Nordenfeld, the ship's doctor of the _Star Queen_, went into the nearest bathroom and was violently sick. It was a reaction to what he'd just learned. * * * * * There were stars which were so far away that their distance didn't mean anything. There were planets beyond counting in a single star cluster, let alone the galaxy. There were comets and gas clouds in space, and worlds where there was life, and other worlds where life was impossible. The quantity of matter which was associated with life was infinitesimal, and the quantity associated with consciousness--animal life--was so much less that the difference couldn't be expressed. But the amount of animal life which could reason was so minute by comparison that the nearest ratio would be that of a single atom to a sun. Mankind, in fact, was the least impressive fraction of the smallest category of substance in the galaxy. But men did curious things. There was the cutting off of the _Star Queen's_ short-distance drive before she'd gotten well away from Altaira. There had been a lift-ship locked to the liner's passenger airlock. When the last passenger entered the big ship--a little girl--the airlocks disconnected and the lift-ship pulled swiftly away. It was not quite two miles from the _Star Queen_ when its emergency airlocks opened and spacesuited figures plunged out of it to emptiness. Simultaneously, the ports of the lift-ship glowed and almost immediately the whole plating turned cherry-red, crimson, and then orange, from unlimited heat developed within it. The lift-ship went incandescent and ruptured and there was a spout of white-hot air, and then it turned blue-white and puffed itself to nothing in metallic steam. Where it had been there was only shining gas, which cooled. Beyond it there were figures in spacesuits which tried to swim away from it. The _Star Queen's_ control room, obviously, saw the happening. The lift-ship's atomic pile had flared out of control and melted down the ship. It had developed something like sixty thousand degrees Fahrenheit when it ceased to flare. It did not blow up; it only vaporized. But the process must have begun within seconds after the lift-ship broke contact with the _Star Queen_. In automatic reaction, the man in control of the liner cut her drive and offered to turn back and pick up the spacesuited figures in emptiness. The offer was declined with almost hysterical haste. In fact, it was barely made before the other lift-ships moved in on rescue missions. They had waited. And they were picking up castaways before the _Star Queen_ resumed its merely interplanetary drive and the process of aiming for a solar system some thirty light-years away. When the liner flicked into overdrive, more than half the floating figures had been recovered, which was remarkable. It was almost as remarkable as the flare-up of the lift-ship's atomic pile. One has to know exactly what to do to make a properly designed atomic pile vaporize metal. Somebody had known. Somebody had done it. And the other lift-ships were waiting to pick up the destroyed lift-ship's crew when it happened. The matter of the lift-ship's destruction was fresh in Nordenfeld's mind when Jensen had told his story. The two items fitted together with an appalling completeness. They left little doubt or hope. * * * * * Nordenfeld consulted the passenger records and presently was engaged in conversation with the sober-faced, composed little girl on a sofa in one of the cabin levels of the _Star Queen_. "You're Kathy Brand, I believe," he said matter-of-factly. "I understand you've been having a rather bad time of it." She seemed to consider. "It hasn't been too bad," she assured him. "At least I've been seeing new things. I got dreadfully tired of seeing the same things all the time." "What things?" asked Nordenfeld. His expression was not stern now, though his inner sensations were not pleasant. He needed to talk to this child, and he had learned how to talk to children. The secret is to talk exactly as to an adult, with respect and interest. "There weren't any windows," she explained, "and my father couldn't play with me, and all the toys and books were ruined by the water. It was dreadfully tedious. There weren't any other children, you see. And presently there weren't any grownups but my father." Nordenfeld only looked more interested. He'd been almost sure ever since knowing of the lift-ship's destruction and listening to Jensen's account of the rumor the government of Altaira denied. He was horribly sure now. "How long were you in the place that hadn't any windows?" "Oh, dreadfully long!" she said. "Since I was only six years old! Almost half my life!" She smiled brightly at him. "I remember looking out of windows and even playing out-of-doors, but my father and mother said I had to live in this place. My father talked to me often and often. He was very nice. But he had to wear that funny suit and keep the glass over his face because he didn't live in the room. The glass was because he went under the water, you know." Nordenfeld asked carefully conversational-sounding questions. Kathy Brand, now aged ten, had been taken by her father to live in a big room without any windows. It hadn't any doors, either. There were plants in it, and there were bluish lights to shine on the plants, and there was a place in one corner where there was water. When her father came in to talk to her, he came up out of the water wearing the funny suit with glass over his face. He went out the same way. There was a place in the wall where she could look out into another room, and at first her mother used to come and smile at her through the glass, and she talked into something she held in her hand, and her voice came inside. But later she stopped coming. * * * * * There was only one possible kind of place which would answer Kathy's description. When she was six years old she had been put into some university's aseptic-environment room. And she had stayed there. Such rooms were designed for biological research. They were built and then made sterile of all bacterial life and afterward entered through a tank of antiseptic. Anyone who entered wore a suit which was made germ-free by its passage through the antiseptic, and he did not breathe the air of the aseptic room, but air which was supplied him through a hose, the exhaled-air hose also passing under the antiseptic outside. No germ or microbe or virus could possibly get into such a room without being bathed in corrosive fluid which would kill it. So long as there was someone alive outside to take care of her, a little girl could live there and defy even chlorophage. And Kathy Brand had done it. But, on the other hand, Kamerun was the only planet where it would be necessary, and it was the only world from which a father would land his small daughter on another planet's spaceport. There was no doubt. Nordenfeld grimly imagined someone--he would have had to be a microbiologist even to attempt it--fighting to survive and defeat the chlorophage while he kept his little girl in an aseptic-environment room. She explained quite pleasantly as Nordenfeld asked more questions. There had been other people besides her father, but for a long time there had been only him. And Nordenfeld computed that somehow she'd been kept alive on the dead planet Kamerun for four long years. Recently, though--very recently--her father told her that they were leaving. Wearing his funny, antiseptic-wetted suit, he'd enclosed her in a plastic bag with a tank attached to it. Air flowed from the tank into the bag and out through a hose that was all wetted inside. She breathed quite comfortably. It made sense. An air tank could be heated and its contents sterilized to supply germ-free--or virus-free--air. And Kathy's father took an axe and chopped away a wall of the room. He picked her up, still inside the plastic bag, and carried her out. There was nobody about. There was no grass. There were no trees. Nothing moved. Here Kathy's account was vague, but Nordenfeld could guess at the strangeness of a dead planet, to the child who barely remembered anything but the walls of an aseptic-environment room. Her father carried her to a little ship, said Kathy, and they talked a lot after the ship took off. He told her that he was taking her to a place where she could run about outdoors and play, but he had to go somewhere else. He did mysterious things which to Nordenfeld meant a most scrupulous decontamination of a small spaceship's interior and its airlock. Its outer surface would reach a temperature at which no organic material could remain uncooked. And finally, said Kathy, her father had opened a door and told her to step out and good-by, and she did, and the ship went away--her father still wearing his funny suit--and people came and asked her questions she did not understand. * * * * * Kathy's narrative fitted perfectly into the rumor Jensen said circulated among usually well-informed people on Altaira. They believed, said Jensen, that a small spaceship had appeared in the sky above Altaira's spaceport. It ignored all calls, landed swiftly, opened an airlock and let someone out, and plunged for the sky again. And the story said that radar telescopes immediately searched for and found the ship in space. They trailed it, calling vainly for it to identify itself, while it drove at top speed for Altaira's sun. It reached the sun and dived in. Nordenfeld reached the skipper on intercom vision-phone. Jensen had been called there to repeat his tale to the skipper. "I've talked to the child," said Nordenfeld grimly, "and I'm putting her into isolation quarters in the hospital compartment. She's from Kamerun. She was kept in an aseptic-environment room at some university or other. She says her father looked after her. I get an impression of a last-ditch fight by microbiologists against the chlorophage. They lost it. Apparently her father landed her on Altaira and dived into the sun. From her story, he took every possible precaution to keep her from contagion or carrying contagion with her to Altaira. Maybe he succeeded. There's no way to tell--yet." The skipper listened in silence. Jensen said thinly, "Then the story about the landing was true." "Yes. The authorities isolated her, and then shipped her off on the _Star Queen_. Your well-informed friends, Jensen, didn't know what their government was going to do!" Nordenfeld paused, and said more coldly still, "They didn't handle it right. They should have killed her, painlessly but at once. Her body should have been immersed, with everything that had touched it, in full-strength nitric acid. The same acid should have saturated the place where the ship landed and every place she walked. Every room she entered, and every hall she passed through, should have been doused with nitric and then burned. It would still not have been all one could wish. The air she breathed couldn't be recaptured and heated white-hot. But the chances for Altaira's population to go on living would be improved. Instead, they isolated her and they shipped her off with us--and thought they were accomplishing something by destroying the lift-ship that had her in an airtight compartment until she walked into the _Star Queen's_ lock!" The skipper said heavily, "Do you think she's brought chlorophage on board?" "I've no idea," said Nordenfeld. "If she did, it's too late to do anything but drive the _Star Queen_ into the nearest sun.... No. Before that, one should give warning that she was aground on Altaira. No ship should land there. No ship should take off. Altaira should be blocked off from the rest of the galaxy like Kamerun was. And to the same end result." Jensen said unsteadily; "There'll be trouble if this is known on the ship. There'll be some unwilling to sacrifice themselves." "Sacrifice?" said Nordenfeld. "They're dead! But before they lie down, they can keep everybody they care about from dying too! Would you want to land and have your wife and family die of it?" The skipper said in the same heavy voice, "What are the probabilities? You say there was an effort to keep her from contagion. What are the odds?" "Bad," said Nordenfeld. "The man tried, for the child's sake. But I doubt he managed to make a completely aseptic transfer from the room she lived in to the spaceport on Altaira. The authorities on Altaira should have known it. They should have killed her and destroyed everything she'd touched. And _still_ the odds would have been bad!" Jensen said, "But you can't do that, Nordenfeld! Not now!" "I shall take every measure that seems likely to be useful." Then Nordenfeld snapped, "Damnation, man! Do you realize that this chlorophage can wipe out the human race if it really gets loose? Do you think I'll let sentiment keep me from doing what has to be done?" He flicked off the vision-phone. * * * * * The _Star Queen_ came out of overdrive. Her skipper arranged it to be done at the time when the largest possible number of her passengers and crew would be asleep. Those who were awake, of course, felt the peculiar inaudible sensation which one subjectively translated into sound. They felt the momentary giddiness which--having no natural parallel--feels like the sensation of treading on a stair-step that isn't there, combined with a twisting sensation so it is like a spiral fall. The passengers who were awake were mostly in the bars, and the bartenders explained that the ship had shifted overdrive generators and there was nothing to it. Those who were asleep started awake, but there was nothing in their surroundings to cause alarm. Some blinked in the darkness of their cabins and perhaps turned on the cabin lights, but everything seemed normal. They turned off the lights again. Some babies cried and had to be soothed. But there was nothing except wakening to alarm anybody. Babies went back to sleep and mothers returned to their beds and--such awakenings being customary--went back to sleep also. It was natural enough. There were vague and commonplace noises, together making an indefinite hum. Fans circulated the ship's purified and reinvigorated air. Service motors turned in remote parts of the hull. Cooks and bakers moved about in the kitchens. Nobody could tell by any physical sensation that the _Star Queen_ was not in overdrive, except in the control room. There the stars could be seen. They were unthinkably remote. The ship was light-years from any place where humans lived. She did not drive. Her skipper had a family on Cassim. He would not land a plague ship which might destroy them. The executive officer had a small son. If his return meant that small son's death as well as his own, he would not return. All through the ship, the officers who had to know the situation recognized that if chlorophage had gotten into the _Star Queen_, the ship must not land anywhere. Nobody could survive. Nobody must attempt it. So the huge liner hung in the emptiness between the stars, waiting until it could be known definitely that chlorophage was aboard or that with absolute certainty it was absent. The question was up to Doctor Nordenfeld. He had isolated himself with Kathy in the ship's hospital compartment. Since the ship was built it had been used once by a grown man who developed mumps, and once by an adolescent boy who developed a raging fever which antibiotics stopped. Health measures for space travel were strict. The hospital compartment had only been used those two times. * * * * * On this voyage it had been used to contain an assortment of botanical specimens from a planet seventy light-years beyond Regulus. They were on their way to the botanical research laboratory on Cassim. As a routine precaution they'd been placed in the hospital, which could be fumigated when they were taken out. Now the doctor had piled them in one side of the compartment, which he had divided in half with a transparent plastic sheet. He stayed in that side. Kathy occupied the other. She had some flowering plants to look at and admire. They'd come from the air room and she was delighted with their coloring and beauty. But Doctor Nordenfeld had put them there as a continuing test for chlorophage. If Kathy carried that murderous virus on her person, the flowering plants would die of it--probably even before she did. It was a scrupulously scientific test for the deadly stuff. Completely sealed off except for a circulator to freshen the air she breathed, Kathy was settled with toys and picture books. It was an improvised but well-designed germproof room. The air for Kathy to breathe was sterilized before it reached her. The air she had breathed was sterilized as it left her plastic-sided residence. It should be the perfection of protection for the ship--if it was not already too late. The vision-phone buzzed. Doctor Nordenfeld stirred in his chair and flipped the switch. The _Star Queen's_ skipper looked at him out of the screen. "I've cut the overdrive," said the skipper. "The passengers haven't been told." "Very sensible," said the doctor. "When will we know?" "That we can go on living? When the other possibility is exhausted." "Then, how will we know?" asked skipper stonily. Doctor Nordenfeld ticked off the possibilities. He bent down a finger. "One, her father took great pains. Maybe he did manage an aseptic transfer from a germ-free room to Altaira. Kathy may not have been exposed to the chlorophage. If she hasn't, no bleached spots will show up on the air-room foliage or among the flowering plants in the room with her. Nobody in the crew or among the passengers will die." He bent down a second finger. "It is probably more likely that white spots will appear on the plants in the air room _and_ here, and people will start to die. That will mean Kathy brought contagion here the instant she arrived, and almost certainly that Altaira will become like Kamerun--uninhabited. In such a case we are finished." * * * * * He bent down a third finger. "Not so likely, but preferable, white spots may appear on the foliage inside the plastic with Kathy, but not in the ship's air room. In that case she was exposed, but the virus was incubating when she came on board, and only developed and spread after she was isolated. Possibly, in such a case, we can save the passengers and crew, but the ship will probably have to be melted down in space. It would be tricky, but it might be done." The skipper hesitated. "If that last happened, she--" "I will take whatever measures are necessary," said Doctor Nordenfeld. "To save your conscience, we won't discuss them. They should have been taken on Altaira." He reached over and flipped off the phone. Then he looked up and into the other part of the ship's hospital space. Kathy came out from behind a screen, where she'd made ready for bed. She was beaming. She had a large picture book under one arm and a doll under the other. "It's all right for me to have these with me, isn't it, Doctor Nordenfeld?" she asked hopefully. "I didn't have any picture books but one, and it got worn out. And my doll--it was dreadful how shabby she was!" The doctor frowned. She smiled at him. He said, "After all, picture books are made to be looked at and dolls to be played with." She skipped to the tiny hospital bed on the far side of the presumably virusproof partition. She climbed into it and zestfully arranged the doll to share it. She placed the book within easy reach. She said, "I think my father would say you were very nice, Doctor Nordenfeld, to look after me so well." "No-o-o-o," said the doctor in a detached voice. "I'm just doing what anybody ought to do." She snuggled down under the covers. He looked at his watch and shrugged. It was very easy to confuse official night with official day, in space. Everybody else was asleep. He'd been putting Kathy through tests which began with measurements of pulse and respiration and temperature and went on from there. Kathy managed them herself, under his direction. He settled down with one of the medical books he'd brought into the isolation section with him. Its title was _Decontamination of Infectious Material from Different Planets_. He read it grimly. * * * * * The time came when the _Star Queen_ should have come out of overdrive with the sun Circe blazing fiercely nearby, and a green planet with ice caps to be approached on interplanetary drive. There should have been droning, comforting drive noises to assure the passengers--who naturally could not see beyond the ship's steel walls--that they were within a mere few million miles of a world where sunshine was normal, and skies were higher than ship's ceilings, and there were fascinating things to see and do. Some of the passengers packed their luggage and put it outside their cabins to be picked up for landing. But no stewards came for it. Presently there was an explanation. The ship had run under maximum speed and the planetfall would be delayed. The passengers were disappointed but not concerned. The luggage vanished into cabins again. The _Star Queen_ floated in space among a thousand thousand million stars. Her astrogators had computed a course to the nearest star into which to drive the _Star Queen_, but it would not be used unless there was mutiny among the crew. It would be better to go in remote orbit around Circe III and give the news of chlorophage on Altaira, if Doctor Nordenfeld reported it on the ship. Time passed. One day. Two. Three. Then Jensen called the hospital compartment on vision-phone. His expression was dazed. Nordenfeld saw the interior of the control room behind Jensen. He said, "You're a passenger, Jensen. How is it you're in the control room?" Jensen moistened his lips. "The skipper thought I'd better not associate with the other passengers. I've stayed with the officers the past few days. We--the ones who know what's in prospect--we're keeping separate from the others so--nobody will let anything out by accident." "Very wise. When the skipper comes back on duty, ask him to call me. I've something interesting to tell him." "He's--checking something now," said Jensen. His voice was thin and reedy. "The--air officer reports there are white patches on the plants in the air room. They're growing. Fast. He told me to tell you. He's--gone to make sure." "No need," said Nordenfeld bitterly. He swung the vision-screen. It faced that part of the hospital space beyond the plastic sheeting. There were potted flowering plants there. They had pleased Kathy. They shared her air. And there were white patches on their leaves. "I thought," said Nordenfeld with an odd mirthless levity, "that the skipper'd be interested. It is of no importance whatever now, but I accomplished something remarkable. Kathy's father didn't manage an aseptic transfer. She brought the chlorophage with her. But I confined it. The plants on the far side of that plastic sheet show the chlorophage patches plainly. I expect Kathy to show signs of anemia shortly. I'd decided that drastic measures would have to be taken, and it looked like they might work, because I've confined the virus. It's there where Kathy is, but it isn't where I am. All the botanical specimens on my side of the sheet are untouched. The phage hasn't hit them. It is remarkable. But it doesn't matter a damn if the air room's infected. And I was so proud!" Jensen did not respond. * * * * * Nordenfeld said ironically, "Look what I accomplished! I protected the air plants on my side See? They're beautifully green! No sign of infection! It means that a man can work with chlorophage! A laboratory ship could land on Kamerun and keep itself the equivalent of an aseptic-environment room while the damned chlorophage was investigated and ultimately whipped! And it doesn't matter!" Jensen said numbly, "We can't ever make port. We ought--we ought to--" "We'll take the necessary measures," Nordenfeld told him. "Very quietly and very efficiently, with neither the crew nor the passengers knowing that Altaira sent the chlorophage on board the _Star Queen_ in the hope of banishing it from there. The passengers won't know that their own officials shipped it off with them as they tried to run away.... And I was so proud that I'd improvised an aseptic room to keep Kathy in! I sterilized the air that went in to her, and I sterilized--" Then he stopped. He stopped quite short. He stared at the air unit, set up and with two pipes passing through the plastic partition which cut the hospital space in two. He turned utterly white. He went roughly to the air machine. He jerked back its cover. He put his hand inside. Minutes later he faced back to the vision-screen from which Jensen looked apathetically at him. "Tell the skipper to call me," he said in a savage tone. "Tell him to call me instantly he comes back! Before he issues any orders at all!" He bent over the sterilizing equipment and very carefully began to disassemble it. He had it completely apart when Kathy waked. She peered at him through the plastic separation sheet. "Good morning, Doctor Nordenfeld," she said cheerfully. The doctor grunted. Kathy smiled at him. She had gotten on very good terms with the doctor, since she'd been kept in the ship's hospital. She did not feel that she was isolated. In having the doctor where she could talk to him at any time, she had much more company than ever before. She had read her entire picture book to him and discussed her doll at length. She took it for granted that when he did not answer or frowned that he was simply busy. But he was company because she could see him. Doctor Nordenfeld put the air apparatus together with an extremely peculiar expression on his face. It had been built for Kathy's special isolation by a ship's mechanic. It should sterilize the used air going into Kathy's part of the compartment, and it should sterilize the used air pushed out by the supplied fresh air. The hospital itself was an independent sealed unit, with its own chemical air freshener, and it had been divided into two. The air freshener was where Doctor Nordenfeld could attend to it, and the sterilizer pump simply shared the freshening with Kathy. But-- But the pipe that pumped air to Kathy was brown and discolored from having been used for sterilizing, and the pipe that brought air back was not. It was cold. It had never been heated. So Doctor Nordenfeld had been exposed to any contagion Kathy could spread. He hadn't been protected at all. Yet the potted plants on Kathy's side of the barrier were marked with great white splotches which grew almost as one looked, while the botanical specimens in the doctor's part of the hospital--as much infected as Kathy's could have been, by failure of the ship's mechanic to build the sterilizer to work two ways: the stacked plants, the alien plants, the strange plants from seventy light-years beyond Regulus--they were vividly green. There was no trace of chlorophage on them. Yet they had been as thoroughly exposed as Doctor Nordenfeld himself! The doctor's hands shook. His eyes burned. He took out a surgeon's scalpel and ripped the plastic partition from floor to ceiling. Kathy watched interestedly. "Why did you do that, Doctor Nordenfeld?" she asked. He said in an emotionless, unnatural voice, "I'm going to do something that it was very stupid of me not to do before. It should have been done when you were six years old, Kathy. It should have been done on Kamerun, and after that on Altaira. Now we're going to do it here. You can help me." * * * * * The _Star Queen_ had floated out of overdrive long enough to throw all distance computations off. But she swung about, and swam back, and presently she was not too far from the world where she was now many days overdue. Lift-ships started up from the planet's surface. But the _Star Queen_ ordered them back. "Get your spaceport health officer on the vision-phone," ordered the _Star Queen's_ skipper. "We've had chlorophage on board." There was panic. Even at a distance of a hundred thousand miles, chlorophage could strike stark terror into anybody. But presently the image of the spaceport health officer appeared on the _Star Queen's_ screen. "We're not landing," said Doctor Nordenfeld. "There's almost certainly an outbreak of chlorophage on Altaira, and we're going back to do something about it. It got on our ship with passengers from there. We've whipped it, but we may need some help." The image of the health officer aground was a mask of horror for seconds after Nordenfeld's last statement. Then his expression became incredulous, though still horrified. "We came on to here," said Doctor Nordenfeld, "to get you to send word by the first other ship to the Patrol that a quarantine has to be set up on Altaira, and we need to be inspected for recovery from chlorophage infection. And we need to pass on, officially, the discovery that whipped the contagion on this ship. We were carrying botanical specimens to Cassim and we discovered that they were immune to chlorophage. That's absurd, of course. Their green coloring is the same substance as in plants under Sol-type suns anywhere. They couldn't be immune to chlorophage. So there had to be something else." "Was--was there?" asked the health officer. "There was. Those specimens came from somewhere beyond Regulus. They carried, as normal symbiotes on their foliage, microörganisms unknown both on Kamerun and Altaira. The alien bugs are almost the size of virus particles, feed on virus particles, and are carried by contact, air, and so on, as readily as virus particles themselves. We discovered that those microörganisms devoured chlorophage. We washed them off the leaves of the plants, sprayed them in our air-room jungle, and they multiplied faster than the chlorophage. Our whole air supply is now loaded with an airborne antichlorophage organism which has made our crew and passengers immune. We're heading back to Altaira to turn loose our merry little bugs on that planet. It appears that they grow on certain vegetation, but they'll live anywhere there's phage to eat. We're keeping some chlorophage cultures alive so our microörganisms don't die out for lack of food!" The medical officer on the ground gasped. "Keeping phage _alive_?" * * * * * "I hope you've recorded this," said Nordenfeld. "It's rather important. This trick should have been tried on Kamerun and Altaira and everywhere else new diseases have turned up. When there's a bug on one planet that's deadly to us, there's bound to be a bug on some other planet that's deadly to it! The same goes for any pests or vermin--the principle of natural enemies. All we have to do is find the enemies!" There was more communication between the _Star Queen_ and the spaceport on Circe III, which the _Star Queen_ would not make other contact with on this trip, and presently the big liner headed back to Altaira. It was necessary for official as well as humanitarian reasons. There would need to be a health examination of the _Star Queen_ to certify that it was safe for passengers to breathe her air and eat in her restaurants and swim in her swimming pools and occupy the six levels of passenger cabins she contained. This would have to be done by a Patrol ship, which would turn up at Altaira. The _Star Queen's_ skipper would be praised by his owners for not having driven the liner into a star, and the purser would be forgiven for the confusion in his records due to off-schedule operations of the big ship, and Jensen would find in the ending of all terror of chlorophage an excellent reason to look for appreciation in the value of the investments he was checking up. And Doctor Nordenfeld.... He talked very gravely to Kathy. "I'm afraid," he told her, "that your father isn't coming back. What would you like to do?" She smiled at him hopefully. "Could I be your little girl?" she asked. Doctor Nordenfeld grunted. "Hm ... I'll think about it." But he smiled at her. She grinned at him. And it was settled. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Doctor, by Murray Leinster Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: How does the art-dealer describe Grassou's skill level to Virginie's father?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: Pierre Grassou, a genre painter, lives in a small studio in the rue de Navarin. He is a hard worker and has a steady income, thanks to his pictures being sold by Elie Magus, a picture-dealer. Grassou's life is simple and quiet, and he has never had time to love. He is a bachelor and has no family. He has a notary, Cardot, who manages his finances. One day, Elie Magus brings a family, the Vervelles, to Grassou's studio to have their portraits painted. The family is wealthy and has a country house at Ville d'Avray. The father, Monsieur Vervelle, is a retired merchant who has made a fortune in the bottle trade. He is a great lover of art and has a large collection of paintings. The mother, Madame Vervelle, is a woman of fashion and has a large dowry. The daughter, Virginie, is a young woman with red hair and a beautiful face. Grassou is immediately smitten with Virginie and begins to think of marrying her. He is invited to the Vervelle's country house, where he meets the family and their friends. The family is very fond of Grassou and treats him like a member of the family. Grassou is impressed by the family's wealth and their love of art. He begins to think of himself as a great artist and a member of the aristocracy. He starts to see himself as a great painter and a master of his craft. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. He begins to think of marrying Virginie and starting a new life with her. He starts to see himself as a great artist and a great lover. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. He starts to think of marrying Virginie and starting a new life with her. He starts to see himself as a great artist and a great lover. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. Question: What is the name of the notary who manages Pierre Grassou's finances? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "A grand master." ]	7,902	narrativeqa	en	null	a1d871fbe70ac6b9dcec5a8c89c6bf0cf26230b0b4f1968b	Produced by John Bickers and Dagny PIERRE GRASSOU By Honore De Balzac Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley Dedication To The Lieutenant-Colonel of Artillery, Periollas, As a Testimony of the Affectionate Esteem of the Author, De Balzac PIERRE GRASSOU Whenever you have gone to take a serious look at the exhibition of works of sculpture and painting, such as it has been since the revolution of 1830, have you not been seized by a sense of uneasiness, weariness, sadness, at the sight of those long and over-crowded galleries? Since 1830, the true Salon no longer exists. The Louvre has again been taken by assault,--this time by a populace of artists who have maintained themselves in it. In other days, when the Salon presented only the choicest works of art, it conferred the highest honor on the creations there exhibited. Among the two hundred selected paintings, the public could still choose: a crown was awarded to the masterpiece by hands unseen. Eager, impassioned discussions arose about some picture. The abuse showered on Delacroix, on Ingres, contributed no less to their fame than the praises and fanaticism of their adherents. To-day, neither the crowd nor the criticism grows impassioned about the products of that bazaar. Forced to make the selection for itself, which in former days the examining jury made for it, the attention of the public is soon wearied and the exhibition closes. Before the year 1817 the pictures admitted never went beyond the first two columns of the long gallery of the old masters; but in that year, to the great astonishment of the public, they filled the whole space. Historical, high-art, genre paintings, easel pictures, landscapes, flowers, animals, and water-colors,--these eight specialties could surely not offer more than twenty pictures in one year worthy of the eyes of the public, which, indeed, cannot give its attention to a greater number of such works. The more the number of artists increases, the more careful and exacting the jury of admission ought to be. The true character of the Salon was lost as soon as it spread along the galleries. The Salon should have remained within fixed limits of inflexible proportions, where each distinct specialty could show its masterpieces only. An experience of ten years has shown the excellence of the former institution. Now, instead of a tournament, we have a mob; instead of a noble exhibition, we have a tumultuous bazaar; instead of a choice selection we have a chaotic mass. What is the result? A great artist is swamped. Decamps' "Turkish Cafe," "Children at a Fountain," "Joseph," and "The Torture," would have redounded far more to his credit if the four pictures had been exhibited in the great Salon with the hundred good pictures of that year, than his twenty pictures could, among three thousand others, jumbled together in six galleries. By some strange contradiction, ever since the doors are open to every one there has been much talk of unknown and unrecognized genius. When, twelve years earlier, Ingres' "Courtesan," and that of Sigalon, the "Medusa" of Gericault, the "Massacre of Scio" by Delacroix, the "Baptism of Henri IV." by Eugene Deveria, admitted by celebrated artists accused of jealousy, showed the world, in spite of the denials of criticism, that young and vigorous palettes existed, no such complaint was made. Now, when the veriest dauber of canvas can send in his work, the whole talk is of genius neglected! Where judgment no longer exists, there is no longer anything judged. But whatever artists may be doing now, they will come back in time to the examination and selection which presents their works to the admiration of the crowd for whom they work. Without selection by the Academy there will be no Salon, and without the Salon art may perish. Ever since the catalogue has grown into a book, many names have appeared in it which still remain in their native obscurity, in spite of the ten or a dozen pictures attached to them. Among these names perhaps the most unknown to fame is that of an artist named Pierre Grassou, coming from Fougeres, and called simply "Fougeres" among his brother-artists, who, at the present moment holds a place, as the saying is, "in the sun," and who suggested the rather bitter reflections by which this sketch of his life is introduced,--reflections that are applicable to many other individuals of the tribe of artists. In 1832, Fougeres lived in the rue de Navarin, on the fourth floor of one of those tall, narrow houses which resemble the obelisk of Luxor, and possess an alley, a dark little stairway with dangerous turnings, three windows only on each floor, and, within the building, a courtyard, or, to speak more correctly, a square pit or well. Above the three or four rooms occupied by Grassou of Fougeres was his studio, looking over to Montmartre. This studio was painted in brick-color, for a background; the floor was tinted brown and well frotted; each chair was furnished with a bit of carpet bound round the edges; the sofa, simple enough, was clean as that in the bedroom of some worthy bourgeoise. All these things denoted the tidy ways of a small mind and the thrift of a poor man. A bureau was there, in which to put away the studio implements, a table for breakfast, a sideboard, a secretary; in short, all the articles necessary to a painter, neatly arranged and very clean. The stove participated in this Dutch cleanliness, which was all the more visible because the pure and little changing light from the north flooded with its cold clear beams the vast apartment. Fougeres, being merely a genre painter, does not need the immense machinery and outfit which ruin historical painters; he has never recognized within himself sufficient faculty to attempt high-art, and he therefore clings to easel painting. At the beginning of the month of December of that year, a season at which the bourgeois of Paris conceive, periodically, the burlesque idea of perpetuating their forms and figures already too bulky in themselves, Pierre Grassou, who had risen early, prepared his palette, and lighted his stove, was eating a roll steeped in milk, and waiting till the frost on his windows had melted sufficiently to let the full light in. The weather was fine and dry. At this moment the artist, who ate his bread with that patient, resigned air that tells so much, heard and recognized the step of a man who had upon his life the influence such men have on the lives of nearly all artists,--the step of Elie Magus, a picture-dealer, a usurer in canvas. The next moment Elie Magus entered and found the painter in the act of beginning his work in the tidy studio. "How are you, old rascal?" said the painter. Fougeres had the cross of the Legion of honor, and Elie Magus bought his pictures at two and three hundred francs apiece, so he gave himself the airs of a fine artist. "Business is very bad," replied Elie. "You artists have such pretensions! You talk of two hundred francs when you haven't put six sous' worth of color on a canvas. However, you are a good fellow, I'll say that. You are steady; and I've come to put a good bit of business in your way." "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes," said Fougeres. "Do you know Latin?" "No." "Well, it means that the Greeks never proposed a good bit of business to the Trojans without getting their fair share of it. In the olden time they used to say, 'Take my horse.' Now we say, 'Take my bear.' Well, what do you want, Ulysses-Lagingeole-Elie Magus?" These words will give an idea of the mildness and wit with which Fougeres employed what painters call studio fun. "Well, I don't deny that you are to paint me two pictures for nothing." "Oh! oh!" "I'll leave you to do it, or not; I don't ask it. But you're an honest man." "Come, out with it!" "Well, I'm prepared to bring you a father, mother, and only daughter." "All for me?" "Yes--they want their portraits taken. These bourgeois--they are crazy about art--have never dared to enter a studio. The girl has a 'dot' of a hundred thousand francs. You can paint all three,--perhaps they'll turn out family portraits." And with that the old Dutch log of wood who passed for a man and who was called Elie Magus, interrupted himself to laugh an uncanny laugh which frightened the painter. He fancied he heard Mephistopheles talking marriage. "Portraits bring five hundred francs apiece," went on Elie; "so you can very well afford to paint me three pictures." "True for you!" cried Fougeres, gleefully. "And if you marry the girl, you won't forget me." "Marry! I?" cried Pierre Grassou,--"I, who have a habit of sleeping alone; and get up at cock-crow, and all my life arranged--" "One hundred thousand francs," said Magus, "and a quiet girl, full of golden tones, as you call 'em, like a Titian." "What class of people are they?" "Retired merchants; just now in love with art; have a country-house at Ville d'Avray, and ten or twelve thousand francs a year." "What business did they do?" "Bottles." "Now don't say that word; it makes me think of corks and sets my teeth on edge." "Am I to bring them?" "Three portraits--I could put them in the Salon; I might go in for portrait-painting. Well, yes!" Old Elie descended the staircase to go in search of the Vervelle family. To know to what extend this proposition would act upon the painter, and what effect would be produced upon him by the Sieur and Dame Vervelle, adorned by their only daughter, it is necessary to cast an eye on the anterior life of Pierre Grassou of Fougeres. When a pupil, Fougeres had studied drawing with Servin, who was thought a great draughtsman in academic circles. After that he went to Schinner's, to learn the secrets of the powerful and magnificent color which distinguishes that master. Master and scholars were all discreet; at any rate Pierre discovered none of their secrets. From there he went to Sommervieux' atelier, to acquire that portion of the art of painting which is called composition, but composition was shy and distant to him. Then he tried to snatch from Decamps and Granet the mystery of their interior effects. The two masters were not robbed. Finally Fougeres ended his education with Duval-Lecamus. During these studied and these different transformations Fougeres' habits and ways of life were tranquil and moral to a degree that furnished matter of jesting to the various ateliers where he sojourned; but everywhere he disarmed his comrades by his modesty and by the patience and gentleness of a lamblike nature. The masters, however, had no sympathy for the good lad; masters prefer bright fellows, eccentric spirits, droll or fiery, or else gloomy and deeply reflective, which argue future talent. Everything about Pierre Grassou smacked of mediocrity. His nickname "Fougeres" (that of the painter in the play of "The Eglantine") was the source of much teasing; but, by force of circumstances, he accepted the name of the town in which he had first seen light. Grassou of Fougeres resembled his name. Plump and of medium height, he had a dull complexion, brown eyes, black hair, a turned-up nose, rather wide mouth, and long ears. His gentle, passive, and resigned air gave a certain relief to these leading features of a physiognomy that was full of health, but wanting in action. This young man, born to be a virtuous bourgeois, having left his native place and come to Paris to be clerk with a color-merchant (formerly of Mayenne and a distant connection of the Orgemonts) made himself a painter simply by the fact of an obstinacy which constitutes the Breton character. What he suffered, the manner in which he lived during those years of study, God only knows. He suffered as much as great men suffer when they are hounded by poverty and hunted like wild beasts by the pack of commonplace minds and by troops of vanities athirst for vengeance. As soon as he thought himself able to fly on his own wings, Fougeres took a studio in the upper part of the rue des Martyrs, where he began to delve his way. He made his first appearance in 1819. The first picture he presented to the jury of the Exhibition at the Louvre represented a village wedding rather laboriously copied from Greuze's picture. It was rejected. When Fougeres heard of the fatal decision, he did not fall into one of those fits of epileptic self-love to which strong natures give themselves up, and which sometimes end in challenges sent to the director or the secretary of the Museum, or even by threats of assassination. Fougeres quietly fetched his canvas, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and brought it home, vowing in his heart that he would still make himself a great painter. He placed his picture on the easel, and went to one of his former masters, a man of immense talent,--to Schinner, a kind and patient artist, whose triumph at that year's Salon was complete. Fougeres asked him to come and criticise the rejected work. The great painter left everything and went at once. When poor Fougeres had placed the work before him Schinner, after a glance, pressed Fougeres' hand. "You are a fine fellow," he said; "you've a heart of gold, and I must not deceive you. Listen; you are fulfilling all the promises you made in the studios. When you find such things as that at the tip of your brush, my good Fougeres, you had better leave colors with Brullon, and not take the canvas of others. Go home early, put on your cotton night-cap, and be in bed by nine o'clock. The next morning early go to some government office, ask for a place, and give up art." "My dear friend," said Fougeres, "my picture is already condemned; it is not a verdict that I want of you, but the cause of that verdict." "Well--you paint gray and sombre; you see nature being a crape veil; your drawing is heavy, pasty; your composition is a medley of Greuze, who only redeemed his defects by the qualities which you lack." While detailing these faults of the picture Schinner saw on Fougeres' face so deep an expression of sadness that he carried him off to dinner and tried to console him. The next morning at seven o'clock Fougeres was at his easel working over the rejected picture; he warmed the colors; he made the corrections suggested by Schinner, he touched up his figures. Then, disgusted with such patching, he carried the picture to Elie Magus. Elie Magus, a sort of Dutch-Flemish-Belgian, had three reasons for being what he became,--rich and avaricious. Coming last from Bordeaux, he was just starting in Paris, selling old pictures and living on the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Fougeres, who relied on his palette to go to the baker's, bravely ate bread and nuts, or bread and milk, or bread and cherries, or bread and cheese, according to the seasons. Elie Magus, to whom Pierre offered his first picture, eyed it for some time and then gave him fifteen francs. "With fifteen francs a year coming in, and a thousand francs for expenses," said Fougeres, smiling, "a man will go fast and far." Elie Magus made a gesture; he bit his thumbs, thinking that he might have had that picture for five francs. For several days Pierre walked down from the rue des Martyrs and stationed himself at the corner of the boulevard opposite to Elie's shop, whence his eye could rest upon his picture, which did not obtain any notice from the eyes of the passers along the street. At the end of a week the picture disappeared; Fougeres walked slowly up and approached the dealer's shop in a lounging manner. The Jew was at his door. "Well, I see you have sold my picture." "No, here it is," said Magus; "I've framed it, to show it to some one who fancies he knows about painting." Fougeres had not the heart to return to the boulevard. He set about another picture, and spent two months upon it,--eating mouse's meals and working like a galley-slave. One evening he went to the boulevard, his feet leading him fatefully to the dealer's shop. His picture was not to be seen. "I've sold your picture," said Elie Magus, seeing him. "For how much?" "I got back what I gave and a small interest. Make me some Flemish interiors, a lesson of anatomy, landscapes, and such like, and I'll buy them of you," said Elie. Fougeres would fain have taken old Magus in his arms; he regarded him as a father. He went home with joy in his heart; the great painter Schinner was mistaken after all! In that immense city of Paris there were some hearts that beat in unison with Pierre's; his talent was understood and appreciated. The poor fellow of twenty-seven had the innocence of a lad of sixteen. Another man, one of those distrustful, surly artists, would have noticed the diabolical look on Elie's face and seen the twitching of the hairs of his beard, the irony of his moustache, and the movement of his shoulders which betrayed the satisfaction of Walter Scott's Jew in swindling a Christian. Fougeres marched along the boulevard in a state of joy which gave to his honest face an expression of pride. He was like a schoolboy protecting a woman. He met Joseph Bridau, one of his comrades, and one of those eccentric geniuses destined to fame and sorrow. Joseph Bridau, who had, to use his own expression, a few sous in his pocket, took Fougeres to the Opera. But Fougeres didn't see the ballet, didn't hear the music; he was imagining pictures, he was painting. He left Joseph in the middle of the evening, and ran home to make sketches by lamp-light. He invented thirty pictures, all reminiscence, and felt himself a man of genius. The next day he bought colors, and canvases of various dimensions; he piled up bread and cheese on his table, he filled a water-pot with water, he laid in a provision of wood for his stove; then, to use a studio expression, he dug at his pictures. He hired several models and Magus lent him stuffs. After two months' seclusion the Breton had finished four pictures. Again he asked counsel of Schinner, this time adding Bridau to the invitation. The two painters saw in three of these pictures a servile imitation of Dutch landscapes and interiors by Metzu, in the fourth a copy of Rembrandt's "Lesson of Anatomy." "Still imitating!" said Schinner. "Ah! Fougeres can't manage to be original." "You ought to do something else than painting," said Bridau. "What?" asked Fougeres. "Fling yourself into literature." Fougeres lowered his head like a sheep when it rains. Then he asked and obtained certain useful advice, and retouched his pictures before taking them to Elie Magus. Elie paid him twenty-five francs apiece. At that price of course Fougeres earned nothing; neither did he lose, thanks to his sober living. He made a few excursions to the boulevard to see what became of his pictures, and there he underwent a singular hallucination. His neat, clean paintings, hard as tin and shiny as porcelain, were covered with a sort of mist; they looked like old daubs. Magus was out, and Pierre could obtain no information on this phenomenon. He fancied something was wrong with his eyes. The painter went back to his studio and made more pictures. After seven years of continued toil Fougeres managed to compose and execute quite passable work. He did as well as any artist of the second class. Elie bought and sold all the paintings of the poor Breton, who earned laboriously about two thousand francs a year while he spent but twelve hundred. At the Exhibition of 1829, Leon de Lora, Schinner, and Bridau, who all three occupied a great position and were, in fact, at the head of the art movement, were filled with pity for the perseverance and the poverty of their old friend; and they caused to be admitted into the grand salon of the Exhibition, a picture by Fougeres. This picture, powerful in interest but derived from Vigneron as to sentiment and from Dubufe's first manner as to execution, represented a young man in prison, whose hair was being cut around the nape of the neck. On one side was a priest, on the other two women, one old, one young, in tears. A sheriff's clerk was reading aloud a document. On a wretched table was a meal, untouched. The light came in through the bars of a window near the ceiling. It was a picture fit to make the bourgeois shudder, and the bourgeois shuddered. Fougeres had simply been inspired by the masterpiece of Gerard Douw; he had turned the group of the "Dropsical Woman" toward the window, instead of presenting it full front. The condemned man was substituted for the dying woman--same pallor, same glance, same appeal to God. Instead of the Dutch doctor, he had painted the cold, official figure of the sheriff's clerk attired in black; but he had added an old woman to the young one of Gerard Douw. The cruelly simple and good-humored face of the executioner completed and dominated the group. This plagiarism, very cleverly disguised, was not discovered. The catalogue contained the following:-- 510. Grassou de Fougeres (Pierre), rue de Navarin, 2. Death-toilet of a Chouan, condemned to execution in 1809. Though wholly second-rate, the picture had immense success, for it recalled the affair of the "chauffeurs," of Mortagne. A crowd collected every day before the now fashionable canvas; even Charles X. paused to look at it. "Madame," being told of the patient life of the poor Breton, became enthusiastic over him. The Duc d'Orleans asked the price of the picture. The clergy told Madame la Dauphine that the subject was suggestive of good thoughts; and there was, in truth, a most satisfying religious tone about it. Monseigneur the Dauphin admired the dust on the stone-floor,--a huge blunder, by the way, for Fougeres had painted greenish tones suggestive of mildew along the base of the walls. "Madame" finally bought the picture for a thousand francs, and the Dauphin ordered another like it. Charles X. gave the cross of the Legion of honor to this son of a peasant who had fought for the royal cause in 1799. (Joseph Bridau, the great painter, was not yet decorated.) The minister of the Interior ordered two church pictures of Fougeres. This Salon of 1829 was to Pierre Grassou his whole fortune, fame, future, and life. Be original, invent, and you die by inches; copy, imitate, and you'll live. After this discovery of a gold mine, Grassou de Fougeres obtained his benefit of the fatal principle to which society owes the wretched mediocrities to whom are intrusted in these days the election of leaders in all social classes; who proceed, naturally, to elect themselves and who wage a bitter war against all true talent. The principle of election applied indiscriminately is false, and France will some day abandon it. Nevertheless the modesty, simplicity, and genuine surprise of the good and gentle Fougeres silenced all envy and all recriminations. Besides, he had on his side all of his clan who had succeeded, and all who expected to succeed. Some persons, touched by the persistent energy of a man whom nothing had discouraged, talked of Domenichino and said:-- "Perseverance in the arts should be rewarded. Grassou hasn't stolen his successes; he has delved for ten years, the poor dear man!" That exclamation of "poor dear man!" counted for half in the support and the congratulations which the painter received. Pity sets up mediocrities as envy pulls down great talents, and in equal numbers. The newspapers, it is true, did not spare criticism, but the chevalier Fougeres digested them as he had digested the counsel of his friends, with angelic patience. Possessing, by this time, fifteen thousand francs, laboriously earned, he furnished an apartment and studio in the rue de Navarin, and painted the picture ordered by Monseigneur the Dauphin, also the two church pictures, and delivered them at the time agreed on, with a punctuality that was very discomforting to the exchequer of the ministry, accustomed to a different course of action. But--admire the good fortune of men who are methodical--if Grassou, belated with his work, had been caught by the revolution of July he would not have got his money. By the time he was thirty-seven Fougeres had manufactured for Elie Magus some two hundred pictures, all of them utterly unknown, by the help of which he had attained to that satisfying manner, that point of execution before which the true artist shrugs his shoulders and the bourgeoisie worships. Fougeres was dear to friends for rectitude of ideas, for steadiness of sentiment, absolute kindliness, and great loyalty; though they had no esteem for his palette, they loved the man who held it. "What a misfortune it is that Fougeres has the vice of painting!" said his comrades. But for all this, Grassou gave excellent counsel, like those feuilletonists incapable of writing a book who know very well where a book is wanting. There was this difference, however, between literary critics and Fougeres; he was eminently sensitive to beauties; he felt them, he acknowledged them, and his advice was instinct with a spirit of justice that made the justness of his remarks acceptable. After the revolution of July, Fougeres sent about ten pictures a year to the Salon, of which the jury admitted four or five. He lived with the most rigid economy, his household being managed solely by an old charwoman. For all amusement he visited his friends, he went to see works of art, he allowed himself a few little trips about France, and he planned to go to Switzerland in search of inspiration. This detestable artist was an excellent citizen; he mounted guard duly, went to reviews, and paid his rent and provision-bills with bourgeois punctuality. Having lived all his life in toil and poverty, he had never had the time to love. Poor and a bachelor, until now he did not desire to complicate his simple life. Incapable of devising any means of increasing his little fortune, he carried, every three months, to his notary, Cardot, his quarterly earnings and economies. When the notary had received about three thousand francs he invested them in some first mortgage, the interest of which he drew himself and added to the quarterly payments made to him by Fougeres. The painter was awaiting the fortunate moment when his property thus laid by would give him the imposing income of two thousand francs, to allow himself the otium cum dignitate of the artist and paint pictures; but oh! what pictures! true pictures! each a finished picture! chouette, Koxnoff, chocnosoff! His future, his dreams of happiness, the superlative of his hopes--do you know what it was? To enter the Institute and obtain the grade of officer of the Legion of honor; to side down beside Schinner and Leon de Lora, to reach the Academy before Bridau, to wear a rosette in his buttonhole! What a dream! It is only commonplace men who think of everything. Hearing the sound of several steps on the staircase, Fougeres rubbed up his hair, buttoned his jacket of bottle-green velveteen, and was not a little amazed to see, entering his doorway, a simpleton face vulgarly called in studio slang a "melon." This fruit surmounted a pumpkin, clothed in blue cloth adorned with a bunch of tintinnabulating baubles. The melon puffed like a walrus; the pumpkin advanced on turnips, improperly called legs. A true painter would have turned the little bottle-vendor off at once, assuring him that he didn't paint vegetables. This painter looked at his client without a smile, for Monsieur Vervelle wore a three-thousand-franc diamond in the bosom of his shirt. Fougeres glanced at Magus and said: "There's fat in it!" using a slang term then much in vogue in the studios. Hearing those words Monsieur Vervelle frowned. The worthy bourgeois drew after him another complication of vegetables in the persons of his wife and daughter. The wife had a fine veneer of mahogany on her face, and in figure she resembled a cocoa-nut, surmounted by a head and tied in around the waist. She pivoted on her legs, which were tap-rooted, and her gown was yellow with black stripes. She proudly exhibited unutterable mittens on a puffy pair of hands; the plumes of a first-class funeral floated on an over-flowing bonnet; laces adorned her shoulders, as round behind as they were before; consequently, the spherical form of the cocoa-nut was perfect. Her feet, of a kind that painters call abatis, rose above the varnished leather of the shoes in a swelling that was some inches high. How the feet were ever got into the shoes, no one knows. Following these vegetable parents was a young asparagus, who presented a tiny head with smoothly banded hair of the yellow-carroty tone that a Roman adores, long, stringy arms, a fairly white skin with reddish spots upon it, large innocent eyes, and white lashes, scarcely any brows, a leghorn bonnet bound with white satin and adorned with two honest bows of the same satin, hands virtuously red, and the feet of her mother. The faces of these three beings wore, as they looked round the studio, an air of happiness which bespoke in them a respectable enthusiasm for Art. "So it is you, monsieur, who are going to take our likenesses?" said the father, assuming a jaunty air. "Yes, monsieur," replied Grassou. "Vervelle, he has the cross!" whispered the wife to the husband while the painter's back was turned. "Should I be likely to have our portraits painted by an artist who wasn't decorated?" returned the former bottle-dealer. Elie Magus here bowed to the Vervelle family and went away. Grassou accompanied him to the landing. "There's no one but you who would fish up such whales." "One hundred thousand francs of 'dot'!" "Yes, but what a family!" "Three hundred thousand francs of expectations, a house in the rue Boucherat, and a country-house at Ville d'Avray!" "Bottles and corks! bottles and corks!" said the painter; "they set my teeth on edge." "Safe from want for the rest of your days," said Elie Magus as he departed. That idea entered the head of Pierre Grassou as the daylight had burst into his garret that morning. While he posed the father of the young person, he thought the bottle-dealer had a good countenance, and he admired the face full of violent tones. The mother and daughter hovered about the easel, marvelling at all his preparations; they evidently thought him a demigod. This visible admiration pleased Fougeres. The golden calf threw upon the family its fantastic reflections. "You must earn lots of money; but of course you don't spend it as you get it," said the mother. "No, madame," replied the painter; "I don't spend it; I have not the means to amuse myself. My notary invests my money; he knows what I have; as soon as I have taken him the money I never think of it again." "I've always been told," cried old Vervelle, "that artists were baskets with holes in them." "Who is your notary--if it is not indiscreet to ask?" said Madame Vervelle. "A good fellow, all round," replied Grassou. "His name is Cardot." "Well, well! if that isn't a joke!" exclaimed Vervelle. "Cardot is our notary too." "Take care! don't move," said the painter. "Do pray hold still, Antenor," said the wife. "If you move about you'll make monsieur miss; you should just see him working, and then you'd understand." "Oh! why didn't you have me taught the arts?" said Mademoiselle Vervelle to her parents. "Virginie," said her mother, "a young person ought not to learn certain things. When you are married--well, till then, keep quiet." During this first sitting the Vervelle family became almost intimate with the worthy artist. They were to come again two days later. As they went away the father told Virginie to walk in front; but in spite of this separation, she overheard the following words, which naturally awakened her curiosity. "Decorated--thirty-seven years old--an artist who gets orders--puts his money with our notary. We'll consult Cardot. Hein! Madame de Fougeres! not a bad name--doesn't look like a bad man either! One might prefer a merchant; but before a merchant retires from business one can never know what one's daughter may come to; whereas an economical artist--and then you know we love Art--Well, we'll see!" While the Vervelle family discussed Pierre Grassou, Pierre Grassou discussed in his own mind the Vervelle family. He found it impossible to stay peacefully in his studio, so he took a walk on the boulevard, and looked at all the red-haired women who passed him. He made a series of the oddest reasonings to himself: gold was the handsomest of metals; a tawny yellow represented gold; the Romans were fond of red-haired women, and he turned Roman, etc. After two years of marriage what man would ever care about the color of his wife's hair? Beauty fades,--but ugliness remains! Money is one-half of all happiness. That night when he went to bed the painter had come to think Virginie Vervelle charming. When the three Vervelles arrived on the day of the second sitting the artist received them with smiles. The rascal had shaved and put on clean linen; he had also arranged his hair in a pleasing manner, and chosen a very becoming pair of trousers and red leather slippers with pointed toes. The family replied with smiles as flattering as those of the artist. Virginie became the color of her hair, lowered her eyes, and turned aside her head to look at the sketches. Pierre Grassou thought these little affectations charming, Virginie had such grace; happily she didn't look like her father or her mother; but whom did she look like? During this sitting there were little skirmishes between the family and the painter, who had the audacity to call pere Vervelle witty. This flattery brought the family on the double-quick to the heart of the artist; he gave a drawing to the daughter, and a sketch to the mother. "What! for nothing?" they said. Pierre Grassou could not help smiling. "You shouldn't give away your pictures in that way; they are money," said old Vervelle. At the third sitting pere Vervelle mentioned a fine gallery of pictures which he had in his country-house at Ville d'Avray--Rubens, Gerard Douw, Mieris, Terburg, Rembrandt, Titian, Paul Potter, etc. "Monsieur Vervelle has been very extravagant," said Madame Vervelle, ostentatiously. "He has over one hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures." "I love Art," said the former bottle-dealer. When Madame Vervelle's portrait was begun that of her husband was nearly finished, and the enthusiasm of the family knew no bounds. The notary had spoken in the highest praise of the painter. Pierre Grassou was, he said, one of the most honest fellows on earth; he had laid by thirty-six thousand francs; his days of poverty were over; he now saved about ten thousand francs a year and capitalized the interest; in short, he was incapable of making a woman unhappy. This last remark had enormous weight in the scales. Vervelle's friends now heard of nothing but the celebrated painter Fougeres. The day on which Fougeres began the portrait of Mademoiselle Virginie, he was virtually son-in-law to the Vervelle family. The three Vervelles bloomed out in this studio, which they were now accustomed to consider as one of their residences; there was to them an inexplicable attraction in this clean, neat, pretty, and artistic abode. Abyssus abyssum, the commonplace attracts the commonplace. Toward the end of the sitting the stairway shook, the door was violently thrust open by Joseph Bridau; he came like a whirlwind, his hair flying. He showed his grand haggard face as he looked about him, casting everywhere the lightning of his glance; then he walked round the whole studio, and returned abruptly to Grassou, pulling his coat together over the gastric region, and endeavouring, but in vain, to button it, the button mould having escaped from its capsule of cloth. "Wood is dear," he said to Grassou. "Ah!" "The British are after me" (slang term for creditors) "Gracious! do you paint such things as that?" "Hold your tongue!" "Ah! to be sure, yes." The Vervelle family, extremely shocked by this extraordinary apparition, passed from its ordinary red to a cherry-red, two shades deeper. "Brings in, hey?" continued Joseph. "Any shot in your locker?" "How much do you want?" "Five hundred. I've got one of those bull-dog dealers after me, and if the fellow once gets his teeth in he won't let go while there's a bit of me left. What a crew!" "I'll write you a line for my notary." "Have you got a notary?" "Yes." "That explains to me why you still make cheeks with pink tones like a perfumer's sign." Grassou could not help coloring, for Virginie was sitting. "Take Nature as you find her," said the great painter, going on with his lecture. "Mademoiselle is red-haired. Well, is that a sin? All things are magnificent in painting. Put some vermillion on your palette, and warm up those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots; come, butter it well in. Do you pretend to have more sense than Nature?" "Look here," said Fougeres, "take my place while I go and write that note." Vervelle rolled to the table and whispered in Grassou's ear:-- "Won't that country lout spoilt it?" "If he would only paint the portrait of your Virginie it would be worth a thousand times more than mine," replied Fougeres, vehemently. Hearing that reply the bourgeois beat a quiet retreat to his wife, who was stupefied by the invasion of this ferocious animal, and very uneasy at his co-operation in her daughter's portrait. "Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette, and taking the note. "I won't thank you. I can go back now to d'Arthez' chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora the tops of the doors--masterpieces! Come and see us." And off he went without taking leave, having had enough of looking at Virginie. "Who is that man?" asked Madame Vervelle. "A great artist," answered Grassou. There was silence for a moment. "Are you quite sure," said Virginie, "that he has done no harm to my portrait? He frightened me." "He has only done it good," replied Grassou. "Well, if he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist like you," said Madame Vervelle. The ways of genius had ruffled up these orderly bourgeois. The phase of autumn so pleasantly named "Saint Martin's summer" was just beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in presence of a man of genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an invitation to come out to his country-house on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how little attraction a plain bourgeois family could offer to an artist. "You artists," he continued, "want emotions, great scenes, and witty talk; but you'll find good wines, and I rely on my collection of pictures to compensate an artist like you for the bore of dining with mere merchants." This form of idolatry, which stroked his innocent self-love, was charming to our poor Pierre Grassou, so little accustomed to such compliments. The honest artist, that atrocious mediocrity, that heart of gold, that loyal soul, that stupid draughtsman, that worthy fellow, decorated by royalty itself with the Legion of honor, put himself under arms to go out to Ville d'Avray and enjoy the last fine days of the year. The painter went modestly by public conveyance, and he could not but admire the beautiful villa of the bottle-dealer, standing in a park of five acres at the summit of Ville d'Avray, commanding a noble view of the landscape. Marry Virginie, and have that beautiful villa some day for his own! He was received by the Vervelles with an enthusiasm, a joy, a kindliness, a frank bourgeois absurdity which confounded him. It was indeed a day of triumph. The prospective son-in-law was marched about the grounds on the nankeen-colored paths, all raked as they should be for the steps of so great a man. The trees themselves looked brushed and combed, and the lawns had just been mown. The pure country air wafted to the nostrils a most enticing smell of cooking. All things about the mansion seemed to say: "We have a great artist among us." Little old Vervelle himself rolled like an apple through his park, the daughter meandered like an eel, the mother followed with dignified step. These three beings never let go for one moment of Pierre Grassou for seven hours. After dinner, the length of which equalled its magnificence, Monsieur and Madame Vervelle reached the moment of their grand theatrical effect,--the opening of the picture gallery illuminated by lamps, the reflections of which were managed with the utmost care. Three neighbours, also retired merchants, an old uncle (from whom were expectations), an elderly Demoiselle Vervelle, and a number of other guests invited to be present at this ovation to a great artist followed Grassou into the picture gallery, all curious to hear his opinion of the famous collection of pere Vervelle, who was fond of oppressing them with the fabulous value of his paintings. The bottle-merchant seemed to have the idea of competing with King Louis-Philippe and the galleries of Versailles. The pictures, magnificently framed, each bore labels on which was read in black letters on a gold ground: Rubens Dance of fauns and nymphs Rembrandt Interior of a dissecting room. The physician van Tromp instructing his pupils. In all, there were one hundred and fifty pictures, varnished and dusted. Some were covered with green baize curtains which were not undrawn in presence of young ladies. Pierre Grassou stood with arms pendent, gaping mouth, and no word upon his lips as he recognized half his own pictures in these works of art. He was Rubens, he was Rembrandt, Mieris, Metzu, Paul Potter, Gerard Douw! He was twenty great masters all by himself. "What is the matter? You've turned pale!" "Daughter, a glass of water! quick!" cried Madame Vervelle. The painter took pere Vervelle by the button of his coat and led him to a corner on pretence of looking at a Murillo. Spanish pictures were then the rage. "You bought your pictures from Elie Magus?" "Yes, all originals." "Between ourselves, tell me what he made you pay for those I shall point out to you." Together they walked round the gallery. The guests were amazed at the gravity in which the artist proceeded, in company with the host, to examine each picture. "Three thousand francs," said Vervelle in a whisper, as they reached the last, "but I tell everybody forty thousand." "Forty thousand for a Titian!" said the artist, aloud. "Why, it is nothing at all!" "Didn't I tell you," said Vervelle, "that I had three hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures?" "I painted those pictures," said Pierre Grassou in Vervelle's ear, "and I sold them one by one to Elie Magus for less than ten thousand francs the whole lot." "Prove it to me," said the bottle-dealer, "and I double my daughter's 'dot,' for if it is so, you are Rubens, Rembrandt, Titian, Gerard Douw!" "And Magus is a famous picture-dealer!" said the painter, who now saw the meaning of the misty and aged look imparted to his pictures in Elie's shop, and the utility of the subjects the picture-dealer had required of him. Far from losing the esteem of his admiring bottle-merchant, Monsieur de Fougeres (for so the family persisted in calling Pierre Grassou) advanced so much that when the portraits were finished he presented them gratuitously to his father-in-law, his mother-in-law and his wife. At the present day, Pierre Grassou, who never misses exhibiting at the Salon, passes in bourgeois regions for a fine portrait-painter. He earns some twenty thousand francs a year and spoils a thousand francs' worth of canvas. His wife has six thousand francs a year in dowry, and he lives with his father-in-law. The Vervelles and the Grassous, who agree delightfully, keep a carriage, and are the happiest people on earth. Pierre Grassou never emerges from the bourgeois circle, in which he is considered one of the greatest artists of the period. Not a family portrait is painted between the barrier du Trone and the rue du Temple that is not done by this great painter; none of them costs less than five hundred francs. The great reason which the bourgeois families have for employing him is this:-- "Say what you will of him, he lays by twenty thousand francs a year with his notary." As Grassou took a creditable part on the occasion of the riots of May 12th he was appointed an officer of the Legion of honor. He is a major in the National Guard. The Museum of Versailles felt it incumbent to order a battle-piece of so excellent a citizen, who thereupon walked about Paris to meet his old comrades and have the happiness of saying to them:-- "The King has given me an order for the Museum of Versailles." Madame de Fougeres adores her husband, to whom she has presented two children. This painter, a good father and a good husband, is unable to eradicate from his heart a fatal thought, namely, that artists laugh at his work; that his name is a term of contempt in the studios; and that the feuilletons take no notice of his pictures. But he still works on; he aims for the Academy, where, undoubtedly, he will enter. And--oh! vengeance which dilates his heart!--he buys the pictures of celebrated artists who are pinched for means, and he substitutes these true works of arts that are not his own for the wretched daubs in the collection at Ville d'Avray. There are many mediocrities more aggressive and more mischievous than that of Pierre Grassou, who is, moreover, anonymously benevolent and truly obliging. ADDENDUM The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. Bridau, Joseph The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Start in Life Modeste Mignon Another Study of Woman Letters of Two Brides Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis Cardot (Parisian notary) The Muse of the Department A Man of Business Jealousies of a Country Town The Middle Classes Cousin Pons Grassou, Pierre A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Betty The Middle Classes Cousin Pons Lora, Leon de The Unconscious Humorists A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Honorine Cousin Betty Beatrix Magus, Elie The Vendetta A Marriage Settlement A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Pons Schinner, Hippolyte The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Albert Savarus The Government Clerks Modeste Mignon The Imaginary Mistress The Unconscious Humorists End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pierre Grassou, by Honore de Balzac Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: What is Grassous biggest disappointment?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: Context: Pierre Grassou, a genre painter, lives in a small studio in the rue de Navarin. He is a hard worker and has a steady income, thanks to his pictures being sold by Elie Magus, a picture-dealer. Grassou's life is simple and quiet, and he has never had time to love. He is a bachelor and has no family. He has a notary, Cardot, who manages his finances. One day, Elie Magus brings a family, the Vervelles, to Grassou's studio to have their portraits painted. The family is wealthy and has a country house at Ville d'Avray. The father, Monsieur Vervelle, is a retired merchant who has made a fortune in the bottle trade. He is a great lover of art and has a large collection of paintings. The mother, Madame Vervelle, is a woman of fashion and has a large dowry. The daughter, Virginie, is a young woman with red hair and a beautiful face. Grassou is immediately smitten with Virginie and begins to think of marrying her. He is invited to the Vervelle's country house, where he meets the family and their friends. The family is very fond of Grassou and treats him like a member of the family. Grassou is impressed by the family's wealth and their love of art. He begins to think of himself as a great artist and a member of the aristocracy. He starts to see himself as a great painter and a master of his craft. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. He begins to think of marrying Virginie and starting a new life with her. He starts to see himself as a great artist and a great lover. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. He starts to think of marrying Virginie and starting a new life with her. He starts to see himself as a great artist and a great lover. He becomes more confident and starts to see himself as a man of the world. Question: What is the name of the notary who manages Pierre Grassou's finances? Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "He doesn't feel he is a true artist." ]	7,896	narrativeqa	en	null	8317d375904e2fcba00401b32177f783d5f8d348a1ef503f	Produced by John Bickers and Dagny PIERRE GRASSOU By Honore De Balzac Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley Dedication To The Lieutenant-Colonel of Artillery, Periollas, As a Testimony of the Affectionate Esteem of the Author, De Balzac PIERRE GRASSOU Whenever you have gone to take a serious look at the exhibition of works of sculpture and painting, such as it has been since the revolution of 1830, have you not been seized by a sense of uneasiness, weariness, sadness, at the sight of those long and over-crowded galleries? Since 1830, the true Salon no longer exists. The Louvre has again been taken by assault,--this time by a populace of artists who have maintained themselves in it. In other days, when the Salon presented only the choicest works of art, it conferred the highest honor on the creations there exhibited. Among the two hundred selected paintings, the public could still choose: a crown was awarded to the masterpiece by hands unseen. Eager, impassioned discussions arose about some picture. The abuse showered on Delacroix, on Ingres, contributed no less to their fame than the praises and fanaticism of their adherents. To-day, neither the crowd nor the criticism grows impassioned about the products of that bazaar. Forced to make the selection for itself, which in former days the examining jury made for it, the attention of the public is soon wearied and the exhibition closes. Before the year 1817 the pictures admitted never went beyond the first two columns of the long gallery of the old masters; but in that year, to the great astonishment of the public, they filled the whole space. Historical, high-art, genre paintings, easel pictures, landscapes, flowers, animals, and water-colors,--these eight specialties could surely not offer more than twenty pictures in one year worthy of the eyes of the public, which, indeed, cannot give its attention to a greater number of such works. The more the number of artists increases, the more careful and exacting the jury of admission ought to be. The true character of the Salon was lost as soon as it spread along the galleries. The Salon should have remained within fixed limits of inflexible proportions, where each distinct specialty could show its masterpieces only. An experience of ten years has shown the excellence of the former institution. Now, instead of a tournament, we have a mob; instead of a noble exhibition, we have a tumultuous bazaar; instead of a choice selection we have a chaotic mass. What is the result? A great artist is swamped. Decamps' "Turkish Cafe," "Children at a Fountain," "Joseph," and "The Torture," would have redounded far more to his credit if the four pictures had been exhibited in the great Salon with the hundred good pictures of that year, than his twenty pictures could, among three thousand others, jumbled together in six galleries. By some strange contradiction, ever since the doors are open to every one there has been much talk of unknown and unrecognized genius. When, twelve years earlier, Ingres' "Courtesan," and that of Sigalon, the "Medusa" of Gericault, the "Massacre of Scio" by Delacroix, the "Baptism of Henri IV." by Eugene Deveria, admitted by celebrated artists accused of jealousy, showed the world, in spite of the denials of criticism, that young and vigorous palettes existed, no such complaint was made. Now, when the veriest dauber of canvas can send in his work, the whole talk is of genius neglected! Where judgment no longer exists, there is no longer anything judged. But whatever artists may be doing now, they will come back in time to the examination and selection which presents their works to the admiration of the crowd for whom they work. Without selection by the Academy there will be no Salon, and without the Salon art may perish. Ever since the catalogue has grown into a book, many names have appeared in it which still remain in their native obscurity, in spite of the ten or a dozen pictures attached to them. Among these names perhaps the most unknown to fame is that of an artist named Pierre Grassou, coming from Fougeres, and called simply "Fougeres" among his brother-artists, who, at the present moment holds a place, as the saying is, "in the sun," and who suggested the rather bitter reflections by which this sketch of his life is introduced,--reflections that are applicable to many other individuals of the tribe of artists. In 1832, Fougeres lived in the rue de Navarin, on the fourth floor of one of those tall, narrow houses which resemble the obelisk of Luxor, and possess an alley, a dark little stairway with dangerous turnings, three windows only on each floor, and, within the building, a courtyard, or, to speak more correctly, a square pit or well. Above the three or four rooms occupied by Grassou of Fougeres was his studio, looking over to Montmartre. This studio was painted in brick-color, for a background; the floor was tinted brown and well frotted; each chair was furnished with a bit of carpet bound round the edges; the sofa, simple enough, was clean as that in the bedroom of some worthy bourgeoise. All these things denoted the tidy ways of a small mind and the thrift of a poor man. A bureau was there, in which to put away the studio implements, a table for breakfast, a sideboard, a secretary; in short, all the articles necessary to a painter, neatly arranged and very clean. The stove participated in this Dutch cleanliness, which was all the more visible because the pure and little changing light from the north flooded with its cold clear beams the vast apartment. Fougeres, being merely a genre painter, does not need the immense machinery and outfit which ruin historical painters; he has never recognized within himself sufficient faculty to attempt high-art, and he therefore clings to easel painting. At the beginning of the month of December of that year, a season at which the bourgeois of Paris conceive, periodically, the burlesque idea of perpetuating their forms and figures already too bulky in themselves, Pierre Grassou, who had risen early, prepared his palette, and lighted his stove, was eating a roll steeped in milk, and waiting till the frost on his windows had melted sufficiently to let the full light in. The weather was fine and dry. At this moment the artist, who ate his bread with that patient, resigned air that tells so much, heard and recognized the step of a man who had upon his life the influence such men have on the lives of nearly all artists,--the step of Elie Magus, a picture-dealer, a usurer in canvas. The next moment Elie Magus entered and found the painter in the act of beginning his work in the tidy studio. "How are you, old rascal?" said the painter. Fougeres had the cross of the Legion of honor, and Elie Magus bought his pictures at two and three hundred francs apiece, so he gave himself the airs of a fine artist. "Business is very bad," replied Elie. "You artists have such pretensions! You talk of two hundred francs when you haven't put six sous' worth of color on a canvas. However, you are a good fellow, I'll say that. You are steady; and I've come to put a good bit of business in your way." "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes," said Fougeres. "Do you know Latin?" "No." "Well, it means that the Greeks never proposed a good bit of business to the Trojans without getting their fair share of it. In the olden time they used to say, 'Take my horse.' Now we say, 'Take my bear.' Well, what do you want, Ulysses-Lagingeole-Elie Magus?" These words will give an idea of the mildness and wit with which Fougeres employed what painters call studio fun. "Well, I don't deny that you are to paint me two pictures for nothing." "Oh! oh!" "I'll leave you to do it, or not; I don't ask it. But you're an honest man." "Come, out with it!" "Well, I'm prepared to bring you a father, mother, and only daughter." "All for me?" "Yes--they want their portraits taken. These bourgeois--they are crazy about art--have never dared to enter a studio. The girl has a 'dot' of a hundred thousand francs. You can paint all three,--perhaps they'll turn out family portraits." And with that the old Dutch log of wood who passed for a man and who was called Elie Magus, interrupted himself to laugh an uncanny laugh which frightened the painter. He fancied he heard Mephistopheles talking marriage. "Portraits bring five hundred francs apiece," went on Elie; "so you can very well afford to paint me three pictures." "True for you!" cried Fougeres, gleefully. "And if you marry the girl, you won't forget me." "Marry! I?" cried Pierre Grassou,--"I, who have a habit of sleeping alone; and get up at cock-crow, and all my life arranged--" "One hundred thousand francs," said Magus, "and a quiet girl, full of golden tones, as you call 'em, like a Titian." "What class of people are they?" "Retired merchants; just now in love with art; have a country-house at Ville d'Avray, and ten or twelve thousand francs a year." "What business did they do?" "Bottles." "Now don't say that word; it makes me think of corks and sets my teeth on edge." "Am I to bring them?" "Three portraits--I could put them in the Salon; I might go in for portrait-painting. Well, yes!" Old Elie descended the staircase to go in search of the Vervelle family. To know to what extend this proposition would act upon the painter, and what effect would be produced upon him by the Sieur and Dame Vervelle, adorned by their only daughter, it is necessary to cast an eye on the anterior life of Pierre Grassou of Fougeres. When a pupil, Fougeres had studied drawing with Servin, who was thought a great draughtsman in academic circles. After that he went to Schinner's, to learn the secrets of the powerful and magnificent color which distinguishes that master. Master and scholars were all discreet; at any rate Pierre discovered none of their secrets. From there he went to Sommervieux' atelier, to acquire that portion of the art of painting which is called composition, but composition was shy and distant to him. Then he tried to snatch from Decamps and Granet the mystery of their interior effects. The two masters were not robbed. Finally Fougeres ended his education with Duval-Lecamus. During these studied and these different transformations Fougeres' habits and ways of life were tranquil and moral to a degree that furnished matter of jesting to the various ateliers where he sojourned; but everywhere he disarmed his comrades by his modesty and by the patience and gentleness of a lamblike nature. The masters, however, had no sympathy for the good lad; masters prefer bright fellows, eccentric spirits, droll or fiery, or else gloomy and deeply reflective, which argue future talent. Everything about Pierre Grassou smacked of mediocrity. His nickname "Fougeres" (that of the painter in the play of "The Eglantine") was the source of much teasing; but, by force of circumstances, he accepted the name of the town in which he had first seen light. Grassou of Fougeres resembled his name. Plump and of medium height, he had a dull complexion, brown eyes, black hair, a turned-up nose, rather wide mouth, and long ears. His gentle, passive, and resigned air gave a certain relief to these leading features of a physiognomy that was full of health, but wanting in action. This young man, born to be a virtuous bourgeois, having left his native place and come to Paris to be clerk with a color-merchant (formerly of Mayenne and a distant connection of the Orgemonts) made himself a painter simply by the fact of an obstinacy which constitutes the Breton character. What he suffered, the manner in which he lived during those years of study, God only knows. He suffered as much as great men suffer when they are hounded by poverty and hunted like wild beasts by the pack of commonplace minds and by troops of vanities athirst for vengeance. As soon as he thought himself able to fly on his own wings, Fougeres took a studio in the upper part of the rue des Martyrs, where he began to delve his way. He made his first appearance in 1819. The first picture he presented to the jury of the Exhibition at the Louvre represented a village wedding rather laboriously copied from Greuze's picture. It was rejected. When Fougeres heard of the fatal decision, he did not fall into one of those fits of epileptic self-love to which strong natures give themselves up, and which sometimes end in challenges sent to the director or the secretary of the Museum, or even by threats of assassination. Fougeres quietly fetched his canvas, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and brought it home, vowing in his heart that he would still make himself a great painter. He placed his picture on the easel, and went to one of his former masters, a man of immense talent,--to Schinner, a kind and patient artist, whose triumph at that year's Salon was complete. Fougeres asked him to come and criticise the rejected work. The great painter left everything and went at once. When poor Fougeres had placed the work before him Schinner, after a glance, pressed Fougeres' hand. "You are a fine fellow," he said; "you've a heart of gold, and I must not deceive you. Listen; you are fulfilling all the promises you made in the studios. When you find such things as that at the tip of your brush, my good Fougeres, you had better leave colors with Brullon, and not take the canvas of others. Go home early, put on your cotton night-cap, and be in bed by nine o'clock. The next morning early go to some government office, ask for a place, and give up art." "My dear friend," said Fougeres, "my picture is already condemned; it is not a verdict that I want of you, but the cause of that verdict." "Well--you paint gray and sombre; you see nature being a crape veil; your drawing is heavy, pasty; your composition is a medley of Greuze, who only redeemed his defects by the qualities which you lack." While detailing these faults of the picture Schinner saw on Fougeres' face so deep an expression of sadness that he carried him off to dinner and tried to console him. The next morning at seven o'clock Fougeres was at his easel working over the rejected picture; he warmed the colors; he made the corrections suggested by Schinner, he touched up his figures. Then, disgusted with such patching, he carried the picture to Elie Magus. Elie Magus, a sort of Dutch-Flemish-Belgian, had three reasons for being what he became,--rich and avaricious. Coming last from Bordeaux, he was just starting in Paris, selling old pictures and living on the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Fougeres, who relied on his palette to go to the baker's, bravely ate bread and nuts, or bread and milk, or bread and cherries, or bread and cheese, according to the seasons. Elie Magus, to whom Pierre offered his first picture, eyed it for some time and then gave him fifteen francs. "With fifteen francs a year coming in, and a thousand francs for expenses," said Fougeres, smiling, "a man will go fast and far." Elie Magus made a gesture; he bit his thumbs, thinking that he might have had that picture for five francs. For several days Pierre walked down from the rue des Martyrs and stationed himself at the corner of the boulevard opposite to Elie's shop, whence his eye could rest upon his picture, which did not obtain any notice from the eyes of the passers along the street. At the end of a week the picture disappeared; Fougeres walked slowly up and approached the dealer's shop in a lounging manner. The Jew was at his door. "Well, I see you have sold my picture." "No, here it is," said Magus; "I've framed it, to show it to some one who fancies he knows about painting." Fougeres had not the heart to return to the boulevard. He set about another picture, and spent two months upon it,--eating mouse's meals and working like a galley-slave. One evening he went to the boulevard, his feet leading him fatefully to the dealer's shop. His picture was not to be seen. "I've sold your picture," said Elie Magus, seeing him. "For how much?" "I got back what I gave and a small interest. Make me some Flemish interiors, a lesson of anatomy, landscapes, and such like, and I'll buy them of you," said Elie. Fougeres would fain have taken old Magus in his arms; he regarded him as a father. He went home with joy in his heart; the great painter Schinner was mistaken after all! In that immense city of Paris there were some hearts that beat in unison with Pierre's; his talent was understood and appreciated. The poor fellow of twenty-seven had the innocence of a lad of sixteen. Another man, one of those distrustful, surly artists, would have noticed the diabolical look on Elie's face and seen the twitching of the hairs of his beard, the irony of his moustache, and the movement of his shoulders which betrayed the satisfaction of Walter Scott's Jew in swindling a Christian. Fougeres marched along the boulevard in a state of joy which gave to his honest face an expression of pride. He was like a schoolboy protecting a woman. He met Joseph Bridau, one of his comrades, and one of those eccentric geniuses destined to fame and sorrow. Joseph Bridau, who had, to use his own expression, a few sous in his pocket, took Fougeres to the Opera. But Fougeres didn't see the ballet, didn't hear the music; he was imagining pictures, he was painting. He left Joseph in the middle of the evening, and ran home to make sketches by lamp-light. He invented thirty pictures, all reminiscence, and felt himself a man of genius. The next day he bought colors, and canvases of various dimensions; he piled up bread and cheese on his table, he filled a water-pot with water, he laid in a provision of wood for his stove; then, to use a studio expression, he dug at his pictures. He hired several models and Magus lent him stuffs. After two months' seclusion the Breton had finished four pictures. Again he asked counsel of Schinner, this time adding Bridau to the invitation. The two painters saw in three of these pictures a servile imitation of Dutch landscapes and interiors by Metzu, in the fourth a copy of Rembrandt's "Lesson of Anatomy." "Still imitating!" said Schinner. "Ah! Fougeres can't manage to be original." "You ought to do something else than painting," said Bridau. "What?" asked Fougeres. "Fling yourself into literature." Fougeres lowered his head like a sheep when it rains. Then he asked and obtained certain useful advice, and retouched his pictures before taking them to Elie Magus. Elie paid him twenty-five francs apiece. At that price of course Fougeres earned nothing; neither did he lose, thanks to his sober living. He made a few excursions to the boulevard to see what became of his pictures, and there he underwent a singular hallucination. His neat, clean paintings, hard as tin and shiny as porcelain, were covered with a sort of mist; they looked like old daubs. Magus was out, and Pierre could obtain no information on this phenomenon. He fancied something was wrong with his eyes. The painter went back to his studio and made more pictures. After seven years of continued toil Fougeres managed to compose and execute quite passable work. He did as well as any artist of the second class. Elie bought and sold all the paintings of the poor Breton, who earned laboriously about two thousand francs a year while he spent but twelve hundred. At the Exhibition of 1829, Leon de Lora, Schinner, and Bridau, who all three occupied a great position and were, in fact, at the head of the art movement, were filled with pity for the perseverance and the poverty of their old friend; and they caused to be admitted into the grand salon of the Exhibition, a picture by Fougeres. This picture, powerful in interest but derived from Vigneron as to sentiment and from Dubufe's first manner as to execution, represented a young man in prison, whose hair was being cut around the nape of the neck. On one side was a priest, on the other two women, one old, one young, in tears. A sheriff's clerk was reading aloud a document. On a wretched table was a meal, untouched. The light came in through the bars of a window near the ceiling. It was a picture fit to make the bourgeois shudder, and the bourgeois shuddered. Fougeres had simply been inspired by the masterpiece of Gerard Douw; he had turned the group of the "Dropsical Woman" toward the window, instead of presenting it full front. The condemned man was substituted for the dying woman--same pallor, same glance, same appeal to God. Instead of the Dutch doctor, he had painted the cold, official figure of the sheriff's clerk attired in black; but he had added an old woman to the young one of Gerard Douw. The cruelly simple and good-humored face of the executioner completed and dominated the group. This plagiarism, very cleverly disguised, was not discovered. The catalogue contained the following:-- 510. Grassou de Fougeres (Pierre), rue de Navarin, 2. Death-toilet of a Chouan, condemned to execution in 1809. Though wholly second-rate, the picture had immense success, for it recalled the affair of the "chauffeurs," of Mortagne. A crowd collected every day before the now fashionable canvas; even Charles X. paused to look at it. "Madame," being told of the patient life of the poor Breton, became enthusiastic over him. The Duc d'Orleans asked the price of the picture. The clergy told Madame la Dauphine that the subject was suggestive of good thoughts; and there was, in truth, a most satisfying religious tone about it. Monseigneur the Dauphin admired the dust on the stone-floor,--a huge blunder, by the way, for Fougeres had painted greenish tones suggestive of mildew along the base of the walls. "Madame" finally bought the picture for a thousand francs, and the Dauphin ordered another like it. Charles X. gave the cross of the Legion of honor to this son of a peasant who had fought for the royal cause in 1799. (Joseph Bridau, the great painter, was not yet decorated.) The minister of the Interior ordered two church pictures of Fougeres. This Salon of 1829 was to Pierre Grassou his whole fortune, fame, future, and life. Be original, invent, and you die by inches; copy, imitate, and you'll live. After this discovery of a gold mine, Grassou de Fougeres obtained his benefit of the fatal principle to which society owes the wretched mediocrities to whom are intrusted in these days the election of leaders in all social classes; who proceed, naturally, to elect themselves and who wage a bitter war against all true talent. The principle of election applied indiscriminately is false, and France will some day abandon it. Nevertheless the modesty, simplicity, and genuine surprise of the good and gentle Fougeres silenced all envy and all recriminations. Besides, he had on his side all of his clan who had succeeded, and all who expected to succeed. Some persons, touched by the persistent energy of a man whom nothing had discouraged, talked of Domenichino and said:-- "Perseverance in the arts should be rewarded. Grassou hasn't stolen his successes; he has delved for ten years, the poor dear man!" That exclamation of "poor dear man!" counted for half in the support and the congratulations which the painter received. Pity sets up mediocrities as envy pulls down great talents, and in equal numbers. The newspapers, it is true, did not spare criticism, but the chevalier Fougeres digested them as he had digested the counsel of his friends, with angelic patience. Possessing, by this time, fifteen thousand francs, laboriously earned, he furnished an apartment and studio in the rue de Navarin, and painted the picture ordered by Monseigneur the Dauphin, also the two church pictures, and delivered them at the time agreed on, with a punctuality that was very discomforting to the exchequer of the ministry, accustomed to a different course of action. But--admire the good fortune of men who are methodical--if Grassou, belated with his work, had been caught by the revolution of July he would not have got his money. By the time he was thirty-seven Fougeres had manufactured for Elie Magus some two hundred pictures, all of them utterly unknown, by the help of which he had attained to that satisfying manner, that point of execution before which the true artist shrugs his shoulders and the bourgeoisie worships. Fougeres was dear to friends for rectitude of ideas, for steadiness of sentiment, absolute kindliness, and great loyalty; though they had no esteem for his palette, they loved the man who held it. "What a misfortune it is that Fougeres has the vice of painting!" said his comrades. But for all this, Grassou gave excellent counsel, like those feuilletonists incapable of writing a book who know very well where a book is wanting. There was this difference, however, between literary critics and Fougeres; he was eminently sensitive to beauties; he felt them, he acknowledged them, and his advice was instinct with a spirit of justice that made the justness of his remarks acceptable. After the revolution of July, Fougeres sent about ten pictures a year to the Salon, of which the jury admitted four or five. He lived with the most rigid economy, his household being managed solely by an old charwoman. For all amusement he visited his friends, he went to see works of art, he allowed himself a few little trips about France, and he planned to go to Switzerland in search of inspiration. This detestable artist was an excellent citizen; he mounted guard duly, went to reviews, and paid his rent and provision-bills with bourgeois punctuality. Having lived all his life in toil and poverty, he had never had the time to love. Poor and a bachelor, until now he did not desire to complicate his simple life. Incapable of devising any means of increasing his little fortune, he carried, every three months, to his notary, Cardot, his quarterly earnings and economies. When the notary had received about three thousand francs he invested them in some first mortgage, the interest of which he drew himself and added to the quarterly payments made to him by Fougeres. The painter was awaiting the fortunate moment when his property thus laid by would give him the imposing income of two thousand francs, to allow himself the otium cum dignitate of the artist and paint pictures; but oh! what pictures! true pictures! each a finished picture! chouette, Koxnoff, chocnosoff! His future, his dreams of happiness, the superlative of his hopes--do you know what it was? To enter the Institute and obtain the grade of officer of the Legion of honor; to side down beside Schinner and Leon de Lora, to reach the Academy before Bridau, to wear a rosette in his buttonhole! What a dream! It is only commonplace men who think of everything. Hearing the sound of several steps on the staircase, Fougeres rubbed up his hair, buttoned his jacket of bottle-green velveteen, and was not a little amazed to see, entering his doorway, a simpleton face vulgarly called in studio slang a "melon." This fruit surmounted a pumpkin, clothed in blue cloth adorned with a bunch of tintinnabulating baubles. The melon puffed like a walrus; the pumpkin advanced on turnips, improperly called legs. A true painter would have turned the little bottle-vendor off at once, assuring him that he didn't paint vegetables. This painter looked at his client without a smile, for Monsieur Vervelle wore a three-thousand-franc diamond in the bosom of his shirt. Fougeres glanced at Magus and said: "There's fat in it!" using a slang term then much in vogue in the studios. Hearing those words Monsieur Vervelle frowned. The worthy bourgeois drew after him another complication of vegetables in the persons of his wife and daughter. The wife had a fine veneer of mahogany on her face, and in figure she resembled a cocoa-nut, surmounted by a head and tied in around the waist. She pivoted on her legs, which were tap-rooted, and her gown was yellow with black stripes. She proudly exhibited unutterable mittens on a puffy pair of hands; the plumes of a first-class funeral floated on an over-flowing bonnet; laces adorned her shoulders, as round behind as they were before; consequently, the spherical form of the cocoa-nut was perfect. Her feet, of a kind that painters call abatis, rose above the varnished leather of the shoes in a swelling that was some inches high. How the feet were ever got into the shoes, no one knows. Following these vegetable parents was a young asparagus, who presented a tiny head with smoothly banded hair of the yellow-carroty tone that a Roman adores, long, stringy arms, a fairly white skin with reddish spots upon it, large innocent eyes, and white lashes, scarcely any brows, a leghorn bonnet bound with white satin and adorned with two honest bows of the same satin, hands virtuously red, and the feet of her mother. The faces of these three beings wore, as they looked round the studio, an air of happiness which bespoke in them a respectable enthusiasm for Art. "So it is you, monsieur, who are going to take our likenesses?" said the father, assuming a jaunty air. "Yes, monsieur," replied Grassou. "Vervelle, he has the cross!" whispered the wife to the husband while the painter's back was turned. "Should I be likely to have our portraits painted by an artist who wasn't decorated?" returned the former bottle-dealer. Elie Magus here bowed to the Vervelle family and went away. Grassou accompanied him to the landing. "There's no one but you who would fish up such whales." "One hundred thousand francs of 'dot'!" "Yes, but what a family!" "Three hundred thousand francs of expectations, a house in the rue Boucherat, and a country-house at Ville d'Avray!" "Bottles and corks! bottles and corks!" said the painter; "they set my teeth on edge." "Safe from want for the rest of your days," said Elie Magus as he departed. That idea entered the head of Pierre Grassou as the daylight had burst into his garret that morning. While he posed the father of the young person, he thought the bottle-dealer had a good countenance, and he admired the face full of violent tones. The mother and daughter hovered about the easel, marvelling at all his preparations; they evidently thought him a demigod. This visible admiration pleased Fougeres. The golden calf threw upon the family its fantastic reflections. "You must earn lots of money; but of course you don't spend it as you get it," said the mother. "No, madame," replied the painter; "I don't spend it; I have not the means to amuse myself. My notary invests my money; he knows what I have; as soon as I have taken him the money I never think of it again." "I've always been told," cried old Vervelle, "that artists were baskets with holes in them." "Who is your notary--if it is not indiscreet to ask?" said Madame Vervelle. "A good fellow, all round," replied Grassou. "His name is Cardot." "Well, well! if that isn't a joke!" exclaimed Vervelle. "Cardot is our notary too." "Take care! don't move," said the painter. "Do pray hold still, Antenor," said the wife. "If you move about you'll make monsieur miss; you should just see him working, and then you'd understand." "Oh! why didn't you have me taught the arts?" said Mademoiselle Vervelle to her parents. "Virginie," said her mother, "a young person ought not to learn certain things. When you are married--well, till then, keep quiet." During this first sitting the Vervelle family became almost intimate with the worthy artist. They were to come again two days later. As they went away the father told Virginie to walk in front; but in spite of this separation, she overheard the following words, which naturally awakened her curiosity. "Decorated--thirty-seven years old--an artist who gets orders--puts his money with our notary. We'll consult Cardot. Hein! Madame de Fougeres! not a bad name--doesn't look like a bad man either! One might prefer a merchant; but before a merchant retires from business one can never know what one's daughter may come to; whereas an economical artist--and then you know we love Art--Well, we'll see!" While the Vervelle family discussed Pierre Grassou, Pierre Grassou discussed in his own mind the Vervelle family. He found it impossible to stay peacefully in his studio, so he took a walk on the boulevard, and looked at all the red-haired women who passed him. He made a series of the oddest reasonings to himself: gold was the handsomest of metals; a tawny yellow represented gold; the Romans were fond of red-haired women, and he turned Roman, etc. After two years of marriage what man would ever care about the color of his wife's hair? Beauty fades,--but ugliness remains! Money is one-half of all happiness. That night when he went to bed the painter had come to think Virginie Vervelle charming. When the three Vervelles arrived on the day of the second sitting the artist received them with smiles. The rascal had shaved and put on clean linen; he had also arranged his hair in a pleasing manner, and chosen a very becoming pair of trousers and red leather slippers with pointed toes. The family replied with smiles as flattering as those of the artist. Virginie became the color of her hair, lowered her eyes, and turned aside her head to look at the sketches. Pierre Grassou thought these little affectations charming, Virginie had such grace; happily she didn't look like her father or her mother; but whom did she look like? During this sitting there were little skirmishes between the family and the painter, who had the audacity to call pere Vervelle witty. This flattery brought the family on the double-quick to the heart of the artist; he gave a drawing to the daughter, and a sketch to the mother. "What! for nothing?" they said. Pierre Grassou could not help smiling. "You shouldn't give away your pictures in that way; they are money," said old Vervelle. At the third sitting pere Vervelle mentioned a fine gallery of pictures which he had in his country-house at Ville d'Avray--Rubens, Gerard Douw, Mieris, Terburg, Rembrandt, Titian, Paul Potter, etc. "Monsieur Vervelle has been very extravagant," said Madame Vervelle, ostentatiously. "He has over one hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures." "I love Art," said the former bottle-dealer. When Madame Vervelle's portrait was begun that of her husband was nearly finished, and the enthusiasm of the family knew no bounds. The notary had spoken in the highest praise of the painter. Pierre Grassou was, he said, one of the most honest fellows on earth; he had laid by thirty-six thousand francs; his days of poverty were over; he now saved about ten thousand francs a year and capitalized the interest; in short, he was incapable of making a woman unhappy. This last remark had enormous weight in the scales. Vervelle's friends now heard of nothing but the celebrated painter Fougeres. The day on which Fougeres began the portrait of Mademoiselle Virginie, he was virtually son-in-law to the Vervelle family. The three Vervelles bloomed out in this studio, which they were now accustomed to consider as one of their residences; there was to them an inexplicable attraction in this clean, neat, pretty, and artistic abode. Abyssus abyssum, the commonplace attracts the commonplace. Toward the end of the sitting the stairway shook, the door was violently thrust open by Joseph Bridau; he came like a whirlwind, his hair flying. He showed his grand haggard face as he looked about him, casting everywhere the lightning of his glance; then he walked round the whole studio, and returned abruptly to Grassou, pulling his coat together over the gastric region, and endeavouring, but in vain, to button it, the button mould having escaped from its capsule of cloth. "Wood is dear," he said to Grassou. "Ah!" "The British are after me" (slang term for creditors) "Gracious! do you paint such things as that?" "Hold your tongue!" "Ah! to be sure, yes." The Vervelle family, extremely shocked by this extraordinary apparition, passed from its ordinary red to a cherry-red, two shades deeper. "Brings in, hey?" continued Joseph. "Any shot in your locker?" "How much do you want?" "Five hundred. I've got one of those bull-dog dealers after me, and if the fellow once gets his teeth in he won't let go while there's a bit of me left. What a crew!" "I'll write you a line for my notary." "Have you got a notary?" "Yes." "That explains to me why you still make cheeks with pink tones like a perfumer's sign." Grassou could not help coloring, for Virginie was sitting. "Take Nature as you find her," said the great painter, going on with his lecture. "Mademoiselle is red-haired. Well, is that a sin? All things are magnificent in painting. Put some vermillion on your palette, and warm up those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots; come, butter it well in. Do you pretend to have more sense than Nature?" "Look here," said Fougeres, "take my place while I go and write that note." Vervelle rolled to the table and whispered in Grassou's ear:-- "Won't that country lout spoilt it?" "If he would only paint the portrait of your Virginie it would be worth a thousand times more than mine," replied Fougeres, vehemently. Hearing that reply the bourgeois beat a quiet retreat to his wife, who was stupefied by the invasion of this ferocious animal, and very uneasy at his co-operation in her daughter's portrait. "Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette, and taking the note. "I won't thank you. I can go back now to d'Arthez' chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora the tops of the doors--masterpieces! Come and see us." And off he went without taking leave, having had enough of looking at Virginie. "Who is that man?" asked Madame Vervelle. "A great artist," answered Grassou. There was silence for a moment. "Are you quite sure," said Virginie, "that he has done no harm to my portrait? He frightened me." "He has only done it good," replied Grassou. "Well, if he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist like you," said Madame Vervelle. The ways of genius had ruffled up these orderly bourgeois. The phase of autumn so pleasantly named "Saint Martin's summer" was just beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in presence of a man of genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an invitation to come out to his country-house on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how little attraction a plain bourgeois family could offer to an artist. "You artists," he continued, "want emotions, great scenes, and witty talk; but you'll find good wines, and I rely on my collection of pictures to compensate an artist like you for the bore of dining with mere merchants." This form of idolatry, which stroked his innocent self-love, was charming to our poor Pierre Grassou, so little accustomed to such compliments. The honest artist, that atrocious mediocrity, that heart of gold, that loyal soul, that stupid draughtsman, that worthy fellow, decorated by royalty itself with the Legion of honor, put himself under arms to go out to Ville d'Avray and enjoy the last fine days of the year. The painter went modestly by public conveyance, and he could not but admire the beautiful villa of the bottle-dealer, standing in a park of five acres at the summit of Ville d'Avray, commanding a noble view of the landscape. Marry Virginie, and have that beautiful villa some day for his own! He was received by the Vervelles with an enthusiasm, a joy, a kindliness, a frank bourgeois absurdity which confounded him. It was indeed a day of triumph. The prospective son-in-law was marched about the grounds on the nankeen-colored paths, all raked as they should be for the steps of so great a man. The trees themselves looked brushed and combed, and the lawns had just been mown. The pure country air wafted to the nostrils a most enticing smell of cooking. All things about the mansion seemed to say: "We have a great artist among us." Little old Vervelle himself rolled like an apple through his park, the daughter meandered like an eel, the mother followed with dignified step. These three beings never let go for one moment of Pierre Grassou for seven hours. After dinner, the length of which equalled its magnificence, Monsieur and Madame Vervelle reached the moment of their grand theatrical effect,--the opening of the picture gallery illuminated by lamps, the reflections of which were managed with the utmost care. Three neighbours, also retired merchants, an old uncle (from whom were expectations), an elderly Demoiselle Vervelle, and a number of other guests invited to be present at this ovation to a great artist followed Grassou into the picture gallery, all curious to hear his opinion of the famous collection of pere Vervelle, who was fond of oppressing them with the fabulous value of his paintings. The bottle-merchant seemed to have the idea of competing with King Louis-Philippe and the galleries of Versailles. The pictures, magnificently framed, each bore labels on which was read in black letters on a gold ground: Rubens Dance of fauns and nymphs Rembrandt Interior of a dissecting room. The physician van Tromp instructing his pupils. In all, there were one hundred and fifty pictures, varnished and dusted. Some were covered with green baize curtains which were not undrawn in presence of young ladies. Pierre Grassou stood with arms pendent, gaping mouth, and no word upon his lips as he recognized half his own pictures in these works of art. He was Rubens, he was Rembrandt, Mieris, Metzu, Paul Potter, Gerard Douw! He was twenty great masters all by himself. "What is the matter? You've turned pale!" "Daughter, a glass of water! quick!" cried Madame Vervelle. The painter took pere Vervelle by the button of his coat and led him to a corner on pretence of looking at a Murillo. Spanish pictures were then the rage. "You bought your pictures from Elie Magus?" "Yes, all originals." "Between ourselves, tell me what he made you pay for those I shall point out to you." Together they walked round the gallery. The guests were amazed at the gravity in which the artist proceeded, in company with the host, to examine each picture. "Three thousand francs," said Vervelle in a whisper, as they reached the last, "but I tell everybody forty thousand." "Forty thousand for a Titian!" said the artist, aloud. "Why, it is nothing at all!" "Didn't I tell you," said Vervelle, "that I had three hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures?" "I painted those pictures," said Pierre Grassou in Vervelle's ear, "and I sold them one by one to Elie Magus for less than ten thousand francs the whole lot." "Prove it to me," said the bottle-dealer, "and I double my daughter's 'dot,' for if it is so, you are Rubens, Rembrandt, Titian, Gerard Douw!" "And Magus is a famous picture-dealer!" said the painter, who now saw the meaning of the misty and aged look imparted to his pictures in Elie's shop, and the utility of the subjects the picture-dealer had required of him. Far from losing the esteem of his admiring bottle-merchant, Monsieur de Fougeres (for so the family persisted in calling Pierre Grassou) advanced so much that when the portraits were finished he presented them gratuitously to his father-in-law, his mother-in-law and his wife. At the present day, Pierre Grassou, who never misses exhibiting at the Salon, passes in bourgeois regions for a fine portrait-painter. He earns some twenty thousand francs a year and spoils a thousand francs' worth of canvas. His wife has six thousand francs a year in dowry, and he lives with his father-in-law. The Vervelles and the Grassous, who agree delightfully, keep a carriage, and are the happiest people on earth. Pierre Grassou never emerges from the bourgeois circle, in which he is considered one of the greatest artists of the period. Not a family portrait is painted between the barrier du Trone and the rue du Temple that is not done by this great painter; none of them costs less than five hundred francs. The great reason which the bourgeois families have for employing him is this:-- "Say what you will of him, he lays by twenty thousand francs a year with his notary." As Grassou took a creditable part on the occasion of the riots of May 12th he was appointed an officer of the Legion of honor. He is a major in the National Guard. The Museum of Versailles felt it incumbent to order a battle-piece of so excellent a citizen, who thereupon walked about Paris to meet his old comrades and have the happiness of saying to them:-- "The King has given me an order for the Museum of Versailles." Madame de Fougeres adores her husband, to whom she has presented two children. This painter, a good father and a good husband, is unable to eradicate from his heart a fatal thought, namely, that artists laugh at his work; that his name is a term of contempt in the studios; and that the feuilletons take no notice of his pictures. But he still works on; he aims for the Academy, where, undoubtedly, he will enter. And--oh! vengeance which dilates his heart!--he buys the pictures of celebrated artists who are pinched for means, and he substitutes these true works of arts that are not his own for the wretched daubs in the collection at Ville d'Avray. There are many mediocrities more aggressive and more mischievous than that of Pierre Grassou, who is, moreover, anonymously benevolent and truly obliging. ADDENDUM The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. Bridau, Joseph The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Start in Life Modeste Mignon Another Study of Woman Letters of Two Brides Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis Cardot (Parisian notary) The Muse of the Department A Man of Business Jealousies of a Country Town The Middle Classes Cousin Pons Grassou, Pierre A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Betty The Middle Classes Cousin Pons Lora, Leon de The Unconscious Humorists A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Honorine Cousin Betty Beatrix Magus, Elie The Vendetta A Marriage Settlement A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Pons Schinner, Hippolyte The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Albert Savarus The Government Clerks Modeste Mignon The Imaginary Mistress The Unconscious Humorists End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pierre Grassou, by Honore de Balzac Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Who does Don Vincenzo Coccotti work for?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The story is a movie script, specifically the script for the movie "True Romance" (1993) directed by Tony Scott and written by Quentin Tarantino. The story revolves around Clarence Worley, a young man who falls in love with Alabama Whitman, a call girl, and gets involved in a series of events that lead to a violent confrontation with a group of gangsters. The story also features a number of subplots, including Clarence's relationship with his father, his friendship with Dick Ritchie, and the involvement of a number of other characters, including Vincenzo Coccotti, a Sicilian gangster, and Lee Donowitz, a movie producer. The story is known for its non-linear narrative, witty dialogue, and graphic violence. It features a number of memorable characters, including Clarence, Alabama, Dick, and Vincenzo, and explores themes of love, loyalty, and redemption. The script is written in a style that is characteristic of Tarantino's work, with a focus on dialogue and a non-linear narrative structure. It features a number of homages to other movies and TV shows, including "The Godfather" and "The Sopranos." The story takes place in a number of locations, including Detroit, Los Angeles, and the Beverly Wilshire hotel. It features a number of action sequences, including a shootout at the Beverly Wilshire hotel, and a number of dramatic moments, including Clarence's confrontation with Vincenzo. The script is notable for its use of violence and profanity, and has been praised for its originality and style. It has been compared to other Tarantino movies, including "Pulp Fiction" and "Reservoir Dogs." The story is also notable for its use of music, including a number of songs by Elvis Presley. The script features a number of references to Elvis, including a scene in which Clarence and Alabama sing a duet of "Can't Help Falling in Love." The story has been praised for its originality and style, and has been compared to other Tarantino movies. It has also been criticized for its graphic violence and profanity. The script is written in a style that is characteristic of Tarantino's work, with a focus on dialogue and a non-linear narrative structure. It features a number of homages to other movies and TV shows, including "The Godfather" and "The Sopranos." The story takes place in a number of locations, including Detroit, Los Angeles, and the Beverly Wilshire hotel. Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "A mobster named \"Blue Lou Boyle\". " ]	29,633	narrativeqa	en	null	dd97ebb3408847191356780310676099e897a13ba1b1b4d0	<b><HTML> <HEAD> <TITLE>TRUE ROMANCE</TITLE> </b><LINK rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"> <META http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <style type="text/css"> BODY { background-color: "#FFFFFF"; font-family: Courier New, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size:10.0pt } DIV { position:absolute; left:5px; top:20px; width:734px; height:500px; } #loc { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.2in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in;text-transform:uppercase } #slug { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal; margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.2in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in; text-transform:uppercase; <b> </b><b>} </b> #act { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.8in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:0.8in } #speaker { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:2.8in;text-transform:uppercase } #spkdir { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:2.7in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:2.2in } #dia { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:2.6in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:1.6in } #pg { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:1.75in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:6.5in } #right { font-family:Courier New; font-weight: normal;margin-top:0in; margin-right:0.75in; margin-bottom:0in; margin-left:5.0in } </style> <div id="Layer1"> <b></HEAD> </b> <b><BODY> </b></p><p><p ID="act">True Romance </p><p><p ID="act">by Quentin Tarantino </p><p><p ID="act">When you are tired of relationships, try a romance. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BAR - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A smoky cocktail bar downtown Detroit. </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE WORLEY, a young hipster hepcat, is trying to pick up an older lady named LUCY. She isn't bothered by him, in fact, she's alittle charmed. But, you can tell, that she isn't going to leave her barstool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In "Jailhouse Rock" he's everything rockabilly's about. I mean he is rockabilly: mean, surly, nasty, rude. In that movie he couldn't give a fuck about anything except rockin' and rollin', livin' fast, dyin' young, and leaving a good-looking corpse. I love that scene where after he's made it big he's throwing a big cocktail party, and all these highbrows are there, and he's singing, "Baby You're So Square... Baby, I Don't Care". Now, they got him dressed like a dick. He's wearing these stupid-lookin' pants, this horrible sweater. Elvis ain't no sweater boy. I even think they got him wearin' penny loafers. Despite all that shit, all the highbrows at the party, big house, the stupid clothes, he's still a rude-lookin' motherfucker. I'd watch that hillbilly and I'd want to be him so bad. Elvis looked good. I'm no fag, but Elvis was good-lookin'. He was fuckin' prettier than most women. I always said if I ever had to fuck a guy... I mean had too 'cause my life depended on it... I'd fuck Elvis. </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy takes a drag from her cigarette. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">I'd fuck Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">When he was alive. I wouldn't fuck him now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I don't blame you. <P ID="spkdir">(they laugh) <P ID="dia">So we'd both fuck Elvis. It's nice to meet people with common interests, isn't it? </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy laughs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, enough about the King, how 'bout you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">How 'bout me what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How 'bout you go to the movies with me tonight? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">What are we gonna see? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A Donny Chiba triple feature. "The Streetfighter", "Return of the Streetfighter", and "Sister Streetfighter". </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="dia">Who's Sonny Chiba? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He is, bar none, the greatest actor working in martial arts movies ever. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="spkdir">(not believing this) <P ID="dia">You wanna take me to a kung fu movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(holding up three fingers) <P ID="dia">Three kung fu movies. </p><p><p ID="act">Lucy takes a drag from her cigarette. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LUCY <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">I don't think so, not my cup of tea. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DINGY HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The sounds of the city flow in through an open window: car horns, gun shots and violence. Paint is peeling off the walls and the once green carpet is stained black. </p><p><p ID="act">On the bed nearby is a huge open suitcase filled with clear plastic bags of cocaine. Shotguns and pistols have been dropped carelessly around the suitcase. On the far end of the room, against the wall, is a TV. "Bewitched" is playing. </p><p><p ID="act">At the opposite end of the room, by the front, is a table. DREXL SPIVEY and FLOYD DIXON sit around. Cocaine is on the table as well as little plastic bags and a weigher. Floyd is black, Drexl is a white boy, though you wouldn't know it listen to him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, get outta my face with that bullshit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw man, I don't be eatin' that shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">That's bullshit. </p><p><p ID="act">BIG DON WATTS, a stout, mean-looking black man who's older than Drexl and Floyd. Walks through the door carrying hamburgers and french fries in two greasy brown-paper bags. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw man, that's some serious shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, you lie like a big dog. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">What the fuck are you talkin' about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Floyd say he don't be eatin' pussy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Shit, any nigger say he don't eat pussy is lyin' his ass off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">I heard that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Hold on a second, Big D. You sayin' you eat pussy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Nigger, I eat everything. I eat pussy. I eat the butt. I eat every motherfuckin' thang. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Preach on, Big D. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Look here. If I ever did eat some pussy - I would never eat any pussy - but, if I did eat some pussy, I sure as hell wouldn't tell no goddamn body. I'd be ashamed as a motherfucker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Shit! Nigger you smoke enough sherm your dumb ass'll do a lot a crazy ass things. So you won't eat pussy? Motherfucker, you be up there suckin' niggers' dicks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Heard that. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D bump fists. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yeah, that's right, laugh. It's so funny, oh it's so funny. <P ID="spkdir">(he takes a hit off of a joint) <P ID="dia">There used to be a time when sisters didn't know shit about gettin' their pussy licked. Then the sixties came an' they started fuckin' around with white boys. And white boys are freaks for that shit - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">- Because it's good! </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Then, after a while sisters use to gettin' their little pussy eat. And because you white boys had to make pigs out of yourselves, you fucked it up for every nigger in the world everywhere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Drexl. On behalf of me and all the brothers who aren't here, I'd like to express our gratitude - </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D bust up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Go on pussy-eaters... laugh. You look like you be eatin' pussy. You got pussy-eatin' mugs. Now if a nigger wants to get his dick sucked he's got to do a bunch of fucked-up shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">So you do eat pussy! </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw naw! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">You don't like it, but you eat that shit. <P ID="spkdir">(to Drexl) <P ID="dia">He eats it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Damn skippy. He like it, too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(mock English accent) <P ID="dia">Me thinketh he doth protest too much. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Well fuck you guys then! You guys are fucked up! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Why you trippin'? We jus' fuckin' with ya. But I wanna ask you a question. You with some fine bitch, I mean a brick shithouse bitch - you're with Jayne Kennedy. You're with Jayne Kennedy and you say "Bitch, suck my dick!" and then Jayne Kennedy says, "First things first, nigger, I ain't suckin' shit till you bring your ass over here and lick my bush!" Now, what do you say? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I tell Jayne Kennedy, "Suck my dick or I'll beat your ass!" </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="dia">Nigger, get real. You touch Jayne Kennedy she'll have you ass in Wayne County so fast - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Nigger, back off, you ain't beatin' shit. Now what would you do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I'd say fuck it! </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Big D get up from the table disgusted and walk away, leaving Floyd sitting all alone. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D sits on the bed, his back turned to Floyd, watching "Bewitched". </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="spkdir">(yelling after them) <P ID="dia">Ain't no man have to eat pussy! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(not even looking) <P ID="dia">Take that shit somewhere else. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(marching back) <P ID="dia">You tell Jayne Kennedy to fuck it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">If it came down to who eats who, damn skippy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">With that terrible mug of yours if Jayne Kennedy told you to eat her pussy, kiss her ass, lick her feet, chow on her shit, and suck her dog's dick, nigger, you'd aim to please. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BIG D <P ID="spkdir">(glued on TV) <P ID="dia">I'm hip. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">In fact, I'm gonna show you what I mean with a little demonstration. Big D, toss me that shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Without turning away from "Bewitched" he picks up the shotgun and tosses it to Drexl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Floyd) <P ID="dia">All right, check this out. <P ID="spkdir">(referring to shotgun) <P ID="dia">Now, pretend this is Jayne Kennedy. And you're you. </p><p><p ID="act">Then, in a blink, he points the shotgun at Floyd and blows him away. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D leaps off the bed and spins toward Drexl. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl, waiting for him, fires from across the room. </p><p><p ID="act">The blast hits the big man in the right arm and shoulder, spinning him around. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl makes a beeline for his victim and fires again. </p><p><p ID="act">Big D is hit with a blast, full in the back. He slams into the wall and drops. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl collects the suitcase full of cocaine and leaves. As he gets to the front door he surveys the carnage, spits and walks out. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. CLIFF'S MOVING CAR - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">A big white Chevy Nova is driving down the road with a sunrise sky as a backdrop. The song "Little Bitty Tear" is heard a capella. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLIFF'S MOVING CAR - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff Worley is driving his car home from work, singing this song gently to the sunrise. He's a forty-five-years-old ex-cop, at present a security guard. In between singing he takes sips from a cup of take-out coffee. He's dressed in a security guard uniform. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER PARK - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's Nova pulls in as he continues crooning. He pulls up to his trailer to see something that stops him short. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's POV Through windshield </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and a nice-looking YOUNG WOMAN are watching for him in front of his trailer. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - CLIFF </p><p><p ID="act">Upon seeing Clarence, a little bitty tear rolls down Cliff's cheek. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLIFF'S POV </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Young Woman walk over to the car. Clarence sticks his face through the driver's side window. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Good Morning, Daddy. Long time no see. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">All three enter the trailer home. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Excuse the place, I haven't been entertaining company as of late. Sorry if I'm acting a little dense, but you're the last person in the world I expected to see this morning. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Young Girl walk into the living room. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, well, tha's OK, Daddy, I tend to have that effect on people. I'm dyin' on thirst, you got anything to drink? </p><p><p ID="act">He moves past Cliff and heads straight for his refridgerator. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I think there's a Seven-Up in there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(rumaging around the fridge) <P ID="dia">Anything stronger? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Oh, probably not. Beer? You can drink beer, can't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I can, but I don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(closing the fridge) <P ID="dia">That's about all I ever eat. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff looks at the Girl. She smiles sweetly at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="spkdir">(to Girl) <P ID="dia">I'm sorry... I'm his father. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG GIRL <P ID="spkdir">(sticking her hand out) <P ID="dia">That's OK, I'm his wife. <P ID="spkdir">(shaking his hand vigorously) <P ID="dia">Alabama Worley, pleased to meetcha. </p><p><p ID="act">She is really pumping his arm, just like a used-car salesman. However, that's where the similarities end; Alabama's totally sincere. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence steps back into the living room, holding a bunch of little ceramic fruit magnets in his hand. He throws his other arm around Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh yeah, we got married. <P ID="spkdir">(referring to the magnets) <P ID="dia">You still have these. <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">This isn't a complete set; when I was five I swallowed the pomegranate one. I never shit it out, so I guess it's still there. Loverdoll, why don't you be a sport and go get us some beer. I want some beer. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Do you want some beer? Well, if you want some it's here. </p><p><p ID="act">He hands her some money and his car keys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Go to the liquor store - <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Where is there a liquor store around here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Uh, yeah... there's a party store down 54th. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Get a six-pack of something imported. It's hard to tell you what to get 'cause different places have different things. If they got Fosters, get that, if not, ask the guy at the thing what the strongest imported beer he has. Look, since you're making a beer run, would you mind too terribly if you did a foot run as well. I'm fuckin' starvin' to death. Are you hungry too? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm pretty hungry. When I went to the store I was gonna get some Ding-Dongs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, fuck that shit, we'll get some real food. What would taste good. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">What do you think would taste good? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I'm really not very - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know what would taste good? Chicken. I haven't had chicken in a while. Chicken would really hit the spot about now. Chicken and beer, definitly, absolutely, without a doubt. <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">Where's a good chicken place around here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I really don't know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't know the chicken places around where you live? <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Ask the guy at the place where a chicken place is. </p><p><p ID="act">He gives her some more money. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This should cover it, Auggie-Doggie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Okee-dokee, Doggie-Daddy. </p><p><p ID="act">She opens the door and starts out. Clarence turns to his dad as the door shuts. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Isn't she the sweetest goddamned girl you ever saw in your whole life? Is she a four alarm fire, or what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">She seems very nice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Daddy. Nice isn't the word. Nice is an insult. She's a peach. That's the only word for it, she's a peach. She even tastes like a peach. You can tell I'm in love with her. You can tell by my face, can't ya? It's a dead giveaway. It's written all over it. Ya know what? She loves me back. Take a seat, Pop, we gotta talk - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Clarence, just shut up, you're giving me a headache! I can't believe how much like your mother you are. You're your fuckin' mother through and through. I haven't heard from ya in three years. Then ya show up all of a sudden at eight o'clock in the morning. You walk in like a goddamn bulldozer... don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see you... just slow it down. Now, when did you get married? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Daddy, I'm in big fuckin' trouble and I really need your help. </p><p><p ID="act">BLACK TITLE CARD: "HOLLYWOOD" </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. OUTSIDE OF CASTING DIRECTOR'S OFFICER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">FOUR YOUNG ACTORS are sitting on a couch with sheets of paper in their hands silently mouthing lines. One of the actors is DICK RITCHIE. The casting director, MARY LOUISE RAVENCROFT, steps into the waiting room, clip board in hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Dick Ritchie? </p><p><p ID="act">Dick pops up from the pack. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'm me... I mean, that's me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Step inside. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CASTING DIRECTOR'S OFFICE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">She sits behind a large desk. Her name-plate rests on the desktop. Several posters advertising "The Return of T.J. Hooker" hang on the wall. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick sits in a chair, holding his sheets in his hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Well, the part you're reading for is one of the bad guys. There's Brian and Marty. Peter Breck's already been cast as Brian. And you're reading for the part of Marty. Now in this scene you're both in a car and Bill Shatner's hanging on the hood. And what you're trying to do is get him off. <P ID="spkdir">(she picks a up a copy of the script) <P ID="dia">Whenever you're ready. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(reading and miming driving) <P ID="dia">Where'd you come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="spkdir">(reading from the script lifelessly) <P ID="dia">I don't know. He just appeared as magic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(reading from script) <P ID="dia">Well, don't just sit there, shoot him. </p><p><p ID="act">She puts her script down, and smiles at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">That was very good. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">If we decided on making him a New York type, could you do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Sure. No problem. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Could we try it now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Absolutely. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick picks up the script and begins, but this time with a Brooklyn accent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Where'd he come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="spkdir">(monotone, as before) <P ID="dia">I don't know. He just appeared as magic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, don't just sit there, shoot him. </p><p><p ID="act">Ravencroft puts her script down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">RAVENCROFT <P ID="dia">Well, Mr. Ritchie, I'm impressed. You're a very fine actor. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick smiles. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's completely aghast. He just stares, unable to come to grips with what Clarence has told him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, I don't know this is pretty heavy-duty, so if you wanna explode, feel free. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You're always making jokes. That's what you do, isn't it? Make jokes. Making jokes is the one thing you're good at, isn't it? But if you make a joke about this - <P ID="spkdir">(raising his voice) <P ID="dia">- I'm gonna go completely out of my fuckin' head! </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff pauses and collects himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What do you want from me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Stop acting like an infant. You're here because you want me to help you in some way. What do you need from me? You need money? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you still have friends on the force? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yes, I still have friends on the force. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Could you find out if they know anythin'? I don't know they know shit about us. But I don't wanna think, I wanna know. You could find out for sure what's goin' on. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Daddy? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What makes you think I could do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You were a cop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What makes you think I would do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm your son. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You got it all worked out, don't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, goddamnit, I never asked you for a goddamn thing! I've tried to make your parental obligation as easy as possible. After Mom divorced you, did I ask you for anything? When I wouldn't see ya for six months to a year at a time, did you ever get your shit about it? No, it was always "OK", "No problem", "You're a busy guy, I understand". The whole time you were a drunk, did I ever point my finger at you and talk shit? No! Everybody else did. I never did. You see, I know that you're just a bad parent. You're not really very good at it. But I know you love me. I'm basically a pretty resourceful guy. If I didn't really need it I wouldn't ask. And if you say no, don't worry about it. I'm gone. No problems. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks in through the door carrying a shopping bag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">The forager's back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank God. I could eat a horse if you slap enough catsup on it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I didn't get any chicken. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's nine o'clock in the morning. Nothing's open. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER HOME - BEDROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's on the telephone in his bedroom, pacing as he talks. The living room od the trailer can be seen from his doorway, where Clarence and Alabama are horsing around. They giggle and cut up throughout the scene. As Cliff talks, all the noise and hubbub of a police station comes through over the line. He's talking to DETECTIVE WILSON, an old friend of his from the force. </p><p><p ID="act">We see both inside the conversation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">It's about that pimp that was shot a couple of days ago, Drexl Spivey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">What about him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Well, Ted, to tell you the truth, I found out through the grapevine that it might be, and I only said might be, the Drexl Spivey that was responsible for that restaurant break-in on Riverdale. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">Are you still working security for Foster & Langley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah, and the restaurant's on my route. And you know, I stuck my nose in for the company to try to put a stop to some of these break-ins. Now, while I have no proof, the name Drexl Spivey kept comin' up Who's case is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">McTeague. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I don't know him. Is he a nice guy? You think he'll help me out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">I don't see why not. When you gonna come round and see my new place? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You and Robin moved? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WILSON <P ID="dia">Shit, are you behind. Me and Robin got a divorce six months ago. Got myself a new place - mirrors all over the bedroom, ceiling fans above the bed. Guy'd have to look as ugly as King Kong not to get laid in this place. I'm serious, a guy'd have to look like a gorilla. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER HOME - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Cliff stand by Clarence's 1965 red Mustang. Alabama's amusing herself by doing cartwheels and handstands in the background. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">They have nothing. In fact, they think it's drug related. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do tell. Why drug related? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Apparently, Drexl had a big toe stuck in shit like that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No shit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah. Drexl had an association with a fella named Blue Lou Boyle. Name mean anything to you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">If you don't hang around in this circle, no reason it should. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who is he? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Gangster. Drug Dealer. Somebody you don't want on your ass. Look, Clarence, the more I hear about this Drexl fucker, the more I think you did the right thing. That guy wasn't just some wild flake. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's what I've been tellin' ya. The guy was like a mad dog. So the cops aren't looking for me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Naw, until they hear something better they'll assume Drexl and Blue Lou had a falling out. So, once you leave twon, I wouldn't worry about it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sticks his hand out to shake. Cliff takes it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot, Daddy. You really came through for me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I got some money I can give you - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Keep it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Well, son, I want you to know I hope everything works out with you and Alabama. I like her. I think you make a cute couple. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We do make a cute couple, don't we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Yeah, well, just stay outta trouble. Remeber, you got a wife to think about. Quit fuckin' around. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I love you son. </p><p><p ID="act">They hug each other, </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes a pice of paper out and puts it into Cliff's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This is Dick's number in Hollywood. We don't know where we'll be, but you can get a hold of me through him. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns toward Alabama and yells to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Bama, we're outta here. Kiss Pops goodbye, </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama runs across from where she was and throws her arms around Cliff and gives him a big smackeroo on the lips. Cliff's a little startled. Alabama's bubbling like a Fresca. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye, Daddy! Hope to see you again real soon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(mock anger) <P ID="dia">What kind of daughterly smackeroo was that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, hush up. </p><p><p ID="act">The two get into the Mustang. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">We'll send you a postcard as soon as we get to Hollywood. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence starts the engine. The convertible roof opens as they talk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Bama, you take care of that one for me. Keep him out of trouble. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Don't worry, Daddy, I'm keepin' this fella on a short leash. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, slowly, starts driving away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Cliff) <P ID="dia">As the sun sets slowly in the west we bid a fond farewell to all the friends we've made... and, with a touch of melancholy, we look forward to the time when we will all be together again. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence peels out, shooting a shower of gravel up in the air. </p><p><p ID="act">As the Mustang disappears Cliff runs his tongue over his lips. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF </p><p><p ID="act">The-son-of-a-bitch was right... she does taste like a peach. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's apartment is standard issue for a young actor. Things are pretty neat and clean. A nice stereo unit sits on the shelf. A framed picture of a ballet dancer's feet hangs on the wall. </p><p><p ID="act">The phone rings, Dick answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick here. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOTEL SUITE - LAS VEGAS - SUNSET </p><p><p ID="act">Top floor, Las Vegas, Nevada hotel room with a huge picture window overlooking the neon-filled strip and the flaming red and orange sunset sky. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence paces up and down with the telephone in his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(big bopper voice) <P ID="dia">Heeeellllloooo baaaabbbbbyyyy!!! </p><p><p ID="act">Note: We intercut both sides of the conversation. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(unsure) <P ID="dia">Clarence? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You got it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's great to hear from you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, you're gonna be seein' me shortly. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You comin' to L.A.? When? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What's up? Why're leavin' Detroit? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sits down on the hotel room bed. Alabama, wearing only a long T-shirt with a big picture of Bullwinkle on it, crawls behind him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, there's a story behind all that. I'll tell you when I see you. By the way, I won't be alone. I'm bringing my wife with me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Get the fuck outta here! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm a married man. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Get the fuck outta here! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Believe it or not, I actually tricked a girl into falling in love with me. I'm not quite sure how I did it. I'd hate to have to do it again. But I did it. Wanna say hi to my better half? </p><p><p ID="act">Before Dick can respond Clarence puts Alabama on the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick. I'm Alabama Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hello, Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I can't wait to meet you. Clarence told me all about you. He said you were his best friend. So, I guess that makes you my best friend, too. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence start dictating to her what to say. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him we gotta go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence says we gotta be hittin' it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him we'll be hittin' his area some time tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">He said don't go nowhere. We'll be there some time tomorrow. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Wait a minute - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him not to eat anything. We're gonna scarf when we get there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Don't eat anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Alabama, could you tell Clar - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ask him if he got the letter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Did you get the letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">What letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The letter I sent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">The letter he sent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence sent a letter? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Has he gotten his mail today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Gotten your mail yet? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, my room-mate leaves it on the TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Has he looked through it yet? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Ya looked through it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Not yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Nope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell him to look through it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Get it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Let me speak to Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">He wants to speak with you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No time. Gotta go. Just tell him to read the letter, the letter explains all. Tell him I love him. And tell him, as of tomorrow, all his money problems are over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">He can't. We gotta go, but he wants you to read the letter. The letter explains it all. He wants you to know he loves you. And he wants you to know that as of tomorrow, all of your money problems are over. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Money problems? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now tell him goodbye. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye-bye. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now hang up. </p><p><p ID="act">She hangs up the phone. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick hears the click on the other end. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hello, hello, Clarence? Clarence's wife?... I mean Alabama... hello? </p><p><p ID="act">Extremely confused, Dick jangs up the phone. He goes over to the TV and picks up the day's mail. He goes through it. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Southern California Gas Company. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Group W. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Fossenkemp Photography. </p><p><p ID="act">BILL: Columbia Record and Tape Club. </p><p><p ID="act">LETTER: It's obviously from Clarence. Addressed to Dick. Dick opens it. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. TRAILER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">A lower-middle-class trailer park named Astro World, which has a neon sign in front of it in the shape of a planet. </p><p><p ID="act">A big, white Chevy Nova pulls into the park. It parks by a trailer that's slightly less kept up than the others. Cliff gets out of the Chevy. He's drinking out of a fast-food soda cup as he opens the door to his trailer. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. TRAILER - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">He steps inside the doorway and then, before he knows it, a gun is pressed to his temple and a big hand grabs his shoulder. </p><p><P ID="speaker">GUN CARRIER (DARIO) <P ID="dia">Welcome home, alchy. We're havin' a party. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff is roughly shoved into his living room. Waiting for him are four men, standing: VIRGIL, FRANKIE (young Wise-guy) LENNY (an old Wise-guy), and Tooth-pick Vic (a fireplug pitbull type). </p><p><p ID="act">Sitting in Cliff's recliner is VINCENZO COCCOTTI, the Frank Nitti to Detroid mob leader Blue Lou Boyle. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff is knocked to his knees. He looks up and sees the sitting Coccotti. Dario and Lenny pick him up and roughly drop him in a chair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(to Frankie) <P ID="dia">Tell Tooth-pick Vic to go outside and do you-know-what. </p><p><p ID="act">In Italian Frankie tells Tooth-pick Vic what Coccotti said. He nods and exits. </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's chair is moved closer to Coccotti's. Dario stands on one side of Cliff. Frankie and Lenny ransack the trailer. Virgil has a bottle of Chivas Regal in his hand, but he has yet to touch a drop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Do you know who I am, Mr. Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I give up. Who are you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm the Anti-Christ. You get me in a vendetta kind of mood, you will tell the angels in heaven that you had never seen pure evil so singularly personified as you did in the face of the man who killed you. My name is Vincenzo Coccotti. I work as a counsel for Mr. Blue Lou Boyle, the man your son stole from. I hear you were once a cop so I assume you've heard od us before. Am I correct? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I've heard of Blue Lou Boyle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm glad. Hopefully that will clear up the how-full-of-shit-I-am question you've been asking yourself. Now, we're gonna have a little Q and A, and, at the risk of sounding redundant, please make your answers genuine. <P ID="spkdir">(taking out a pack of Chesterfields) <P ID="dia">Want a Chesterfield? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(as he lights up) <P ID="dia">I have a son of my own. About you boy's age. I can imagine how painful this must be for you. But Clarence and that bitch-whore girlfriend of his brought this all on themselves. And I implore you not to go down the road with 'em. You can always take comfort in the fact that you never had a choice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Look, I'd help ya if I could, but I haven't seen Clarence - </p><p><p ID="act">Before Cliff can finish his sentence, Coccotti slams him hard in the nose with his fist. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Smarts, don't it? Gettin' slammed in the nose fucks you all up. You got that pain shootin' through your brain. Your eyes fill up with water. It ain't any kind of fun. But what I have to offer you. That's as good as it's ever gonna get, and it won't ever get that good again. We talked to your neighbors. They saw a Mustang, a red Mustang, Clarence's red Mustang, parked in front of your trailer yesterday. Mr. Worley, have you seen your son? </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff's defeated. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I've seen him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Now I can't be sure of how much of what he told you. So in the chance you're in the dark about some of this, let me shed some light. That whore your boy hangs around with, her pimp is an associate of mine, and I don't just mean pimpin', in other affairs he works for me in a courier capacity. Well, apparently, that dirty little whore found out when we're gonna do some business, 'cause your son, the cowboy and his flame, came in the room blastin' and didn't stop till they were pretty sure everybody was dead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">What are you talkin' about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm talkin' about a massacre. They snatched my narcotics and hightailed it outta there. Wouldda gotten away with it, but your son, fuckhead that he is, left his driver's license in a dead guy's hand. A whore hiding in the commode filled in all the blanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">I don't believe you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">That's of minor importance. But what's of major fuckin' importance is that I believe you. Where did they go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">On their honeymoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I'm gettin' angry askin' the same question a second time. Where did they go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">They didn't tell me. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Now, wait a minute and listen. I haven't seen Clarence in three years. Yesterday he shows up here with a girl, sayin' he got married. He told me he needed some quick cash for a honeymoon, so he asked if he could borrow five hundred dollars. I wanted to help him out so I wrote out a check. We went to breakfast and that's the last I saw of him. So help me God. They never thought to tell me where they were goin'. And I never thought to ask. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him for a long moment. He then gives Virgil a look. Virgil, quick as greased lightning, grabs Cliff's hand and turns it palm up. He then whips out a butterfly knife and slices Cliff's palm open and pours Chivas Regal on the wound. Cliff screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti puffs on a Chesterfield. </p><p><p ID="act">Tooth-pic Vic returns to the trailer, and reports in Italian that there's nothing in the car. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil walks into the kitchen and gets a dishtowel. Cliff holds his bleeding palm in agony. Virgil hands him the dishtowel. Cliff uses it to wrap up his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Sicilians are great liars. The best in the world. I'm a Sicilian. And my old man was the world heavyweight champion of Sicilian liars. And from growin' up with him I learned the pantomime. Now there are seventeen different things a guy can do when he lies to give him away. A guy has seventeen pantomimes. A woman's got twenty, but a guy's got seventeen. And if you know 'em like ya know your own face, they beat lie detectors to hell. What we got here is a little game of show and tell. You don't wanna show me nothin'. But you're tellin' me everything. Now I know you know where they are. So tell me, before I do some damage you won't walk away from. </p><p><p ID="act">The awful pain in Cliff's hand is being replaced by the awful pain in his heart. He looks deep into Coccotti's eyes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Could I have one of those Chesterfields now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Sure. </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti leans over and hands him a smoke. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Got a match? </p><p><p ID="act">Cliff reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">Oh, don't bother. I got one. <P ID="spkdir">(he lights the cigarette) <P ID="dia">So you're a Sicilian, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="spkdir">(intensly) <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">You know I read a lot. Especially things that have to do with history. I find that shit fascinating. In fact, I don't know if you know this or not, Sicilians were spawned by niggers. </p><p><p ID="act">All the men stop what they were doing and look at Cliff, except for Tooth-pic Vic who doesn't speak English and so isn't insulted. Coccotti can't believe what he's hearing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Come again? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLIFF <P ID="dia">It's a fact. Sicilians have nigger blood pumpin' through their hearts. If you don't believe me, look it up. You see, hundreds and hundreds of years ago the Moors conquered Sicily. And Moors are niggers. Way back then, Sicilians were like the wops in northern Italy. Blond hair, blue eyes. But, once the Moors moved in there, they changed the whole country. They did so much fuckin' with the Sicilian women, they changed the blood-line for ever, from blond hair and blue eyes to black hair and dark skin. I find it absolutely amazing to think that to this day, hundreds of years later, Sicilians still carry that nigger gene. I'm just quotin' history. It's a fact. It's written. Your ancestors were niggers. Your great, great, great, great, great-grandmother was fucked by a nigger, and had a half-nigger kid. That is a fact. Now tell me, am I lyin'? </p><p><p ID="act">Coccotti looks at him for a moment then jumps up, whips out an automatic, grabs hold of Cliff's hair, puts the barrel to his temple, and pumps three bullets through Cliff's head. </p><p><p ID="act">He pushes the body violently aside. Coccotti pauses. Unable to express his feelings and frustrated by the blood in his hands, he simply drops his weapon, and turns to his men. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">I haven't killed anybody since 1974. Goddamn his soul to burn for eternity in fuckin' hell for makin' me spill blood on my hands! Go to this comedian's son's apartment and come back with somethin' that tells me where that asshole went so I can wipe this egg off of my face and fix this fucked-up family for good. </p><p><p ID="act">Tooth-pick Vic taps Frankie's shoulder and, in Italianm asks him what that was all about. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny, who has been going through Cliff's refridgerator, has found a beer. When he closes the refridgerator door he finds a note held on by a ceramic banana magnet that says: "Clarence in L.A.: Dick Ritchie (number and address)". </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Boss, get ready to get happy. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "CLARENCE AND ALABAMA HIT L.A." </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT- MORNING </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's asleep in a recliner. He's wearing his clothes from the night before. His room-mate FLOYD is lying on the sofa watching TV. </p><p><p ID="act">The sound of our hands knocking on his door wakes Dick up. He shakes the bats out of his belfry, opens the door, and finds the cutest couple in Los Angeles standing in his doorway. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama immediately start singing "Hello My Baby" like the frog in the old Chuck Jones cartoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE/ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Hello my baby, Hello my honey, Hello my ragtime gal - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hi guys. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama throws her arms around Dick, and gives him a quick kiss. After she breaks, Clarence does the same. Clarence and Alabama walk right past Dick and into his apartment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Wow. Neat place. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. PINK'S HOT-DOG STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The Pink's employees work like skilled Benihana chefs as they assemble the ultimate masterpiece hot-dog. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. PINK'S HOT-DOG STAND - PATIO - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, and Dick are sitting at an outdoor table chowing down on chili dogs. Alabama is in the middle of a story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">... when my mom went into labor, my dad panicked. He never had a kid before, and crashed the car. Now, picture this: their car's demolished, crowd is starting to gather, my mom is yelling, going into contractions, and my dad, who was losing it before, is now completely screaming yellow zonkers. Then, out of nowhere, as if from thin air, this big giant bus appears, and the bus-driver says, "Get her in here.". He forgot all about his route and just drove straight to the hospital. So, because he was such a nice guy, they wanted to name the baby after him, as a sign of gratitude. Well, his name was Waldo, and no matter how grateful they were, even if I'da been a boy, they would't call me Waldo. So they asked Waldo where he was from. And, so there you go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">And here we are. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">That's a pretty amazing story. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, she's a pretty amazing girl. What are women like out here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Just like in Detroit, only skinnier. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You goin' out? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, for the past couple of years I've been goin' out with girls from my acting class. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Good for you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What's so fuckin' good about it? Actresses are the most fucked-in-the-head bunch of women in the world. It's like they gotta pass a test of emotional instability before they can get their SAG card. Oh, guess what? I had a really good reading for "T.J. Hooker" the other day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You're gonna be on "T.J. Hooker"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Knock wood. </p><p><p ID="act">He knocks the table and then looks at it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">... formica. I did real well. I think she liked me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did you meet Captain Kirk? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You don't meet him in the audition. That comes later. Hope, hope. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(finishing her hot-dog) <P ID="dia">That was so good I am gonna have another. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You can't have just one. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama leaves to get another hot-dog. Clarence never takes his eyes off her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">How much of that letter was on the up and up? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Every word of it. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick sees where Clarence's attention is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You're really in love, aren't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">For the very first time in my life. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Do you know what that's like? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is so intense Dick doesn't know how to answer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(regretfully) <P ID="dia">No, I don't <P ID="spkdir">(he looks at Alabama) <P ID="dia">How did you two meet? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence leans back thoughtfully and takes a sip from his Hebrew cream soda. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you remember The Lyric? </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Sonny Chiba, as "Streetfighter" Terry Surki, drives into a group of guys, fists and feet flying and whips ass on the silver screen. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence sits, legs over the back of the chair in front of him, nibbling on popcorn, eyes big as sourcers, and a big smile on his face. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A cab pulls up to the outside of The Lyric. The marquee carries the names of the triple feature: "The Streetfighter", "Return of the Streetfighter" and "Sister Streetfighter". Alabama steps out of the taxi cab and walks up to the box office. </p><p><p ID="act">A box office girl reading comic looks at her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">One please. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BOX OFFICE GIRL <P ID="dia">Ninety-nine cents. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Which one is on now? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BOX OFFICE GIRL <P ID="dia">"Return of the Streetfighter". It's been on about forty-five minutes. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - LOBBY - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks into the lobby and goes over to the concession stand. A young usher takes care of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Can I have a medium popcorn? A super-large Mr. Pibb, and a box of Goobers. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's still assholes and elbows on the screen with Sonny Chiba taking on all-comers. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama walks through the doors with her bounty of food. She makes a quick scan of the theater. Not many people are there. She makes a beeline for the front whick happens to be Clarence's area of choice. She picks the row of seats just behind Clarence and starts asking her way down it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns and sees this beautiful girl all alone moving towards him. He turns his attention back to the screen, trying not to be so obvious. </p><p><p ID="act">When Alabama gets right behind Clarence, her foot thunks a discarded wine bottle, causing her to trip and spill her popcorn over Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, look what happened. Oh god, I'm so sorry. Are you OK? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. I'm fine. It didn't hurt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm the clumsiest person in the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(picking popcorn out of his hair) <P ID="dia">It's OK. Don't worry about it. Accidents happen. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(picking popcorn out of his hair) <P ID="dia">What a wonderful philosophy. Thanks for being such a sweetheart. You could have been a real dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama sits back in her seat to watch the movie. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence tries to wipe her out of his mind, which isn't easy, and get back into the movie. </p><p><p ID="act">They both watch the screen for a moment. Then, Alabama leans forward and taps Clarence on the shoulder. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Excuse me... I hate to bother you again. Would you mind too terribly filling me in on what I missed? </p><p><p ID="act">Jumping on this opportunity. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Not at all. I, this guy here, he's Sonny Chiba. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">The oriental. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The oriental in black. He's an assasin. Now, at the beginning he was hired to kill this guy the cops had. So he got himself arrested. They take him into the police station. And he starts kickin' all the cops' asses. Now, while keepin' them at bay, he finds the guy he was supposed to kill. Does a number on him. Kicks the cops' asses some more. Kicks the bars out of the window. And jumps out into a getaway car that was waiting for him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Want some Goobers? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I thought Sonny was the good guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He ain't so much good guy as he's just a bad motherfucker. Sonny don't be bullshittin'. He fucks dudes up for life. Hold on, a fight scene's coming up. </p><p><p ID="act">They both watch, eyes wide, as Sonny Chiba kicks asses. </p><p><p ID="right">TIME CUT: </p><p><p ID="act">On the screen, Sonny Chiba's all jacked up. Dead bodies lie all around him. THE END (in Japanese) flashes on the screen. </p><p><p ID="act">The theater light go up. Alabama's now sitting in the next seat to Clarence. They're both applauding. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Great movie. Action-packed! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Does Sonny kick ass or does Sonny kick ass? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sonny kicks ass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You shoulda saw the first original uncut version of the "Streetfighter". It was the only movie up to that time rated X for violence. But we just saw the R. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">If that was the R, I'd love to see the X. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">My name is Clarence, and what is yours? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Alabama Whitman. Pleased to meet ya. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is that your real name? Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">That's my real name, really. I got proof. See. </p><p><p ID="act">She shows Clarence her driver's license. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, cut my legs off and call me Shorty. That's a pretty original moniker there, Alabama. Sounds like a Pam Grier movie. <P ID="spkdir">(announcer voice) <P ID="dia">She's a sixteen-calibre kitten, equally equipped for killin' an' lovin'! She carried a sawed-off shotgun in her purse, a black belt around her waist, and the white-hot fire of hate in her eyes! Alabama Whitman is Pam Grier! Pray for forgiveness, Rated R... for Ruthless Revenge! </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. THE LYRIC THEATER - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are outside the theater. With the marquee lit up in the background they both perform unskilled martial arts moves. Clarence and Alabama break up laughing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Where's your car? I'll walk you to it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I took a cab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You took a cab to see three kung fu movies? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sure. Why not? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nothing. It's just you're a girl after my own heart. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What time is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">'Bout twelve. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I suppose you gotta get up early, huh? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No. Not particularly. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Well, it's just when I see a really good movie I really like to go out and get some pie, and talk about it. It's sort of tradition. Do you like to eat pie after you've seen a good movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I love to get pie after a movie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Would you like to get some pie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'd love some pie. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DENNY'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are sitting in a booth at an all-night Denny's. It's about 12:40 a.m. Clarence is having a piece of chocolate cream pie and a coke. Alabama's nibbling on a peace of heated apple pie and sipping on a large Tab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, enough about the King. How about you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How 'bout me what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell me about yourself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">There's nothing to tell. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">C'mon. What're ya tryin' to be? The Phantom Lady? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What do you want to know? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, for starters, what do you do? Where're ya from? What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite movie star? What kinda music do you like? What are your turn-ons and turn-offs? Do you have a fella? What's the story behind you takin' a cab to the most dangerous part of town alone? And, in a theater full of empty seats, why did you sit by me? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama takes a bite of pie, puts down her fork, and looks at Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Ask me them again. One by one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What do you do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't remember. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Where are you from. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Might be from Tallahassee. But I'm not sure yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's your favorite color? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't remember. But off the top of my head, I'd say black. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's your favorite movie star? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Burt Reynolds. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Would you like a bite of my pie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yes, I would. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence scoops up a piece on his fork and Alabama bites it off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Very much. Now, where were we? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What kinda music do you like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Phil Spector. Girl group stuff. You know, like "He's a Rebel". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What are your turn-ons? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Mickey Rourke, somebody who can appreciate the finer things in life, like Elvis's voice, good kung fu, and a tasty piece of pie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Turn-offs? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm sure there must be something, but I don't really remember. The only thing that comes to mind are Persians. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you have a fella? </p><p><p ID="act">She looks at Clarence and smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm not sure yet. Ask me again later. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's the story behind you takin' a cab to the most dangerous part of town alone? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Apparently, I was hit on the head with something really heavy, giving me a form of amnesia. When I came to, I didn't know who I was, where I was, or where I came from. Luckily, I had my driver's license or I wouldn't even know my name. I hoped it would tell me where I lived but it had a Tallahassee address on it, and I stopped somebody on the street and they told me I was in Detroit. So that was no help. But I did have some money on me, so I hopped in a cab until I saw somethin' that looked familiar. For some reason, and don't ask me why, that theater looked familiar. So I told him to stop and I got out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">And in a theater full of empty seats, why did you sit by me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Because you looked like a nice guy, and I was a little scared. And I sure couldda used a nice guy about that time, so I spilled my popcorn on you. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at her closely. He picks up his soda and sucks on the straw until it makes that slurping sound. He puts it aside and stares into her soul. </p><p><p ID="act">A smile cracks on her face and develops into a big wide grin. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Aren't you just dazzled by my imagination, lover boy? <P ID="spkdir">(eats her last piece of pie) <P ID="dia">Where to next? </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. COMIC BOOK STORE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's about 1:30 a.m. Clarence has taken Alabama to where he works. It's a comic book store called Heroes For Sale. Alabama thinks this place is super-cool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Wow. What a swell place to work. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, I got the key, so I come here at night, hang out, read comic books, play music. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How long have you worked here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Almost four years. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">That's a long time. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm hip. But you know, I'm comfortable here. It's easy work. I know what I'm doing. Everybody who works here is my buddy. I'm friendly with most of the customers. I just hang around and talk about comic books all day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Do you get paid a lot? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's where trouble comes into paradise. But the boss let's you borrow some money if you need it. Wanna see what "Spiderman" number one looks like? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You bet. How much is that worth? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence gets a box off the shelf. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Four hundred bucks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I didn't even know they had stores that just sold comic books. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, we sell other things too. Cool stuff. "Man from U.N.C.L.E." Lunch boxes. "Green Hornet" board games. Shit like that. But comic books are main business. There's a lot of collectors around here. </p><p><p ID="act">She holds up a little GI Joe sized action figure of a black policeman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's a "Rookies" doll. George Sanford Brown. We gotta lotta dolls. They're real cool. Did you know they came out with dolls for all the actors in "The Black Hole"? I always found it funny somewhere there's a kid playin' with a little figure of Earnest Borgnine. </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls a plastic-cased "Spiderman" comic form the box. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Spiderman", number one. The one that started it all. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence shows the comic book to Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">God, Spiderman looks different. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">He was just born, remember? This is the first one. You know that guy, Dr. Gene Scott? He said that the story of Spiderman is the story of Christ, just disguised. Well, I thought about that even before I heard him say it. Hold on, let me show you my favorite comic book cover of all time. </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls out another comic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos". One of the coolest series known to man. They're completely worthless. You can get number one for about four bucks. But that's one of the cool things about them, they're so cheap. <P ID="spkdir">(he opens one up) <P ID="dia">Just look at that artwork, will ya. Great stories. Great Characters. Look at this one. </p><p><p ID="act">We see the "Sgt. Fury" panels. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Nick's gotten a ring from his sweetheart and he wears it around his neck on a chain. OK, later in the story he gets into a fight with a Nazi bastard on a ship. He knocks the guy overboard, but the Kraut grabs ahold of his chain and the ring goes overboard too. So, Nick dives into the ocean to get it. Isn't that cool? </p><p><p ID="act">She's looking into Clarence's eyes. He turns and meets her gaze. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Alabama, I'd like you to have this. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence hands her the "Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos" comic book that he loves so much. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's bedroom is a pop culture explosion. Movie posters, pictures of Elvis, anything you can imagine. The two walk through the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What a cool room! </p><p><p ID="act">She runs and does a jumping somersault into his bed. </p><p><p ID="act">Later. Alabama's sitting Indian-style going through Clarence's photo album. Clarence is behind her planting little kisses on her neck and shoulders. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oooooh, you look so cute in your little cowboy outfit. How old were you then? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Five. </p><p><p ID="act">She turns the page. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Oh, you look so cute as little Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I finally knew what I wanted when I grew up. </p><p><p ID="act">LATER - LIVING ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama slow dance in the middle of his room to Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know when you sat behind me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">At the movies? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Uh-huh, I was tryin' to think of somethin' to say to you, then I thought, she doesn't want me bothering her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What would make you think that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I dunno. I guess I'm just stupid. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You're not stupid. Just wrong. </p><p><p ID="act">They move to the music. Alabama softly, quietly sings some of the words to the song. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I love Janis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, a lot of people have misconceptions of how she died. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">She OD'd, didn't she? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, she OD'd. But wasn't on her last legs or anythin'. She didn't take too much. It shouldn't have killed her. There was somethin' wrong with what she took. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You mean she got a bad batch? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's what happened. In fact, when she died, it was considered to be the happiest time of her life. She'd been fucked over so much by men she didn't trust them. She was havin' this relationship with this guy and he asked her to marry him. Now, other people had asked to marry her before, but she couldn't be sure whether they really loved her or were just after her money. So, she said no. And the guy says, "Look, I really love you, and I wanna prove it. So have your lawyers draw up a paper that says no matter what happens, I can never get any of your money, and I'll sign it." So she did, and he asked her, and she said yes. And once they were engaged he told her a secret about himself that she never knew: he was a millionaire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">So he really loved her? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">It's the next day, around 1 p.m. Clarence wakes up in his bed, alone. He looks around, and no Alabama. Then he hears crying in the distance. He puts on a robe and investigates. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's wearing one of Clarence's old shirts. She's curled up in a chair crying. Clarence approaches her. She tries to compose herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's wrong, sweetheart? Did I do something? What did I do? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You didn't do nothing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did you hurt yourself? <P ID="spkdir">(he takes her foot) <P ID="dia">Whatd'ya do? Step on a thumbtack? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence, I've got something to tell you. I didn't just happen to be at the theater. I was paid to be there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What are you, a theater checker? You check up on the box office girls. Make sure they're not rippin' the place off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm not a theater checker. I'm a call girl. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You're a whore? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm a call girl. There's a difference, ya know. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't know. Maybe there's not. That place you took me to last night, that comic book place. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">"Heroes For Sale"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yeah, that one. Somebody who works there arranged to have me meet you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't know. I didn't talk with them. The plan was for me to bump into you, pick you up, spend the night, and skip out after you fell asleep. I was gonna write you a note and say that this was my last day in America. That I was leaving on a plane this morning up to Ukraine to marry a rich millionaire, and thank you for making my last day in America my best day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That dazzling imagination. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's over on the TV. All it says is: "Dear Clarence." I couldn't write anymore. I didn't not want to ever see you again. In fact, it's stupid not to ever see you again. Las night... I don't know... I felt... I hadn't had that much fun since Girl Scouts. So I just said, "Alabama, come clean, Let him know what's what, and if he tells you to go fuck yourself then go back to Drexl and fuck yourself." </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Who and what is a Drexl? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">My pimp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You have a pimp? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A real live pimp? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he black? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">He thinks he is. He says his mother was Apache, but I suspect he's lying. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he nice? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Well, I wouldn't go so far as to call him nice, but he's treated me pretty decent. But I've only been there about four days. He got a little rough with Arlene the other day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What did he do to Arlene? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Slapped her around a little. Punched her in the stomch. It was pretty scary. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This motherfucker sounds charming! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is on his feet, furious. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Goddamn it, Alabama, you gotta get the fuck outta there! How much longer before he's slappin' you around? Punchin' you in the stomach? How the fuck did you get hooked up with a douche-bag like this in the first place? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">At the bus station. He said I'd be a perfect call girl. And that he knew an agency in California that, on his recommendation, would handle me. They have a very exclusive clientele: movie stars, big businessmen, total white-collar. And all the girls in the agency get a grand a night. At least five hundred. They drive Porsches, live in condos, have stockbrokers, carry beepers, you know, like Nancy Allen in "Dressed to Kill". And when I was ready he'd call 'em, give me a plane ticket, and send me on my way. He says he makes a nice finder's fee for finding them hot prospects. But no one's gonna pay a grand a night for a girl who doesn't know whether to shit or wind her watch. So what I'm doin' for Drexl now is just sorta learnin' the ropes. It seemed like a lotta fun, but I don't really like it much, till last night. You were only my third trick, but you didn't feel like a trick. Since it was a secret, I just pretended I was on a date. An, um, I guess I want a second date. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank you. I wanna see you again too. And again, and again, and again. Bama, I know we haven't known each other long, but my parents went together all throughout high school, and they still got a divorce. So, fuck it, you wanna marry me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Will you be my wife? </p><p><p ID="act">When Alabama gives her answer, her voice cracks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(a little surprised) <P ID="dia">You will? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You better not be fucking teasing me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You better not be fuckin' teasin' me. </p><p><p ID="act">They seal it with a kiss. </p><p><p ID="act">LATER - THAT NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Alabama's wedding ring. </p><p><p ID="act">The newlyweds are snuggling up together onthe couch watching TV. The movie they're watching is "The Incredible One-Armed Boxer vs. the Master of the Flying Guillotine". Alabama watches the screen, but every so often she looks down to admre the ring on her hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Did ya ever see "The Chinese Professionals"? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I don't believe so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, that's the one that explains how Jimmy Wang Yu became the Incredible One-Armed Boxer. </p><p><p ID="act">We hear, off screen, the TV Announcer say: </p><p><P ID="speaker">TV ANNOUNCER <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">We'll return to Jimmy Wang Yu in... "The Incredible One-Armed Boxer vs. the Master of the Flying Guillotine", tonight's eight o'clock movie, after these important messages... </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at the TV. He feels the warmth of Alabama's hand holding his. We see commercials playing. </p><p><p ID="act">He turns in her direction. She's absent-mindedly looking at her wedding ring. </p><p><p ID="act">He smiles and turns back to the TV. </p><p><p ID="act">More commercials. </p><p><p ID="act">Dolly close on Clarence's face </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, right after he proposed. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You better not be fucking teasing me. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">In a cute, all-night wedding chapel. Clarence dressed in a rented tuxedo and Alabama in a rented white wedding gown. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama, dressed in tux and gown, doing a lover's waltz on a ballroom dance floor. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama in a taxi cab. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Hello, Mrs. Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How do you do, Mr. Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Top o' the morning, Mrs. Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bottom of the ninth . Mr. Worley. Oh, by the by, Mr. Worley, have you seen your lovely wife today? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh, you're speaking of my charming wife Mrs. Alabama Worley. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Of course. Are there others, Mr. Worley? </p><p><p ID="act">Moving on top of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Not for me. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts kissing her and moving her down on the seat. She resists. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(playfully) <P ID="dia">No no no no no no no no no... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(playfully) <P ID="dia">Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes... </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">A big mean-looking black man in pimp's clothes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">Bitch, you better git yo ass back on the street an' git me my money. </p><p><p ID="act">Pimp on street corner with his arm around Alabama, giving her a sales pitch to a potential customer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">I'm tellin' you, my man, this bitch is fine. This girl's a freak! You can fuck 'er in the ass, fuck 'er in the mouth. Rough stuff, too. She's a freak for it. Jus' try not to fuck 'er up for life. </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Pimp beating Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">You holdin' out on me, girl? Bitch, you never learn! </p><p><p ID="right">FLASH ON: </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama passionately kissing the uninterested pimp. </p><p><P ID="speaker">PIMP <P ID="dia">Hang it up, momma. I got no time for this bullshit. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">TV showing kung fu film. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's face. There's definitely something different about his eyes. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence springs off the couch and goes into his bedroom. Alabama's startled by his sudden movement. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(yelling after him) <P ID="dia">Where you goin', honey? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I just gotta get somethin'. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence splashes water on his face, trying to wash away the images that keep polluting his mind. Then, he hears a familiar voice. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FAMILIAR VOICE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">Well? Can you live with it? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence turns and sees that the voice belongs to Elvis Presley. Clarence isn't surprised to see him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Can you live with it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Live with what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">With that son-of-a-bitch walkin' around breathin' the same air as you? And gettin' away with it every day. Are you haunted? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">You wanna get unhaunted? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Then shoot 'em. Shoot 'em in the face. And feed that boy to the dogs. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I can't believe what you're tellin' me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I ain't tellin' ya nothin'. I'm just sayin' what I'd do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You'd really do that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">He don't got no right to live. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, Elvis, he is hauntin' me. He doesn't deserve to live. And I do want to kill him. But I don't wanna go to jail for the rest of my life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I don't blame you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">If I thought I could get away with it - </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Killin' 'em's the hard part. Gettin' away with it's the easy part. Whaddaya think the cops do when a pimp's killed? Burn the midnight oil tryin' to find who done it? They couldn't give a flyin' fuck if all the pimps in the whole wide world took two in the back of the fuckin' head. If you don't get caught at the scene with the smokin' gun in your hand, you got away with it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence looks at Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Clarence, I like ya. Always have, always will. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - A snub-nosed .38, which Clarence loads and sticks down his heavy athletic sock. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CALRENCE'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence returns. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sweetheart, write down your former address. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Write down Drexl's address. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Why? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">So I can go over there and pick up your things. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(really scared) <P ID="dia">No, Clarence. Just forget it, babe. I just wanna disappear from there. </p><p><p ID="act">He kneels down before her and holds her hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, sweetheart, he scares you. But I'm not scared of that motherfucker. He can't touch you now. You're completely out of his reach. He poses absolutely no threat to us. So, if he doesn't matter, which he doesn't, it would be stupid to lose your things, now wouldn't it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You don't know him - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't know me. Not when it comes to shit like this. I have to do this. I need for you to know you can count on me to protect you. Now write down the address. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "CASS QUARTER, HEART OF DETROIT" </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. DOWNTOWN DETROIT STREET - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">It's pretty late at night. Clarence steps out of his red Mustang. He's right smack dab in the middle of a bad place to be in daytime. He checks the pulse on his neck; it's beating like a race horse. To pump himself up he does a quick Elvis Presley gyration. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(in Elvis voice) <P ID="dia">Yeah... Yeah... </p><p><p ID="act">He makes a beeline for the front door of a large, dark apartment building. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DARK BUILDING - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">He's inside. His heart's really racing now. He has the TV guide that Alabama wrote the address on in his hand. He climbs a flight of stairs and makes his way down a dark hallway to apartment 22, the residence of Drexl Spivey. Clarence knock on the door. </p><p><p ID="act">A Young Black Man, about twenty years old, answers the door. He has really big biceps and is wearing a black and white fishnet football jersey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG BLACK MAN <P ID="dia">You want somethin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Drexl? </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG BLACK MAN <P ID="dia">Naw, man, I'm Marty. Watcha want? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I gotta talk to Drexl. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Well, what the fuck you wanna tell him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It's about Alabama. </p><p><p ID="act">A figure jumps in the doorway wearing a yellow Farah Fawcett T-shirt. It's our friend, Drexl Spivey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Where the fuck is that bitch? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">She's with me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Who the fuck are you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm her husband. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Well. That makes us practically related. Bring your ass on in. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DREXL'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Marty about-face and walk into the room, continuing a conversation they were having and leaving Clarence standing in the doorway. This is not the confrontation Clarence expected. He trails in behind Drexl and Marty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">What was I sayin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Rock whores. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">You ain't seen nothin' like these rock whores. They ass be young man. They got that fine young pussy. Bitches want the rock they be a freak for you. They give you hips, lips, and fingertips. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl looks over his shoulder at Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You know what I'm talkin' about. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl gestures to one of the three stoned Hookers lounging about the apartment. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">These bitches over here ain't shit. You stomp them bitches to death to get the kind of pussy I'm talkin' about. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl sits down at a couch with a card table in front of it, scattered with take-out boxes of Chinese food. A black exploitation movie is playing on TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Looky here, you want the bitches to really fly high, make your rocks with Cherry Seven-Up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Pussy love pink rocks. </p><p><p ID="act">This is not how Clarence expected to confront Drexl, but this is exactly what he expected Drexl to be like. He positions himself in front of the food table, demanding Drexl's attention. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(eating with chopsticks, to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Grab a seat there, boy. Want some dinner? Grab yourself an egg roll. We got everything here from a diddle-eyed-Joe to a damned-if-I-know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No thanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">No thanks? What does that mean? Means you ate before you came down here? All full. Is that it? Naw, I don't think so. I think you're too scared to be eatin'. Now, see we're sittin' down here, ready to negotiate, and you've already given up your shit. I'm still a mystery to you. But I know exactly where your ass is comin' from. See, if I asked you if you wanted some dinner and you grabbed an egg roll and started to chow down, I'd say to myself, "This motherfucker's carryin' on like he ain't got a care in the world. Who know? Maybe he don't. Maybe this fool's such a bad motherfucker, he don't got to worry about nothin', he just sit down, eat my Chinese, watch my TV." See? You ain't even sat down yet. On that TV there, since you been in the room, is a woman with her titties hangin' out, and you ain't even bothered to look. You just been starin' at me. Now, I know I'm pretty, but I ain't as pretty as a couple of titties. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes out an envelope and throws it on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not eatin' 'cause I'm not hungry. I'm not sittin' 'cause I'm not stayin'. I'm not lookin' at the movie 'cause I saw it seven years ago. It's "The Mack" with Max Julian, Carol Speed, and Richard Pryor, written by Bobby Poole, directed by Michael Campus, and released by Cinerama Releasing Company in 1984. I'm not scared of you. I just don't like you. In that envelope is some payoff money. Alabama's moving on to some greener pastures. We're not negotiatin'. I don't like to barter. I don't like to dicker. I never have fun in Tijuana. That price is non-negotiable. What's in that envelope is for my peace of mind. My peace of mind is worth that much. Not one penny more, not one penny more. </p><p><p ID="act">You could hear a pin drop. Once Clarence starts talking Marty goes on full alert. Drexl stops eating and the Whores stop breathing. All eyes are on Drexl. Drexl drops his chopsticks and opens the envelope. It's empty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">It's empty. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence flashes a wide Cheshire cat grin that says, "That's right, asshole." </p><p><p ID="act">Silence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Oooooooooh weeeeeeee! This child is terrible. Marty, you know what we got here? Motherfuckin' Charles Bronson. Is that who you supposed to be? Mr. Majestyk? Looky here, Charlie, none of this shit is necessary. I ain't got no hold on Alabama. I just tryin' to lend the girl a helpin' hand - </p><p><p ID="act">Before Drexl finishes his sentence he picks up the card table and throws it at Clarence, catching him of guard. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty comes up behind Clarence and throws his arm around his neck, putting him in a tight choke hold. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, with his free arm, hits Marty hard with his elbow in the solar plexus. We'll never know if that blow had any effect because at just that moment Drexl takes a flying leap and tackles the two guys. </p><p><p ID="act">All of them go crashing into the stereo unit and a couple of shelves that hold records, all of which collapse to the floor in a shower of LPs. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty, who's on the bottom of the pile, hasn't let go of Clarence. </p><p><p ID="act">Since Drexl's on top, he starts slamming fists into Clarence's face. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who's sandwiched between these two guys, can't do a whole lot about it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Ya wanna fuck with me? <P ID="spkdir">(hits Clarence) <P ID="dia">Ya wanna fuck with me? <P ID="spkdir">(hits Clarence) <P ID="dia">I'll show ya who you're fuckin' wit! </p><p><p ID="act">He hits Clarence hard in the face with both fists. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who has no leverage whatsoever, grabs hold of Drexl's face and digs his nails in. He sticks his thumb in Drexl's mouth, grabs a piece of cheek, and starts twisting. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty, who's in an even worse position, can do nothing but tighten his grip aroud Clarence's neck, until Clarence feels like his eyes are going to pop out of his head. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl's face is getting torn up, but he's also biting down hard on Clarence's thumb. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence raises his head and brings it down fast, crunching Marty's face, and busting his nose. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty loosens his grip around Clarence's neck. Clarence wiggles free and gets up on his knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl and Clarence are now on an even but awkward footing. The two are going at each other like a pair of alley cats, not aiming their punches, keeping them coming fast and furious. They're not doing much damage to each other because of their positions, it's almost like a hockey fight. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty sneaks up behind Clarence and smashes him in the head with a stack of LPs. This disorients Clarence. Marty grabs him from behind and pulls him to his feet. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl socks him in the face: one, two three! Then he kicks him hard in the balls. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty lets go and Clarence hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. He curls up into a fetal position and holds his balls, tears coming out of his eyes. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl's face is torn up from Clarence's nails. </p><p><p ID="act">Marty has blood streaming down his face frim his nose and on to his shirt. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">You OK? That stupid dumb-ass didn't break your nose, did he? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="dia">Naw. It don't feel too good but it's alright. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl kicks Clarence, who's still on the ground hurting. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You see what you get when you fuck wit me, white boy? You're gonna walk in my goddamn house, my house! Gonna come in here and tell me! Talkin' smack, in my house, in front of my employees. Shit! Your ass must be crazy. <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">I don't think that white boy's got good sense. Hey, Marty. <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">He must of thought it was white boy day. It ain't white boy day, is it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">Naw, man, it ain't white boy day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Shit, man, you done fucked up again. Next time you bogart your way into a nigger's crib, an' get all his face, make sure you do it on white boy day. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(hurting) <P ID="dia">Wannabee nigger... </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Fuck you! My mother was Apache. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl kicks him again. Clarence curls up. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl bends down and looks for Clarence's wallet in his jacket. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence still can't do much. The kick to his balls still has him down. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl finds it and pulls it out. He flips it open to driver's license. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Well, well, well, looky what we got here. Clarence Worley. Sounds almost like a nigger name. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Hey, dummy. </p><p><p ID="act">He puts his foot on Clarence's chest. Clarence's POV as he looks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Before you bought your dumb ass through the door, I didn't know shit. I just chalked it up to au revoir Alabama. But, because you think you're some macho motherfucker, I know who she's with. You. I know who you are, Clarence Worley. And, I know where you live, 4900 116th street, apartment 48. And I'll make a million-dollar bet, Alabama's at the same address. Marty, take the car and go get 'er. Bring her dumb ass back here. </p><p><p ID="act">He hands Marty the driver's license. Maty goes to get the car keys and a jacket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="spkdir">(to Marty) <P ID="dia">I'll keep lover boy here entertained. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">You know the first thing I'll do when she gets here. I think I'll make her suck my dick, and I'll come all in her face. I mean it ain't nuttin' new. She's done it before. But I want you as a audience. <P ID="spkdir">(hollering to Marty) <P ID="dia">Marty, what the fuck are you doin'? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I'm tryin' to find my jacket. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DREXL <P ID="dia">Look in the hamper. Linda's been dumpin' everybody's stray clothes there lately. </p><p><p ID="act">While Drexl has his attention turned to Marty, Clarence reaches into his sock and pulls out the .38. he stick the barrel between Drexl's legs. Drexl, who's standing over Clarence, looks down just in time to see Clarence pull the trigger and blow his balls to bits. Tiny spots of blood speckle Clarence's face. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl shrieks in horror and pain, and falls to the ground. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARTY <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">What's happening? </p><p><p ID="act">Marty steps into the room. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence doesn't hesitate, he shoots Marty four times in the chest. </p><p><p ID="act">Two of three Hookers have run out of the front door, screaming. The other Hooker is curled up in the corner. She's too stoned to run, but stoned enough to be terrified. </p><p><p ID="act">Drexl, still alive, is laying on the ground howling, holding what's left of his balls and his dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence points the gun at the remaining Hooker. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Get a bag and put Alabama's thing in it! </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't move. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You wanna get shot? I ain't got all fuckin' day, so move it! </p><p><p ID="act">The Hooker, tears of fear ruining her mascara, grabs a suitcase from under the bed, and, on her hands and knees, pushes it along the floor to Clarence. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes it by the handle and wobbles over to Drexl, who's curled up like a pillbug. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Clarence's forgotten driver's license in Marty's bloody hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts his foot on Drexl's chest. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Drexl) <P ID="dia">Open you eyes, laughing boy. </p><p><p ID="act">He doesn't. Clarence gives him a kick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Open your eyes! </p><p><p ID="act">He does. It's now Drexl's POV from the floor. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You thought it was pretty funny, didn't you? </p><p><p ID="act">He fires. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - The bullet comes out of the gun and heads right toward us. When it reaches us, the screen goes awash in red. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. CLARENCE'S APARTMENT - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">The front swings open and Clarence walks in. Alabama jumps off the couch and runs toward Clarence, before she reaches him he blurts out: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I killed him. </p><p><p ID="act">She stops short. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I've got some food in the car, I'll be right back. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence leaves. Except for the TV playing, the room is quiet. Alabama sits on the couch. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks back into the room with a whole bounty of take-out food. He heaps it on to the coffee table and starts to chow down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Help yourself. I got enough. I am fuckin' starvin'. I think I ordered one of everythin'. </p><p><p ID="act">He stops and looks at here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I am so hungry. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts eating french fries and hamburgers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(in a daze) <P ID="dia">Was it him or you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah. But to be honest, I put myself in that position. When I drove up there I said to myself, "If I can kill 'em and get away with it, I'll do it." I could. So I did. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Is this a joke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No joke. This is probably the best hamburger I've ever had. I'm serious, I've never had a hamburger taste this good. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama starts to cry. Clarence continues eating, ignoring her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Come on, Bama, eat something. You'll feel better. </p><p><p ID="act">She continues crying. He continues eating and ignoring her. Finally he spins on her, yelling: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Why are you crying? He's not worth one of your tears. Would you rather it had been me? Do you love him? <P ID="spkdir">(no answer) <P ID="dia">Do you love him? <P ID="spkdir">(no answer) <P ID="dia">Do you love him? </p><p><p ID="act">She looks at Clarence, having a hard time getting a word out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think what you did was... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think what you did... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">... was so romantic. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is completely taken back. They meet in a long, passionate lovers' kiss. Their kiss breaks and slowly the world comes back to normal. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I gotta get outta these clothes. </p><p><p ID="act">He picks up the suitcase and drops it on the table in front of them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(comically) <P ID="dia">Clean clothes. There is a god, </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence flips open the suitcase. Alabama's and her husband's jaws drop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Clarence. Those aren't my clothes. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We see the Hollywood Holiday Inn sign. Pan to the parking lot where Clarence's empty red Mustang is parked. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CALRENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Dick's jaw drops. His hand reaches out of shot. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - The reason for all the jaw dropping... the suitcase is full of cocaine! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence smiles, holding a bottle of wine. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's watching the cable TV. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Holy Mary, Mother of God. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">This is great, we got cable. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">Bama, you got your blade? </p><p><p ID="act">Keeping her eyes on the TV, she pulls out from her purse a Swiss army knife with a tiny dinosaur on it and tosses it to Clarence. Clarence takes off the corkscrew and opens the wine. </p><p><p ID="act">He pours some wine into a couple of hotel plastic cups, a big glass for Dick, a little one for himself. He hands it to Dick. Dick takes it and drinks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">This shit can't be real. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It'll get ya high. </p><p><p ID="act">He tosses the knife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do you want some wine, sweetheart? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Nope. I'm not really a wine gal. </p><p><p ID="act">Using the knife, Dick snorts some of the cocaine. He jumps back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's fuckin' real! <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">It's fuckin' real! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I certainly hope so. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You've got a helluva lotta coke there, man! </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I know. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you have any idea how much fuckin' coke you got? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Tell me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I don't know! A fuckin' lot! </p><p><p ID="act">He downs his wine. Clarence fills his glass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">This is Drexl's coke? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Drexl's dead. This is Clarence's coke and Clarence can do whatever he wants with it. And what Clarence wants to do is sell it. Then me and Bama are gonna leave on a jet plane and spend the rest of our lives spendin'. So, you got my letter, have you lined up any buyers? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, Clarence, I'm not Joe Cocaine. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick gulps half of his wine. Clarence fills up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But you're an actor. I hear these Hollywood guys have it delivered to the set. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, they do. And maybe when I start being a successful actor I'll know those guys. But most of the people I know are like me. They ain't got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Now, if you want to sell a little bit at a time - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No way! The whole enchilada in one shot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you have any idea how difficult that's gonna be? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm offering a half a million dollars worth of white for two hundred thousand. How difficult can that be? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">It's difficult because you're sellin' it to a particular group. Big shots. Fat cats. Guys who can use that kind of quantity. Guys who can afford two hundred thousand. Basically, guys I don't know. You don't know. And, more important, they don't know you. I did talk with one guy who could possibly help you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Is he big league? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">He's nothing. He's in my acting class. But he works as an assistant to a very powerful movie producer named Lee Donowitz. I thought Donowitz could be interested in a deal like this. He could use it. He could afford it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What'd'ya tell 'em? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Hardly anything. I wasn't sure from your letter what was bullshit, and what wasn't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's this acting class guy's name? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Elliot what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Elliot Blitzer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK, call 'im up and arrange a meeting, so we can get through all the getting to know you stuff. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Where? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Alabama) <P ID="dia">The zoo. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">The zoo. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">What are you waiting for? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Would you just shut up a minute and let me think? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's to think about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Shut up! First you come waltzing into my life after two years. You're married. You killed a guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Two guys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Two guys. Now you want me to help you with some big drug deal. Fuck, Clarence, you killed somebody and you're blowin' it off like it don't mean shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't expect me to be all broken up over poor Drexl. I think he was a fuckin', freeloadin', parasitic scumbag, and he got exactly what he deserved. I got no pity for a mad dog like that. I think I should get a merit badge or somethin'. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick rests his head in his hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Look, buddy, I realize I'm layin' some pretty heavy shit on ya, but I need you to rise to the occasion. So, drink some more wine. Get used to the idea, and get your friend to the phone. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - A black panther, the four-legged kind, paces back and forth. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, Dick and Elliot Blitzer are walking through the zoo. One look at Elliot and you can see what type of actor he is, a real GQ, blow-dry boy. As they walk and talk, Clarence is eating a box of animal crackers and Alabama is blowing soap bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">So you guys got five hundred thousand dollars worth of cola that you're unloading - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Want an animal cracker? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah, OK. </p><p><p ID="act">He takes one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Leave the gorillas. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">- that you're unloading for two hundred thousand dollars - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Unloading? That's a helluva way to describe the bargain of a lifetime. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(trying to chill him out) <P ID="dia">Clarence... </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Where did you get it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I grow it on my window-sill. The lights really great there and I'm up high enough so you can't see it from the street. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(forcing a laugh) <P ID="dia">Ha ha ha. No really, where does it come from? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Coco leaves. You see, they take the leaves and mash it down until it's kind of a paste - </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(turning to Dick) <P ID="dia">Look, Dick, I don't - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">No problem, Elliot. I'm just fuckin' wit ya, that's all. Actually, I'll tell you but you gotta keep it quiet. Understand, if Dick didn't assure me you're good people I'd just tell ya, none of your fuckin' business. But, as a sign of good faith, here it goes: I gotta friend in the department. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What department? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What do you think, eightball? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">The police department? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Duh. What else would I be talking about? Now stop askin' stupid doorknob questions. Well, a year and a half ago, this friend of mine got access to the evidence room for an hour. He snagged this coke. But, he's a good cop with a wife and a kid, so he sat on it for a year and a half until he found a guy he could trust. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">He trusts you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We were in Four H together. We've known each other since childhood. So, I'm handling the sales part. He's my silent partner and he knows if I get fucked up, I won't drop dime on him. I didn't tell you nothin' and you didn't hear nothin'. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Sure. I didn't hear anything. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is more than satisfied. Clarence makes a comical face at Dick when Elliot's not looking. Dick is wearing I-don't-believe-this-guy expresion. Alabama is forever blowing bubbles. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - SNACK BAR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We're in the snack bar area of the zoo. Alabama, Dick, and Elliot are sitting around a plastic outdoor table. Clarence is pacing around the table as he talks. Alabama is still blowing bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">Do I look like a beautiful blond with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice-cream? </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot hasn't the slightest idea what that is supposed to mean. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Do I look like a beautiful blond with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice-cream? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(with conviction) <P ID="dia">No. No, you don't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Then why are you telling me all this bullshit just so you can fuck me? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence... </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Dick) <P ID="dia">Let me handle this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Get it straight, Lee isn't into taking risks. He deals with a couple of guys, and he's been dealing with them for years. They're reliable. They're dependable. And, they're safe. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Riddle me this, Batman. If you're all so much in love with each other, what the fuck are you doing here? I'm sure you got better things to do with your time than walk around in circles starin' up a panther's ass. Your guy's interested because with that much shit at his fingertips he can play Joe fuckin' Hollywood till the wheels come off. He can sell it, he can snort it, he can play Santa Claus with it. At the price he's payin', he'll be everybody's best friend. And, you know, that's what we're talkin' about here. I'm not puttin' him down. Hey, let him run wild. Have a ball, it's his money. But, don't expect me to hang around forever waitin' for you guys to grow some guts. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot has been silenced. He nods his head in agreement. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. PORSCHE - MOVING - MULHOLLAND DRIVE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Movie producer, Lee Donowitz, is driving his Porsche through the winding Hollywood hills, just enjoying being rich and powerful. His cellular car phone rings, he answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Hello. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Elliot, it's Sunday. Why am I talkin' to you on Sunday? I don't see enough of you during the week I gotta talk to you on Sunday? Why is it you always call me when I'm on the windiest street in L.A.? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is on the zoo payphone. Clarence is next to him. Dick is next to Clarence. Alabama is next to Dick, blowing bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(on phone) <P ID="dia">I'm with that party you wanted me to get together with. Do you know what I'm talking about, Lee? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Store-fronts whiz by in the background. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Why the hell are you calling my phone to talk about that? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Well, he'd here right now, and he insists on talking to you. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">In the 7th street tunnel. Lee's voice echoes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Are you outta your fuckin' mind? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELLIOT </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You said if I didn't get you on the - </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes the receiverout of Elliot's hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(into phone) <P ID="dia">Hello, Lee, it's Clarence. At last we meet. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil's knocking on Dick's door. Floyd (Dick's room-mate) answers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Hello, is Dick Ritchie here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw, he ain't home right now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Do you live here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yeah, I live here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Sorta room-mates? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Exactly room-mates. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Maybe you can help me. Actually, who I'm looking for is a friend of ours from Detroit. Clarence Worley? I heard he was in town. Might be travelling with a pretty girl named Alabama. Have you seen him? Are they stayin' here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Naw, they ain't stayin' here. But, I know who you're talkin' about. They're stayin' at the Hollywood Holiday Inn. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">How do you know? You been there? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">No, I ain't been there. But I heard him say. Hollywood Holiday Inn. Kinda easy to remember. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You're right. It is. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LOS ANGELES ZOO - PAYPHONE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is still on the phone with Lee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Lee, the reason I'm talkin' with you is I want to open "Doctor Zhivago" in L.A. And I want you to distribute it. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Stopped in the traffic on Sunset Boulevard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I don't know, Clarence, "Doctor Zhivago" is a pretty big movie. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The biggest. The biggest movie you've ever dealt with, Lee. We're talkin' a lot of film. A man'd have ta be an idiot not to be a little cautious about a movie like that. And Lee, you're no idiot. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">He's still on Sunset Boulevard, the traffic's moving better now. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I'm not sayin' I'm not interested. But being a distributer's not what I'm all about. I'm a film producer, I'm on this world to make good movies. Nothing more. Now, having my big toe dipped into the distribution end helps me on many levels. </p><p><p ID="act">Traffic breaks and Lee speeds along. The background whizzes past him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(continuing) <P ID="dia">But the bottom line is: I'm not Paramount. I have a select group of distributers I deal with. I buy their little movies. Accomplish what I wanna accomplish, end of story. Easy, business-like, very little risk. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">CLARENCE </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now that's bullshit, Lee. Every time you buy one of those little movies it's a risk. I'm not sellin' you something that's gonna play two weeks, six weeks, then go straight to cable. This is "Doctor Zhivago". This'll be packin' 'em in for a year and a half. Two years! That's two years you don't have to work with anybody's movie but mine. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE </p><p><p ID="act">Speeding down a benchside road. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Well, then, what's the hurry? Is it true the rights to "Doctor Zhivago" are in arbitration? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I wanna be able to announce this deal at Cannes. If I had time for a courtship, Lee, I would. I'd take ya out, I'd hold your hand, I'd kiss you on the cheek at the door. But, I'm not in that position. I need to know if we're in bed together, or not. If you want my movie, Lee, you're just gonna have to come to terms with your Fear and Desire. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. Clarence hands the phone to Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">He wants to talk ya. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(into phone) <P ID="dia">Mr. Donowitz? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I told you, through Dick. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">He's in my acting class. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">About a year. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Yeah, he's good. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">They grew up together. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Sure thing. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot hangs up the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">He says Wednesday at three o'clock at the Beverly Wilshire. He wants everybody there. <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Clarence) <P ID="dia">He'll talk to you. If after talkin' to you he's convinced you're OK, he'll do business. If not, he'll say fuck it and walk out the door. He also wants a sample bag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No problems on both counts. </p><p><p ID="act">He offers Elliot the animal crackers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Have a cookie. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot takes one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Thanks. </p><p><p ID="act">He puts it in the mouth. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That wasn't a gorilla, was it? </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The red Mustang with Clarence and Alabama pulls up to the hotel. Alabama hops out. Clarence stays in. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You did it, Quickdraw. I'm so proud of you. You were like a ninja. Did I do my part OK? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Babalouey, you were perfect, I could hardly keep from busting up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I felt so stupid just blowing those bubbles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You were chillin', kind of creepy even. You totally fucked with his head. I'm gonna go grab dinner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm gonna hop in the tub and get all wet, and slippery, and soapy. Then I'm gonna lie in the waterbed, not even both to dry off, and watch X-rated movies till you get your ass back to my lovin' arms. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We now return to "Bullit" already in progress. </p><p><p ID="act">He slams the Mustang in reverse and peels out of the hotel. Alabama walks her little walk from the parking lot to the pool area. Somebody whistles at her, she turns to them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Thank you. </p><p><p ID="act">She gets to her door, takes out the key, and opens the door. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CALRENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">She steps in only to find Virgil sitting on a chair placed in front of the door with a sawed-off shotgun aimed right at her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="spkdir">(calmly) <P ID="dia">Step inside and shut the door. </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't move, she's frozen. Virgil leans forward. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="spkdir">(calmly) <P ID="dia">Lady. I'm gonna shoot you in the face. </p><p><p ID="act">She does exactly as he says. Virgil rises, still aiming the sawed-off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Step away from the door, move into the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">She does. He puts the shotgun down on the chair, then steps closer to her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, Alabama, where's our coke, where's Clarence, and when's he coming back. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I think you got the wrong room, my name is Sadie. I don't have any Coke, but there's a Pepsi machine downstairs. I don't know any Clarence, but maybe my husband does. You might have heard of him, he plays football. Al Lylezado. He'll be home any minute, you can ask him. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil can't help but smile. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You're cute. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil jumps up and does a mid-air kung fu kick which catches Alabama square in the face, lifting her off the ground and dropping her flat on her back. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, in his car, driving to get something to eat, singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(singing) <P ID="dia">"Land of stardust, land of glamour, Vistavision and Cinema, Everything about it is a must, To get to Hollywood, or bust..." </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's laying flat. She actually blacks out for a moment, but the salty taste of the blood in her mouth wakes her up. She opens her eyes and sees Virgil standing there, smiling. She closes them, hoping it's a dream. They open again to the same sight. She has never felt more helpless in her life. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Hurts, don't it? It better. Took me a long time to kick like that. I'm third-degree blackbelt, you know? At home I got trophies. Tournaments I was in. Kicked all kinds of ass. I got great technique. You ain't hurt that bad. Get on your feet, Fruitloop. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama wobbily complies. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Where's our coke? Where's Clarence? And when he's comin' back? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama looks in Virgil's eyes and realizes that without a doubt she's going to die, because this man is going to kill her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Go take a flying fuck and a rolling donut. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil doesn't waste a second. He gives her a sidekick straight to the stomach. The air is sucked out of her lungs. She falls to her knees. She's on all fours gasping for air that's just not there. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil whips out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He lights one up with a Zippo lighter. He takes a long, deep drag. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Whatsamatta? Can't breathe? Get used to it. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HAMBURGER STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks through the door of some mom and pop fast-food restaurant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Woah! Smells like hamburgers in here! What's the biggest, fattest hamburger you guys got? </p><p><p ID="act">The Iranian Guy at the counter says: </p><p><P ID="speaker">IRANIAN GUY <P ID="dia">That would be Steve's double chili cheeseburger. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I want two of them bad boys. Two large orders of chili fries. Two large Diet Cokes. <P ID="spkdir">(looking at a menu at the wall) <P ID="dia">And I'll tell you what, why don't you give me a combination burrito as well. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama is violently thrown into a corner of the room. She braces herself against the wall. She is very punchy. Virgil steps in front of her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You think your boyfriend would go through this kind of shit for you? Dream on, cunt. You're nothin' but a fuckin' fool. And your pretty face is gonna turn awful goddamn ugly in about two seconds. Now, where's my fuckin' coke? </p><p><p ID="act">She doesn't answer. He delivers a spinning roundhouse kick on the head. Her head slams into the left side of the wall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Where's Clarence?! </p><p><p ID="act">Nothing. He gives her another kick to the head, this time from the other side. Her legs start to give way. He catches her and throws her back. He slaps her lightly in the face to revive her, she looks at him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">When's Clarence getting back? </p><p><p ID="act">She can barely raise her arm, but she somehow manages, and she gives him the middle finger. Virgil can't help but smile. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">You gotta lot of heart, kid. </p><p><p ID="act">He gives her a spinning roadhouse kick to the head that sends her to the floor. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HAMBURGER STAND - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Burgers sizzling on a griddle, Chili and cheese is put on them. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is waiting for his order. He notices a CUSTOMER reading a copy of "Newsweek" with Elvis on the cover. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That's a great issue. </p><p><p ID="act">The Customer lowers his magazine a little bit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">Yeah, I subscribe. It's a pretty decent one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Have you read the story on Elvis? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">No. Not yet. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, I saw it on the stands, my first inclination was to buy it. But, I look at the price and say forget it, it's just gonna be the same old shit. I ended up breaking down and buying it a few days later. Man, I was ever wrong. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia">That good, huh? </p><p><p ID="act">He takes the magazine from the Customer's hands and starts flipping to the Elvis article. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It tried to pin down what the attraction is after all these years. It covers the whole spectrum of fans, the people who love his music, the people who grew up with him, the artists he inspired - Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and the fanatics, like these guys. I don't know about you, but they give me the creeps. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CUSTOMER <P ID="dia"> I can see what you mean. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like, look at her. She looks like she fell off an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Elvis wouldn't fuck her with Pat Boone's dick. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and the Customer laugh. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - CLARENCE'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's pretty beat up. She has a fat lip and her face is black and blue. She's crawling around on the floor. Virgil is tearing the place apart looking for the cocaine. He's also carrying on a running commentary. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia"> Now the first guy you kill is always the hardest. I don't care if you're the Boston Strangler or Wyatt Earp. You can bet that Texas boy, Charles Whitman, the fella who shot all them guys from that tower, I'll bet you green money that that first little black dot that he took a bead on, was the bitch of the bunch. No foolin' the first one's a tough row to hoe. Now, the second one, while it ain't no Mardi Gras, it ain't half as tough row to hoe. You still feel somethin' but it's just so deluted this time around. Then you completely level off on the third one. The third one's easy. It's gotten to the point now I'll do it just to watch their expressions change. </p><p><p ID="act">He's tearing the motel room up in general. Then he flips the matress up off the bed, and the black suitcase is right there. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's crawling, unnoticed to where her purse is lying. Virgil flips open the black case and almost goes snow blind. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Well, well, well, looky here. I guess I just reached journey's end. Great. One less thing I gotta worry about. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil closes the case. Alabama sifts through her purse. </p><p><p ID="act">She pulls out her Swiss army knife, opens it up. Virgil turns toward her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, Sugarpop, we've come to what I like to call the moment of truth - </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama slowly rises clutching the thrust-out knife in both hands. Mr. Karate-man smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Kid, you got a lotta heart. </p><p><p ID="act">He moves toward her. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's hands are shaking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you a free swing. Now, I only do that for people I like. </p><p><p ID="act">He moves close. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's eyes study him. He grabs the front of his shirt and rips it open. Buttons fly everywhere. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Go ahead, girl, take a stab at it. <P ID="spkdir">(giggling) <P ID="dia">You don't have anything to lose. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - Alabama's face. Virgil's right, she doesn't have anything to lose. Virgil's also right about his being the moment of truth. The ferocity in women that comes out at certain times, and is just here under the surface in many women all of the time, is unleashed. The absolute feeling of helplessness she felt only a moment ago has taken a one hundred and eighty degree turn into "I'll take this motherfucker with me if it's the last thing I do" seething hatred. </p><p><p ID="act">Letting out a bloodcurling yell, she raises the knfe high above her head, then drops to her knees and plunges it deep into Virgil's right foot. </p><p><p ID="act">CLOSEUP - VIRGIL'S FACE </p><p><p ID="act">Talk about bloodcurling yells. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil bends down and carefully pulls the knife from his foot, tears running down his face. </p><p><p ID="act">While Virgil's bent down, Alabama smashes an Elvis Presley whiskey decanter that Clarence bought her in Oklahoma over his head. It's only made of plaster, so it doesn't kill him. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil's moving toward Alabama, limping on his bad foot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">OK, no more Mr. Nice-guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama picks up the hotel TV and tosses it to him. He instinctively catches it and, with his arms full of television, Alabama cold-cocks him with her fist in the nose, breaking it. </p><p><p ID="act">Her eyes go straight to the door, then to the sawed-off shotgun by it. She runs to it, bends over the chair for the gun. Virgil's left foot kicks her in the back, sending her flying over the chair and smashing into the door. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil furiously throws the chair out of the way and stands over Alabama. Alabama's lying on the ground laughing. Virgil has killed a lot of people, but not one of them has ever laughed before he did it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">What's so fuckin' funny?!! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="spkdir">(laughing) <P ID="dia">You look so ridiculous. </p><p><p ID="act">She laughs louder. Virgil's insane. He picks her off the floor, then lifts her off the ground and throws her through the glass shower door in the bathroom. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Laugh it up, cunt. You were in hysterics a minute ago. Why ain't you laughing now? </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, lying in the bathtub, grabs a small bottle of hotel shampoo and squeezes it out in her hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil reaches in the shower and grabs hold of her hair. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama rubs the shampoo in his face. He lets go of her and his hands go to his eyes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Oh Jesus! </p><p><p ID="act">She grabs hold of a hefty piece of broken glass and plunges it into his face. </p><p><P ID="speaker">VIRGIL <P ID="dia">Oh Mary, help me! </p><p><p ID="act">The battered and bruised and bloody Alabama emerges from the shower. She's clutching a big, bloody piece of broken glass. She's vaguely reminiscent of a Tasmanian devil. Poor Virgil can't see very well, but he sees her figure coming toward him. He lets out a wild haymaker that catches her in the jaw and knocks her into the toilet. </p><p><p ID="act">He recovers almost immediately and takes the porcelain lid off the back of the toilet tank. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil whips out a .45 automatic from his shoulder holster, just as Alabama brings the lid down on his head. He's pressed up against the wall with this toilet lid hitting him. He can't get a good shot in this tight environment, but he fires anyway, hitting the floor, the all, the toilet, and the sink. </p><p><p ID="act">The toilet lid finally shatters against Virgil's head. He falls to the ground. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama goes to the medicine cabinet and whips out a big can of Final Net hairspray. She pulls a Bic lighter out of her pocket, and, just as Virgil raises his gun at her, she flicks the Bic and sends a stream of hairspray through the flame, which results in a big ball of fire that hits Virgil right in the face. </p><p><p ID="act">He fires off two shots. One hits the wall, another hits the sink pipe, sending water spraying. </p><p><p ID="act">Upon getting his face fried Virgil screams and jumps up, knocking Alabama down, and runs out of the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">Virgil collapses on the floor of the living room. Then, he sees the sawed-off laying on the ground. He crawls toward it. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, in the bathroom, sees where he's heading. She picks up the .45 automatic and fires at him. It's empty. She's on her feet and into the room. </p><p><p ID="act">He reaches the shotgun, his hands grasp it. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama spots and picks up the bloody Swiss army knife. She takes a knife-first-running-dive at Virgil's back. She hits him. </p><p><p ID="act">He arches up, firing the sawed-off into the ceiling, dropping the gun, and sending a cloud of plaster and stucco all over the room. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama snatches the shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Arched over on his back Virgil and Alabama make eye contact. </p><p><p ID="act">The first blast hits him in the shoulder, almost tearing his arm off. The second hits him in the knee. The third plays hell with his chest. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama then runs at him, hitting him in the head with the butt of the shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">Ever since he's been firing it's as if some other part of her brain has been functioning independently. She's been absent-mindedly saying the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, who's been hearing gunshots, bursts through the door, gun drawn, only to see Alabama, hitting a dead guy on the head, with a shotgun. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Honey? </p><p><p ID="act">She continues. He puts his gun away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sweetheart? Cops are gonna be here any minute, </p><p><p ID="act">She continues. He takes the gun away from her, and she falls to the ground. She lies on the floor trembling, continuing with the downward swings of her arms. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence grabs the shotgun and the cocaine, and tosses Alabama over his shoulder. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HOLIDAY INN - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Everybody is outside their rooms watching as Clarence walks through the pool area with his bundle. Sirens can be heard. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is driving like mad. Alabama's passed out in the passenger seat. She's muttering to herself. Clarence has one hand on the steering wheel and the other strokes Alabama's hair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sleep baby. Don't dream. Don't worry. Just sleep. You deserve better than this. I'm so sorry. Sleep my angel. Sleep peacefully. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MOTEL 6 - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A new motel. Clarence's red Mustang is parked outside. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOTEL 6 - CLARENCE'S ROOM - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama, with a fat lip and a black and blue face, is asleep in bed. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. NOWHERE </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is in a nondescript room speaking directly to the camera. He's in a headshot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I feel so horrible about what she went through. That fucker really beat the shit out of her. She never told him where I was. It's like I always felt that the way she felt about me was a mistake. She couldn't really care that much. I always felt in the back of my mind, I don't know, she was jokin'. But, to go through that and remain loyal, it's very easy to be unraptured with words, but to remain loyal when it's easier, even excusable, not to - that's a test of oneself. That's a true romance. I swear to God, I'll cut off my hands and gouge out my eyes before I'll every let anything happen to that lady again. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. HOLLYWOOD HILLS - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">A wonderful, gracefully flowing shot of the Hollywood Hills. Off in the distance we hear the roar of a car engine. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. MULLHOLLAND DRIVE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Vaaarrroooooommmm!!! A silver Porsche is driving hells bells, taking quick corners, pushing it to the edge. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING PORSCHE - NIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot Blitzer is the driver, standing on it. A blond, glitzy Coke Whore is sitting next to him. They're having a ball. Then they're seeing a red and blue light flashing in the rear-view window. It's the cops. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Fuck! I knew it! I fucking knew it! I should have my head examined, driving like this! <P ID="spkdir">(he pulls over) <P ID="dia">Kandi, you gotta help me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">What can I do? </p><p><p ID="act">He pulls out the sample bag of cocaine that Clarence gave him earlier. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You gotta hold this for me. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">You must be high. Uh-huh. No way. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(frantically) <P ID="dia">Just put it in your purse. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">I'm not gonna put that shit in my purse. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">They won't search you. I promise. You haven't done anything. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">No way, Jos. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Please, they'll be here any minute. Just put it in your bra. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">I'm not wearing a bra. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(pleading) <P ID="dia">Put it in your pants. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You're the one who wanted to drive fast. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KANDI <P ID="dia">Read my lips. </p><p><p ID="act">She mouths the word "no". </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">After all I've done for you, you fuckin' whore!! </p><p><p ID="act">She goes to slap him, she hits the bag of cocaine instead. It rips open. Cocaine completely covers his blue suit. At that moment Elliot turns to face a flashing beam. Tears fill his eyes. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. POLICE STATION - INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot is sitting in a chair at the table. Two young, good-looking, casually dressed, Starsky and Hutch-type POLICE DETECTIVES are questioning him. They're known in the department as Nicholson and Dimes. The dark-haired one is Cody Nicholson, and the blond is Nicky Dimes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Look, sunshine, we found a sandwich bag of uncut cocaine - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Not a tiny little vial - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">But a fuckin' baggie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">No don't sit here and feed us some shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You got caught. It's all fun and fuckin' games till you get caught. But now we gotcha. OK, Mr. Elliot actor, you've just made the big time - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You're no longer an extra - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Or a bit player - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Or a supporting actor - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You're a fuckin' star! And you're gonna be playin' your little one-man show nightly for the next two fuckin' years for a captive audience - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">But there is a bright side though. If you ever have to play a part of a guy who gets fucked in the ass on a daily basis by throat-slitting niggers, you'll have so much experience to draw on - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">And just think, when you get out in a few years, you'll meet some girl, get married, and you'll be so understanding to your wife's needs, because you'll know what it's like to be a woman. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">'Course you'll wanna fuck her in the ass. Pussy just won't feed right anymore - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">That is, of course, if you don't catch Aids from all your anal intrusions. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot starts crying. Nicholson and Dimes exchange looks and smile. Mission accomplished. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. POLICE STATION - CAPTAIN KRINKLE'S OFFICE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">CAPTAIN BUFFORD KRINKLE is sitting behind his desk, where he spends about seventy-five percent of his day. He's you standard rough, gruff, no-nonsense, by-the-book-type police captain. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia"> Nicholson! Dimes! Het in here! </p><p><p ID="act">The two casually dressed, sneaker-wearing cops rush in, both shouting at once. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Krinkle, this is it. We got it, man. And it's all ours. I mean talk about fallin' into somethin'. You shoulda seen it, it was beautiful. Dimes is hittin' him from the left about being fucked in the ass by niggers, I'm hittin' him form the right about not likin' pussy anymore, finally he starts cryin', and then it was all over - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia"> Krinkle, you're lookin' at the two future cops of the month. We have it, and if I say we, I don't mean me and him, I'm referring to the whole department. Haven't had a decent bust this whole month. Well, we mighta come in like a lamb, but we're goin' out like a lion - </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Both you, idiots shut up, I can't understand shit! Now, what's happened, what's going on, and what are you talking about? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Okee-dokee. It's like this, Krinkle; a patrol car stops this dork for speeding, they walk up to window and the guy's covered in coke. So they bring his ass in and me an' Nicholson go to work on him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Nicholson and I. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Nicholson and I go to work on him. Now er know somthing's rotten in Denmark, 'cause this dickhead had a big bag, and it's uncut, too, so we're sweatin' him, trying to find out where he got it. Scarin' the shit outta him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Which wasn't too hard, the guy was a real squid. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">So we got this guy scared shitless and he starts talkin'. And, Krinkle, you ain't gonna fuckin' believe it. </p><p><p ID="right">CUT TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. RESTAURANT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Detroit. Very fancy restaurant. Four wise-guy Hoods, one older, the other three, youngsters, are seated at the table with Mr. Coccotti. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">- And so, tomorrow morning comes, and no Virgil. I check with Nick Cardella, who Virgil was supposed to leave my narcotics with, he never shows. Now, children, somebody is stickin' a red-hot poker up my asshole and what I don't know is whose hand's on the handle. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #1 (FRANKIE) <P ID="dia">You think Virgil started gettin' big ideas? </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">It's possible. Anybody can be carried away with delusions of grandeur. But after that incident in Ann Arbor, I trust Virgil. </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #2 (DARIO) <P ID="dia">What happened? </p><p><P ID="speaker">OLD WISE-GUY(LENNY) <P ID="dia"> Virgil got picked up in a warehouse shakedown. He got five years, he served three. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Anybody who clams up and does hid time, I don't care how I feel about him personally, he's OK. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">KRINKLE'S OFFICE </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">It seems a cop from some department, we don't know where, stole a half a million dollars of coke from the property cage and he's been sittin' on it for a year and a half. Now the cops got this weirdo - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Suspect's words - </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">To front for him. So Elliot is workin' out the deal between them and his boss, a big movie producer named Lee Donowitz. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He produced "Coming Home in a Body Bag". </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">That Vietnam movie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Uh-huh. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">That was a good fuckin' movie. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Sure was. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Do you believe him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">I believe he believes him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">He's so spooked he'd turn over his momma, his daddy, his two-panny granny, and Anna and the King of Siam if he had anything on him. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This rabbit'll do anything not to do time, including wearing a wire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">He'll wear a wire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">We talked him into it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">KRINKLE <P ID="dia">Dirty cops. We'll have to bring in internal affairs on this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Look, we don't care if you bring in the state milita, the volunteer fire department, the L.A. Thunderbirds, the ghost of Steve McQueen, and the twelve Roman gladiators, so long as we get credit for the bust. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Cocaine. Dirty cops. Hollywood. This is Crocket and Tubbs all the way. And we found it, so we want the fuckin' collar. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. RESTAURANT - DAY </p><p><P ID="speaker">YOUNG WISE-GUY #3 (MARVIN) <P ID="dia">Maybe Virgil dropped it off at Cardella's. Cardella turns Virgil's switch off, and Cardella decides to open up his own fruit stand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Excuse me, Mr. Coccotti. <P ID="spkdir">(to Marvin) <P ID="dia">Do you know Nick Cardella? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Then where the hell do you get off talkin' that kind of talk? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">I didn't mean - </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Shut your mouth. Nick Cardella was provin' what his words was worth before you were in your daddy's nutsack. What sun do you walk under you can throw a shadow on Nick Cardella? Nick Cardella's a stand-up guy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">COCCOTTI <P ID="dia">Children, we're digressing. Another possibility is that rat-fuck whore and her wack-a-doo cowboy boyfriend out-aped Virgil. Knowing Virgil, I find that hard to believe. But they sent Drexl to hell, and Drexl was no faggot. So you see, children, I got a lot of questions and no answers. Find out who this wing-and-a-prayer artist is and take him off at the neck. </p><p><p ID="act">TITLE CARD: "THE BIG DAY" </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. IMPERIAL HIGHWAY - SUNRISE </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's red Mustang is parked on top of a hill just off of Imperial Highway. As luck would have it, somebody has abandoned a ratty old sofa on the side of the road. Clarence and Alabama sit on the sofa, sharing a Jumbo Java, and enjoying the sunrise and wonderful view of the LAX Airport runways, where planes are taking off and landing. A plane takes off, and they stop and watch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ya know, I used to fuckin' hate airports. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">With a vengeance, I hated them. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">How come? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I used to live by one back in Dearborn. It's real frustratin' to be surrounded by airplanes when you ain't got shit. I hated where I was, but I couldn't do anythin' about it. I didn't have enough money. It was tough enough just tryin' to pay my rent every month, an' here I was livin' next to an airport. Whenever I went outside, I saw fuckin' planes take off drownin' out my show. All day long I'm seein', hearin' people doin' what I wanted to do most, but couldn't. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Leavin' Detroit. Goin' off on vacations, startin' new lives, business trips. Fun, fun, fun, fun. </p><p><p ID="act">Another plane takes off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But knowin' me and you gonna be nigger-rich gives me a whole new outlook. I love airports now. Me 'n' you can get on any one of those planes out there, and go anywhere we ant. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">You ain't kiddin', we got lives to start over, we should go somewhere where we can really start from scatch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I been in America all my life. I'm due for a change. I wanna see what TV in other countries is like. Besides, it's more dramatic. Where should we fly off to, my little turtledove? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Cancoon. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Why Cancoon? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's got a nice ring to it. It sounds like a movie. "Clarence and Alabama Go to Cancoon". Don't 'cha think? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">But in my movie, baby, you get the top billing. </p><p><p ID="act">They kiss. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't you worry 'bout anything. It's all gonna work out for us. We deserve it. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick, Clarence and Alabama are just getting ready to leave for the drug deal. Floyd lays on the couch watching TV. Alabama's wearing dark glasses because of the black eye she has. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(to Floyd) <P ID="dia">You sure that's how you get to the Beverly Wilshire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">I've partied there twice. Yeah, I'm sure. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Yeah, well if we got lost, it's your ass. <P ID="spkdir">(to Clarence) <P ID="dia">Come on, Clarence, lets go. Elliot's going to meet us in the lobby. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm just makin' sure we got everything. <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Alabama) <P ID="dia"> You got yours? </p><p><p ID="act">She holds up the suitcase. The phone rings. The three pile out the door. Floyd picks up the phone. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Hello? </p><p><p ID="act">He puts his hand over the receiver. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Dick, it's for you. You here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">No. I left. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts to close the door then opens it again. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'll take it. <P ID="spkdir">(he takes the receiver) <P ID="dia">Hello. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Hi, Catherine, I was just walkin' out the - <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Really? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I don't believe it. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">She really said that? <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">I'll be by first thing. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">No, thank you for sending me out. <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Bye-bye. </p><p><p ID="act">He hangs up and looks to Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(stunned) <P ID="dia">I got the part on "T.J. Hooker". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No shit? Dick, that's great! </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Alabama are jumping around. Floyd even smiles. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="spkdir">(still stunned) <P ID="dia">They didn't even want a callback. They just hired me like that. Me and Peter Breck are the two heavies. We start shooting Monday. My call is for seven o'clock in the morning. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Ah, Dick, let's talk about it in the car. We can't be late. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick looks at Clarence. He doesn't want to go. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Um, nothing, let's go? </p><p><p ID="act">They exit. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. LAX AIRPORT - HOTEL - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">We see the airport and move in closer on a hotel on a landscape. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. LAX AIRPORT - HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny can be seen putting a shotgun together. He is sitting on a bed. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario enters the frame with his own shotgun. He goes over to Lenny and gives him some shells. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin walks through the frame cocking his own shotgun. </p><p><p ID="act">The bathroom door opens behind Lenny and Frankie walks out twirling a couple of .45 automatics in his hands. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - COP S' HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes and FOUR DETECTIVES from internal affairs are in a room on the same floor as Donowitz. They have just put a wire on Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">OK, say something. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(talking loud into the wire) <P ID="dia">Hello! Hello! Hello! How now brown cow! </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Just talk regular. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(normal tone) <P ID="dia">"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief -" </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Are you gettin' this shit? </p><p><p ID="act">DETECTIVE BY TAPE MACHINE Clear as a bell. </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson, Dime, and the head IA Officer, Wurlitzer, huddle by Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Now, remember, we'll be monitoring just down the hall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">And if there's any sign of trouble you'll come in. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Like gang-busters. Now, remember, if you don't want to go to jail, we gotta put your boss in jail. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">We have to show in court that, without a doubt, a successful man, an important figure in the Hollywood community, is also dealing cocaine. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">So you gotta get him to admit on tape that he's buying this coke. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">And this fellow Clarence? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">You gotta get him name the police officer behind all this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I'll try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You do more than try. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">You do. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Hope you're a good actor, Elliot. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING RED MUSTANG - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Dick and Alabama en route. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">You got that playing basketball? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Yeah. I got elbowed right in the eye. And if that wasn't enough, I got hurled the ball when I'm not looking. Wam! Right in my face. </p><p><p ID="act">They stop at a red light. Clarence looks at Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Red light means love, baby. </p><p><p ID="act">He and Alabama start kissing. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MOVING CADILLAC - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin, Frankie, Lenny and Dario in a rented Caddy. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE PARKING LOT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama, and Dick get out of the red Mustang. Dick takes the suitcase. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'll take that. Now, remember, both of you, let me do the talking. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence takes out his .38. Dick reacts. They walk and talk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What the fuck did you bring that for. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In case. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">In case of what? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">In case they try to kill us. I don't know, what do you want me to say? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, Dillinger, Lee Donowitz is not a pimp - </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I know that Richard. I don't think I'll need it. But something this last week has taught me, it's better to have a gun and not to need it than to need a gun and not to have it. </p><p><p ID="act">Pause. Clarence stops walking. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Hold it, guys. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm pretty scared. What say we forget the whole thing. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick and Alabama are both surprised and relieved. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Do you really mean it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No, I don't really mean it. Well, I mean, this is our last chance to think about it. How 'bout you, Bama? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I thought it was what you wanted, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">It is what I want. But I don't want to spend the next ten years in jail. I don't want you guys to go to jail. We don't know what could be waiting for us up there. It'll probably be just what it's supposed to be. The only thing that's waiting for us is two hundred thousand dollars. I'm just looking at the downside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Now's a helluva time to play "what if". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">This is our last chance to play "what if". I want to do it. I'm just scared of getting caught. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">It's been fun thinking about the money but I can walk away from it, honey. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That rhymes. </p><p><p ID="act">He kisses her. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Well, if we're not gonna do it, let's just get in the car and get the fuck outta here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Yeah, let's just get outta here. </p><p><p ID="act">The three walk back to the car. Clarence gets behind the wheel. The other two climb in. Clarence hops back out. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm sorry guys, I gotta do it. As petrified as I am, I just can't walk away. I'm gonna be kicking myself in the ass for the rest of my life if I don't go in there. Lee Donowitz isn't a gangster lookin' to skin us, and he's not a cop, he's a famous movie producer lookin' to get high. And I'm just the man who can get him there. So what say we throw caution to the wind and let the chips fall where they may. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence grabs the suitcase and makes a beeline for the hotel. Dick and Alabama exchange looks and follow. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LOBBY - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot's walking around the lobby. He's very nervous, so he's singing to himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(singing) <P ID="dia">There's a man who leads a life of danger, To everyone he meets he stays a stranger. Be careful what you say, you'll give yourself away... </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - COPS' HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson, Dimes, Wurlitzer, and the three other Detectives surround the tape machine. Coming from the machine: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT'S VOICE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">... odds are you won't live to see tomorrow, secret agent man, secret agent man.... </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson looks at Dimes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Why, all of the sudden, have I got a bad feeling? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence enters the lobby alone, he's carrying the suitcase. He spots Elliot and goes in his direction. Elliot sees Clarence approaching him. He says to himself, quietly: </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Elliot, your motivation is to stay out of jail. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence walks up to Elliot, they shake hands. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Where's everybody else? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">They'll be along. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama and Dick enter the lobby, they join up with Clarence and Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Hi, Dick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">How you doin', Elliot? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I guess it's about that time. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I guess so. Follow me. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ELEVATOR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The four of them are riding in the elevator. As luck would have it, they have the car to themselves. Rinky-drink elevator Muzak is playing. They are all silent. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Yeah? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Get on your knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Not sure he heard him right. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">What? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence hits the stop button on the elevator panel and whips out his .38. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I said get on your fuckin' knees. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot does it immediately. Dick and Alabama react. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Shut up, both of you, I know what I'm doin'. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Pandemonium. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He knows. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">How the fuck could he know? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He saw the wire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">How's he supposed to see the wire? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He knows something's up. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts the .38 against Elliot's forehead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You must think I'm pretty stupid, don't you? </p><p><p ID="act">No answer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Don't you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="spkdir">(petrified) <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(yelling) <P ID="dia">Don't lie to me, motherfucker. You apparently think I'm the dumbest motherfucker in the world! Don't you? Say: Clarence, you are without a doubt, the dumbest motherfucker in the whole wide world. Say it! </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">We gotta get him outta there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Whatta we gonna do? He's in an elevator. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Say it, goddamn it! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You are the dumbest person in the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Apparently I'm not as dumb as you thought I am. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">No. No you're not. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">What's waiting for us up there. Tell me or I'll pump two right in your face. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">He's bluffin ya, Elliot. Can't you see that? You're an actor, remember, the show must go on. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This guy's gonna kill him. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Stand up. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot does. The .38 is still pressed against his forehead. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like Nick Carter used to say: I I'm wrong, I'll apologize. I want you to tell me what's waiting for us up there. Something's amiss. I can feel it. If anything out of the ordinary goes down, believe this, you're gonna be the first one shot. Trust me, I am AIDS, you fuck with me, you die. Now quit making me mad and tell me why I'm so fucking nervous. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">He's bluffin', I knew it. He doesn't know shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Don't blow it, Elliot. He's bluffin'. He just told you so himself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You're an actor, so act, motherfucker. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot still hasn't answered. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK. </p><p><p ID="act">With the .38 up against Elliot's head Clarence puts his palm over the top of the gun to shield himself from the splatter. Alabama and Dick can't believe what he's gonna do. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot, tears running down, starts talking for the benefit of the people at the other end of the wire. He sounds like a little boy. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">I don't wanna be here. I wanna go home. I wish somebody would just come and get me 'cause I don't like this. This is not what I thought it would be. And I wish somebody would just take me away. Just take me away Come and get me. 'Cause I don't like this anymore. I can't take this. I'm sorry but I just can't. So, if somebody would just come to my rescue, everything would be alright. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes shake their hands, They have a "well, that's that" expression an their faces. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts down the gun and hugs Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Sorry, Elliot. Nothing personal. I just hadda make sure you're all right. I'm sure. I really apologize for scaring you so bad, but believe me, I'm just as scared as you. Friends? </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot, in a state of shock, takes Clarence's hand. Dick and Alabama are relieved. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes listen open-mouthed, not believing what they're hearing. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. DICK'S APARTMENT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Floyd still lying on the couch watching TV. He hasn't moved since we last saw him. </p><p><p ID="act">There is a knock from the door. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="spkdir">(not turning away from TV) <P ID="dia">It's open. </p><p><p ID="act">The front door flies open and the four Wise-guys rapidly enter the room. The door slams shut. All have their sawed-offs drawn and pointing at Floyd. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Are you Dick Ritchie? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">No. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Do you know a Clarence Worley? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Yes. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Do you know where we can find him? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">He's at the Beverly Wilshire. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Where's that? </p><p><P ID="speaker">FLOYD <P ID="dia">Well, you go down Beechwood... </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LEE'S HOTEL ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">The door opens and reveals an extremely muscular guy with an Uzi strapped to his shoulder standing in the doorway, his name is Monty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Hi, Elliot. Are these your friends? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">You could say that. Everybody, this is Monty. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">C'mon in. Lee's in the can. He'll be out in a quick. </p><p><p ID="act">They all move into the room, it is very luxurious. </p><p><p ID="act">Another incredibly muscular GUY, Boris, is sitting on the sofa, he too has an Uzi. Monty begins patting everybody down. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Sorry, nothin personal. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts to search Clarence. Clarence back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No need to search me, daredevil. All you'll find is a .38 calibre. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris gets up from the couch. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">What compelled you to bring that along? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">The same thing that compelled you, Beastmaster, to bring rapid-fire weaponry to a business meeting. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">I'll take that. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You'll have to. </p><p><p ID="act">The toilet flushes in the bathroom. The door swings open and Lee Donowitz emerges. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">They're here. Who's who? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Lee, this is my friend Dick, and these are his friends, Clarence and Alabama. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="spkdir">(pointing at Clarence) <P ID="dia">This guy's packin'. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Really? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, I have to admit, walkin' through the door and seein' these "Soldier of Fortune" poster boys made me a bit nervous. But, Lee, I'm fairly confident that you came here to do business, not to be a wise-guy. So, if you want, I'll put the gun on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I don't think that'll be necessary. Let's all have a seat. Boris, why don't you be nice and get coffee for everybody. </p><p><p ID="act">They all sit around a fancy glass table except for Boris, who's getting the coffee, and Monty, who's standing behind Lee's chair. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Oh, Mr. Donowitz - </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Lee, Clarence . Please don't insult me. Call me Lee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">OK, sorry, Lee. I just wanna tell you "Coming Home in a Body Bag" is one of my favorite movies. After "Apocalypse Now" I think it's the best Vietnam movie ever. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Thank you very much, Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You know, most movies that win a lot of Oscars, I can't stand. "Sophie's Choice", "Ordinary People", "Kramer vs. Kramer", "Gandhi". All that stuff is safe, geriatric, coffee-table dog shit. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I hear you talkin' Clarence. We park our cars in the same garage. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Like that Merchant-Ivory clap-trap. All those assholes make are unwatchable movies from unreadable books. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris starts placing clear-glass coffee cups in front of everybody and fills everybody's cup from a fancy coffee pot that he handles like an expert. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Clarence, there might be somebody somewhere that agrees with you more than I do, but I wouldn't count on it. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence is on a roll and he knows it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">They ain't plays, they ain't books, they certainly ain't movies, they're films. And do you know what films are? They're for people who don't like movies. "Mad Max", that's a movie. "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly", that's a movie. "Rio Bravo", that's a movie. "Rumble Fish", that's a fuckin' movie. And, "Coming Home in a Body Bag", that's a movie. It was the first movie with balls to win a lot of Oscars since the "The Deer Hunter". </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">They're all listening to this. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">What's this guy doin'? Makin' a drug deal or gettin' a job on the "New Yorker"? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">My uncle Roger and uncle Cliff, both of which were in Nam, saw "Coming Home in a Body Bag" and thought it was the most accurate Vietnam film they'd ever seen. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">You know, Clarence, when a veteran of that bullshit wars says that, it makes the whole project worthwhile. Clarence, my friend, and I call you my friend because we have similar interests, let's take a look at what you have for me. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Thank God. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence puts the suitcase on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Lee, when you see this you're gonna shit. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys are at the desk. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="spkdir">(quietly to the others) <P ID="dia">What was the Jew-boy's name? </p><p><P ID="speaker">MARVIN <P ID="dia">Donowitz, he said. </p><p><P ID="speaker">FRONT-DESK GUY <P ID="dia">How can I help you, Gentlemen? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Yeah, we're from Warner Bros. What room is Mr. Donowitz in? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Lee's looking over the cocaine and sampling it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Now, that's practically uncut. You could, if you so desire, cut it a helluva lot more. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Don't worry, I'll desire. Boris, could I have some more coffee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Me too, Boris. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris fills both of their cups. They both, calm as a lake, take cream and sugar. All eyes are on them. Lee uses light cream and sugar, he begins stirring this cup. Clarence uses very heavy cream and sugar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(stirring loudly) <P ID="dia">You like a little coffee with your cream and sugar? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not satisfied till the spoon stands straight up. </p><p><p ID="act">Both are cool as cucumbers. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">I have to hand it to you, this is not nose garbage, this is quality. Can Boris make anybody a sandwich? I got all kinds of sandwich shit from Canters in there. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">No thank you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">No. But thanks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">No thanks, my stomach's a little upset. I ate somethin' at a restaurant that made me a little sick. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Where'd you go? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">A Norms in Van Nuys. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Bastards. That's why I always eat at Lawreys. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee continues looking at the merchandise. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama writes something in her napkin with a pencil. She slides the napkin over to Clarence. It says: "You're so cool" with a tiny heart drawn on the bottom of it. Clarence takes the pencil and draws an arrow through the heart. She takes the napkin and puts it in her pocket. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee looks up. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">OK, Clarence, the merchandise is perfect. But, whenever I'm offered a deal that's too good to be true, it's because it's a lie. Convince me you're on the level. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">If he don't bite, we ain't got shit except posession. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Convince him. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, Lee, it's like this. You're getting the bargain of a lifetime because I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. You're used to dealin' with professionals. I'm not a professional. I'm a rank amateur. I could take that, and I could cut it, and I could sell it a little bit at a time, and make a helluva lot more money. But, in order to do that, I'd have to become a drug dealer. Deal with cut-throat junkies, killers, worry about getting busted all of the time. Just meeting you here today scares the shit outta me, and you're not a junkie, a killer or a cop, you're a fucking movie-maker. I like you, and I'm still scared. I'm a punk kid who picked up a rock in the street, only to find out it's the Hope Diamond. It's worth a million dollars, but I can't get the million dollars for it. But, you can. So, I'll sell it to you for a couple a hundred thousand. You go to make a million. It's all found money to me anyway. Me and my wife are minimum wage kids, two hundred thousand is the world. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Elliot tells me you're fronting for a dirty cop. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Well, Elliot wasn't supposed to tell you anythin'. <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">Thanks a lot, bigmouth. I knew you were a squid the moment I laid eyes on you. In my book, buddy, you're a piece of shit. <P ID="spkdir">(to Lee) <P ID="dia">He's not a dirty cop, he's a good cop. He just saw his chance and he took it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Why does he trust you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">We grew up together. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">If you don't know shit, why does he think you can sell it? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I bullshitted him. </p><p><p ID="act">Lee starts laughing. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">That's wild. This fucking guy's a madman. I love it. Monty, go in the other room and get the money. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, Alabama and Dick exchange looks. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson and Dimes exchange looks. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES & NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Bingo! </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">ELEVATOR </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys are coming up. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(pointing to Alabama) <P ID="dia">What's your part in this? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I'm his wife. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(referring to Dick) <P ID="dia">How 'bout you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I know Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">And Elliot knows me. Tell me, Clarence, what department does you friend work in? </p><p><p ID="act">Dick and Alabama panic. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(without missing a beat) <P ID="dia">Carson County Sheriffs. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">The internal affairs officers high five. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Monty brings in a briefcase of money and puts it down on the table. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Wanna count your money? </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Actually, they can count it. I'd like to use the little boy's room. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">COPS' ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">They all stand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">OK, boys. Let's go get 'em. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - LEE'S HOTEL ROOM - BATHROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence steps inside the bathroom and shuts the door. As soon as it's shut he starts doing the twist. He can't believe he's pulled it off. He goes to the toilet and starts taking a piss. He turns and sees Elvis sitting on the sink. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Clarence, I gotta hand it to ya. You were cooler than cool. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I was dying. I thought for sure everyone could see it on my face. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">All anybody saw was Clint Eastwood drinkin' coffee. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">Can you develop an ulcer in two minutes? Being cool is hard on your body. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Oh, and your line to Charles Atlas in there: "I'll take that gun", "You'll have to". </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">That was cool, wasn't it? You know, I don't even know where that came from. I just opened my mouth and it came out. After I said it I thought, that's a cool line, I gotta remember that. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Everything's just as it was. </p><p><p ID="act">Sudenly, Nicholson, Dimes and the four Detectives break into the room with guns drawn. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES & NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">Police! Freeze, you're all under arrest! </p><p><p ID="act">Everybody at the table stands up. Boris and Monty stand ready with the Uzis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You two! Put the guns on the floor and back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">Fuck you! All you pigs put your guns on the floor and back away. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Monty, what are you talking about? So what they say. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">This is your last warning! Drop those fuckin' guns! </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">This is your last warning! We could kill all six of ya and ya fuckin' know it! Now get on the floor! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">What the fuck am I doing here? </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Boris! Everybody's gonna get killed! They're cops! </p><p><P ID="speaker">MONTY <P ID="dia">So they're cops. Who gives a shit? </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">Lee, something I never told you about me. I don't like cops. </p><p><P ID="speaker">NICHOLSON <P ID="dia">OK, let's everybody calm down and get nice. Nobody has to die. We don't want it, and you don't want it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">We don't want it. </p><p><p ID="act">The four Wise-guys burst through the door, shotguns drawn, except for Frankie, who has two .45 automatics, one in each hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Half of the cops spin around. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Freeze! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Who are you guys? </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Police. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DARIO <P ID="spkdir">(to Lenny) <P ID="dia">Do we get any extra if we have to kill cops? </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">BATHROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence and Elvis. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">How do you think I'm doin' with Lee? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">Are you kiddin'? He loves you. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">You don't think I'm kissin' his ass, do you? </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">You're tellin' him what he wants to hear, but that ain't the same thing as kissin' his ass. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I'm not lyin' to him. I mean it. I loved "Coming Home in a Body Bag". </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">That's why it doesn't come across as ass-kissin', because it's genuine, and he can see that. </p><p><p ID="act">Elvis fixes Clarence's collar. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELVIS <P ID="dia">I like ya, Clarence. Always have. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">This is a Mexican stand-off if there ever was one. Gangsters on one end with shotguns. Bodyguards with machine guns on the other. And cops with handguns in the middle. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's ready to pass out. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's so scared she pees on herself. </p><p><p ID="act">For Elliot, this has been the worst day of his life, and he's just about had it. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Officer Dimes? Officer Dimes. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes looks at Elliot. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia"> This has nothing to do with me anymore. Can I just leave and you guys just settle it by yourselves? </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Elliot, shut the fuck up and stay put! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="spkdir">(to Elliot) <P ID="dia">How did you know his name? How the fuck did he know your name? Why, you fuckin' little piece of shit! </p><p><P ID="speaker">ELLIOT <P ID="dia">Lee, understand, I didn't want to - </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Shut the fuck up! </p><p><P ID="speaker">LEE <P ID="dia">Well, I hope you're not planning on acting any time in the next twenty years 'cause your career is over as of now! You might as weel burn your SAG card! To think I treated you as a son! And you stabbed me in the heart! </p><p><p ID="act">Lee can't control his anger any more. He grabs the coffee pot off the table and flings hot coffee into Elliot's face. Elliot screams and falls to his knees, </p><p><p ID="act">Instinctively, Nicholson shoots Lee twice. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris lets loose with his Uzi, pinting Nicholson red with bullets. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="spkdir">(screaming) <P ID="dia">Cody!!! </p><p><p ID="act">Nicholson flies backwards. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin fires his shotgun, hits Nicholson in the back, Nicholson's body jerks back and forth then on the floor. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence opens the bathroom door. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes hits the ground firing. </p><p><p ID="act">A shot catches Clarence in the forehead. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama screams. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario fires his sawed-off. It catches Clarence in the chest, hurling him on the bathroom sink, smashing the mirror. </p><p><p ID="act">It might have been a stand-off before, but once the firing starts everybody either hits the ground or runs for cover. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes, Alabama, Dick, Lenny, an IA Officer and Wurtlitzer hit the ground. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris dives into the kitchen area. </p><p><p ID="act">Monty tips the table over. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin dives behind the sofa. </p><p><p ID="act">Dario runs out of the door and down the hall. </p><p><p ID="act">With bullets flying this way and that, some don't have time to anything. Two IA Officers are shot right away. </p><p><p ID="act">Frankie takes an Uzi hit. He goes down firing both automatics. </p><p><p ID="act">Elliot gets it from both sides. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama is crawling across the floor, like a soldier in war, towards the bathroom. </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence, still barely alive, lays on the sink, twitching. He moves and falls off. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama continues crawling. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin brings his sawed-off from behind the sofa and fires. The shotgun blast hits the glass table and Monty. Monty stands up screaming. </p><p><p ID="act">The Cops on the ground let loose, firing into Monty. </p><p><p ID="act">As Monty gets hit, his finger hits the trigger of the Uzi, spreading fire all over the apartment. </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Cop cars start arriving in twos in front of the hotel. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">GUNFIGHT </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama crawling. </p><p><p ID="act">The suitcase full of cocaine is by Dick. Dick grabs it and tosses it in the air. Marvin comes from behind the sofa and fires. The suitcase is hit in mid-air. White powder goes everywhere. The room is enveloped in cocaine. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick takes this cue and makes a dash out the door. </p><p><p ID="act">An IA Officer goes after him. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny makes a break for it. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer goes after him but is pinned down by Marvin. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama reaches the bathroom and finds Clarence. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Sweety? </p><p><p ID="act">Clarence's face is awash with blood. </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="dia">I... I can't see you... I've got blood in my eyes... </p><p><p ID="act">He dies. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama tries to give him outh-to-mouth resuscitation. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - HALLWAY - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dario runs down the hall, right into a cluster of uniformed police. </p><p><p ID="act">He fires his shotgun, hitting two, just before the others chop him to ribbons. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ANOTHER HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">The hallway's empty but we hear footsteps approaching fast. Dick comes around the corner, running as if on fire. Then we see the IA Officer turn the same corner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">IA OFFICER <P ID="spkdir">(aiming gun) <P ID="dia">Freeze! </p><p><p ID="act">Dick does. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">I'm unarmed! </p><p><P ID="speaker">IA OFFICER <P ID="dia">Put your hands on your head, you son-of-a-bitch! </p><p><p ID="act">He does. Then, from off screen, a shotgun blast tears into the IA Officer, sending him to the wall. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Oh shit. </p><p><p ID="act">He starts running again and runs out of frame, then Lenny turns around the corner and runs down the hall. </p><p><p ID="act">Dick runs into the elevator area, he hits the buttons, he's trapped, it's like a box. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny catches up. Dick raises his hands. Lenny aimes his sawed-off. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Look, I don't know who you are, but whatever it was that I did to you, I'm sorry. </p><p><p ID="act">Two elevator doors on either side of them open. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny looks at Dick. He drops his aim and says: </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Lotsa luck. </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny dives into one elevator car. Dick jumps into the other, just as the doors close. </p><p><p ID="right">BACK TO: </p><p><p ID="act">HOTEL ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">The Mexican stand-off has become two different groups of two pinning each other down. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer has Marvin pinned down behind the sofa and Dimes has Boris pinned down in the kitchen. </p><p><p ID="act">In the bathroom, Alabama's pounding on Clarence's bloody chest, trying to get his heart started. It's not working. She slaps him hard in the face a couple of times. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Wake up, goddamn it! </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes discards his handgun and pulls one of the sawed-off shotguns from the grip of a dead Wise-guy. </p><p><p ID="act">Boris peeks around the wall to fire. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes lets loose with a blast. A scream is heard. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">I'm shot! Stop! </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Throw out your gun, asshole! </p><p><p ID="act">The Uzi's tossed out. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes goes to where Wurlitzer is. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="spkdir">(to Marvin) <P ID="dia">OK, black jacket! It's two against one now! Toss the gun and lie face down on the floor or die like all you friends. </p><p><p ID="act">The shotgun's tossed out from behind the sofa. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - ELEVATOR - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick's sitting on the ground, he can't believe any of this. The doors open on the fourth floor. He runs out into the hallway. </p><p><p ID="act">HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">He starts trying the room doors for an open one. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DICK <P ID="dia">Oh, God, if you just get me outta this I swear to God I'll never fuck up again. Please, just let me get to "T.J. Hooker" on Monday. </p><p><p ID="act">STEWARDESS'S ROOM - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Dick steps in. Three gorgeous girls are doing a killer aerobics workout to a video on TV. The music is so loud they're so into their exercises, they don't hear Dick tiptoe behind them and crawl underneath the bed. </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Boris has caught a lot of buckshots, but he'll live. He's lying on the kitchen floor. Dimes stands over him. He has the sawed-off in his hand. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Don't even give me an excuse, motherfucker. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes pats him down for other weapons, there are none. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer puts the cuffs on Marvin and sits him down on the couch. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes looks in the bathroom and sees the dead Clarence with Alabama crying over him. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes walks over to Wurlitzer. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Everything's under control here. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Sorry about Nicholson. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">Me too. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">I'm gonna go see what's goin' on outside. </p><p><P ID="speaker">DIMES <P ID="dia">You do that. </p><p><p ID="act">Wurlitzer exits. Dimes grabs the phone. </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Shotgun in hand, Lenny moves hurriedly down the lobby. </p><p><p ID="act">A Cop yells out. </p><p><p ID="act">COP You! Stop! </p><p><p ID="act">Lenny brings up his sawed-off and lets him have it. Other cops rush forward. Lenny grabs a woman standing by. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">Get back or I'll blow this bitch's brains to kingdom come! </p><p><p ID="act">LEE'S ROOM </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes on the phone talking with the department. Boris is still moving on the floor. Marvin is sitting on the couch with his hands cuffed behind his back. Alabama is crying over Clarence, then she feels something in his jacket. She reaches in and pulls out his .38. She wipes her eyes. She holds the gun in her hand and remembers Clarence saying: </p><p><P ID="speaker">CLARENCE <P ID="spkdir">(off) <P ID="dia">She's a sixteen-calibre kitten, equally equipped for killin' an' lovin'! She carried a sawed-off shotgun in her purse, a black belt around her waist, and the white-hot fire of hate in her eyes! Alabama Whitman is Pam Grier! Pray for forgiveness, Rated R... for Ruthless Revenge! </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama steps out of the bathroom, gun in hand. </p><p><p ID="act">Marvin turns his head toward her. She shoots him twice. </p><p><p ID="act">Dimes, still on the phone, spins around in time to see her raise her gun. She fires. He's hit in the head and flung to the floor. </p><p><p ID="act">She sees Boris on the kitchen floor. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">Bye-bye, Boris. Good luck. </p><p><P ID="speaker">BORIS <P ID="dia">You too, cutie. </p><p><p ID="act">She starts to leave and then spots the briefcase full of money. She takes it and walks out the door. </p><p><p ID="act">HALLWAY </p><p><p ID="act">The elevator opens and Wurlitzer steps out. </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama comes around the corner. </p><p><P ID="speaker">WURLITZER <P ID="dia">Hey, you! </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama shoots him three times in the belly. She steps into the elevator, the doors close. </p><p><p ID="act">LOBBY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama enters the lobby and proceeds to walk out. In the background, cops are all over the place and Lenny is still yelling with the woman hostage. </p><p><P ID="speaker">LENNY <P ID="dia">I wanna car here, takin' me to the airport, with a plane full of gas ready to take me to Kilimanjaro and... and a million bucks! <P ID="spkdir">(pause) <P ID="dia">Small bills! </p><p><p ID="slug">EXT. BEVERLY WILSHIRE - PARKING LOT - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama puts the briefcase in the trunk. She gets into the Mustang and drives away. </p><p><p ID="slug">INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY </p><p><p ID="act">Alabama's driving fast down the freeway. The DJ on the radio is trying to be funny. She's muttering to herself. </p><p><P ID="speaker">ALABAMA <P ID="dia">I could have walked away. I told you that. I told you I could have walked away. This is not my fault. I did not do this. You did this one hundred percent to yourself. I'm not gonna give you the satisfaction of feeling bad. I should laugh 'cause you don't deserve any better. I could get another guy like that. I'm hot lookin'. What are you? Dead! Dumb jerk. Asshole. You're a asshole, you're a asshole, you're a asshole. You wanted it all, didn't ya? Didn't ya? Well watcha got now? You ain't got the money. You ain't got me. You ain't even got your body anymore. You got nothin'. Nada. Zip. Goose egg. Nil. Donut. </p><p><p ID="act">The song "Little Arrows" by Leapy Lee comes on the radio. Alabama breaks down and starts crying. She pulls the car over to the side. The song continues. She wipes her eyes with a napkin that she pulls out her jacket. She tosses it on the dashboard. She picks up the .38 and sticks it in her mouth. </p><p><p ID="act">She pulls back hammer. She looks up and sees her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She turns it the other way. She looks straight ahead. Her finger tightens on the trigger. She sees the napkin on the dashboard. She opens it up and reads it: "You're so cool". </p><p><p ID="act">She tosses the gun aside, opens up the trunk, and takes out the briefcase. She looks around for, and finally finds, the "Sgt. Fury" comic book Clarence bought her. </p><p><p ID="act">And with comic book in one hand, and briefcase in the other, Bama walks away from the Mustang forever. </p><p><p ID="slug">FADE OUT </p><p><p ID="act">THE END Screenplay by Quentin Tarantino Produced by Samuel Hadida Steve Perry Bill Unger Directed by Tony Scott Cast List: Christian Slater Clarence Worley Patricia Arquette Alabama Whitman Dennis Hopper Clifford Worley Michael Rapaport Dick Ritchie Bronson Pinchott Elliot Blitzer Christopher Walken Vincenzo Coccotti Saul Rubinek Lee Donowitz Samuel L. Jackson Big Don Brad Pitt Floyd Val Kilmer Elvis (Mentor) Typed with two bare fingers by Niki Wurster Removed from zip format and formatted in text format by Kale Whorton. Formatted in HTML by Dabrast Caustic </p> </div> <b> </b><b> </b> <b></b> Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.
Question: Why did the police come back for Falder after he left prison?	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Story: The context is a play called "Justice" by John Galsworthy. The play is divided into four acts. The first act takes place in the office of James and Walter How, a law firm, on a July morning. The office is old-fashioned and furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. SWEEDLE tells COKESON that there's a party wants to see FALDER, the firm's junior clerk. COKESON sends SWEEDLE to Morris's to send FALDER there. However, SWEEDLE returns and tells COKESON that the party is a woman, and she's brought her children with her. COKESON is hesitant but allows the woman, RUTH HONEYWILL, to see FALDER. RUTH tells FALDER that Honeywill, her husband, has been ill-treating her, and she's been living with FALDER. FALDER is torn between his love for RUTH and his desire to escape his situation. He gives RUTH seven pounds and tells her to meet him at the booking office at 11.45 that night. RUTH and FALDER share a passionate kiss before COKESON re-enters the room. COKESON is shocked and tries to intervene, but FALDER quickly composes himself and leaves the room. COKESON is left looking uncomfortable and tries to distract himself by adding up figures in his pass-book. WALTER HOW, the son of the firm's partner, enters the room and talks to COKESON about some business matters. COKESON mentions that he's been adding up figures in the pass-book and offers to let WALTER take it. WALTER agrees and takes the pass-book. JAMES HOW, the firm's partner, enters the room and talks to WALTER and COKESON about some business matters. COKESON mentions that he's been adding up figures in the pass-book and offers to let JAMES take it. JAMES agrees and takes the pass-book. COKESON is left looking uncomfortable and tries to Now, answer the question based on the story asconcisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.	[ "He failed to report" ]	22,768	narrativeqa	en	null	fa81b8a2b6a29cc83f00088ce2bca908175658075648bad2	Produced by David Widger GALSWORTHY PLAYS SECOND SERIES--NO. 1 JUSTICE By John Galsworthy PERSONS OF THE PLAY JAMES HOW, solicitor WALTER HOW, solicitor ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk SWEEDLE, their office-boy WISTER, a detective COWLEY, a cashier MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate HECTOR FROME, a young advocate CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain EDWARD CLEMENT, a prison doctor WOODER, a chief warder MOANEY, convict CLIFTON, convict O'CLEARY, convict RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman A NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITERS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS, JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS TIME: The Present. ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July. ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. ACT III. A prison. December. SCENE I. The Governor's office. SCENE II. A corridor. SCENE III. A cell. ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. March, two years later. CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINE Walter How MR. CHARLES MAUDE Cokeson MR. EDMUND GWENN Falder MR. DENNIS EADIE The Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEE The Detective MR. LESLIE CARTER The Cashier MR. C. E. VERNON The Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULT The Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYE The Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANT The Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEY The Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBEN The Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSON Wooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYD Moaney MR. ROBERT PATEMAN Clipton MR. O. P. HEGGIE O'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANE Ruth Honeywill Miss EDYTH OLIVE ACT I The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of James and Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned, furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the partners' room. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. COKESON. And five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks the page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one. SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carry two. Send him to Morris's. What name? SWEEDLE. Honeywill. COKESON. What's his business? SWEEDLE. It's a woman. COKESON. A lady? SWEEDLE. No, a person. COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closes the pass-book.] SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, please? RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She is a tall woman, twenty-six years old, unpretentiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. She stands very still, having a natural dignity of pose and gesture. SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young man's out. [Suspiciously] State your business, please. RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slight West-Country accent] It's a personal matter, sir. COKESON. We don't allow private callers here. Will you leave a message? RUTH. I'd rather see him, please. She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. Suppose I had my friends here to see me! It'd never do! RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here you are wanting to see a junior clerk! RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him. COKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of outraged interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to his private address. RUTH. He's not there. COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know what to say. It's no affair of the office. RUTH. But what am I to do? COKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. SWEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer office and passes through into it, with a quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully leaving the door an inch or two open. COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, this won't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in! An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer door of the outer office. SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some children outside here. RUTH. They're mine, please. SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check? RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON] COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk short as it is. RUTH. It's a matter of life and death. COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death! SWEEDLE. Here is Falder. FALDER has entered through the outer office. He is a pale, good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. He moves towards the door of the clerks' office, and stands there irresolute. COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not regular. Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' room. RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. He tried to cut my throat last night. I came out with the children before he was awake. I went round to you. FALDER. I've changed my digs. RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night? FALDER. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at the booking office. For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her with tragic intensity] Ruth! RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you? FALDER. Have you got your things, and the children's? RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but one bag. I can't go near home again. FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. How much must you have? RUTH. Six pounds--I could do with that, I think. FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [As if to himself] When I get out there I mean to forget it all. RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than take you against your will. FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'll have you. RUTH. You've just to say; it's not too late. FALDER. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. Booking office 11.45 to-night. If you weren't what you are to me, Ruth----! RUTH. Kiss me! They cling together passionately, there fly apart just as COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH turns and goes out through the outer office. COKESON advances deliberately to his chair and seats himself. COKESON. This isn't right, Falder. FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir. COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. FALDER. Yes, sir. COKESON. You quite understand-the party was in some distress; and, having children with her, I allowed my feelings----[He opens a drawer and produces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in the Home." It's a well-written thing. FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] Thank you, sir. COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left? FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir--for good. COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't mention about the party having called, but---- FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost apologetic voice. WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson. COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter. WALTER. My father here? COKESON. [Always with a certain patronage as to a young man who might be doing better] Mr. James has been here since eleven o'clock. WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the Guildhall. COKESON. [Looking at him as though this were exactly what was to be expected] Have you now--ye--es. This lease of Boulter's--am I to send it to counsel? WALTER. What does my father say? COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him. WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful. COKESON. It's such a little thing--hardly worth the fees. I thought you'd do it yourself. WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the responsibility. COKESON. [With an indescribable air of compassion] Just as you like. This "right-of-way" case--we've got 'em on the deeds. WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit of common ground. COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're the right side of the law. WALTER. I don't like it, COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want to set ourselves up against the law. Your father wouldn't waste his time doing that. As he speaks JAMES How comes in from the partners' room. He is a shortish man, with white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. JAMES. Morning, Walter. WALTER. How are you, father? COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as though deprecating their size] I'll just take Boulter's lease in to young Falder to draft the instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room.] WALTER. About that right-of-way case? JAMES. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I thought you told me yesterday the firm's balance was over four hundred. WALTER. So it is. JAMES. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three--five--one, no recent cheques. Just get me out the cheque-book. WALTER goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer and produces a cheque-book. JAMES. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, fifty-four, seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, eleven, fifty-two, seventy-one. Tally? WALTER. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure it was over four hundred. JAMES. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the check-book and cons the counterfoils] What's this ninety? WALTER. Who drew it? JAMES. You. WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's the day I went down to look over the Trenton Estate--last Friday week; I came back on the Tuesday, you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my expenses. It just covered all but half a crown. JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. [He sorts the cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] Seems all right. There's no nine here. This is bad. Who cashed that nine-pound cheque? WALTER. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see! I was finishing Mrs. Reddy's will--only just had time; yes--I gave it to Cokeson. JAMES. Look at that 't' 'y': that yours? WALTER. [After consideration] My y's curl back a little; this doesn't. JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room] We must ask him. Just come here and carry your mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you remember cashing a cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week--the day he went to Trenton? COKESON. Ye-es. Nine pounds. JAMES. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque.] COKESON. No! Nine pounds. My lunch was just coming in; and of course I like it hot; I gave the cheque to Davis to run round to the bank. He brought it back, all gold--you remember, Mr. Walter, you wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain contemptuous compassion] Here, let me see. You've got the wrong cheque. He takes cheque-book and pass-book from WALTER. WALTER. Afraid not. COKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. JAMES. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for Australia on Monday. Looks black, Cokeson. COKESON. [Puzzled and upset] why this'd be a felony! No, no! there's some mistake. JAMES. I hope so. COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort in the office the twenty-nine years I've been here. JAMES. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a very clever bit of work; a warning to you not to leave space after your figures, Walter. WALTER. [Vexed] Yes, I know--I was in such a tearing hurry that afternoon. COKESON. [Suddenly] This has upset me. JAMES. The counterfoil altered too--very deliberate piece of swindling. What was Davis's ship? WALTER. 'City of Rangoon'. JAMES. We ought to wire and have him arrested at Naples; he can't be there yet. COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young man. Dear, oh dear! In this office! WALTER. Shall I go to the bank and ask the cashier? JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring up Scotland Yard. WALTER. Really? He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces the room. He stops and looks at COKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the knees of his trousers. JAMES. Well, Cokeson! There's something in character, isn't there? COKESON. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't quite take you, sir. JAMES. Your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn't know you. COKESON. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with a sudden gravity] I'm sorry for that young man. I feel it as if it was my own son, Mr. James. JAMES. A nasty business! COKESON. It unsettles you. All goes on regular, and then a thing like this happens. Shan't relish my lunch to-day. JAMES. As bad as that, Cokeson? COKESON. It makes you think. [Confidentially] He must have had temptation. JAMES. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him yet. COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen. [He broods.] JAMES. I hope that fellow will hurry up. COKESON. [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] It isn't fifty yards, Mr. James. He won't be a minute. JAMES. The idea of dishonesty about this office it hits me hard, Cokeson. He goes towards the door of the partners' room. SWEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to COKESON in a low voice] She's popped up again, sir-something she forgot to say to Falder. COKESON. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh? Impossible. Send her away! JAMES. What's that? COKESON. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter. Here, I'll come myself. [He goes into the outer office as JAMES passes into the partners' room] Now, you really mustn't--we can't have anybody just now. RUTH. Not for a minute, sir? COKESON. Reely! Reely! I can't have it. If you want him, wait about; he'll be going out for his lunch directly. RUTH. Yes, sir. WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH as she leaves the outer office. COKESON. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary dragoon] Good-morning. [To WALTER] Your father's in there. WALTER crosses and goes into the partners' room. COKESON. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, Mr. Cowley. I'm quite ashamed to have to trouble you. COWLEY. I remember the cheque quite well. [As if it were a liver] Seemed in perfect order. COKESON. Sit down, won't you? I'm not a sensitive man, but a thing like this about the place--it's not nice. I like people to be open and jolly together. COWLEY. Quite so. COKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing toward the partners' room] Of course he's a young man. I've told him about it before now-- leaving space after his figures, but he will do it. COWLEY. I should remember the person's face--quite a youth. COKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show him to you, as a matter of fact. JAMES and WALTER have come back from the partners' room. JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen my son and myself, you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. It was none of us, I take it. The cashier shakes his head with a smile. JAMES. Be so good as to sit there. Cokeson, engage Mr. Cowley in conversation, will you? He goes toward FALDER'S room. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. JAMES. Well? COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man in there, do you? He's a nervous young feller. JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake of Falder's name, to say nothing of yours. COKESON. [With Some dignity] That'll look after itself, sir. He's been upset once this morning; I don't want him startled again. JAMES. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon niceness over a thing like this--too serious. Just talk to Mr. Cowley. He opens the door of FALDER'S room. JAMES. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will you, Falder? COKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs? The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer. COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare me, I suppose? At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to see FALDER standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on COWLEY, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake. FALDER. [Advancing with the papers] Here they are, sir! JAMES. [Taking them] Thank you. FALDER. Do you want me, sir? JAMES. No, thanks! FALDER turns and goes back into his own room. As he shuts the door JAMES gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the cashier nods. JAMES. Sure? This isn't as we suspected. COWLEY. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't slip out of that room? COKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window--a whole floor and a basement. The door of FALDER'S room is quietly opened, and FALDER, with his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office. JAMES. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder? FALDER. To have my lunch, sir. JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want to speak to you about this lease. FALDER. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room.] COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the young man who cashed the cheque. It was the last cheque I handled that morning before my lunch. These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slip of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning! JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley! COWLEY. [To COKESON] Good-morning. COKESON. [With Stupefaction] Good-morning. The cashier goes out through the outer office. COKESON sits down in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the morass of his feelings. WALTER. What are you going to do? JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and the counterfoil. COKESON. I don't understand. I thought young Davis---- JAMES. We shall see. WALTER. One moment, father: have you thought it out? JAMES. Call him in! COKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening FALDER'S door; hoarsely] Step in here a minute. FALDER. [Impassively] Yes, sir? JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] You know this cheque, Falder? FALDER. No, sir. JADES. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week. FALDER. Oh! yes, sir; that one--Davis gave it me. JAMES. I know. And you gave Davis the cash? FALDER. Yes, sir. JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this? FALDER. Yes, I think so, sir. JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque for nine pounds? FALDER. No, sir--ninety. JAMES. Nine, Falder. FALDER. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir. JAMES. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque was altered; whether by you or Davis is the question. FALDER. I--I COKESON. Take your time, take your time. FALDER. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir. JAMES. The cheque was handed to--Cokeson by Mr. Walter at one o'clock; we know that because Mr. Cokeson's lunch had just arrived. COKESON. I couldn't leave it. JAMES. Exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to Davis. It was cashed by you at 1.15. We know that because the cashier recollects it for the last cheque he handled before his lunch. FALDER. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me because some friends were giving him a farewell luncheon. JAMES. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then? FALDER. I don't know, sir--it's very funny. WALTER, who has come close to his father, says something to him in a low voice. JAMES. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, was he? COKESON. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young man, and seeing faint signs of their all being jolly once more] No, he sailed on the Monday. JAMES. Was he, Falder? FALDER. [Very faintly] No, sir. JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for the fact that this nought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after Tuesday? COKESON. [Surprised] How's that? FALDER gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull himself together, but he has gone all to pieces. JAMES. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson. The cheque-book remained in Mr. Walter's pocket till he came back from Trenton on Tuesday morning. In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny that you altered both cheque and counterfoil? FALDER. No, sir--no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I did it. COKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear! what a thing to do! FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I didn't know what I was doing. COKESON. However such a thing could have come into your head! FALDER. [Grasping at the words] I can't think, sir, really! It was just a minute of madness. JAMES. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the counterfoil] Four days at least. FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done till afterwards, and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! Sir, look over it! I'll pay the money back--I will, I promise. JAMES. Go into your room. FALDER, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room. There is silence. JAMES. About as bad a case as there could be. COKESON. To break the law like that-in here! WALTER. What's to be done? JAMES. Nothing for it. Prosecute. WALTER. It's his first offence. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of that. Too neat a piece of swindling altogether. COKESON. I shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted. JAMES. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, Mr. James. There was a woman come to see him this morning. WALTER. The woman we passed as we came in just now. Is it his wife? COKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in jollier circumstances would have been a wink] A married person, though. WALTER. How do you know? COKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised] There they were outside the office. JAMES. A real bad egg. WALTER. I should like to give him a chance. JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way he went to work-- counting on our suspecting young Davis if the matter came to light. It was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. WALTER. It must have been the temptation of a moment. He hadn't time. JAMES. A man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, if he's a clean mind and habits. He's rotten; got the eyes of a man who can't keep his hands off when there's money about. WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before. JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots of those fellows in my time. No doing anything with them except to keep 'em out of harm's way. They've got a blind spat. WALTER. It's penal servitude. COKESON. They're nahsty places-prisons. JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Out of the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine qua non'. COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is. JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst people who've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society. WALTER. But to brand him like this? JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd give him another chance. It's far from that. He has dissolute habits. COKESON. I didn't say that--extenuating circumstances. JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. If that's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know what is. WALTER. For the sake of his future, though. JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one would ever prosecute. WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it. COKESON. That's rather 'ex parte', Mr. Walter! We must have protection. JAMES. This is degenerating into talk. He moves towards the partners' room. WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father. JAMES. You ask too much of me. WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him. JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do this sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn't nothing'll make him. WALTER. He'll never do it again. COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk with him. We don't want to be hard on the young man. JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my mind. [He passes into the partners' room.] COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must excuse your father. I don't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right. WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You know you feel---- COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what I feel. WALTER. We shall regret it. COKESON. He must have known what he was doing. WALTER. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not strained." COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. Walter. We must try and see it sensible. SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir. COKESON. Put it down! While SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON's table, the detective, WISTER, enters the outer office, and, finding no one there, comes to the inner doorway. He is a square, medium-sized man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong boots. COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we doing? WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir. Detective-Sergeant Blister. WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my father. He goes into the partners' room. JAMES enters. JAMES. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture from COKESON] I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I felt I could. Open that door. [SWEEDLE, wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder. As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a sign from JAMES, slips his hand out and grasps his arm. FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh! no,--oh! no! WALTER. Come, come, there's a good lad. JAMES. I charge him with felony. FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one--I did it for her. Let me be till to-morrow. JAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of hardness, FALDER becomes rigid. Then, turning, he goes out quietly in the detective's grip. JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE, rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the outer office into the corridor. When they have all disappeared COKESON spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer office. COKESON: [Hoarsely] Here! What are we doing? There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief and mops the sweat from his face. Going back blindly to his table, sits down, and stares blankly at his lunch. The curtain falls. ACT II A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon crowded with barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. Sitting in the large, solid dock is FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to and unconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting exactly opposite to the JUDGE, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seems unconscious of and indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, the counsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middle age, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in a very white wig. Among the spectators, having already given their evidence, are JAMES and WALTER HOW, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! Gathering his robes together, he sits down. FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it please your lordship and gentlemen of the jury. I am not going to dispute the fact that the prisoner altered this cheque, but I am going to put before you evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that you would not be justified in finding that he was responsible for his actions at the time. I am going to show you, in fact, that he did this in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. I shall call before you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up to this act. You will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstances of her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she has inspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading a miserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, from whom she actually goes in terror of her life. I am not, of course, saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall in love with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue her from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying anything of the sort. But we all know the power of the passion of love; and I would ask you to remember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to a drunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enable a woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear that her husband is guilty. JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely--I shall be able to show your lordship that directly. JUDGE. Very well. FROME. In these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her? She could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of her life; or she could apply to the Court for a separation order. Well, gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this would have given her very insufficient protection from the violence of such a man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced her either to the workhouse or the streets--for it's not easy, as she is now finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood to support herself and her children without resorting either to the Poor Law or--to speak quite plainly--to the sale of her body. JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome. FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord. JUDGE. Let us hope so. FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark--and this is what I have been leading up to--this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on himself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. She saw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, where they would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. This was a desperate and, as my friend Mr. Cleaver will no doubt call it, an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation possibly have the right to hold up their hands--as to that I prefer to say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part of the prisoner's story--whatever opinion you form of the right of these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into their own hands--the fact remains that this young woman in her distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so devotedly attached to her, did conceive this--if you like-- reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, of course, they required money, and--they had none. As to the actual events of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility --I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the lips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takes up a sheet of paper, and waits.] COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him. FROME. What is your name? COKESON. Robert Cokeson. FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ the prisoner? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ? COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there--all but seventeen days. FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time? COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays. FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about his general character during those two years. COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprised at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. I'd no fault to find with him--quite the contrary. It was a great surprise to me when he did a thing like that. FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty? COKESON. No! To have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do. FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua non'. FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not? COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We were all very jolly and pleasant together, until this happened. Quite upset me. FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning on which the cheque was altered. What have you to say about his demeanour that morning? COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quite compos when he did it. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he was insane? COKESON. Not compos. THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please. FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion--[looking at the JUDGE]--such as it is--he was jumpy at the time. The jury will understand my meaning. FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that conclusion? COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in from the restaurant, a chop and a potato--saves time. That day it happened to come just as Mr. Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it hot; so I went into the clerks' office and I handed the cheque to Davis, the other clerk, and told him to get change. I noticed young Falder walking up and down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological Gardens, Falder." FROME. Do you remember what he answered? COKESON. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck me as funny. FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar? COKESON. I did. FROME. What was that? COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like a young man to be neat. I said to him: "Your collar's unbuttoned." FROME. And what did he answer? COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice. THE JUDGE. Stared at you? Isn't that a very common practice? COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain my meaning--it was funny. FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before? COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to the partners. We can't have anything eccentric in our profession. THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that occasion? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to trouble them about prime facey evidence. FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on your mind? COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same. FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the forgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that morning? COKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little deaf. FROME. Was there anything in the course of that morning--I mean before the discovery--that caught your attention? COKESON. Ye-es--a woman. THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind in which the prisoner committed this act, my lord. THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after the act. FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention. THE JUDGE. Well! FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. What for? COKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out at the moment. FROME. Did you see her? COKESON. I did. FROME. Did she come alone? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me in a difficulty. I mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me. FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so---- COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of "You are young--leave it to me"] But I think we can get round it. In answer to a question put to her by a third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, sir." THE JUDGE. What are? What were? COKESON. Her children. They were outside. THE JUDGE. HOW do you know? COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I shall have to tell you what I was told--and that'd never do. THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a statement. COKESON. Egg-zactly. FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the course of her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that you specially remember? COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to complete the sentence] A leetle more, sir. FROME. Or did she not? COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have led me to the answer. FROME. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the jury what it was? COKESON. "It's a matter of life and death." FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman said that? COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have said to you. FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in while she was there? [COKESON nods] And she saw him, and went away? COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go. FROME. Well, is she there now? COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No! FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down.] CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery the prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by that word? COKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. Have you ever seen a dog that's lost its master? He was kind of everywhere at once with his eyes. CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them "funny." What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what? COKESON. Ye-es, funny. COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not be funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, or fierce, or what? COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and you want me to give you another. CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean mad? CLEAVER. Not mad, fun---- CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Was it a hot day? COKESON. Ye-es; I think it was. CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it? COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did. CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted insanity? He sits downs. COKESON, who has opened his mouth to reply, is left gaping. FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelled state before? COKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet. FROME. That will do, thank you. COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though to rebuke counsel for not remembering that the JUDGE might wish to have a chance; arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next to JAMES and WALTER. FROME. Ruth Honeywill. RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the witness-box. She is sworn. FROME. What is your name, please? RUTH. Ruth Honeywill. FROME. How old are you? RUTH. Twenty-six. FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A little louder. RUTH. No, sir; not since July. FROME. Have you any children? RUTH. Yes, sir, two. FROME. Are they living with you? RUTH. Yes, sir. FROME. You know the prisoner? RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes. FROME. What was the nature of your relations with him? RUTH. We were friends. THE JUDGE. Friends? RUTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use that word? RUTH. We love each other. THE JUDGE. Yes, but---- RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship--not yet. THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well! FROME. What is your husband? RUTH. Traveller. FROME. And what was the nature of your married life? RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking about. FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what? RUTH. Ever since my first was born. FROME. In what way? RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me out of it, sir. We were going to South America. FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite--and what prevented you? RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearly broke my heart. FROME. You knew, then, that he had been arrested? RUTH. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, and [pointing to COKESON] that gentleman told me all about it. FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of Friday, July 7th? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Why? RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that morning. THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you! RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord. FROME. With his hands, or----? RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight to my friend. It was eight o'clock. THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influence of liquor then? RUTH. It wasn't always that. FROME. In what condition were you? RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was half choking. FROME. Did you tell your friend what had happened? RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had. FROME. It upset him? RUTH. Dreadfully. FROME. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? RUTH. Never. FROZE. Did he ever give you any money? RUTH. Yes. FROME. When was that? RUTH. On Saturday. FROME. The 8th? RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to start. FROME. Did that surprise you, or not? RUTH. What, sir? FROME. That he had money to give you. Ring. Yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed me my friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. He told me afterwards he'd come into a windfall. FROME. And when did you last see him? RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were to have started. FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him at all between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was his manner then? RUTH. Dumb--like--sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word. FROME. As if something unusual had happened to him? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what? RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him. FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the prisoner very much? RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes. FROME. And had he a very great affection for you? RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir. FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his actions? RUTH. Yes. FROME. His reason, even? RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would. FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairly calm? RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me. FROME. Do you still love him? RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me. FROME. Thank you. He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright in the witness-box. CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morning of Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, I suppose? RUTH. No, sir. CLEAVER. Thank you; I've no further questions to ask you. RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done the same for him; I would indeed. THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappy one? Faults on both sides? RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why I should, sir, not to a man like that. THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him? RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied him to keep things nice. THE JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner--was that it? RUTH. No; even after that. THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in this affection of yours for the prisoner. RUTH. [Hesitating] I--I do. It's the only thing in my life now. THE JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, please. RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her seat among the witnesses. FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord. FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly sworn. FROME. What is your name? FALDER. William Falder. FROME. And age? FALDER. Twenty-three. FROME. You are not married? FALDER shakes his head FROME. How long have you known the last witness? FALDER. Six months. FROME. Is her account of the relationship between you a correct one? FALDER. Yes. FROME. You became devotedly attached to her, however? FALDER. Yes. THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married woman? FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship. THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it? FALDER. I didn't seem able to. The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders. FROME. How did you come to know her? FALDER. Through my married sister. FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband? FALDER. It was trouble all the time. FROME. You knew her husband? FALDER. Only through her--he's a brute. THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person not present. FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To FALDER] You admit altering this cheque? FALDER bows his head. FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the 7th, and tell the jury what happened. FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my breakfast when she came. Her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seem to get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyes dreadfully. It frightened me, and then when she told me, I felt--I felt--well--it was too much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'd seen it, having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt the same, I know. FROME. Yes? FALDER. When she left me--because I had to go to the office--I was out of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what I could do. I couldn't work--all the morning I was like that--simply couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't think at all. I seemed to have to keep moving. When Davis--the other clerk--gave me the cheque--he said: "It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. You seem half off your chump this morning." Then when I had it in my hand--I don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that if I put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get her away. It just came and went--I never thought of it again. Then Davis went out to his luncheon, and I don't really remember what I did till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. I remember his saying "Gold or notes?" Then I suppose I knew what I'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted to chuck myself under a bus; I wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed I was in for it, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets I took for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, and all, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've restored. I keep thinking over and over however it was I came to do it, and how I can't have it all again to do differently! FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him. FROME. How far is it from your office to the bank? FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir. FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed the cheque, how long do you say it must have been? FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran all the way. FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing? FALDER. No, sir; only that I ran. FROME. Not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?' FALDER. No, sir. I don't really. FROME sits down, and CLEAVER rises. CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you? FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the bank. CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the cheque? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is casting over the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? Come. FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning, sir. CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the cashier? FALDER. It was an accident. CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't it? On which day did you alter the counterfoil? FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday morning. CLEAVER. Was that an accident too? FALDER. [Faintly] No. CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your opportunity, I suppose? FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes. CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under great excitement when you did that? FALDER. I was haunted. CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out? FALDER. [Very low] Yes. THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do was to confess to your employers, and restore the money? FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence] CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design of taking this woman away? FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that, to do it for nothing seemed so dreadful. I might just as well have chucked myself into the river. CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England --didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion would fall on him? FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought of it afterwards. CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done? FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got out there--I would have repaid the money. THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have been prosecuted. FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. I thought there'd be time. I didn't think they'd find it out so soon. FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if the discovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would have left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis, from the beginning. THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion would light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did you know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis had sailed? FALDER. I--I--thought--he---- THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth-yes or no! FALDER. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means of knowing. THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr. Frome. [FROME bows to the JUDGE] CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work that afternoon? FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back. CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keen for you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don't remember altering this cheque. [He sits down] FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage. FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back? FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep. FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between Davis's going out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollect nothing during those four minutes? FALDER. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson's face. FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what you were doing? FALDER. No, Sir. FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran out? FALDER. Yes, and while I was running. FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold or notes?" FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself--and it was too late. FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, my lord. The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock. FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship--Gentlemen of the Jury,--My friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I am free to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidence has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. My friend has alluded to the "romantic glamour" with which I have sought to invest this case. Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I have merely shown you the background of "life"--that palpitating life which, believe me--whatever my friend may say--always lies behind the commission of a crime. Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. But when we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love--what then? Just think of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the prisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! he is hardly the comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was devotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just the sort of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. You have heard the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at the word "funny"--I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which could have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that his mental irresponsibility--was more than a flash of darkness, in which all sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intent and treated as a patient. I admit that this is a plea which might well be abused. It is a matter for discretion. But here you have a case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four fatal minutes. What was his answer? "I thought of Mr. Cokeson's face!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is absolutely stamped with truth. You have seen the great affection [legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It is impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he committed this act. We well know what terrible havoc such distress can make in weak and highly nervous people. It was all the work of a moment. The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter impossibility of changing what you have done. Once this cheque was altered and presented, the work of four minutes--four mad minutes --the rest has been silence. But in those four minutes the boy before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great cage which never again quite lets a man go--the cage of the Law. His further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence--not of deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from which these subsequent acts arose; no--they are merely evidence of the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. But is a man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in all probability become one. I beg you not to return a verdict that may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the starting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be ground to pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of weakness? Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? Is that to be his voyage-from which so few return? Or is he to have another chance, to be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will come back? I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, stares him in the face. He can be saved now. Imprison him as a criminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost. He has neither the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he has undergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. He has lain in prison under this charge for more than two months. Is he likely ever to forget that? Imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. He has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decided to prosecute him. We are now already at the second stage. If you permit it to go on to the third I would not give--that for him. He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a circle, drops his hand, and sits dozen. The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towards the counsel for the Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spot that seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and then towards the jury. CLEAVER. May it please your lordship--[Rising on his toes] Gentlemen of the Jury,--The facts in this case are not disputed, and the defence, if my friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that I don't propose to waste the time of the Court by taking you over the evidence. The plea is one of temporary insanity. Well, gentlemen, I daresay it is clearer to me than it is to you why this rather--what shall we call it?--bizarre defence has been set up. The alternative would have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the prisoner had pleaded guilty my friend would have had to rely on a simple appeal to his lordship. Instead of that, he has gone into the byways and hedges and found this--er--peculiar plea, which has enabled him to show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box--to give, in fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I compliment my friend; I think it highly ingenious of him. By these means, he has--to a certain extent--got round the Law. He has brought the whole story of motive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he would not otherwise have been able to do. But when you have once grasped that fact, gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [With good-humoured contempt] For look at this plea of insanity; we can't put it lower than that. You have heard the woman. She has every reason to favour the prisoner, but what did she say? She said that the prisoner was not insane when she left him in the morning. If he were going out of his mind through distress, that was obviously the moment when insanity would have shown itself. You have heard the managing clerk, another witness for the defence. With some difficulty I elicited from him the admission that the prisoner, though jumpy [a word that he seemed to think you would understand, gentlemen, and I'm sure I hope you do], was not mad when the cheque was handed to Davis. I agree with my friend that it's unfortunate that we have not got Davis here, but the prisoner has told you the words with which Davis in turn handed him the cheque; he obviously, therefore, was not mad when he received it, or he would not have remembered those words. The cashier has told you that he was certainly in his senses when he cashed it. We have therefore the plea that a man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at fifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding the consequences of a crime, call himself insane between those points of time. Really, gentlemen, this is so peculiar a proposition that I am not disposed to weary you with further argument. You will form your own opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way of saying a great deal to you--and very eloquently--on the score of youth, temptation, and the like. I might point out, however, that the offence with which the prisoner is charged is one of the most serious known to our law; and there are certain features in this case, such as the suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent fellow-clerk, and his relations with this married woman, which will render it difficult for you to attach too much importance to such pleading. I ask you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which, in the circumstances, I regard you as, unfortunately, bound to record. Letting his eyes travel from the JUDGE and the jury to FROME, he sits down. THE JUDGE. [Bending a little towards the jury, and speaking in a business-like voice] Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence, and the comments on it. My only business is to make clear to you the issues you have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as the alteration of this cheque and counterfoil by the prisoner. The defence set up is that he was not in a responsible condition when he committed the crime. Well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the evidence of the other witnesses--so far as it bears on the point of insanity. If you think that what you have heard establishes the fact that the prisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you will find him guilty, but insane. If, on the other hand, you conclude from what you have seen and heard that the prisoner was sane--and nothing short of insanity will count--you will find him guilty. In reviewing the testimony as to his mental condition you must bear in mind very carefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct both before and after the act of forgery--the evidence of the prisoner himself, of the woman, of the witness--er--COKESON, and--er--of the cashier. And in regard to that I especially direct your attention to the prisoner's admission that the idea of adding the 'ty' and the nought did come into his mind at the moment when the cheque was handed to him; and also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to his subsequent conduct generally. The bearing of all this on the question of premeditation [and premeditation will imply sanity] is very obvious. You must not allow any considerations of age or temptation to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. Before you can come to a verdict of guilty but insane you must be well and thoroughly convinced that the condition of his mind was such as would have qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [He pauses, then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire or no, adds:] You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to do so. The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE. The JUDGE bends over his notes. FALDER, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly to his solicitor, pointing dawn at RUTH. The solicitor in turn speaks to FROME. FROME. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very anxious that I should ask you if your lordship would kindly request the reporters not to disclose the name of the woman witness in the Press reports of these proceedings. Your lordship will understand that the consequences might be extremely serious to her. THE JUDGE. [Pointedly--with the suspicion of a smile] well, Mr. Frome, you deliberately took this course which involved bringing her here. FROME. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship thinks I could have brought out the full facts in any other way? THE JUDGE. H'm! Well. FROME. There is very real danger to her, your lordship. THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for all that. FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I can assure your lordship that I am not exaggerating. THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain with me that the name of a witness should ever be suppressed. [With a glance at FALDER, who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH, who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on FALDER] I'll consider your application. It must depend. I have to remember that she may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. FROME. Your lordship, I really---- THE JUDGE. Yes, yes--I don't suggest anything of the sort, Mr. Frome. Leave it at that for the moment. As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the box. CLERK of ASSIZE. Gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? FOREMAN. We are. CLERK of ASSIZE. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but insane? FOREMAN. Guilty. The JUDGE nods; then, gathering up his notes, sits looking at FALDER, who stands motionless. FROME. [Rising] If your lordship would allow me to address you in mitigation of sentence. I don't know if your lordship thinks I can add anything to what I have said to the jury on the score of the prisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he acted. THE JUDGE. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome. FROME. If your lordship says so--I do most earnestly beg your lordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. [He sits down.] THE JUDGE. [To the CLERK] Call upon him. THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Have you anything to say for yourself, why the Court should not give you judgment according to law? [FALDER shakes his head] THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given fair trial and found guilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses; then, consulting his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that you were not responsible for your actions at the moment of committing this crime. There is no, doubt, I think, that this was a device to bring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which you succumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel was in reality making an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence of course enabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in that direction. Whether he was well advised to so is another matter. He claimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as a criminal. And this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the march of Justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completing the process of criminality. Now, in considering how far I should allow weight to his appeal; I have a number of factors to take into account. I have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of your offence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, to my mind, is a very grave point--and finally I have to consider the necessity of deterring others from following your example. On the other hand, I have to bear in mind that you are young, that you have hitherto borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of some emotional excitement when you committed this crime. I have every wish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to the community--to treat you with leniency. And this brings me to what are the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of your case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very serious element in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you on the ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of the crime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. It is said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. The story has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--Mrs. Honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy were in effect based. Now what is that story? It is that you, a young man, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed an attachment, which you both say--with what truth I am unable to gauge --had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admit was about to result in such relationship. Your counsel has made an attempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what he describes, I think, as "a hopeless position." As to that I can express no opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is patent that you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoral design. Now, however I might wish, I am not able to justify to my conscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality. It is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you for the completion of this immoral project. Your counsel has made an attempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is a defect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show that to punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. I do not follow him in these flights. The Law is what it is--a majestic edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another. I am concerned only with its administration. The crime you have committed is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance with my duty to Society to exercise the powers I have in your favour. You will go to penal servitude for three years. FALDER, who throughout the JUDGE'S speech has looked at him steadily, lets his head fall forward on his breast. RUTH starts up from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. There is a bustle in court. THE JUDGE. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen of the Press, I think that the name of the female witness should not be reported. The reporters bow their acquiescence. THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who is staring in the direction in which FALDER has disappeared] Do you understand, your name will not be mentioned? COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking to you. RUTH turns, stares at the JUDGE, and turns away. THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the next case. CLERK of ASSIZE. [To a warder] Put up John Booley. To cries of "Witnesses in the case of Booley": The curtain falls. ACT III SCENE I A prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large barred windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise yard, where men, in yellow clothes marked with arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are seen in single file at a distance of four yards from each other, walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on the concrete floor of the yard. Two warders in blue uniforms, with peaked caps and swords, are stationed amongst them. The room has distempered walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the prison on the wall, a writing-table covered with documents. It is Christmas Eve. The GOVERNOR, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, fair moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled hair, receding from the temples, is standing close to this writing-table looking at a sort of rough saw made out of a piece of metal. The hand in which he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are missing. The chief warder, WOODER, a tall, thin, military-looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and melancholy, monkey-like eyes, stands very upright two paces from him. THE GOVERNOR. [With a faint, abstracted smile] Queer-looking affair, Mr. Wooder! Where did you find it? WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come across such a thing for two years now. THE GOVERNOR. [With curiosity] Had he any set plan? WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [He holds up his thumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart] THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon. What's his name? Moaney! An old hand, I think? WOODER. Yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. You'd think an old lag like him would have had more sense by now. [With pitying contempt] Occupied his mind, he said. Breaking in and breaking out--that's all they think about. THE GOVERNOR. Who's next him? WOODER. O'Cleary, sir. THE GOVERNOR. The Irishman. WOODER. Next him again there's that young fellow, Falder--star class--and next him old Clipton. THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes! "The philosopher." I want to see him about his eyes. WOODER. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one of these tries at escape going on. It makes them restive--there's a regular wave going through them just now. THE GOVERNOR. [Meditatively] Odd things--those waves. [Turning to look at the prisoners exercising] Seem quiet enough out here! WOODER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging on his door this morning. Little thing like that's quite enough to upset the whole lot. They're just like dumb animals at times. THE GOVERNOR. I've seen it with horses before thunder--it'll run right through cavalry lines. The prison CHAPLAIN has entered. He is a dark-haired, ascetic man, in clerical undress, with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped face and slow, cultured speech. THE GOVERNOR. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, Miller? THE CHAPLAIN. Useful-looking specimen. THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes to the cupboard and opens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, and metal tools with labels tied on them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out] THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men last day or two, Miller? Seems going through the whole place. THE CHAPLAIN. No. I don't know of anything. THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dine with us on Christmas Day? THE CHAPLAIN. To-morrow. Thanks very much. THE GOVERNOR. Worries me to feel the men discontented. [Gazing at the saw] Have to punish this poor devil. Can't help liking a man who tries to escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks the cupboard again] THE CHAPLAIN. Extraordinary perverted will-power--some of them. Nothing to be done till it's broken. THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm afraid. Ground too hard for golf? WOODER comes in again. WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks to speak to you, sir. I told him it wasn't usual. THE GOVERNOR. What about? WOODER. Shall I put him off, sir? THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see him. Don't go, Miller. WOODER motions to some one without, and as the visitor comes in withdraws. The visitor is COKESON, who is attired in a thick overcoat to the knees, woollen gloves, and carries a top hat. COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been talking to the young man. THE GOVERNOR. We have a good many here. COKESON. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a card, and handing it to the GOVERNOR] Firm of James and Walter How. Well known in the law. THE GOVERNOR. [Receiving the card-with a faint smile] What do you want to see me about, sir? COKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] Why! what a sight! THE GOVERNOR. Yes, we have that privilege from here; my office is being done up. [Sitting down at his table] Now, please! COKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the window] I wanted to say a word to you; I shan't keep you long. [Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be here by rights. His sister came to me--he's got no father and mother--and she was in some distress. "My husband won't let me go and see him," she said; "says he's disgraced the family. And his other sister," she said, "is an invalid." And she asked me to come. Well, I take an interest in him. He was our junior--I go to the same chapel--and I didn't like to refuse. And what I wanted to tell you was, he seems lonely here. THE GOVERNOR. Not unnaturally. COKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see a lot of them about working together. THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The convicts serve their three months here in separate confinement, sir. COKESON. But we don't want to be unreasonable. He's quite downhearted. I wanted to ask you to let him run about with the others. THE GOVERNOR. [With faint amusement] Ring the bell-would you, Miller? [To COKESON] You'd like to hear what the doctor says about him, perhaps. THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not accustomed to prisons, it would seem, sir. COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite a young fellow. I said to him: "Before a month's up" I said, "you'll be out and about with the others; it'll be a nice change for you." "A month!" he said --like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. What's a month? Why, it's nothing!" "A day," he said, "shut up in your cell thinking and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside. I can't help it," he said; "I try--but I'm built that way, Mr. COKESON." And, he held his hand up to his face. I could see the tears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice. THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, isn't he? Not Church of England, I think? COKESON. No. THE CHAPLAIN. I know. THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be good enough to come here for a minute. [WOODER salutes, and goes out] Let's see, he's not married? COKESON. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party he's very much attached to, not altogether com-il-fa. It's a sad story. THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prison might be closed. COKESON. [Looking at the CHAPLAIN over his spectacles] Ye-es, but I wanted to tell you about that, special. He had hopes they'd have let her come and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked me questions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the poor young fellow a lie, with him in here--seemed like hitting him. But I'm afraid it's made him worse. THE GOVERNOR. What was this news then? COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a husband, and she'd left him. Fact is, she was going away with our young friend. It's not nice--but I've looked over it. Well, when he was put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait for him to come out. That was a great consolation to him. But after a month she came to me--I don't know her personally--and she said: "I can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--I've got no friends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else my husband'd get to know where I was. I'm very much reduced," she said. And she has lost flesh. "I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's a painful story. I said to her: "No," I said, "not that! I've got a wife an' family, but sooner than you should do that I'll spare you a little myself." "Really," she said--she's a nice creature--"I don't like to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband." Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but I didn't like to persuade her not to. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow dreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three years to serve. I want things to be pleasant for him. THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The Law hardly shares your view, I'm afraid. COKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut him up there by himself'll turn him silly. And nobody wants that, I s'pose. I don't like to see a man cry. THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that. COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility] I keep dogs. THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed? COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over. THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a sense of right and wrong. COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it. THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ. COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes 'em savage. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners. COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for years. He's eurotic--got no stamina. His father died of consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him harm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the wall." It's not nice. During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He is a medium-Sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye. He stands leaning against the window. THE GOVERNOR. This gentleman thinks the separate is telling on Q 3007--Falder, young thin fellow, star class. What do you say, Doctor Clements? THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm. COKESON. But he's told me. THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. He's lost no weight since he's been here. COKESON. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of. THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's nervous, rather melancholy. I don't see signs of anything more. I'm watching him carefully. COKESON. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say that. THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this period that we are able to make some impression on them, sir. I am speaking from my special standpoint. COKESON. [Turning bewildered to the GOVERNOR] I don't want to be unpleasant, but having given him this news, I do feel it's awkward. THE GOVERNOR. I'll make a point of seeing him to-day. COKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought perhaps seeing him every day you wouldn't notice it. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather sharply] If any sign of injury to his health shows itself his case will be reported at once. That's fully provided for. [He rises] COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, what you don't see doesn't trouble you; but having seen him, I don't want to have him on my mind. THE GOVERNOR. I think you may safely leave it to us, sir. COKESON. [Mollified and apologetic] I thought you'd understand me. I'm a plain man--never set myself up against authority. [Expanding to the CHAPLAIN] Nothing personal meant. Good-morning. As he goes out the three officials do not look at each other, but their faces wear peculiar expressions. THE CHAPLAIN. Our friend seems to think that prison is a hospital. COKESON. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] There's just one little thing. This woman--I suppose I mustn't ask you to let him see her. It'd be a rare treat for them both. He's thinking about her all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's quite safe in here. They're a pitiful couple. You couldn't make an exception? THE GOVERNOR. [Wearily] As you say, my dear sir, I couldn't make an exception; he won't be allowed another visit of any sort till he goes to a convict prison. COKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have troubled you. [He again goes out] THE CHAPLAIN. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain man indeed, poor fellow. Come and have some lunch, Clements? He and the DOCTOR go out talking. The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a pen. The curtain falls. SCENE II Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls are coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe of deeper green about the height of a man's shoulder, and above this line are whitewashed. The floor is of blackened stones. Daylight is filtering through a heavily barred window at the end. The doors of four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little round peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered by a little round disc, which, raised upwards, affords a view o f the cell. On the wall, close to each cell door, hangs a little square board with the prisoner's name, number, and record. Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor and second-floor corridors. The WARDER INSTRUCTOR, a bearded man in blue uniform, with an apron, and some dangling keys, is just emerging from one of the cells. INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell] I'll have another bit for you when that's finished. O'CLEARY. [Unseen--in an Irish voice] Little doubt o' that, sirr. INSTRUCTOR. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have it than nothing, I s'pose. O'CLEARY. An' that's the blessed truth. Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of approaching footsteps. INSTRUCTOR. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive over it! He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. The GOVERNOR comes walking down the corridor, followed by WOODER. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to report? INSTRUCTOR. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a cell] is behind with his work, sir. He'll lose marks to-day. The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end cell. The INSTRUCTOR goes away. THE GOVERNOR. This is our maker of saws, isn't it? He takes the saw from his pocket as WOODER throws open the door of the cell. The convict MOANEY is seen lying on his bed, athwart the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and stands in the middle of the cell. He is a raw-boned fellow, about fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce, staring, steel-coloured eyes. WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap] Out here! [MOANEY Comes to the door] THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding up the saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private] Anything to say about this, my man? [MOANEY is silent] Come! MOANEY. It passed the time. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough to do, eh? MOANEY. It don't occupy your mind. THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find a better way than this. MOANEY. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must keep my hand in against the time I get out. What's the good of anything else to me at my time of life? [With a gradual change to civility, as his tongue warms] Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or two, after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace meself when I'm out. You've got your pride keeping the prison smart; well, I've got mine. [Seeing that the GOVERNOR is listening with interest, he goes on, pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this. It's no harm to any one. I was five weeks makin' that saw--a bit of all right it is, too; now I'll get cells, I suppose, or seven days' bread and water. You can't help it, sir, I know that--I quite put meself in your place. THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass it over will you give me your word not to try it on again? Think! [He goes into the cell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries the window-bars] THE GOVERNOR. [Returning] Well? MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another six weeks to do in here, alone. I can't do it and think o' nothing. I must have something to interest me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but I can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive a gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four hours' steady work would have done it. THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then? Caught, brought back, punishment. Five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, while they put anew bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney? MOANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is. THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, well! Two days' cells-bread and water. MOANEY. Thank 'e, sir. He turns quickly like an animal and slips into his cell. The GOVERNOR looks after him and shakes his head as WOODER closes and locks the cell door. THE GOVERNOR. Open Clipton's cell. WOODER opens the door of CLIPTON'S cell. CLIPTON is sitting on a stool just inside the door, at work on a pair of trousers. He is a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost shaven head, and smouldering little dark eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets up and stands motionless in the doorway, peering at his visitors. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning] Come out here a minute, Clipton. CLIPTON, with a sort of dreadful quietness, comes into the corridor, the needle and thread in his hand. The GOVERNOR signs to WOODER, who goes into the cell and inspects it carefully. THE GOVERNOR. How are your eyes? CLIFTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see the sun here. [He makes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] There's just one thing, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd ask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter. THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want any tales, Clipton. CLIPTON. He keeps me awake. I don't know who he is. [With contempt] One of this star class, I expect. Oughtn't to be here with us. THE GOVERNOR. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton. He'll be moved when there's a cell vacant. CLIPTON. He knocks about like a wild beast in the early morning. I'm not used to it--stops me getting my sleep out. In the evening too. It's not fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. Sleep's the comfort I've got here; I'm entitled to take it out full. WOODER comes out of the cell, and instantly, as though extinguished, CLIPTON moves with stealthy suddenness back into his cell. WOODER. All right, sir. THE GOVERNOR nods. The door is closed and locked. THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on his door this morning? WOODER. [Going towards O'CLEARY'S cell] This one, sir; O'Cleary. He lifts the disc and glances through the peephole. THE GOVERNOR. Open. WOODER throws open the door. O'CLEARY, who is seated at a little table by the door as if listening, springs up and stands at attention jest inside the doorway. He is a broad-faced, middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, flexible mouth, and little holes under his high cheek-bones. THE GOVERNOR. Where's the joke, O'Cleary? O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour? I've not seen one for a long time. THE GOVERNOR. Banging on your door? O'CLEARY. Oh! that! THE GOVERNOR. It's womanish. O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two months past. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to complain of? O'CLEARY. NO, Sirr. THE GOVERNOR. You're an old hand; you ought to know better. O'CLEARY. Yes, I've been through it all. THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him. O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't always be the same steady man. THE GOVERNOR. Work all right? O'CLEARY. [Taking up a rush mat he is making] Oh! I can do it on me head. It's the miserablest stuff--don't take the brains of a mouse. [Working his mouth] It's here I feel it--the want of a little noise --a terrible little wud ease me. THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if you were out in the shops you wouldn't be allowed to talk. O'CLEARY. [With a look of profound meaning] Not with my mouth. THE GOVERNOR. Well, then? O'CLEARY. But it's the great conversation I'd have. THE GOVERNOR. [With a smile] Well, no more conversation on your door. O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit to repeat meself. THE GOVERNOR. [Turning] Good-night. O'CLEARY. Good-night, your honour. He turns into his cell. The GOVERNOR shuts the door. THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't help liking the poor blackguard. WOODER. He's an amiable man, sir. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask the doctor to come here, Mr. Wooder. WOODER salutes and goes away down the corridor. The GOVERNOR goes to the door of FALDER'S cell. He raises his uninjured hand to uncover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, after scrutinising the record board, he opens the cell door. FALDER, who is standing against it, lurches forward. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: can't you settle down, Falder? FALDER. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean? It's no good running your head against a stone wall, is it? FALDER. No, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Well, come. FALDER. I try, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Can't you sleep? FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and getting up's the worst time. THE GOVERNOR. How's that? FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't know, sir. I was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] Everything seems to get such a size then. I feel I'll never get out as long as I live. THE GOVERNOR. That's morbid, my lad. Pull yourself together. FALDER. [With an equally sudden dogged resentment] Yes--I've got to. THE GOVERNOR. Think of all these other fellows? FALDER. They're used to it. THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it once for the first time, just as you're doing now. FALDER. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in time, I suppose. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! That rests with you. Now come. Set your mind to it, like a good fellow. You're still quite young. A man can make himself what he likes. FALDER. [Wistfully] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Take a good hold of yourself. Do you read? FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his head] I know it's no good; but I can't help thinking of what's going on outside. In my cell I can't see out at all. It's thick glass, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You've had a visitor. Bad news? FALDER. Yes. THE GOVERNOR. You mustn't think about it. FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help it, sir? He suddenly becomes motionless as WOODER and the DOCTOR approach. The GOVERNOR motions to him to go back into his cell. FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my head, sir. [He goes back into his cell.] THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and see him, Clements. The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR pushes the door to, nearly closing it, and walks towards the window. WOODER. [Following] Sorry you should be troubled like this, sir. Very contented lot of men, on the whole. THE GOVERNOR. [Shortly] You think so? WOODER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my opinion. THE GOVERNOR. [To himself] Queer, that! WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? THE GOVERNOR. Christmas! He turns towards the window, leaving WOODER looking at him with a sort of pained anxiety. WOODER. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show enough, sir? If you'd like us to have more holly? THE GOVERNOR. Not at all, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. Very good, sir. The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell, and the GOVERNOR beckons to him. THE GOVERNOR. Well? THE DOCTOR. I can't make anything much of him. He's nervous, of course. THE GOVERNOR. Is there any sort of case to report? Quite frankly, Doctor. THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separates doing him any good; but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better in the shops, there's no doubt. THE GOVERNOR. You mean you'd have to recommend others? THE DOCTOR. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves. There's nothing tangible. That fellow there [pointing to O'CLEARY'S cell], for instance--feels it just as much, in his way. If I once get away from physical facts--I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously, sir, I don't know how to differentiate him. He hasn't lost weight. Nothing wrong with his eyes. His pulse is good. Talks all right. THE GOVERNOR. It doesn't amount to melancholia? THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on him if you like; but if I do I ought to report on others. THE GOVERNOR. I see. [Looking towards FALDER'S cell] The poor devil must just stick it then. As he says thin he looks absently at WOODER. WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns on his heel, and walks away. There is a sound as of beating on metal. THE GOVERNOR. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder? WOODER. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we should have more of that. He hurries forward, passing the GOVERNOR, who follows closely. The curtain falls. SCENE III FALDER's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass, with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet]. Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark ventilator under the window, and another over the door. FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under the window. In fast-failing daylight, FALDER, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. He springs suddenly upright--as if at a sound-and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. FALDER is seen gasping for breath. A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. FALDER shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; FALDER'S hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it. The curtain falls. ACT IV The scene is again COKESON'S room, at a few minutes to ten of a March morning, two years later. The doors are all open. SWEEDLE, now blessed with a sprouting moustache, is getting the offices ready. He arranges papers on COKESON'S table; then goes to a covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at himself in the mirror. While he is gazing his full RUTH HONEYWILL comes in through the outer office and stands in the doorway. There seems a kind of exultation and excitement behind her habitual impassivity. SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstand with a bang] Hello! It's you! RUTH. Yes. SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't waste their time hurrying down in the morning. Why, it must be two years since we had the pleasure of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been doing with yourself? RUTH. [Sardonically] Living. SWEEDLE. [Impressed] If you want to see him [he points to COKESON'S chair], he'll be here directly--never misses--not much. [Delicately] I hope our friend's back from the country. His time's been up these three months, if I remember. [RUTH nods] I was awful sorry about that. The governor made a mistake--if you ask me. RUTH. He did. SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. And, I say, the judge ought to ha' let him go after that. They've forgot what human nature's like. Whereas we know. [RUTH gives him a honeyed smile] SWEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload of bricks, flatten you out, and when you don't swell up again they complain of it. I know 'em--seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [He shakes his head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other day the governor---- But COKESON has come in through the outer office; brisk with east wind, and decidedly greyer. COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! it's you! [Then motioning SWEEDLE out, and closing the door] Quite a stranger! Must be two years. D'you want to see me? I can give you a minute. Sit down! Family well? RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was. COKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are more comfortable at home. RUTH. I couldn't stay with Honeywill, after all. COKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. I should be sorry if you'd done anything rash. RUTH. I've kept the children with me. COKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so jolly as ha had hoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen you. You've not heard from the young man, I suppose, since he came out? RUTH. Yes, I ran across him yesterday. COKESON. I hope he's well. RUTH. [With sudden fierceness] He can't get anything to do. It's dreadful to see him. He's just skin and bone. COKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that. [On his guard again] Didn't they find him a place when his time was up? RUTH. He was only there three weeks. It got out. COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you. I don't like to be snubby. RUTH. I can't bear his being like that. COKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I know his relations aren't very forthy about him. Perhaps you can do something for him, till he finds his feet. RUTH. Not now. I could have--but not now. COKESON. I don't understand. RUTH. [Proudly] I've seen him again--that's all over. COKESON. [Staring at her--disturbed] I'm a family man--I don't want to hear anything unpleasant. Excuse me--I'm very busy. RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, but they've never got over me marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise, Mr. Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when I married him. I thought the world of him, of course... he used to come travelling to our farm. COKESON. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got on better, after you saw me. RUTH. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't break my nerve, but I lost my health; and then he began knocking the children about. I couldn't stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were dying. COKESON. [Who has risen and is shifting about as though dodging a stream of lava] We mustn't be violent, must we? RUTH. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave better than that-- [There is silence] COKESON. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there you were! And what did you do then? RUTH. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left him before..., making skirts... cheap things. It was the best I could get, but I never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and working all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I kept at it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that; I wasn't made for it. I'd rather die. COKESON. My dear woman! We mustn't talk like that. RUTH. It was starvation for the children too--after what they'd always had. I soon got not to care. I used to be too tired. [She is silent] COKESON. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what happened then? RUTH. [With a laugh] My employer happened then--he's happened ever since. COKESON. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a thing like this. RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But I've done with that. [Suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the back of her hand] I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was just a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in there and sat down, and he told me all about himself. Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him another chance. COKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost your livings! What a horrible position! RUTH. If he could only get here--where there's nothing to find out about him! COKESON. We can't have anything derogative to the firm. RUTH. I've no one else to go to. COKESON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't think they'll take him, under the circumstances. I don't really. RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in the street. [She points to the window.] COKESON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done that until he's sent for. [Then softening at the look on her face] We've got a vacancy, as it happens, but I can't promise anything. RUTH. It would be the saving of him. COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not sanguine. Now tell him that I don't want him till I see how things are. Leave your address? [Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street? [He notes it on blotting-paper] Good-morning. RUTH. Thank you. She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not, and goes away. COKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a large white cotton handkerchief] What a business! [Then looking amongst his papers, he sounds his bell. SWEEDLE answers it] COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here to-day after the clerk's place? SWEEDLE. Yes. COKESON. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want to see him yet. SWEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir? COKESON. [With asperity] invent something. Use your brains. Don't stump him off altogether. SWEEDLE. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, sir? COKESON. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here to-day. SWEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? COKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remember Falder? I may be having him round to see me. Now, treat him like you'd have him treat you in a similar position. SWEEDLE. I naturally should do. COKESON. That's right. When a man's down never hit 'im. 'Tisn't necessary. Give him a hand up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you in life. It's sound policy. SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take him on again, sir? COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the sound of some one having entered the outer office] Who's there? SWEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's Falder, sir. COKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty of her. Tell him to call again. I don't want---- He breaks off as FALDER comes in. FALDER is thin, pale, older, his eyes have grown more restless. His clothes are very worn and loose. SWEEDLE, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. COKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous. [Trying to keep things pleasant] Shake hands! She's striking while the iron's hot. [He wipes his forehead] I don't blame her. She's anxious. FALDER timidly takes COKESON's hand and glances towards the partners' door. COKESON. No--not yet! Sit down! [FALDER sits in the chair at the aide of COKESON's table, on which he places his cap] Now you are here I'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [Looking at him over his spectacles] How's your health? FALDER. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that. About this matter. I don't like doing anything out of the ordinary; it's not my habit. I'm a plain man, and I want everything smooth and straight. But I promised your friend to speak to the partners, and I always keep my word. FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've paid for that job a thousand times and more. I have, sir. No one knows. They say I weighed more when I came out than when I went in. They couldn't weigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart, and gives a sort of laugh]. Till last night I'd have thought there was nothing in here at all. COKESON. [Concerned] You've not got heart disease? FALDER. Oh! they passed me sound enough. COKESON. But they got you a place, didn't they? FALSER. Yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me. I thought I was going to get on first rate. But one day, all of a sudden, the other clerks got wind of it.... I couldn't stick it, Mr. COKESON, I couldn't, sir. COKESON. Easy, my dear fellow, easy! FALDER. I had one small job after that, but it didn't last. COKESON. How was that? FALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. The fact is, I seem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. I can't explain it: it's as if I was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, it grows up there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about references; but what are you to do? You must have them. And that made me afraid, and I left. In fact, I'm--I'm afraid all the time now. He bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table. COKESON. I feel for you--I do really. Aren't your sisters going to do anything for you? FALDER. One's in consumption. And the other---- COKESON. Ye...es. She told me her husband wasn't quite pleased with you. FALDER. When I went there--they were at supper--my sister wanted to give me a kiss--I know. But he just looked at her, and said: "What have you come for?" Well, I pocketed my pride and I said: "Aren't you going to give me your hand, Jim? Cis is, I know," I said. "Look here!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd better come to an understanding. I've been expecting you, and I've made up my mind. I'll give you fifteen pounds to go to Canada with." "I see," I said--"good riddance! No, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds." Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where I have. COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen pound from me? [Flustered, as FALDER regards him with a queer smile] Quite without prejudice; I meant it kindly. FALDER. I'm not allowed to leave the country. COKESON. Oh! ye...es--ticket-of-leave? You aren't looking the thing. FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawns aren't all poetry there. But meeting her--I feel a different man this morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the best thing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. That's queer, isn't it? COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you. FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me. [With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate with criminals! COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That never did a man any good. Put a face on it. FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're independent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk about giving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over. COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven't made a Socialist of you. FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he utters a peculiar laugh. COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Really you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure. FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, but they down you all the same. This feeling--[He stares round him, as though at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden impersonality] I know it is. COKESON. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there! We must try and take it quiet. I'm sure I've often had you in my prayers. Now leave it to me. I'll use my gumption and take 'em when they're jolly. [As he speaks the two partners come in] COKESON [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put them all at ease] I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've just been having a talk with this young man. I think you'll remember him. JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How are you, Falder? WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] Very glad to see you again, Falder. FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] Thank you, sir. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To FALDER, pointing to the clerks' office] You might go in there a minute. You know your way. Our junior won't be coming this morning. His wife's just had a little family. FALDER, goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all about it. He's quite penitent. But there's a prejudice against him. And you're not seeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It's very trying to go without your dinner. JAMES. Is that so, COKESON? COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. Now we know all about him, and we want a clerk. There is a young fellow applying, but I'm keeping him in the air. JAMES. A gaol-bird in the office, COKESON? I don't see it. WALTER. "The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice!" I've never got that out of my head. JAMES. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this affair. What's he been doing since he came out? COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. He's sensitive--quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's down on him. JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow--never did from the first. "Weak character"'s written all over him. WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up. JAMES. He brought it all on himself. WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold in these days. JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold it for all that, my boy. WALTER. For oneself, yes--not for other people, thanks. JAMES. Well! I don't want to be hard. COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something [spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy. JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some one uncommonly like her outside as we came in. COKESON. That! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has met her. JAMES. Is she with her husband? COKESON. No. JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose? COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] I don't know that of my own knowledge. 'Tisn't my business. JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage him, COKESON. COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. I've had the party here this morning. JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Too shady altogether! COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you--I see that. WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what we have to do with his private life. JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come here. WALTER. Poor devil! COKESON. Will you--have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I can get him to see reason. JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, COKESON. WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON is summoning FALDER] His whole future may depend on what we do, dad. FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself together, and presents a steady front. JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you another chance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the first place: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notion that you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. You can't play fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. If Society didn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise that the better. FALDER. Yes, sir; but--may I say something? JAMES. Well? FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [He stops] COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, that if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a quarter of us would ever have got there. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that, Falder. FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you began it. FALDER. I never wanted to do wrong. JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did. FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knocked me out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not what I was. JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. FALDER. [Throwing over his caution from the intensity of his feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to the future. FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what prison is. It's here it gets you. He grips his chest. COKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he wanted nourishment. WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. Time's merciful. FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what you've got to do is to put all the past behind you and build yourself up a steady reputation. And that brings me to the second thing. This woman you were mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have done with that. There's no chance of your keeping straight if you're going to begin your future with such a relationship. FALDER. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted expression] But sir... but sir... it's the one thing I looked forward to all that time. And she too... I couldn't find her before last night. During this and what follows COKESON becomes more and more uneasy. JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself that it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come back--not otherwise. FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffens himself] I couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got. JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for the benefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of this connection. It was the cause of all your disaster. FALDER. But sir, it means-having gone through all that-getting broken up--my nerves are in an awful state--for nothing. I did it for her. JAMES. Come! If she's anything of a woman she'll see it for herself. She won't want to drag you down further. If there were a prospect of your being able to marry her--it might be another thing. FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him --she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble from the beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER]... If anybody would help her! It's only money wants now, I'm sure. COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and is about to speak] I don't think we need consider that--it's rather far-fetched. FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full cause since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, if it can be managed. FALDER. Oh, sir! He goes to the window and looks down into the street. COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr. Walter. I have my reasons. FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her? I can beckon to her from here. WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to JAMES. JAMES. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. FALDER beckons from the window. COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James. She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young man's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to swindle the Law. FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a sort of awed silence. FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some change--looking from one to the other] There's been nothing between us, sir, to prevent it.... What I said at the trial was true. And last night we only just sat in the Park. SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office. COKESON. What is it? SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honeywill. [There is silence] JAMES. Show her in. RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKESON turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed groove. JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door] We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be faced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falder again. RUTH. Yes--only yesterday. JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. [Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage, ma'am. RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to twist her hands in front of her as though prescient of disaster. FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us to get you a divorce. RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and WALTER. JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. FALDER. But, Sir----! JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're fond of him. RUTH. Yes, Sir; I love him. She looks miserably at FALDER. JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way, do you? RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce. There's been nothing between us, has there? RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head-without looking at him] No. FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help us--we promise. JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you? You see what I mean? RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes. COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. JAMES. The situation is impossible. RUTH. Must I, Sir? JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to you, ma'am. His future is in your hands. RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right! FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to give me up--after all this? There's something--[Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, I swear solemnly there's been nothing between us. JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He starts at RUTH, who is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as the truth dawns on him] What is it? You've not been-- WALTER. Father! JAMES. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do, that'll do! I'll give you your chance, Falder. Don't let me know what you do with yourselves, that's all. FALDER. [As if he has not heard] Ruth? RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands. There is silence. COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. [To RUTH] Go in here. You'll feel better by yourself for a minute. He points to the clerks' room and moves towards the outer office. FALDER does not move. RUTH puts out her hand timidly. He shrinks back from the touch. She turns and goes miserably into the clerks' room. With a brusque movement he follows, seizing her by the shoulder just inside the doorway. COKESON shuts the door. JAMES. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, whoever it is. SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice] Detective-Sergeant blister. The detective enters, and closes the door behind him. WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two years and a half ago: I arrested him in, this room. JAMES. What about him? WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his whereabouts from you. [There is an awkward silence] COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're not responsible for his movements; you know that. JAMES. What do you want with him? WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four weeks. WALTER. How d'you mean? WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police till then? WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare say we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employment with a forged reference. What with the two things together--we must have him. Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON steal glances at JAMES, who stands staring steadily at the detective. COKESON. [Expansively] We're very busy at the moment. If you could make it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but I dislike peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. If you want him you must find him without us. As he speaks his eye falls on FALDER'S cap, still lying on the table, and his face contracts. WISTER. [Noting the gesture--quietly] Very good, sir. I ought to warn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still a convict, and sheltering a convict. JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come here and ask questions which it's not my business to answer. WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quite understand, don't you? Good-morning! WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. COKESON. The other door.... the other door! WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTHS's voice is heard: "Oh, do!" and FALDER'S: "I can't!" There is a little pause; then, with sharp fright, RUTH says: "Who's that?" WISTER has gone in. The three men look aghast at the door. WISTER [From within] Keep back, please! He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in FALDER'S. The latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake! WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. FALDER. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up his head, and goes out through the outer office, half dragging WISTER after him. WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll go on for ever now. SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER's voice. JAMES. What's that? SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to behind him. There is dead silence. WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The woman-she's fainting! He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the clerks' room. COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! WALTER. Have you any brandy? COKESON. I've got sherry. WALTER. Get it, then. Quick! He places RUTH in a chair--which JAMES has dragged forward. COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They try to force the sherry between her lips.] There is the sound of feet, and they stop to listen. The outer door is reopened--WISTER and SWEEDLE are seen carrying some burden. JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it? They lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and all but RUTH cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices. WISTER. He jumped--neck's broken. WALTER. Good God! WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the slip like that. And what was it--just a few months! WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all? JAMES. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice unlike his own] Run for a doctor--you! [SWEEDLE rushes from the outer office] An ambulance! WISTER goes out. On RUTH's face an expression of fear and horror has been seen growing, as if she dared not turn towards the voices. She now rises and steals towards them. WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look! The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body. RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it? He's not breathing. [She crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! In the outer office doorway the figures of men am seen standing. RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead! [The figures of the men shrink back] COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] There, there, poor dear woman! At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at him. COKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! He's safe with gentle Jesus! RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at COKESON, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as one would to a lost dog. The curtain falls. End of Project Gutenberg's Justice (Second Series Plays), by John Galsworthy Task Description: You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation. Before I give you the question, imagine you are a student memorizing this material according to the task that you will have to perform (specified in Task Description). Repeat the context concisely yet comprehensively to aid memorization, ensuring you preserve all critical details and create a cheat sheet covering the entire context. Once you have done that, I will give you the question.	Answer:	narrativeqa	148	You are given a story, which can be either a novel or a movie script, and a question. Answer the question as concisely as you can, using a single phrase if possible. Do not provide any explanation.

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